A/N It has been a LONG while since I wrote a fanfic … and there was only the one that is listed here. I have had ideas for a couple since, but I've let them slide away from me before I got started. In this genre I've read so many that I'm worried that my idea has been fed from someone else's story, or several someone else's stories. (Yeah, my grammar is that whacked.) If I've stolen someone else's ideas I apologize beforehand. There is no real attempt to plagiarize anyone.

But seeing as how I'm not getting paid for this, and that I'm not turning it in for a grade, and that I really doubt someone is going to take a contract out on me … I'm not going to worry about it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean nor any of its characters. I acknowledge Disney and their writers as those who created them and beg their forgiveness for commandeering them for my own nefarious schemes. (This will be the one and only disclaimer. After all, it's only one story.)

Chapter 1: Memories

It was a gruesome last memory, one of gigantic sharp teeth tearing away his already disintegrating flesh from bone thanks to the powerful digestive juices spat at him along with his hat, which had miraculously survived those same juices. He had hurtled himself headlong into the maw of the Kraken, since there really was no other choice in the matter. Granted, there was another choice, but as he imagined he was going to end up in the monster's innards even had he tried to escape, he decided that he would make that choice. After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow.

He twitched his nose, finding it a little difficult to concentrate on dying with sand creeping up into it with each inhale. He sneezed, and squirmed, making himself more comfortable. Not easy, this dying thing, what with sand and last memories playing with his mind and body. With that thought, his eyes blinked open. Last memories were supposed to be that. Nothing was supposed to happen after that to make more memories, which was precisely what was going on.

He rolled over and sat up, warily looking around. He was sitting on what looked like a beach, but unlike any beach he had ever seen before. For one thing, there were no waves. Even the swamp waters around Tia Dalma's hut had a current. This water had no discernible movement, making Jack feel a little sick to his stomach as he sat watching it. It wasn't natural. He peered around the beach where he was sitting and saw nothing but sand. Even inland there seemed to be no change in topography to indicate erosion due to waves. Oh. That's right. No waves.

Jack glared around at his surroundings, standing and patting himself down, doing a quick inventory check. He had all his effects, including his sword and scabbard, compass, hat and coat. He brushed off the sand that clung to him, wiped the grains from his face and turned around slowly, trying to discover some landmark to indicate where he was.

He felt curiously aware, alert, a feeling that he had not had for quite a while without having had to go through the shakes to get there. He didn't like it. Too many sensations crowded his consciousness, a consciousness he shouldn't have had to experience at this point of time. By rights he should have been crushed into pulp at the bottom of the sea, or at least being used as nutrients for a giant cephalopod. Instead he found himself hopping on one foot, as he pulled off a boot to shake out the sand that had inexplicably collected there, giving him a decidedly uncomfortable itchy spot between his toes, having ground its way through his stockings. He growled to himself. Being sober while dead was Hell.

In fact that is what this felt like. Hell. No movement from the water, no landmarks on the beach, no rum, no women, no sun, for the sky looked perpetually overcast, no ship to take him away. Nothing. Just sand, a waveless sea, not even a wind blowing to indicate a moving forward in time. Yet the memories kept building, kept collecting. How many memories was he going to have to live through before he was going to go mad? Or was this life, or even afterlife? Was he even going to be allowed to go mad?

Having pulled his boots off, he decided to try the water. He yanked off his knee length hose and waded out a little ways, trying to sense any motion at all, any undertow that wasn't apparent to his eyes. He still felt nothing. He dipped his palm into the water, and raised a handful to his lips for a taste. It didn't even have the tang of brine, an indication of any life whatsoever. In fact, it tasted like the water on board ship, just before the mold sets in. No flavor. Flat. He spat it back out, not feeling thirsty enough to drink it. For that matter, he didn't feel thirsty at all, nor hungry.

Jack waded back onto the beach and waited a few minutes to let his feet dry before donning his hose. As he pulled his boots back on, he had a very brief moment when he regretted having lived his life as a pirate, in view of this being the result. Following that lapse in self-importance, a flood of rather enjoyable rum-tinted memories came to mind, all due to his being a pirate. Memories from before his branding were less savory, considering his all too brief attempt at a righteous lifestyle. He decided to brush those aside and concentrate on enjoying the more recent ones. He smirked as he remembered the wine, women and songs that he had experienced throughout his illustrious career as a pirate.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Jack started walking. There seemed to be nothing better to do, so he developed a steady pace and moved along, keeping the sea to his portside, the unchanging landscape to his starboard. His gait, steadier than usual due to his sobriety, kept him moving forward. As he filed through his memories to keep the boredom from overtaking him, his eyes scanned the view in front of him, and his ears kept tuned to what might have been sneaking up on him from behind.

He found himself singing the little pirate ditty that Elizabeth had taught him. Suddenly, he stopped with that thought. Elizabeth … or Miss Swann as she insisted on his referring to her. Either way, she was still a wench. A wench that shackled him to his own ship so he would die to save her own sorry hide. He glared at that memory, even pouted. She had even the audacity to plant a kiss on his hungry lips as she maneuvered him backwards to the mast where the shackles had hung. Even though he had felt the sting of her betrayal when he heard the clink they made as she fastened them, he had felt a self-righteous wave of pride. He had won her over to his side, whether or not she was aware of it. He applauded himself as he whispered his observation to her, after her explanations and denials. Not sorry indeed. As for right now, and hopefully right now would not last forever, he had been doomed to Hell by that conniving woman.

Instead of dwelling on the here and now, he decided to continue his march forward, pursuing instead the recollections of his conversations that he had with her through the years that they had known each other. Given that a lot of time was spent together on both the island and on board the Pearl as they looked for Will, they hadn't had too many conversations together. Yes, they had enjoyed each other's company on the island, alleviating the bleakness of their situation with bottles of rum and a lot of singing. The little bit they shared with each other began to form a bond that strengthened despite themselves, leading Jack to repeatedly point out to the young girl, or rather, woman, how alike they really were. He had no idea where he had wanted to take that at first, even though the idea of sharing her personal space for a few minutes had run through his mind on more than one occasion. That thought caused another smirk. Yet, for some reason, whether created by her or by simple circumstance, he never was allowed to approach her too familiarly. He wasn't sure if he would have taken the chance had he even been able to.

As if bidden by the track of his thoughts, a change of scenery made him come to his senses. On a particularly flat piece of beach, he came to a halt. Stretched out in front of him was a set of footprints, leading away from the edge of the water, imprinted as if the sand was still wet from a wave that never had washed ashore. They headed away from him, looking as if the creator of said prints were wandering a bit as they moved forward. He followed the prints with his eyes and in the distance saw the figure to which they led. He stepped onward again, quickening his pace to catch up. As he advanced, a dread began to steal over him. Of all the people he would have liked to have had with him on this lonely and interminable beach, she was not the one whom he was most eager to be ... with.

Apparently hearing his approach, the figure turned. She was a sight with her white chemise billowing on the wind that suddenly seemed to spring from nowhere. It whipped her hair into her face and eyes, causing her to pull it away as she watched him draw nearer. Somehow he felt the whole thing was staged for his benefit, especially with the sultry look that entered her eyes. His own eyes narrowed dangerously as he addressed her.

"Seems to me that your little plan failed, Lizzie. You've joined me in Hell."