Hi Everyone! Well, now that I'm done with What Dreams May Come, I've decided to branch off of a mentioned subplot from that story - the relationship between Jack and Anamaria, and why I think they should have gotten together. I was quite sad when Anamaria didn't come back in DMC and AWE, because I thought that she and Jack would have been quite cute together (sorry, all you Sparrabeth fans out there), so this fic is about their relationship pre-CotBP, and then skips a bit to them getting back together post-AWE. At any rate, please read and review, if the desire so strikes you.
Most everyone already knows it, but I'm putting in a disclaimer anyway to dispel any fear of getting sued - I do not even pretend to own anything related to "Pirates of the Caribbean," for, as much as I would like to be able to call it all my own, it is all property of Disney.
Temptation
1. Captivity
I stepped out onto the deck this morning, feeling the sea wind whip through my knotted hair, almost tasting the tang of the salt upon my tongue as I climbed the ropes and surveyed the oceans with a weathered eye. The rest of my crew was still snoring below decks, swayed to sleep by the roll of the ship upon the ocean. The sun glinted on the edge of the horizon, peeking over the surface until finally it burst above the waters, a fiery ball of orange.
It's on days like these that I savour my freedom the most, the ability that I have as a pirate captain to sail off into the sunset at will, away from the problems of the poor fools trapped on land. My ship, the Liberty, is my escape, my most prized possession, and my life. To think that some simpletons believe that being aboard a ship is like being imprisoned, unable to get away from the confines of the ship, constantly surrounded by the same people and scenery – ha! A ship, I'd like to tell them, is freedom. Nothing is imprisonment, and a ship least of all, to one who has been through the captivity I have. On a ship, one is at least going somewhere, destined to eventually make port, to walk on sturdy ground again, to gain back all that cannot be accessed on the sea.
On a plantation, there is no hope, no port in which one can seek refuge the everlasting storm.
I was born Anamaria Gibbons on the island of Dominica, near St. Joseph. My mother was a slave who had been chained and shipped to the island from Africa to work on the sugarcane plantations. No one ever told me who my father was, but it was fairly obvious to me even as a young child that I was the illegitimate daughter of the plantation owner – I had lighter skin than any of the other children, and my eyes were very much like his. Many of the slaves hated me for being half-white, and treated me as though I was a traitor to my own people for something that I had absolutely no control over. I didn't receive any favours for it either – the master was even harder on me than the other slaves, perhaps because I was living proof of his infidelity.
My mother tried to escape with me when I was a baby because I was beginning to look too much like my father and he was talking of selling me. She was caught, and beaten to death by none other than my father, and from then on I was raised by a bitter old couple whom I called my aunt and uncle. I don't remember anything about trying to run, but the other slaves told the story with relish over and over as I grew older, until I had imagined it so often that I almost convinced myself that I remembered.
Growing up, I had to fend for myself. I had few friends due to my half-blood status, and those who did were often wary around me because of my fiery temper and my inability to comply with the rules. I don't know what compelled me to act in such a rebellious manner, perhaps it was because I knew that the whippings I received on account of my back-talking and sass would have been given to me regardless of how I acted. Each beating that was intended to quash a bit more of the life and stubbornness out of me instead stoked the hatred and determination that smouldered within me. Early on in my life, I gained a reputation for being fearless and a bit mad – I took it as a compliment. If I had to pay for sins that were not my own, at least I'd fight back a bit while taking the punishment.
I can't remember how old I was when I began to dream of running away – it seems to me like I'd been dreaming it all my life. I was determined to carry out my destiny the way my mother had wanted me to – as a free woman. But I knew I had to be very careful. The other slaves would have been only too happy to tell the master that I was planning to run, then cluck their tongues when I was dragged back to the plantation and whipped and say to each other, 'Like mother, like daughter.' I knew I could trust no one but myself. And so, after each day of back-breaking work in the sugarcane fields, I began to take long walks almost to the edge of the plantation when I knew no one was looking, familiarizing myself with the lay of the land and plotting my escape. And then, when I felt I knew the surrounding area well enough to be able to evade capture, I sat back and waited for the opportune moment.
Said opportune moment came not a minute too soon. The master, seeing that I had grown up well enough, was determined to marry me to a slave on the plantation so that I could begin bearing more slaves to serve his every whim. I was only eighteen at the time, but even so I realized that I would rather die than marry a man I did not love and watch my children grow up as miserable and trapped as I was. I waited and waited for a chance to escape, and when it seemed that none would come, I decided it would be better to die than live a life worse than death. The night I resolved myself of this, I was making my way to the barn with a thick rope and a milk bucket, praying that I would die quickly at the end of the noose, when suddenly I heard a great shout come from the slave quarters. I stopped and turned, only to see a towering fire shoot up from the cabins. Figures flitted across the glare of the flames, smoke blurring together the silhouettes and the skeletons of the burning barracks, and I suddenly knew that this was my chance. Abandoning the rope and bucket, I dashed into the jungle of trees that surrounded the plantation, away from the screams and the smell of burning flesh. In the panic and confusion, I hoped that no one would see me leave, and that when I was found to be missing it would be assumed that I had perished in the fire.
Through the thick mass of trees and vines I ran, fearing that any minute I would hear the dogs behind me and the shouts of bloodthirsty men. I ran without thinking, my being becoming one with the night wind and the stars that studded the clear sky overhead. When I finally reached the edge of St Joseph, I collapsed on the ground, panting and weeping for joy. I had come this far, and I would not allow myself to be caught now.
Trying to act as inconspicuous as possible, I made my way to the docks and stowed away in the pantry of a ship. I did not know where I was going, nor did I care – this was the first time I had ever been on a boat, let alone off of the island, and I was content to be anywhere that was far away and across the sea from my vicious master. At first I jumped in alarm every time I heard a voice nearby, but soon I grew used to the constant banter of the sailors and listened in interest to the gossip they were swapping over their card games – something about pirates and a man named Sparrow who had not and, by their bets, would not ever be caught. Yawning, I wondered briefly if a pirate was much different from a slave, always on the run… but then I reasoned that pirates at least were free to do what they pleased, and go wherever they would go. The idea was rather appealing. I nodded off to sleep smiling.
Yeah, this is a pretty short chapter, but I assure you, the chapters will get longer, and several other familiar characters will appear, starting next chapter.