Esprit de Corps: Chapter 26: Martyr
Title: Esprit de Corps
Author: stealmybike
Chapter: Chapter 26: Martyr
Pairing: Jack/Isabella, Barbossa, Pintel, Ragetti, Marty, Gibbs, OMCs
Rating: R for character death(s)
Disclaimer: The mouse owns a good half, but I believe I have the other.
Summary: Betrayal and duty become one in the same. Isabella finds out Jack and Barbossa's true intentions, and the return of Ares God of War brings a fully restored enemy to the Heathen Gods.
Previous chapters can be found here: Chapters 1 - 25
Enjoy!
Chapter 26 - Martyr
“Someday you too will know my pain,
and smile it’s black-tooth grin.”
Megadeth
---
There she was, standing before them in all her glory: la fontaine, the perpetual chalice of youth and health, the greatest swag in all the land, and the answer to all their prayers.
And she was empty.
~~
If there was ever a moment that reminded each and every man in the Fountain’s presence that aging was an inevitable occurrence, it was that.
Mankind could not keep the sun from setting, or the flowers from fading. Neither could they arrest the passage of time which was making them older second by second.
With each step toward the dark and empty rock ruin, they were reminded that their time was diminishing temporally, leaving them less and less time in the realm of the living.
The pirates skeptically peered down into the empty pool beneath the rock.
“This is it?” Pintel asked quietly, raising his brow.
“Doesn’t look like no Fountain of Youth to me,” said Marty, folding his arms across his chest.
“Looks mo’ like a pile of ol’ ruddy rocks!” Pintel exclaimed.
“She’s more than meets the eye, gentlemen,” Isabella said, pushing passed Ragetti, who gave her a weak smile. “Be more perceptive. You perceive an object of no worth, but really your minds are taking on or actually becoming like the form of the object you are perceiving, which would in fact, make you worthless as well. Don’t want to do that, do you?”
Isabella smiled at their confusion, deciding that it would be best to enjoy her last moments in their presence.
Barbossa and Jack found their way behind her, pushing the crew back as they drew near. “Miss Isabella, if ye care to open up the vista o’ our limitless eternity, I would be most obliged,” said Barbossa as he swept a graceful arm toward the Fountain.
“The Fountain can only be opened by the gods, and I am no god,” she said evenly as she moved toward it.
A strange eeriness came over her as her ears picked up the slow unsheathing sound of a sword from behind her.
Isabella turned her head to look over her shoulder. “Your honor can be regained with time, Captain Barbossa, but there is not enough time remaining in my existence for you to regain my trust.”
“He who does not trust, cannot be trusted,” Barbossa said, confident in his stance.
“Then, I trust that you have made your final decision, Barbossa?” Isabella asked, watching as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Realizing the path Barbossa was willing to take, she called for the only action she could think of against her newfound enemy.
“Sword!” she yelled to Moore, who unsheathed one his own and tossed it to her.
There was no reply from Barbossa, so Isabella advanced on the Pirate Lord with her sword and her words. “You know, you’re absolutely right, Captain. How admirable of you to teach me such an important lesson in life. Tell me, why should I grant you what you desire when you’ve breached my trust?”
“Humor me with an answer, Missy, for I see no advantage in answerin’ it meself,” he said, parrying her advancement.
From the corner of her eye, she could see her men preparing for battle, though it was not their battle to fight.
“Stay back!” she yelled, dodging Barbossa’s blade.
Moore’s sword proved to be too heavy of a weapon for her compared to her gladius, and as she swung forward, it required her to use the strength of her whole body to lift the blade through the air.
The pair was greatly matched in skill, dodging each others attacks as if their battle were practiced and prescripted.
Barbossa’s hand was exercised in the rules of truly artful sword fighting as if he were a perfectionist of sorts. Without taking notice, he never failed to make the exact motions he needed in order to counter Isabella’s quick attacks.
She was still young in form, and her movements carried on with force imparted to them by an immeasurable anger. Barbossa noted that very few of her actions were made in vain, and that each one of her blows was significant enough to strike a man down from exhaustion.
However, she still continued to struggle from exhaustion herself due to the weight of Moore’s sword. Barbossa, finding her sword’s weight as an advantage, released a forceful kick to Isabella’s stomach, which caused her to fall backward upon the rocks.
As she drew herself up to her feet, Isabella discovered that she greatly underestimated Barbossa’s previous experience. He had successfully demonstrated that, with his age, he brought with him much of his own knowledge, power, cunning and strength to arms of battle.
He continued to swing with clear blows upon her upper body, but Isabella’s quick thinking and impulse prompted her to block the move with the flat of her sword, pushing his blade away forcefully, but so that it did him no harm. It was a push that served to warn him of the danger he was in, if he chose to continue. The torment that brewed within her from his rage could explode at any moment, and if Barbossa continued on with such determination, he would be caught within a force that he would not be able to handle.
Isabella did not wish death upon Hector Barbossa; instead she wanted to push him away as an act of clemency, for he was consumed by the greed that most men possessed, and even betrayers betray themselves.
She lunged forward, attempting to hit the sword from his hand. “I am here to fulfill my duty to my men, so you can take your honor and traitorous ways to the gates of Hades for all I care.”
Barbossa smiled, catching her blade with his. “Look at yerself, child. Yer nothing but a vulnerable giant, and as you stand, I can see in yer eyes that me betrayal isn’t what truly ails you - it’s something bigger.”
She drew back her sword, feeling uneasy from his statement. Perhaps, she had grown vulnerable and placed valuable trust in those who were not deserving of it. And for what purpose, exactly? To risk her pride in order to find her own glory? Surely, she wouldn’t shred herself to the core over the men that would knowingly betray her.
After a moment, Barbossa leaped forward, finding himself within another tug of war of mind over matter.
“You falsely called yourself my friend and took advantage of my kindness. I could kill you for such a thing,” she whispered through her teeth, while Barbossa still made an effort to move forward.
“Try to kill me while ye can, lass,” he said, knowing that she did not possess the gall to slay him. “Seems like ye think you’ll be doin’ the world a favor,” he continued, stepping back as he heard another sword unsheathed from behind her.
The sound caused her to turn, cocking her head to the side. She blinked multiple times, as if she secretly hoped that her eyes were deceiving her.
“Don’t move,” Jack said, holding his cutlass to her chest.
She could hear her heart pounding. “So, this was a plot of your own design, was it?” she said, taking note that his arm was shaking, and that his demeanor was clearly being reflected by his stance. She took another step closer to him, but stopped when she felt Barbossa’s blade on her back.
“M’lady, a step too close would be most ill advised,” said Barbossa.
She stopped, nodding her head. She finally understood.
“Drop your sword,” Jack said, catching her attention again.
She averted her eyes over to her men for a moment, silently signaling to Moore to calm the others with her eyes. With Jack’s sword pointed at her scar, and Barbossa’s on her back, she felt the handle her own sword fall from her fingers as if it were too cumbersome for her grasp.
Jack adjusted his posture, swallowing hard as he attempted to straighten his arm. ‘Stop bloody shaking!’ he thought, looking down at his wrist.
“Now, Missy, this here situation can be effortlessly avoided, if you’ll just be tellin’ us what it is that we’ll be needin’ to know,” said Barbossa with confidence.
Placing her arms down at her sides, she looked Jack square in the eye. His shaky stance along with the sadness he possessed in his eyes caused her to question whether he truly wanted that fate for her, or for them.
Ignoring Barbossa’s demand, she decided to address Jack with a tone of harshness in her voice. “Tell me, Jack. What is it that you’re planning on doing to me?”
He faltered, looking down for a brief moment as if he was looking for an answer, but found nothing, which caused him to fall silent. Whatever he might have said at that point was unforgivable.
At one point in her early life, her dear mother advised her that peace and patience would be the virtues she must carry on throughout her life, if she were to become a proper leader. Isabella had never anticipated that love was long suffering, patient, and kind, but not manipulative. Her response to the feeling of betrayal was not revenge, sadness or anger. Though, she would have liked to believe that those feelings didn’t heal or help, she couldn’t help but find herself slipping down the hills of vengeance, letting her anger rise from within.
She finally surrendered, slowly lifting her arms in the air in defeat as she spoke the only word that she knew Jack would not favor on her lips.
“Coward,” she hissed.
His nose twitched as he narrowed his brow in anger. “Hold your tongue!” he said, straightening his stance, while holding his cutlass with far more conviction than he had anticipated.
“What is it that you want? I’d fancy the truth this time, if you will,” she said after a moment.
“Love, I never lied to you,” he said quietly.
She cocked her head defiantly, licking her lips. “Yet here you stand with a sword pointed at my heart. Do not try to fool me again, Jack. You did lie to me…” she said, feeling her voice trail. “Is this what you want? To live forever without any regard for those around you?” she said suddenly.
It was at that moment that she felt the pain of Barbossa’s words. She was a vulnerable giant who willfully opened herself, mind, body and soul to a man after building up all her defenses like an inner suit of armor in the hopes no one would harm her. Within their time together, she gave him a piece of herself, even if he didn’t ask for it. All he had done was charm her, kiss her and win her over with his illustrious smile, and then her life wasn’t her own anymore.
“Bella-” he began softly.
“No! Do not call me that name, for it amounts to naught but ash upon your lips and I will not accept such deceit from you,” she cried, feeling a familiar rage begin to rise within the pit of her stomach. “Is this what you want?” she asked once more, noting a small nod on Jack’s behalf.
“Then, I shall give it to you. It’s the least I can do,” she said, sighing as she leaned forward onto the tip of Jack’s blade. “You know, I believed that you would take care of my heart and that’s why I left it with you. Happiness in small ways, Jack … Remember? Happiness can be taken away so very quickly…”
She took a long breath, feeling her arms shake.
It was time to release him, just like she promised. Betrayal and duty were to become one in the same.
Suddenly, she felt her arms reach forward without her consent, grabbing a hold of Jack’s hand. In an instant, she pulled him to her until she felt the handle of his cutlass touching her chest, feeling her lungs heave and longing for air.
The pain from his blade was momentary, fading into a lapse of numbness which made her body quiver. It had sliced clean through her scar, causing her to feel the slightest trickle of blood oozing from her back and chest.
His heart stopped, but his first instinct was to pull away from her, sliding his blade out from deep within her chest.
There was no sadder feeling than that of disbelief - wishing to suspend moments of tragedy in time to take back that which was wrongfully done. As his lips twitched, he felt the passionate grip he once had on his cutlass lessen until he felt the weapon slip from his fingers, and he watched her stand for a moment, amazed that she continued to possess the same conviction in her bearings, until she lost the fire from her eyes.
As her legs gave way, she fell to her knees and he fell with her, catching her body before she fell to the ground, but he could offer her no words as he felt his breath escape from his lungs, unwilling to return.
There was no deceit in death, no whispers of trickery or lies from strange tongues or snakes. Death delivered precisely what it promised without slaughtering all of her expectations. And with death, she would save mankind from a fate unbeknownst to them.
Then she saw him opening his mouth as his grip tightened upon her shoulders, attempting to find his voice, an apology, or a gasp of air - whatever it may have been, it was too late for her and time turned into a precious commodity.
Before he could utter a word, she found the strength to place a finger on his lips.
“Shush, Jack,” she said, resting her head on his, feeling her sentience dying within her. Her insides started to burn, beginning to feel an almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness for each successive moment. From that, she grew a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all those around her, even her betrayer.
“I know that you’re sorry,” she said softly, swallowing hard as she shifted her gaze to Moore.
Her eyes were beginning to blur, but she was able to recognize a scuffle amongst her soldiers. She observed as Moore began to restrain Jordan from moving forward - his arms fastened tightly around Jordan’s waist, and she could not even begin to explain the expression she saw on her young lieutenant’s face.
She had not told Jordan of her purpose, or why she had to die in order to save them all. Not a bone in her body wanted to crush his youthful innocence, his happiness, or his optimism. He was just so brilliantly devoted and free from care, but there he was - reaching out to her from behind a group of her men, looking as if he were screaming, though it was too faint for her to hear or see any longer.
A small moment of regret came when she saw him cry, and in her final effort to comfort him, she reached out to him with her heart and her smile; for he was the only soldier she would have been willing to take in as one of her own, and with such great pride she would have called him her son for the rest of her days.
She felt Jack’s hands shake her out of her bout with delirium, and she could sense the faintest of whispers from his hot breath on her cheek.
She turned to him, calmly licking blood from her lips. “They belong to him now. Run from this place, save yourself. Save your crew…” she said, feeling the blood form clots in her throat.
She began to experience a highly charged feeling, headachy strong, and almost like an overhead energy had descended upon her being. It was as if her soul and her body were beginning to separate, leaving her to become part of eternity without physical consciousness. In terms of perception or objective reality, she was no longer a physical being or and entity that existed. Death was not an entity and so she would mirror it, succumbing to Death’s exact likeness.
“Take care of yourself inside, Jack…” she whispered, placing her hand on his chest.
He could see that she was bleeding heavily against his shirt and he finally came to a haunting realization.
She was dying … his Isabella was dying, and he could not stop it.
“In small ways,” he replied weakly, feeling a moment of ease when he saw her smile.
As she took in her final breath, she fell forward into his arms, waiting to exhale, knowing that what she wanted was a perfect ending. In the end, she learned the hard way that some poems didn’t rhyme, but her story was fortunate to have a clear beginning and middle, but not a clear ending. The beauty in life was about not knowing, and she would close her eyes knowing that she had the capacity to love again, even after all her hardships.
Jack wished he could have done something - anything - that could stop the events that were about to take place. Even his breaths were hurting him deeply, cursing his body with every inhalation, and the pain caused his eyes to tear.
He wished he could paint his face, so that he could look like a warrior, and easily mask his agony behind the pigment.
There were snakes crawling beneath his skin, hissing at him from all the sorrow he brought upon her. He grew sick to the point where he felt like vomiting from the sight of her blood, because it was too disgusting to be filled with snakes, but he held it inside.
For a brief moment, he could not recognize her. She was so fragile and delusional, and it caused him to grow angry with himself. They had come such a long way together.
Hooking a finger beneath her chin, he pressed his lips on hers in a final effort to stop the blood with his mouth, but it hated him, and the blood continued to pour without remorse.
His Isabella was dying, and he would be with her as her end drew near.
He kneeled with her, wishing to find the proper words to speak to her, but as he held her during her final moments, he found his father’s words at the very front of his mind.
“It’s not just about livin’ forever, Jackie. It’s about livin’ with yourself forever.”
It was the moments before death when most people realized what life was all about. He saw that the life withering within his arms was almost nothing but the sum of every choice she had made during her existence.
Her thoughts were just as real as her deeds, and he wondered if she as well, had begun to realize that her every word and every deed affected not only her life, but had also affected thousands of lives in the process.
He couldn’t help but close his eyes as the great general fell limp in his arms, and a world of screams felt silent around him. All he could hear was the hissing of snakes, plunging down inside his innards once more, and cursing him with an undeniable nausea deep within the pit of his stomach.
---
As Isabella’s life drew to an end, Moore found himself dealing with the responsibility of carrying an irate Jordan down to the end of the dirt passageway, so his kicking and screaming could no longer be heard from the Fountain’s chamber.
Moore tossed Jordan to the ground before him, and placed his hands on his hips.
“Jordan, what are you doing?”
“No, that is not the question at hand here. What exactly are you doing?” he retorted, pouncing back onto his feet.
“Jordan-” Moore said, pushing Jordan back as he began to advance on him. Moore realized that Jordan actions were turning to rash and aggressive spurts of rage, so he decided to put himself on the defense.
“No! What are you doing?” Jordan yelled, beginning to pace around the dark passageway. “You stood by and watched her die! What kind of man are you?”
Jordan’s pain was eating him from the inside, and left him crying in the darkness. Watching Isabella’s life slip away before him hurt, and not just in his imagination or in his mind. The pain it caused hurt his soul, for it was a real pain that ripped even the most resilient souls apart, and he could not control his rage.
“We claim to be in an army,” he said, tossing his arms in the air. “There are people in this world who have given their lives to forward the acts of the gods and in the process, damning millions of innocent souls to Hell. I have no compassion for it any longer, even if it means one less soldier in a godless army!” Jordan exclaimed.
“This is exactly why she didn’t see fit to tell you!”
“Why because I’m too fucking young, right?” he asked, pushing Moore against the wall. “I’m too fucking young to handle letting someone die? I hold the same title as you and equal knowledge!”
“You have no idea of the position she held, and these fraudulent, over zealous, intimidating gods of misguided compassion have caused you to turn on your own comrades instead of fighting alongside us!” Moore yelled, pushing Jordan down to the ground.
“They have you crying over the death of someone who raised you to stop such deceit!” Moore continued, taking a deep breath to calm himself, while holding his hand out to the young man.
Jordan scrambled up to his feet, even more enraged than he was before. “I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, and do all that I am capable of doing, but if I am going to be pursued, fucked, and possessed by the will of a god to do their bidding, I would appreciate an explanation as to why!”
“Jordan, you don’t understand …”
“What do I need to understand?” Jordan asked, so engulfed in anger that he raised his fists to Moore with all intention of hitting him. At the very last second, Jordan diverted his strike to the dirt wall beside him, letting his frustration out the only way he knew he could.
Jordan pounded at the wall with all of the strength he possessed. The rage and hate within him needed to be relinquished, yet he found it harder to dispel his pain with each strike.
Moore stood back, letting the young man expel his grief, wishing he could do the same, but time was of the essence for him, and he would honor Isabella’s memory by fulfilling her final wishes.
Jordan’s spirit would not grow if he sat within the confines of a beautiful flower garden for the rest of his days. Instead, he would grow if he was sick with pain, experienced losses, and by not putting his head beneath the sand in fear. Therefore, if Jordan took the pain of loss as a gift, he would see that it possessed a very specific purpose.
As Jordan’s arms began to falter from exhaustion, he felt his knees finally give way, causing him to fall to the dirt with tears in his eyes. Jordan’s pain could not be properly vented, and it hurt his organs, and caused him to weep uncontrollably.
Moore caught him and placed his hands on Jordan’s shoulders. “There are things that we don’t want to happen, but we have to accept. There are so many things we don’t want to know, but we still have to learn, then there are people we can’t live without, but we have to let go,” Moore said quietly.
Jordan clutched his chest as it began to heave, while choking back words that he did not have the ability to speak.
“She said how she would take death as it came to her and not try to fight it or run away from it, but then there are also those who are scared of dying and cannot accept the fact that sooner or later, the time will come for them to pass on as well. She was scared to tell you, Jordan, because she was afraid of what you would do when the time came.”
Moore felt Jordan’s body twitch each time he spoke the word ‘she’ as if the name caused him too great of a pain to describe.
No words or actions could have spoken louder than his tears. “Please, forgive me, Isabella. I will not fight,” he said, pushing away from Moore. “You are not my general.”
Moore hung his head low at the statement, and in an instant the mystery of the underground chamber was enhanced by the rumbling of the earth beneath them.
“Jordan! Throw yourself to the ground!” he exclaimed, grabbing the man by his arm as they both stumbled to the side of the passageway, kneeling to taking cover beside the dirt walls, while covering their heads with their arms for protection from falling debris.
After a few moments, the rumbling ceased and they heard a flutter of movement from beyond the entrance to the Fountain’s chamber. They watched as the pirates that led them on their journey ran out from the small sliver of an entrance, yelling and screaming something about the devil himself being upon them.
Jordan held his arm out, stopping the first pirate he could get his hands on, which was Joshamee Gibbs.
“Gibbs, what the hell was that?” Jordan said breathlessly, scrambling to his feet.
Gibbs was panting and hunched over to catch his breath. “A man … he just sprouted up from … from …”
“Calm yourself, Gibbs. What’s happening?” Jordan said, grabbing a fist full of the First Mate’s shirt.
“Jack’s madder than the devil hisself - he won’t budge from where he kneels. Barbossa’s by ‘is side, ‘pears he’s not keepin’ to the Code,” he said.
Moore nodded, harkening to the call of his duty. “Stay here. When you’ve got your head together come find me,” he said, leaving the passageway to aid his men, who were still within the chamber.
“I will not fight by your side, do you hear me? I’ve had enough!” Jordan yelled after him, realizing that his words would not be heeded or considered. He grabbed Gibbs by the shoulder and helped him escape from the passageway.
Moore left without another word, stumbling into panicking Colin Andrews within the Fountain’s chamber.
“Moore! It’s … It’s-”
“I know, Colin. See to Jordan in the passageway. Now,” Moore said, sliding through the crowd of soldiers to the Fountain to find Ares, God of War, standing before Jack Sparrow with his arms held out to him.
---
He stood before them; a man once thought as a sketched and bloodthirsty and cast off as a raging demon whose desire for victory was nothing more than a braggadocio compared to those with rational power. He was deemed ‘mad’ and ‘insane’ by the gods, and was said to have lived with no character or knowledge of right and wrong.
There was no god more hated than the true son of Hera, born from her rage and hatred for Zeus.
Moore and his men saw no demon, but instead they saw a man scorned and banished from his proper place among the Titans. His passion was frightening to those who considered themselves civilized, so he was repressed, and forced to take cover within the body of another until it was his time to emerge once more.
He was not seven hundred feet tall, or utterly treacherous. He was a simple man, poised and stoic, whose name and reputation were dragged through the dirt of countless battlefields and pools of blood until he was considered naught but a nuisance.
Once shamed into hiding, Ares returned to the world of the living with a vengeance to regain the position that was rightfully his.
Moore and his men fell to their knees as their new leader fell to his.
“Do not mourn that which cannot be changed,” Ares said as his eyes met Jack’s.
Ares felt the pain of sorrow within his being, it was the same pain he felt when he lost a soldier to war, and he often wondered what kind of life or dreams that lost soul might have had. Ares hoped to alleviate, at the very least, a fraction of the pain by taking the body away from him.
At first, Jack was reluctant to give her away, instinctively holding her closer to his chest when Ares held out his arms to him. Though, after a moment, Jack felt an element of sincerity toward the god. He possessed an openness of heart that Jack found in Isabella, so he decided that perhaps, it would be best to put her in the capable hands of a god, while continuing to hold the slightest bit of hope that he could restore her to her former glory. An optimistic thought, it was, but he could not help but wish for the best, for it could not be any worse.
Once her body was safely nestled within his arms, Ares lifted himself to his feet, holding her close to his chest.
Ares licked his lips. “Take a knee, men,” he said, walking toward the group of soldiers.
“I propose to you, soldiers of righteousness, an opportunity to wage such a war that it will carry the reward of glorious martyrdom - a war that will assure the title eternal glory,” he said, scanning the faces of the men that stood before him.
“In your lives, no success has come without a battle, and this day isn’t any different. Consider it a tribute to your general, who opposed me at first, but then came to be one of my supporters. She was a supporter that carried my spirit within her until she could find a proper group of men to fulfill the great duty of restoring peace to the heavens. She was a leader of great ability, who loved you all and wished to lead you into better days. Her support is an honor, and her great deeds will not be forgotten.”
A single evenly spaced applause came from deep within the shadows beside the Fountain, calling to attention to the clapper’s presence as if it were made as a genuine accolade. Then he emerged from the darkness as a smile tugged the corners of his lips. Hermes was a snake, an ‘adder’ named after his habit of adding funeral outlays at the expense of others. He hissed like one, and walked as if he held the upper hand at all times. Though he was not venomous, he surely acted like poison surged through his veins.
“Well done, brother. An impressive display of prowess and, might I add, an excellent entrance into the realm of the living, and I must certainly commend you on your clever hiding place,” Hermes said, crinkling his face in disgust as he stepped over a pool of blood left by Isabella’s fatal wound.
“Hermes, you manipulative bastard,” Ares growled.
“Oh, come now, Ares, let us not be so wicked toward one another. Mother would be so ashamed to see her two sons turning against each other. You’re back and it is a new beginning for us, is it not?” he asked, but received no reply.
“What is it that you want?” Ares asked, narrowing his brow.
“All I want is the right to fulfill my duty. I am here to inform you that Mother wants the body,” Hermes continued, “and I will deliver it to her, just as I deliver all bodies to Charon. Now, be cooperative, brother. You wouldn’t want to wear out your welcome, would you?”
“This body will not deviate from its course. It will be sent to Charon and to no one else. Hera does not hold power or jurisdiction over the dead, nor does she hold judgment over the living,” Ares said sternly.
“Life and death,” Hermes said, cupping his hands behind his back. “You pose a convincing argument, my dear brother. Though, a man of your position would know that most of humanity, with very few exceptions, is largely clueless about the true nature of violence, and fail to realize that life itself is very much about bloodshed and war, isn’t it?”
Ares shifted his stance as Hermes drew near, planting his feet firmly to ground. “Determination will prevail over violence and the men who submit themselves to the sins of your nature will not be able to differentiate an ally from an enemy, but rather reduce them both to the same state.”
“You see, my dear brother, that is where you are sadly mistaken,” Hermes hissed, cracking his neck.
“Am I?”
“Oh yes, I’m afraid so. Life, as we know it, is about men struggling against adversaries bent on their destruction; about trying to avenge and protect their comrades or loved ones by taking life and doing harm. Fools folly, if you ask me,” Hermes said, humored at the thought of his statement.
“So, considering all this, why is it that I find you standing between me and everything you stand against? You are a god of war, not a god of rebellion or anarchy,” Hermes said, placing a hand on his chin as he studied his long lost brother.
“I stand between you and corruption. You’ve lost your way and have become one of the many men who have run to Hera not only for power, but also because you think that no one will stand against you. You think that you’ll never be contradicted.”
A manic laugh escaped Hermes’ lips, and he clapped his hands together as if he was all too amused. “Is that what you think? You’re wonderfully clever and just spectacular with your words of valor and decency, aren’t you?” he said, leaning forward into his laughter. “It seems that you and I are more similar than I originally thought - concerning cleverness, of course. However, I believe that the sole purpose of power is its intention to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are always bad men and great gods are always corrupt gods.”
“Power takes pride in withering its victims,” Ares said, looking down at Isabella’s body, while shifting it to hang over his left shoulder before turning to continue on to the Fountain. “Though their work will not go unnoticed … I will restore the justice she deserved.”
“Justice? How quaint,” he said, noticing that Ares had not stopped to give him the snappy retort he was expecting.
Hermes’ expression grew wild. “I can’t let you do that-” he began to say, reaching out to grab the body.
Sometimes, last words did not hold any form of wisdom or moral lessons.
It was within a small fraction of time, Ares would demonstrate that neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, would prevail against good men. With his sword, he intended to teach mankind that the less they used their power, the greater they will be.
As he felt Hermes’ icy hands upon the body, he firmly grasped the leather handle of his sword and swung with utmost precision, slicing through godly muscle and bone as it made contact with Hermes’ neck. With one movement, he solidified the fact that quickness of hand and knowledge could acquire a sufficient enough power from within to alter the course of nature.
The snake was forever silenced and no word would be going out to Hera to tell her otherwise.
Ares sheathed his sword, picking up the body of his half-brother, and resting the corpse over his shoulder. He looked down at the remaining men before him.
The two in the front were still in despair, one more than the other, and he could sense it. The others behind them stood with resolve, fists clenched and hearts ridden with anger. They were the type of men that could be cultivated and used for the greater good, and she had molded them to his exact specifications, just as she had promised she would long ago in exchange for her life.
Ares could not help but return his gaze to the man on his knees. He was the catalyst that prompted his release and Ares could not deny his gratitude for such an act. The woman he held in his arms spent her last days loving and she died a martyr. She should be a saint, yet he felt that it would do her no justice, and the man on his knees would most certainly agree. It was a sad truth, for what is in store for those who possess unselfish hearts is nothing but absolute death.
“Your name, son?” Ares asked, looking at him sternly.
“Jack Sparrow,” he said quickly.
Ares shook his head, running his fingers through his dark curly locks. “I believe we have a misunderstanding. I asked you for your name.”
He looked down for a moment, finding a name that he had not uttered in nearly twenty years. “Jonathan. Jonathan Edward Teague,” he finally said.
Ares nodded with a smile, turning to the Fountain, holding a hand up to its rocky form, granting it a moment’s release from dormancy.
They all looked up as a clear liquid began to flow from deep within the rocks, trickling down the hard surface so that wonders of nature and human life could convene for a few slow moments.
“Jonathan Edward Teague, choose the path you’re willing to take,” Ares said, stepping aside to let Jack make his decision before the remaining soldiers would step forward.
Jack finally rose to his feet, squaring away his shoulders as he pursed his lips. He took a quick glance at Barbossa and decided to take his place beside him.
“You know, sometimes things come back, mate. We’re living proof, you and me” Jack said softly.
“A gamble of long odds, Jack. Remember?” Barbossa said, realizing that their conversation had become strikingly familiar.
At one point, Jack would have laughed at the thought of going back to the land of the dead, let alone bringing someone back with him. He could already imagine lying down beside her in Hades, wrapping his arms around her even if she refused to return the sentiment. He would rest his head on hers until she granted him forgiveness.
He closed his eyes. It might hurt. No, it will hurt, and he could take the easier way out, and cry for her, but it wouldn’t help.
Improbable though it may have seemed at that instance, he chose his path despite his own self-preservation, deciding that he would make that journey and travel down the pathways of Hades for her, and for no one else.
“No, not long enough. The manner in which you speak betrays your limits because you refuse to consider the answers outside of your own restrictions.”
Barbossa smiled in silent agreement. He had to admit, Jack was unique in that he had his own plans in mind already. One could only hope that Jack’s plan would be of ethical value, and at that moment of great regret, Barbossa would most certainly fancy any plan that could bring Isabella back, just has he was brought back from the dead.
Their future was to be determined by the choice they would make at that very moment.
Jack nodded, turning away from Barbossa, and the Fountain of Youth along with the god who held the deceased body of a woman that he had come to adore, finding that his feet could not travel fast enough to get away.
---
Thanks so much for reading!
Author: stealmybike
Chapter: Chapter 26: Martyr
Pairing: Jack/Isabella, Barbossa, Pintel, Ragetti, Marty, Gibbs, OMCs
Rating: R for character death(s)
Disclaimer: The mouse owns a good half, but I believe I have the other.
Summary: Betrayal and duty become one in the same. Isabella finds out Jack and Barbossa's true intentions, and the return of Ares God of War brings a fully restored enemy to the Heathen Gods.
Previous chapters can be found here: Chapters 1 - 25
Enjoy!
Chapter 26 - Martyr
“Someday you too will know my pain,
and smile it’s black-tooth grin.”
Megadeth
---
There she was, standing before them in all her glory: la fontaine, the perpetual chalice of youth and health, the greatest swag in all the land, and the answer to all their prayers.
And she was empty.
~~
If there was ever a moment that reminded each and every man in the Fountain’s presence that aging was an inevitable occurrence, it was that.
Mankind could not keep the sun from setting, or the flowers from fading. Neither could they arrest the passage of time which was making them older second by second.
With each step toward the dark and empty rock ruin, they were reminded that their time was diminishing temporally, leaving them less and less time in the realm of the living.
The pirates skeptically peered down into the empty pool beneath the rock.
“This is it?” Pintel asked quietly, raising his brow.
“Doesn’t look like no Fountain of Youth to me,” said Marty, folding his arms across his chest.
“Looks mo’ like a pile of ol’ ruddy rocks!” Pintel exclaimed.
“She’s more than meets the eye, gentlemen,” Isabella said, pushing passed Ragetti, who gave her a weak smile. “Be more perceptive. You perceive an object of no worth, but really your minds are taking on or actually becoming like the form of the object you are perceiving, which would in fact, make you worthless as well. Don’t want to do that, do you?”
Isabella smiled at their confusion, deciding that it would be best to enjoy her last moments in their presence.
Barbossa and Jack found their way behind her, pushing the crew back as they drew near. “Miss Isabella, if ye care to open up the vista o’ our limitless eternity, I would be most obliged,” said Barbossa as he swept a graceful arm toward the Fountain.
“The Fountain can only be opened by the gods, and I am no god,” she said evenly as she moved toward it.
A strange eeriness came over her as her ears picked up the slow unsheathing sound of a sword from behind her.
Isabella turned her head to look over her shoulder. “Your honor can be regained with time, Captain Barbossa, but there is not enough time remaining in my existence for you to regain my trust.”
“He who does not trust, cannot be trusted,” Barbossa said, confident in his stance.
“Then, I trust that you have made your final decision, Barbossa?” Isabella asked, watching as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Realizing the path Barbossa was willing to take, she called for the only action she could think of against her newfound enemy.
“Sword!” she yelled to Moore, who unsheathed one his own and tossed it to her.
There was no reply from Barbossa, so Isabella advanced on the Pirate Lord with her sword and her words. “You know, you’re absolutely right, Captain. How admirable of you to teach me such an important lesson in life. Tell me, why should I grant you what you desire when you’ve breached my trust?”
“Humor me with an answer, Missy, for I see no advantage in answerin’ it meself,” he said, parrying her advancement.
From the corner of her eye, she could see her men preparing for battle, though it was not their battle to fight.
“Stay back!” she yelled, dodging Barbossa’s blade.
Moore’s sword proved to be too heavy of a weapon for her compared to her gladius, and as she swung forward, it required her to use the strength of her whole body to lift the blade through the air.
The pair was greatly matched in skill, dodging each others attacks as if their battle were practiced and prescripted.
Barbossa’s hand was exercised in the rules of truly artful sword fighting as if he were a perfectionist of sorts. Without taking notice, he never failed to make the exact motions he needed in order to counter Isabella’s quick attacks.
She was still young in form, and her movements carried on with force imparted to them by an immeasurable anger. Barbossa noted that very few of her actions were made in vain, and that each one of her blows was significant enough to strike a man down from exhaustion.
However, she still continued to struggle from exhaustion herself due to the weight of Moore’s sword. Barbossa, finding her sword’s weight as an advantage, released a forceful kick to Isabella’s stomach, which caused her to fall backward upon the rocks.
As she drew herself up to her feet, Isabella discovered that she greatly underestimated Barbossa’s previous experience. He had successfully demonstrated that, with his age, he brought with him much of his own knowledge, power, cunning and strength to arms of battle.
He continued to swing with clear blows upon her upper body, but Isabella’s quick thinking and impulse prompted her to block the move with the flat of her sword, pushing his blade away forcefully, but so that it did him no harm. It was a push that served to warn him of the danger he was in, if he chose to continue. The torment that brewed within her from his rage could explode at any moment, and if Barbossa continued on with such determination, he would be caught within a force that he would not be able to handle.
Isabella did not wish death upon Hector Barbossa; instead she wanted to push him away as an act of clemency, for he was consumed by the greed that most men possessed, and even betrayers betray themselves.
She lunged forward, attempting to hit the sword from his hand. “I am here to fulfill my duty to my men, so you can take your honor and traitorous ways to the gates of Hades for all I care.”
Barbossa smiled, catching her blade with his. “Look at yerself, child. Yer nothing but a vulnerable giant, and as you stand, I can see in yer eyes that me betrayal isn’t what truly ails you - it’s something bigger.”
She drew back her sword, feeling uneasy from his statement. Perhaps, she had grown vulnerable and placed valuable trust in those who were not deserving of it. And for what purpose, exactly? To risk her pride in order to find her own glory? Surely, she wouldn’t shred herself to the core over the men that would knowingly betray her.
After a moment, Barbossa leaped forward, finding himself within another tug of war of mind over matter.
“You falsely called yourself my friend and took advantage of my kindness. I could kill you for such a thing,” she whispered through her teeth, while Barbossa still made an effort to move forward.
“Try to kill me while ye can, lass,” he said, knowing that she did not possess the gall to slay him. “Seems like ye think you’ll be doin’ the world a favor,” he continued, stepping back as he heard another sword unsheathed from behind her.
The sound caused her to turn, cocking her head to the side. She blinked multiple times, as if she secretly hoped that her eyes were deceiving her.
“Don’t move,” Jack said, holding his cutlass to her chest.
She could hear her heart pounding. “So, this was a plot of your own design, was it?” she said, taking note that his arm was shaking, and that his demeanor was clearly being reflected by his stance. She took another step closer to him, but stopped when she felt Barbossa’s blade on her back.
“M’lady, a step too close would be most ill advised,” said Barbossa.
She stopped, nodding her head. She finally understood.
“Drop your sword,” Jack said, catching her attention again.
She averted her eyes over to her men for a moment, silently signaling to Moore to calm the others with her eyes. With Jack’s sword pointed at her scar, and Barbossa’s on her back, she felt the handle her own sword fall from her fingers as if it were too cumbersome for her grasp.
Jack adjusted his posture, swallowing hard as he attempted to straighten his arm. ‘Stop bloody shaking!’ he thought, looking down at his wrist.
“Now, Missy, this here situation can be effortlessly avoided, if you’ll just be tellin’ us what it is that we’ll be needin’ to know,” said Barbossa with confidence.
Placing her arms down at her sides, she looked Jack square in the eye. His shaky stance along with the sadness he possessed in his eyes caused her to question whether he truly wanted that fate for her, or for them.
Ignoring Barbossa’s demand, she decided to address Jack with a tone of harshness in her voice. “Tell me, Jack. What is it that you’re planning on doing to me?”
He faltered, looking down for a brief moment as if he was looking for an answer, but found nothing, which caused him to fall silent. Whatever he might have said at that point was unforgivable.
At one point in her early life, her dear mother advised her that peace and patience would be the virtues she must carry on throughout her life, if she were to become a proper leader. Isabella had never anticipated that love was long suffering, patient, and kind, but not manipulative. Her response to the feeling of betrayal was not revenge, sadness or anger. Though, she would have liked to believe that those feelings didn’t heal or help, she couldn’t help but find herself slipping down the hills of vengeance, letting her anger rise from within.
She finally surrendered, slowly lifting her arms in the air in defeat as she spoke the only word that she knew Jack would not favor on her lips.
“Coward,” she hissed.
His nose twitched as he narrowed his brow in anger. “Hold your tongue!” he said, straightening his stance, while holding his cutlass with far more conviction than he had anticipated.
“What is it that you want? I’d fancy the truth this time, if you will,” she said after a moment.
“Love, I never lied to you,” he said quietly.
She cocked her head defiantly, licking her lips. “Yet here you stand with a sword pointed at my heart. Do not try to fool me again, Jack. You did lie to me…” she said, feeling her voice trail. “Is this what you want? To live forever without any regard for those around you?” she said suddenly.
It was at that moment that she felt the pain of Barbossa’s words. She was a vulnerable giant who willfully opened herself, mind, body and soul to a man after building up all her defenses like an inner suit of armor in the hopes no one would harm her. Within their time together, she gave him a piece of herself, even if he didn’t ask for it. All he had done was charm her, kiss her and win her over with his illustrious smile, and then her life wasn’t her own anymore.
“Bella-” he began softly.
“No! Do not call me that name, for it amounts to naught but ash upon your lips and I will not accept such deceit from you,” she cried, feeling a familiar rage begin to rise within the pit of her stomach. “Is this what you want?” she asked once more, noting a small nod on Jack’s behalf.
“Then, I shall give it to you. It’s the least I can do,” she said, sighing as she leaned forward onto the tip of Jack’s blade. “You know, I believed that you would take care of my heart and that’s why I left it with you. Happiness in small ways, Jack … Remember? Happiness can be taken away so very quickly…”
She took a long breath, feeling her arms shake.
It was time to release him, just like she promised. Betrayal and duty were to become one in the same.
Suddenly, she felt her arms reach forward without her consent, grabbing a hold of Jack’s hand. In an instant, she pulled him to her until she felt the handle of his cutlass touching her chest, feeling her lungs heave and longing for air.
The pain from his blade was momentary, fading into a lapse of numbness which made her body quiver. It had sliced clean through her scar, causing her to feel the slightest trickle of blood oozing from her back and chest.
His heart stopped, but his first instinct was to pull away from her, sliding his blade out from deep within her chest.
There was no sadder feeling than that of disbelief - wishing to suspend moments of tragedy in time to take back that which was wrongfully done. As his lips twitched, he felt the passionate grip he once had on his cutlass lessen until he felt the weapon slip from his fingers, and he watched her stand for a moment, amazed that she continued to possess the same conviction in her bearings, until she lost the fire from her eyes.
As her legs gave way, she fell to her knees and he fell with her, catching her body before she fell to the ground, but he could offer her no words as he felt his breath escape from his lungs, unwilling to return.
There was no deceit in death, no whispers of trickery or lies from strange tongues or snakes. Death delivered precisely what it promised without slaughtering all of her expectations. And with death, she would save mankind from a fate unbeknownst to them.
Then she saw him opening his mouth as his grip tightened upon her shoulders, attempting to find his voice, an apology, or a gasp of air - whatever it may have been, it was too late for her and time turned into a precious commodity.
Before he could utter a word, she found the strength to place a finger on his lips.
“Shush, Jack,” she said, resting her head on his, feeling her sentience dying within her. Her insides started to burn, beginning to feel an almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness for each successive moment. From that, she grew a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all those around her, even her betrayer.
“I know that you’re sorry,” she said softly, swallowing hard as she shifted her gaze to Moore.
Her eyes were beginning to blur, but she was able to recognize a scuffle amongst her soldiers. She observed as Moore began to restrain Jordan from moving forward - his arms fastened tightly around Jordan’s waist, and she could not even begin to explain the expression she saw on her young lieutenant’s face.
She had not told Jordan of her purpose, or why she had to die in order to save them all. Not a bone in her body wanted to crush his youthful innocence, his happiness, or his optimism. He was just so brilliantly devoted and free from care, but there he was - reaching out to her from behind a group of her men, looking as if he were screaming, though it was too faint for her to hear or see any longer.
A small moment of regret came when she saw him cry, and in her final effort to comfort him, she reached out to him with her heart and her smile; for he was the only soldier she would have been willing to take in as one of her own, and with such great pride she would have called him her son for the rest of her days.
She felt Jack’s hands shake her out of her bout with delirium, and she could sense the faintest of whispers from his hot breath on her cheek.
She turned to him, calmly licking blood from her lips. “They belong to him now. Run from this place, save yourself. Save your crew…” she said, feeling the blood form clots in her throat.
She began to experience a highly charged feeling, headachy strong, and almost like an overhead energy had descended upon her being. It was as if her soul and her body were beginning to separate, leaving her to become part of eternity without physical consciousness. In terms of perception or objective reality, she was no longer a physical being or and entity that existed. Death was not an entity and so she would mirror it, succumbing to Death’s exact likeness.
“Take care of yourself inside, Jack…” she whispered, placing her hand on his chest.
He could see that she was bleeding heavily against his shirt and he finally came to a haunting realization.
She was dying … his Isabella was dying, and he could not stop it.
“In small ways,” he replied weakly, feeling a moment of ease when he saw her smile.
As she took in her final breath, she fell forward into his arms, waiting to exhale, knowing that what she wanted was a perfect ending. In the end, she learned the hard way that some poems didn’t rhyme, but her story was fortunate to have a clear beginning and middle, but not a clear ending. The beauty in life was about not knowing, and she would close her eyes knowing that she had the capacity to love again, even after all her hardships.
Jack wished he could have done something - anything - that could stop the events that were about to take place. Even his breaths were hurting him deeply, cursing his body with every inhalation, and the pain caused his eyes to tear.
He wished he could paint his face, so that he could look like a warrior, and easily mask his agony behind the pigment.
There were snakes crawling beneath his skin, hissing at him from all the sorrow he brought upon her. He grew sick to the point where he felt like vomiting from the sight of her blood, because it was too disgusting to be filled with snakes, but he held it inside.
For a brief moment, he could not recognize her. She was so fragile and delusional, and it caused him to grow angry with himself. They had come such a long way together.
Hooking a finger beneath her chin, he pressed his lips on hers in a final effort to stop the blood with his mouth, but it hated him, and the blood continued to pour without remorse.
His Isabella was dying, and he would be with her as her end drew near.
He kneeled with her, wishing to find the proper words to speak to her, but as he held her during her final moments, he found his father’s words at the very front of his mind.
“It’s not just about livin’ forever, Jackie. It’s about livin’ with yourself forever.”
It was the moments before death when most people realized what life was all about. He saw that the life withering within his arms was almost nothing but the sum of every choice she had made during her existence.
Her thoughts were just as real as her deeds, and he wondered if she as well, had begun to realize that her every word and every deed affected not only her life, but had also affected thousands of lives in the process.
He couldn’t help but close his eyes as the great general fell limp in his arms, and a world of screams felt silent around him. All he could hear was the hissing of snakes, plunging down inside his innards once more, and cursing him with an undeniable nausea deep within the pit of his stomach.
---
As Isabella’s life drew to an end, Moore found himself dealing with the responsibility of carrying an irate Jordan down to the end of the dirt passageway, so his kicking and screaming could no longer be heard from the Fountain’s chamber.
Moore tossed Jordan to the ground before him, and placed his hands on his hips.
“Jordan, what are you doing?”
“No, that is not the question at hand here. What exactly are you doing?” he retorted, pouncing back onto his feet.
“Jordan-” Moore said, pushing Jordan back as he began to advance on him. Moore realized that Jordan actions were turning to rash and aggressive spurts of rage, so he decided to put himself on the defense.
“No! What are you doing?” Jordan yelled, beginning to pace around the dark passageway. “You stood by and watched her die! What kind of man are you?”
Jordan’s pain was eating him from the inside, and left him crying in the darkness. Watching Isabella’s life slip away before him hurt, and not just in his imagination or in his mind. The pain it caused hurt his soul, for it was a real pain that ripped even the most resilient souls apart, and he could not control his rage.
“We claim to be in an army,” he said, tossing his arms in the air. “There are people in this world who have given their lives to forward the acts of the gods and in the process, damning millions of innocent souls to Hell. I have no compassion for it any longer, even if it means one less soldier in a godless army!” Jordan exclaimed.
“This is exactly why she didn’t see fit to tell you!”
“Why because I’m too fucking young, right?” he asked, pushing Moore against the wall. “I’m too fucking young to handle letting someone die? I hold the same title as you and equal knowledge!”
“You have no idea of the position she held, and these fraudulent, over zealous, intimidating gods of misguided compassion have caused you to turn on your own comrades instead of fighting alongside us!” Moore yelled, pushing Jordan down to the ground.
“They have you crying over the death of someone who raised you to stop such deceit!” Moore continued, taking a deep breath to calm himself, while holding his hand out to the young man.
Jordan scrambled up to his feet, even more enraged than he was before. “I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, and do all that I am capable of doing, but if I am going to be pursued, fucked, and possessed by the will of a god to do their bidding, I would appreciate an explanation as to why!”
“Jordan, you don’t understand …”
“What do I need to understand?” Jordan asked, so engulfed in anger that he raised his fists to Moore with all intention of hitting him. At the very last second, Jordan diverted his strike to the dirt wall beside him, letting his frustration out the only way he knew he could.
Jordan pounded at the wall with all of the strength he possessed. The rage and hate within him needed to be relinquished, yet he found it harder to dispel his pain with each strike.
Moore stood back, letting the young man expel his grief, wishing he could do the same, but time was of the essence for him, and he would honor Isabella’s memory by fulfilling her final wishes.
Jordan’s spirit would not grow if he sat within the confines of a beautiful flower garden for the rest of his days. Instead, he would grow if he was sick with pain, experienced losses, and by not putting his head beneath the sand in fear. Therefore, if Jordan took the pain of loss as a gift, he would see that it possessed a very specific purpose.
As Jordan’s arms began to falter from exhaustion, he felt his knees finally give way, causing him to fall to the dirt with tears in his eyes. Jordan’s pain could not be properly vented, and it hurt his organs, and caused him to weep uncontrollably.
Moore caught him and placed his hands on Jordan’s shoulders. “There are things that we don’t want to happen, but we have to accept. There are so many things we don’t want to know, but we still have to learn, then there are people we can’t live without, but we have to let go,” Moore said quietly.
Jordan clutched his chest as it began to heave, while choking back words that he did not have the ability to speak.
“She said how she would take death as it came to her and not try to fight it or run away from it, but then there are also those who are scared of dying and cannot accept the fact that sooner or later, the time will come for them to pass on as well. She was scared to tell you, Jordan, because she was afraid of what you would do when the time came.”
Moore felt Jordan’s body twitch each time he spoke the word ‘she’ as if the name caused him too great of a pain to describe.
No words or actions could have spoken louder than his tears. “Please, forgive me, Isabella. I will not fight,” he said, pushing away from Moore. “You are not my general.”
Moore hung his head low at the statement, and in an instant the mystery of the underground chamber was enhanced by the rumbling of the earth beneath them.
“Jordan! Throw yourself to the ground!” he exclaimed, grabbing the man by his arm as they both stumbled to the side of the passageway, kneeling to taking cover beside the dirt walls, while covering their heads with their arms for protection from falling debris.
After a few moments, the rumbling ceased and they heard a flutter of movement from beyond the entrance to the Fountain’s chamber. They watched as the pirates that led them on their journey ran out from the small sliver of an entrance, yelling and screaming something about the devil himself being upon them.
Jordan held his arm out, stopping the first pirate he could get his hands on, which was Joshamee Gibbs.
“Gibbs, what the hell was that?” Jordan said breathlessly, scrambling to his feet.
Gibbs was panting and hunched over to catch his breath. “A man … he just sprouted up from … from …”
“Calm yourself, Gibbs. What’s happening?” Jordan said, grabbing a fist full of the First Mate’s shirt.
“Jack’s madder than the devil hisself - he won’t budge from where he kneels. Barbossa’s by ‘is side, ‘pears he’s not keepin’ to the Code,” he said.
Moore nodded, harkening to the call of his duty. “Stay here. When you’ve got your head together come find me,” he said, leaving the passageway to aid his men, who were still within the chamber.
“I will not fight by your side, do you hear me? I’ve had enough!” Jordan yelled after him, realizing that his words would not be heeded or considered. He grabbed Gibbs by the shoulder and helped him escape from the passageway.
Moore left without another word, stumbling into panicking Colin Andrews within the Fountain’s chamber.
“Moore! It’s … It’s-”
“I know, Colin. See to Jordan in the passageway. Now,” Moore said, sliding through the crowd of soldiers to the Fountain to find Ares, God of War, standing before Jack Sparrow with his arms held out to him.
---
He stood before them; a man once thought as a sketched and bloodthirsty and cast off as a raging demon whose desire for victory was nothing more than a braggadocio compared to those with rational power. He was deemed ‘mad’ and ‘insane’ by the gods, and was said to have lived with no character or knowledge of right and wrong.
There was no god more hated than the true son of Hera, born from her rage and hatred for Zeus.
Moore and his men saw no demon, but instead they saw a man scorned and banished from his proper place among the Titans. His passion was frightening to those who considered themselves civilized, so he was repressed, and forced to take cover within the body of another until it was his time to emerge once more.
He was not seven hundred feet tall, or utterly treacherous. He was a simple man, poised and stoic, whose name and reputation were dragged through the dirt of countless battlefields and pools of blood until he was considered naught but a nuisance.
Once shamed into hiding, Ares returned to the world of the living with a vengeance to regain the position that was rightfully his.
Moore and his men fell to their knees as their new leader fell to his.
“Do not mourn that which cannot be changed,” Ares said as his eyes met Jack’s.
Ares felt the pain of sorrow within his being, it was the same pain he felt when he lost a soldier to war, and he often wondered what kind of life or dreams that lost soul might have had. Ares hoped to alleviate, at the very least, a fraction of the pain by taking the body away from him.
At first, Jack was reluctant to give her away, instinctively holding her closer to his chest when Ares held out his arms to him. Though, after a moment, Jack felt an element of sincerity toward the god. He possessed an openness of heart that Jack found in Isabella, so he decided that perhaps, it would be best to put her in the capable hands of a god, while continuing to hold the slightest bit of hope that he could restore her to her former glory. An optimistic thought, it was, but he could not help but wish for the best, for it could not be any worse.
Once her body was safely nestled within his arms, Ares lifted himself to his feet, holding her close to his chest.
Ares licked his lips. “Take a knee, men,” he said, walking toward the group of soldiers.
“I propose to you, soldiers of righteousness, an opportunity to wage such a war that it will carry the reward of glorious martyrdom - a war that will assure the title eternal glory,” he said, scanning the faces of the men that stood before him.
“In your lives, no success has come without a battle, and this day isn’t any different. Consider it a tribute to your general, who opposed me at first, but then came to be one of my supporters. She was a supporter that carried my spirit within her until she could find a proper group of men to fulfill the great duty of restoring peace to the heavens. She was a leader of great ability, who loved you all and wished to lead you into better days. Her support is an honor, and her great deeds will not be forgotten.”
A single evenly spaced applause came from deep within the shadows beside the Fountain, calling to attention to the clapper’s presence as if it were made as a genuine accolade. Then he emerged from the darkness as a smile tugged the corners of his lips. Hermes was a snake, an ‘adder’ named after his habit of adding funeral outlays at the expense of others. He hissed like one, and walked as if he held the upper hand at all times. Though he was not venomous, he surely acted like poison surged through his veins.
“Well done, brother. An impressive display of prowess and, might I add, an excellent entrance into the realm of the living, and I must certainly commend you on your clever hiding place,” Hermes said, crinkling his face in disgust as he stepped over a pool of blood left by Isabella’s fatal wound.
“Hermes, you manipulative bastard,” Ares growled.
“Oh, come now, Ares, let us not be so wicked toward one another. Mother would be so ashamed to see her two sons turning against each other. You’re back and it is a new beginning for us, is it not?” he asked, but received no reply.
“What is it that you want?” Ares asked, narrowing his brow.
“All I want is the right to fulfill my duty. I am here to inform you that Mother wants the body,” Hermes continued, “and I will deliver it to her, just as I deliver all bodies to Charon. Now, be cooperative, brother. You wouldn’t want to wear out your welcome, would you?”
“This body will not deviate from its course. It will be sent to Charon and to no one else. Hera does not hold power or jurisdiction over the dead, nor does she hold judgment over the living,” Ares said sternly.
“Life and death,” Hermes said, cupping his hands behind his back. “You pose a convincing argument, my dear brother. Though, a man of your position would know that most of humanity, with very few exceptions, is largely clueless about the true nature of violence, and fail to realize that life itself is very much about bloodshed and war, isn’t it?”
Ares shifted his stance as Hermes drew near, planting his feet firmly to ground. “Determination will prevail over violence and the men who submit themselves to the sins of your nature will not be able to differentiate an ally from an enemy, but rather reduce them both to the same state.”
“You see, my dear brother, that is where you are sadly mistaken,” Hermes hissed, cracking his neck.
“Am I?”
“Oh yes, I’m afraid so. Life, as we know it, is about men struggling against adversaries bent on their destruction; about trying to avenge and protect their comrades or loved ones by taking life and doing harm. Fools folly, if you ask me,” Hermes said, humored at the thought of his statement.
“So, considering all this, why is it that I find you standing between me and everything you stand against? You are a god of war, not a god of rebellion or anarchy,” Hermes said, placing a hand on his chin as he studied his long lost brother.
“I stand between you and corruption. You’ve lost your way and have become one of the many men who have run to Hera not only for power, but also because you think that no one will stand against you. You think that you’ll never be contradicted.”
A manic laugh escaped Hermes’ lips, and he clapped his hands together as if he was all too amused. “Is that what you think? You’re wonderfully clever and just spectacular with your words of valor and decency, aren’t you?” he said, leaning forward into his laughter. “It seems that you and I are more similar than I originally thought - concerning cleverness, of course. However, I believe that the sole purpose of power is its intention to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are always bad men and great gods are always corrupt gods.”
“Power takes pride in withering its victims,” Ares said, looking down at Isabella’s body, while shifting it to hang over his left shoulder before turning to continue on to the Fountain. “Though their work will not go unnoticed … I will restore the justice she deserved.”
“Justice? How quaint,” he said, noticing that Ares had not stopped to give him the snappy retort he was expecting.
Hermes’ expression grew wild. “I can’t let you do that-” he began to say, reaching out to grab the body.
Sometimes, last words did not hold any form of wisdom or moral lessons.
It was within a small fraction of time, Ares would demonstrate that neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, would prevail against good men. With his sword, he intended to teach mankind that the less they used their power, the greater they will be.
As he felt Hermes’ icy hands upon the body, he firmly grasped the leather handle of his sword and swung with utmost precision, slicing through godly muscle and bone as it made contact with Hermes’ neck. With one movement, he solidified the fact that quickness of hand and knowledge could acquire a sufficient enough power from within to alter the course of nature.
The snake was forever silenced and no word would be going out to Hera to tell her otherwise.
Ares sheathed his sword, picking up the body of his half-brother, and resting the corpse over his shoulder. He looked down at the remaining men before him.
The two in the front were still in despair, one more than the other, and he could sense it. The others behind them stood with resolve, fists clenched and hearts ridden with anger. They were the type of men that could be cultivated and used for the greater good, and she had molded them to his exact specifications, just as she had promised she would long ago in exchange for her life.
Ares could not help but return his gaze to the man on his knees. He was the catalyst that prompted his release and Ares could not deny his gratitude for such an act. The woman he held in his arms spent her last days loving and she died a martyr. She should be a saint, yet he felt that it would do her no justice, and the man on his knees would most certainly agree. It was a sad truth, for what is in store for those who possess unselfish hearts is nothing but absolute death.
“Your name, son?” Ares asked, looking at him sternly.
“Jack Sparrow,” he said quickly.
Ares shook his head, running his fingers through his dark curly locks. “I believe we have a misunderstanding. I asked you for your name.”
He looked down for a moment, finding a name that he had not uttered in nearly twenty years. “Jonathan. Jonathan Edward Teague,” he finally said.
Ares nodded with a smile, turning to the Fountain, holding a hand up to its rocky form, granting it a moment’s release from dormancy.
They all looked up as a clear liquid began to flow from deep within the rocks, trickling down the hard surface so that wonders of nature and human life could convene for a few slow moments.
“Jonathan Edward Teague, choose the path you’re willing to take,” Ares said, stepping aside to let Jack make his decision before the remaining soldiers would step forward.
Jack finally rose to his feet, squaring away his shoulders as he pursed his lips. He took a quick glance at Barbossa and decided to take his place beside him.
“You know, sometimes things come back, mate. We’re living proof, you and me” Jack said softly.
“A gamble of long odds, Jack. Remember?” Barbossa said, realizing that their conversation had become strikingly familiar.
At one point, Jack would have laughed at the thought of going back to the land of the dead, let alone bringing someone back with him. He could already imagine lying down beside her in Hades, wrapping his arms around her even if she refused to return the sentiment. He would rest his head on hers until she granted him forgiveness.
He closed his eyes. It might hurt. No, it will hurt, and he could take the easier way out, and cry for her, but it wouldn’t help.
Improbable though it may have seemed at that instance, he chose his path despite his own self-preservation, deciding that he would make that journey and travel down the pathways of Hades for her, and for no one else.
“No, not long enough. The manner in which you speak betrays your limits because you refuse to consider the answers outside of your own restrictions.”
Barbossa smiled in silent agreement. He had to admit, Jack was unique in that he had his own plans in mind already. One could only hope that Jack’s plan would be of ethical value, and at that moment of great regret, Barbossa would most certainly fancy any plan that could bring Isabella back, just has he was brought back from the dead.
Their future was to be determined by the choice they would make at that very moment.
Jack nodded, turning away from Barbossa, and the Fountain of Youth along with the god who held the deceased body of a woman that he had come to adore, finding that his feet could not travel fast enough to get away.
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Thanks so much for reading!