justprompts: All Good Things (Come to an End)
The four hundred dollars of safety money wasn't going to get Jack very far, but he wasn't worried. That was what things like credit fraud and false identities were for, and always the pirate, he constantly had one or two extra names lying around.
Today Jack Sparrow was running away from home, but tomorrow Jack Teague would be arriving in Kingston, Jamaica. He wasn't sure why, precisely, he was doing this. James certainly wasn't going to be happy when he came back, and the ex-Navyman's happiness had become very important to Jack. The rings, and to an extent taking Chase in, had both been attempts at settling, calming down.
It almost worked. In the end, however, Captain Jack Sparrow still hadn't stopped running after all these years. So when his gut told him to leave, his obedience was almost inevitable. He ran, taking his talismans with him; hat, sword, compass: undeniably his, and his from the very beginning. Only able to hope James would understand, he left a note and went in search of some peace.
*****
A piece of the old world, of days gone by, untouched by this new brand of mankind. That's what Jack wanted, what he always wanted when it got this bad. He'd told Hector long ago; the world wasn't getting smaller, there was just less in it. That had been true then, but now, to Jack, it felt practically empty.
The magic was almost gone, even the gods seemed to be losing interest. There weren't nearly as many crabs raining down Calypsotic fury as there had been in the beginning. Jack almost missed the old ha- beautiful, compelling goddess of the sea. Sailing out of Kingston on Jack Pardal's $200 rental boat, he fancied he could almost hear her mad laugh. Then he decided he hadn't had enough rum, if he was hallucinating that badly.
*****
When Jack first came out of the Locker, his hallucinated selves were strong, frequent, and loud, sometimes helpful. When he emerged a second time, they'd doubled in volume and frequency. From cracked to broken to shattered, his personality glittered all around him like shards of a fragmented mirror.
It took him half a century just to gather them all near again. Even now a couple remained, his supposed 'shoulder angels,' appearing at the least convenient times with their own brands of advice or company. When they brought counsel, Jack listened. When they brought fellowship, he let them do the thinking while Jack himself sat back and drank.
Perhaps drinking alone in the middle of the ocean wasn't the brightest idea, but Jack would never be at his best when left to himself. Being drunker was much more betterer. And in three days, he made his goal.
*****
The beach where he first chose his destiny - this version, at any rate, or a rough draft of this version, as it were - wasn't at all like he expected. In fact, it took Jack a while to realize where it in fact was. Fifty years after his last visit and suddenly the island shrank a hundred yards inward, at very least. It was hardly fair, he all agreed. In order to commemorate the injustice they took a drink, and then five, six, twenty more.
They drank to the kraken. They drank to pirates, the undead, mermaids, and even old bastard Beckett, once they were drunk enough. They drank to rum, sodomy, the lash, and irrepressible, nancy Navy boys they'd hardly ever met but heard stories of, repeated stories of, until neither they nor James could remember. They drank to freedom in fear, open seas, daring escapes, and sea turtles. At one point, they soaked a twig in rum and burnt it in memory of poor, sad, burnt rum that never got drank. One of them cried when they drank to prison dogs and ancient tombs of secret, guiding laws, but neither of the other him pointed it out.
They drank to oblivion and dreamless sleep, the closest they'd been to peaceful death. And then they passed out, leaving only Jack on the beach, the others gone with his consciousness.
*****
His conscience told him, "No, don't intrude, wouldn't want someone here yerself, would ye mate?"
Jack flicked them off his shoulders and continued on through the trees, following the wordless procession in parallel, side-by-side with the unaware pallbearers. They carried not the typical, modern coffin Jack found so hideously stuffy, but a simple platform upon which a candidly dead old man, face left unmade, lay.
They arrived while he slept, and only ancient instincts and the sounds of approaching motors awoke Jack in time to avoid discovery and inadvertent intrusion. The later he felt more important, which was why he kept his distance now as they laid the withered shell to rest. There were speeches of sorts, things he strained to hear, caught fragments of from his perch.
A good man, he thought he heard them say, last of a dead kind, so passionate, so quiet, so dead. There was, over everything else, a prevalence of silence. The pirate found it uneasy and peaceful at once, much how he viewed death these days. That night on the beach they showed the old man's earliest contribution to 'a fast changing, flickering, ever-moving medium.' The screen was silent, but the violin accompanying said it all.
*****
Two more days before he ran out of rum and his belly began protesting the lack of anything. All but his two constantest companions were gone, and the people had never realized he was there. There was a brief argument that he should stay longer, live off the island like he was once so accustomed to, but again Jack gainsaid his advisors.
This wasn't his island alone, it wasn't his island at all. It belonged to the ends of things, even as it slowly ended itself. Jack may have been the last of the true pirates, but he could hardly call himself an end of them. This wasn't his place to stay.
*****
Sometimes Jack could hold still for hours on end, until the animals had forgotten his existence and the humans were too unnerved to say anything. Other times, like now, he could barely pause a second. Some part of him, somewhere, was ticking a staccato double-tock to the clock on the wall. It happened now more than it did then, and at the moment his nose wiggled nonstop and compulsive.
These places made him more nervous than the old cells; the windows and blinds closed off more than bars, the smooth, light grey walls fenced in more than rough, uneven stone. The neat metal table with its linoleum top and the plastic-seated chairs felt more inhumane than the shackles and hay-strewn floors ever did. Historians might laugh, but as Jack's nose stilled, his eyes kept moving and his toe began worrying at a hole in its own, sock-y prison.
The new lawmen couldn't hold him, the old pirate knew that full well. There were no regulations, no wrongs obviously committed, and these fools were far more bound to those laws than even his own honor-bound fool back home had been. Jack Sparrow was Jack Sparrow - Captain, not Mister, if y'please - this time, with no proof he'd ever been otherwise. They'd make him change to clean clothes, he'd have to ship his sword home freight, that would be all.
The airport detainment room still made him want to scream as he laced and unlaced his figures, wanting out. He always wanted out, to run to something, to home, to hope, to life; never away, no, really, truly, just toward and forward, there was no behind. Well, besides his behind and James' behind, and honestly everyone had a behind, but someone had told him once that was indecent to mention.
*****
Two weeks, so short, so miniscule, not even a blink, but Jack knew there'd be trouble. There was barely money to reach the docks, but his four hundred dollars made it to the end with a nickel to spare. The other fifty cents bought a candy bar to slowly melt in his pocket during the remaining walk.
The problem, which he always knew was a problem if not the problem, came in the final approach. The final destination he ran to, this time and so often before, always eager to arrive at, loomed directly ahead. Five yards, maybe, and more bobbing than really looming, true, but the feel of it loomed. It was his island, where people like him belonged. Others visited, mostly cats, but certain people only occasionally drifted away.
They came back, always. James knew that; no matter how long they drifted, UJ and Jack always came back. Even if they didn't stay constant, this was their island, their resting place. They came, Jack came back.
Today, for one more time, Jack ran home. But at more of a walk.
Today Jack Sparrow was running away from home, but tomorrow Jack Teague would be arriving in Kingston, Jamaica. He wasn't sure why, precisely, he was doing this. James certainly wasn't going to be happy when he came back, and the ex-Navyman's happiness had become very important to Jack. The rings, and to an extent taking Chase in, had both been attempts at settling, calming down.
It almost worked. In the end, however, Captain Jack Sparrow still hadn't stopped running after all these years. So when his gut told him to leave, his obedience was almost inevitable. He ran, taking his talismans with him; hat, sword, compass: undeniably his, and his from the very beginning. Only able to hope James would understand, he left a note and went in search of some peace.
*****
A piece of the old world, of days gone by, untouched by this new brand of mankind. That's what Jack wanted, what he always wanted when it got this bad. He'd told Hector long ago; the world wasn't getting smaller, there was just less in it. That had been true then, but now, to Jack, it felt practically empty.
The magic was almost gone, even the gods seemed to be losing interest. There weren't nearly as many crabs raining down Calypsotic fury as there had been in the beginning. Jack almost missed the old ha- beautiful, compelling goddess of the sea. Sailing out of Kingston on Jack Pardal's $200 rental boat, he fancied he could almost hear her mad laugh. Then he decided he hadn't had enough rum, if he was hallucinating that badly.
*****
When Jack first came out of the Locker, his hallucinated selves were strong, frequent, and loud, sometimes helpful. When he emerged a second time, they'd doubled in volume and frequency. From cracked to broken to shattered, his personality glittered all around him like shards of a fragmented mirror.
It took him half a century just to gather them all near again. Even now a couple remained, his supposed 'shoulder angels,' appearing at the least convenient times with their own brands of advice or company. When they brought counsel, Jack listened. When they brought fellowship, he let them do the thinking while Jack himself sat back and drank.
Perhaps drinking alone in the middle of the ocean wasn't the brightest idea, but Jack would never be at his best when left to himself. Being drunker was much more betterer. And in three days, he made his goal.
*****
The beach where he first chose his destiny - this version, at any rate, or a rough draft of this version, as it were - wasn't at all like he expected. In fact, it took Jack a while to realize where it in fact was. Fifty years after his last visit and suddenly the island shrank a hundred yards inward, at very least. It was hardly fair, he all agreed. In order to commemorate the injustice they took a drink, and then five, six, twenty more.
They drank to the kraken. They drank to pirates, the undead, mermaids, and even old bastard Beckett, once they were drunk enough. They drank to rum, sodomy, the lash, and irrepressible, nancy Navy boys they'd hardly ever met but heard stories of, repeated stories of, until neither they nor James could remember. They drank to freedom in fear, open seas, daring escapes, and sea turtles. At one point, they soaked a twig in rum and burnt it in memory of poor, sad, burnt rum that never got drank. One of them cried when they drank to prison dogs and ancient tombs of secret, guiding laws, but neither of the other him pointed it out.
They drank to oblivion and dreamless sleep, the closest they'd been to peaceful death. And then they passed out, leaving only Jack on the beach, the others gone with his consciousness.
*****
His conscience told him, "No, don't intrude, wouldn't want someone here yerself, would ye mate?"
Jack flicked them off his shoulders and continued on through the trees, following the wordless procession in parallel, side-by-side with the unaware pallbearers. They carried not the typical, modern coffin Jack found so hideously stuffy, but a simple platform upon which a candidly dead old man, face left unmade, lay.
They arrived while he slept, and only ancient instincts and the sounds of approaching motors awoke Jack in time to avoid discovery and inadvertent intrusion. The later he felt more important, which was why he kept his distance now as they laid the withered shell to rest. There were speeches of sorts, things he strained to hear, caught fragments of from his perch.
A good man, he thought he heard them say, last of a dead kind, so passionate, so quiet, so dead. There was, over everything else, a prevalence of silence. The pirate found it uneasy and peaceful at once, much how he viewed death these days. That night on the beach they showed the old man's earliest contribution to 'a fast changing, flickering, ever-moving medium.' The screen was silent, but the violin accompanying said it all.
*****
Two more days before he ran out of rum and his belly began protesting the lack of anything. All but his two constantest companions were gone, and the people had never realized he was there. There was a brief argument that he should stay longer, live off the island like he was once so accustomed to, but again Jack gainsaid his advisors.
This wasn't his island alone, it wasn't his island at all. It belonged to the ends of things, even as it slowly ended itself. Jack may have been the last of the true pirates, but he could hardly call himself an end of them. This wasn't his place to stay.
*****
Sometimes Jack could hold still for hours on end, until the animals had forgotten his existence and the humans were too unnerved to say anything. Other times, like now, he could barely pause a second. Some part of him, somewhere, was ticking a staccato double-tock to the clock on the wall. It happened now more than it did then, and at the moment his nose wiggled nonstop and compulsive.
These places made him more nervous than the old cells; the windows and blinds closed off more than bars, the smooth, light grey walls fenced in more than rough, uneven stone. The neat metal table with its linoleum top and the plastic-seated chairs felt more inhumane than the shackles and hay-strewn floors ever did. Historians might laugh, but as Jack's nose stilled, his eyes kept moving and his toe began worrying at a hole in its own, sock-y prison.
The new lawmen couldn't hold him, the old pirate knew that full well. There were no regulations, no wrongs obviously committed, and these fools were far more bound to those laws than even his own honor-bound fool back home had been. Jack Sparrow was Jack Sparrow - Captain, not Mister, if y'please - this time, with no proof he'd ever been otherwise. They'd make him change to clean clothes, he'd have to ship his sword home freight, that would be all.
The airport detainment room still made him want to scream as he laced and unlaced his figures, wanting out. He always wanted out, to run to something, to home, to hope, to life; never away, no, really, truly, just toward and forward, there was no behind. Well, besides his behind and James' behind, and honestly everyone had a behind, but someone had told him once that was indecent to mention.
*****
Two weeks, so short, so miniscule, not even a blink, but Jack knew there'd be trouble. There was barely money to reach the docks, but his four hundred dollars made it to the end with a nickel to spare. The other fifty cents bought a candy bar to slowly melt in his pocket during the remaining walk.
The problem, which he always knew was a problem if not the problem, came in the final approach. The final destination he ran to, this time and so often before, always eager to arrive at, loomed directly ahead. Five yards, maybe, and more bobbing than really looming, true, but the feel of it loomed. It was his island, where people like him belonged. Others visited, mostly cats, but certain people only occasionally drifted away.
They came back, always. James knew that; no matter how long they drifted, UJ and Jack always came back. Even if they didn't stay constant, this was their island, their resting place. They came, Jack came back.
Today, for one more time, Jack ran home. But at more of a walk.