Any Port In A Storm
Chapter I : A Place To Rest Easy
[ colloquial title : Tis Better to have Loved and Lost...]
***
Sometimes, even Captain Jack Sparrow needed a place to rest easy.
He could sleep like the dead on the deck of the Black Pearl, with nothing but gale force rain for a blanket. He could sleep on his feet in raucous, smoky taverns, propped against the wall with his hat tipped down over his eyes. He could sleep under piers, or in alleys, or anywhere he has to, really; but he never really rested. His hand never left his sword, his muscles never uncoiled, and his senses never really gave up their way vigil. Sleep deep, get killed; he'd seen it happen to others a thousand times, and Jack Sparrow had no death wish.
What he did have was a black eye, a split lip, a nearly empty jug of rum and a decent amount of difficulty seeing where he was going. No matter. Straight ahead was good enough, for the time being. The truth was that he didn't really know, or care, where he'd end up.
He'd sworn he'd never come back here. On the deck of the Black Pearl, surrounded by the open sea, it was easy to pretend that Will Turner had never existed. It was a simple thing push the boy to the back of his mind and live in the moment when one was riding the very waves of Freedom herself. It was easy to forget about the way those eyes looked in the glint of early morning sunlight, or the way his that hair curled just behind the ears, or the way those arms felt around him in the darkness of the cabin...
But here in this place, Will Turner haunted him by the minute. He had never planned to dock here, but the sea had chosen his path for him, this time; seething and roiling and tossing the Black Pearl in huge bucks and lurches over the waves, caught in the crosswinds of a gale force tropical storm. Captain Sparrow trusted his ship more than he trusted the fingers of his own right hand, but he valued it as he valued them, as well; he would no more have tried to force her through the worst of the storm than he would have laid his hand voluntarily beneath the blade of a sword.
And so it was here, here for the night, and why had he ever dropped the plank and come ashore? Somewhere in this city, Will Turner was a happy man. Beneath one of these rooves he slept, probably in the arms of his darling Elizabeth. Will Turner was safe, and warm, and where he belonged now. And Captain Jack Sparrow was right back where he started.
He had the Pearl, he had his crew, and he had every inch of seawater from here to Singapore at his command. Why, then, was he stumbling through these darkened streets well after midnight, soaked to the bone and nursing the last drops of rum from the bottle? Why hadn't he found the company of a tavern lass to warm him this evening? Why was he alone, and lost, and starting to feel sick?
The rain didn't bother him. The mud didn't bother him. The lack of rum bothered him a bit, but not enough to spit over. He was used to being soaked, and dirty, and out of alcohol to boot. A pirates life was not exactly what one would call luxuriant, nor predictable, nor comfortable when one came right down to it; but it was his life, and the only one he knew, or wanted, or could even imagine. He slept cheerfully in gutters or galleys, went hungry and did not notice, cleaned out wounds with sea water and a dirty rag and considered them suitably sterile.
But sometimes, even Captain Jack Sparrow needed a place to rest easy. Sometimes even the most hardened scalawag longed a few moments peace, and shelter from the rain, and a blanket to keep him warm for a little while.
It was getting harder and harder to walk straight, and there was no more rum, now, to be nursed from the bottle. He threw it far ahead of him, heard it shatter and a woman scream, did not care. The mud came right up to his boot straps, the rain had long ago soaked every stitch of clothing on him, and now he wasn't sure that he could weave and wander his way back to the deck of the Pearl even if he wanted to. How far had he come through these streets? Which way were the docks? A sober Captain Sparrow would have been able to deduce and cover the distance in minutes. The drunk Captain Sparrow simply stumbled sideways into the closest doorway and sat down in the mud.
The rain didn't hit him right in the face, here. The mud wasn't quite so deep. He'd sleep it off in this alley, yes; just let the run weave it's course through his brain while his body tried to rest. When the sun rose and the alcohol ebbed away, he'd go straight back to the ship, haul in the anchor and, and he'd never set eyes on this place again. He'd take to the seas without looking back, and leave the ghost of Will Turner to wander these streets forever. Jack Sparrow refused to be a haunted man.
Hoofbeats, carriage wheels, and a roll of drunken laughter. They went as quickly as they came, splashing mud into his alcove. He did not mind. Mud was nice and soft for sleeping. Another set of hoofbeats, this time at a canter. Who the hell else would be out in this weather? Only drunkards and fools, or so he concluded. Drunkards, fools, and pirates haunted by memories.
He closed his eyes, tipped his hat brim down so that the rain would not run down onto his face, and waited for morning. Morning always came, no matter how dark it got at night. When he'd been very, very small, he'd lain awake at night and prayed that the sun would find it's way back each morning. It had not seemed a certain thing. Sometimes it stayed dark all day long in the hold of the ship where he'd been kept, and he'd begun to wonder at times whether it had really grown light outside at all. And there had been no one to explain to him, or comfort him, because pirates didn't explain anything to their prisoners unless their captain made them. He was lucky if he was fed, watered, and remembered at all.
But that had been a very long time ago, and Captain Jack Sparrow was far from a little boy. He was a free man, a captain, and a pirate to put to shame those who'd captured him as a child and raised him to be what he was now. They'd been a hodgepodge organization; small beans, raking in small booty. It had been Bootstraps Bill who'd taken Jack under his wing and taught him the true tricks of the trade, who'd given him his first good sword and helped him commandeer his first good ship. It had been Bootstraps Bill who'd made him into Captain Jack Sparrow, feared and revered. And it had been Bootstraps Bill who'd stayed by his side, through thick and through thin, whatever the waters washed their way.
Now there was nothing left of Bootstraps Bill but a name, a legend, and a son that looked just like him. Now Will Turner had charged head long into Captain Sparrow's blissfully dissonant life and thrown down an anchor, offered him a moment's peace and never let him forget it. He found that he could not have disagreed more with the old adage ''Tis better to have Loved and Lost, then naught have Loved at all.' He'd be a happy man today if he'd never learned to love, and a free man, and a whole man. He wouldn't be here in this muddy, rainsoaked street, wishing for quiet and softness and a warm body close to his own. He would have forgotten all about Bootstraps Bill and his beautiful son; forgotten the both of them and sailed on for the horizon. If he hadn't ever been loved, then he wouldn't know how to miss it. He wouldn't have ever know what it was like to lay his head against another shoulder and feel arms as strong as his own around him in the darkness, to have his hair brushed from his eyes by tender, calloused fingers, to hear his name spoken by a low, quiet voice that called him perfect...
He wasn't perfect, and damn Will Turner for lying to him, for loving him and then loving Elizabeth more. Damn him for looking so much like his father. Damn him for living in this god forsaken rain soaked hell hole, and having the nerve to not know that Jack was here, and for leaving him out here in the storm.
Damn him for everything.
Captain Jack Sparrow drew his knees up to his chest and huddled up in the doorway, too drunk and too tired to ever know that, just beyond it, lay the very blacksmith's shop where he'd first set eyes upon the only man to ever break his heart. And when sometime much later - in the darkest hours just before dawn - that door opened, Captain Jack Sparrow did not believe his own senses one bit. Surely he had to be dreaming, because there was no way that Will Turner was really lifting him up, really here at all. A dream, of course; even in his dreams, the boy wouldn't leave him to miss him in peace.
And as the warm arms brought him in from the rain, he whispered "Damn you, Will Turner," sure that when he awoke he would be alone.
-to be continued-
***
Chapter I : A Place To Rest Easy
[ colloquial title : Tis Better to have Loved and Lost...]
***
Sometimes, even Captain Jack Sparrow needed a place to rest easy.
He could sleep like the dead on the deck of the Black Pearl, with nothing but gale force rain for a blanket. He could sleep on his feet in raucous, smoky taverns, propped against the wall with his hat tipped down over his eyes. He could sleep under piers, or in alleys, or anywhere he has to, really; but he never really rested. His hand never left his sword, his muscles never uncoiled, and his senses never really gave up their way vigil. Sleep deep, get killed; he'd seen it happen to others a thousand times, and Jack Sparrow had no death wish.
What he did have was a black eye, a split lip, a nearly empty jug of rum and a decent amount of difficulty seeing where he was going. No matter. Straight ahead was good enough, for the time being. The truth was that he didn't really know, or care, where he'd end up.
He'd sworn he'd never come back here. On the deck of the Black Pearl, surrounded by the open sea, it was easy to pretend that Will Turner had never existed. It was a simple thing push the boy to the back of his mind and live in the moment when one was riding the very waves of Freedom herself. It was easy to forget about the way those eyes looked in the glint of early morning sunlight, or the way his that hair curled just behind the ears, or the way those arms felt around him in the darkness of the cabin...
But here in this place, Will Turner haunted him by the minute. He had never planned to dock here, but the sea had chosen his path for him, this time; seething and roiling and tossing the Black Pearl in huge bucks and lurches over the waves, caught in the crosswinds of a gale force tropical storm. Captain Sparrow trusted his ship more than he trusted the fingers of his own right hand, but he valued it as he valued them, as well; he would no more have tried to force her through the worst of the storm than he would have laid his hand voluntarily beneath the blade of a sword.
And so it was here, here for the night, and why had he ever dropped the plank and come ashore? Somewhere in this city, Will Turner was a happy man. Beneath one of these rooves he slept, probably in the arms of his darling Elizabeth. Will Turner was safe, and warm, and where he belonged now. And Captain Jack Sparrow was right back where he started.
He had the Pearl, he had his crew, and he had every inch of seawater from here to Singapore at his command. Why, then, was he stumbling through these darkened streets well after midnight, soaked to the bone and nursing the last drops of rum from the bottle? Why hadn't he found the company of a tavern lass to warm him this evening? Why was he alone, and lost, and starting to feel sick?
The rain didn't bother him. The mud didn't bother him. The lack of rum bothered him a bit, but not enough to spit over. He was used to being soaked, and dirty, and out of alcohol to boot. A pirates life was not exactly what one would call luxuriant, nor predictable, nor comfortable when one came right down to it; but it was his life, and the only one he knew, or wanted, or could even imagine. He slept cheerfully in gutters or galleys, went hungry and did not notice, cleaned out wounds with sea water and a dirty rag and considered them suitably sterile.
But sometimes, even Captain Jack Sparrow needed a place to rest easy. Sometimes even the most hardened scalawag longed a few moments peace, and shelter from the rain, and a blanket to keep him warm for a little while.
It was getting harder and harder to walk straight, and there was no more rum, now, to be nursed from the bottle. He threw it far ahead of him, heard it shatter and a woman scream, did not care. The mud came right up to his boot straps, the rain had long ago soaked every stitch of clothing on him, and now he wasn't sure that he could weave and wander his way back to the deck of the Pearl even if he wanted to. How far had he come through these streets? Which way were the docks? A sober Captain Sparrow would have been able to deduce and cover the distance in minutes. The drunk Captain Sparrow simply stumbled sideways into the closest doorway and sat down in the mud.
The rain didn't hit him right in the face, here. The mud wasn't quite so deep. He'd sleep it off in this alley, yes; just let the run weave it's course through his brain while his body tried to rest. When the sun rose and the alcohol ebbed away, he'd go straight back to the ship, haul in the anchor and, and he'd never set eyes on this place again. He'd take to the seas without looking back, and leave the ghost of Will Turner to wander these streets forever. Jack Sparrow refused to be a haunted man.
Hoofbeats, carriage wheels, and a roll of drunken laughter. They went as quickly as they came, splashing mud into his alcove. He did not mind. Mud was nice and soft for sleeping. Another set of hoofbeats, this time at a canter. Who the hell else would be out in this weather? Only drunkards and fools, or so he concluded. Drunkards, fools, and pirates haunted by memories.
He closed his eyes, tipped his hat brim down so that the rain would not run down onto his face, and waited for morning. Morning always came, no matter how dark it got at night. When he'd been very, very small, he'd lain awake at night and prayed that the sun would find it's way back each morning. It had not seemed a certain thing. Sometimes it stayed dark all day long in the hold of the ship where he'd been kept, and he'd begun to wonder at times whether it had really grown light outside at all. And there had been no one to explain to him, or comfort him, because pirates didn't explain anything to their prisoners unless their captain made them. He was lucky if he was fed, watered, and remembered at all.
But that had been a very long time ago, and Captain Jack Sparrow was far from a little boy. He was a free man, a captain, and a pirate to put to shame those who'd captured him as a child and raised him to be what he was now. They'd been a hodgepodge organization; small beans, raking in small booty. It had been Bootstraps Bill who'd taken Jack under his wing and taught him the true tricks of the trade, who'd given him his first good sword and helped him commandeer his first good ship. It had been Bootstraps Bill who'd made him into Captain Jack Sparrow, feared and revered. And it had been Bootstraps Bill who'd stayed by his side, through thick and through thin, whatever the waters washed their way.
Now there was nothing left of Bootstraps Bill but a name, a legend, and a son that looked just like him. Now Will Turner had charged head long into Captain Sparrow's blissfully dissonant life and thrown down an anchor, offered him a moment's peace and never let him forget it. He found that he could not have disagreed more with the old adage ''Tis better to have Loved and Lost, then naught have Loved at all.' He'd be a happy man today if he'd never learned to love, and a free man, and a whole man. He wouldn't be here in this muddy, rainsoaked street, wishing for quiet and softness and a warm body close to his own. He would have forgotten all about Bootstraps Bill and his beautiful son; forgotten the both of them and sailed on for the horizon. If he hadn't ever been loved, then he wouldn't know how to miss it. He wouldn't have ever know what it was like to lay his head against another shoulder and feel arms as strong as his own around him in the darkness, to have his hair brushed from his eyes by tender, calloused fingers, to hear his name spoken by a low, quiet voice that called him perfect...
He wasn't perfect, and damn Will Turner for lying to him, for loving him and then loving Elizabeth more. Damn him for looking so much like his father. Damn him for living in this god forsaken rain soaked hell hole, and having the nerve to not know that Jack was here, and for leaving him out here in the storm.
Damn him for everything.
Captain Jack Sparrow drew his knees up to his chest and huddled up in the doorway, too drunk and too tired to ever know that, just beyond it, lay the very blacksmith's shop where he'd first set eyes upon the only man to ever break his heart. And when sometime much later - in the darkest hours just before dawn - that door opened, Captain Jack Sparrow did not believe his own senses one bit. Surely he had to be dreaming, because there was no way that Will Turner was really lifting him up, really here at all. A dream, of course; even in his dreams, the boy wouldn't leave him to miss him in peace.
And as the warm arms brought him in from the rain, he whispered "Damn you, Will Turner," sure that when he awoke he would be alone.
-to be continued-
***