Fic: Metal and Words, 12/16
Title: Metal and Words, 12/16
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 2200, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
The late morning was on the verge of turning into early afternoon, a short period of time when the inn nearly emptied. So when a shadow fell on the counter, the innkeeper deemed its appearance annoyingly ill-timed. “What…!” he snarled, distracted from his freshly-filled private mug.
A metallic clink made him look at the countertop. A golden disc spun a moment before falling flat on the wood. Le Roi gazed coldly at his subject, giving him a sudden rush of patriotism followed by a dry throat.
"...May I serve you with, honourable Monsieur?” the innkeeper croaked, wrenching his eyes, with no small effort, from the countertop.
The honourable Monsieur eyed him with a smirk, as far as it was possible to recognize on a figure covered in mud and dust so thoroughly that one could hardly tell the garb or even the skin colour. The light through the door was blocked by the sack on the stranger’s shoulder and his thick of a… wig, no doubt. No one could have such hair.
“A room." His Flemish accent was so heavy the innkeeper winced. “A tub of hot water, a pound of soap, a big mirror, dinner and a bottle of rum. Two bottles. You can start with the rum.” Not waiting for the reply, he turned for the stairs at the back of the room.
The innkeeper snatched the Louis d’or from the counter, examined it closely and bit, just in case. Remembering his abandoned mug, he took a swill and cleared his throat. “Um… how should I call you, honorable Monsieur?”
The stranger looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Van Der Zee. Definitely."
***
Jack tilted his head, watching the hair slide off his shoulder. It was fairer than usual, much less heavy than usual, and - unusually - didn’t jangle.
The window of an upstairs room looked almost squarely west, and the setting sun cast a warm tone on the walls' discoloured lime patches and the weathered wood of the window frame. The middle of the room, however, lit with a fiery riot of sapphire, scarlet and gold, punctuated here and there by the flash of lacquered black and polished silver.
A hidalgo looked from a mirror resting against a wall, his presence suggesting that Hell had decided to send its bluest - and hottest - blood to the Earth, concentrating it all in one satanic figure. Hell must have quite the hellish sense of joke, for its apparent emissary wore an angelic-white shirt, a bishop-red waistcoat, a heavenly-hued coat revealing a golden sash… and a pair of drab breeches. Almost half an hour of violent brushing had resulted in a new hole and removed the most noticeable marks of the last days, but it hadn't managed a miracle. The breeches stubbornly disobeyed in giving the impression that their owner had arrived to Port-au-Prince in a satin-padded carriage, or even a saddle. They suggested rather, that half along the way he had dug the cart from a mire, and sat in clouds of dust from the wheels and hooves the other half. In other words, Jack Sparrow’s breeches beamed with an eloquent, if mute, truthfulness which one could hardly find in Jack Sparrow himself. He gave them the look deserving of traitors and mutineers, winced and grabbed a bottle on the table. Plenty of time and rum would be needed to erase the horrible memory of the last couple days and wash the dust from his throat, he reckoned.
The mute Felipe had been barely more entertaining company than the oxen. Usually Jack was satisfied with a listener and a bottle, but it had turned out the only thing wet in their supplies had been water. Walls of foliage stretching endlessly along the muddy road, the constant buzz of mosquitoes, and the two tails swinging right and left, left and right, all day long… Finally, all that made the ball in the pistol he carried for years oddly tempting.
The oxen, phlegmatic and uncaring of the curses aimed at them, had walked no faster than a man, and the cart had kept as getting stuck in dried ruts as it did in squelchy mud. But when man or horse would have fallen dead, the heavy beasts had trudged on and on, dawn to dusk, sweltering heat or downpour.
On the third morning, the cart entered the French colony's capital and didn't stop, until it reached the docks. It turned out the Lucecita had made port the day before, carrying only one mast, two-thirds of her crew, and half of her cargo, of which only a handful was dry enough to still deserve to be called tobacco. An hour after dropping anchor, a crate of the poorest cigars in town were selling for a hundred and ten livres, and the next morning even the most respectable citizens, including those usually not dabbling in trade, had dug up the remains of their private stocks. The more enterprising spirits began to casting estimating glances at the withered palm fronds growing by the wharves.
Now, by late afternoon, the cart must have gone a good few miles into the forest, carrying dozens of bottles in crates under heaps of straw and a fake bottom. The last time Jack saw Felipe, he had been half-excited, half-dazed and uncertain as to which hide deeper: his joy at the swarming marketplace's buzz or his relief at the quick return. Jack, having left the boy at the town's outskirts to go in search of an inn, had clearer feelings: no more acquaintances with anything which had horns and hooves! Unless on a plate, the horns and hooves bereft.
He set the bottle onto the table and looked into the mirror. Truth be told, at a second glance one could see not only the miserable state of the breeches, but also the shirt's frayed lace and slightly worn fabric of the coat. There were darker places visible where he, admittedly with regret, had ripped off half of the gilded embroideries and tassels, having decided Almirante would be a bit over the top. Anyway, what's better than a Captain, even if it's a Captain in a faded coat? Only the schiavona‘s silver guard and black leather shined with a spotless, predatory gleam.
The blade hissed against the sheath and flashed as he raised the rapier in a mocking salute to his own reflection. The hidalgo in the mirror responded with a smirk. “Darkness shelters pirates and spies,” he seemed to say. “Darkness hides what is and shows what is not. Darkness and the human mind."
Aye, the further from the light, the better, Jack nodded to the reflection. Jerked by the movement, more of the hair slid off his shoulder. He gave an exasperated look to the mirror alter ego. One would need a cellar darkness to hide this, he snarled silently.
This had taken the most of time. All of the pieces of metal, bone, wood, stones and glass had been untied, torn off and, in most cases, just cut away. They were in the sack now, wrapped carefully in his old shirt. A thick comb had untangled the braids, removed the remains of thongs and threads together with a handful of hair which would be enough for a small pillow, and evicted the most of aggrieved and scared things that hadn't drown in the apocalypse of water and soap. Finally, Jack had given up when the comb lost half its teeth in the matted thicket.
The result was lamentable. It brought to mind an allegory of a lion's wrath by an artist who got carried away. There was even a smell of something like a damp lion, with an accent of lavender soap. And, of course, the turpentine. Jack winced and looked around. Maybe if he could just cover it...
The hat resting on the bed seemed to be a good acre wide. The dark felt, crowned with a mass of pitch black feathers, resembled a field shaded by a stormy cloud, but atop the pirate's mane it looked rather like a black kitten sleeping on a haystack. Jack, in despair, tugged the brim down. It could work, or so he believed, in gloom, for a short time, so long as no one paid too close attention. Who knows? Perhaps Madrid had gone crazy that year for large wigs made of... of camels, whole ones.
The moment he loosened his grip, the brim sprang back up. For a while, the hat remained still, and then it gently slid to the floor. Jack snarled and sent it toward the wall with a hearty kick. Absentmindedly, he raked a hand through his hair and checked himself when his rings tangled. Jerking them free, he looked into the sack containing his old garb. There was no sense in trying the scarf; he knew all too well it would slide off as readily as the hat, unless the most of the loose hair was bound first. He rummaged through the sack in search of the old coat's pocket and produced a black ribbon which had, as of that morning, been lying in a stall he had passed. It was quite possible the merchant still hadn't noticed the empty spot. Ribbon in hand, Jack came back to the mirror, sighed pitifully and reached for his dagger.
Four long lumps, carefully chosen from the most matted, fell to the floor. The rest, not without a fierce struggle, he gathered as tightly as he could. For a while, it seemed that without three additional hands he would be gathering the evasive tangle 'til the world's end, but finally he knotted it. There was barely enough of ribbon for a bow. A few of pirate-spirited locks escaped the binding, but they were hidden in the hat's shadow. Said hat tried to slide askew, until four huge pins made sure any mutiny was out of question. At last, the breathless pirate smoothed the coat's cuffs, disheveled in the battle, and shot his reflection a furious glare. Well? Was anything else going to rise in rebellion?
This time the satanic emissary in the mirror looked almost civilised, Jack discovered. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. How decent... until one didn't notice the gaze. He tilted his head and the mirror demon repeated the move, half-human, half-devilish eyes shining in the brim's shadow, challenge and temptation melting in their heat. “There will be many temptations needed this night,” the demon's smirk seemed to say.
No worries, temptations and promises are inexhaustible goods, Jack winked to the mirror. Speaking of things inexhaustible, it was time to do something about the turpentine. Rummaging in the sack, he found a glass bottle. He examined the yellowish contents against the light and removed the wax seal.
***
The bay's surface glittered like liquid gold, melted by a sun nearly touching the horizon. The light slid off the masts and their flags, port cranes, palms, chimneys and one figure settled on a relatively flat piece of the inn's roof.
The roof was the highest within a hundred yards and conveniently adjoined to ten others, or thirty, if one didn't count the one or two leaps necessary over narrow alleys. These thirty offered a wide choice of descents to courtyards and streets, at least half of those allowing for not only jumping down, but climbing back up, as well. Port-au-Prince was a good place for cats and pirates.
Jack gazed at the horizon. It was too early yet, too much light. Darkness would soon fall, however. It was already flooding streets like a rising tide. And there was plenty to flood. From the last time Jack remembered, new wharves had been added to the port, the forts guarding the bay shined with new stone, and several mansions tried to equal the Governor's palace in size. The pirate looked into the sack wedged between a protruding beam and the chimney he leaned against. The stables aside, one must admit His Reckless Excellency De Villiers also had lovely orchards, he thought, examining an orange.
He was cutting the peel when a noise caught his attention. He bent to the roof's edge and tilted his head, listening intently to the barely audible creak of the room's door and furtive steps. At last length, there came a confused “What the hell...?”
Jack licked the juice from his fingers and nodded, mentally acknowledging the bet he had won with himself. The innkeeper hadn't even waited until the sunset, although he clearly had expected the room to be left unattended, not abandoned. Probably, at the moment, the realization was occurring to him that he wouldn't find any gold, but also never see the gold-laden guest again. The same could be said for one spoon, a goblet, and a candlestick. Pity the mirror's frame had turned out to be wider than window's.
The last fiery flashes sank in the sea and the cloud's scarlet lining faded. The night promised to be fair. Jack stood up, dumped the orange peels down the chimney, stretched and adjusted the buckle on his sword's baldric. The black plume atop the hat trembled in the evening breeze as the pirate swept roofs, alleys and courtyards with his gaze.
Time for some real piracy.
----------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
Van Der Zee (Dutch) - from/of the Sea
The next part
----------------------------
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)
Author: Aletheia Felinea
Beta: compassrose7577. Thank you so much!
Rating: PG-13 overall
Wordcount: 2200, this chapter
Characters: (this chapter) Jack Sparrow, OCs
Genre: Gen fic supposed to be a crime story.
Time: Months before CotBP.
Summary: The sweet air of Tortuga can be dangerous sometimes, even for the certain Captain. And curiosity can kill a sparrow. Or... save?
Disclaimer: Not my hunting territory, The Big Black Mouse prowls here.
Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11
Note: The fic was translated from Polish. Jeśli wolisz czytać w oryginale, zapraszam.
The late morning was on the verge of turning into early afternoon, a short period of time when the inn nearly emptied. So when a shadow fell on the counter, the innkeeper deemed its appearance annoyingly ill-timed. “What…!” he snarled, distracted from his freshly-filled private mug.
A metallic clink made him look at the countertop. A golden disc spun a moment before falling flat on the wood. Le Roi gazed coldly at his subject, giving him a sudden rush of patriotism followed by a dry throat.
"...May I serve you with, honourable Monsieur?” the innkeeper croaked, wrenching his eyes, with no small effort, from the countertop.
The honourable Monsieur eyed him with a smirk, as far as it was possible to recognize on a figure covered in mud and dust so thoroughly that one could hardly tell the garb or even the skin colour. The light through the door was blocked by the sack on the stranger’s shoulder and his thick of a… wig, no doubt. No one could have such hair.
“A room." His Flemish accent was so heavy the innkeeper winced. “A tub of hot water, a pound of soap, a big mirror, dinner and a bottle of rum. Two bottles. You can start with the rum.” Not waiting for the reply, he turned for the stairs at the back of the room.
The innkeeper snatched the Louis d’or from the counter, examined it closely and bit, just in case. Remembering his abandoned mug, he took a swill and cleared his throat. “Um… how should I call you, honorable Monsieur?”
The stranger looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Van Der Zee. Definitely."
***
Jack tilted his head, watching the hair slide off his shoulder. It was fairer than usual, much less heavy than usual, and - unusually - didn’t jangle.
The window of an upstairs room looked almost squarely west, and the setting sun cast a warm tone on the walls' discoloured lime patches and the weathered wood of the window frame. The middle of the room, however, lit with a fiery riot of sapphire, scarlet and gold, punctuated here and there by the flash of lacquered black and polished silver.
A hidalgo looked from a mirror resting against a wall, his presence suggesting that Hell had decided to send its bluest - and hottest - blood to the Earth, concentrating it all in one satanic figure. Hell must have quite the hellish sense of joke, for its apparent emissary wore an angelic-white shirt, a bishop-red waistcoat, a heavenly-hued coat revealing a golden sash… and a pair of drab breeches. Almost half an hour of violent brushing had resulted in a new hole and removed the most noticeable marks of the last days, but it hadn't managed a miracle. The breeches stubbornly disobeyed in giving the impression that their owner had arrived to Port-au-Prince in a satin-padded carriage, or even a saddle. They suggested rather, that half along the way he had dug the cart from a mire, and sat in clouds of dust from the wheels and hooves the other half. In other words, Jack Sparrow’s breeches beamed with an eloquent, if mute, truthfulness which one could hardly find in Jack Sparrow himself. He gave them the look deserving of traitors and mutineers, winced and grabbed a bottle on the table. Plenty of time and rum would be needed to erase the horrible memory of the last couple days and wash the dust from his throat, he reckoned.
The mute Felipe had been barely more entertaining company than the oxen. Usually Jack was satisfied with a listener and a bottle, but it had turned out the only thing wet in their supplies had been water. Walls of foliage stretching endlessly along the muddy road, the constant buzz of mosquitoes, and the two tails swinging right and left, left and right, all day long… Finally, all that made the ball in the pistol he carried for years oddly tempting.
The oxen, phlegmatic and uncaring of the curses aimed at them, had walked no faster than a man, and the cart had kept as getting stuck in dried ruts as it did in squelchy mud. But when man or horse would have fallen dead, the heavy beasts had trudged on and on, dawn to dusk, sweltering heat or downpour.
On the third morning, the cart entered the French colony's capital and didn't stop, until it reached the docks. It turned out the Lucecita had made port the day before, carrying only one mast, two-thirds of her crew, and half of her cargo, of which only a handful was dry enough to still deserve to be called tobacco. An hour after dropping anchor, a crate of the poorest cigars in town were selling for a hundred and ten livres, and the next morning even the most respectable citizens, including those usually not dabbling in trade, had dug up the remains of their private stocks. The more enterprising spirits began to casting estimating glances at the withered palm fronds growing by the wharves.
Now, by late afternoon, the cart must have gone a good few miles into the forest, carrying dozens of bottles in crates under heaps of straw and a fake bottom. The last time Jack saw Felipe, he had been half-excited, half-dazed and uncertain as to which hide deeper: his joy at the swarming marketplace's buzz or his relief at the quick return. Jack, having left the boy at the town's outskirts to go in search of an inn, had clearer feelings: no more acquaintances with anything which had horns and hooves! Unless on a plate, the horns and hooves bereft.
He set the bottle onto the table and looked into the mirror. Truth be told, at a second glance one could see not only the miserable state of the breeches, but also the shirt's frayed lace and slightly worn fabric of the coat. There were darker places visible where he, admittedly with regret, had ripped off half of the gilded embroideries and tassels, having decided Almirante would be a bit over the top. Anyway, what's better than a Captain, even if it's a Captain in a faded coat? Only the schiavona‘s silver guard and black leather shined with a spotless, predatory gleam.
The blade hissed against the sheath and flashed as he raised the rapier in a mocking salute to his own reflection. The hidalgo in the mirror responded with a smirk. “Darkness shelters pirates and spies,” he seemed to say. “Darkness hides what is and shows what is not. Darkness and the human mind."
Aye, the further from the light, the better, Jack nodded to the reflection. Jerked by the movement, more of the hair slid off his shoulder. He gave an exasperated look to the mirror alter ego. One would need a cellar darkness to hide this, he snarled silently.
This had taken the most of time. All of the pieces of metal, bone, wood, stones and glass had been untied, torn off and, in most cases, just cut away. They were in the sack now, wrapped carefully in his old shirt. A thick comb had untangled the braids, removed the remains of thongs and threads together with a handful of hair which would be enough for a small pillow, and evicted the most of aggrieved and scared things that hadn't drown in the apocalypse of water and soap. Finally, Jack had given up when the comb lost half its teeth in the matted thicket.
The result was lamentable. It brought to mind an allegory of a lion's wrath by an artist who got carried away. There was even a smell of something like a damp lion, with an accent of lavender soap. And, of course, the turpentine. Jack winced and looked around. Maybe if he could just cover it...
The hat resting on the bed seemed to be a good acre wide. The dark felt, crowned with a mass of pitch black feathers, resembled a field shaded by a stormy cloud, but atop the pirate's mane it looked rather like a black kitten sleeping on a haystack. Jack, in despair, tugged the brim down. It could work, or so he believed, in gloom, for a short time, so long as no one paid too close attention. Who knows? Perhaps Madrid had gone crazy that year for large wigs made of... of camels, whole ones.
The moment he loosened his grip, the brim sprang back up. For a while, the hat remained still, and then it gently slid to the floor. Jack snarled and sent it toward the wall with a hearty kick. Absentmindedly, he raked a hand through his hair and checked himself when his rings tangled. Jerking them free, he looked into the sack containing his old garb. There was no sense in trying the scarf; he knew all too well it would slide off as readily as the hat, unless the most of the loose hair was bound first. He rummaged through the sack in search of the old coat's pocket and produced a black ribbon which had, as of that morning, been lying in a stall he had passed. It was quite possible the merchant still hadn't noticed the empty spot. Ribbon in hand, Jack came back to the mirror, sighed pitifully and reached for his dagger.
Four long lumps, carefully chosen from the most matted, fell to the floor. The rest, not without a fierce struggle, he gathered as tightly as he could. For a while, it seemed that without three additional hands he would be gathering the evasive tangle 'til the world's end, but finally he knotted it. There was barely enough of ribbon for a bow. A few of pirate-spirited locks escaped the binding, but they were hidden in the hat's shadow. Said hat tried to slide askew, until four huge pins made sure any mutiny was out of question. At last, the breathless pirate smoothed the coat's cuffs, disheveled in the battle, and shot his reflection a furious glare. Well? Was anything else going to rise in rebellion?
This time the satanic emissary in the mirror looked almost civilised, Jack discovered. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. How decent... until one didn't notice the gaze. He tilted his head and the mirror demon repeated the move, half-human, half-devilish eyes shining in the brim's shadow, challenge and temptation melting in their heat. “There will be many temptations needed this night,” the demon's smirk seemed to say.
No worries, temptations and promises are inexhaustible goods, Jack winked to the mirror. Speaking of things inexhaustible, it was time to do something about the turpentine. Rummaging in the sack, he found a glass bottle. He examined the yellowish contents against the light and removed the wax seal.
***
The bay's surface glittered like liquid gold, melted by a sun nearly touching the horizon. The light slid off the masts and their flags, port cranes, palms, chimneys and one figure settled on a relatively flat piece of the inn's roof.
The roof was the highest within a hundred yards and conveniently adjoined to ten others, or thirty, if one didn't count the one or two leaps necessary over narrow alleys. These thirty offered a wide choice of descents to courtyards and streets, at least half of those allowing for not only jumping down, but climbing back up, as well. Port-au-Prince was a good place for cats and pirates.
Jack gazed at the horizon. It was too early yet, too much light. Darkness would soon fall, however. It was already flooding streets like a rising tide. And there was plenty to flood. From the last time Jack remembered, new wharves had been added to the port, the forts guarding the bay shined with new stone, and several mansions tried to equal the Governor's palace in size. The pirate looked into the sack wedged between a protruding beam and the chimney he leaned against. The stables aside, one must admit His Reckless Excellency De Villiers also had lovely orchards, he thought, examining an orange.
He was cutting the peel when a noise caught his attention. He bent to the roof's edge and tilted his head, listening intently to the barely audible creak of the room's door and furtive steps. At last length, there came a confused “What the hell...?”
Jack licked the juice from his fingers and nodded, mentally acknowledging the bet he had won with himself. The innkeeper hadn't even waited until the sunset, although he clearly had expected the room to be left unattended, not abandoned. Probably, at the moment, the realization was occurring to him that he wouldn't find any gold, but also never see the gold-laden guest again. The same could be said for one spoon, a goblet, and a candlestick. Pity the mirror's frame had turned out to be wider than window's.
The last fiery flashes sank in the sea and the cloud's scarlet lining faded. The night promised to be fair. Jack stood up, dumped the orange peels down the chimney, stretched and adjusted the buckle on his sword's baldric. The black plume atop the hat trembled in the evening breeze as the pirate swept roofs, alleys and courtyards with his gaze.
Time for some real piracy.
----------------------------------------------------
Footnotes
Van Der Zee (Dutch) - from/of the Sea
The next part
----------------------------
Your thoughts most welcomed, as always. :)