Drabbles and Ficlets

by Linaelyn

Fandom: PoTC    Rating: PG    Pairing: Pintel/Ragetti    Full Header   Heathen Gods

Blessed Absence of Memory

Gods. I need Rum. No brew strong enough in these isles. Gibbs's working on a distillery, but it takes time, and time seems perilously short to me these days. Stuff they make from those roots? Just...vile. I've tasted worse, but still. Cotton's the only man of us to relish the stuff.

Time no longer seems a limitless quantity, not since I left Port Royal, in a flourish of dramatic denoument. And never a shot fired. They'll not soon forget Captain Jack Sparrow, not in a hundred, nay, in a thousand years.

Would but that I could forget James.

And Rum.

**************
But Why Is Jack Gone?

I miss his warm mouth, his lips, the way he'd take me betwixt them, swallow me down.

He never really said goodbye.

I suppose he tried to take me with him, but there wasn't enough of me, others always wanting some of me. The rest of the crew finished me, as surely as if they'd stuck a knife in my belly and twisted.

And now I'm gone.

He misses me, I'm sure of it. Not as much as he misses James, but I helped him there.

While I could. For a while. Until the last drop of me was gone.
*****************
Wondering in the Rain

Why does this rain make me recall him? It explodes from these skies in sheets that make even the hurricanes of the Carib Sea seem a friendly drizzle. These storms, monsoons they say...warm and wet and...ah.

That's it.

'Twas the thought came to me, in those delicious days of decadence, when commandeering my dear Commodore. As he kissed and licked and lapped his way down to the dragon lying coiled in the small of my back.

It will not be easy to relinquish this warm, wet, wandering worship...

Sometimes, I hate being right.

What reminds him of me, I wonder?
******************
Morning

Morning's not my favorite time of day, no. Whenever given a choice, I absolutely prefer the night. The stars in the firmament and the breeze up. I'm very fond of an evening, with its little lapping waves and the way the Sea speaks to the Pearl then. Afternoon's certainly not bad, not bad at all. Easiest to see which way to land and fresh water, when the gulls overhead turn towards the shore.

But morning? Very nice. Not my favorite.

Morning's the denoument of night. It means the joy and passions of the dark have passed on by, waiting another time, as it wanders 'round the edge of the world. If my sight were poorer, the dark of night a debility, I could see wishing it away, and finding the arrival of light a relief. P'raps those of colder climes than this seek the cessation of the nightly chill. Some folks find great pleasure in a sunrise, in a new beginning that way. Some, but generally, not me.

But this morning? Sometimes. Sometimes a dawn can be glorious.

Sometimes the golden orb's appearance over that curve of distant sky-meet-sea is like to grab your heart from within your chest and rend it, still beating, from its bodily attachment to you. Sometimes the ululations of the seabirds as they hunt, the scent of the surf and of the flora and fauna beneath it, makes fair to wrench out your soul. The water's gradual spectral shift from ash to slate to deep blue to teal to turquoise...to that green that seems to only come in the sea at dawn and in certain persons' eyes.

A Certain Person's Eyes.

And then the blazing, firey eye that watches above leaps up over the edge and makes the water all gold in a flash like cannonfire, and takes the green away from me. Or takes me away from the green, hard to say which.

Best to just avoid the dawn.
 

"Girls' night out: a fabulous idea, Dragon." Fiona sat before the campfire, sticky-fingered, skewer and chocolate in her hand. "We should have done this ages ago."

Dragon made an agreeable purring, and continued to guzzle ale directly from the keg's bunghole.

"Next time, I think I'll bring a bigger cask, though!" Fiona chuckled, her ogrish-green roly-polies jiggling in amusement, "Leave me a sip, would ya?"

Dragon merely grinned, and daintily placed one marshmallow on each daggerlong canine.

Dragon burped.

Flame gouted.

Dragon sneezed.

Each marshmallow landed on its intended graham cracker.

Fiona sighed. "No one makes s'mores quite like you..."

"Hey, boy! Where be Jack?" Gibbs demanded.

"Jack? Jack Sparrow?" Elizabeth's eyes flashed back and forth between them.

"He fell behind." Will watched warily, as the old sailor made the ship ready to disembark. Gibbs wouldn't be stopping this, then. Will's decision was final; he was really leaving Jack to die in Barbossa's clutches.

Will placed a hand on Elizabeth's milk-smooth elbow and remembered the sensation of the scarred and tattooed pirate, hot and wet and.... No honor among thieves. If Gibbs, who clearly had been a close acquaintance of Jack for many years, was glad to turn the ship away and leave Jack to his dire fate, who was he to do any different?

Compare and contrast. That's what Master Brown had taught him, and Captain Norrington, in his fencing lessons as well. Choose the way ahead that leads to one's goal. Parry and riposte; hammer and quench. Keep focus on the final outcome, always. Only in this way lies the path to perfection.

Will chose a life beside a beautiful woman, and he the husband, the captain, the king.

Will stepped away from a life beside a beautiful Pirate, and forever in the shadow of someone else's greatness.
 

Most thought there were many rings, but t'was only that the hands moved so quick as to make them seem many-ringed. Jack Sparrow wore only the one gaudy emerald, but there was also the wrap of leather thong 'round thumb and middle finger, for holding in place his sailor's palm.

Rings left callouses. Callouses peeled in salt water, made a site for infection and pain. Rings could be removed from a drunken man easily. Rings could be dropped, could be lost, could catch in the rigging or the hair of a lover.

Jack kept all his gold in his teeth.
 

“Hell’s Bells!” Jack exclaimed. “What in Hades is that thing?

“Isn’t he a beauty, Captain?” Gibbs declared proudly, stroking the creature’s throat. “I won him in a hand of whist.”

“Well, you’re not bringing it aboard the Pearl, mate.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He’s the best mouser in all of Tortuga!”

“This ship has no mice, Joshamee. Only rats.”

“He’s tidy and affectionate and he’s even housebroken!”

“Answer’s still no.”

Gibbs played his final trump. “I’ll let you name him…”

~~~~~~~~~

And that is how the Black Pearl became home to the ugliest lizard to ever be called “Hector.”
 

I never said I loved you, James. I said you were a fine man. You still are.

I never said I would be a good daughter, Father. I tried, honestly I did. But I cannot be someone who fits in your world.

I never said I would stay with you, Will. I thought that was what I wanted, but I never spoke those words to you. You spoke them to me, often enough. I said that it was you I wanted, and it was true... for a time.

I never said much to Jack Sparrow. I like it that way.
 

My father loves me. He brings me a new dress, and it is a beautiful one, though far too tight across the chest. He wishes my body were still a girl's. He knew how to manage me when I was a girl. I am a woman now, and will not be managed.

Will loves me. Will wears his heart on his sleeve, and I know exactly what he is thinking. He looks at my mouth when he speaks to me, and he thinks of kisses. Long, deep kisses. Will is innocent.

James loves me. James is not innocent, but he is honourable. He glances at my breasts, and then glances away, for propriety's sake. He stumbles over his words, and though he seeks to guard my honour, his heart is quite apparent.

Jack does not love me. Jack finds me attractive.

I find Jack repulsive, a hairy, scarred, unmanageable pirate.

but...

A pirate.

A Pirate.

Perhaps if I...

Could I cause a pirate to love me? How would one go about seducing the heart of a pirate? What keys unlock a pirate's soul? What manner of a man would a pirate be?

My goodness, how much rum have I taken?
 

"There's a luv, you're fine, you're fine," Gibbs' gravelly voice reassured.

"I ain't your love, nor aught else to you." Prone on the surgery table belowdecks, Anamaria's teeth gritted and her eyes watered. The grapple was lodged between her rib and shoulderblade.

Gibbs still used the gentlest of motions to gradually ease the barbed point loose. Bloody metal scraped against the bone, and Anamaria's breath caught.

Mercifully, she fainted from the pain.

"You're more than naught, luv. Far more than naught to every each'n'ev'ry one of us on the Pearl," Gibbs whispered.

From the doorway, Captain Jack said, "Aye. S'truth."
 

"What's that, Josh?" Jenny's brother leaned over his shoulder to peer at the tawny wood in the burly farm boy's hand.

"Jes' a bit o' headboard for the cradle, Liam," Gibbs didn't look up from his carving. "Don't say nothin' to Jen, mind. It's t'be a surprise."

"Och, aye," Liam smiled to himself. His sister had this fellow wrapped 'round her little finger, and the banns only just been read. Not that it was unusual for Jen to have a man (or three) following her heels like a loyal dog, no. But this one...

Not many a man would choose to make a woman his wife, one who was already full of seed from another man's prick.

"Liam?" Joshamee called after his brother-in-law to be. "Wha'd'ye think Jenny would like better, roses or poppies?"

Pennyroyal Liam muttered under his breath, and some tansy and rue as well. Jenny'd never be handfasted to this simpleton if she weren't carrying a married man's bastard in her belly. "Best the poppies. Roses're for remembrance."

"Ah," Josh replied. "Not roses, then, no. Poppies be for death and passion? Best make it Holly, for a happy home."

Mayhap he weren't as simple as he looked.

The rigging sang and the canvas hummed along, perhaps because it didn’t know the words.

Lieutenant Norrington, officer of the watch, looked up into yards as the topmen furled the royals, their bodies speck-small against the sky. The wind had freshened over the deep Atlantic; although it remained a piercing azure overhead, the horizon was dark with cloud.

Glancing at the speed with which the cumulus were growing, Norrington leaned toward Mr. Hayes the bo’sun and said, “The mains as well, if you please. Topsails and jibs alone shall suffice.” The bo’sun’s bellow passed the order aloft to the crew. Four strides took James to the wheel.

“Looks like she’ll be a pretty blow, aye Leftenant?” said the helmsman.

“Nothing the Dauntless cannot weather, Mr. Gibbs. A point closer to the wind would give us an additional knot or two, wouldn’t you say?”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Gibbs grinned and nodded. “I’d dearly love t’see ‘er make fourteen knots. The Cap’n, bless ‘is soul, is always one for staying the course, sure an’ steady.”

“Well, the Tortoise did win the race, Mr. Gibbs.”

“Aye, but I’ve ne’er known a Hare what could make fourteen knots at sea.”

The silence stretched between them. Gibbs watched him for it, and saw the decision. Norrington gave a tiny, decisive nod.

“Hands aloft at the fore and mizzen, Mr. Hayes. I’d like those mains free again.”

Gibbs suppressed a chuckle. This one had been worth the effort, aye.
 

Why Not?

Jack looked out over the waves, the sea where Gibbs swam, pale skin in dark water. Warm cheek in warm sea.

He recalled, pleasantly, the last time his own face lay aside that cheek, breathing hard and deep, after satiating his partner one last time for the night.

He wasn't Joshamee's favorite, no, nor was the fellow his own. But of a night's convenience...

Aye, a comfortable sharing of an experience.

Jack's smile curled in reminiscence.

And the fellow was devilishly creative with his use of his tongue. No one else had ever done that delicious thing to him, driven him quite that mad in that particular way.

Aye, a quartermaster worth keeping aboard the Pearl, now that they understood each other. Each of their hearts belonged elsewhere. But of an evening...

Why not?
 

Feet of Clay

Bo'sun carried the white clay from the riverbank. Bo'sun carved the red marks that made the Lion. Bo'sun pushed brown fingers over pink skin, spreading, smoothing, molding the man into Lion form.

~~~~~~~~

The clay was like a benediction. It cooled the skin when it struck the wounds.

Then the burn would come.

Bo'sun knew well the sensation. The manhood rites were not so very long ago that he could forget.

Captain had asked after his marks. Captain had been shown.

Bo'sun had seen the fear in Captain's eye. No ritual in his people. No true path to show he was the leader except to hurt; no way to be the Mane-Lion, even after becoming the Lion who led the Pride, even after driving away that other beaded, bearded Lion to a lonely, naked shore.

Captain had no understanding of the difference between Lion and Leopard.

Bo'sun carried the white clay from the riverbank. Bo'sun carved the red marks that made the Lion. Bo'sun pushed brown fingers over pink skin: spreading, smoothing.

Bo'sun molded the Man into Lion form.

~~~~~~~~

Barbossa never showed his scars to anyone else.

Barbossa never needed to show, only to command.

Lion leads.

~~~~~~~~

Leopard bides his time.