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ANYWHERE THE WIND BLOWS Author: Ebony Disclaimer: Nope, I don’t own Jack or anyone/-thing you might recognize from PotC (even if secretly I hold Jack captive in my bedroom), but I do own all the original characters and like Bloodshot Pete and Lucas Fowler. I also own the concept of Miss Byrne, even if the reader can expend on her character in her mind as she reads these. Summary: A collection of short stories from varying viewpoints, mostly from the early years of Jack Sparrow and Miss Byrne (You), shedding light on some of the defining moments in their lives which will ultimately lead up to the day when they meet one another. A supportive series to the Call of the Caribbean trilogy, exploring the lives of the different characters featured in it, both past and present. Author's Note of Doom: This idea came to me as I was picturing the pasts of the characters, mainly Jack Sparrow and Miss Byrne, in my mind when writing No Quarter Given. I realized I couldn’t possibly fit all of these scenarios in NQG as flashbacks; it just simply wouldn’t do without hindering the flow of the actual storyline. So, I thought I would start a whole new entity for them, write them as separate short stories/ficlets/drabbles/whatever that explore the trials and tribulations of the characters that have become familiar to the readers in my CotC trilogy, mainly in NQG. Most of them will be written either from your or Jack’s POV, but I will probably be adding some Peter “Bloodshot” Byrne and Melissa Swann in the mix too, along with the Fowlers Lucas and Nora, as well as Jack’s parents, and probably some Gabriela Delgado. * * * * * CHAPTER 1 – Broken Chains Summary: Pre-CotC. Before heading toward Tortuga, you find a little time for your thoughts. Bright afternoon sun shines mercilessly down on the quaint town on the southwestern coast of Hispaniola, a town that’s name you don’t bother to remember. Why, that information would really be meaningless to you, since you wouldn’t be staying here for long anyway – you rarely did so anywhere, these days. The inner restlessness that was nowadays an ever-present trait for you simmered beneath the surface and kept you moving on, rarely allowing you to stop or stay still for too long. You’re sitting outside, in front of a small tavern, shaded under the roofing made out of shrivelled palm leaves that keeps the worst glare of the sun away from the patrons lounging beneath it. The makeshift tables made from old, bulky barrels have been dug firmly in the sand, but the rickety chairs rest in slightly wobbly fashion on the soft ground. Different noises and smells waft out of the entrance of the tavern, and the people milling around speak in different languages, different accents, dialects and words meshing together in the oppressing air and forming a mishmash of tones that registers in your ears as a steady but blurry drone. You sit quietly, elbows leaned against the table and chin propped in your hands, too focused in staring at the glittering sea before you to be distracted by the other patrons. The sun sparkles enchantingly over the wide azure surface, the small waves and ripples adding to the effect. A familiar yearning tugs at your heart as you keep watching the sea; it’s calling you, beckoning you to come back, return to where you were born and where you were raised, rocked to sleep by the gentle waves every night. And you would return, you wish that so badly! – but you can’t. You haven’t succeeded, yet. No, you are alone with your wishes and yearnings for a life at the sea again, just like you’ve been for the past three years. You still find it hard to believe. Three years already, and nothing seems to be easing up for you as you had hoped it would. You’d hoped that time would cure your wounds, but no; it only softens the hurt, but it doesn’t make it go away. Some hurts went too deep to be cured and some ails could only be dulled. The endless blue horizon holds you captivated, and you cease your staring only to blink your drying eyes. An odd, clutching feeling stirs at the bottom of your stomach, twisting your guts almost painfully. There it is again, that accursed restiveness that seemed to follow you everywhere ever since your father’s death. It gnaws at your thoughts and fills you with a strange sense of wanderlust, something you were not quite aware you possessed before. Recently, however, you have started to understand it. You are drifting aimlessly like a ship without an anchor, because the chain that kept you grounded has been broken. It was broken three years ago, when Bloodshot Pete was sent into his watery grave along with his vessel. Your concentration upon the blue waters wavers and you close your eyes briefly as the picture of your late father forms in your mind. You and your father did not share too many physical similarities; you took more after your mother. This had apparently always been the matter with the mental traits, as well. You were ever a horribly impish, playful child that grew into being a slightly more sensible young woman, even if the mischievousness never left you; you just curbed a little better. Thanks to your slight impulsiveness, once you got wound up about some idea, you were notoriously difficult to distract and tended to follow through with it no matter what, often purely out of stubbornness and unwillingness to give up. Aside the doggedness, optimism had been one of your dominating traits, going along with your lively spirit perfectly. Had you truly been a bird like your name suggested, you likely would have flown away to see everything you still hadn’t sighted. Yet you would have always returned, as well, for the thought of leaving your father was inconceivable, and your love for him was stronger that your desire to see and experience. Peter Byrne was different as a person. He was steadfast, calm, self-confident, vigilant and certainly much less impulsive than you. He thought things out well and from all viewpoints before making decisions, but yet he was not indecisive. He thought quickly on his feet and was incredibly sharp minded and witty, something you had always admired. He could carry on a conversation about anything with anybody. As a father, he was stern but fair and loving; understanding, yet tolerated neither foolishness nor disrespect – he was very much alike as a Captain of the ship. No, Pete was not nearly as mischievous as you were, but he hardly lacked a sense of humour. He just kept that side of himself to those who were really close to him, his friends and family. There had been numerous times when your father had softly commented that you had clearly inherited your mother’s nature, for there was no question about where that impishness within you came from. You had no answer to that, as you had never known Melissa, your own mother. But you knew your father had known her better than anyone ever before, and had no reason to question his opinion. If your own personality was anything to go by, your mother had been very different than your father. And perhaps that’s why they fit together so well; they balanced each other, evened out the other’s scales. Your father kept your mother happy and grounded, keeping her anchored instead of drifting without direction with her. Your mother on the other hand brought a bit of unpredictability and light heartedness in your father’s life. And you realize that it had been the same with you and your father – your father had been your anchor, as well. And after he had been killed, that invisible chain around your ankle had been broken, and you were free to fly away. And fly away you did, from one place to yet another, as you had done for the past three years. And now, you know firsthand that flying alone without a place to call home is hard to both the heart and soul. You need an anchor, someone to ground you a little again and make you content. Or if not an anchor, then perhaps someone to fly with you… but then, maybe you are a fool to wish that. People like you, ones who wanted to be free and fly, were not common. And you certainly wouldn’t run into one by sitting in these smoky taverns. Shaking off such despondent thoughts, you straighten your spine slightly and glance around the shaded spot, half-heartedly listening to the different conversations going on in the other tables. Two older men a while away are engaged in animated discussion, and you catch the words “Nassau Port” and “Jack Sparrow” amid the rapid flow of English. A quick, amused smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth up. Yet another bird… and yet another story about the elusive Captain Sparrow. What pirate had not heard of him and his adventures, one of the most popular ones being the sacking of Nassau Port without firing a single shot? You can’t help but to wonder once again if the outrageous tales have even an ounce of truth behind them, or are they just adding into the myth that was Jack Sparrow. You make a mental note to ask him just that should you ever actually happen to meet this mysterious buccaneer you’d heard so many people speak of. Now that would be interesting! With a quiet sigh, you stand up in the soft sand and shove one hand down your pocket. Grabbing a fistful of coins lying at the bottom, you count them distractedly as you start wandering away from the tavern, the sweltering sunlight warming your skin the moment you step away under the shade. You figure you have just enough to barter a passage away from here, but where would you had off next? A sudden gust of wind blows behind you, from the sea, and your lips quirk into a small grin as the air rushes past you, slightly towards northeast. Anywhere the wind blows, you think wistfully, is good enough for me. And as it were, towards northeast happened to lie a town that might just be full of possibilities on a good day; Tortuga. Your grin widens as you think of the town. Surely you will find some way of acquiring a bit of something to weigh in your pockets, there! And after that… who knew? Maybe you’ll keep on drifting, or perhaps you’ll finally find a Captain who’s looking for new recruits. At any rate, you would at least get chance to visit the Faithful Bride again, if nothing else. With the cooling wind weaving through your hair, you start strolling merrily down towards the harbour to begin your search for transport, eager to feel the rocking of the waves under your soles for a little while again. Little did you know you’d get your chance to meet the elusive Sparrow soon enough… -FIN- * * * * * A/N: Aye, these will likely be less action packed thingies than my other stories, but lean more towards character studies, I'd say. Hope you enjoyed the first installment. And my sincere apologies for those who were hoping for NQG update; I've been madly swamped with other things and general tiredness this week! Chapter 34 is finally in the works as of today, so hopefully I might get it up for the next time. Ta, mates! * * * * * Summary: Mid-CotC, set between Chapter 15 & 16. Marooned on a deserted island with no rescue in sight, the gravity of the situation is inevitably going to sink in for both you and Jack – if even for a moment. Minor angst-warning. “You figured me out, * * * The white sand is warm around your toes, and you sink the digits further in the soft mass that gives away under the weight, surges of tiny grains rushing in to close around your feet like waves of water. Your gaze is drawn to the never-ending horizon of clearest, richest blue, the gentle swells glittering under the bright glare of the sun. Mild wind blows from the sea, and you close your eyes, plunging your world into intentional darkness as you concentrate on the sensation. The breeze dances across your face, fluttering strands of your hair. You can smell it, so familiar, teasing and taunting. You almost taste the salt on your lips. You feel nearly ethereal like this, out of touch with everything except the warm sand beneath your body and the smooth hardness of the neck of the rum bottle you’re gripping loosely in your hand. The wind picks up sudden swiftness, blowing around you wildly for the briefest of moments, and while doing so stirs quiet tinkling noises from beside you, melodious even in their disorder. Exhaling quietly, you open your eyes again slowly, squinting against the harshness of the sunlight after pitch-black nothingness. The glittering sea is still there, stretching far beyond the reaches of your vision in a great, turquoise vastness. Blinking the sting away, you finally sigh softly and turn your gaze away from the sea’s splendour, tilting your head to the side until your peripheral vision catches the familiar form of your companion only a few feet away. The crown of his dark, dreadlock-filled head is pressed against the hard bark of a palm tree behind him, his throat exposed to the cool breeze has he stares vacantly out towards the vast horizon with narrowed eyes. The relaxed way in which he has arranged his limbs to rest before him, in almost carelessly laid-back manner, is not quite enough to hide the tension of his shoulders, nor the tightening of his jaw. Despite all your earlier banter and light-hearted words, the mood has now dipped into sombre and serious as you both come to understand and acknowledge the full weight of the situation. The truth is that things are not looking very good for you, not at all. Jack is as silent as you are, just as lost in his own thoughts as you were a mere moment ago. A rare occurrence, you decide absentmindedly; in the short time you’ve known Jack Sparrow, he has but always had something to say. But not this time. This time, there are no glib words left to make everything all right again, no witty lines to be delivered that would turn the tables. The Black Pearl is gone and all is lost, leaving you, Jack, and Elizabeth stuck on this island with no way out. It’s over. Your throat feels tight and scratchy as you recall the way Jack stood up to his knees in the azure water, staring after his ship as she disappeared from his vision once again. He had been so close already, had felt the very decks of the Pearl under his feet again after ten long years. The tired, almost desperate way he’d hunched his shoulders before straightening once again had twisted at your heart, and you would’ve given a lot to be able to drive away the sadness and despair over the loss of his beloved ship, anger of having her so close, only to be taken away from him again. But you knew there was nothing you could have said or done to help, as much as you would’ve wanted to. And so, you had left things unspoken, biting your lip hard in attempts to keep your own misery at bay. The silence that now hangs over the two of you, you abruptly realize, is almost overwhelmingly heavy, so oppressing – it feels so final. It sends a cold shiver skating up your spine, and gooseflesh fleetingly freckles the skin of your arms despite the warmth of the day. Was this is? Was this island to become the final destination of you all while Will would meet his fate in the hands of Barbossa in that ghastly cave? While his body would lie cold and bloodless upon the jagged rocks, you, Jack and Elizabeth would still be stuck here, starving slowly, withering away in hunger and thirst until anyone of you could no longer spare more strength to fight. The stranded island would keep your corpses like a beautiful tomb, crabs and insects feeding on your dehydrated flesh, while seabirds peck out your sightless eyes... The image turns at your stomach, and you close your eyes and swallow thickly to rid yourself of the queasiness. No. No, that could not be so. If it came down to it, drowning seems to be at least slightly more favourable way to go than the slow agony of starvation. Or dehydration, which ever came first. Drawing in a deep breath, you lean your head back against the palm tree behind you, mimicking Jack’s pose. The sharp edges on the bark dig in your scalp uncomfortably, but you ignore it. You don’t know why, but you suddenly crave Jack’s affirmation for your fate, wanting to hear him say it aloud. Perhaps some small part of your still keeps the faith, holding onto the tiny glimmer of hope that there might still be a way out. Perhaps some small part of you is in awe of the man sitting so silently next to you, wanting to believe all those stories ever told of him and his amazing adventures; he’s Captain Jack Sparrow, after all! Shouldn’t he be able to work something out, if anyone? Perhaps you just want to cease this unbearable silence and hear him say something to you, anything at all. Perhaps you only wanted to do something to banish that heart wrenching desolation from his eyes, if even for a short moment. Perhaps, perhaps... Wetting your dry lips, you roll the words around in your mind, trying to find the most appropriate ones. After a moment, you give up with a quiet sigh, deciding there is no use sugar coating such a question. It has to be said as it is. “Jack?” you begin softly, your voice slightly hoarse from the lack of use. You keep your eyes on the gently stirring horizon as you go on, “Do you think we’re going to die here?” Now that the question is out in the air, you wonder how exactly you wish Jack to answer it. One part of you want to hear his boastfully confident voice reassuring you that you would certainly not going to die on this bloody island as long as he had something to say about the matter. And the other part just needed to hear the truth, in all its brutality. You want veracity from him, as much in this as in everything else. The thought prompts you to speak up quietly once again, before Jack gets to respond, “Tell me the truth, Jack…” After a few long moments, you hear Jack heave a weary sigh. Yet, he says nothing. You tilt your head to the side, glancing at him. He has closed his eyes, and you catch him swallowing, your eyes following the movements of his throat as he does so. Jack’s voice is soft and artless as finally speaks up, “It’s very probable, yes.” You nod your head in acceptance although Jack cannot see it, your throat feeling tight again. Just as you had thought. A distinctive feeling of failure nags in the back of your mind. For three years, you had searched for the man who was responsible for killing your father and his crew. And now that you’d finally found him, being no other than Captain Barbossa, this is how your story ends – being marooned by the very same man that killed your father. The bitter sense of irony is not lost to you. “And yet…” You’re slightly surprised as Jack speaks up again, his voice drawing your gaze to meet his. However, Jack still has his eyes closed. He looks so tired, all the sudden. “If I were to find anything positive about this…” he pauses, drawing in a small breath. “It’s the fact that at least I’m not alone this time. Of that, I admit I’m… thankful. As poor a situation as this is to be in,” he adds with a touch of irony. Curiously, the admission makes your eyes sting from tears. Quickly blinking them away, you let your gaze to travel down on the ground where his left hands lies upon the soft sand, palm upwards. Tentatively, you reach your own hand out, but pause your movement before actually touching him. Your hand hovers above his as you wonder how would he react to your gesture, whether he would appreciate or welcome such a thing. Finally, you make up your mind and allow your palm to press against his, still ready to pull away. To your surprise, Jack doesn’t shun your touch. On the contrary; he grabs your hand in his tightly, curling his fingers around yours in silent encouragement – whether to encourage you or himself, you aren’t certain. Perhaps both, as it seems you both need it. As you sit here like this, holding one another’s hand, quietly lending strength to each other, a small smile graces your lips for the first time in many minutes. Jack’s thumb strokes the back of your hand gently, and you can’t help but to smile a little wider. You raise your brows, some of your old levity starting to return to you as you tilt your head to the side again, looking at Jack. You notice that he’s watching you between half-closed eyes, beginnings of the familiar smirk playing about the corner of his mouth as he meets your gaze. “Why so glum, luv?” he murmurs with mirth in his tone, eyes sparkling. “What if I tell you a story to lift your spirits a little, hm?” You smile back. “One about those famous exploits of yours, I presume?” “Of course. They’re the only ones worth telling,” Jack replies with a knowing smirk. You laugh quietly at that, scrutinizing Jack with your gaze for a brief moment before answering. “Very well, then. Tell me a story. Better make it a good one, too!” “As if I have any other kind. Be quiet now and listen, luv, you may learn something…” -FIN- * * * * * A/N: Well, didn’t take me long to bring Jack into this, huh? *rolls eyes* This was a spur of a moment-thing; I wanted to write some angsty stuff and the idea just came to me, all set, and I simply had to write it down. I tell you, CotC would be a lot more in-depth if I was given a chance to write it all over again now. Oh well. Hope you liked this, I certainly did. More drabbles coming up later... |