This is the beginning of an epic.
-huggles-
Glad yer reading, love.
I don't own anything. Disney owns everything. For now.
I decided to post the very beginning; it's roughly all I have at this point. But I really wanted know if people liked it or not, and whether it was worth continuing.
Jack Sparrow splashed through the warm, shallow water on his hands and knees, spitting out a mouthful of salty sea and throwing himself at long last onto solid ground. He lay on his back in the cool sand, his chest heaving. The sky was blood-red at sunset; he stared at it hard, feeling as if he were still in the ocean. He felt the phantom waves crashing over him, one after the other, as he lost himself in thought.
That wench. That bloody wench. She had killed him! Ok, to be fair, he wasn't dead. But she didn't know that! He couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe what she'd done. No, that wasn't true. He didn't want to believe what she'd done. The fact was, he could believe it. She was a pirate. Elizabeth Swann was a bloody pirate. She had killed him to save herself. And her precious William. He scowled at the thought. He had watched her transform from a delicate, good-for-nothing-but-a-shag, doll of a girl into a wild and beautiful pirate. And bugger all, he loved her.
He loved her like nothing before. He'd wanted her from the day he'd rescued her in Port Royal. But then, his desire was nothing more than animal lust. Now he wanted nothing more than to protect her, to make her happy. And yes, he still wanted to shag her.
And he hated himself for it; he was Captain Jack Sparrow, after all. Wicked, ruthless pirate. Man-of-a-thousand-wenches. And here he was, completely taken with the Governor's daughter. The prim-girl-turned-rogue. He wanted her like all hell. But she loved Will, was engaged to Will, a man who, despite much, he considered a friend.
Jack struggled to his feet as the last rays of sun disappeared beneath the horizon. First order of business: he moved his hands across his belt, making sure his effects survived his long swim to shore. They had, though his hat was gone; he was quite sore about that. Wait. He plunged his hand into his pocket once more to confirm it: his compass was gone. Bloody hell, she had taken his compass. Pirate. She was a pirate. Jack felt a wave of emotion crash over him; he knew that compass would secure her safety from the British government. Relief. And he knew that he'd been right. Smugness. Not only had Elizabeth sacrificed him for her own needs, she'd stolen his compass. She had been curious; she had wanted to know what it felt like. Well, he hoped the wench was happy. The beautiful, ferocious wench. He knew that if anyone else had stolen his compass, his bloody compass, he would be furious. Beyond furious. But it was Elizabeth, and it was the key to her protection from the death sentence.
He was bruised, cut, and very sober, something that caused him great unhappiness. Killing the beastie had been easy, by his standards. It was the swim to shore that had nearly done him in. Miles upon miles of open ocean, with nothing to float upon. He'd been hopping from island to island for so long, desperately searching for any civilization. Unfortunately, every land-mass he'd come upon had been hopelessly small, worthless spits of land. Well, worthless wasn't quite fair. They had allowed him a place to rest, to catch his breath and lay on solid ground. But there was little else, and so he would force himself onwards, force himself to dive back into the warmth of the caribbean water and swim. Swim ahead. He had swallowed more sea-water than he ever cared to and felt like salt had seeped into his every pore. It had certainly seeped into his clothing. He was soaked; there wasn't a single part of his body that wasn't wet. The thick black kohl surrounding his eyes was smudged and running terribly. He took a few faltering steps, looking around hopefully. This island was much bigger than any he'd encountered so far. Much bigger. Maybe there were people. Maybe, just maybe, there was rum. He could practically feel the rough, spiced liquid sliding down his throat. He groaned slightly as he began stumbling through the shallow water down the long stretch of beach, praying that he would find something.
Elizabeth Swann was miserable. She was slumped on a crudely constructed chair in the equally crude multi-tiered river house belonging to one Tia Dalma. She mindlessly wrapped her hands around the mug of something-or-other that Tia was offering her, lost in her horrible thoughts.
What the bloody hell had she done? She had killed him, that's what. She killed him. Jack Sparrow was gone, and it was her fault. It had been three days since she'd kissed him. No, since she'd tricked him. Three days since she'd cuffed him to the Pearl, selfishly sentencing him to death. Death by terrible, foul sea-monster. Death by Kraken. She shivered involuntarily. What had she done? She'd become a pirate. She had killed the man she...oh, bugger, the man she loved. She had killed him out of fear. Fear of death, yes, but mostly fear of her love. The fact that she had feelings for him terrified her. She had spent too long forcing herself to believe that she did not love him, that she loved Will. William Turner, the man she was engaged to marry. But it was useless. Sure, she'd felt it coming for a while; each kiss from Will exciting her less, each vow seeming less important. But her conscience didn't want to admit it. Whatever morals had been burned into her skull protested her every thought of Jack, told her that she had already given her love to Will, the man who returned it eagerly. It was her conscience, her morals that had made her do it. But they were obviously quite confused themselves, for now they were tearing her apart more than ever before. She had thought -wished, really, like all hell- that killing Jack would kill her love, would kill her guilt. Unfortunately, it only seemed to have intensified it. She felt empty with her Captain gone; there was a hole inside her, filled with a deep, throbbing pain. She wanted to die. She wanted to curl up and die. Not only did she hate herself for not loving Will, she hated herself for killing the man she did love.
She groaned, catching Will's eye quickly. He glared at her, his stare hard and tinged with sadness. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The entire crew was looking quite dejectedly into their mugs of the mysterious liquid. Everyone was feeling guilty, but none so much as Elizabeth Swann. She drank hesitatingly from her cup, letting the warm, spicy liquid slide down her throat. Hot rum? It was strange, yes, but so was her life. It caused her eyes to burn and tear; she set it down immediately and stood, shaking slightly. She looked quickly around the room, her eyes flying across the many depressed, confused pirates slumped around their drinks. She had to get out. She grabbed her tankard as an afterthought; maybe it would taste better outside.
She breathed in the salty air gratefully, letting the cooless fill her lungs and dry the tears welling in her eyes. And they were not from the strong drink this time, but from her pure desperation. She stood on the beach, letting the moonlight wash over her, and took a deep, gulping breath. A sob. She felt her knees give out, her body falling to the sand in a crumpled heap. She was crying so hard her body was shaking. Damn that Jack Sparrow. She loved him.
And he was gone.
She let her hand slip to her pocket, feeling the outline of the compass, the only thing she had left of him. Then she heard it. Someone was splashing through the water. She lifted her head, peering into the darkness. But she couldn't see a thing. Wait. She could make something out: a figure sloshing unsteadily through the most shallow parts. Quite unsteadily. There was something familiar about the way he was staggering...but no. No. That was impossible. He was gone, and she was imagining things.
But he did seem like he could use some help; he looked discouraged, exhausted, and quite tipsy. Perhaps he'd been thrown out by a lover? His heart broken, left to struggle along the deserted beach? Or maybe he was just drunk. Either way...
"Are you alright?" she called into the murky darkness, wiping absentmindedly at the salty tears that were quickly drying on her cheeks. She wasn't about to just go charging down the beach towards a suspiciously unsteady man; he was far enough from the house so that her screams would be unheard, should he choose to attack her for any reason. She'd witnessed her fair share of drunken men to know that they could be quite unpredictable.
Bloody fantastic. Now he was hearing voices. And not just any. Hers. Appearantly too much ocean could addle your brain. He felt shivers shoot down his spine; his entire body was tingling. He shook himself wildly, attempting to rid his dark, sun-damaged skin of the goosbumps spreading across it, despite the fair weather. Then he lost his balance completely. He felt himself instantly surrounded in a cocoon of warm water; his face full of wet sand. He groaned, producing several bubbles that drifted lazily to the surface and burst silently. He was wet. He was without his hat. He was devastatingly sober, and now he had a face full of sand and sea. An odd sucking sound resonated across the beach as he pulled his head from he muck and, caught up in his frustration, answered the voice in his head. Loudly.
"I'm bloody fine," he spat, flipping onto his back with another large splash, squeezing his eyes shut.
Elizabeth watched the figure's movements become more erratic until he was flailing about like an absolute madman. Then the inevitable happened: he completely lost his balance and fell, with a slow, surprising grace, to the water. The very shallow water. Surely he had planted himself in the solid, wet sand. The disgusting squelch that rang through the darkness confirmed her suspicion. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing on the beach, he was definitely unhappy now. Then she heard him speak.
That voice. That voice.
Jack.
Sand flew in every direction as she struggled to her feet, the rum in her mug sloshing everywhere; she tore down the beach, her bare feet kicking up fountains of the soft, near-white powder behind her. She felt as if she were in a dream. There he was. Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow. She fell to her knees beside him, placing a delicate-yet-grimy hand on his rapidly rising and falling chest.
He was soaked. It was unreal. He was dead. She'd killed him. It was a dream.
No, this was real. This was bloody real. But it was still so dream-like. She kept her hand on his chest, just to reassure herself that it was him, that he wasn't at the bottom of the ocean, or sliced to pieces by thousands of sharper-than-swords teeth. She tried to speak but found she couldn't; hot tears were welling in her eyes, the back of her throat beginning to burn.
"Jack," she choked out. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't speak. Her breath was caught in her chest.
Then his eyes shot open.