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bedlamsbardTitle: Those That Shalt Be Kings Hereafter
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Character(s): Jack Sparrow, Bootstrap Bill Turner
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1299
Summary: ”You can’t just tell a man something like that, love! You’ve got to give some details!” A prophecy – or is it a warning? Pre-series.
Author’s Notes: For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
shakes_that_fic ficathon. With thanks to my lovely beta, limmenel. Some lines taken from William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Scene 3, Act 1.
“I spy with my little eye –”
“Lay off it, Jack,” Bootstrap said tiredly, turning his head so he was looking at the inside of the rowboat and not at the glare of sunlight off water. “The game’s old now.”
Sparrow cracked open one eye and glared at him. “Well, there’s nothing better to do, is there? Captain Orgel somehow neglected to give us any oars when he tossed us off the Marguerite.” He opened both eyes and sat up, making a show of looking around him as if expecting oars to suddenly appear, but none did. Bootstrap, who’d raised his head slightly to look at him, let it flop back down onto the bench he was lying on.
When he didn’t say anything else, Sparrow continued. “I spy with my little eye, something that begins with the letter – S!”
“Sea,” Bootstrap suggested, eyes closed again.
“No.”
“Is it larger than a breadbox?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is it smaller than a breadbox?”
There was a pause, and then Sparrow said, “Are we talking lengthwise or in combined area here, mate? Because it’s a bit relative.”
Bootstrap threw an arm over his eyes and moaned. “If we make it out of this, Jack, remind me to find a nice desert island and leave you there with the coconuts.”
“I don’t like coconuts,” he pouted.
“Well, good, because we’re not making it out of this.” He spat this last with all the venom he had left in his parched mouth and subsided back against the seat. “Isn’t that lucky?” he added bitterly.
Sparrow was silent for a while, and then he said warily, “You’ve got a wife and a sprog, don’t you, Bill? If only one of us makes it out of this, well –”
“You don’t have enough meat on your bones, Jack,” Bootstrap told him comfortably. “Better eat me.”
He looked shocked. “What, raw? No sauce? Not even a bit of salt?”
“Jack.”
“I’m serious, mate. If one of us makes it out of this mess, d’you want –”
Bootstrap closed his eyes again and lay back, thinking. “Tell my son I’m proud of him,” he said finally. “Whatever he does with himself, whatever he does – tell him I’m proud of him.”
“In merry old England, is he?” Sparrow asked curiously.
Bootstrap nodded. “He’s named for me,” he said, the words oddly solemn. “William.”
“Good strong name, that.”
They both stared upwards at the sun for a while, rocked by the sway of the boat, and then Bootstrap added, “What about you? Is there – anyone –”
“You can tell Giselle I was lying about her dress; it makes her look like a warthog. A dead, diseased, pustule-ridden warthog. No, wait, that’s a bit harsh even for that monstrosity. It makes her look like – a pregnant warthog. With a skin condition.”
Bootstrap rolled over. “You want me to tell a whore you don’t like her dress?”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, mate,” Sparrow said, holding up his hand. He ticked them off as he spoke. “Tell the governor – Hanson, or Harrison, or Harriman, or whatever the tosser’s name is – tell him he’s a tosser, and I’m glad he’s getting his head chopped off –”
“He is?”
“Oh, maybe not, but he deserves it. Tell Ruby that she needs to stop wearing that god-awful rouge; it makes her look like a sunburned octopus and no one finds that very attractive, do they? Of course not. And the old commodore, the old dog, tell him he made a good try at it but my own bloody captain got old Jack Sparrow in the end – what’s that?”
They both sat up, staring around at the open water that surrounded them. It was moving in small ripples that grew larger as they watched, the ocean darkening as the sky clouded over.
“Yes, of course,” Sparrow said impatiently, with a badly concealed hint of nervousness in his voice. “Of course, of course it rains now – why I ever expected anything good to happen –”
He stopped speaking abruptly as a woman surfaced from the water, shaking her long blonde hair back over her bare shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was warm. “Hallo there, love,” he said as Bootstrap groped for his pistol beneath the cover of his shed jacket. “And how are you now?”
“All hail,” she said solemnly. “Hail, Captain Jack Sparrow, thou that carry the name of ‘pirate’.”
“What’s that, now?” Sparrow said, sitting up a little straighter. “Captain, is it?”
“All hail,” another voice said, and Bootstrap and Sparrow both turned to see another woman on the other side of the small rowboat, this one with black hair in thick tangles. “Hail, Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl.”
Sparrow’s lips parted in a slight sigh of longing.
“All hail,” and they both looked to the bow of the boat, where a red-haired woman grasped the wood in both hands as she spoke. “Hail, Jack Sparrow, captain of the Flying Dutchman hereafter!”
Sparrow, who’d been staring at the women with an expression of gratification that only intensified with every syllable they spoke, jerked at that and sat up so quickly someone might as well have stuck a hot poker up his arse.
“What’s wrong with that?” Bootstrap said curiously. “Captain, and of more than one ship at that. Fair tidings for someone that’s just been set adrift by his own captain.”
Sparrow turned to stare at him, and Bootstrap shrugged.
“What about me, now?” he added, turning from one woman to the other. “Is Jack the only lucky one of the two of us, or do I have something in my future besides a short stop and a sudden drop? Or a slow death by starvation.”
“Hail!” said the blonde, and she was echoed by her colleagues. “Lesser than Jack Sparrow, but greater,” she said.
“Not so happy,” the brunette said, “but happier.”
“Thy son shalt rule the sea itself, though thou shalt not bear a title,” said the redhead. “All hail!” she cried suddenly, with a great splash of salt water that nearly upset the boat. “All hail, Sparrow and Turner!”
“Sparrow and Turner, all hail!” her fellows echoed.
“Hang on, then!” Sparrow entreated. “I may be captain of this boat – and a fine boat it is, of course – but the Black Pearl’s been sunk for years. How am I supposed to get my hands on a ship that’s – the best ship in the Caribbean, but one that’s never been seen or sailed since she vanished in that hurricane decades ago? And the Dutchman’s just a legend itself, and she has a captain – you can’t just tell a man something like this, love! You’ve got to give some details!”
There was a deep roll of thunder and a jagged edge of lightning that shot across the dark sky, blinding them, and when Bootstrap had blinked the light spots from his eyes the women had gone. Sparrow was staring fixedly around, as if trying to see where they had gone.
“How about that?” he breathed. “The Black Pearl, Bill!”
“And the Flying Dutchman,” Bootstrap reminded him.
“Oh,” Sparrow said, “well, the Dutchman’s really more of a legend, not a real ship at all – the Pearl now, that’s – well.” He waved one hand. “So your boy will rule the sea, shall he? That’s a bit of an accomplishment.”
“The Flying Dutchman controls the sea,” Bootstrap said flatly.
“And the Black Pearl,” Sparrow said dreamily.
“Yes,” Bootstrap added, more charitable now, “that’s what they said.”
There was another crack of thunder and a flash of lightning, farther off; Bootstrap glanced up, squinting to see. “Jack!” he exclaimed. “Look – land!”
Sparrow looked considerably relieved. “It’s about time, mate,” he said. “I was starting to worry I’d get tired of your company.”
end
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Character(s): Jack Sparrow, Bootstrap Bill Turner
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1299
Summary: ”You can’t just tell a man something like that, love! You’ve got to give some details!” A prophecy – or is it a warning? Pre-series.
Author’s Notes: For the
shakes_that_fic ficathon. With thanks to my lovely beta, limmenel. Some lines taken from William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Scene 3, Act 1.“I spy with my little eye –”
“Lay off it, Jack,” Bootstrap said tiredly, turning his head so he was looking at the inside of the rowboat and not at the glare of sunlight off water. “The game’s old now.”
Sparrow cracked open one eye and glared at him. “Well, there’s nothing better to do, is there? Captain Orgel somehow neglected to give us any oars when he tossed us off the Marguerite.” He opened both eyes and sat up, making a show of looking around him as if expecting oars to suddenly appear, but none did. Bootstrap, who’d raised his head slightly to look at him, let it flop back down onto the bench he was lying on.
When he didn’t say anything else, Sparrow continued. “I spy with my little eye, something that begins with the letter – S!”
“Sea,” Bootstrap suggested, eyes closed again.
“No.”
“Is it larger than a breadbox?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is it smaller than a breadbox?”
There was a pause, and then Sparrow said, “Are we talking lengthwise or in combined area here, mate? Because it’s a bit relative.”
Bootstrap threw an arm over his eyes and moaned. “If we make it out of this, Jack, remind me to find a nice desert island and leave you there with the coconuts.”
“I don’t like coconuts,” he pouted.
“Well, good, because we’re not making it out of this.” He spat this last with all the venom he had left in his parched mouth and subsided back against the seat. “Isn’t that lucky?” he added bitterly.
Sparrow was silent for a while, and then he said warily, “You’ve got a wife and a sprog, don’t you, Bill? If only one of us makes it out of this, well –”
“You don’t have enough meat on your bones, Jack,” Bootstrap told him comfortably. “Better eat me.”
He looked shocked. “What, raw? No sauce? Not even a bit of salt?”
“Jack.”
“I’m serious, mate. If one of us makes it out of this mess, d’you want –”
Bootstrap closed his eyes again and lay back, thinking. “Tell my son I’m proud of him,” he said finally. “Whatever he does with himself, whatever he does – tell him I’m proud of him.”
“In merry old England, is he?” Sparrow asked curiously.
Bootstrap nodded. “He’s named for me,” he said, the words oddly solemn. “William.”
“Good strong name, that.”
They both stared upwards at the sun for a while, rocked by the sway of the boat, and then Bootstrap added, “What about you? Is there – anyone –”
“You can tell Giselle I was lying about her dress; it makes her look like a warthog. A dead, diseased, pustule-ridden warthog. No, wait, that’s a bit harsh even for that monstrosity. It makes her look like – a pregnant warthog. With a skin condition.”
Bootstrap rolled over. “You want me to tell a whore you don’t like her dress?”
“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, mate,” Sparrow said, holding up his hand. He ticked them off as he spoke. “Tell the governor – Hanson, or Harrison, or Harriman, or whatever the tosser’s name is – tell him he’s a tosser, and I’m glad he’s getting his head chopped off –”
“He is?”
“Oh, maybe not, but he deserves it. Tell Ruby that she needs to stop wearing that god-awful rouge; it makes her look like a sunburned octopus and no one finds that very attractive, do they? Of course not. And the old commodore, the old dog, tell him he made a good try at it but my own bloody captain got old Jack Sparrow in the end – what’s that?”
They both sat up, staring around at the open water that surrounded them. It was moving in small ripples that grew larger as they watched, the ocean darkening as the sky clouded over.
“Yes, of course,” Sparrow said impatiently, with a badly concealed hint of nervousness in his voice. “Of course, of course it rains now – why I ever expected anything good to happen –”
He stopped speaking abruptly as a woman surfaced from the water, shaking her long blonde hair back over her bare shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was warm. “Hallo there, love,” he said as Bootstrap groped for his pistol beneath the cover of his shed jacket. “And how are you now?”
“All hail,” she said solemnly. “Hail, Captain Jack Sparrow, thou that carry the name of ‘pirate’.”
“What’s that, now?” Sparrow said, sitting up a little straighter. “Captain, is it?”
“All hail,” another voice said, and Bootstrap and Sparrow both turned to see another woman on the other side of the small rowboat, this one with black hair in thick tangles. “Hail, Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl.”
Sparrow’s lips parted in a slight sigh of longing.
“All hail,” and they both looked to the bow of the boat, where a red-haired woman grasped the wood in both hands as she spoke. “Hail, Jack Sparrow, captain of the Flying Dutchman hereafter!”
Sparrow, who’d been staring at the women with an expression of gratification that only intensified with every syllable they spoke, jerked at that and sat up so quickly someone might as well have stuck a hot poker up his arse.
“What’s wrong with that?” Bootstrap said curiously. “Captain, and of more than one ship at that. Fair tidings for someone that’s just been set adrift by his own captain.”
Sparrow turned to stare at him, and Bootstrap shrugged.
“What about me, now?” he added, turning from one woman to the other. “Is Jack the only lucky one of the two of us, or do I have something in my future besides a short stop and a sudden drop? Or a slow death by starvation.”
“Hail!” said the blonde, and she was echoed by her colleagues. “Lesser than Jack Sparrow, but greater,” she said.
“Not so happy,” the brunette said, “but happier.”
“Thy son shalt rule the sea itself, though thou shalt not bear a title,” said the redhead. “All hail!” she cried suddenly, with a great splash of salt water that nearly upset the boat. “All hail, Sparrow and Turner!”
“Sparrow and Turner, all hail!” her fellows echoed.
“Hang on, then!” Sparrow entreated. “I may be captain of this boat – and a fine boat it is, of course – but the Black Pearl’s been sunk for years. How am I supposed to get my hands on a ship that’s – the best ship in the Caribbean, but one that’s never been seen or sailed since she vanished in that hurricane decades ago? And the Dutchman’s just a legend itself, and she has a captain – you can’t just tell a man something like this, love! You’ve got to give some details!”
There was a deep roll of thunder and a jagged edge of lightning that shot across the dark sky, blinding them, and when Bootstrap had blinked the light spots from his eyes the women had gone. Sparrow was staring fixedly around, as if trying to see where they had gone.
“How about that?” he breathed. “The Black Pearl, Bill!”
“And the Flying Dutchman,” Bootstrap reminded him.
“Oh,” Sparrow said, “well, the Dutchman’s really more of a legend, not a real ship at all – the Pearl now, that’s – well.” He waved one hand. “So your boy will rule the sea, shall he? That’s a bit of an accomplishment.”
“The Flying Dutchman controls the sea,” Bootstrap said flatly.
“And the Black Pearl,” Sparrow said dreamily.
“Yes,” Bootstrap added, more charitable now, “that’s what they said.”
There was another crack of thunder and a flash of lightning, farther off; Bootstrap glanced up, squinting to see. “Jack!” he exclaimed. “Look – land!”
Sparrow looked considerably relieved. “It’s about time, mate,” he said. “I was starting to worry I’d get tired of your company.”
end
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(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-18 10:11 pm (UTC)