POTC: The Risk of Being Free
Title: “The Risk of Being Free”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: The things one has to give up for freedom. [Jack Sparrow, Bill Turner; pre-CotBP]
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belong to Disney. Title from The Libertine by Patrick Wolf.
A/N: Been trying to finish this forever. Go me. XD
THE RISK OF BEING FREE
A daft, pointless enterprise in between all the pilfering, plundering, and treasure-hunting is exactly what gets them by. Except when it unexpectedly ends in their imprisonment in a Saracen gaol. Most of the time Bill is certain that it is rum that runs through Jack’s veins in place of blood. Otherwise this affinity for willingly sticking his head into the noose cannot be explained.
In a barred cell with other prisoners packed like sardines, Bill wonders if maybe Jack is withholding something. He is unnaturally placid in spite of the oppressive heat and stench and, well, definite absence of freedom.
“Don’t tell me ye put that much faith in darlin’ Hector,” Bootstrap grumbles.
At that, Jack throws his arm around Bill’s shoulders and flashes him an angelic smile.
“I give you my word, Mister Turner: should these miserable wretches take yer head off yer shoulders, I’ll go through hell an’ high water to deliver it back to lovely missus intact!”
“Thank you, Jack,” Bill says expressionlessly. There is honestly no reason for the captain to be in such a playful mood when they are moments away from being quartered or flayed alive or whatever their captors have in store for them.
“You worry too much, William,” Jack remarks.
“Someone has to, with you acting like we’re on a picnic.”
“I don’t see any practical purpose of worrying. The way things are going, I’d rather sit back and wait. The only thing I lament is an absence of any liquid substance to toast to my display of wise thought with.”
Before Bill can even begin thinking up a decent answer to that, the ground beneath him quakes. A moment later, the wall splinters and shatters; fragments of rock sweep over their heads. Some men are killed on the spot. Part of the wall collapses around the spot where Jack has been lounging; but he is already at Bill’s side, tugging him aside. A few daredevils dash for the gap in the wall - and fall off the steep slope into the ocean, screaming. The remaining jail-mates are yelling and throwing themselves against the bars. Another cannon volley follows.
Jack ducks and pulls Bootstrap towards the pile of debris next to the gap. He peeks outside, then pulls himself back in.
“When I say jump, you jump, savvy?”
Bill wants to remind him how people have just fallen to their death out of that hole, but the fire does not stop and they are trapped and what does it matter how they die in the end? If anything, he would rather let the sea claim him.
Jack cranes out his neck, looking out for something. His grip on Bill’s shoulder tightens. Suddenly there is another explosion, and Jack shouts at the top of his lungs, and William darts forth to his doom, falling, Jack’s fingers dug into his flesh, never letting go. They skid over the precipitous rock wall, the wind sharp and raging in their ears. Once they are low enough, Jack throws his hand up and attempts to grasp at any protuberance. Bill’s heels are burning.
There is a small ledge right beneath them. It is an honest-to-God miracle that they manage to land upon it without breaking their bones; but Bill almost loses balance and topples over. Jack grabs him by the vest and pulls him up a little too hastily. They press themselves to the rock, trying to catch their breath. Below them, the sea splashes noisily against the root of the cliff; overhead, the battle continues, the air heavy with outcries and musket shots.
“‘S not Barbossa,” Bill whispers agitatedly. Now that he has led his mind to believe they had survived the leap, Bill’s usual sobriety is returning: they are still miles away from being safe.
Jack flashes him a funny look. “Not unless he’s got himself an army, I’ll give ya that.”
“Pray tell me ye have a plan.”
“Not immediately,” Jack shrugs matter-of-factly. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Such negligence on the captain’s part would stir negativity in any sane man; but Bootstrap either knows him too well or his sanity is questionable; perhaps he is afflicted with both misfortunes at once.
“Remind me again why I’m with ye.”
“Because I’m irresistible.”
Oh yes, a bloody valid reason.
* * *
Sunrise sees them crawl slowly down to the coast and hide amidst the black boulders. The armada that has attacked the fortress is gone; everything is quiet.
Bill leans against one of the bigger stones, massaging his knees absent-mindedly. His throat is parched and he is a step away from selling his soul for a crust of bread, but other than that, things are going better than they were at night.
Bill reaches into his bosom and takes out a miniature locket. He is lucky not to have lost it. He clicks it open and stares at the portrait inside, his eyes hazy with affection.
“That her?” Jack queries, creeping closer to him. “The lovely mistress of good William’s heart?”
“Aye.”
Jack smiles somewhat wistfully.
“Ye think it’s funny,” Bill murmurs. “Me bein’ so sentimental.”
“No, but I see no point tearing yerself apart fer anything. An’ I can’t look at your anguish unless I’m drunk like a sow.”
Bootstrap laughs. That’s Captain Jack to you.
The sun steadily makes its way up the skyline. It is getting hot on the beach, and the fugitives make for another, cooler shadowy patch. Bill sighs, preparing to voice that which has been on his mind for a while now.
“Barbossa,” he begins quietly, “has a ship. And a crew. And we have naught. Why should he be comin’ for us at all?”
Again that wicked glimmer in Jack’s eyes. He looks like a cat that has binged on cream and is now dozing in the sun.
“Ah, but Barbossa doesn’t have a heading. You didn’t think I kept the maps scattered all over me cabin, did you? From a certain point o’view, it is Barbossa who has naught and we have treasures, albeit with no means of getting anywhere near them.”
It can be said from the look on Jack’s face that he hardly counts the latter as a problem at all. Bill chuckles. Ever the man of foresight, Captain Sparrow. If things continue in this direction, it is most likely perdition for Bill and bloody pearly gate for Jack. No man alive should have this devil’s luck.
* * *
Jack hears them first. He appears to be asleep; nevertheless, his eyes snap open the moment the crackle of sand beneath the heavy military boots reaches his ears. He stiffens and remains still for quite some time. Bill pricks up his ears, trying to discern the speech of their stalkers, but everything is too muddled after a long, laborious night.
Jack rises quietly like a cat and gestures at Bill to follow him. They crouch along the conglomeration of boulders along the coastline, slow and noiseless and wary as hunted prey should be.
They slide into a narrow pass and reach a small cove that Bill vaguely recognizes. It is where they were brought inside the prison yard from, levels lower. There is a stairs carved straight into the mountain slope. Jack ducks into a small niche near the first dozen steps; William follows without hesitation. The Navy officers show up at the cove entrance after a short delay, their coats like patches of bleared colour to Bill’s strained eyes. His hand clenches around the locket.
He does not fear death. Not in prospect at least. It is the means in which death would be delivered that frighten him. He would much sooner drown than have a rope around his neck. The sea claims a free man; the gallows is for a slave.
Perhaps it is Jack’s luck again, but the men at arms are leaving. As soon as the sound of their footsteps has died down, Jack slips outside and darts up the stairs.
“What-?”
“Just trust me.”
Bootstrap does. More than he should. They ascend to the prison yard to find it devastated. They make their way past the corpses, faces twisted and covered in coated blood, dash through the empty hallway and climb outside through a hole in the wall. It feels like they have made it to the other world. There is an innocent-looking field of crops there; ears of cereals flap against the masonry, come wind. It seems surreal that something may grow from this hard land as they run across the dim golden field, heading towards the road.
Bootstrap begins to laugh. Jack glances at him briefly, a smile creeping steadily upon his face. It is so much fun to outrun the entire world every single time.
They return to the harbour in a roundabout way. The first thing they do is steal some clothes for theirs look disastrous. They hide in one of the port taverns till sunset and resolve to wait. Bill does not ask anymore what is going to happen if Barbossa doesn’t come for them. Obviously it is not one of the variants in Jack’s prognosis.
Bill’s entire body hurts so much that he even begins to miss his uncomfortable hammock in the crew’s quarters of the Black Pearl. Jack has occupied himself with courting some of the local wenches (three at once) and babbles on and on about his heroic escapades, adding more colourful details to each than there is truth in it. Bill rolls his eyes and resumes contemplating the locket that he cannot seem to let go of. His fingers are numb, but clenched tightly.
“She’s been sighted, all right,” Jack informs him what seems to be hours later.
Bill looks up. He did not hear the captain sit down next to him.
“T’was more than just bragging then?” He hates it that he always catches on to Jack’s plans after they have been realized.
Jack winks at him. “Had to hear it for meself, couldn’t just ask.”
“Blimey, Barbossa must really want these maps.”
Jack looks like he wants to say something, but the door swings open and a few uniforms enter. Bill looks away from the door, keeping his eyes down and his head low.
“Bugger,” Jack whispers.
They might be here to wet their whistle, no more, no less. They would not recognize the escapees now and perhaps they are not hunting anyone. But the way one of the wenches snuggles up to one of the officers and whispers something in his ear is alarming, as is the way the bar-keeper keeps glancing in their direction. Jack gets up. They make for the door coolly, and it is outside that the chase begins anew. They discard evasive maneuvres this time and head straight to the docks.
When the pistol cocks at their backs, Bill’s fingers clench even tighter involuntarily.
“So where ye been, Jack?” a familiar voice asks. “We combed this entire spit of land thrice already.”
Barbossa. Bill turns around and casts a grim look at his overly innocent face. He should be happy to see Barbossa and the others here when they are really in a fix; yet some deep-seated loathing stirs within him and he wonders yet again if Jack’s farsightedness is failing him this time.
“Delighted to see you too, Hector,” Jack beams imperturbably.
Barbossa rolls his eyes, though Bootstrap cannot tell whether it is in response to Jack’s nonchalance or at the sight of the Navy officers approaching. He and Jack exchange looks that Bootstrap does not bother to decipher, and the shooting begins. While the pirates fire away cheerfully, Jack grabs Bill by the wrist and drags him towards the Pearl that waits in the harbour, short of invisible in the dead of night.
During the final spurt, bullets begin to fly a little too close. Bootstrap ducks and trips and holds out his hands to keep his balance. The locket falls out of his grasp and rolls to the edge of the embankment and flops into the water with a quiet splash. A quiet, desperate No! caught in his throat, Bill reaches forth numbly.
Jack grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him towards the ship. The others are close. Jack turns his head and belches out commands; what crewmembers have remained on board are now dashing to and fro like rats.
“Listen to me!” Jack demands, cupping the back of his neck. His grasp is steel-firm and deliberately rough. “Listen. You have the real one back home. William, stop, stop! Don’t kill yourself for a bloody trinket when you have a woman awaiting your return back home.”
Bill looks into his fierce eyes and cannot remember the last time he has seen Captain Jack act so serious. He sags into his half-embrace and then forces himself to rise and reach the ship and do his bloody job while the Black Pearl casts off triumphantly, leaving her pursuers behind.
* * *
They glide through the night uncharted, shrouded in darkness itself. The wind is in their sails; in fact, Bootstrap cannot remember a more propitious night in the last few weeks. He rests his elbows against the handrail and watches the ocean that he almost hates at the moment.
“I dun’ have anythin’ to remember her by,” he murmurs upon hearing Jack’s footsteps. The captain comes to stand beside him and graciously holds out a bottle of rum that Bill accepts with a curt nod. “I-.”
Jack takes a hearty swig, then turns to Bill and pokes him roughly in the forehead with two fingers. The abruptness of the gesture addles Bill.
“‘S all here, mate,” Jack says pointedly. “She’s here. So long as that’s true, you’re awright.”
Bootstrap stares at him, dumbfounded. Jack smiles and lowers his hand.
“T’was bloody gold, y’know,” Bootstrap complains. “Mighty fine gold too.”
Jack - predictably - toasts to that. “Then doubtless, this be our luck that we’re on a pirate ship and mighty fine gold is on top of our priorities’ list.”
Bill chuckles at that. Sparrow can be indestructibly optimistic. For once it feels darn good to share that point of view. And who says freedom comes without a bit of sacrifice?
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: G
Summary: The things one has to give up for freedom. [Jack Sparrow, Bill Turner; pre-CotBP]
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belong to Disney. Title from The Libertine by Patrick Wolf.
A/N: Been trying to finish this forever. Go me. XD
THE RISK OF BEING FREE
A daft, pointless enterprise in between all the pilfering, plundering, and treasure-hunting is exactly what gets them by. Except when it unexpectedly ends in their imprisonment in a Saracen gaol. Most of the time Bill is certain that it is rum that runs through Jack’s veins in place of blood. Otherwise this affinity for willingly sticking his head into the noose cannot be explained.
In a barred cell with other prisoners packed like sardines, Bill wonders if maybe Jack is withholding something. He is unnaturally placid in spite of the oppressive heat and stench and, well, definite absence of freedom.
“Don’t tell me ye put that much faith in darlin’ Hector,” Bootstrap grumbles.
At that, Jack throws his arm around Bill’s shoulders and flashes him an angelic smile.
“I give you my word, Mister Turner: should these miserable wretches take yer head off yer shoulders, I’ll go through hell an’ high water to deliver it back to lovely missus intact!”
“Thank you, Jack,” Bill says expressionlessly. There is honestly no reason for the captain to be in such a playful mood when they are moments away from being quartered or flayed alive or whatever their captors have in store for them.
“You worry too much, William,” Jack remarks.
“Someone has to, with you acting like we’re on a picnic.”
“I don’t see any practical purpose of worrying. The way things are going, I’d rather sit back and wait. The only thing I lament is an absence of any liquid substance to toast to my display of wise thought with.”
Before Bill can even begin thinking up a decent answer to that, the ground beneath him quakes. A moment later, the wall splinters and shatters; fragments of rock sweep over their heads. Some men are killed on the spot. Part of the wall collapses around the spot where Jack has been lounging; but he is already at Bill’s side, tugging him aside. A few daredevils dash for the gap in the wall - and fall off the steep slope into the ocean, screaming. The remaining jail-mates are yelling and throwing themselves against the bars. Another cannon volley follows.
Jack ducks and pulls Bootstrap towards the pile of debris next to the gap. He peeks outside, then pulls himself back in.
“When I say jump, you jump, savvy?”
Bill wants to remind him how people have just fallen to their death out of that hole, but the fire does not stop and they are trapped and what does it matter how they die in the end? If anything, he would rather let the sea claim him.
Jack cranes out his neck, looking out for something. His grip on Bill’s shoulder tightens. Suddenly there is another explosion, and Jack shouts at the top of his lungs, and William darts forth to his doom, falling, Jack’s fingers dug into his flesh, never letting go. They skid over the precipitous rock wall, the wind sharp and raging in their ears. Once they are low enough, Jack throws his hand up and attempts to grasp at any protuberance. Bill’s heels are burning.
There is a small ledge right beneath them. It is an honest-to-God miracle that they manage to land upon it without breaking their bones; but Bill almost loses balance and topples over. Jack grabs him by the vest and pulls him up a little too hastily. They press themselves to the rock, trying to catch their breath. Below them, the sea splashes noisily against the root of the cliff; overhead, the battle continues, the air heavy with outcries and musket shots.
“‘S not Barbossa,” Bill whispers agitatedly. Now that he has led his mind to believe they had survived the leap, Bill’s usual sobriety is returning: they are still miles away from being safe.
Jack flashes him a funny look. “Not unless he’s got himself an army, I’ll give ya that.”
“Pray tell me ye have a plan.”
“Not immediately,” Jack shrugs matter-of-factly. “But where’s the fun in that?”
Such negligence on the captain’s part would stir negativity in any sane man; but Bootstrap either knows him too well or his sanity is questionable; perhaps he is afflicted with both misfortunes at once.
“Remind me again why I’m with ye.”
“Because I’m irresistible.”
Oh yes, a bloody valid reason.
* * *
Sunrise sees them crawl slowly down to the coast and hide amidst the black boulders. The armada that has attacked the fortress is gone; everything is quiet.
Bill leans against one of the bigger stones, massaging his knees absent-mindedly. His throat is parched and he is a step away from selling his soul for a crust of bread, but other than that, things are going better than they were at night.
Bill reaches into his bosom and takes out a miniature locket. He is lucky not to have lost it. He clicks it open and stares at the portrait inside, his eyes hazy with affection.
“That her?” Jack queries, creeping closer to him. “The lovely mistress of good William’s heart?”
“Aye.”
Jack smiles somewhat wistfully.
“Ye think it’s funny,” Bill murmurs. “Me bein’ so sentimental.”
“No, but I see no point tearing yerself apart fer anything. An’ I can’t look at your anguish unless I’m drunk like a sow.”
Bootstrap laughs. That’s Captain Jack to you.
The sun steadily makes its way up the skyline. It is getting hot on the beach, and the fugitives make for another, cooler shadowy patch. Bill sighs, preparing to voice that which has been on his mind for a while now.
“Barbossa,” he begins quietly, “has a ship. And a crew. And we have naught. Why should he be comin’ for us at all?”
Again that wicked glimmer in Jack’s eyes. He looks like a cat that has binged on cream and is now dozing in the sun.
“Ah, but Barbossa doesn’t have a heading. You didn’t think I kept the maps scattered all over me cabin, did you? From a certain point o’view, it is Barbossa who has naught and we have treasures, albeit with no means of getting anywhere near them.”
It can be said from the look on Jack’s face that he hardly counts the latter as a problem at all. Bill chuckles. Ever the man of foresight, Captain Sparrow. If things continue in this direction, it is most likely perdition for Bill and bloody pearly gate for Jack. No man alive should have this devil’s luck.
* * *
Jack hears them first. He appears to be asleep; nevertheless, his eyes snap open the moment the crackle of sand beneath the heavy military boots reaches his ears. He stiffens and remains still for quite some time. Bill pricks up his ears, trying to discern the speech of their stalkers, but everything is too muddled after a long, laborious night.
Jack rises quietly like a cat and gestures at Bill to follow him. They crouch along the conglomeration of boulders along the coastline, slow and noiseless and wary as hunted prey should be.
They slide into a narrow pass and reach a small cove that Bill vaguely recognizes. It is where they were brought inside the prison yard from, levels lower. There is a stairs carved straight into the mountain slope. Jack ducks into a small niche near the first dozen steps; William follows without hesitation. The Navy officers show up at the cove entrance after a short delay, their coats like patches of bleared colour to Bill’s strained eyes. His hand clenches around the locket.
He does not fear death. Not in prospect at least. It is the means in which death would be delivered that frighten him. He would much sooner drown than have a rope around his neck. The sea claims a free man; the gallows is for a slave.
Perhaps it is Jack’s luck again, but the men at arms are leaving. As soon as the sound of their footsteps has died down, Jack slips outside and darts up the stairs.
“What-?”
“Just trust me.”
Bootstrap does. More than he should. They ascend to the prison yard to find it devastated. They make their way past the corpses, faces twisted and covered in coated blood, dash through the empty hallway and climb outside through a hole in the wall. It feels like they have made it to the other world. There is an innocent-looking field of crops there; ears of cereals flap against the masonry, come wind. It seems surreal that something may grow from this hard land as they run across the dim golden field, heading towards the road.
Bootstrap begins to laugh. Jack glances at him briefly, a smile creeping steadily upon his face. It is so much fun to outrun the entire world every single time.
They return to the harbour in a roundabout way. The first thing they do is steal some clothes for theirs look disastrous. They hide in one of the port taverns till sunset and resolve to wait. Bill does not ask anymore what is going to happen if Barbossa doesn’t come for them. Obviously it is not one of the variants in Jack’s prognosis.
Bill’s entire body hurts so much that he even begins to miss his uncomfortable hammock in the crew’s quarters of the Black Pearl. Jack has occupied himself with courting some of the local wenches (three at once) and babbles on and on about his heroic escapades, adding more colourful details to each than there is truth in it. Bill rolls his eyes and resumes contemplating the locket that he cannot seem to let go of. His fingers are numb, but clenched tightly.
“She’s been sighted, all right,” Jack informs him what seems to be hours later.
Bill looks up. He did not hear the captain sit down next to him.
“T’was more than just bragging then?” He hates it that he always catches on to Jack’s plans after they have been realized.
Jack winks at him. “Had to hear it for meself, couldn’t just ask.”
“Blimey, Barbossa must really want these maps.”
Jack looks like he wants to say something, but the door swings open and a few uniforms enter. Bill looks away from the door, keeping his eyes down and his head low.
“Bugger,” Jack whispers.
They might be here to wet their whistle, no more, no less. They would not recognize the escapees now and perhaps they are not hunting anyone. But the way one of the wenches snuggles up to one of the officers and whispers something in his ear is alarming, as is the way the bar-keeper keeps glancing in their direction. Jack gets up. They make for the door coolly, and it is outside that the chase begins anew. They discard evasive maneuvres this time and head straight to the docks.
When the pistol cocks at their backs, Bill’s fingers clench even tighter involuntarily.
“So where ye been, Jack?” a familiar voice asks. “We combed this entire spit of land thrice already.”
Barbossa. Bill turns around and casts a grim look at his overly innocent face. He should be happy to see Barbossa and the others here when they are really in a fix; yet some deep-seated loathing stirs within him and he wonders yet again if Jack’s farsightedness is failing him this time.
“Delighted to see you too, Hector,” Jack beams imperturbably.
Barbossa rolls his eyes, though Bootstrap cannot tell whether it is in response to Jack’s nonchalance or at the sight of the Navy officers approaching. He and Jack exchange looks that Bootstrap does not bother to decipher, and the shooting begins. While the pirates fire away cheerfully, Jack grabs Bill by the wrist and drags him towards the Pearl that waits in the harbour, short of invisible in the dead of night.
During the final spurt, bullets begin to fly a little too close. Bootstrap ducks and trips and holds out his hands to keep his balance. The locket falls out of his grasp and rolls to the edge of the embankment and flops into the water with a quiet splash. A quiet, desperate No! caught in his throat, Bill reaches forth numbly.
Jack grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him towards the ship. The others are close. Jack turns his head and belches out commands; what crewmembers have remained on board are now dashing to and fro like rats.
“Listen to me!” Jack demands, cupping the back of his neck. His grasp is steel-firm and deliberately rough. “Listen. You have the real one back home. William, stop, stop! Don’t kill yourself for a bloody trinket when you have a woman awaiting your return back home.”
Bill looks into his fierce eyes and cannot remember the last time he has seen Captain Jack act so serious. He sags into his half-embrace and then forces himself to rise and reach the ship and do his bloody job while the Black Pearl casts off triumphantly, leaving her pursuers behind.
* * *
They glide through the night uncharted, shrouded in darkness itself. The wind is in their sails; in fact, Bootstrap cannot remember a more propitious night in the last few weeks. He rests his elbows against the handrail and watches the ocean that he almost hates at the moment.
“I dun’ have anythin’ to remember her by,” he murmurs upon hearing Jack’s footsteps. The captain comes to stand beside him and graciously holds out a bottle of rum that Bill accepts with a curt nod. “I-.”
Jack takes a hearty swig, then turns to Bill and pokes him roughly in the forehead with two fingers. The abruptness of the gesture addles Bill.
“‘S all here, mate,” Jack says pointedly. “She’s here. So long as that’s true, you’re awright.”
Bootstrap stares at him, dumbfounded. Jack smiles and lowers his hand.
“T’was bloody gold, y’know,” Bootstrap complains. “Mighty fine gold too.”
Jack - predictably - toasts to that. “Then doubtless, this be our luck that we’re on a pirate ship and mighty fine gold is on top of our priorities’ list.”
Bill chuckles at that. Sparrow can be indestructibly optimistic. For once it feels darn good to share that point of view. And who says freedom comes without a bit of sacrifice?