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Chapter Text

There was something in the way Jack Sparrow drowns in his cup, swaying with the rolling of the tides on the deck of the Black Pearl. Drifting in and out of consciousness, flashes and images of fleeting faces and warm skin plagued his mind’s eye. In his waning waking state, the fleeting dreams seep through to his reality.

The sort of dreams where he can still feel the heat of another’s breath against his skin, the faint ghost-like touch trailing down his spine, and the echo of voices whispering and pleading his name like a prayer and curse all at once. The pressure of bodies intertwining, the redirection of his attention, as the whispers plead for him to focus, to stay present.

His body jolts, and he quickly righted his position, his bleary eyes cracking open. The blinding light of the scalding sun desecrates those half-lidded dreams and nearly makes him denounce the rum that was hardly settling in his stomach. Suddenly, he wasn’t on the Black Pearl anymore. The cradling ship’s deck transformed to sand beneath him. The swirling in his stomach doesn’t settle, and a sudden tightness in his chest causes him to relinquish his grasp on his cup in favor of clutching his chest.

Something begins to bubble within him, festering like aerated water on the open seas. He can feel his heart racing, his breathing quickening. He lets his body collapse into the sand, his hands finding purchase.

This isn’t reality, love, he pleads to himself, I’m not on the Rumrunner’s Isle. I am on my ship. My gorgeous girl, the Black Pearl.

He knows he needs to get this under wraps before someone sees him sprawled out on the deck or, worse, copies of himself start populating.

Figure out what’s real and what’s fake, he reminds himself, I was on the deck of the ship, having a drink. I was having a dream, a sweet one at that, and when I opened my eyes, the sun blinded me.

Jack’s fingers flex, his body growing hotter, his chest tightening further. He retches, body jerking, and he feels the rum trying to claw and drag its way up from his stomach. His breathing matches the fervent beating of his heart.

If it’s my sight that lies to me, then lights out it is.

Jack closes his eyes, slowly taking in a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. He shifts his free hand to find purchase on the ground beneath him. Without his sight betraying his senses, he can feel the groves of the sodden wooden planks.
Atta boy, he praises himself.

He continues steadying his breathing, grounding himself to the wood beneath him as he reaches for other senses. He could hear waves crashing against the ship and the sounds of murmuring from his crew.

With each sense returning, his building panic began to subside, leaving only the unwelcoming nausea in its wake. It takes a moment to come into himself, his body still swaying as he rests upon his side.

Only when he had the utmost confidence did he open his eyes to the golden light. Slowly, the world comes into focus. Looking across the deck, he watches his crew milling about, unknowing or uncaring about their captain’s current condition. It’s when he meets the blue eyes of one Joshamee Gibbs that his newfound relief disappears.

He tips his hat to him, hiding away from the concerned glance, and stands, legs shaking as he does so. After another deep breath, he forces his legs to steady and assume his swaggering walk. Truthfully, it does not seem like he has much more to lose regarding the crew’s opinion of himself.

It’s a delicate balance, allowing his crew to witness the hurricane of mad genius, Jack Sparrow, just enough to follow him to the ends of the earth but not so much that they question if it’s genius at all. And right now, Gibbs watches him, thick brows knitting in a way that makes Jack want to break his concentration, to distract and deflect Gibbs’ attention from him.

He has no time for that now. Not when his heart still wants to free itself from the confines of his ribcage, the sound filling his ears, and his mind reeling from the aftermath of what that was, a dream, a memory, or a vision of a future unknown.

Hands find his shoulders, halting his steps.

“Cap’n, you alright?” Gibbs’s voice is low and gruff, meant for Jack’s ears only, though the concern in it is clear as day.

“Aye, never better love,” Jack lies, the words slipping off his tongue like honey. He grins, resuming his typical aloofness.

“Too much sun, I’d wager,” he says, leaning in and pinching his fingers together, “Perhaps a touch too much rum, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Jack watches his face closely. Gibbs looks unconvinced but nods all the same, electing to brush this matter off. Gibbs has seen Jack at his best and, more times, at his worst, in situations that would have most loyal men electing to abdicate from their captain ten times over. Yet here, Joshamee Gibbs stands, still believing in the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow, though his loyalty is questionable at times. Even when Jack isn’t quite sure where the legend ends, and the truth of his existence begins.

“Well, right then,” Jack says, cupping Gibbs by the cheeks and scratching his scraggly beard like a dog, “Carry on, Mr. Gibbs. Make yourself useful and fetch me my rum.”

“Aye, Captain,” Gibbs replies begrudgingly, casting him one last glance before stalking off.
With that, he turns away, heading towards the helm. On the outside, he displays his typical frivolous swagger, commenting on and correcting his more half-witted crew members on varying things. Each step and each passing comment is automatic as if he is walking through thick fog.

The lingering fog of this morning’s events clung to him like the hands of unseen ghosts attempting to grasp and drag at him. It slows his movement at a pace, his fingers drumming over the rails of the railings until he reaches the helm.

He checks his compass, the dial spinning indecisively. He gets lost in the spinning, reminding him what happened last time he didn’t know what he wanted and how he allowed another to wield the instrument. Jack remembers how Elizabeth’s honeyed words drew him in, speaking sweet nothings to him, only to lock him to the mast of his ship and abandon him to the Kraken.

He can still feel what it was like to feel her soft lips against his, to feel the cool metal lock around his wrists. He can still feel the spray of the ocean’s tides and the squirming tentacles of the Kraken find their purchase around the ship, around him. The smell of the salty sea was drowned out by the smell of rotten fish and a spray of unknown fluids hitting his body. To be dragged beneath the waves, crushed and downed by the manner of his ship.

“-ack,” a voice rings out.

To have killed a version of himself that asked for another chance has been the reason he was cast into Davy Jones Locker in the first place. And what for? Love. Tried and true, love had been his downfall by two bumbling love birds who joined the pirate game late and thought they could demand and command anything from him. Who was it again who told Davy Jones that he was still alive?

“-ck,” the voice, closer yet clouded.

Of course, everything goes back to them. Elizabeth. William. Their names ring like a skillet bell. Somehow, someway, he hadn’t been able to wring the memories of their voices, their faces, their touch from the recesses of his mind. Every lie at the expanse of his safety, and theirs by his retaliation, only to protect themselves. Elizabeth and William, ever the saints. Jack Sparrow, ever the devil, ever the curse. He can’t shake the feeling that they’re always near, even when they’re not, and it makes his skin prickle and his heart stutter.

Rough hands shake him violently, removing him from the helm of the ship.

“Can’t ye hear me when ‘ave been callin’ ye boy,” Barbosa says, voice gruff, his grip tightening on his shoulders, grounding him as if he’s going to fly away.

“What ails ye, Jack?” Barbosa starts, fixing his face to block Jack’s scattered attention. “Cotton here says you’ve been staring off in the distance and steering us off course. Now answer me, Jack, what are you doing?”

Jack answers reflexively, cowering slightly under Barbosa’s gaze, “What are you doing?”
Barbosa shakes him, causing Jack to grab onto Barbosa’s coat. “I’m not doing this again, Sparrow; now tell me what ails you,” he threatens.

He looks over Barbosa’s shoulder and shoots a glare over at Cotton and his colorful bird. The tightening of hands on his shoulders redirects his attention to Barbosa.

“Settle down, mate, no need to get your trousers in a bunch,” Jack says, playful, grin lilting at his lips. “Just dreaming, that’s all.”

“Dreaming’s been all you’ve been doing since we sent Davy Jones to his end,” Barbosa reprimanded.

He stares Jack down, eyes clear and unbelieving. His voice lowers, “The crew’s been noticing you lately, better yet, the absence of you. Drowning in your cups more than usual, skulking at the edges of the crowd as if you’re afraid that one of your men might stab you in the back, and not to mention the lack of direction for you nor your compass.”

Jack shudders. Each word that spills from Barbosa’s lips adds another lingering chill of a ghostly hand dying to drag him down. He knows eyes and bodies had followed Barbosa to the helm, waiting for any sign of the man they followed through hell or high water or if the “gentle” accosting turned south.

“Aye, but dreaming’s a fine way to pass the time on open water. Don’t you agree?” Jack deflects, his mask grin still in place. “As for direction, well,” he pauses, fingers brushing against the smooth edging of his compass at his side.

Barbosa’s eyes narrow, his patience for Jack waning, “We’re not here to sail aimlessly, Jack. You call yourself a captain, so act like one.”

“If not, they can always elect a new captain,” Barbosa says, voice dripping with derision, “One who can bring them gold. One who can supply them with purpose.”

Jack Sparrow knows firsthand the implication of his words, and it won’t be the first time he’s been subjected to mutiny. This would be the first time, though, that he danced the delicate edges of mutiny without the sense that he might not be able to walk away from it.

“What makes you think that I don’t have a plan, Captain Barbosa?” Fuck it, Calypso be damned if he wasn’t going to double down and try to regain some control of the situation.

He felt the grip on his shoulders loosen, but Barbosa’s gaze remained steady. “Because you have not been yourself, Jack. And if you don’t find your way back soon, it won’t just be the Pearl you’ll lose.”

Jack swallows, the weight of the words settling into the pit of his stomach. He forces a laugh, though it comes out hollow. “Always the dramatist, Barbossa. Fine, if it’s an action you want, action you’ll get. I’ll steer us toward something worth plundering, aye?”

Barbossa releases him with a nod, but the concern doesn’t leave his eyes. “See that you do, Captain,” he says, emphasizing the title as if to remind Jack of the responsibility that comes with it.

Jack watches as Barbossa steps back, watching him expectantly. The Pearl rocks beneath him, and for a moment, he sways with her, feeling the connection that’s always been there between him and his ship. But it’s different now—like she’s questioning him too, testing to see if he’s still worthy of guiding her.

His hand hovers over the compass, hesitating before he flips it open again. The needle spins erratically, mocking him with its indecision. Jack’s eyes narrow as he tries to will it to stop, to give him something solid to hold onto, a direction to chase. But it keeps spinning, and spinning, and spinning.

There’s a nagging feeling in Jack’s stomach, one that’s telling him something’s off. That something isn’t right. It’s the same feeling he gets when a storm is brewing just beyond the horizon, the kind that you can’t quite see but can feel in the deepest part of your soul.

“Not today, love,” he pleads to himself as if the ship, the sea, might heed his words. “Not today.”

He closes the compass with a snap, frustration, and unease gnawing at him. The crew needs a purpose, and he needs to find one before they decide to send him back to the bloody island. Jack doesn’t know how much longer he can take winging life as he does and decides now isn’t the time to dwell on that.

“Come on, Jackie,” he mutters, gripping the helm tighter. “Find the bloody horizon.”

Chapter Text

The scent of sandalwood, clove and jasmine, clung heavily to the humid air of the Sao Feng’s Bathhouse, swirling with the steam from the heated pools within the facility.  Lanterns flickered, casting shifting patterns on the wooden walls, their glow reflected in the still waters.

Tonight, its grand hall was emptied of the usual clientele. Instead, the women of Singapore’s underbelly stood gathered, their eyes keen, their faces aged with the experience that it takes for a woman to survive the bustling ports of Singapore. These women, who knew the means of making ends meet, and weaponizing the society that often overlooked and mistreated them.

A year ago, when she first took residence in Singapore, she was welcomed to a bouquet of flowers.  She expected derision, tension, a fight. The kind of fight that ended in figures slinking in shadows awaiting the moment she was bare to the world and unaware of their presence. She expected a fight. The kind of fight that surpassed the cutting of words and instead the pummeling of blows. Yes, she got that, and maybe some more, but what she didn’t expect was the one woman she had only met months prior, awaiting her arrival at the dock.

Eyes, measuring her worth with each step she took, the smell of perfume and spice lingering in the air. Park had been waiting.  Park, a striking Chinese woman with sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes, her sleek, ink-black hair was woven into an intricate knot, adorned with silver hairpins shaped like butterfly wings.  Beneath the fold of her deep-red silk, concealed a dangerous arsenal of steel chopsticks and whip- weapons Elizabeth once became quite acquainted with.

And in Park’s deadly hands a full bouquet of night-blooming jasmines.

Cestrum nocturnum.

“Welcome back to Singapore, King Elizabeth Swan,” Park had said, her lips curling with amusement.

Elizabeth was taken aback, though quickly fixed her resolve. She had taken the bouquet with measured hands, fingers brushing against the delicate, pale blossoms. The scent- intoxicatingly sweet, but not cloying, rose to meet her nose.

“Jasmine,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “A curious choice for a pirate’s welcome.”

Park, tilted her head, “Fitting for the illustrious King Swan, no?”

Elizabeth couldn’t shake the confusion on her face. She had understood then, that this was not simply a greeting. Yet she couldn’t make heads or tails of what Park was insinuating. It felt like an invitation, a challenge. For what, only the lord would know. So, she accepted the flowers, made her rounds around Singapore’s ports and merchants, and retreated to the former home of Sao Feng.

Later that evening, as the light of the sun vanished over the horizon, and the night began to hum with the sounds of the late-night city life picking up. Elizabeth found herself in her chamber, the bouquet resting on the table in the center of the room. Her finger idly tracing the edges of a single flower.

“You are fond of the flowers, memsaab?” a voice interrupted. Elizabeth was quick to draw her sword, only to lower it when Aadhya, a short woman of Indian descent, with sharp brown eyes and a kind smile.

Elizabeth sheathes her sword, nodding, “They’re a bit unfamiliar to me.”

Aadhya, crossed the entryway and to the other side of the table. “In my home, in India, we call it ‘Raat Ki Rani’, or Queen of the Night in English terms,” she said, a wry smile curving her lips. “Fitting for you, no?”

“Funny, Park had said the same thing earlier.” Elizabeth huffed a quiet laugh. “And why does the Queen of the Night Bloom only in darkness?”

Aadhya’s gaze flickered between her and the flower, hesitant. Elizabeth gave her an encouraging nod. Then in the way all storytellers do, she cleared her throat and began.

“My mother used to tell me this tale,” Aadhya began, eyes glinting like gold as she toyed with one of the petals. “A tale of a princess and a god.”

Elizabeth leaned in slightly, eyes fixed on the woman before her.

“My mother said, one day a Princess by the name of Parijat, had fallen in love with Surya, the god of the sun. The princess had adored his golden radiance, and the warmth that rolled  and spilled over the world with his very presence.” Aadhya said, arms gesturing as she immersed in the story.

She locks eyes with Elizabeth, “She wished to be like him – so bright, so powerful. She prayed to the gods, asking them to grant her a body of gold, so that she might be able to stand beside Surya as his equal. And the gods, well, they listened.”

Aadhya’s lips drew into a tight line, her eyes softening, no longer burning like gold.

“A mortal princess fell in love with Surya, the sun god,” she repeated, her tone softer. “But the sun is not a gentle thing. It is fire and heat, and passion, and untamable. The gods failed to teach her that. When she was transformed, her golden form burned in Surya’s presence.”

“She could not touch him, nor could she bear the weight of his light. The pain was unbearable, and in her despair, she cast herself into the night, shattering into thousands of tiny blossoms – flowers that would never again open beneath the gaze of the sun. They bloom only in darkness, where they are free.” Aadhya added.

Elizabeth shifted her gaze back to the petals; her eyes having pricked with the never falling tears. Will had come to mind then. Maybe the roles fate had decided for them could have them mirror the tale Aadhya just shared. It had brought an uncomfortable weight to her chest, stinging and prickly.

“And so,” Aadhya concluded, “they became the scent of longing. A symbol of love unfulfilled, of desire that cannot withstand the light of day.”

“Of course, this the version my mother taught me long ago, so it may not be what the myth was. My mother had a way of twisting the original stories” she chuckled, beginning to collect herself and heading towards the door. “Ever the feminist, she would try to reclaim the stories in favor of women, for the price of being one in a man’s world is hefty.”

“I truly appreciate you sharing the story, Aadhya” Elizabeth said, “I never had a mother to tell me these things, or a sister. So, I do appreciate it.”

“Of course, King Swan,” Aadhya said, pausing briefly at the door. She stands there for a moment, her face hidden from Elizabeth’s sight. “King Swan?”

“Yes, Aadhya?” Elizabeth answered.

“I believe I can speak for everywoman here when I say this,” she began, “We have never had a woman in Singapore who reached your heights. You know not the kind of power you yield, or the standard you serve as. How you choose to serve as king will be the precedent for everywoman after you. Our eyes see far, and our ears hear more than a man could.”

Elizabeth stilled, Aadhya’s words settling heavily in the air and on her shoulders.  She had spent her life as noble woman, then later a pirate fighting for survival, for power, for freedom to love the man who is anchored to the ocean’s floor.

But what of legacy?

What of the women who would, and should, come after her. She had been so concerned about men, them taking what she accidentally acquired, undermining the power she wasn’t sure she wanted. She had been at the whims of men her entire life, and never once had she thought about the ways she endured as a woman, the freedom there is in that. To be underestimated is to have the upper hand.

The scent of the night-blooming jasmine thickened in the room; the petals soft beneath her fingertips.  Love. Duty. Sacrifice. A flower that bloomed only in the darkness. Was she destined to burn in the presence of something greater? Had she already begun to smolder under the weight of what she had taken on?

A sharp rap at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“Enter,” she called.

The door creaked open, and Park stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over Elizabeth before landing on the bouquet. A smirk played at her lips. “Aadhya’s been telling you stories, hasn’t she?”

“She has,” Elizabeth quipped. “Come to tell me another?”