Whatever clouds remain, they don't disuade the sun from filtering through the tree tops, infusing everything with an ethereal green glow. Jack sucks deep lungfulls of the humid air, enjoying the smoky scent of sun and wood and rain. It's been a good while since he came to this island last, but he remembers sending the crew to gather fresh water and fresh fruit. A suitable swimming hole must be around somewhere. 

Tugging Norrington by the arm -- because he can rather than because Norrington needs direction -- Jack leads them away from the Pearl. Away from Gibbs and Anamaria and the rest of the crew, lest they be required to help with the repairs. Jack trusts Gibbs to handle things in his absense and if any wonder why tracking coconuts takes longer than it should, well. Jack can invent a suitable excuse if the question is raised. He might almost be tempted to tell the truth, if only for entertainment purposes. 

The sun must be getting to him, thinking dangerous thoughts like that. The sun or something else. Someone else. 

He glances at Norrington, walking a few paces away from Jack's meandering gait. He looks utterly changed now, the green hue of the sun dancing on his hair, clothes disordered and rearranged hastily. Not at all the proper look for a Commodore, a thought that never fails to make Jack grin. Never would have guessed that a little wind and a little rain and some coconuts could so entirely destruct a man. It makes Jack nearly giddy. 

Feeling playful, he stumbles away and then behind Norrington, pretending to stalk him until Jack sneaks up behind him, intent on spooking him in the middle of the quiet. 

The storm is finally fading out into the horizon -- the dark clouds and fat, round drops of rain soon to pass behind them as Jack makes his Pearl fly over the waves. The wind is good for that. She can get up to her full speed quickly and stay there without keeping too many men on the sails. Hispanola is still possibly a two day's journey away, if Jack is even going in the right direction, but they can't risk stopping. The storm will gain on them and take them over if they weigh anchor for the night. She'll have to sail through the night and into morning. 

Jack doesn't necessarily mind this. The howl of wind and slap of rain of the decks, the rolling plunge over waves, causes him to smile. Makes his heart beat faster. It's his Pearl's time to shine. 

Half the men are below decks eating a late supper, and the other half are keeping a strong hold on the ropes so that nothing blows away. Jack is content to stay at the helm and captain them through it until he is too tired to stand when Gibbs finally approaches him with Cotton in tow.

"Best be getting something to eat, Cap'n, before all the vittles run out." Jack is about to reject the offer when Gibbs presses, "Had 'em fix a plate for our guest as well." 

The way he says "guest" implies to Jack that a fed Norrington is better than a hungry Norrington. That he is only one that would be the safest to bring the Commodore food. And best to be doing it before Norrington gets it in his mind to try to come out looking for food. Jack's stomach rumbles reminding him neither one of them ate since early this morning. 

Bugger. No real way out. 

"Aye," he sighs (in a very stern, Captain-y way no less) and order Cotton to take the helm. With a tip of his chin in thanks to Gibbs, Jack heads down to the galley to collect two plates, ignoring again the looks the crew there sends his way. They haven't welcomed the idea of having a Commodore of the Fleet on board any more in the passing day. Jack isn't really sure how he feels about it anymore either. 

Balancing the two plates delicately on one hand, Jack unlocks the door to his cabin and steps inside. He's not too sure what kind of greeting he'll be recieing just now.

There are two things what a man owns that are important above all else. His name and his word. 

Think of it like you're a ship. Now there you are, sailing along, doing whatever it is you want to be doing over that vast open ocean. And you have all your ship-ly parts, with your decks and your hold and your helm and what-have-you. And you have your sails. People can see 'em far off and away through a scope. Know you're coming. And if you're like the Pearl, and has some recognition to you, they'd be knowing who you are just based off your sails. That's like a man's name. Not part of the wood beneath your feet but flying above you. Without it, you can't move. 

And the wind, that's your word. Fills the sails, make them mean something other than strips of canvas. Without the wind, no one would be moving at all either, even if you got sails. And when the wind starts blowing every which-a-way and you can't find no true course to rely on -- well. Well, s'bit hard to get anywhere, isn't it? Never know where you're going to end up. 

Sometimes might be a good thing, change of direction in the wind. Get a lively breeze to take you away from something not too appealing, or as I like to think it, towards something that got to be more appealing. But only in the times of some and not in the times of most. Eh?

1.63.3 - Today is Guest Judge Day at the courthouse. You will be spending one day dispensing your own unlimited brand of justice. Have a good time 


It comes down to two words: full pardon. Full pardon for myself, flat out. No letters of marque. No sailing for any company other than mine own and that what I choose to keep. I want to be untouchable. So to speak.

And a plaque. Something shiny. Something with a nice gleam to it that I can hang over the helm and polish and drink to and point to and say, “Just look at that, would you? All your answers be there.” Have it saying in nice, gold lettering -- real proper like -- that the Black Pearl belongs solely and only to one Captain Jack Sparrow and he shall sail her ‘til his dying day or eternity ends when the seas dry out. Which either one comes first.

Next to it, if you could please, do a nice engraving of this image right in front of me? I hate to forget the sight of Cutler Beckett hanging there by his ankles with those lovely frills of his dress tickling ‘round his neck. It does cut the most lovely figure on him, though. Well. When his face isn’t all red and sputtering, that is. Hm.

Do you know if my cache of all of the world’s rum has been set in place yet? Oh. Good.

I think I can take off this wig then and hand the rest of this judging business back to the hands of its previous owners. Awful itchy, those wigs are. Don’t know how you lads can stand them.

Muse: Jack Sparrow
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Word Count: 254

Prompt: I Believe (When I Fall In Love It Will Be Forever) by Stevie Wonder


He saw her first when he were just a lad, not more than eighteen if memory might serve to stretch and fade a bit. She had white sails then. Pristine. Newly shellacked and near about golden in the sun. Floating in some harbour what he can't even recall name of now. All's his mind set on was her and her form, the look of her.

But he never were a shallow man, even as a young thing, and his admiration for her grew all the more once he got to know the inside of her as well. Got to hear her voice, the creaking in the shoals of the Gold Coast and the groaning in the deep waters of the Indian Sea when she were almost struck down by cannon fire.

He ached for her then, as she bled water through the wounds in her sides. Still a lowly deckhand was he but he cared for, he did. And he swore she did for him as well.

Never been a superstitious man either, but there were times aboard her, when the sound of gunpowder sizzling in the background, and she'd lunge forward just enough to throw him off balance -- missed the eight ball what got shot his way. Took it on herself to save him and wreck her pretty hull in his stead. He owed her for that. He'd pay her back one day.

Day came with Beckett. Lord Beckett as he is now, but then it were just Beckett, and it were just Jack, and it were Jack's decision what sunk her. Her what glowed golden in the sunlight on the day he first saw her all them years back. Now burnt black and charred and sitting on the bottom of the ocean. All because of him. She took wounds for him and this be the last, the final cutting blow that killed her.

There are stories that get traded in the dark on the lower decks, late nights working or drinking or no sleep to be coming any old which way, and the men tell stories. He heard some, fellow mates reminiscing about loss of wife or child, things what they loved. What pain it caused them in whatever water-logged hearts still might reside in their chests. Good, honest men claiming to have part of themselves ripped away by whatever death took place. He never thought himself a good man, or an honest one, though he'll tell the truth more times than not except when he don't, but he never loved something like them. Never had it in him. He loved the sea and that was that. No changing it now, especially if that be the fate of loving something: to lose it.

But when she sunk, he knew it. He were capable of loving something more than the sea. More than hisself. He loved her and the pain he felt then, he remembered the tales he heard. How a man might feel gutted in that position. Gutted and burnt just like she. Beckett placed the fire to his wrist and what image it brought back was smelling the smoke from her sails as she drowned.

They used to be white.

So when Davy Jones came, with his heart cut out for the sake of loving too much, and Jack could understand that. But he owed it to her, what saved his life time and time again, not to do the same. He'd pay her back, his love, branded as they were together with the same fire. He was a pirate now, if the right-handed world didn't want him, and she would serve as his flag ship. Because the world didn't want to seem to want her either. There were just Jack, then, who was to be knowing all the better.

He named her The Black Pearl when he saw her again. Black sails but otherwise not a spot on her. And the figurehead giving a sparrow its wings. Sparrow like him. And he felt it then, too, why it was worth the loving of something even if you stand risk of losing it. Not that he ever would again if he could help it.

Jack Sparrow and his Pearl. Stuff of legend, that. 


Muse: Jack Sparrow
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Word Count: 704