Disclaimer: No, I don't own the awesomeness that is PotC. Wish I did, though. But then, you'd probably have to sit through a three hour spinoff about Davy and his luv, so that may just be for the best.

AN: This was written shortly after I rewatched Curse of the Black Pearl. Barbossa's expressions during the dinner scene were so powerful, I'm not sure how I missed them the first dozen times I watched the film. So this is me, trying to get inside the old pirate's head. Dialogue was taken, punctuation and all, from the original script (I got it from the special edition of the DVD), so a couple of the lines were omitted from the movie. The title was borrowed from a Greek myth about a man named Tantalus; for further details about him, I suggest Wikipedia. And now that I've sufficiently bored you with the details, you may read the story.

The table was already set before I entered the room, the bare ghost of an aroma wafted past me and made my mouth water. It was maddeningly cruel, how hungry I felt, how delicious it smelled in my ruined, illusory nose. It was too much, and I struggled to distract myself… fortunately enough, my eyes fell on my guest.

I appraised her like I once did treasure, judging every facet and feature in a single glance, and I was not disappointed. The dark fabric of the dress cascaded elegantly around her, defining at once the innocent beauty and savage danger of its wearer. Altogether, the effect was lovely.

"Maid or not, it suits you," he told her as Jack skittered off my shoulder. I gestured pointedly at an inviting chair, and she took her seat—though not before glowering at me.

"Dare I ask the fate of its previous owner?" she asked icily.

"Now, none of that." Can't say that I remembered who this particular dress had belonged to… not a name, anyway. She was pretty, though not as fitted for the gown as Miss Turner. Still mulling, I pushed her chair closer to the food (again I forced myself not to look) and took my own seat at the table's head. "Please," I invited her. "Dig in."

Perhaps she was still bitter about my lack of acquiescence, or maybe she was just a slave of old habits and proper upbringing, but she cut away the tiniest sliver of pork, slowly brought it to her mouth, picked it delicately from the fork. I sincerely wondered if this was Hell. Every part of me wanted it—to taste just a bite, to feel it in my mouth again, to smell—I almost wept from longing, but managed to settle into a single breathy laugh.

"No need to stand on ceremony, nor call to impress anyone," I told her, trying to right my features, lest I disturb Miss Turner too much. "You must be hungry."

For a moment she stared at me, her emotions playing beautifully on her face. There was anger, and indignation, and disdain, and there! Hunger, ravenous and driving, the slightest shadow of my own. She dove into her plate, seizing the leg of a roast pig and tearing savagely into the meat. I was almost helpless—completely transfixed by that sight. I groped across the table blindly, managed to grasp a flask of wine, unstop it, pour it into a goblet, but never did my eyes leave her face. I couldn't look away from those succulent juices dribbling from her mouth, running down her chin in tantalizing rivulets… she grabbed a cut of bread and tore into that as well, chewing fervently.

"Try the wine," I managed to say, offering it to her. She was too crazed by hunger to see the lascivious expression on my face. She gulped it down fiercely, nodding with automatic gratitude at my hand. I ran my parched tongue against the roof of my mouth. Wine… ten years since I'd last tasted it. Ten years of agony.

It was all I could do to keep my voice from wavering as I offered her the piece de resistance:

"And the apples… one of those next." Of all the things denied me, of all the weights of my curse, this was the cruelest. And now, if I could just see her eat it, if I could just remember the tart sweetness of it, just imagine…

My hand was extended to her, the brightest, most perfect apple I could find held delicately in my hand. More than gold and silver, this was my treasure. And if she could just accept it…

But she only stared.

I pleaded with my eyes, begging her to take it, praying for the first time in what seemed an eternity that she would just take the apple—

I should have known better than to ask the Almighty. Her stare was terrified and repulsed as she dropped her meat.

"You eat it," she said slowly. I almost flinched.

"Would that I could," I admitted. But no; I don't think I could bear to feel it turn to ash again. Not now. Not when I had this tiny chance just to pretend. And she nodded with what she believed was realization.

My mutilated heart sank in my chest and I let my hand fall woodenly back to the table.

"It's poisoned," she said.

Poison? Yes, it's the very worst kind of poison: desire.