Fic: Betrayal (2/4): An Eye for an Eye
By Honorat
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jack/Pearl, Jack/Anamaria
Disclaimer: Poor fanfic author’s had her profit cut out, so she’s trained the parrot to write for her. No one’s yet figured how.
Summary: Why does Anamaria take Jack’s ship at Isla de Muerta? For virgo_79 who requested Anamaria and the Black Pearl. First part available at The Second Time.
Thank you to geekmama for the beta read.
* * * * *
An Eye for an Eye
Jack owed her a ship. Anamaria scowled fiercely at the men making ready to sail and laid her hand on the helm of the Black Pearl. Jack’s Pearl. Here, helpless for the taking, was her revenge. She would serve that bloody bastard a heaping bowl full of his own treachery. In her clenched fists, she felt the wheel vibrate as if with a low growl. Anamaria bared her teeth. Unlike these common pirates, she’d always known this ship was alive-had felt the fury, the resentment, the vengeful heart of her as she’d pressed up against the bulkheads of her brig.
She and the Black Pearl would be wrestling for control very soon. But Anamaria knew she would win. She would take Jack’s black-hearted vixen of a ship as he had taken her Jolly Mon. The Pearl would hate her for it, but Anamaria could live with that. She was, after all, accustomed to sailing a cranky boat with a penchant for trying to drown her. And the Black Pearl had been used hard. She was scarcely a worthy opponent, submerged under the weight of the curse, ravaged by her mutinous crew, her wounds from various battles left untended by men who’d cared for her scars no more than they’d cared for their own.
Under any other circumstances, Anamaria would have felt sorry for this beautiful and tragic ship. But the Loas had spoken; they were to be opponents. And so she had to be thankful for any weakness that bound this once-proud ship to serve those who were abducting her. Anamaria would make the Black Pearl the instrument of her retribution. Jack had betrayed her, and now Jack would pay.
Captain Jack Sparrow. Damn the man to the deepest circles of hell! With his treacle-smooth tongue and his treasure-shot smile. With his eyes like melted cacao and his heart like coldest obsidian. The face of a fallen angel and the soul of Lucifer himself. Never trust a pirate, her grandmother had warned her. She should have known Grandmère was right.
Anamaria was no whore. She was an honest working girl. Or as honest as a girl could be in a hellhole like Tortuga. But she had been intoxicated by more than just the rum when Jack Sparrow had singled her out. To be sure there’d been the satisfaction of seeing the impotent wrath in the eyes of Scarlett, Jack’s steadiest business partner in matters of the flesh. There’d been the triumph in flaunting her conquest before the envious eyes of the other shore girls. Jack Sparrow was always the catch of the day when he sailed into town. But that in itself would not have left her with this crawling sense of shame.
A girl could lure a man in, let him show her the town and buy her a few drinks, bask in his attention for an evening. If she liked him, she might let things go further. Anamaria had always been able to dissuade a gentleman from going further than she liked. Actually, she could take down a man faster than he could drop his breeches if she decided she’d had enough of his importunities. Men left Anamaria strictly alone unless she made the first move.
But she’d been powerless to resist that dusky-voiced, fire-eyed pirate captain who might have been temptation personified. He’d stopped by the docks where she’d been mending her nets and had offered to buy her ship-if that wasn’t giving the little boat far more honour than was its due. She’d laughed at him. She’d refused, of course, but he’d stayed to chat, leaning with serpentine grace against a piling, smiling at her with that disturbing look in his eyes, mesmerizing her with his fluid hands. The upshot was that when he’d asked her to share a drop of rum at the Faithful Bride, she’d agreed. Oh yes, Grandmère had been so very right.
No, she couldn’t blame the sweet burn of rum for what had happened. Anamaria knew better than to let a man drink her under the table. Or she’d thought she did. But that bloody pirate had fascinated her with his stories, and then he’d listened, really listened, to her own far less thrilling ones. No man had ever gazed into her face, which she knew was not hard to look upon, and held her in his arms, and then listened to her at all. Men had other things on their minds when they had their hands on a pretty girl.
But Jack Sparrow had listened, as though what she’d had to say really mattered. And that had undone her. Anamaria grimaced. Aye. There lay the true bitterness. She’d thought he’d actually cared. His arm had rested, solid and warm across her shoulder, and those abominably clever fingers had kept her mind completely distracted from warning her of any danger as they’d played with strands of her hair and occasionally brushed along the curve of her jaw. While she’d been with him, she’d felt a hundred candles had been lit inside her and her skin must glow with their luminescence. And that one kiss, just a brush of his lips before the rum swallowed her in amber fog-she’d felt the blister of it on her lips for weeks after he’d gone. Even now she dashed the back of her wrist against her mouth at the memory.
She’d let him bundle her, all muzzily drunk, off to some unfamiliar room with a tiny bed where she’d expected things to go a lot further than she’d planned that evening. She’d been unable to remember where she’d put her indignation. After one more round of rum, she couldn’t remember anything at all. However, he hadn’t touched her after she’d lost all her sheets to the wind. Hadn’t taken advantage when he easily could have, as most of the sorts of men who frequented Tortuga would have. She’d have known if anything of that sort had happened. So even the desire she’d thought she’d seen in his eyes had been a lie. It seemed odd to resent a man for not indulging his lust. But nothing about her feelings for Jack Sparrow made any sense at all. Except the anger. That made perfect sense.
He’d taken her boat. When he knew, oh yes-Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl-he knew what it meant to her. The man who had chased one ship for ten years had not been performing a casual act of ignorant cruelty when he’d stolen the Jolly Mon. Such a deed might almost have been called innocent-merely a crime, not this utter violation. But he had known, to the last bitter dregs of his being, what he was doing to her. And that, she could never forgive. She’d let him have a little bit of her soul that night, and he’d taken what she had given, returned nothing in exchange, and had run off with the remainder of her heart-her beloved, temperamental, shambles of a boat-while he’d left her to sleep off his treacherous rum and his even more treacherous touch.
She’d gone into the tavern with the pirate that night a woman of property with her own independence. She had awoken the next morning with a pile-driving headache, in the cramped, reeking quarters of some blond, heavily-painted whore who’d glared at her like she carried the clap and had screeched curses at her and Jack Sparrow until Anamaria had been forced to pay her last coin for her night’s stay. At that, it hadn’t been enough to pacify the woman, until Anamaria had threatened to draw her cork. Deciding she’d gotten all she was going to get out of Jack Sparrow’s strumpet, the whore had slammed the door in Anamaria’s face. Apparently she wasn’t the only woman Jack had used that night. And then Anamaria had been out on the street, where she’d soon discovered she no longer had an honest means to make her living. The Jolly Mon was gone.
For that slowly spreading sickening feeling that had twisted her gut; for that painful loss of a faithful, if cantankerous, companion; for the days of humiliation seeking a berth on respectable ships; for the necessity which forced her finally aboard a smuggling vessel and into the shadows of the law and the haunts of lawless men; for every bloody moment of soul-warping rage and for every fear-wrung sleepless night, Captain Jack Sparrow would pay. For making her ever believe, even for a moment, that in all of that heartless, conscienceless town, someone might possibly care, he would pay. For ripping that hope from her forever, he would certainly pay.
“Jack Sparrow!” Anamaria gritted through clenched teeth. “You can rot in hell on that cursed island, for all I care. And I hope you do!”
The ship lurched under her feet, and she fell hard against the helm. “You just shut up!” she hissed at the Pearl. “You don’t know a thing about it.” Gripping the wheel with grim determination, she forced the ship onto course away from Isla de Muerta. But Anamaria could see neither the spectral sails nor the rotting decks through the blurring in her eyes as she shouted the orders for the Black Pearl, Jack’s heart and soul, to make way.
TBC
Regrets.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jack/Pearl, Jack/Anamaria
Disclaimer: Poor fanfic author’s had her profit cut out, so she’s trained the parrot to write for her. No one’s yet figured how.
Summary: Why does Anamaria take Jack’s ship at Isla de Muerta? For virgo_79 who requested Anamaria and the Black Pearl. First part available at The Second Time.
Thank you to geekmama for the beta read.
* * * * *
An Eye for an Eye
Jack owed her a ship. Anamaria scowled fiercely at the men making ready to sail and laid her hand on the helm of the Black Pearl. Jack’s Pearl. Here, helpless for the taking, was her revenge. She would serve that bloody bastard a heaping bowl full of his own treachery. In her clenched fists, she felt the wheel vibrate as if with a low growl. Anamaria bared her teeth. Unlike these common pirates, she’d always known this ship was alive-had felt the fury, the resentment, the vengeful heart of her as she’d pressed up against the bulkheads of her brig.
She and the Black Pearl would be wrestling for control very soon. But Anamaria knew she would win. She would take Jack’s black-hearted vixen of a ship as he had taken her Jolly Mon. The Pearl would hate her for it, but Anamaria could live with that. She was, after all, accustomed to sailing a cranky boat with a penchant for trying to drown her. And the Black Pearl had been used hard. She was scarcely a worthy opponent, submerged under the weight of the curse, ravaged by her mutinous crew, her wounds from various battles left untended by men who’d cared for her scars no more than they’d cared for their own.
Under any other circumstances, Anamaria would have felt sorry for this beautiful and tragic ship. But the Loas had spoken; they were to be opponents. And so she had to be thankful for any weakness that bound this once-proud ship to serve those who were abducting her. Anamaria would make the Black Pearl the instrument of her retribution. Jack had betrayed her, and now Jack would pay.
Captain Jack Sparrow. Damn the man to the deepest circles of hell! With his treacle-smooth tongue and his treasure-shot smile. With his eyes like melted cacao and his heart like coldest obsidian. The face of a fallen angel and the soul of Lucifer himself. Never trust a pirate, her grandmother had warned her. She should have known Grandmère was right.
Anamaria was no whore. She was an honest working girl. Or as honest as a girl could be in a hellhole like Tortuga. But she had been intoxicated by more than just the rum when Jack Sparrow had singled her out. To be sure there’d been the satisfaction of seeing the impotent wrath in the eyes of Scarlett, Jack’s steadiest business partner in matters of the flesh. There’d been the triumph in flaunting her conquest before the envious eyes of the other shore girls. Jack Sparrow was always the catch of the day when he sailed into town. But that in itself would not have left her with this crawling sense of shame.
A girl could lure a man in, let him show her the town and buy her a few drinks, bask in his attention for an evening. If she liked him, she might let things go further. Anamaria had always been able to dissuade a gentleman from going further than she liked. Actually, she could take down a man faster than he could drop his breeches if she decided she’d had enough of his importunities. Men left Anamaria strictly alone unless she made the first move.
But she’d been powerless to resist that dusky-voiced, fire-eyed pirate captain who might have been temptation personified. He’d stopped by the docks where she’d been mending her nets and had offered to buy her ship-if that wasn’t giving the little boat far more honour than was its due. She’d laughed at him. She’d refused, of course, but he’d stayed to chat, leaning with serpentine grace against a piling, smiling at her with that disturbing look in his eyes, mesmerizing her with his fluid hands. The upshot was that when he’d asked her to share a drop of rum at the Faithful Bride, she’d agreed. Oh yes, Grandmère had been so very right.
No, she couldn’t blame the sweet burn of rum for what had happened. Anamaria knew better than to let a man drink her under the table. Or she’d thought she did. But that bloody pirate had fascinated her with his stories, and then he’d listened, really listened, to her own far less thrilling ones. No man had ever gazed into her face, which she knew was not hard to look upon, and held her in his arms, and then listened to her at all. Men had other things on their minds when they had their hands on a pretty girl.
But Jack Sparrow had listened, as though what she’d had to say really mattered. And that had undone her. Anamaria grimaced. Aye. There lay the true bitterness. She’d thought he’d actually cared. His arm had rested, solid and warm across her shoulder, and those abominably clever fingers had kept her mind completely distracted from warning her of any danger as they’d played with strands of her hair and occasionally brushed along the curve of her jaw. While she’d been with him, she’d felt a hundred candles had been lit inside her and her skin must glow with their luminescence. And that one kiss, just a brush of his lips before the rum swallowed her in amber fog-she’d felt the blister of it on her lips for weeks after he’d gone. Even now she dashed the back of her wrist against her mouth at the memory.
She’d let him bundle her, all muzzily drunk, off to some unfamiliar room with a tiny bed where she’d expected things to go a lot further than she’d planned that evening. She’d been unable to remember where she’d put her indignation. After one more round of rum, she couldn’t remember anything at all. However, he hadn’t touched her after she’d lost all her sheets to the wind. Hadn’t taken advantage when he easily could have, as most of the sorts of men who frequented Tortuga would have. She’d have known if anything of that sort had happened. So even the desire she’d thought she’d seen in his eyes had been a lie. It seemed odd to resent a man for not indulging his lust. But nothing about her feelings for Jack Sparrow made any sense at all. Except the anger. That made perfect sense.
He’d taken her boat. When he knew, oh yes-Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl-he knew what it meant to her. The man who had chased one ship for ten years had not been performing a casual act of ignorant cruelty when he’d stolen the Jolly Mon. Such a deed might almost have been called innocent-merely a crime, not this utter violation. But he had known, to the last bitter dregs of his being, what he was doing to her. And that, she could never forgive. She’d let him have a little bit of her soul that night, and he’d taken what she had given, returned nothing in exchange, and had run off with the remainder of her heart-her beloved, temperamental, shambles of a boat-while he’d left her to sleep off his treacherous rum and his even more treacherous touch.
She’d gone into the tavern with the pirate that night a woman of property with her own independence. She had awoken the next morning with a pile-driving headache, in the cramped, reeking quarters of some blond, heavily-painted whore who’d glared at her like she carried the clap and had screeched curses at her and Jack Sparrow until Anamaria had been forced to pay her last coin for her night’s stay. At that, it hadn’t been enough to pacify the woman, until Anamaria had threatened to draw her cork. Deciding she’d gotten all she was going to get out of Jack Sparrow’s strumpet, the whore had slammed the door in Anamaria’s face. Apparently she wasn’t the only woman Jack had used that night. And then Anamaria had been out on the street, where she’d soon discovered she no longer had an honest means to make her living. The Jolly Mon was gone.
For that slowly spreading sickening feeling that had twisted her gut; for that painful loss of a faithful, if cantankerous, companion; for the days of humiliation seeking a berth on respectable ships; for the necessity which forced her finally aboard a smuggling vessel and into the shadows of the law and the haunts of lawless men; for every bloody moment of soul-warping rage and for every fear-wrung sleepless night, Captain Jack Sparrow would pay. For making her ever believe, even for a moment, that in all of that heartless, conscienceless town, someone might possibly care, he would pay. For ripping that hope from her forever, he would certainly pay.
“Jack Sparrow!” Anamaria gritted through clenched teeth. “You can rot in hell on that cursed island, for all I care. And I hope you do!”
The ship lurched under her feet, and she fell hard against the helm. “You just shut up!” she hissed at the Pearl. “You don’t know a thing about it.” Gripping the wheel with grim determination, she forced the ship onto course away from Isla de Muerta. But Anamaria could see neither the spectral sails nor the rotting decks through the blurring in her eyes as she shouted the orders for the Black Pearl, Jack’s heart and soul, to make way.
TBC
Regrets.