Pirates don't feel regret.

Captain Jack Sparrow, greatest pirate to ever live, certainly doesn't.

Regret implies feelings, another pirate no no.

Which he also doesn't suffer from, thank you very much.

Regret also implies a conscience, those nasty inconvenient little things that the Good Lord handed out to all but those few special boys and girls who went on to be pirates.

The life of a heartless amoral ne'er-do-well suited him just fine.

Jack had murdered, gutting and blowing the brains out of countless folks with a grin.

He swindled and double-crossed with the best. Even corrupted a nun.

Not even the suggestion of a twinge.

Life was good.

Life was fun.

Then he come barging into Jack's pirately perfect life, ripping it to shreds with a flash of his sword.

That idealistic blacksmith with his feelings and his damsels in distress.

He had written off the vise-like sensation that overcame him on the Pearl when the fool whelp shoved a pistol under his chin and declared his lineage to Barbossa and his cursed crew as rum deprivation and frustration.

Bloody whelp was determined to get him killed.

The squeezing nauseousness he had sending said whelp to settle his debt with Devy Jones on the other hand.

He was fine with it.

He wasn't lying.

He could live with it.

Treacherous little scamp came back doubling crossing to the high heavens, lively as ever soon enough, so no biggie.

The whip marks on his shoulders healed soon enough, too.

Jack hardly noticed them.

Never felt like he was trying to eat rocks, or that he was going to be sick like some landlubber either.

Kissing the whelp's bride to be.

Throwing him overboard.

Well, he was a pirate after all.

But standing on the deck of the Flying Dutchmen, immortality in his hands. An eternity at sea just one stab away.

A Pirate's Dream.

His Dream.

With an end to that megalomaniac tentacle head to boot.

He couldn't resist gloating.

He couldn't resist gagging as Davy Jones stabbed Will Turner in the heart.

The vise was back, as the blade twisted.

The squeezing clenched his gut at the screams.

A lump was in his throat

A sting in his eyes.

He didn't think about it, didn't hesitate to grab that tan hand, squeeze those limp fingers around a hilt. And guide them to stab that wretched heart.

He couldn't deny how he got a little misty eyed seeing a familiar figure join Lizzie on shore.

Couldn't deny that he shed a tear as a green flash lit up the heavens.

Pirate's don't feel.

They don't feel regret.

But Jack Sparrow was considering it.