The Great Escape - Chapter 1
Title: The Great Escape
Chapter: Chapter 1 - The Return
Author: stealmybike
Pairing: Young Teague, Samhra (Jack's mum), Sao Feng, previous Brethren Court Pirate Lords, young Jack Sparrow (eventually).
Rating: T for adult content and violence.
Summary: A woman deeply oppressed by her culture, chooses the path of freedom. Unwilling to let go of the hope that her Songsmith would return to her, she is finally set free to live a life on the run, alongside the Pirate Lord of Madagascar.
A/N: I created this tale after writing a one-shot for a collaboration entitled Mother's of the Caribbean some years ago. I had some readers pushing me to expand on the story, so here's the end result! I'd like to thank madam_pudifoot for helping me through the first few chapters of this :o)
MoTC: Jack Sparrow's Mum
Chapter 1: The Return
~
At night, with nothing else to distract her, she was assaulted by her memory: the lone musician in the market, how the wind ruffled his hair into flight, his brilliant smile, and expressive heart. What increased her despondency was her fear that the worst would happen - that her Songsmith would learn that she was forced to marry him, her assailant. He would never return to her.
A woman condemned to live under the authority of her brutal husband, her life with him was rendered absolutely excruciating, driving her to desperation. One day after another culminated in endless quarrels and violent explosions. At times, her saris could not hide her blackened skin.
He had every right to her body.
He owned her now. They had sold her soul to the devil, and he was it.
Physical pain did not halt her dreams or the appreciation she had for the small doses of happiness she was permitted. She was grateful for that. It was one of the joys life had not yet stolen from her. As difficult as the previous night had been, she was ready to start afresh. She had learned to live that way, discarding the past each night and starting anew - picking joy where she could find it. Sometimes her endurance surprised her.
The morning market brought her comfort - the sounds of disruption, the laughter of children playing, the colors of the sky and the birds soaring freely above her. Deep within her, the free-spirited longings never lost hope that one day she would be set free.
Hope was what caused her to live in the past for five long years; recalling their last moments together on the docks - that exact spot where they had said their goodbyes. The voice of the ocean, which she had heard ever since she could remember, suited her thoughts well. She was fearful of moving forward, and so she waited - faithfully watching tall merchant ships roll in with the tide each morning.
That night, her heart burned furiously, mournful and imposing; like a funeral pyre kindled in the night, surrounded by the sea, watched over by the stars. Flashes of pain burned her flesh as her husband laid hands upon her, blaming her for their inability to bear children. He wished to try again, and again, and again. The thought of it made her insides quiver.
It was when the blood crept down from her lip that Samhra realized hope would not deliver her from her fate. Tears spilled from her eyes as he took her by the arm; she pulled away. He seized her shoulders. As she struggled, he got a firm grip on her waist and half-carried, half-dragged her to the front of the house.
Soundlessly, she continued to fight, elbows and hands flailing to strike in any way possible. As he neared the entryway, the pain of her blows turned his anger to fury, and he threw her against the door. Samhra's body struck it so hard that the door snapped open on impact and she spilled outside unceremoniously.
She closed her eyes, muffling a sob with her hand, as her husband stepped over her prone form. In the next second, her world spun, she heard a loud boom - gunfire, crackling and burning - her husband's head jerked upwards, his knees bent and he sank down in to mudbeside her.
Samhra finally mustered the courage to relinquish the stiff hand from her mouth, unleashing a terrified yelp at the sight of the motionless man beside her. Her husband was dead - shot with such accuracy; blood poured freely from his head onto the ground beside her. She scrambled backwards, endeavoring to get as far away from his corpse as possible.
With tears blurring her vision, Samhra lifted her eyes and looked down the street, searching for the origin of the gunshot. Hot smoke from gunpowder drifted in and out of her lungs; her muscles ached, and her lungs cried out for air as she searched. Her eyes stung and started to water. Blinking, she peered through the haze and spotted several indistinct silhouettes. Darkness - worsened by the thick cloud of blackness - swirled, screening her with obscurity. The shooter seemed to be watching her calmly; trinkets jingled from his shoulder-length locks as he advanced, his companions following not too far behind, weapons at the ready.
As Samhra cleared her throat clogged with smoke and tears, she held up her arms in surrender. "Please!" she pleaded. "Please, don't shoot."
Within the next few moments, the dark, smoke-filled street was illuminated by lanterns of neighboring homes. Dozens of families stirred from their slumber at the sound of the commotion outside. The light pouring into the street illuminated the shooter in stages: first his legs, then his waist, and then finally his face.
Then, miraculously, like some apparition, through the drifting fumes she finally recognized the tall figure - it was her beloved Songsmith.
"Samhra?" he said incredulously, turning his head. He held up a hand, alerting his men to lower their weapons.
Astonishment rushed across her face when she heard her name on his lips, urging more tears. Memories flashed, sharp and quick; the scent of the marketplace, sunshine warming her cheeks as she watched him strum his guitar, the note she slipped into his fingers before he disappeared into the horizon. She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. Even from yards away, she could see his amazement.
A sob caught in her throat. Her Songsmith had returned to save her.
"Murderer!"
The bellow caused her to turn to a neighboring home. Angry mobs of men began to pour into the streets, leaving their women and children behind, safe in their homes.
The reunion was over. Her Songsmith's voice called out in warning. "Run! Run!" he yelled. She heard him, but her feet failed to obey.
"I'm innocent!" she screamed. Frozen by the mobs anger - faces reddened and eyes bulging - she felt terrified.
They rushed toward her, chanting the word, "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" Hands finally grabbed at her clothes, yanking her in every direction, lifting her into the air and then half carrying her down the street. Samhra then found herself on her back, dazed, ears ringing.
Then black.
She reopened her eyes, hearing screams - her screams - as if she was waking from a nightmare, and it took her half a breath to remember where she was.
Frantically kicking, screaming and pleading, she felt herself being dragged along a graveled road, leaving behind a profound channel with traces of fresh blood.
~o~
It took both of the crewmen to pull Edward Teague away from the scene, he rushed toward her with all his might, but strong sea-toned arms forced him back. The men hurried him into the darkness of a nearby alleyway where he was pinned to the wall with a strong, commanding forearm across his throat. "We ain't to be beheaded!" Bloodbath hissed. "I coulda stayed in jolly ol' England for that shit. Have ya lost yer goddamn mind?"
With flashing black eyes and a full dark beard, Teague's first mate, affectionately known as "Bloodbath", was a fearsome seven-foot-tall English sea beast, known far and wide for his cruelty, ferocity and tattooed serpents enwreathing his arms.
Bloodbath was perhaps the only man on the Seven Seas that Teague could trust and was quickly made second in command aboard the Troubadour. The crew had reacted in shock that such a loathsome looking creature held their fate in his hands, but they learned quickly that he was as fearless in battle as any man Teague had ever witnessed, a seaman to his very bones, that struck fear in the heart of every man who laid eyes on him, friend or foe alike.
"Now, mates, let's not get 'asty 'ere lads," Bloodbath's right-hand man, the elderly but wise Reynolds, said, attempting to smooth things over. It was to no avail; he was met with a deathly glare from the first mate.
Everything after that happened in an instant. Teague drew his pistol so swiftly that Bloodbath hardly saw it. Teague's dark eyes peered at him over the barrel, looming like a black tunnel leading to his soul. "Let's make somethin' clear, aye?" Teague whispered harshly in his ear. "You do exactly as I tell you to do, and perhaps I'll show you mercy." Bloodbath pushed himself to the side, as if in slow motion, trying to dodge but the round chasm of the pistol barrel tracked him unerringly. "You can't run from me."
Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside the alleyway. Voices filtered through just moments later - Arabic, angry and commanding. The men couldn't tell how many voices there were and the sounds were too confusing. The screams from the street slowly began to fade - Samhra was being dragged farther and farther away from him with each squandered moment. Teague's heart was starting to pound in his ears as he continued to survey the alleyway opening. "We can't stay here."
"Edward," Reynolds admonished, "we don't 'ave time for this…"
A long moment went by; hard stares turned frigid, until Teague relinquished his hold, and to Reynolds' relief, Bloodbath started to snicker.
"Got ya, didn't I? I wish ya could 'ave seen yer face, ya little mutt," Bloodbath said, placing a hand on Teague's shoulder in jest.
"Watch your mouth, ya ol' cur," Teague retorted, with a hand firmly positioned on his First Mate's throat. "Waste my time once more and I'll hang your innards from the topsail yards. And that'd jus' for starters. Now, how long have we got?"
"Ten minutes, if I was a wagerin' man," Reynolds replied. "Mayhap less."
"Do they know wha' we look like?" Bloodbath asked, still red-faced.
"Regrettably." Teague sighed, his thoughts stirred as if by a poker rearranging smoldering logs and embers in a hearth. He wouldn't let her die believing he wouldn't come.
Gripping the handle of his pistol, Teague finally said, "I've got a plan."
Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. "Nine minutes."
Pushing Bloodbath away, Teague started off down the street alone, content to face the mob single-handedly, if need be. "I figured that since we've sailed together, you lot wouldn't mind joining." A confident smile appeared on his face when he heard he was being followed with haste. His mind granted him a touch of ease.
It was show time.
~o~
Chapter: Chapter 1 - The Return
Author: stealmybike
Pairing: Young Teague, Samhra (Jack's mum), Sao Feng, previous Brethren Court Pirate Lords, young Jack Sparrow (eventually).
Rating: T for adult content and violence.
Summary: A woman deeply oppressed by her culture, chooses the path of freedom. Unwilling to let go of the hope that her Songsmith would return to her, she is finally set free to live a life on the run, alongside the Pirate Lord of Madagascar.
A/N: I created this tale after writing a one-shot for a collaboration entitled Mother's of the Caribbean some years ago. I had some readers pushing me to expand on the story, so here's the end result! I'd like to thank madam_pudifoot for helping me through the first few chapters of this :o)
MoTC: Jack Sparrow's Mum
Chapter 1: The Return
~
At night, with nothing else to distract her, she was assaulted by her memory: the lone musician in the market, how the wind ruffled his hair into flight, his brilliant smile, and expressive heart. What increased her despondency was her fear that the worst would happen - that her Songsmith would learn that she was forced to marry him, her assailant. He would never return to her.
A woman condemned to live under the authority of her brutal husband, her life with him was rendered absolutely excruciating, driving her to desperation. One day after another culminated in endless quarrels and violent explosions. At times, her saris could not hide her blackened skin.
He had every right to her body.
He owned her now. They had sold her soul to the devil, and he was it.
Physical pain did not halt her dreams or the appreciation she had for the small doses of happiness she was permitted. She was grateful for that. It was one of the joys life had not yet stolen from her. As difficult as the previous night had been, she was ready to start afresh. She had learned to live that way, discarding the past each night and starting anew - picking joy where she could find it. Sometimes her endurance surprised her.
The morning market brought her comfort - the sounds of disruption, the laughter of children playing, the colors of the sky and the birds soaring freely above her. Deep within her, the free-spirited longings never lost hope that one day she would be set free.
Hope was what caused her to live in the past for five long years; recalling their last moments together on the docks - that exact spot where they had said their goodbyes. The voice of the ocean, which she had heard ever since she could remember, suited her thoughts well. She was fearful of moving forward, and so she waited - faithfully watching tall merchant ships roll in with the tide each morning.
That night, her heart burned furiously, mournful and imposing; like a funeral pyre kindled in the night, surrounded by the sea, watched over by the stars. Flashes of pain burned her flesh as her husband laid hands upon her, blaming her for their inability to bear children. He wished to try again, and again, and again. The thought of it made her insides quiver.
It was when the blood crept down from her lip that Samhra realized hope would not deliver her from her fate. Tears spilled from her eyes as he took her by the arm; she pulled away. He seized her shoulders. As she struggled, he got a firm grip on her waist and half-carried, half-dragged her to the front of the house.
Soundlessly, she continued to fight, elbows and hands flailing to strike in any way possible. As he neared the entryway, the pain of her blows turned his anger to fury, and he threw her against the door. Samhra's body struck it so hard that the door snapped open on impact and she spilled outside unceremoniously.
She closed her eyes, muffling a sob with her hand, as her husband stepped over her prone form. In the next second, her world spun, she heard a loud boom - gunfire, crackling and burning - her husband's head jerked upwards, his knees bent and he sank down in to mudbeside her.
Samhra finally mustered the courage to relinquish the stiff hand from her mouth, unleashing a terrified yelp at the sight of the motionless man beside her. Her husband was dead - shot with such accuracy; blood poured freely from his head onto the ground beside her. She scrambled backwards, endeavoring to get as far away from his corpse as possible.
With tears blurring her vision, Samhra lifted her eyes and looked down the street, searching for the origin of the gunshot. Hot smoke from gunpowder drifted in and out of her lungs; her muscles ached, and her lungs cried out for air as she searched. Her eyes stung and started to water. Blinking, she peered through the haze and spotted several indistinct silhouettes. Darkness - worsened by the thick cloud of blackness - swirled, screening her with obscurity. The shooter seemed to be watching her calmly; trinkets jingled from his shoulder-length locks as he advanced, his companions following not too far behind, weapons at the ready.
As Samhra cleared her throat clogged with smoke and tears, she held up her arms in surrender. "Please!" she pleaded. "Please, don't shoot."
Within the next few moments, the dark, smoke-filled street was illuminated by lanterns of neighboring homes. Dozens of families stirred from their slumber at the sound of the commotion outside. The light pouring into the street illuminated the shooter in stages: first his legs, then his waist, and then finally his face.
Then, miraculously, like some apparition, through the drifting fumes she finally recognized the tall figure - it was her beloved Songsmith.
"Samhra?" he said incredulously, turning his head. He held up a hand, alerting his men to lower their weapons.
Astonishment rushed across her face when she heard her name on his lips, urging more tears. Memories flashed, sharp and quick; the scent of the marketplace, sunshine warming her cheeks as she watched him strum his guitar, the note she slipped into his fingers before he disappeared into the horizon. She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. Even from yards away, she could see his amazement.
A sob caught in her throat. Her Songsmith had returned to save her.
"Murderer!"
The bellow caused her to turn to a neighboring home. Angry mobs of men began to pour into the streets, leaving their women and children behind, safe in their homes.
The reunion was over. Her Songsmith's voice called out in warning. "Run! Run!" he yelled. She heard him, but her feet failed to obey.
"I'm innocent!" she screamed. Frozen by the mobs anger - faces reddened and eyes bulging - she felt terrified.
They rushed toward her, chanting the word, "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" Hands finally grabbed at her clothes, yanking her in every direction, lifting her into the air and then half carrying her down the street. Samhra then found herself on her back, dazed, ears ringing.
Then black.
She reopened her eyes, hearing screams - her screams - as if she was waking from a nightmare, and it took her half a breath to remember where she was.
Frantically kicking, screaming and pleading, she felt herself being dragged along a graveled road, leaving behind a profound channel with traces of fresh blood.
~o~
It took both of the crewmen to pull Edward Teague away from the scene, he rushed toward her with all his might, but strong sea-toned arms forced him back. The men hurried him into the darkness of a nearby alleyway where he was pinned to the wall with a strong, commanding forearm across his throat. "We ain't to be beheaded!" Bloodbath hissed. "I coulda stayed in jolly ol' England for that shit. Have ya lost yer goddamn mind?"
With flashing black eyes and a full dark beard, Teague's first mate, affectionately known as "Bloodbath", was a fearsome seven-foot-tall English sea beast, known far and wide for his cruelty, ferocity and tattooed serpents enwreathing his arms.
Bloodbath was perhaps the only man on the Seven Seas that Teague could trust and was quickly made second in command aboard the Troubadour. The crew had reacted in shock that such a loathsome looking creature held their fate in his hands, but they learned quickly that he was as fearless in battle as any man Teague had ever witnessed, a seaman to his very bones, that struck fear in the heart of every man who laid eyes on him, friend or foe alike.
"Now, mates, let's not get 'asty 'ere lads," Bloodbath's right-hand man, the elderly but wise Reynolds, said, attempting to smooth things over. It was to no avail; he was met with a deathly glare from the first mate.
Everything after that happened in an instant. Teague drew his pistol so swiftly that Bloodbath hardly saw it. Teague's dark eyes peered at him over the barrel, looming like a black tunnel leading to his soul. "Let's make somethin' clear, aye?" Teague whispered harshly in his ear. "You do exactly as I tell you to do, and perhaps I'll show you mercy." Bloodbath pushed himself to the side, as if in slow motion, trying to dodge but the round chasm of the pistol barrel tracked him unerringly. "You can't run from me."
Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside the alleyway. Voices filtered through just moments later - Arabic, angry and commanding. The men couldn't tell how many voices there were and the sounds were too confusing. The screams from the street slowly began to fade - Samhra was being dragged farther and farther away from him with each squandered moment. Teague's heart was starting to pound in his ears as he continued to survey the alleyway opening. "We can't stay here."
"Edward," Reynolds admonished, "we don't 'ave time for this…"
A long moment went by; hard stares turned frigid, until Teague relinquished his hold, and to Reynolds' relief, Bloodbath started to snicker.
"Got ya, didn't I? I wish ya could 'ave seen yer face, ya little mutt," Bloodbath said, placing a hand on Teague's shoulder in jest.
"Watch your mouth, ya ol' cur," Teague retorted, with a hand firmly positioned on his First Mate's throat. "Waste my time once more and I'll hang your innards from the topsail yards. And that'd jus' for starters. Now, how long have we got?"
"Ten minutes, if I was a wagerin' man," Reynolds replied. "Mayhap less."
"Do they know wha' we look like?" Bloodbath asked, still red-faced.
"Regrettably." Teague sighed, his thoughts stirred as if by a poker rearranging smoldering logs and embers in a hearth. He wouldn't let her die believing he wouldn't come.
Gripping the handle of his pistol, Teague finally said, "I've got a plan."
Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. "Nine minutes."
Pushing Bloodbath away, Teague started off down the street alone, content to face the mob single-handedly, if need be. "I figured that since we've sailed together, you lot wouldn't mind joining." A confident smile appeared on his face when he heard he was being followed with haste. His mind granted him a touch of ease.
It was show time.
~o~