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hseas_challenge #4...
20. Thirteen years - Jack’s quest to regain the Pearl.
~ Thirteen Years ~
Thirteen years.
Should've known, just from the number. Jones had a sick sense of humor. Bad luck, as Gibbs would say.
Thirteen years.
He missed Gibbs. Joshamee was a good first mate, good at sea, less good on land, what with the drink and all. But he told the stories fine and clear, so ol' Jack didn't have to.
Thirteen years.
Plus a bit more, for dying; fighting; then living again, with all that living meant. Heartache. Striving. Failing. Longing.
Jack took another healthy swig of rum and refused to look at his compass. Which wasn't working. Or was working. Or something.
The breeze had died, and the sea had an oily look.
Thirteen years.
Lizzie would've been seven. Still in England. Climbing trees, or playing pirate with the stable lads when she'd slipped her leash, which doubtless she had whenever possible. Seven, when Jack had been busy squaring with his pirate blood, defying Cutler Beckett, suffering the consequences. Making his deal with the devil.
He felt old. And the rum wasn't helping.
He threw the bottle (there were a couple left, anyway) and it went end over end and plopped into the water where it bobbed a minute before sinking. Then he checked the compass.
Same story, different version. And all of them are true.
Jack sighed. Felt a puff, then stronger: a change in the wind. A change that colluded with Tia Dalma's infernal contraption.
He was tired. Tired of feeling old. Hungry. Alone. Tired of missing the Black Pearl. His Pearl.
Thirteen years.
It was long enough. It was time to get her back. Both of them.
She was Pirate King through his kind offices. Helping him retrieve his ship was the least she could do. And so he would tell her.
Eyes narrowed, he brought the dinghy about, settled, and for the first time in several days found himself humming.
~.~
hseas_challenge #4...20. Thirteen years - Jack’s quest to regain the Pearl.
~ Thirteen Years ~
Thirteen years.
Should've known, just from the number. Jones had a sick sense of humor. Bad luck, as Gibbs would say.
Thirteen years.
He missed Gibbs. Joshamee was a good first mate, good at sea, less good on land, what with the drink and all. But he told the stories fine and clear, so ol' Jack didn't have to.
Thirteen years.
Plus a bit more, for dying; fighting; then living again, with all that living meant. Heartache. Striving. Failing. Longing.
Jack took another healthy swig of rum and refused to look at his compass. Which wasn't working. Or was working. Or something.
The breeze had died, and the sea had an oily look.
Thirteen years.
Lizzie would've been seven. Still in England. Climbing trees, or playing pirate with the stable lads when she'd slipped her leash, which doubtless she had whenever possible. Seven, when Jack had been busy squaring with his pirate blood, defying Cutler Beckett, suffering the consequences. Making his deal with the devil.
He felt old. And the rum wasn't helping.
He threw the bottle (there were a couple left, anyway) and it went end over end and plopped into the water where it bobbed a minute before sinking. Then he checked the compass.
Same story, different version. And all of them are true.
Jack sighed. Felt a puff, then stronger: a change in the wind. A change that colluded with Tia Dalma's infernal contraption.
He was tired. Tired of feeling old. Hungry. Alone. Tired of missing the Black Pearl. His Pearl.
Thirteen years.
It was long enough. It was time to get her back. Both of them.
She was Pirate King through his kind offices. Helping him retrieve his ship was the least she could do. And so he would tell her.
Eyes narrowed, he brought the dinghy about, settled, and for the first time in several days found himself humming.
~.~
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Date: 2009-11-29 09:12 pm (UTC)