A Pirate's Life for Me

Ficlet - In Search of Twice-Told Tales (2/?)

Sat, 13 Mar 2010 14:48:49 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: In Search of Twice-Told Tales
Rating: G
Characters: Jack, Gibbs
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Summary: Jack goes in search of the Black Pearl. A prequel of sorts to CotBP.

A/N: A special thank you to danglingdingle, for beta and much, much more. Thanks, darling.

Chapter 1

****

In Search of Twice-Told Tales

Chapter 2

Sounds of distant years
form vibrations in my ears.
They bring echoes from life behind
and impress memories in my mind.

~ Sam Oliver

****

For nigh on ten years he’d been searching for her, from island to island, to no avail. Elusive, as well as deadly, accounts of the Black Pearl dominated the talk in the many waterfront taverns, blood-curdling tales recounted in fearful whispers. A town sacked in Barbados. A village ravished in Antigua. A port viciously burned down to ashes in Hairouna. Ghastly accounts of a ghostly ship and a cursed crew, skeletal apparitions who gave no quarter. And at each port, Jack Sparrow sat and listened, patiently sifting through the stories for kernels of truth.

It was in one of these taverns that he’d signed onto the Bonita. Following a trail over three weeks old, Jack had gone to Port-de-Paix, after overhearing a conversation on the docks of Petit-Goâve the previous week. The reason he had gone there was based on information picked up at a whorehouse in La Vega. So far, all leads had proven to be cold, dead ends. He was hoping his luck would change, this time. If there was to be news of a particular ship in these waters, Jack Sparrow hoped it might be in the many missives left behind on Dispatch Island.

Dispatch Island was not much more than a spit of sand, some two miles in length by one mile in breadth at its widest part, rising to the height of fifteen or so feet above sea level at its center. It was practically devoid of vegetation, with the exception of a few scraggly bushes, under which, at the highest point of the island, there lay a rough shed of sorts, built in some by-gone day by some long-forgotten sailor, inside of which stood a large seaman's chest.

It was inside this chest that shipmasters would deposit letters announcing their safe passage thus far on their voyage, and other news, for the next shipmaster that visited to read. They in turn would leave another to be read by those who came after him and so forth. This information would then be carried to whatever port the latest shipmaster was bound, and either published or conveyed to whomsoever might be having an interest in the welfare of the vessel whose safe passage was announced. Crude, but immensely effective.

Landing their boat on the island, the men sunk to their knees in the fine gravel, toiling twenty yards or more before the sand was firm enough to bear their weight. The captain, along with his quartermaster and navigator, made their way inland, leaving several men behind to mind the boat. They made their way to the center of the island, entered the crude shed, and opened the weathered sea chest inside.

Jack found the contents of the chest to be rather disappointing. There were but a few letters of recent date, and their contents were all very similar; simply statements that at such a date, such a ship, whose name was mentioned, together with the name of her roaster, that of the port whence she had sailed, and of the port to which she was bound, had passed safely through the Strait, along with a request that any shipmaster who might at an early period visit the island, would report at the first port at which such shipmaster might subsequently touch – for the benefit of those concerned – the safe passage of the vessel thus far on her voyage. Nothing more.

“You brought your letter, Cap’n?” Gibbs asked, shuffling through the moldering missives, the salt damp air having rendered all but the most recent items mildewed and indecipherable, the older ones crumbling at their touch.

Captain Bradford nodded, taking a folded sheet of parchment from his coat pocket, and handing it to Gibbs who deposited it in the chest, along with the other letters which they had been interpreting. “Well, there is nothing much to be learned here, best be making sail if we are to reach Barbados by Tuesday.”

The two men exited the shed ahead of Jack, who gave another cursory glance around, utterly deflated at the lack of news. To his surprise however, as he turned to leave, Jack spied a letter lying on the ground, from whose condition appeared to be very recently deposited. It must have fallen there when they’d removed the letters they had read from the chest. He stooped to pick it up, and squinted at it quickly before slipping it into his pocket, trying to contain his excitement as he joined the others on the beach.

Later that day, while most of the crew were at mess, Jack found a quiet corner in the shadow of the forecastle to study the dispatch more closely. It was dated but four days back, and its contents were as follows:

'Barque Georgina, of and from New Salem, bound to Barbados – Charles Hadsall, Master.

To the Commander of any ship of war, and to the Masters of such merchant-vessels as may touch at this island.

I hereby certify that the barque Georgina, under my command, completed the passage through Deadman’s Strait at five P.M. on the 6th. Weather soon afterwards fell calm, and remained so through the night. At daybreak on the 7th, weather still calm with clouds rising, and other signs of a breeze from the westward. Shore still in sight, distant about three leagues. At eight A.M. sighted a vessel close under the land, likewise two vessels visible from aloft, rising from the westward. By aid of spy-glass, discovered vessel under the land to be a large three-masted black ship, bearing down towards us by means of her sweeps. Immediately made preparations to defend ourselves, though with scant hope of success – crew numbering but fifteen hands all told, and the only firearms on board being a few old muskets. Men determined to stand by me to the last. Resolved to sink the ship rather than let her fall into the hands of the pirates, who, we knew, would in such case murder every soul on board.

Ten A.M. Ship less than a league distant; could see, through spy-glass, that her deck was crowded with men. Ships now visible from the deck, steering east-by-north, evidently coming up before a spanking breeze. Soon felt the breeze ourselves. Hoisted signal of distress (ensign union down), and steered a nor'-nor'-west course, in the hope of intercepting ships before pirate could come up with us.

Ten-thirty A.M. Pirate scarcely a mile distant; shipped her sweeps, and gave chase under sail. In the course of half an hour – probably sighting the ships not previously visible from her position – pirate gave up the chase, wore round, and made for the land before the breeze.

Ships rapidly neared us, and perceiving our signal of distress, changed their course, and bore down to us, and by eleven-thirty were within hail. Proved to be the Bombay Castle, an English East Indiaman, and the Netherlander, an armed Dutch trader, bound to Barbados, our own destined port. Went on board the English ship, and reported what had occurred. Dutch captain followed in his own boat; and on being informed of the vicinity of the pirate, promised to keep company with the Georgina to Barbados. English ship parted company, and pursued her voyage to Jamaica. DispatchIsland in sight, a league to leeward. Run down to it; and having written this letter, the Dutch captain and I shall land, and deposit the letter in the chest.

The pirate is a galleon, painted black, with three tall masts, and black sails. She is very fast under canvas, and carries six long sweeps on each side, for use in calm weather. I judge that she has at least a hundred men on board ; and there can be no doubt that she has ventured so far beyond her customary cruising-ground for the purpose of waylaying vessels coming through the Strait, or bound northward to ports in the West Indies. But for the opportune appearance of the two Indiamen, my crew and I would assuredly have fallen victims to the bloodthirsty miscreants on board of her. I advise all shipmasters to give the pirate a wide berth, if possible. (Signed) Chas. Hadsall.'

“The Pearl!” Jack breathed, after he finished reading the letter. Not four days previous, and in these very waters. Could his luck be changing…finally?

****

Tribble - Easter is Upon Us

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 18:57:18 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Easter is Upon Us
Rating: G
Characters: Pintel, Ragetti
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 300
Prompt: Lamb at blackpearlsails

Summary: Pintel and Ragetti, Easter traditions and Tortuga.

A/N: Special thanks to my darling danglingdingle, for the quick once over.

****

“Now where we s’pposed to find a bloomin’ lamb on this god forsaken island?” Pintel kicked the ground with a scowl, not at all happy to be once again relegated to cook’s apprentice. “I say we just grab us a couple chickens and be done with it.”

Ragetti shook his head and crossed his arms, face solemn. “Pierre was most adamant, it has t’ be a lamb.” He sniffed and added. “It’s traditional at Easter, you know.”

“Well, I ain’t traditional,” Pintel retorted with a huff. “I don’t see why we need t’ be bothering with Easter anyways. Not like we go to church or nuttin’.”

“People been celebrating Easter long before they turned god fearin’,” Ragetti explained. “In times of antiquity, the Saxons worshiped the great Goddess Eostre, the ancient Teutonic dawn goddess of fertility.”

“What does any of this have t’ do with eatin’ a bloody lamb?”

“I’m supposin’ that comes from the first Passover of the Jewish people. The sacrificial lamb was roasted and eaten, along with unleavened bread and bitter herbs in hopes the angel of God would pass over their homes and bring no harm.”

Pintel looked around the grimy street and sagging buildings of Tortuga and chuckled. “Looks like that angel of God’s already been reeking havoc.”

“Wreaking,” Ragetti corrected. “Wreaking havoc.”

“Reeking, wrecking, it’s all the same in this bloody town.”

“Besides, the angel of Death were looking for the first borns.”

Pintel, who had been staring gloomily down the street, suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“Goats, that’s what. This town’s full of ‘em.” Pintel folded his arms and rocking on his heels, a smug smile on his face.

“How’s that gonna help anything?” Ragetti asked, puzzled.

“It’s simple. Instead of leading a lamb to the bloody slaughter, we’ll sacrifice a kid!”

****

Ad Infinitum - Chapter 15: Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 22:20:08 GMT

Written by: mamazano and danglingdingle
Title:Ad Infinitum

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Jack, Will, Gibbs. Elizabeth referenced
Pairings: Unrequited J/W, canon W/E

Disclaimer: Disney owns them, we just like ~~playing with~~ torturing them.
Warnings: Character death, disturbing imagery

Summary: Time has finally run out for the Pirates of the Caribbean. Or has it...

Note: This is an AU inspired by a wonderful drabble by cersia5 , entitled No More Heroes, which can be found here.

Previous chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 , 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Abyssus Abyssum Invocat

---

Sitting on a cot in the upstairs of the Painted Lady, Will could swear Jack was shaken, the way he leaned on the door he’d just burst through, taking long gulps out of the bottle he’d somehow acquired since Will’s departure.

With a long sigh, Jack lowered the bottle, and stayed put, staring into the distance, seemingly in deep thought.

“What are we going to do?” Will’s patience broke after a minute’s nervous silence.

“Huh?” Looked like Jack had forgotten his whereabouts, Will’s inquiry startling him so.

“I asked; what are we going to do?”

“Sleep,” Jack smiled, dropping himself on the other cot in the room, dangling his bottle over the edge, crossing his booted legs as he laid down, his hat falling over his eyes. “There isn’t much we can do without a vessel, now that we’ve drowned the Pearl,” he quipped pointedly.

“I mean after we get a boat? Where are we to head?” Will gathered himself cross-legged, leaning forth on his hands, obviously tired, and not only of games.

Jack tipped his hat off his eyes with the bottle, and squinted at Will, “Well, I figured the best place to start would be Port Royal. Pip knows his way around the cemetery, so he'll come in handy. Besides, I haven't had a chance to thank him yet.”

“Pip?” Will was dumfound.

“Percy,” Jack offered happily, continuing at Will’s expectant brow; “Or, Percival, if you like. My cousin. Teague's boy. His only boy. Good man, though a bit on the religious side. You two will get along fine, I’m sure.” Jack handed the bottle to Will’s direction, who took it eagerly, waiting for Jack to continue.

“He's got marvelous insight about burial rites and rituals of all sorts, so with any luck, we'll get this sorted at the first go. Helped me to get me mom buried properly too.”

Will’s already risen intrigue kicked up a notch. “What is he, another one of those Vodoun priests mumbling strange incantations? I think I’ve had enough of them.”

“You could say that.” Jack shrugged the question away. “You’ll see.”

“Of course.” Will thrust the rum back at Jack, his mood lowering, encrusted with annoyance toward the futility of every which one of their actions thus far. They were practically where they’d started, with Elizabeth still dead, her soul wandering God knows where, and here they lay, useless, drinking rum.

Noticing the change in Will’s appearance, Jack found it in himself to explain perhaps a little further. “He's the vicar of the old church of Port Royal, the same I'd imagine you went to. Perhaps you--” Jack started up, studying Will for a moment. “…No, you couldn't have met him. He only was appointed there some eight years ago.”

Even more deeply puzzled, if possible, Will straightened himself and tried to relax, mind still searching answers to his unuttered questions. “Your cousin, the only son of the Keeper of the Code, is the vicar of the old church?”

“Aye,” Jack grinned. “Funny ol' world, innit?”

---

Will must’ve had fallen asleep, exhausted that he was, emotionally as well as physically, since he was dreaming of not dreaming of what he was dreaming about.

His unconscious mind traveled to times that could have been, the blurry face of a boy, his son, alight with a beautiful smile as he watched on the shore his father’s approach on the Flying Dutchman.

The boy’s mother, so proud, her hand in their son’s, and Will could once again feel the hollow in his chest, weighing heavier than ever before, when the realization hit that he could not feel a thing… Nothing--

“Wake up, William!”

Will shot up in the bed, his head almost clashing with Jack’s, who’d leaned to check on the man sobbing in his dreamed agony.

The awkward feel of his heart thumping in his throat, Will greedily snatched the tankard of wine from Jack’s hands and drank deep, his only purpose in swallowing down the bile that had risen, the sense of helplessness that still lingered around him.

“You all right Will? How’s the thump-thump?”

“Oh, God…It‘s not there!” Disoriented, Will could only draw a line between his dream and the reality, utterly confusing Jack, who sat down beside Will, wrapping a supporting arm around his shoulders.

“Will, listen to me; Are you fine? You’re not going to die, are you?”

“No! No.” Pacified by the rum and the physicality of Jack, something real and tangible to experience, the understanding arose that Jack was referring to Will’s magical heartbeat and was worried.

“Your concern is heartwarming, Jack.”

With a chuckle, Jack clapped Will on the shoulder and stood up again. “For a moment there I thought I’d lost you, or at least you’d lost your mind. Glad to see that is not being the case.”

“It was just a dream, Jack, only a bad dream. I’m fine.” And yet, Will’s hands were still trembling so that the wine threatened to slosh on the floor.

“I had Giselle arrange us something to eat. You look like you could use some of this.” Jack reached to the table where a serving of bread and cheese and a pitcher of Pierre’s better wine waited to be consumed.

Getting up, Will floundered, unsteady on his feet despite his determination to forget, when the remnants of the dream played in the back of his head, turning the beautiful faces of his beloveds into that of a rotten corpse, the figure of the boy vanishing into thin air.

“You look like you could use some fresh air.”

Secretly, Will appreciated Jack’s tact; that instead of blurting out the inquisition he so obviously wanted to begin, he only steered Will towards the latch leading to the roof.

----

The two men sat directly under the stars of Tortuga, their feast in between them, albeit the air not being much to raise an appetite, the men ravenous nonetheless.

“Percival,” Will started between mouthfuls. “You’ve never mentioned him. Teague, then, is it?”

“No,” Jack tore another piece from the loaf, stuffing his face and mumbling, “Never been a reason to. Birfwoof. Name comes from his mother. Something about his old man being a pirate and a killer and a scoundrel and not at all suitable to be the sire of a reverend.”

“Birdwood!” Staring at Jack in astonishment, Will tried to quickly get the pieces together. “But Gibbs was-”

Jack raised a toast, excited, “And what a short notice it was too, never seen a man whip a horse into such a lather for another man’s immortal soul.”

“You mean to say this is the same man who was at the… hanging?”

“Well I couldn’t bloody well be there meself, now could I?”

Fed, calmed, cheeks rosy from the wine and bad dreams afar, Will laid on his side, preparing to listen the tale that was about to fill the proliferous air. “What, exactly, happened?”

“Well,” Jack mirrored Will, cradling his tankard. “Let me tell you. What came about was…”

And Will closed his eyes and smiled.

---

Ficlet - In Search of Twice-Told Tales (1/?)

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 23:53:35 GMT

Written by: mamazano

In Search of Twice-Told Tales

The Spirit wails and wails
in search of twice-told tales
filling empty spaces with similarity
of a past life seen with clarity.

~ Sam Oliver

****

Jack Sparrow, perched high on the fore-topsail yard, scanned the clear transparent waters of the strait; from his height he could distinctly discern the sandy bottom, with its numerous, torturous channels, varying from scarcely a fathom to many fathoms deep beneath the surface. The helmsman, following Jack’s relayed signals and signs, guided the ship with utmost care, the islands and sandbanks not being the only perils in sailing through this particular passage. The natives, who inhabited the larger volcanic islands, were the most savage and brutal in all the Caribbean, and woe betide the unfortunate mariner whose vessel ran ashore in these waters.

The captain of the small merchant vessel, on which Jack had signed onto just three weeks previously, stood on the forecastle, keeping a keen eye through his spyglass on the shore, which, in many places, was covered with dense forest down to the beach. Not a single native or even a solitary hut had been sighted, although the islands themselves were known to be densely populated. And it was not just the natives one needed to fear in these treacherous waters. For the many hidden coves and inlets of the outer islands were home to another type of savage – pirates.

So full of peril was the strait, it was customary for masters of merchant-ships to wait until two or more vessels could make the passage in company, so if a mishap might befall one vessel, the other might be at hand to protect her from the attacks of the savages. It was also the custom among shipmasters that made the journey, to leave a letter at a small island situated beyond the straits, to acquaint those who might follow after them, that they had made the passage in safety.

Jack Sparrow was well acquainted with both the passage and with pirates. This latter fact he had failed to mention to the ship’s quartermaster when he’d signed on in Barbados. An ex-Navy marine, Jack soon found Joshamee Gibbs to be a fair quartermaster with a fondness for drink and the ladies; an honest sailor and a good man. He’d asked Jack a few questions upon signing and assigned him as topman after sending him aloft the first time, stating he’d never seen a man climb as well as a monkey until that day.

During the course of the voyage, Jack Sparrow soon drew the favor of the Captain, who found Sparrow’s cartography skills and knowledge of local waters invaluable, conferring with him on several occasions over his charts and a bottle of brandy. A Bristol man, he preferred the cooler climates of the British Isles to the sultry, tempestuous weather of the Caribbean. Jack, practically a native in Captain Bradford’s eyes, proved not only an excellent sailor and navigator, but his knowledge of local weather would prove to be uncanny in accuracy on more than one occasion.

So it was that on the last morning of their passage, after studying a small, white, fluffy cloud rising over the land, Jack had made his way aft to where the captain was pacing the quarter-deck of the small vessel. Touching his hat he’d said, “If I might be allowed to interject my personal opinion, I’m not liking the looks of that cloud. Appears to have some wind in it, might bring a squall upon us unawares.”

The captain had turned and squinted at the cloud, which was not particularly threatening in appearance, except that it was rising rapidly from to leeward and spreading swiftly as it rose.

“Oh I don’t know, Sparrow. I’m thinking we’re prepared for pretty much anything,” the Captain had replied, glancing up at the scant sail that was spread. “Wouldn’t you say, Mister Gibbs?”

The grizzled sailor studied the cloud for some moments before answering. “I’m going t’ have t’ agree with Jack, here,” Gibbs had said. “I’m not one to be offering my advice when it’s not asked for, but them as has never experienced none o' these squalls, ain't got no idea of their nature. If 'twere left to me, sir, I’d brail up the spanker and take in the foresail.”

The captain laughed. “And put the ship under bare masts. Nevertheless, do as you see fit, Gibbs.”

Gibbs began barking out orders and Jack went forward to help the men furl the foresail. By the time the tasks were completed, the wind had died down to a calm before suddenly shifting to leeward. Without warning, a strong gust of wind blew up with terrific force, shoving the ship towards the sandy shoals, where she stuck fast upon the bar. Torrential rain pelted the crew as the sea churned and foamed around them. Then, scarcely five minutes after it had blown up, the squall passed, leaving as quickly as it had arrived.

The crew scrambled to assess the damage to the ship. Outside of being firmly stuck on a sandbar, the ship had suffered little to no damage. The next order of the day was to quickly find a way to get the ship back afloat before the local natives discovered their predicament.

Fortunately, the tide was rising and with some digging in the soft sand around her bow, the ship could soon be afloat once again. Unfortunately, in the time that it was taking to refloat her, word had been spread from village to village and, amassed on the far shore, were what appeared to be every male of the local native population, armed with clubs and spears, their intentions anything but friendly.

There was no time to be lost. The natives on the opposite shore were launching small canoes from the beach, and in five minutes hundreds of savages, eager for plunder, would be surrounding the ship and crowding her decks. The two boat-guns had been loaded with grape-shot and canister, in anticipation of just such an emergency. One of the boat-guns was brought to bear upon the advancing canoes. Captain Bradford, not wishing to spill blood unless absolutely necessary, ordered the old gunner's mate to fire above their heads.

The warning shot did its work, the natives dispersing with shouts and cries, their easy prey no longer such a helpless target. Thus, fortunately delivered from the peril that had threatened them, the crew resumed their efforts to get the ship afloat again. By that time though, it was too late to continue their passage that night. The night-watch was therefore set, and a sharper watch than usual was kept throughout the hours of darkness. Nothing, however, occurred to cause alarm, and the day dawned clear and bright with ne’er a soul in sight upon the shore. They weighed anchor as soon as possible and by midday were once again in comparatively open water.

“Now on to Dispatch Island,” Gibbs had announced later that evening after mess.

Jack, leaning back in his chair, picked at his nails as he asked nonchalantly, “The Captain knows the bearings?”

“West-nor'-west, half-west, about sixty miles distant,” Gibbs replied.

“I’ve heard it lies so low a vessel may easily run past it in broad daylight.”

“Aye, and mostly underwater for the greater part of the day.”

The Captain had taken the bearing proper, though, and the next day found the entire crew on lookout for the small spit of land. About midday, one of the lads that had been sent aloft called out; “Land ahead! On the starboard bow!” The island first appeared a faint yellow streak upon the water, and as they drew closer, they could discern a darker object, what they knew to be the Dispatch Center, in the middle of the island.

A boat was lowered as they drew closer and several of them went ashore. Jack Sparrow did his best to hide his excitement, for this was the true reason behind him taking a berth on this particular ship. If there was to be any word of the Black Pearl being in these waters, the Dispatch Center would surely have news.

****

On to Chapter 2

In case anyone wonders where I've been...

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 15:52:20 GMT

Meet Chester.

A new puppy is a handful, which makes doing anything next to impossible, including writing. I am hoping he will soon settle into our lives and I will find time to do more than random snatches of reading or writing.

He is cute though.

Drabble - Merry Sous... Chef

Sat, 27 Feb 2010 14:03:06 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Merry Sous ... Chef
Rating: G
Characters: Jack/Will
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 100
Prompt: Market at blackpearlsails

A/N: A sequel to frutti di mare, again, set in a modern AU.

****

“Jack, you need to move.”

“I want to help.”

“I don’t need help. But I do need you to move before you get burned.”

“I could chop. I’m good with a blade. I could be one of those, what did Pierre call them? Sue chefs?”

“Sous.”

“I knew that.”

“Well, if you insist on being underfoot, here, you can clean the squid.”

“The tiny Krakens, with their tiny tentacles.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Whut?”

“We could’ve left them out, used something else.”

“And be bereft of the joy of this?”

“Jack! You are not thinking of… that tickles!”

“That’s tentacles.”

****

Tribble - Frutti di Mare

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 17:08:34 GMT

Written by: mamazano and danglingdingle

Title: Frutti di Mare
Rating: G
Characters: Jack/Will
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 300
Prompt: Market at blackpearlsails

A/N: A lighthearted use of the prompt, set in a modern AU. Special thanks to danglingdingle, who, to my delight, added her special seasoning to the mix. Welcome home!

****

“Do we have everything?” Peering into the cart, Will ticked the items off on his fingers. “Tomatoes, fresh basil, lemons, crusty bread…”

“Prawns, mussels, here,” Jack said with a flourish as he plopped the white paper bundles in the cart. “Calamari,” Jack double-checked, just in case the little squids were there by mistake.

“That’s about it then,” Will started to wheel the cart towards the supermarket’s checkout lanes, but stopped abruptly, earning Jack bumping into him, as he was occupied with admiring the scenery right behind Will.

“Pasta!” Will snapped his fingers, “I knew you were forgetting something, Jack.”

“Me?” Jack took a step back, eyes wide, hands to his heart, feigning indignancy the very best he could muster at the sight of Will‘s gleeful grin. “I am personally responsible only of what comes after the main course, Mr. Turner. This, luscious… food escapade of yours is entirely your territory. Not mine. Thus, I am not obliged to remember even my own name.”

“Well, we can’t very well make Pasta allo Scoglio, without the pasta,” Will started heading towards the pasta aisle, which only resulted in both the men staring dumbly at the assortment of types available; “It’s a virtual anatomy class,” Jack said incredulously, picking up a packet.

“That it is,” Will nodded, holding up another.

“Mostaccioli,*” Jack pronounced with an unconvincing accent, twisting his moustache between his fingers. “And orecchiette*, would you believe your little ears, darling? Elbows, for God’s sake, and angel’s hair, and of course, my favourite, linguine.*”

But the one they eventually both agreed on was not on the shelf, but in the refrigerated section in the back.

Fresh tagliatelle. Or as Jack insisted, Tentacles, al dente.

Later in the evening, after a sumptuous dinner, came Jack‘s little, yet delicious part; cream filled tubes.

Cannoli.

****

(*1 little moustaches, *2 little ears, *3 little tongues.)

.

Drabble - Rummy

Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:52:18 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Rummy
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack/Will
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 100
Prompt: Beaten at potc100

A/N: A lighthearted use of the prompt, set in a modern AU.

rum·my 1 n. A card game.
rum·my 2 n. Slang. A drunkard.
rum·my 3 adj. Chiefly British. Odd, strange, or dangerous; rum.

****

“Ha! Beat you…again!”

“You don’t have to crow, Jack. It’s not like you beat me every game.”

“William! I beg to differ. I’ve beaten you twenty games straight. Admit it.”

“Twenty games of Rummy. It’s just a card game.”

“With an excellent name, I might point out.”

“If there’s to be a Rummy king, it might as well be you.”

“Ta.”

“Now Poker, that’s another story.”

“All evidence to the contrary, love. If memory serves, I beat the pants off you last time.”

“We were playing strip poker.”

“I still beat you.”

“I let you win.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine. Deal.”

****

Tribble - Outing

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 23:06:15 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Outing
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack/Will, Elizabeth, Weatherby referenced
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 300
Prompts: Unfailing and Closet

Summary: A continuation of the delightful Uncloseting by danglingdingle.Welcome home, luv!

****

“Welcome, love. S’not so bad in here, see?”

The darkness did not cloak the smirk in Jack’s voice.

“How long do you think we need to stay here?” Will whispered, shifting slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the crowded closet.

Will detected a mischievous gleam in Jack’s eyes, as his eyes grew accustom to the gloom.

“Hard to say for sure. Elizabeth has that unfailing, womanly trait of being tenacious. Might have to stay all night,”

“All night? Jack! We can’t spend the night in the closet!”

“I'm sure we could manage, look at all this leg room, darling, enough to take you to a dance!”

“I'd scarcely like to dance all night, Jack. Standing up, particularly.”

“William, you’re absolutely right. It’s high time we came out of the closet.”

“But what about Elizabeth? And her father…” Will’s worried whisper was silenced with Jack’s lips, rendering him speechless in several ways.

“Jack? Will?” Elizabeth’s voice sounded outside the door.

“Mmmm,” the men responded, muffled by both the clothes hanging over their heads and their lips pressed decisively together.

“I know you’re in there,” Elizabeth continued. “Father is waiting for us.” The light from the room beyond darkened as she bent to peer through the keyhole. She rattled the door knob, finding it locked. “Unlock the door, please?”

She heard a low murmur and a snirtle, followed by an almost inaudible sigh, another smoky whisper which sounded like a promise, and then, a fumbling sound, before a click announced her request was granted. Elizabeth pulled open the door, spilling golden light upon the occupants within.

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at Will, whose disheveled hair and reddened mouth told her all.

Jack smile was smug and thoroughly satisfied. He silenced Elizabeth’s indignant protests with one word.

“Parley?”

****

Tribble - Doppelganger

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 14:07:42 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Doppelganger
Rating: G
Characters: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 300

Summary: Jack finds a familiar face on the way home.

Set in the same general world of The Unwritten History , Truth Be Told, Twitterpated , and Word Spar .

A/N: For my darling dingle, for when she gets home.

****

“You found a puppy?”

Will raised one brow at the scraggly bundle of wiry fur tucked inside Jack’s coat. Two coal black eyes peered out from under a brow that seemed familiar…

“I couldn’t just leave him there in the cold, could I?”

“I suppose not,” Will said slowly. “He would have frozen out there tonight.”

Jack scratched the pup’s head and was rewarded with a nip from sharp teeth.

“Feisty little bugger, aren’t you?” Jack said with a crooked grin. “Remind me of someone too, just can’t quite place it…”

“Gibbs!” Will said, triumphantly, snapping his fingers.

Jack studied the small creature closely. “Aye, uncanny resemblance.”

He set the stocky terrier down on the hearth rug, where he curled up next to the blazing fire and fell asleep.

“Taking after his namesake, I see.” Jack said, joining Will on the sofa. “I was told they make good ratters.”

“Told?” Will turned to where he could look Jack in the eye. “You said you found him.”

“Well, I did. Sort of. In a way.” Jack grinned. “Found him in a box with five others, sign said ‘free’.”

“Jack! We don’t need a puppy. We’re barely here as it is.” Will sighed. “And besides, what are you going to do with him when you sail?”

“Ol’ Gibbs there will make an excellent sailor. You wait.”

The puppy woke and yawned widely before coming over to them. Putting his paws on the sofa, he wagged his tail hopefully.

“He’s cute, I’ll give him that.” Will said with a smile.

“Then we have an accord?” Jack nuzzled Will’s neck only to find a furry face instead. He set the puppy on the floor and waggled a stern finger at it. “You seem to have inherited your namesake’s impeccable timing as well. Now shoo!”

****

Drabble and a half - Stuck (for the Relief prompt)

Sun, 24 Jan 2010 03:06:33 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Stuck
Rating: G
Characters: Will Turner, Jack Sparrow
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 150
Prompt: Relief at blackpearlsails

A/N: Special thanks go out to my darling danglingdingle for beta and suggetions.

****

“Anybody?”

A cold foreboding crept over him, as Will’s cries went unheeded. Something was dreadfully wrong, had to be. He glanced once more at the Black Pearl, tossed carelessly on shore like a child’s forgotten toy. Jack would never have abandoned her thus, not willingly.

A familiar item caught his eye, incongruous with the surrounding primitive jungle.

“Gibbs!”

Will followed the line that snaked through the thicket, until…

…

Awakening from his drug-induced slumber, Will set eyes on the one person he had hoped, nay, prayed was still alive.

“Jack!”

Relief swept over him, along with the realization that Jack held power once more over his fate, as he had in the caves, when Barbossa would have sacrificed him to the heathen gods.

And once again, Jack was thrust into a position of delicacy, playing his role to perfection... If it weren't for his eyes revealing his quiet desperation.

“Save me!”

****

Double Drabble - Braggart

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 16:04:50 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: But You Have Heard of Me
Rating: G
Characters: Joshamee Gibbs. Jack Sparrow referenced.
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 200
Prompt: Braggart at blackpearlsails

****

Joshamee Gibbs did not think himself a braggart. He was more of what you might call an embellisher, a teller of tales, a weaver of words. Could he help that the subject of most of his more colorful stories was the epitome of that same word?

Captain Jack Sparrow.

Ah! The tales that could be told about him. And tell them, he did. In shadowy corners of seaside inns, Gibbs conjured his tales, his audience thirsty for adventures of mystery and magic.

At first, Gibbs simply found the stories would buy him another round, or the attentions of a pretty lass. Spinning his tales in the many taverns around Tortuga, the legend of Jack Sparrow grew with each tankard lifted in his name. Fact and fancy blurred with every word, until even Gibbs himself was unsure whether the events had actually happened.

Skeleton pirates. Fish people. Sea monsters. Pirate lore, born of the sea.

It was only later, when drink and dark of night overcame him, that Gibbs realized why he had to tell the tales. It wasn’t the rum, or the wenches. No. It was much more than that.

Joshamee Gibbs told his tales so as not to forget.

****

Ficlet - The Unwritten History, Rewritten

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 00:41:34 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: The Unwritten History, Rewritten
Rating: G
Characters: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Summary: Jack takes temporary employment at the Museum of History as a tour guide to their latest exhibit.

A sequel The Unwritten History , and in the same general world of Truth Be Told, Twitterpated , and Word Spar .

A/N: Much thanks to my darling dingle, for once again keeping me sane.

****

No British cultural project would be complete without an accompanying scandal. After all, the British Museum itself was founded on the collection of Sir Hans Sloane, who died in 1753, and the scandalously conducted lottery launched that same year to pay for it. And one cannot forget the notorious cleaning of the Elgin marbles, those famous sculptures of the Parthenon, in 1938. That particular scandal made it all the way to Parliament. Or the Crystal Skull, supposedly an Aztec symbol of death, bought in 1897, and one of the most famous fakes acquired by the British Museum, when more recent analysis showed it had been cut and polished with a 19^th century rotating wheel.

Not to mention the first Archaeopteryx fossil, not yet disproved, but which a disreputable black market dealer tried to sell to the British Museum for an extortionate price. When the Museum balked at the high price, the notorious paleontologist Richard Owen embezzled the money from the Museum's funds, and bought it anyway, and then blamed the deal on a hapless assistant, who had been stupid enough to sign all letters to the dealer with his own name.

Oh yes, the Museum was not without egg on its face. Remember the famous “Piltdown Man”? British paleontologists championed the 1912 find, (that Britain was the cradle of humankind was almost too good to be true!), even though the French and American scientific communities remained skeptical. It wasn’t until 1953, upon re-examination, that it was found to be a fake.

So, it was certainly understandable that the Museum’s Board of Directors were cautious about touting the marvels of their newest acquirement, a rum loving, apparently ageless artifact from the past, a Maritime Marvel, as one newspaper peddled, a Salty Breath of Fresh Air, another. An Authentic Relic of a Bygone Age, a third. The fact of the matter was, they were unsure exactly WHAT to make of the infamous sea captain, who single-handedly had put the Museum’s operating budget in the black for the first time in almost a century.

If one were to ask the man himself, he would have laughed at the irony of it. After all, he had never purported to be anything than what he was, a part-time tour guide and self proclaimed bibliophile, whose extensive knowledge of the Age of Sail, among other things, could be attributed to his many hours spent in the Museum’s Reading Room. The fact that his “facts” seemed to be more first-hand experience than book learned was what had sparked the current air of suspicion in the Museum’s Board Room.

“He is a leading expert in the field of Marine Archeology, and came highly recommended,” Mr. Bailey offered in defense of the good Captain.

“He’s a con artist,” Sir Henry Bumpkins had snorted, looking down his long nose through his glasses. “An uneducated, itinerant treasure seeker. I don’t see how stumbling across a few sunken ships qualify one as a historian. Humph. He’s a fraud, I tell you. A disgrace to the Museum.”

“A highly profitable one,” Mr. Peabody had added, smoothing a few stray hairs across his balding palate. “We have tours booked through the next quarter. There has even been talk of the Queen Herself wanting a tour.”

“Scandalous!” Mrs. Dunderhall sputtered! “The Queen? What topic will he choose for her? 17^th Century Sexual Conduct and Deviations, as he did to that group of senior citizens from the Sunny Valley Nursing Home? The Medicinal Uses for Rum, as he edified a group of young boys from the local parish school?”

“Don’t forget the Twenty Uses for Gun Powder besides Shooting Your Nemesis or the Twelve Most Common Social Diseases in the Port Cities,” Mrs. Salisbury-Seals added helpfully.

“He is just another Barnum, that’s what he is.” Sir Henry said, thumping his fist on the table. “And I intend to see him exposed for what he is.”

“And what is that?” Mr. Bailey asked quietly. “Captain Sparrow has never claimed to be anything but what he appears to be – a highly entertaining and knowledgeable sailor, whose love of history is only surpassed by his love of the sea. I don’t see how any of this should affect the Museum in any way, except by garnering positive Press for a change. Not to mention much needed funds.”

“It is scandalous,” Sir Henry pressed on. “The Royal Navy, the East India Trading Company, two of our most esteemed organizations, responsible for years of posterity and triumph for the British Empire, maintaining our superiority on the seas and in trade, only to be defiled and debased by this man. It is a disgrace to the Empire.”

“I hardly think the Empire exists any longer,” Mr. Bailey said dryly. “And what Captain Sparrow has said has all been proven true. Are we to ignore the atrocities of the past in favor of National Pride?”

“I still motion we remove him from the exhibit before the Queen’s visit.” Sir Henry looked around the table at the Board Members. “Those in favor say ‘Aye’.”

“Aye.” Mr. Peabody said resolutely.

“Aye.” Echoed Mrs. Salisbury-Seals.

“Aye. And it’s about time, too!” Mrs. Dunderhall exclaimed.

“Now wait a minute,” Mr. Bailey protested weakly.

“Sorry, ol’ chap,” Sir Henry said, smiling widely. “The ‘Ayes’ have it. You’re just going to have to ring up Sparrow and tell him his services are no longer needed.”

“This is preposterous!” Mr. Bailey stood up and addressed the Board. “Mark my words, this will not be the end of it.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

****

“Yes, I understand,” Will Turner was saying to the person on the other end of the line. “No, I don’t think it will be. Of course. I’ll let him know. Yes. Thank you for calling. I am too. No, this won’t affect the work on the Ft. Charles exhibit. No. I will. Thanks again. Bye.”

Will hung up the phone, his brow furrowed in thought. Jack glanced up from the crossword puzzle he was doing and asked casually, “Who was on the phone?”

“That was Mr. Bailey. From the Museum.” Will ran a hand through his hair.

Jack smiled. “Ah yes, Mr. Bailey. He was much appreciative for my Grog recipe, said it was smashing.”

Will smiled briefly, then sighed. “He said he’d just left a meeting with the Museum’s Board of Directors. Apparently they…”

“Fired me,” Jack answered for him.

“How’d you…?”

“It’s obvious, dear Will. The look on your face, the tone of voice.” Jack tossed the paper aside and stretched his legs out closer to the fire. “I’m been expecting it. Not sure what took them so long.” He chuckled and closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re not upset?” Will asked over his shoulder, walking over to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Why should I be?” Jack opened his eyes and smiled. “Not the end of the world. Had a bit of fun while it lasted. Besides,” he grinned at Will, “This will leave me with plenty of time to work on the Pearl, once we get the permits.”

Will returned to the living room and sank down in the other arm chair and settled in comfortably, warming his hands on his cup.

“Have you called the Dockyards yet?”

“They expect an open berth by the end of the week.”

“Wonderful!”

“Aye,” Jack said, closing his eyes once again. “That it is.”

****

“They’re still out there,” Mr. Peabody said, wiping a worried brow and peeking once more through the blinds to the street below. “There must two hundred of them.”

“That’s preposterous!” Sir Henry Bumpkin said, muttonchops bristling. “Today isn’t a school holiday as far as I know.”

“See for yourself!” Mr. Peabody let the blinds drop and sank wearily into a chair. “This is the second time this week, and this time they have signs.”

“Signs?” Mrs. Salisbury-Seals asked incredulously. “What sort of signs?”

“Protest signs,” Mr. Bailey said dryly. “I told all of you this was a bad idea, letting Captain Sparrow go. Now the museum is not only being picketed, by school children nonetheless, but we’ve had over 20,000 persons canceled their memberships, just this week alone! AND demanding a refund on their scheduled tours.”

“Twenty thousand?” Mrs. Dunderhall squeaked. “That is the equivalence of…”

“All the museum’s income from the past year.” Mr. Bailey shuffled some papers around. “Not to mention the bad Press. Look at these headlines.” He held up the latest editions of the papers, across which screaming in bold letters read, “Museum Clips Sparrow’s Wings,” Sparrow Sunk in Museum Firing,” “Age of No Sales for Museum,” and the worst of them all, “Queen Claims Museum Tour a Bore.”

Chanting could be heard faintly from the street below. Mr. Peabody looked out nervously once again. “They are calling for our resignations!”

“Balderdash!” Sir Henry huffed. “Over some third-rate con artist? Poppycock!”

“Perhaps we ought to reconsider our position,” Mrs. Dunderhall said resignedly.

“While we still have them.” Mrs. Salisbury-Seals agreed.

****

“Jack, you have to see this,” Will said, folding the newspaper he was reading to the article in question. “Queen Claims Museum Tour a Bore.” The headlines screamed.

“Did she now.” Jack sniffed and went back to his crossword puzzle. “What’s a five letter word for STUPID, second letter U?”

“Dunce.” Will answered automatically, scanning the story. “Listen to this,” he said, reading aloud.

“The Queen express disappointment when finding out her private tour of the highly ballyhooed Age of Sail exhibit at the British Museum would not be conducted by that illustrious colorful character, Captain Jack Sparrow, whose recent firing has caused a major uproar in the museum-going public. Her Majesty’s tour was instead led by the conservative (and oh so boring, according to reports), Sir Henry Bumpkin. Rumor has it, afterwards in the loo, the Queen was heard to comment that, while the exhibit it self was spot on, the accompanying commentary was as dull as watching paint dry. Of course, this is all heresy, for whoever heard of Her Majesty using a public loo in the first place?”

Will chuckled and tossed the paper across the breakfast table. “There are five other articles, all protesting your firing.” Will gazed fondly at Jack. “I always said you were charming.”

Jack’s lips twitched in amusement. “I knew you couldn’t resist.” He tapped his puzzle with his pencil. “What’s a twelve letter word for hopeless?”

“Incorrigible.” Will laughed.

****

In the end, due to public demand and incessant pressure from the Press all the way up to the Queen, and wishing to avoid further scandal, the Museum relented and reinstated Captain Jack Sparrow to his former position of part-time tour guide and full-time colorful character. The fact of the matter was, the added bonus and increased salary (both negotiated with cut-throat proficiency by the Captain himself), not to mention the reduced tour schedules of two days a week and twice on Saturdays, went a long way towards the Black Pearl restoration fund.

As for Captain Sparrow, he waved the entire event off as something not worth troubling his mind over. After all, he had much more better things to be worrying about, now that beloved was tucked into Berth E29-WR at the London dockyard.

****

Drabble - Fall From Grace

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 00:50:34 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Fall From Grace
Rating: PG
Characters: James Norrington. Elizabeth Swann referenced.
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 100
Prompt: Perfection at potc100

“This is the very perfection of a man, to find out his own imperfections.”
~Saint Augustine

****

He wouldn’t call himself a perfectionist. Simply a man who preferred order to chaos, the known to the unknown. He structured his life around these constants – service, loyalty, honor.

Nothing in his orderly, planned world prepared him for the fall.

Man’s fall from grace was but a preclude to James Norrington’s descent into hell. He watched his world crumble from the top of the parapet, though he did not realize it at the time.

The redemption he’d sought came with a price too high to bear. He made his choice, and watched his hope plummet once again into the sea.

****

Fic - The Adventure of the Heartless Man

Sun, 03 Jan 2010 03:59:30 GMT

Written by: mamazano
Title: The Adventure of the Heartless Man
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Sparrow/Will Turner, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Disney, without permission, with all intentions of giving them back. Eventually. Also from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, by way of Granada Televison.

Summary: A cross over story where our Immortal Captains meet two famous literary characters in Victorian London.

A/N: Based on the Jeremy Brett and David Burke versions of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and is in no way to be construed as having anything to do with that new movie.

****

The Adventure of the Heartless Man

Chapter One

*****

Of all the many strange and intricate mysteries brought before Sherlock Holmes in our many years of intimacy, none could be more bizarre than the events that unfolded in what I have now come to refer to as the Adventure of the Heartless Man. Even to this day, I am certain that my friend Holmes was able to uncover but a small portion of the facts, and that the real truth will forever be shrouded in the misty clouds of unknowing.

The matter itself was brought to the attention of Sherlock Holmes by myself personally, as having witnessed firsthand the death of the unfortunate man. This singular event had occurred on one of those bitter cold winter days, when the wind cut through you like a knife, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots in the frigid air. I had just left the hat shop of a patient of mine, whose health I had been fortunate to restore after many months of treatment. In gratitude for my services, he had offered to replace my worn and battered hat with one of the most top quality in craftsmanship, as a token of his appreciation.

That is how I came to be at the corner of Cannon Street and Laurence Pountney-lane on the evening in question. The visit had taken longer than expected and it was dusk, rapidly turning to night by the time I finally emerged from Messrs. Cooper, Box and Co., turning up the collar of my ulster against the bitter wind blowing off the Thames. Traffic was light at this time of night and several minutes had passed without sight of a single cab. Deciding it would be warmer to walk, I had headed up the lane towards Cannon Street, a more populated thoroughfare, where my luck of finding a cab might be improved upon. I had barely reached the intersection of lane and street when a most horrible cry met my ears.

The night being quite dark by now, I could find no source of the cry within the lane, and had almost convinced myself I must have imagined it when I heard it again. This time I was able to pinpoint the location, and was horrified to see the figure of a man dangling precariously from the edge of the roof of the building across the lane. The cry had apparently come from a second man, who appeared to be struggling with the first. Suddenly, to my horror the first man lost his grip, and plummeted to the ground, not fifty yards from where I was standing. A loud howl, a most terrible and unearthly cry came from the lone man on the rooftop, whose face I could not make out in the gathering gloom.

My thoughts were directed, however, towards the poor unfortunate victim, whose crumbled body lay motionless in the snowy lane. I hurried down the road and reaching the poor man, could find neither pulse nor sign of life. He was young man, no more than thirty, with a kind, handsome face. As night was rapidly approaching, I turned and made my way back to the main thoroughfare, in hopes of flagging down a passing policeman.

It took me several minutes to locate an officer, and hurry back to the place where I’d left the unfortunate soul. Upon reaching the snow bank in which the body had fallen, I was dismayed to find no sight of a body anywhere. That there had been one there was apparent by the trampling of the snow. There was one set of footprints leading to the pile and one leading away. The only conclusion we could reach was that the man I had seen on the rooftop had returned while I was gone and taken the body away. Whether to help a friend or cover up a crime we could not ascertain from the meager facts before us. And, as it had appeared to be a misfortunate accident, and without any evidence of a crime being committed, and lack of body to examine, the policeman could do nothing more than jot down some notes in his book and thank me for my efforts.

I was able to flag down a cab soon afterwards, and returned home to my rooms on Baker Street in the most somber of moods. I found, when I arrived, that my colleague, Sherlock Holmes, urgently required my assistance on another matter, and the incident faded from memory as quickly as it occurred.

So it was to my great astonishment that I came face to face with the same unfortunate gentleman the following week on my return to Laurence Pountney-lane, to check on my patient. All was as before, dusk had fallen along with a layer of snow, and I once again found myself walking down the lane in search of a cab. As I rounded the corner to Cannon Street I was jostled by a tall fellow who was hurrying in the opposite direction. As I bent down to retrieve my hat which had fallen off my head, I straightened to find myself staring into the brown eyes of the same young man I’d seen only a week ago lying dead upon the ground.

To say this came as a shock would be understating the situation. How could it be possible? I had witnessed the fall with my own eyes, a fall from a height in which it would be impossible to survive without serious injury. And yet, here was the same man, I swore, not only alive but appearing in excellent health. I must confess the incident gave me such a turn, it was cause enough for the other to inquire as to my health, instead.

“I apologize,” the young man said, then paused and gave me a concerned look. “Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

I stammered for words, but found myself more shaken than expected. The man took my arm and said kindly, “Here, let me at least buy you a drink.” He gestured with his other hand to the Black Bull pub across the street, whose cheery light spilled out onto the darkened road. I allowed myself to be led there, eager to find out how this once dead man had come back to life.

*****

Tribble - The Pursuit of Happiness

Fri, 01 Jan 2010 03:41:44 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: The Pursuit of Happiness
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner (J/W)
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.
Words: 300
Prompt: Resolution at jackwill

Summary: A new year is a time of resolutions, and reflections.

A/N: Written especially as a thank you to my darling dingle, for believing in me. And the guys. Much love!

****

The moonlight dribbled through the windowpanes, casting the room in patterns of silver and shadow. The two men reclined peacefully on the rumpled bed, their bodies still entwined in that post-coitus moment of peaceful bliss.

Will absentmindedly twirled a strand of Jack’s hair around his finger, an amused smile playing on his lips as he watched his lover hovering on the cusp of sleep. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said softly.

Jack’s mustache twitched and he sniffed. “Was thinking about the new year.”

“Ought to be a good one,” Will said, flopping back onto the pillow and placing one arm under his head.

“Perhaps.” Jack turned onto his side so he could see Will’s face. “I used to believe in luck. Fortune. Fortuna, the fickle goddess.”

“And now?”

“Not so sure any more. Sometimes seems our destiny is what we make of it.”

“I could argue that one personally,” Will said.

He shuddered slightly, from the cool night’s air or something else, he wasn’t sure.

“What is it, Jack?”

“Been thinking, of life. How easy it were, once. Knew exactly what I wanted, and did anything I could to get it. Lie, steal, cheat… kill.” He paused, and ran a hand across his face. “And yet, now…”

A cold hand of fear grasped Will’s heart, tightening across his chest, spreading into his arms and legs, cold dread of what might come next.

“Now, what, Jack?” Will asked in a halting whisper.

Jack smiled then, dispelling all the ghosts that haunted them. “I found out that now and then, it’s good to pause in one’s pursuit of happiness and just be happy.”

He stretched out next to Will and pulled him closer into an embrace. “Don’t know about the New Year part, but I can vouch for certain on the Happy.”

****

Christmas Fic - Great Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 15:58:58 GMT

Written by: mamazano
Title: Great Tidings of Comfort and Joy
Rating: G
Characters: Elizabeth Swann Turner, Jack Sparrow, Will Turner referenced
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Disney, without permission, with all intentions of giving them back. Eventually.
Beta: Gratitude beyond words goes to danglingdingle, for her help and support.

Written For: For the 2009 merrypirates fic exchange, for soleilpirate, who requested a Jack and Elizabeth friendship story, where Jack tries to look after Elizabeth while Will is serving as Captain on the Flying Dutchman.

****

Great Tidings of Comfort and Joy

****

Elizabeth, bored to tears, stared out the window at the wide expanse of the endless lawn. She fidgeted, tugging at her corset, lamenting the freedom of her past before chiding herself silently. That was all in the past now, now she had a child to worry about, Will’s child.

Will!

It had been almost three years since her wedding night, three long years since she’d seen her husband disappear in a flash of green. So much had happened since then, so many changes. Alone in the world and with child, she had made the journey back to England, seeking refuge with relatives. Her Uncle Horace and Aunt Winifred had been kind enough to take her into their home, the stately Worth Hall in Sussex.

Believing her to be a penniless widow, after the tragic deaths of her father and husband, her relatives had not questioned her closely, sheltering her in her grief. And grieve she did; For her father, for Will, for the loss of everything she held dear. Her only solace, and strength, had been the child growing within her. A tangible proof that it had not been all a bad dream, that the events that had led up to her fleeing the Caribbean had truly happened. That one day, Will would return.

Word trickled in about the war against piracy being waged in the West Indies, with accounts of their trials and hangings. No mention though of the notorious pirate, Jack Sparrow being captured or killed.

Elizabeth could only cling to the hope that he had survived, slipped through the hands of the East India agents once again.

So at first, Elizabeth dismissed the distant image as wishful thinking, rubbing her eyes to clear them, only to find the figure to still be there, strolling along the long gravel drive to the house, repeatedly glancing down at the piece of paper in his hand and then around him as if trying to decipher the surroundings.

There was no mistaking him. Even without the tricorn hat, colorful sash, and frock coat, and despite the distance, the swagger was instantly recognizable.

“Jack!”

Gathering up her skirts, her heart pounding, Elizabeth hurried down the hall, forgetting all about propriety in her rush to greet the unexpected remnant of her past. Her aunt called out after her, as Elizabeth dashed out the front door, past the startled butler who had hurried to open it.

“Elizabeth! Where do you think you are going? Come back here, child, this instant!”

Her words went unheeded, as for the first time in three long years, Elizabeth found herself once again feeling alive. Her hear racing in her chest, casting off the shackles of society’s expectations, she ran down the drive and flung her arms around Jack, holding him tight as if to ascertain that he weren‘t a figment of her imagination.

“Jack! You’re alive!”

Jack gently extracted himself from her grasp, straightening his hat he flashed his familiar golden grin her way.

“Of course I am. Would I be here if I were not?”

“But why are you here?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly, hand on Jack‘s sleeve fingering the cloth as if to ascertain the man would not vanish before her eyes. “How did you find me?”

“At the bequest of one Captain Will Turner.”

“Will? You’ve seen him?” Eager for news, for anything Elizabeth grasped Jack’s arms, hardly believing her ears. “How is he? What did he say?”

Jack held up a hand to halt her babbling questions. “Yes, I did see him. He asked me to find you, make sure you were safe.” Looking around again at the manicured grounds and stately manor house, he added, “Which I see you are. Quite. So, I’ll just be going, then.”

“What?” Elizabeth clutched his sleeve. “You can’t go! Please, Jack.”

“Elizabeth?” Her aunt’s voice sounded loudly behind her. Cringing slightly, Elizabeth waited for the inevitable.

“Elizabeth! Who is this man? What do you think you are doing, out here by yourself, talking to this, this…”

“Friend of her husband,” Jack finished for her, then turned to Elizabeth, expecting her to finish the introductions.

“Jack…I mean, Captain…” Elizabeth stopped, not wanting to mention Jack’s name in case there was a warrant out for his arrest.

“Captain Jack Starling, at your service, ma’am.” Jack gave a theatrical bow.

“Well, I say,” Aunt Winifred huffed. “You knew the late Captain Turner?”

“Yes, Captain Sparling was there when my husband was killed,” Elizabeth interjected.

“Starling, darling. Starling.” Jack hissed, then added brightly, “And who might this charming person be?”

“My aunt, Lady Winifred Crowley.”

“The pleasure is mine, to be sure,” Jack said pleasantly.

“Humph,” her aunt sniffed. “Well, I do suppose, if you were a friend of the unfortunate Captain Turner, you will wish to come in.”

“No… I‘m afraid I‘m in a bit of a--”

“Yes!”

They spoke simultaneously, exchanging challenging looks, and with the powers only invested in a woman stalwart, Elizabeth hurried to add, “We shall have tea, and you can tell me all about your adventures. I have just been dying to hear news from home.”

Jack sighed, but Elizabeth didn’t give him a chance to change his mind, just wrapped an arm in his and propelled him towards the house looming over the lawn, in Aunt Winifred’s wake.

“Not to mention dying of boredom,” she added under her breath, for Jack’s ears only.

****

“We’ll take tea in the conservatory, Billings,” Lady Crowley said with a dismissing wave to the butler.

“Very good, milady,” he said, taking Jack’s hat and stick, and hurrying off towards the kitchen.

Elizabeth could hardly contain her excitement at seeing Jack again, as they made their way to the conservatory. It was her favorite room in the house, a beautiful sunlit space filled with white wicker furniture and potted palms, and a woven palm thatch mat covering the flagstone floor. Several large glass cases were scattered about, along with various curios from her uncle’s travels, a decidedly tropical space which reminded her of home.

The three of them sat awkwardly in silence, at first, while the maid fetched the tea. Jack squirmed in his seat, before giving in to the temptation and began strolling around the room, curiously perusing the various items scattered about, an assortment of pottery and ceremonial masks, some grotesque, others comical in appearance.

“My husband, Sir Horace, traveled extensively before we were married,” Lady Crowley said with thinly disguised distain. “These…objects, are from his travels among the heathens.”

“Uncle Horace should be arriving home soon,” Elizabeth added. “I am sure you and he will have plenty to talk about.”

“I am sure we would all like to hear of your… adventures, Captain Starling,” her aunt echoed, her voice cold.

Jack put down the wooden mask he was holding and smiled briefly. “Villainy wears many masks, none so dangerous as the mask of virtue,” he quoted, with a quick glance towards Elizabeth.

She blushed, and was thankful for the interruption of the servant with the tea tray. As she busied herself with the tea, Elizabeth’s mind was racing. Will! Jack had seen him, spoken to him. Oh, if she could only spend just one day with him! Tear suddenly sprang to her eyes as her heart plummeted at the thought of wee William, and how he’d be a grown lad before he would meet his father.

Jack must have noted her distress for he suddenly frowned and came over to where she was sitting. Perching on the chair next to her, he asked in a low voice, “Is there anywhere we might speak in private?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered impulsively, then glanced at the stern face of her aunt. Too bad, she thought. Propriety be damned, if there was news of Will to be had.

“Would you care for some tea, Captain Starling?” Lady Crowley asked, frowning at her niece.

“None for me, thank you,” Jack said brightly. “Never touch the stuff. But, I wouldn’t be averse to something stronger, if you’d be so kind.”

“Uncle has some whiskey in his study, I believe,” Elizabeth said helpfully. “We could just go…”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, young lady,” her aunt retorted. “I shall ring for Billings.” She looked down her long nose with a disapproving stare for Jack. “Whatever will Mr. Crimshaw think if he were to find you entertaining commoners, unchaperoned at that.”

“Who the bloody hell is Mr. Crimshaw?” Jack blurted belligerently.

“He is the landowner of the estate down the road,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Auntie here is hoping to marry me off to him.”

“And why not?” Her aunt asked sharply, the disapproval of Elizabeth’s undesired adverseness clear as day. “He is very well off, and fancies you. A woman in your position, widowed, with a small child and no income, should be ecstatic to have anyone interested, let alone someone of name and breeding such as Winchester Crimshaw!”

“Ah, but she does have an income,” Jack said, holding up his hand. “That is what I have come to tell Mrs. Turner. She is worth quite a pretty penny, between the estate of her father and the holdings of her late husband.”

“I do?” - “She does?”

Both women spoke in unison. Elizabeth smiled widely, suddenly a weight was lifted off her shoulders. “How ever did you come by it?”

Jack smiled. “I have me ways. But,” he gave Elizabeth an apologetic look. “Now I really must be going.”

“So soon?” Elizabeth was crestfallen. “You haven’t even met young William.”

“I am sure we’ll meet again,” Jack said with a wink. He walked quickly ahead and stopped in the hallway, managing a moment alone with Elizabeth before the butler returned with his hat. “I have arranged for a solicitor to send for you. He will see you money is safe.”

“But must you go?” Elizabeth implored. “Please, at least come to dinner tonight.”

Jack studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not so sure that’d be wise, not with your Aunt Fred wanting to see me tarred and feathered.”

“Oh she is not so bad, just a bit of a stickler for propriety.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes as her aunt’s voice called querulously, “Elizabeth? Your tea is getting cold.”

“I better go,” Elizabeth said, with a glance over her shoulder. “You’re sure you won’t come tonight? Dinner is at seven, drinks at six.”

“Is the rum gone?” he teased, finally getting a happy smile out of her. Then seriously, he said in a low voice, “I have several letters for you, from Will. He is frantic with worry for you and his son.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small sheaf of envelopes, tied in a red ribbon. “Keep them close, luv.”

And with that he was gone.

****

By the end of the month, Elizabeth Turner found herself to be the holder of a substantial amount of gold, money measured in Pounds Sterling, and the co-owner of a tavern called the Blacksmith’s Arms.

That is how Elizabeth Swann Turner came to reside in the seaside village of Swanage, where she ran a profitable establishment, to the extent to where she found herself quite famous in the area both for her hospitality, her stern, yet fair bargain, and for her kind capturing of rogue hearts as the “Protective Angel of Smugglers.”

But, that is another story, best left for another time. The East India agents might be listening.

****

Ficlet - The Unwritten History

Wed, 30 Dec 2009 03:54:37 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: The Unwritten History
Rating: G
Characters: Jack Sparrow
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Summary: Jack takes temporary employment at the Museum of History as a tour guide to their latest exhibit. A sequel of sorts to the drabble Truth Be Told.

A/N: Another tidbit to cheer my darling dingle. And another tip of the hat. ;) Thanks, luv.

****

The long awaited and elaborate new exhibit on the Age of Sail at the Museum of History was a stunning masterpiece of a success. This amazing accomplishment was not due to the meticulous details in the period perfect displays, as much as it was to the newest addition to the museum’s staff; the illustrious former sea captain and part time tour guide, one Captain Jack Sparrow.

Filling in at the last moment for one of their regular guides, who was out on an earlier than expected maternity leave, her eccentric replacement came highly recommended, despite his apparent lack of credentials of any kind. He quickly became a favorite among school children and senior citizens alike, and the demand for one of Captain Sparrow’s personalized guided tours soon surpassed all expectations. And, as with all popular figures, the content of these tours was not without controversy.

The most common complaint lodged against the colorful commentary offered up by the good captain was his liberal references to “rum”, which not only caused some disconcertion amongst the parents of the impressionable children sent to the museum for their edification, but also to the historians on the museum’s staff, who claimed the exhibit was not meant to be the “History of Rum during the Age of Sail”, but more a comprehensive look back at the sovereignty of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy on the High Seas.

“Bollocks,” had been Captain Sparrow’s reply to these complaints.

Unwilling to squelch the profitable and, indisputably highly popular tours, the Board of Directors, after meeting and discussing the complaints against Captain Sparrow, decided they would send some of their members on a clandestine tour of the exhibit, disguising themselves as chaperones on one of the many school tours scheduled for the following day.

So that was how it came about that Mr. Bailey and Mrs. Dunderhall joined a group of eight-year-old boys from the local parish school, along with Father McGillicutty and Sister Mary Agnes, on a tour of the newest exhibit in the museum.

“Ahoy there, mateys!” Captain Sparrow hailed the group, as they gathered around him in the entrance hall to the exhibit. “Captain Jack Sparrow, at your service.” He bowed, as the boys applauded and cheered, having already been informed of his “expertise” by their classmates at St. Jude the Obscure Primary School.

“He certainly looks the part,” Mrs. Dunderhall whispered behind a raised hand.

“I’ve been told he insisted on wearing his own clothes,” Mr. Bailey whispered back. “He must have scoured all the thrift shops in the district for that getup.”

They of course were referring to Jack’s attire, and what a proper sea captain he did look, with his long frock coat, colorful sash and tricorn hat. He even wore the obligatory bucket boots made famous by all the illustrators of children’s books, along with a baldric and cutlass.

“He looks like he’s stepped straight out of Treasure Island,” Mrs. Dunderhall whispered.

“Are you a pirate?” one freckled-faced boy asked, tugging on Jack’s sleeve.

“He likes to think himself the most fearsome pirate on the Spanish Main,” said an amused voice from behind the group.

They turned to find a museum employee standing there, one of the reenactment specialists, carrying a large toolbox and wearing a big grin on his face.

“Ah! My dear colleague!” Jack grinned back, eyes fixed on the intruder while whispering loudly behind his hand at the boys. “Pay him no mind, boys. He’s not what you’d call the sharpest item in that box.”

The man just smirked, and moving on with his load, hollered over his shoulder, “Better a dull tool than a wobbly-legged, rum-soaked pirate.”

“Oi! I resemble that remark!” Jack shouted cheerfully at the receding back, over the laughter of the schoolboys. Straightening his cuffs and huffing slightly, Jack turned back to the group and said innocently, “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”

“The boys were asking if you are a real pirate,” Sister Agnes said with a giggle.

Another wide-eyed lad pointed at the cutlass and asked, “Is it real?”

“Of course it’s real,” Jack said, tempering his belligerence with a smile for the good Sister. “Contrary to what a certain Commodore said, a proper pirate’s sword is in fact not made of wood.”

The boys all oohed and ahhed as Jack turned and winked at Sister Agnes, who blushed and busied herself with her guidebook.

“Now boys,” Father McGillicutty said in a loud voice, “We must get moving, we don’t want to miss any of the tour.”

The boys were herded into the semblance of a line and made their way through the turnstile and on into the exhibit hall. The first stop on the tour was a replica of a 17^th Century sailing ship, and several figures dressed in period clothing.

“From the earliest days of sail, men needed liquid during voyages,” Jack began, pulling out a set of note cards. “Now, the most readily available liquids were water, of course. And beer. Which were taken on board and stored in casks, and replaced at the end of the voyage or at ports of call.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Now the problem was, the water quickly developed algae and turned slimy, and beer turned sour, neither of which was conducive to the sailors wanting to consume either. Correct?”

The boys all nodded.

“Would you,” Jack bent and read the nametag on the boy’s jacket, “Tommy. Would you want to drink green, slimy water?” The boy made a face as the others went ‘ewww’, and laughed. “Or you, Winston.” Jack frowned and read the tag again. “What sort of a mum names her kid Winston?” As the boy reddened, Jack smiled and snapped his fingers upon realization. “Ah, named you after the Prime Minister, she did. Good job.” He patted the boy on the back and asked in a friendly fashion, “So tell me, Winston, would you serve your crew sour beer?”

“No, sir,” the boy said firmly.

“Didn’t think so,” Jack said, smugly. “So, the custom was to drink up all the beer before it could sour. Which was fine and dandy unless you were on a long voyage. Then you were stuck, once again, drinking all that slimy water.” He pointed at a statue of an able seaman. “The original ration of beer for seamen was a gallon a day, which, when you think of it, is a considerable amount to store over a long voyage. And, as the British Empire grew and longer voyages became more common, the problem of spoilage and shortages increased. As I am sure you bright lads can figure out for yourself.”

“Come along!” Jack waved a hand and moved quickly along the hall, the cluster of boys jostling to be closer to their guide, who had stopped at another display. “Now, the origin of grog lies with this man here, Vice-Admiral William Penn, whose son went on to found the cleverly coined colony of Pennsylvania. But that comes later. This is in 1655, during Penn's campaign for Cromwell in the West Indies, where he arrived in Barbados and captured Jamaica.”

Jack stopped short and glanced irritably down at the cards in his hand, shuffling through them while muttering, “What kind of a bloody idiot wrote these?” Turning towards his audience, Jack flapped the cards in front of their noses, “I trust everyone here bloody knows Jamaica is not in Barbados, contrary to these note cards I’m supposed to read from.”

Jack studied the note card for a moment more, evidently not quite believing his eyes, then cheerfully tossed it over his shoulder.

“There, much more better. So, where were we? Oh, yes! I was explaining how Vice-Admiral Penn came to be known as the founding father of grog. So, going all the way back to 1655, Penn claimed Jamaica for the Crown, only to find it had very few stores of beer or wine. Jamaica did, however, have rum. Lots of rum. Penn, who found himself with a mutinous crew and no beer, therefore began the use of rum as a ration. You all with me so far?”

That these last words being rather slurred, plus the fact that Captain Sparrow was swaying quite alarmingly, led Mrs. Dunderhall to lean over and ask in a concerned whisper to Mr. Bailey, if he thought the good Captain might have had some of his own rum ration before starting the tour.

“Poppycock! At Nine-O’clock in the morning?” Mr. Bailey hissed back, before shushing her so that he could hear the rest of the lecture.

Jack, meanwhile was gesturing rather drunkenly at the next exhibit, which depicted a battle between a pirate ship and a Navy frigate. “You see, back then in the seventeenth century, rum was a libation already well-known to the sailors in the Caribbean seeing how the privateers and pirates alike all traded in it. Yet the use of rum as rations didn’t catch on immediately with the Royal Navy, this being the British we’re talking about, and their being sticklers for custom and all that. Despite all that plentiful rum, they just kept on drinking their sour beer and slimy water.”

The boys all snickered as Jack reenacted the act, complete with a gag and a grimace. Regaining his composure, he shrugged himself thoroughly of the thought and wiped his mustache and beard, straightened, pulling another card out of his pocket with a flourish, and read, “In fact, it wasn’t until 1731 that rum became part of the "Regulations and Instructions Relating to His Majesty's Service at Sea", at which time a half a pint of rum was made equal to the provision of a gallon of beer.”

“Captain Sparrow?” a querulous voice asked from the rear of the group.

“Aye?” Jack squinted to see who was interrupting his lecture.

“Might there have been other events of historical interest, as well, in the 17^th century?” Mrs. Dunderhall asked pointedly. “Such as the war against piracy?”

“Weren’t no war to speak of, less you’re talking of that debacle that bloody Lord eunuch Beckett was responsible for.”

“Mister Sparrow! The children!” Sister Agnes covered the ears of the nearest boy, who wriggled free to hear more.

“Captain, Captain Sparrow, darling,” Jack smiled sweetly at the red-faced nun. “No need to be getting your knickers in a twist, I won’t be elaborating in front of these fine, upstanding young gents, on the deficiencies of his Lordship’s… er… equipment.”

Jack turned back to Mrs. Dunderhall with a tip of his hat. “Seeing as much of the reason behind the rise in piracy can be directly linked to the deplorable conditions on board the Naval and merchant vessels of that time, of which the ultimate dilution of the rum was a major part, I would say, the history of the noble drink is most pertinent to the discussion of the Royal Navy.” He winked at the boys and said cheerfully, “Now, if you’d be so kind as to all step over here, we will take a closer look at said conditions as they existed for your average marine.”

They stepped around the corner to where a facsimile of a sailing ship had been carefully recreated, so that one could actually walk through the ship and experience the feel of being below deck. The boys were of course terribly excited and soon were clamoring all at once for answers to their many questions.

Jack finally whistled loudly and raising a hand, said in a loud voice, “AVAST!” Having the boys attention once again, Jack resumed his tour.

“We now come to this man here.” Jack said, gesturing to the next display. “Vice-Admiral Edward Vernon is known as the Father of Grog.”

“What’s grog?” One of the boys asked, raising his hand.

“A travesty to nature, that’s what,” Jack answered with a huff. “You see, by the time ol’ Vernon here came along, straight rum was being commonly issued to sailors aboard ship - and drunkenness and lack of discipline were just as commonly becoming problems. Not to mention the many accidents that were directly attributed to this daily ration of rum.” Jack pointed up at the ship behind them, and said, “Just imagine trying to climb up the rigging of a tall sailing ship after drinking half a pint of rum neat. No easy task when sober or even when the seas were calm.”

“Mister Sparrow, they are just boys!” Mrs. Dunderhall said, indignantly.

Jack squinted at the group and leaning surreptitiously, asked the nearest one,”You sailor. Exactly how old are you?”

“Eight years, three months and twenty-one days, sir!”

“Hmmm, yes, suppose you would be a mite young to be drinking your rum neat.” Jack brightened and grinned at the boys. “How fortuitous for us all that there are people like Admiral Vernon and Mrs. Dunderhall in the world, to splice the mainbrace and keep our courses straight and true.”

“Why I never…” Mrs. Dunderhall sputtered.

“So,” Jack held up on finger to hush her and paused dramatically. “On August 21, 1740, which by the way shows the monumental importance of this epic event as it is recorded for posterity to the exact date, Admiral Edward "Old Grogram" Vernon of the Royal Navy issued the following Order to Captains.”

Jack pulled a parchment out from his jacket pocket and unrolled it. Clearing his throat, he read in his most official voice:

"Whereas it manifestly appears...to be the unanimous opinion of both Captains and Surgeons, that the pernicious custom of the seamen drinking their allowance of rum in drams, and often at once, is attended with many fatal effects to their morals as well as their health...and which...cannot be better remedied than by ordering their half pint of rum to be daily mixed with a quart of water, which they that are good husbandmen may...purchase sugar and limes to make more palatable to them."

Jack glanced around at the wide eyes of his audience, who, to a boy, hadn’t a clue what he’d just read. Rolling the parchment back up, he tapped the top of the nearest boy’s head and asked, “Tell me, Charlie, just what did this proclamation do?”

“Um, get the crew mad?” The boy asked, timidly.

“Good man!” Jack clapped him on the shoulder, as the boy grinned widely. “Exactly! This practice didn’t do a thing to improve moral, nor did it solve the problems they were having with the men. Mostly it just pissed them off.”

“Mister Sparrow!”

“Sorry, Sister,” Jack grinned.

“So what exactly IS grog?” Father McGillicutty asked.

“Glad you asked, Padre,” Jack said. “Admiral Vernon originally ordered the exact specifications of rum to water be mixed on deck and in the presence of the Lieutenant of the Watch, so as not to be accused of cheating a man out of his ration. ‘Course not all ships followed the exact recipe, as it were. Vernon ordered a quarter of water to a half a pint of rum or four to one. Others ordered three to one, and there was even one fellow, a stingy bast…er, miser, Admiral Keith, who issued grog at a ratio of five to one. Needless to say, his crew were a bit on the surly side.”

Jack snapped open the black box hanging at his side and showed it around to the appreciative boys. “The sailors, now, they named their mixtures of grog by way of compass points. Due North was pure rum and due West water alone. WNW would therefore be one third rum and two thirds water, NW half and half, and so on and so forth. So, Johnny, if a seaman were to have two ‘nor-westers’,” Jack whirled and waved the compass under a lad’s nose, “What’d he have?” As the boy’s mouth worked soundlessly, Jack clapped him on the back and answered for him, “He'd had two glasses of half rum and half water. Savvy?”

The boys all murmured in awe at the sea captain swaying before them, as if he were once again on the deck of a majestic sailing ship. With a wave of his arm, Jack addressed them again.

“So, to answer your question, Padre, say you’re throwing a party at the vicarage, and want to serve a bit of ol’ Vernon’s grog to your guests.”

“Why, I never, I mean, I don’t think…” Father McGillicutty sputtered.

“Of course you do!” Jack waved away his protest. “Admiral Vernon’s Lime Grog is as British as the Queen herself.” He paused, and added, “Though I suppose an Irishman such as yourself wouldn’t be that worried about that part. Nevertheless, you would start by mixing in a large jar, some fresh-squeezed lime juice and brown sugar, diluted with the water and rum. Now make sure and use a good old-fashioned dark rum, Jamaican, preferably.”

“Are we here to learn about history or about bartending?” Mrs. Dunderhall asked in a huff.

“Shhh,” Mr. Bailey waved a hand at her, and hurriedly resumed writing in his appointment book. “One pint of rum, one pound brown sugar…”

Jack nodded to the adults in the group. “This is your so-called "four water" grog. You can always tighten it up, although once you're in two-water territory you'll quickly find your guests "stupefying their rational qualities, which makes them heedlessly slaves to every passion," as the good admiral warned. But then again, your guests probably don't have a ship to run or any rigging to climb.”

He waved a hand at the boys and added, “Leave the rum out and use the full pound of brown sugar and you've got a delightful punch for the kiddies’ birthday party. The grownups, they can always hit their ration with a "stick," as it used to be called, of the ol' kill-devil. Just make sure and keep the bottle out of range of little hands.”

“Sixteen limes, one quart of water,” Mr. Bailey muttered while writing.

“And there you have it, folks. A concise history of the Royal Navy during the Age of Sail. I do hope you’ve enjoyed this little tour.”

“It was most delightful and positively edifying, if you ask me,” Mr. Bailey said enthusiastically.

“Just one question, Captain Sparrow, if I may?” Father McGillicutty asked.

“Aye?”

“Where did they ever come up with the term, ‘Nelson’s Blood’ for rum?”

Jack looked around carefully and beckoned the cleric to come nearer. The rest of the group all gathered closely around Jack as he conspired with them in a low voice.

“As legend would have us believe, after Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson was mortally wounded at the great battle of Trafalgar in 1805, his body was encased in a large barrel of rum for the long journey home. Nelson had requested that when he died, he did not want to be buried at sea, which was common tradition, but would prefer to be buried in England. Now, sometime during the voyage, it was discovered that the barrel was almost empty of the rum. You see,” Jack’s voice sunk to a whisper, as if divulging the most secret of secrets, “it is believed that the sailors on-board the flagship H.M.S. Victory had drilled a small hole in the bottom of the cask and had been drinking the rum for good luck.”

“I say!” Mister Bailey exclaimed.

Jack smirked and removing his hat, gave them a bow and said brightly, “Now, if you will excuse me, I really must run. I have promised a certain blacksmith and colleague of mine to help set up the next exhibit, a historically accurate rendition of Fort Charles, in Port Royal, Jamaica. Complete with jail cells, and half-pin barrel hinges.”

****

Ficlet - Twitterpated

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 02:05:59 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Twitterpated
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner (J/W)
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Summary: Can you hear me now?

A/N: A bit of silliness to cheer my darling dingle. And a tip of the hat. ;)

****

Will was busy at his desk with the new designs for the Barrymore account, a new and very important client, whose satisfaction could lead to more lucrative jobs in the future. This particular piece was an elaborate reproduction of an 18^th century iron gate, complete with half-pin barrel hinges. The intricate design for the scroll work had Will working later than usual, as he was determined to have a final drawing for his early morning meeting the next day.

“Tweet da la tweet de tweet!”

Will scowled at his cell phone as it jingled for the fifth time in as many minutes. He knew he should just ignore it, or put it on silent mode, but he was expecting a call back from the museum regarding an exhibit scheduled for the following month.

“Tweet da la tweet de tweet!”

Throwing down his pencil, Will picked up the phone and read, “I’m starving.”

Sighing, Will typed a quick message back. “Eat something.”

“Tweet da la tweet de tweet!”

“And the cupboard is bare.”

“Go to the store if you’re hungry.”

“I am lost without my Boswell.”

Will bit his lip. The idea had seemed so simple at first. Unlimited text messaging, the ability to contact one another when necessary without having to call. Except Jack seemed to think of texting as a way to alleviate boredom.

“I’ll be home in an hour. You won’t starve.”

“I’m withering away…”

Will decided the best thing to do was ignore him. After all, Jack was a grown man, there was really no danger of him actually starving to death. Besides, he really needed to get these drawings done.

“Tweet da la tweet de tweet!”

“AUGH!!!!” Will picked up the phone and called Jack. Drumming his fingers, he waited, one ring…two rings…three rings… “Oi! You’ve reached the voicemail of the Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. I’m obviously not available. So leave a message. Savvy?”

Now where did he go? Will frowned at the phone and practically shouted at the beep. “Jack! I can’t work with constant interruption. Don’t text again unless it is a life threatening situation. And, seeing as you can’t die, that means, stop. Period.”

Ah, silence. Will worked uninterrupted for 15 minutes before he began to feel the first twinge of guilt. After 25 minutes of silence, he began to wonder whether he had been too impatient with Jack. After 45 minutes of no contact Will threw his pencil down in disgust. How could he concentrate?

Will picked up the phone and texted a message. “How about I pick up Chinese take-out on my way home?”

Silence.

He sent another message. “Jack, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp. I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want. Promise.”

Silence.

“Jack! Say something!”

“Tweet da la tweet de tweet!”

“Anything?”

****

Will whistled as he drove through the early evening traffic. He had managed to finish the drawings, as well as set up an appointment for the following week with the museum. He had a paper bag full of cartons of take-out, along with a chilled bottle of wine to wash it down with. And best of all, he had a hungry, horny immortal pirate waiting for him at home.

****

Scrabble Drabble 2.5

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 16:15:52 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Word Spar
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner (J/W)
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, we just like playing with them.
Words: 250
Prompt: None in particular

Summary: A battle of words, inspired by a Christmas gift of Scrabble.

****

The snow continued to fall, blocking all the roads, and closing the local businesses. Jack had managed to trudge though the icy terrain to the local corner grocer, procuring enough supplies to last the week, if necessary. This is how the two men found themselves in front of a blazing fire on a Tuesday morning, drinking hot cocoa and playing a friendly game of Scrabble.

Well, it started out friendly. Until Will challenged Jack’s choice of words one too many times.

Will had begun the game with a perfectly good word. WALK.

Jack smiled and laid his tiles down. JACK.

“You can’t use a proper noun,” Will had pointed out.

“There’s nothing proper about that t’all,” Jack had argued. “In fact, if you ask me, it is much more improper than proper.” He said, sitting back with a smug smile. “Oh, and I get double word for that.”

“Fine,” Will said tersely, adjusting the score. He studied his tiles and quickly put down WILL. “There.”

Jack’s mustache twitched. He spelled out LUST.

Will countered. WAIT.

Jack sniffed. CANT.

“You can’t use contractions,” Will sighed.

“Are you challenging me again?”

Will didn’t answer, just put down, LATER.

RUM.

SAVE.

READY.

SHAME.

Jack flashed Will a pointed look and spelled, SEX.

TOOL. Will added, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

Jack smiled. BEST.

THROB. Will adjusted himself in his chair.

Jack nodded. HARD.

WANT. Will smiled.

AYE.

There was no more need for words, proper or otherwise. Unless it was the word, SATED.

****

Drabblish Thing - Truth be Told

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 01:31:46 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Truth Be Told

Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jack Sparrow, Will Turner (J/W)
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, we just like playing with them.
Words: 450
Prompt: Honesty at jackwill

Summary: Is Honesty always the best Policy?

****

“Great.”

Jack looked up to find Will frowning at a letter he’d just opened. “What?” he asked, placing a finger in his book to mark his place.

“Remember that woman we met at the museum’s open house last week? The one with the polka dot dress?”

“The one with that dreadful voice?” Jack placed a hand on his breast and imitated in a falsetto, “Oh Mister Sparrow, I am afraid you are most mistaken! The East India Trading Company was a legitimate company, run by honest, stalwart, respectable gentlemen, all thoroughly loyal to the Crown. Your facts are wrong, I tell you, wrong, wrong, wrong!”

“Yes, that one.” Will folded up the letter and tossed it to Jack. “Apparently she has taken offense at your remarks.”

Jack scanned the paper, a twitch of the mustache belaying his stern voice as he replied, “Not sure what her problem is, I only told her the honest truth.”

“The EITC was a bunch of thieving, murdering scallywags, worse than any respectable pirate who sailed those waters.” Will quoted. “I imagine your reference to her great-great-great grandnephew, Cutler Beckett, as ‘a twisted, impotent eunuch, who made up for his lack of balls and inability to fire his own cannon with his fleet of ships’ did not endear you to her, either.”

“They always say that honesty is the best policy,” Jack groused.

Will shook his head, smiling at the recollection of the irate woman. “Unfortunately, not when the recipient is a museum patron whose endowment enabled you to be employed in the first place.” Will chuckled. “I imagine she was expecting an edifice of grandeur for her illustrious ancestor, not a recounting of his atrocities.”

“See, Will, that is why studying history is so important,” Jack said. “To remember the truth, not cover it up in a cloud of lies, just to make some self delusional fool feel good about themselves.”

“True.” Will slipped an arm around Jack and pulled him close. “I will tell the director tomorrow you stand by your research. After all,” he kissed Jack’s cheek lightly, “I would not want you to change the truth for any amount of endowment. Museums are to preserve the truth, not alter it.”

“I suppose he wants to fire me,” Jack mumbled, burying his nose in Will’s hair and breathing deeply. “No matter, would rather stay home with you. I can help you in the shop.”

Will shook his head, and murmured back, “No, the museum needs you. Who else can give them first hand knowledge of the Age of Sail?”

“You just don’t want me handling your tools,” Jack teased.

“Jack, you can gladly handle my tools any time you wish.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

*****

Christmas Fic List by mamazano

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 22:51:24 GMT

For those who might be interested, I have compiled a list of my Pirates of the Caribbean Fan Fiction which have a Christmas theme. Something for everyone, a gift from me to you. Enjoy!

****

Secret Santa 2008- Good Will to All

Jack has divised a scheme for Will to meet with Elizabeth. Set post-CotBP, at Christmastime.

Act I, Act II, Act III

****

Christmas Drabble series in the Ordinary Man AU: (W/E, G) In collaboration with danglingdingle.

Drabble 1 – Will you wish upon a star
Drabble 2 – Your heart is in your dreams
Drabble 3 – Words whispered on the wind
Drabble 4 – Nothing's going to stop us now...

****

Hunting of the Sparrow (WIP, Rated R)

Set in an AU out of my own eggnog induced fog. Lord Cutler Beckett has decided to celebrate Boxing Day in his own fashion…substituting the traditional Hunting of the Wren with another bird…Captain Jack Sparrow.

1 – Setting the Trap
2 – The Trap is Sprung
3 – The Bird is Flown
4 – The Net is Cast
5 – The Bird is Snared
6 – Bird in the Hand
7 – Tethered Flight
8 – Caged Flight
9 – Swift of Wing

****

The Graveyard Ghost – (Jack, Will, G) Forever is a very long time. Set at Christmas.

Leap of Faith – (Jack, Will, G) Set at the end of the Graveyard Ghost.

Hound of Hell – (Jack, Will, G) Set at the beginning of the Graveyard Ghost.

Resurrection Man - (Jack, Will, G) A sequel to the Graveyard Ghost

Nativity - (Jack/Will, R) A Coda to Resurrection Man.

****

Christmas!Crack – Santa Jack (J/W, R) With the economy as it is, Jack Sparrow finds employment at the local Mall.

Christmas Parody - When Scripts Collide (G) When scripts collide…or what happens when you watch too many Holiday reruns.

Wassailing - Pirate Style (G) What happens when they start piping Christmas music everywhere.

Tis the Season (Jack, Will, G) Even the most parsimonious personalities can be persuaded...with the right leverage...

****

One Day (J/E, W/E, PG-13) - Secret Santa 2007. Prompt: Gibbs and Mistletoe. Setting is 10 years after AWE.

****

Old Christmas Revived (G,) Written For: For the 2009 merrypirates fic exchange, for Tiamary, who requested a story that includes tidbits about how Christmastime was observed in the Caribbean in the 1700s. The crew of the Black Pearl on holiday in Tortuga. Set post-AWE, at Christmastime.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 ,Chapter 4 , Chapter 5

MerryPirates Christmas Fic - Old Christmas Revived (5/5)

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 03:34:00 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Old Christmas Revived - Chapter 5

Rating: G
Characters: Various characters from POTC, along with an extra special OC
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Written For: For the 2009 merrypirates fic exchange, for Tiamary, who requested a story that includes tidbits about how Christmastime was observed in the Caribbean in the 1700s.

Summary: The crew of the Black Pearl on holiday in Tortuga. Set post-AWE, at Christmastime. Fancy that!

****

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 ,Chapter 4

****

Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored
Chapter 5

****

The cooks and the scullion, who toil in their frocks,
Their hopes do depend upon their Christmas box;
There is very few that do live on the earth
But enjoy at this time either profit or mirth;
Yea those that are charged to find all relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Then well may we welcome Old Christmas to town,
Who brings us good cheer, and good liquor so brown;
To pass the cold winter away with delight,
We feast it all day, and we frolick all night:
Both hunger and cold we keep out with relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Then let all curmudgeons, who dote on their wealth,
And value their treasure much more than their health,
Go hang themselves up, if they will be so kind;
Old Christmas with them but small welcome shall find;
They will not afford to themselves without grief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

****

“Whatcha got there?” Giselle asked Cotton, who was setting some wooden figures on top of a crate.

Pierre bent down to get a closer look and clapped his hands, exclaiming, “It is a crèche!”

Scarlett picked up one of the little wooden figure and turned it over in her hand. “Why Mr. Cotton! Did you carve this yourself?”

Cotton just smiled as the rough and rowdy crew of pirates took turns examining the figurines and commenting among themselves.

“Oh look! A shepherd. See ‘is sheep there?”

“A donkey! And this must be one of them Wise Men.”

“And ‘ere’s Mary, and Joseph.”

Giselle looked up from where she was kneeling next to the crate and asked, “Where’s the baby Jesus?”

Pierre answered for Cotton. “It is a tradition in my country not to place the babe in the manger until the stroke of midnight on the eve of Christmas.”

“Which by my calculations,” Gibbs said, pulling out a pocket watch and consulted it. “Should be right about … now.”

As he spoke the ringing of church bells pealed in the night and a collective cry of voices could be heard echoing from the ships in the harbor and upon the shore, “Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas, everyone!”

Cotton pulled a small wooden figure from his pocket with a flourish and bowing, handed it to Giselle. Smiling widely, she bent and delicately placed the tiny wooden babe in the manger, as the men all cheered and clapped each other on the back.

Ragetti stood, and taking the wassail bowl from his head, he reverently placed it over his heart and spoke:

And this shall be a sign unto you;
Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

“Whoot’s ‘e doin’ in a manger?” one of the more drunk crew members asked.

“Well there weren’t no room in the inn, now were there?”

Giselle touched a gentle finger to the figure of the baby. “Must have been difficult, her having t’ give birth all alone in a strange place. No family, no nothing.”

“Ah, ma chérie, she was not alone,” Pierre said smiling. “She had Joseph beside her, to protect her and her baby.”

****

Jack slipped by, and made his way to the bow of the Pearl. Sitting out on the bowsprit, eyes towards the horizon, a half empty bottle of rum dangling from one hand, he sought to make sense of his maelstrom of emotions. The multitude of stars above, stretching to infinity did not answer his unspoken questions, nor did the dark sea beyond the Pearl’s bow.

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

He knew where his heart truly lied, he knew and yet was helpless to change what fate had dealt them.

“Find Elizabeth, Jack. Take care of her for me.”

The words echoed on the distant wind.

Closer ones interrupted his thoughts.

“A person oughtn’t to be alone, ‘specially on Christmas.”

Giselle smiled, when Jack glanced down at her from his perch, the breeze fluttering her skirts. Lost in thought, he had not heard her approach.

“Was hopin’ we might get t’ spend some time together,” she continued, in a soft voice. “You know, fer old time’s sake, and all that.” She glanced up, hopeful.

Jack sighed and took a long swallow of rum. Pointing towards the lights of the other ships in the harbor, he said simply, “There’s many a fine gent looking for a bit of company tonight. A face as lovely as yours ought t’ have her pick.”

Giselle glanced out at the water and shook her head. “I’m not lookin’ fer that, Jack.”

Sighing again, Jack scuttled along the bowsprit and hopped onto the deck. Handing the bottle to Giselle he said with finality, “I’m not lookin’ for that, either. Done found it, and lost it once again.”

“Not like you t’ give up, Jack. I’m sure you’ll find it again, one day.” Giselle laid a hand on his sleeve. “You just have to know what you want and go after it. S’what you always tell me.”

Jack didn’t answer, just gave her a quick smile as he joined her at the rail. The two of them gazed at the lights of Tortuga in comfortable silence.

“Looks almost pretty, from here,” she said finally, laughing softly.

What seemed a lifetime ago, he’d sailed into this very port, trailing along on a fool’s mission to rescue a certain damsel in distress. Seemed fate was handing him the same mission, and yet who was it exactly that needed rescuing this time?

“…and you really need to see the wonderful crèche Cotton carved!” Giselle prattled on.

“Come again?” Jack shook the past from his mind.

“The crew. They asked me t’fetch you, Jack.” Giselle sighed. “Weren’t you even listening?”

“The crew. Right.” Jack draped his arm around her shoulder. “Tell them I will be with them shortly.” He gave her a gently push. “Go on, I won’t be long.”

He knew that he couldn’t say no. It was the least he could do, for them. Life, new life, had a way of reshuffling one’s priorities.

Resolute in spirit, if not mind, Jack rejoined the festivities on deck, where the remaining men were raising their tankards to all and sundry including the King, were it pirate or principality, their captain, their crew, their long-suffering mothers… leaving no one out as the rum flowed freely.

Jack bent down and studied the small wooden figures, picking up first Joseph and then Mary. With a smile he placed them gently beside the baby in the manger.

Ah, ma chérie, she was not alone. She had Joseph beside her, to protect her and her baby.

Scuttlebutt was that the pirate king had left these waters, and traveled east, back to the land of her birth. A bright star hung low in the Eastern sky, catching Jack’s eye, beckoning him, pointing the way.

They say that Wise Men from before time followed a guiding star, leading them to one worth more than any earthly treasure. Jack opened his compass and smiled as the needle held steady. He knew where his course now lay.

Snapping the compass shut, Jack made up his mind.

“Mister Gibbs!”

“Aye, Cap’n?”

“We have our heading.”

“Where to, Cap’n?” Gibbs asked, scratching his whiskers.

“East. We sail the day after Boxing Day on the morning tide.”

“Aye, Cap’n. I’ll have the crew on board, sir.”

A flurry of activity accompanied his words as a small piglet dashed across the deck, with Ragetti, wassail bowl and all, hot on her heels.

Shaking his head, Jack said, “I leave them in your hands, Mister Gibbs.”

Gibbs raised his cup. “To Old Christmas Revived.”

Jack raised his as well, clinking cups he said, “Hospitality Restored.”

Then, with a small salute he toasted the far horizon. “Here’s to you, Will Turner.”

Turning his gaze back to the guiding star, he raised his cup once more, “And Elizabeth, wherever you may be. Happy Christmas, luv.”

****

MerryPirates Christmas Fic - Old Christmas Revived (4/5)

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 03:26:07 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Old Christmas Revived - Chapter 4

Rating: G
Characters: Various characters from POTC, along with an extra special OC
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

****

Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored
Chapter 4

****

The court, and the city, and country are glad,
Old Christmas is come to cheer up the sad;
Broad pieces and guineas about now shall fly,
And hundreds be losers by cogging a die,
Whilst others are feasting with diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Those that have no coin at the cards for to play,
May sit by the fire, and pass time away,
And drink of their moisture contented and free
"My honest good fellow, come, here is to thee!"
And when they are hungry, fall to their relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Young gallants and ladies shall foot it along,
Each room in the house to the musick shall throng,
Whilst jolly carouses about they shall pass,
And each country swain trip about with his lass;
Meantime goes the caterer to fetch in the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

****

“No, no, no, no, my dear Gibbous!” Pierre protested. “It is not the ‘leaping lords’ and ‘milking maids’ as you English say!”

The moon hung low on the horizon, the evening now mellowed; the celebration in town having weaved its way back to the Pearl once again.

Pierre and Gibbs, who were sharing a bottle of wine along with stories of Christmas customs from their homelands, were arguing good-naturedly over a child’s counting rhyme.

“I remember, clear as yesterday, my dear mum teaching me the words,” Gibbs said, ticking them off on his fingers, “It were a partridge in a pear-tree, two turtle-doves, three French hens, four colly birds, five gold rings, six geese a-laying, seven swans a-swimming, eight maids a-milking, nine drummers drumming, ten pipers piping, eleven ladies dancing, and twelve lords leaping.”

Pierre interrupted. “You English, and your love of the war. Drummers drumming, pipers piping. Pah!”

“Why I always ‘eard it were a King giving ‘is Lady a parrot,” a drunken sailor piped up. “Like Cotton’s there.”

Cotton glanced up from the piece of wood he was whittling and grinned, his parrot flapping its wings in agreement.

“Whoever heard of a King with a bloomin’ parrot?” Pintel asked, looking up from his dice game.

“I’ve heard that one, originally from Scotland, tis,” Ragetti offered, sitting regally with wassail bowl rakishly perched on his head. “King gave her a baboon, too.”

“Well we ain’t originally from Scotland, are we?” Pintel said, with a snort. “I’ve always heard it the way Gibbs tells it.”

“In my country, we give the gifts most useful, no?” Pierre said. “The partridge, the two turtle-doves, the three wood-pigeons,” he recited. “Four ducks flying, five rabbits trotting, six hares a-field, seven hounds running, eight shorn sheep, nine horned oxen, ten good turkeys, eleven good hams, and the twelve small cheeses.”

“Cheeses?” The men all fell about laughing and slapping their legs. “Leave it to the French to give cheeses!”

“What? You would rather we give the gift of the parrot? The Arabian baboon?” Pierre sputtered. “Or perhaps you English men prefer the La foi de la loi, the creed of the authority. Voilà.”

He began to sing solemnly,

“La premier' parti' d'la foi de la loi,
Dit' la moi, frere Gregoire.
Un bon farci sans os

La deuxieme parti' d'la foi de la loi,
Dit' le moi, frere Gregoire
Deux ventres de veau,
Un bon farci sans os.

A good stuffing without bones. Two breasts of veal.” Pierre translated. “Three joints of beef, four pig's trotters, five legs of mutton, six partridges with cabbage, seven spitted rabbits, eight plates of salad, nine plates of cheese, ten full casks, eleven beautiful full-breasted maidens, twelve knights with their rapiers.”

This was greeted by shouts of approval from the drunken crew.

“Full-breasted maidens, why that’s more like it!”

“A bloody buggering sight better than cheese!”

The men all hooted and hollered, falling about in laughter once more.

****

Jack Sparrow sat apart from the men, enjoying the festivities with certain reluctance, though not taking part. There were several things pressing on his mind, the first and foremost being the one he’d left behind all those months ago. Deep in thought, he barely noted the sound of revelry wafting across the water from the many ships crowding the harbor.

It had now been three nights since he’d awakened to the sound of a soft, wet splock, and found himself face to face with the ghost of Christmas past. Well, at least it might as well have been a ghost for the turn it gave him. There, stepping into his cabin, through the solid bulkhead was none other than the Captain of the Flying Dutchman, Will Turner, himself.

“I don’t suppose you could learn to knock, like normal blighters,” Jack had groused, once he’d regained his voice. Even though this wasn’t the first time he’d been visited in such a fashion, Jack still found Will’s sudden materializations to be rather disconcerting.

Will had only smirked that familiar crooked smile, making himself at home by lighting a lantern and pouring a glass of rum. “Sorry, Jack,” he’d said, sinking into the chair beside the bunk with a sigh. “I don’t have much time and well…” He waved a vague hand around. “My presence seems to cause some alarm these days.”

Jack sat up and took the glass from Will, draining it in one swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before handing the glass back with a grin. “Can’t really blame ‘em for being alarmed, what with you appearing out of thin air like that.” His grin faded as he saw the solemn look on Will’s face.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t your normal social call?” Jack said, motioning towards the bottle of rum by Will’s foot, who automatically reached down and handed it to Jack, before wearily burying his face in his hands.

Taking another swallow, and two more for good measure, Jack braved the question he dreaded to ask.

“What brings you here?”

“Elizabeth.”

The word hung heavily between the two men.

“Ah, yes. Her nibs.” Jack was the first to break the uneasy silence. “And how is our dear Lizzie these days?”

“She’s with child.” Will said, his voice low. He stood up abruptly and began to pace the cabin. “She’s carrying my child, and I cannot be there for her. For them.” He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration.

Jack poured some rum in the glass and handed it to Will. “Here. Do you good.”

Will downed the rum and grimaced, sank back onto the chair, and stared pensively at the floor. “She’s all alone in the world now, Jack. All my grand efforts gone to waste.”

“From my recollections, Elizabeth is quite capable of taking care of herself,” Jack pointed out rather unhelpfully.

“Yes, but not in her condition. I need your help, Jack.”

“My help?” Jack took a swallow of rum and added, “Not so sure your charming wife would welcome my help.”

“She trusts you.”

“Ha!” Jack said. “All evidence to the contrary, my dear William.”

“I trust you.” Will said quietly.

Jack studied Will intently for a moment, then asked, “What pray tell, exactly am I supposed to…?”

“Will you go to her, Jack?” Will interrupted, his face earnest. “Would you see that she’s safe?”

“If I were to go,” Jack said, one finger raised, “and I’m not sayin’ I will, but if I do happen t’ change me mind, just where might this somewhere safe be?”

“That’s just it, Jack, I don’t even know where to start looking,” Will said, in anguish. “I don’t have much time, I am stretching it enough coming here.”

Jack pulled out his compass nonchalantly and tossed it to Will. “Perhaps this will help? Bit hard to go rescuing your distressing damsel without a heading.”

Will opened the compass whose needle quivered before swinging around to point at…

“You?” Will asked incredulously.

Rolling his eyes, Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “East.” He took the compass back and shook his head. “Really, Will. I would think you would have figured out how it works by now.” Leaning forward, Jack squinted at Will, calculating, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve no business in that direction, mate.”

Eyes flashing, Will set his jaw and returned the gaze, swallowing his helplessness to replace it with sworn determination. “What business do you have here, Jack? Are you planning on handing the Pearl over to the East India Trading Company or will you just sit here, drinking rum, and wait for them to blow her into pieces?”

Sitting up, Jack looked at anything but Will in obvious discomfort, gathering his abruptly splayed out thoughts that he’d tried so hard to hide from. Taking in deep breath, finger raised to argue, he met Will’s eyes, and promptly deflated.

“I hate it when you’re right.” There was not an ounce of sarcasm in Jack’s voice.

Suddenly, a worried look crossed Will’s face and his brow furrowed. “I have to go.” He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder almost apologetically and said with feeling, “Find Elizabeth, Jack. Take care of her for me.”

“Right.” Jack smiled briefly, and then added seriously, “No worries, mate.”

Will’s smile of relief remained behind long after he’d faded into the woodwork.

****

MerryPirates Christmas Fic - Old Christmas Revived (3/5)

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 03:19:40 GMT

Written by: mamazano

Title: Old Christmas Revived - Chapter 3

Rating: G
Characters: Various characters from POTC, along with an extra special OC
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just like playing with them.

Old Christmas Revived, Hospitality Restored \
Chapter 3

****

Although the cold weather doth hunger provoke,
'Tis a comfort to see how the chimneys do smoke;
Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine,
For all that are willing or ready to dine:
Then haste to the kitchen, for diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

All travellers, as they do pass on their way,
At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay,
Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest,
Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest
Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

Now Mock-beggar-hall it no more shall stand empty,
But all shall be furnisht with freedom and plenty;
The hoarding old misers, who us'd to preserve
The gold in their coffers, and see the poor starve,
Must now spread their tables, and give them in brief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minc'd pies, and roast-beef.

****

They formed a motley procession on their way to the waterfront. Several fiddlers led the way, followed by the crew, drunk and boisterous and singing off-key, weaving their way down the muddy street. Behind them came the feast, carried with much pomp and pageantry.

In the lead was Pierre, proudly carrying the flaming Christmas pudding, followed by Scarlett and Giselle with the minced pies.

Pintel and Ragetti were next, hauling a huge silver wassail bowl between them. Its contents were a potent potation indeed, a heady mixture of the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface. The two recently recruited cooks, who had been liberally sampling the mixture, bobbed along as well.

“Don’t want t’ be servin’ the Cap’n an inferior drink.” Ragetti had sniffed, after his second cup. Pintel had agreed wholeheartedly, quaffing several cupfuls before an irate Pierre had shooed them away.

Behind them came Cotton, solemnly carrying the Christmas goose, stuffed with apples and prunes and roasted to perfection. On his shoulder, his parrot flapping its wings and squawked, “Don’t eat me. Don’t eat me!”

Marty followed, wheeling a barrow almost as big as him, filled with bottles of wine nestled in straw. Last but not least was Gibbs, carrying a large silver platter on which rested an enormous pig's head decorated with rosemary and sage and a lemon in its mouth.

The sight and smell of the movable feast attracted a large ensemble of followers, all of which crowded onto the narrow dock alongside which the Black Pearl was now moored. At the sound of the music and singing, the captain of the vessel emerged from his cabin to see what the commotion was all about.

“Bonjour, Capitaine Sparrow!” Pierre called. “We have brought you the Christmas feast, as you can see!”

“And half the town, it appears,” Jack said.

Pierre shrugged. “What is Christmas without a celebration?”

“Peaceful.” Jack folded his arms and jutted out his chin. “You weren’t expecting to bring that mob onto me ship, were you?”

“No, no, no,” Pierre said. “They will return to their taverns and have their own feasts.”

“Permission to come aboard, Cap’n?” Gibbs called.

“Aye, permission granted, Mister Gibbs,” Jack reluctantly agreed, eyeing the flaming pudding with suspicion. “But have Pierre puts that bloody fire out first.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Gibbs said grinning.

The gangplank was lowered and the crew carried the feast aboard. Planks were hastily placed across the deck guns, and covered with burlap sheets. The food was arrayed as grandly as if it were gracing a grand country manor’s sideboard.

“What do you think, my dear Capitaine?” Pierre asked Jack, waving a hand. “I have for you the traditional English Christmas, complete with the exhilarating wassail bowl and the boar's head, crowned with le bon garlands. The minced pies, the plum pudding, the goose roasted to perfection. Even the wandering minstrels singing the ancient carols, oui?”

“For a Frenchman, you’ve done a proper English feast, aye.” Jack raised his bottle in a half salute.

The fiddlers continued to play a collection of traditional carols and tunes, giving the celebration a festive air. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the torches and lanterns were lit, while the crew feasted and drank under the twinkling stars of Christmas Eve night.

As the last of the food was savored, and the wassail bowl drained to its dregs, Pierre clapped his hands and pronounced it time for the Christmas pudding to be cut and the ‘King of the Bean’ be crowned.

“It is a grand tradition in my country, the Gateau des Rois, the King’s cake,” Pierre explained. “Normally, we would wait until Twelfth Night for it, but alas, Capitaine Sparrow wishes to set sail before that. So, instead we shall partake of this fine English pudding, inside of which resides une fève, a lucky charm. The fortunate person who finds this charm shall be crowned the King of the Revels, the Lord of Misrule, the Master of Merry Disports.”

Pintel elbowed Ragetti and grinned. “I like that.”

“Traditionally, other items, they would also be hidden in the cake,” Pierre continued. “A pea for the Queen; a clove, for a rogue; a twig for the Cuckold, or a bit of rag that says that perhaps your morals might be in question.” Looking around at the drunken pirate crew, he shrugged. “But, with the present company, I did not see a reason to include these others.”

This caused much laughter and jostling amongst the crew, several of them clapping their companion’s back in merriment. The pieces of cake were distributed among the men, with the admonishment for none to eat until the last piece was cut.

“I got it!” The cry rang out and all eyes turned to see Ragetti proudly holding up the silver charm.

Suddenly all the men were up, slapping him on the back, placing the empty wassail bowl on his head for a crown, finding a cloak and staff for him to wear. The merrymaking spilled out onto the dock and soon the men were dancing and drinking with each other and the tavern wenches who’d followed them down to the pier.

Leading the procession, Ragetti announced his first, and most likely his last command. “I proclaim a celebration!” Carrying him on their shoulders, the men headed back towards town.

“He makes a good Lord of Misrule,” Pierre said as they watched the parade weaving its way through the streets.

“More like fool,” Gibbs said with a shake of the head. “Whoever heard of having a pet pig on board a ship anyways?”

****