At World's Beginning

You Can Run...

James hadn't meant to grab the woman's arm with such tight, panicked desperation. He hadn't meant to reveal so much information about himself, either. He hadn't meant to do a lot of things, and yet here he was, regretting his decisions and just feeling so... tired. Tired of always doing the wrong thing. Or doing the right thing when it was just a little too late.

He'd known many religious men to serve under him. They might have even said such words as, "this is a second chance to make things right," or the decidedly worse, "it wasn't your time to pass on; there is much greatness left for you to accomplish."

Those would have been the words of God-blinded, Bible-thumping fools. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence could see that his resurrection was meant to be a punishment, not a gift of redemption.

Redemption... A promise to be left unfulfilled.

James had never been so maudlin in his life. In fact, his life had been full of satisfaction back before... before it all. Or had it been?

Isn't that why you approached our dear Lizzie in the first place? 'Cuz you felt a hole in yer life that couldn't be filled with mindless duty and meaningless commissions?

Not you again, James silently moaned.

This is your party, the voice returned with a grin that reflected with gold teeth, I'm just a guest.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, not-Sparrow had a point. An awful, insidious, hellish point that didn't do James any good now. What did it matter if his life as commodore had been somewhat lacking in fulfillment? It had been the life he had chosen, and he had carried out his duty with more fervor and skill than anyone else could have.

Don't let it get ye down, mate, not-Sparrow added with a sympathetic touch. You wouldn't be the first man to try and bury his... inadequacies in the bosom of a beautiful, buxom, bonnie lass.

"Christ, will you please shut up?" he snapped aloud, his voice lost in the darkness of the brig. He made a noise, more a growl than a sigh, as he got to his feet. He glanced at the food tray next to him, the meal mostly untouched as his appetite was still missing, but he had greedily gulped down the clean water. Vessels carried copious amounts of rum instead of water, as most water wasn't potable, but this ship had barrels of fresh water. It was strange. But as he felt more parched now than in his entire life, even during his brief stint as a lush in Tortuga, he couldn't really complain.

But looking at the untouched food reminded him of the woman. She had brought him dinner, and a bucket and scoop of water, and she'd unlocked his cell to deposit them on the floor. She had then locked his door and left the brig without a word. It had filled James with an uncomfortable guilt, and the feeling would only increase when he would catch a glimpse of his hands. Carefully wrapped in clean linen. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his skin. She hadn't exactly been gentle or tender as she'd cleaned and dressed his wounds, but she hadn't been rough or uncaring, either.

When was the last time someone had touched him? The kiss? No... not the kiss. Or even the embrace he had given Elizabeth after he had found her alive on the Empress. Those were gestures done by him, not for him.

No, there was one moment Elizabeth had shown him true gentleness: the pigsty at Tortuga. She had helped lift his face from the muck, not seeming to mind that he had been covered with mud and other unmentionable liquids. And then she'd gripped his arms and softly asked what the world had done to him.

It was the one genuine act of kindness he could remember. The only one. Never mind he had wound up thrown into the pen after she'd hit him over the head with a half-full bottle of rum.