MARKS

"You never cease to amuse me."

Cold.

A voice so cold and blunt, the thought of its possessor being human seeming impossible.

Stoic.

Stoic despite what agonizing pain had previously occurred.

The furious thrashing continued inside the room, an anger unleashed against three men and irons. Grunts of effort filled the room along with the noises of breaking glass and breaking noses.

"Can you not hold steady a bird!" Snapped the bleeding man, his temper merging with the fury of being wounded, of literally burning pain throbbing at his back.

"We're trying, si – oomph!" The sound of contact between an elbow and a nose echoed for a moment before a growl rumbled out of the chained animal. The supposed unsteadied bird.

"Milord, we need to handle these b---"

"No."

"Not until he receives what he deserves."

Pushing away the worried hands of a maid, the man turned to where they had now forced the culprit into seating, one arm stretched to its fullest against the table that lay by the fireplace.

"You will get what you deserve." He stared into the glaring pits of hell that rose in the younger man's eyes, struggling to be set free from the death grips of the soldiers around him.

Walking towards the soon-to-be victim of yet another trial, proved to be difficult and excruciating, the man hissing at the slightest tension of pain on his back. But the pain only vanished when he caught that brute smirking at his painful sight.

"I do not know what you are smiling about, pig. But no worries," he stood before him, sneering at the advantage of being able to look down at his prisoner, "I shall wipe the smile off your dirty face soon enough."

But the man could only glare back, a fierce look upon his hardened face where the smirk still remained. "You should be worrying about wiping the blood off your back, Beckett."

The comment stole the sinister smirk off the East India Trading Company entrepreneur and without a verbal command, a soldier hit the convict hard against the back of his head. "You will learn….to not defy me…Jack Sparrow."

As he spat out some blood from a recent jab at the jaw, Jack Sparrow watched with dark eyes as his former superior reached into the fire and pulled out a scorching poker.

A poker whose end was shaped in a P.

At the sight of it, the young captain thrashed about once more; not out of fear of being branded. But out of anger that he would had no other choice but to be.

"Scared, Sparrow?" Chuckled Beckett though his face deceived him of that malevolence – everyone knew the man was in ominous pain.

Hearing his question, Jack glared up and stopped his fuss. He did not say anything nor try to escape again. Jack Sparrow simply moved closer to the table and laid out his arm with an unclenched fist and all arm muscles relaxed; he would not brace himself for the pain.

"Do it."

Silence took a hold of the quarters, a glare burning holes through each other's eyes but no words were spoken for a moment.

"….Any last words?" Beckett coldly questioned in a low voice.

And Jack smirked. "I'll be leaving you with a mark far larger than my own. That makes my day." And then came the expressionless countenance, eyes seething with hate. "Do it."

The maid at the far corner of the room gasped and looked away as the sound of hissing skin broke through. And it went for longer than what it had to be.

It finally broke away but only gave way to the rustling noise of the men moving Jack Sparrow once more, pushing him towards the exit.

"Goodbye, Mr. Sparrow."

"Good luck with your burns! A wind at your back forever, sir!" And he was silenced by a rush of fists going at him, even as they moved him out of the quarters and onward.

Cutler Beckett could only stare into the fire. The fire that now consumed his back. "…Milord?" Came a soft voice, the maid still there in his company.

"Milord…shall I call for a doctor?"

Even without looking at her, Beckett knew how her face was distorted; conjured up in disgust and shock. "….Leave me in peace for the moment." The low growl threatened to open fire arsenic words if she did not leave his sight but she ran out hastily and left him to his being.

A back lay bare, ruined skin stinging whenever the wind past by the burnt substance. From neck to waist: burnt. It would be the last time Cutler Beckett would ever fight near any open fire. But then…there would no longer be a Jack Sparrow to fight and a tilting boat.

As his blood oozed from the hissing scorched flesh, Cutler Beckett glared into the pits of hellish flames, born from his fireplace, Jack Sparrow's voice echoing in his mind. I'll be leaving you with a mark far larger than my own…a wind at your back forever, sir…

"Damn you…Jack Sparrow."

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A/N: I'm in that mood where I want to write but don't know what to write and thankfully, that's what one-shots are for! I wrote this just now actually and I just wanted to imagine what it would have been like to brand Jack and what mark he actually left on Beckett.

"A wind at your back forever, sir" is a quote (actually, text on a tombstone) that I personally love and it's quite deep to me. But for the story, I twisted the actual meaning – for those who didn't get it, Jack is poking fun at Beckett's burns, hoping that the wind will cause his back pain forever and ever and whenever he feels the wind at his back, that it will always remind him of the fact that Jack Sparrow caused those burns and scars. Muahahaha!

Yes, I'm evil. I know. Enjoy it!

Please review, your comments help me keep going!

--- AB Firestar