First of three entries today, if I can get online again.
Title: The Price
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Vague hints of Jack/Tia Dalma. Implied.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen/slightly het
SPOILERS: Pirates 2, evidement
Summary: How Jack got where he is at the end of the film.
Author’s Notes: Written this morning cuz after 48 hours the crazy went, and is based on the few things on Jack Sparrow I've picked up from POTC kids' magasines and my own suspicions.
I thought *I* knew you - Jack Sparrow. Sorry, *Captain* Jack Sparrow.
***
You were a different man then.
It took you time to realise that, and even now you can’t help but laugh a little when you think back, pretending you’re laughing at something else, gold teeth sparkling in the sun.
And then you wonder why everyone thinks you’re crazy.
But still, you were a different man the first time you took your oars and made your way down the river in all its humidity, sweat beading on your face and calloused palms getting splinters from the wood. Some of the sweat was from the heat. Some of it wasn’t. You know that that was the last time you were truly, gut trembling-ly nervous.
It wasn’t just that you looked different, although you did; years with the King’s Navy had burnt your skin dark as it is today, but your hair was shorter- barely the length Will’s is now, and the front wasn’t long enough to pull back and got in your eyes. Eyes that were permanently squinting against the sunlight, because you hadn’t learned the trick with kohl yet. You wouldn’t learn that until you went to Singapore.
You weren’t a captain yet either; were barely anything, had only been a pirate two, maybe three years. And it was surprising, even to you, how quickly you’d swept aside the shackles of the British Empire, sailed under the Jolly Roger and taken everything you wanted. It was a choice you’d never thought you’d have to make, and a choice it never would have occurred to you to make, but it turns out that lots of things are better than death, and piracy just happens to be one of them.
The leaves dripped condensation and the air tasted like an oncoming storm and you couldn’t breathe because it was so hot. Strands of hair stuck to your hot face and your ragged shirt was clinging to you. You weren’t so scarred then. It didn’t matter to you so much. And just as you were beginning to think that you should turn back, that you didn’t want to be here, the murky water lapping at your boat, you saw the wooden hut.
Her name and directions to find her were whispered amongst the sailors. She was a legend just as much as the mermaids and mythical sea creatures and Davy Jones’ Locker, and even though they all knew she was real, fear shook every voice that spoke of her. They said that she was as old as the sea and that she’d never age. They said that she could kill a man from a hundred miles away. They said that anyone who loved her- You knew, the moment that she was mentioned to you by a very drunk man in a Tortuga bar that you had to find her. That she would be the one to help you, as long as you could pay her price.
Tia Dalma.
She was waiting for you in the doorway, her lamps glowing in the night, and you moored your tiny rowing boat and made your way up to her cabin, wishing that you weren’t. She stepped out of the way and you walked inside the brightly-lit wooden hut, feeling your breath catch in your chest.
“So,” she said, in a voice rich with the accent of her mother land, “You finally come to see me, Mr Sparrow.”
“Yes,” you said, and looked her straight in the eye with all the courage you had. She smiled, revealing her lips and teeth were blackened like she’d been chewing on something all her life that had dyed them.
“And have you come here with the expectation that you can have everything as long as you want it enough?” she asked, amusement quirking her lips. You swallowed hard.
“There’s a ship,” you began.
But she was more than just a ship. If it was just a ship you wanted you could get one anywhere, as long as your wits were keen and your sword was sharp and enough alcohol had been drunk by everyone. No; the Black Pearl was definitely more than a ship. You will always remember the first time you saw her, black sails fluttering in the wind, the sound of the boy in the crow’s nest bawling that there were pirates on the horizon. And you arrogantly thought that just because you wore a red jacket and carried a musket that somehow everything would be all right.
They were better than you, stronger, and it didn’t take long for them to overrun your ship, kill half the naval officers, round up the rest of you and say that you could either sail under the flag with them, or die. A smirk crossed your clean-shaven face. It was easy enough to make that choice, and you’ve never really regretted it.
The Pearl was the first ship that you sailed on, served on, learned that piracy really was much easier than the Navy on. And then there was that one storm and she sank to the depths, with the crew clinging to barrels and driftwood in an attempt to survive. And you lost her. Lost all that she represented. And, to some degree, you’d lost faith, given up hope.
And then the name Tia Dalma was whispered.
“You think I can raise the Black Pearl for you?” she asked, amusement crossing her face.
“Can’t you?” you asked. She threw back her head and laughed in the crazy way that she’s always had, and you didn’t understand it because at that time, you weren’t crazy yourself- not yet. Not quite. Finally, the amusement wiped itself off her face and she looked at you with the most penetrating look you’d ever been subjected to.
“I know someone who can,” Tia told you, “But you got to be willing to pay the price.”
“I am,” you replied, eagerly, stupidly, but you were blindly in love with that ship like you’d never love any woman in the world, and you would have given anything to have her. In the end, you did.
“And what do I get for telling you this? For helping you find him?” Tia asked you, wicked smile gracing her lips, and you gave her what you had- yourself.
It was hot and humid and the air stung with herbs and when she was sleeping you investigated her cabin- the human remains and bones and potions and jewels and the miniature of a blue-eyed youth she had hidden away in a corner, next to a silver heart-shaped necklace that even you didn’t touch.
And the next morning, she handed you a black compass. You opened it. The needle swung erratically.
“This doesn’t work,” you told her, “It doesn’t point North.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she smiled, “It point to what you truly want in this world.”
You watched as the red needle swung to a stop, somewhere vaguely in the direction you’d left the Pearl, if memory served.
“What do I need to do?” you asked her, knuckles white around the black box of the compass.
“You want,” she replied with all amusement gone from her face, “To find Davy Jones.”
And so you took your rowboat and rowed out into the sea until you reached the point your compass told you to, and waited, and shouted his name over and over until you were drenched with sea spray and nothing came of it. In anger and frustration you threw the compass into the sea.
The water shivered in front of you and then the most hideous monstrosity of a boat you’d ever seen raised itself from the waters in front of you. And then, inexplicably, you were on the deck, looking up wide-eyed into the blue-eyed gaze of a man who seemed to be mostly tentacles. He was holding your compass in one of his hands. You noticed with mild interest and even milder horror that his other hand was, in fact, a claw.
“Ah,” you murmured softly, “You must be Davy Jones.”
You explained to him all about the Pearl and how you really, really wanted it, and you think he might have smirked but then it was impossible to tell.
“I want your soul,” he said simply. “Your soul and your promise to serve one hundred years on this ship.”
“But you’ll give me the Pearl first?”
“Oh aye, I’ll do that.”
And because you were a different man then, one who hadn’t quite worked out that getting what you wanted shouldn’t entail losing what you already had, you agreed to hand over your soul.
Which was why, a few minutes later, you were standing on the rather damp but otherwise unharmed deck of your ship, and Jones was handing you the compass.
“This is yours, Captain Jack Sparrow.”
You only caught sight of the needle for a second before it switched to take over your own desires, but it was pointing back directly the way you had already come. Your hand clenched around the compass and you smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
“I’ll be back to take care of your end of the bargain,” he promised, and then he and the Flying Dutchman were gone.
You aren’t that man any more, and you’re a lot crazier and a lot more cowardly than you were, but you’ve never regretted getting her, getting your ship back, until now.
You look at the rows and rows of teeth facing you and think that perhaps it’s best that you both die together, and then you grip your sword harder and think that maybe Tia knew this was going to happen and she still sent you and that maybe she can see you now, cocky smile on your lips, and these last thirteen years have hurt more than you could ever possibly have imagined anything could; there are lots of things that are better than death, but when it’s inevitable, perhaps it’s best to go down with a little dignity.
So you manage the best grin you can and decide not to regret a second of it.
“Hello Beastie.”
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Pairing: Vague hints of Jack/Tia Dalma. Implied.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen/slightly het
SPOILERS: Pirates 2, evidement
Summary: How Jack got where he is at the end of the film.
Author’s Notes: Written this morning cuz after 48 hours the crazy went, and is based on the few things on Jack Sparrow I've picked up from POTC kids' magasines and my own suspicions.
I thought *I* knew you - Jack Sparrow. Sorry, *Captain* Jack Sparrow.
***
You were a different man then.
It took you time to realise that, and even now you can’t help but laugh a little when you think back, pretending you’re laughing at something else, gold teeth sparkling in the sun.
And then you wonder why everyone thinks you’re crazy.
But still, you were a different man the first time you took your oars and made your way down the river in all its humidity, sweat beading on your face and calloused palms getting splinters from the wood. Some of the sweat was from the heat. Some of it wasn’t. You know that that was the last time you were truly, gut trembling-ly nervous.
It wasn’t just that you looked different, although you did; years with the King’s Navy had burnt your skin dark as it is today, but your hair was shorter- barely the length Will’s is now, and the front wasn’t long enough to pull back and got in your eyes. Eyes that were permanently squinting against the sunlight, because you hadn’t learned the trick with kohl yet. You wouldn’t learn that until you went to Singapore.
You weren’t a captain yet either; were barely anything, had only been a pirate two, maybe three years. And it was surprising, even to you, how quickly you’d swept aside the shackles of the British Empire, sailed under the Jolly Roger and taken everything you wanted. It was a choice you’d never thought you’d have to make, and a choice it never would have occurred to you to make, but it turns out that lots of things are better than death, and piracy just happens to be one of them.
The leaves dripped condensation and the air tasted like an oncoming storm and you couldn’t breathe because it was so hot. Strands of hair stuck to your hot face and your ragged shirt was clinging to you. You weren’t so scarred then. It didn’t matter to you so much. And just as you were beginning to think that you should turn back, that you didn’t want to be here, the murky water lapping at your boat, you saw the wooden hut.
Her name and directions to find her were whispered amongst the sailors. She was a legend just as much as the mermaids and mythical sea creatures and Davy Jones’ Locker, and even though they all knew she was real, fear shook every voice that spoke of her. They said that she was as old as the sea and that she’d never age. They said that she could kill a man from a hundred miles away. They said that anyone who loved her- You knew, the moment that she was mentioned to you by a very drunk man in a Tortuga bar that you had to find her. That she would be the one to help you, as long as you could pay her price.
Tia Dalma.
She was waiting for you in the doorway, her lamps glowing in the night, and you moored your tiny rowing boat and made your way up to her cabin, wishing that you weren’t. She stepped out of the way and you walked inside the brightly-lit wooden hut, feeling your breath catch in your chest.
“So,” she said, in a voice rich with the accent of her mother land, “You finally come to see me, Mr Sparrow.”
“Yes,” you said, and looked her straight in the eye with all the courage you had. She smiled, revealing her lips and teeth were blackened like she’d been chewing on something all her life that had dyed them.
“And have you come here with the expectation that you can have everything as long as you want it enough?” she asked, amusement quirking her lips. You swallowed hard.
“There’s a ship,” you began.
But she was more than just a ship. If it was just a ship you wanted you could get one anywhere, as long as your wits were keen and your sword was sharp and enough alcohol had been drunk by everyone. No; the Black Pearl was definitely more than a ship. You will always remember the first time you saw her, black sails fluttering in the wind, the sound of the boy in the crow’s nest bawling that there were pirates on the horizon. And you arrogantly thought that just because you wore a red jacket and carried a musket that somehow everything would be all right.
They were better than you, stronger, and it didn’t take long for them to overrun your ship, kill half the naval officers, round up the rest of you and say that you could either sail under the flag with them, or die. A smirk crossed your clean-shaven face. It was easy enough to make that choice, and you’ve never really regretted it.
The Pearl was the first ship that you sailed on, served on, learned that piracy really was much easier than the Navy on. And then there was that one storm and she sank to the depths, with the crew clinging to barrels and driftwood in an attempt to survive. And you lost her. Lost all that she represented. And, to some degree, you’d lost faith, given up hope.
And then the name Tia Dalma was whispered.
“You think I can raise the Black Pearl for you?” she asked, amusement crossing her face.
“Can’t you?” you asked. She threw back her head and laughed in the crazy way that she’s always had, and you didn’t understand it because at that time, you weren’t crazy yourself- not yet. Not quite. Finally, the amusement wiped itself off her face and she looked at you with the most penetrating look you’d ever been subjected to.
“I know someone who can,” Tia told you, “But you got to be willing to pay the price.”
“I am,” you replied, eagerly, stupidly, but you were blindly in love with that ship like you’d never love any woman in the world, and you would have given anything to have her. In the end, you did.
“And what do I get for telling you this? For helping you find him?” Tia asked you, wicked smile gracing her lips, and you gave her what you had- yourself.
It was hot and humid and the air stung with herbs and when she was sleeping you investigated her cabin- the human remains and bones and potions and jewels and the miniature of a blue-eyed youth she had hidden away in a corner, next to a silver heart-shaped necklace that even you didn’t touch.
And the next morning, she handed you a black compass. You opened it. The needle swung erratically.
“This doesn’t work,” you told her, “It doesn’t point North.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she smiled, “It point to what you truly want in this world.”
You watched as the red needle swung to a stop, somewhere vaguely in the direction you’d left the Pearl, if memory served.
“What do I need to do?” you asked her, knuckles white around the black box of the compass.
“You want,” she replied with all amusement gone from her face, “To find Davy Jones.”
And so you took your rowboat and rowed out into the sea until you reached the point your compass told you to, and waited, and shouted his name over and over until you were drenched with sea spray and nothing came of it. In anger and frustration you threw the compass into the sea.
The water shivered in front of you and then the most hideous monstrosity of a boat you’d ever seen raised itself from the waters in front of you. And then, inexplicably, you were on the deck, looking up wide-eyed into the blue-eyed gaze of a man who seemed to be mostly tentacles. He was holding your compass in one of his hands. You noticed with mild interest and even milder horror that his other hand was, in fact, a claw.
“Ah,” you murmured softly, “You must be Davy Jones.”
You explained to him all about the Pearl and how you really, really wanted it, and you think he might have smirked but then it was impossible to tell.
“I want your soul,” he said simply. “Your soul and your promise to serve one hundred years on this ship.”
“But you’ll give me the Pearl first?”
“Oh aye, I’ll do that.”
And because you were a different man then, one who hadn’t quite worked out that getting what you wanted shouldn’t entail losing what you already had, you agreed to hand over your soul.
Which was why, a few minutes later, you were standing on the rather damp but otherwise unharmed deck of your ship, and Jones was handing you the compass.
“This is yours, Captain Jack Sparrow.”
You only caught sight of the needle for a second before it switched to take over your own desires, but it was pointing back directly the way you had already come. Your hand clenched around the compass and you smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.
“I’ll be back to take care of your end of the bargain,” he promised, and then he and the Flying Dutchman were gone.
You aren’t that man any more, and you’re a lot crazier and a lot more cowardly than you were, but you’ve never regretted getting her, getting your ship back, until now.
You look at the rows and rows of teeth facing you and think that perhaps it’s best that you both die together, and then you grip your sword harder and think that maybe Tia knew this was going to happen and she still sent you and that maybe she can see you now, cocky smile on your lips, and these last thirteen years have hurt more than you could ever possibly have imagined anything could; there are lots of things that are better than death, but when it’s inevitable, perhaps it’s best to go down with a little dignity.
So you manage the best grin you can and decide not to regret a second of it.
“Hello Beastie.”