A/N: My response to Prompt #91 for POTCfest: Pintel and Ragetti, Barbossa's apples and Ragetti's eye.

Enjoy!

An Unwavering Promise: Part I

---

The shadowy darkness of night overcame the sea with a fiery passion, devouring the very essence of light. Trickles of white, fragmented, specks danced across the haunting blank canvas of nocturnal bliss, emanating pure radiance in the presence of the unknown.

The whooshing sound of waves filled his delicate ears, crashing forcefully into The Blessed Sin's narrow hull, causing the ship to endlessly sway restlessly with the ocean. The smell of salt in the breeze revived him, for tonight would be tragically long and restless.

"Oi, boy!" A lone voice called out to him through the abyss.

The young man turned his gaze to the worrisome face of the ship's First Mate, letting his right hand gently rest on the smooth, mahogany rail of the forecastle deck, feeling its cool warmth on his throbbing pulse.

"The captain wishes to see you," he stated, holding his tricorne hat near his chest, gripping its finely contoured edges while fumbling his fingers from its intricate stitching.

He nodded a response, feeling his heart race; this could only mean one thing.

Entering the threshold of his beloved captain's cabin was like arriving at an irreconcilable purgatory. The air stank of rotting flesh and vile, festering illness. There was no doubt that his captain would not be able to survive through the night.

"Ah, Hector. My boy," the captain smiled, trying as best he could to lift himself from his confinement amidst tangled sheets. Successfully propping himself on his elbows, he beckoned his young helmsman to come to his bedside.

Young Hector stepped forward, making his way around a series of tables that featured various open books, logs, and old parchment maps – pieces of his captain's celebrated legacy. One table was adorned with a thick, rich bushel of green apples, the captain's fruit of course. He took one, dropping it down into his pocket before he stepped through the thin curtain of his captain's sleeping quarters, slightly hesitating at the sight before him.

Lord Isaac Reinhart, Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, a most revered captain and accomplished sailor who was always well-armed with two braces of cocked, polished zinc pistols, various hidden daggers, and one finely crafted cutlass. Isaac was a man like no other: a man who sailed as if the devil himself were after him, a man of incalculably good fortune and fine taste, a man who treated his crew with great honor and respect. He was a man who Hector wished many a time were his own father, and now he was nothing more than a festering corpse, waiting to greet the locker with open arms and open mind. Hector grimaced at the sight, knowing Isaac was once a stronger man. Yet, he could not recognize the man that laid before him, battered and broken from their previous battle with an East India Trading Company's galleon, The Wicked Wench. The crew of The Blessed Sin fought for their lives but The Wicked Wench was strong and relentless, when she seemed to near the edges of defeat, she rallied back into the battle, ordering storms of ruthless cannonade. It was captained by a very young man of seventeen, adorned with long dark hair and matching chocolate eyes. It was a face Hector would not forget for the rest of his days.

Despite the pirate's passionate and vigorous combat, the battle was over no sooner than it begun. The Blessed Sin was secured, only to find their beloved captain lying still and motionless; his legs along with parts of his torso were ripped down to the bone, fragments of mortar melted into his flesh, causing dark, black residue to overcome his once youthful anatomy. The decks were strewn in his blood.

The ship's physician did as best he could, stitching the good captain's fatal wounds yet he couldn't ease the pain or aid his rising fever.

"A bit closer, boy. I hope I don't appear too distasteful," he urged, feeling his breath escape his heaving lungs as he cough viciously.

"Ye shouldn't be up, sir. Ye know full well of yer condition," he warned, grasping Isaac's weakened shoulders while noticeably shaking at the sight of blood stained sheets and old bandages.

"Aye, son. I know full well of my condition, that is why you're here … Sit down boy! You're making me nervous!"

He obeyed, pulling up an old chair to his captain's bedside.

Isaac extracted a small round object from his pocket. "Hector, my son," he whispered. "You know, I call you that because we are like father and son – you and I,' he added, smiling at the young boy.

"When you become a father one day, Hector, you'll find that you often try to leave behind a piece of yourself to those you care for the most. You'll also find that the majority of men have nothing to leave behind but countless words of extraordinary circumstance, while there are some that seem to have all the silver and gold a man could ever want in this world," he explained, holding the small sphere in his fingers.

"I pass this on to you, my son – mind you it is neither silver nor gold. But what I give you is different breed of treasure and I give it to you in great hopes that you will one day accomplish a feat that will change the course of time."

He nodded, eyes swelling, sitting steadfast and ready to accept any mission from this man.

"You must take back the sea, Hector," he coaxed, gently taking Hector's hand and placing the small wooden sphere in his palm, closing it slowly with his thin, sullied fingers.

"You must bring her back, if you do not bring her back, the sea will no longer be free."

"Bring back what exactly?" he replied in a whisper, as if Isaac were telling him a long forgotten folk tale.

"The sea goddess herself – Calypso," He whispered slowly, each syllable rolling of his tongue like waves on a beach.

He passionately gripped Hector's hand. "Remember, you must not lose this," he added hastily. "This is one of the nine pieces of eight. You must keep it safe," He nodded, widening his gaze at the young man before him.

"Nine pieces of eight?"

"Promise me, Hector!" he urged, noticing a visible hesitation in Hector's icy, blue eyes.

"Promise me!" he exclaimed once more. "You are a Pirate Lord now, Hector. You must promise me." His eyes grew wide with anticipation.

"I - I promise, sir." He stammered.

The next morning, Hector Barbossa stood at the helm as a new man – head held high, feet planted firmly, unwavering and true. His long, fair hair flowing gracefully in the early morning breeze as he watched the sun smolder over the distant horizon, bringing forth a new day and sprinkling streams of light upon each crest of sea.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the apple he had taken just a few short hours ago from his former captain's cabin. Isaac died over the course of the evening, his soul passing on to sail forever in the depths of Davy Jones' Locker. Isaac's cabin was now his cabin and he could take what he liked.

He studied the apples rounded shape for a moment, gripping it tightly to feel its firmness, closing his eyes to listen to the calmness of the sea, feeling one with the wind.

He opened his eyes, fixating them once more, on the shimmering, orange horizon.

"I promise." He uttered, biting down hard on the apple's smooth green surface, letting its sweet juices flow down his chin.

I promise.