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honoratBy Honorat
Rating: PG-13 for language and disturbing meal plans. Jack Sparrow is not a happy man.
Warning: Spoilers for DMC
Disclaimer: If Disney was any kind of decent, it would remove temptation.
Summary: Jack Sparrow contemplates life—and possibly death—among the Pelagostos. 1300 words
Thank you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geek_mama_2 for beta reading this.
* * * * *
Just Between Us Dying Gods
The sound of drums throbbed in Jack Sparrow’s head like pain. The bite of machetes in wood, the dragging scrape of branches, the eternal dissonant chanting gnawed at his ears with vicious persistence. The far off hint of smoke from the ceremonial fire stung his nostrils.
Perhaps, if he kept his eyes closed, it would all go away.
In the category of things he’d screwed up in a lifetime of, let’s admit it now, major screw ups, this one was right up there near the top of the list in majuscule letters.
The first time he’d come here, he’d been alone, washed up on the shore after another argument with Fortune, which he’d lost. Of course. He’d spent so much time on the bottom of that bitch’s wheel that he’d memorized the ruts.
At first, when the Pelagostos had found him, trussed him up like a prize turkey, and hauled him back to their high mountain village, he’d been sure he was about to end his days as a prime cut of long pork.
But then the village wise woman had intervened. She’d seen him in a vision, she’d said. These were the very markings on his skin, the pattern of lines, the scars. This one was too great a spirit to be trapped in the narrow confines of flesh. A god walked among them. The tribespeople had fallen down and worshipped. Then they’d made him their chief.
Jack had decided he could get used to being a god, except for the loss of the sea.
He’d learnt a little of their language while he was recovering—enough to convey simple concepts, although not enough always to understand what they said. Certainly not enough for eloquence or persuasion, as he had cause to know, now.
But he had made them understand that he was on a quest. He must leave to seek the beautiful dark ship with which he would one day return to them.
He had, of course, harboured no intentions of ever returning.
In retrospect that would have been a very good idea.
But no, when the fact had sunk its teeth into his soul that the sea who had always been his heart’s home was now his mortal enemy, he had fled to land. And what better bit of earth to try to plant his restless feet upon, than the village in which he was already a chief and practically a god? Surely if he could do whatever he wanted, if men and women would hang on his every (fumbled) word and do his bidding, he might capture some of the fleeting moments of freedom he could feel leaching away from him—before they were lost to him forever.
At least until he could develop a plan to retrieve that thrice-cursed key.
In retrospect that registered as one of his more spectacular acts of stupidity in a lifetime of admittedly stupid acts.
He hadn’t realized that he was sailing into a prison rather than a refuge.
The Pelagostos had been waiting for him with the ardent devotion of the faithful, anticipating the reappearance of their god mounted on a tall black ship, his earthly mission complete, his soul still mired and confused in its bonds of clay.
As it had been foretold, he had come again.
They spoke to him simply, knowing he was slow of speech in their tongue, tender of his misplaced godhood. He did not understand his plight, but they would, they said, deliver him. It would be a privilege and an honour to light his way home.
Which sounded lovely and heart-warming until it became clear that their path included releasing him from his fleshly prison through the implacable devices of fire and agony and horrible death. Apparently they figured that if his soul found life on earth unpleasant enough, it would wing its way to wherever they thought it belonged.
Then each member of the tribe would partake of his divinity. They would feast on his carcass. Babes would teethe on his finger bones. His skull would adorn the most elaborate hut in the village. Everyone wanted a piece of Jack Sparrow, and while he couldn’t really blame them, he rather vehemently wanted all those pieces himself.
Thank you very much, but no thank you. He’d prefer to find his own way home and in his own time.
But he wasn’t being given any say in the matter. In fact, for a god and a chief, he seemed to possess a phenomenal lack of power. It wasn’t supposed to work that way, was it?
They’d already killed and eaten most of his crew. Those memories still made him nauseous every time he thought of it.
He’d tried to save them, explaining in halting, broken phrases mixed frustratingly with words in languages he knew but they did not, that this one was too old, that one too damaged, another too short—none of them fit to be consumed. He might have saved a few. So far. He didn’t know who. He’d not been allowed to see them. Being a god in human form was proving to be a useless title. It did not translate into anyone obeying him the minute his orders diverged from what they wanted to do.
Jack hadn’t eaten anything but fruit since the first one of his men had been killed.
At least they had been dead before they had been given over to the mercy of the flames. No one wanted to chase their souls off into some great back of beyond.
Fire. Unconsciously Jack rubbed his sleeve over the scar on his arm. His dear children could not have picked a way to accomplish his blessed demise that revolted him more.
Was being a god always such bondage? Was this what it had been like for Osiris, for Bran the Blessed, for Christ, for Odin, for Adonis? Come to think of it, what was this obsession with killing gods? If he were actually a god, he wouldn’t stand for it. Being merely mortal, as far as he knew, he clutched his idiotic feather duster scepter and tried to ignore the aching weight of his absurd crown—and prayed for an opportune moment, from one fellow dying god to all the others—on the off chance any of their souls really had gone somewhere after their deaths.
He could feel the dried paint on his face tightening. It itched like fury, and he wanted to scratch it off, but he knew he’d never be allowed. That it had come to this—Captain Jack Sparrow, afraid to lay a finger on his own face! Eight all-seeing eyes, they’d told him, symbol of what his soul would be taught to remember as they charred his skin from his body and melted his flesh from his limbs and ground his bones to powder. All-seeing. The irony of that was so ironic as to pass far beyond irony into farce.
If he could have foreseen any of this . . .
A commotion halted his frantic thoughts. They’d caught some other poor bastard down near the beach. Tough luck, mate. You’d have been better off drowning. But if they decide you are a god, run!
He heard the tramp of feet and the creaking of a bound victim swinging from a pole. The sounds brought up in front of his throne. Oh, so they’d decided to let him play the chief one more time before lunch. Give the once and future god a bit of circumscribed dominion and allow him to pass judgment on the sorry wretch’s fate. How . . . charming.
Since none of this bloody day appeared to have the slightest inclination to disappear, Jack Sparrow reluctantly opened his eyes.
And saw—salvation.
He wondered which dead god had answered his prayer.
* * * * *
The End
Rating: PG-13 for language and disturbing meal plans. Jack Sparrow is not a happy man.
Warning: Spoilers for DMC
Disclaimer: If Disney was any kind of decent, it would remove temptation.
Summary: Jack Sparrow contemplates life—and possibly death—among the Pelagostos. 1300 words
Thank you
geek_mama_2 for beta reading this.* * * * *
Just Between Us Dying Gods
The sound of drums throbbed in Jack Sparrow’s head like pain. The bite of machetes in wood, the dragging scrape of branches, the eternal dissonant chanting gnawed at his ears with vicious persistence. The far off hint of smoke from the ceremonial fire stung his nostrils.
Perhaps, if he kept his eyes closed, it would all go away.
In the category of things he’d screwed up in a lifetime of, let’s admit it now, major screw ups, this one was right up there near the top of the list in majuscule letters.
The first time he’d come here, he’d been alone, washed up on the shore after another argument with Fortune, which he’d lost. Of course. He’d spent so much time on the bottom of that bitch’s wheel that he’d memorized the ruts.
At first, when the Pelagostos had found him, trussed him up like a prize turkey, and hauled him back to their high mountain village, he’d been sure he was about to end his days as a prime cut of long pork.
But then the village wise woman had intervened. She’d seen him in a vision, she’d said. These were the very markings on his skin, the pattern of lines, the scars. This one was too great a spirit to be trapped in the narrow confines of flesh. A god walked among them. The tribespeople had fallen down and worshipped. Then they’d made him their chief.
Jack had decided he could get used to being a god, except for the loss of the sea.
He’d learnt a little of their language while he was recovering—enough to convey simple concepts, although not enough always to understand what they said. Certainly not enough for eloquence or persuasion, as he had cause to know, now.
But he had made them understand that he was on a quest. He must leave to seek the beautiful dark ship with which he would one day return to them.
He had, of course, harboured no intentions of ever returning.
In retrospect that would have been a very good idea.
But no, when the fact had sunk its teeth into his soul that the sea who had always been his heart’s home was now his mortal enemy, he had fled to land. And what better bit of earth to try to plant his restless feet upon, than the village in which he was already a chief and practically a god? Surely if he could do whatever he wanted, if men and women would hang on his every (fumbled) word and do his bidding, he might capture some of the fleeting moments of freedom he could feel leaching away from him—before they were lost to him forever.
At least until he could develop a plan to retrieve that thrice-cursed key.
In retrospect that registered as one of his more spectacular acts of stupidity in a lifetime of admittedly stupid acts.
He hadn’t realized that he was sailing into a prison rather than a refuge.
The Pelagostos had been waiting for him with the ardent devotion of the faithful, anticipating the reappearance of their god mounted on a tall black ship, his earthly mission complete, his soul still mired and confused in its bonds of clay.
As it had been foretold, he had come again.
They spoke to him simply, knowing he was slow of speech in their tongue, tender of his misplaced godhood. He did not understand his plight, but they would, they said, deliver him. It would be a privilege and an honour to light his way home.
Which sounded lovely and heart-warming until it became clear that their path included releasing him from his fleshly prison through the implacable devices of fire and agony and horrible death. Apparently they figured that if his soul found life on earth unpleasant enough, it would wing its way to wherever they thought it belonged.
Then each member of the tribe would partake of his divinity. They would feast on his carcass. Babes would teethe on his finger bones. His skull would adorn the most elaborate hut in the village. Everyone wanted a piece of Jack Sparrow, and while he couldn’t really blame them, he rather vehemently wanted all those pieces himself.
Thank you very much, but no thank you. He’d prefer to find his own way home and in his own time.
But he wasn’t being given any say in the matter. In fact, for a god and a chief, he seemed to possess a phenomenal lack of power. It wasn’t supposed to work that way, was it?
They’d already killed and eaten most of his crew. Those memories still made him nauseous every time he thought of it.
He’d tried to save them, explaining in halting, broken phrases mixed frustratingly with words in languages he knew but they did not, that this one was too old, that one too damaged, another too short—none of them fit to be consumed. He might have saved a few. So far. He didn’t know who. He’d not been allowed to see them. Being a god in human form was proving to be a useless title. It did not translate into anyone obeying him the minute his orders diverged from what they wanted to do.
Jack hadn’t eaten anything but fruit since the first one of his men had been killed.
At least they had been dead before they had been given over to the mercy of the flames. No one wanted to chase their souls off into some great back of beyond.
Fire. Unconsciously Jack rubbed his sleeve over the scar on his arm. His dear children could not have picked a way to accomplish his blessed demise that revolted him more.
Was being a god always such bondage? Was this what it had been like for Osiris, for Bran the Blessed, for Christ, for Odin, for Adonis? Come to think of it, what was this obsession with killing gods? If he were actually a god, he wouldn’t stand for it. Being merely mortal, as far as he knew, he clutched his idiotic feather duster scepter and tried to ignore the aching weight of his absurd crown—and prayed for an opportune moment, from one fellow dying god to all the others—on the off chance any of their souls really had gone somewhere after their deaths.
He could feel the dried paint on his face tightening. It itched like fury, and he wanted to scratch it off, but he knew he’d never be allowed. That it had come to this—Captain Jack Sparrow, afraid to lay a finger on his own face! Eight all-seeing eyes, they’d told him, symbol of what his soul would be taught to remember as they charred his skin from his body and melted his flesh from his limbs and ground his bones to powder. All-seeing. The irony of that was so ironic as to pass far beyond irony into farce.
If he could have foreseen any of this . . .
A commotion halted his frantic thoughts. They’d caught some other poor bastard down near the beach. Tough luck, mate. You’d have been better off drowning. But if they decide you are a god, run!
He heard the tramp of feet and the creaking of a bound victim swinging from a pole. The sounds brought up in front of his throne. Oh, so they’d decided to let him play the chief one more time before lunch. Give the once and future god a bit of circumscribed dominion and allow him to pass judgment on the sorry wretch’s fate. How . . . charming.
Since none of this bloody day appeared to have the slightest inclination to disappear, Jack Sparrow reluctantly opened his eyes.
And saw—salvation.
He wondered which dead god had answered his prayer.
* * * * *
The End
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Date: 2006-07-31 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 12:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-07-31 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 01:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-07-31 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 01:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 03:12 am (UTC)Quite humorous, yet also dark in a way.
Quite like the movie that inspired it. Even when Jack is contemplating his own death, he can't quite help being very Jackish about it.
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Date: 2006-07-31 01:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 03:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 01:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 03:13 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2006-07-31 02:05 am (UTC):)
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Date: 2006-07-31 03:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 03:11 am (UTC)And I love the contrast - that he thought, as a god, that he would be safe, and instead he put himself into even deeper trouble.
(Hey, I just realised - he was going to be eaten by the Pelagostos, and ended up being eaten by the Kracken. I wonder if this was enough to release him from his fleshy bonds?)
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Date: 2006-07-31 03:18 am (UTC)he thought, as a god, that he would be safe, and instead he put himself into even deeper trouble
It seemed that was the case with everything Jack tried in this movie--as though he had more than a touch of destiny about him. As though he was fated.
he was going to be eaten by the Pelagostos, and ended up being eaten by the Kracken. I wonder if this was enough to release him from his fleshy bonds
T & T said that this was the concept that was going to become important in PotC3, so you've got good instincts! :D
Thank you so much for the lovely comment.
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Date: 2006-07-31 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 01:14 pm (UTC)the fluidity of Jack's faith and irreverence
He does seem to treat the supernatural as something to be manipulated and charmed just as much as the mortal. I've always pictured Jack as pretty equal opportunity, religion-wise. He now knows there are gods--witness the Aztec curse. So he tries to use them. Anyone listening, if you could lend a hand?
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Date: 2006-07-31 05:26 am (UTC)I love that line!
Thank you for writing such a wonderful backstory to explain how Jack and his crew came to be in their predicament with the Pelegostos.
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Date: 2006-07-31 01:12 pm (UTC)I love that line
Can we blame them? *g*
I think the thing that was bothering me most about this scene was the deaths of Jack's crew. I wanted to acknowledge that and make it clear that those were not just easily dismissable.
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Date: 2006-07-31 06:28 am (UTC)LOVED this line. Have you read American Gods by Neil Gaiman? Whenever I hear about dying gods I always have a flash back to American Gods, which is one of the best books I've ever read. Your method of dropping little hits of mythologies ("Was being a god always such bondage? ") really reminded me of Gaiman's work. Awesome voice.
Did you draw up all that backstory in the fic about Jack's make up, or did you find it? It's really engaging. Layering stories on stories within a story itself is very T&T.
And where did you get all that background info about the script? I'd love to read some of it.
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Date: 2006-07-31 06:35 am (UTC)The entire time I was reading that, I kept thinking in the movie version, Wednesday ought to be played by the same actor who was Stryker in the second "X-Men" movie. And oddly, that maybe Hugh Jackman should play the main character. Theirs in "X2" was the relationship the book's sort of reminded me of (if you even saw that movie).
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Date: 2006-07-31 06:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 10:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 11:43 am (UTC)I wondered, how the whole episode on cannibal-island was fitting with the rest of the movie and your story connects both movies perfectly.
Jack is great when snarking at himself.
P.S. I am so itching to read 'Crossing The Bar'. But since I am soft as a jelly baby and your chapters tend to twist my nerves into knots, I shall wait until I can fortify myself against any outcome you will choose.
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Date: 2006-07-31 01:01 pm (UTC)It was always clear to me from the very first spoilers that this was the tribe of people who had first made Jack their chief. The movie made clear the reason why such people would also want to kill Jack. And the writers have said that reason will be important in PotC3. So I connected the dots, as it were. I'm glad you enjoyed this.
Since "Crossing the Bar" is a bit of a mystery to me, as well, I don't know when it will be finished. It has been a bit nerve-wracking. But I'll look forward to finding out what you think when it is done.
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Date: 2006-07-31 01:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-31 02:42 pm (UTC)I think that it is really interesting to make the connection between the Pelogostos and the Kraken which I had not yet done.
I love the voice here, I think it is spot on.
Favorite lines? Many. But this one, this one, was so perfectly Jack.Everyone wanted a piece of Jack Sparrow, and while he couldn’t really blame them, he rather vehemently wanted all those pieces himself.
The link to forums was down for the weekend but I hope to check into it later.
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Date: 2006-08-01 01:30 am (UTC)I love the idea that Jack is fated to be delivered from his flesh, now or later.
I'm glad you think this fits Jack's voice. He always has a high opinion of himself, but he counteracts that with a fine sense of irony.
I noticed the link was down, but I posted it anyway.
Thank you so much for the lovely comment.
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Date: 2006-07-31 06:14 pm (UTC)Btw I love your disclaimers. :)
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Date: 2006-08-01 01:27 am (UTC)I'm glad you noticed the goofy disclaimers. I have fun making them.
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Date: 2006-07-31 10:42 pm (UTC)But also, very interesting, and some thoughts to a-ponder on there, methinks. Clever work, Honorat. :)
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Date: 2006-08-01 01:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-02 02:00 am (UTC)... Oh, wow. Thank you for overlaying the time on the Pelagostos' island with meaning and intelligence. Literate!Jack's brain was going at top speed behind those closed eyes!
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Date: 2006-08-02 02:17 am (UTC)You're welcome. T & T said the humour of this section depended on the audience laughing at things that the characters found deadly serious. So I'm writing the serious. I'm glad you liked it. Thank you so much for commenting. I find I like taking the scenes people are most uncomfortable with and finding the kernal of significance under them.
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Date: 2006-08-04 10:58 am (UTC)It was everso well-written - that kind of goes without saying, chez vous! - and so cunning of you, to link it to that throwaway line in the last movie - but you've really picked on a thing that's been swirling round horribly in my head, too. Yeah, yeah, it's all very funny in the movie: but it is SO not funny really. Black humour, yeah, all very well (what did Spike Milligan say when he was asked what he thought the funniest thing in the world was? A baby in a blender? Vile, but cracks me up every time) but if you were living it? Not quite so amusing.
They spoke to him simply, knowing he was slow of speech in their tongue, tender of his misplaced godhood. That's so perversely sweet. I love it.
I particularly like the curmudgeonly irritation of Since none of this bloody day appeared to have the slightest inclination to disappear, Jack Sparrow reluctantly opened his eyes.
Also, majuscule. Mmmmm. Nice word. Makes me all warm with logophilia.
Thank you :)
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Date: 2006-08-04 12:42 pm (UTC)so cunning of you, to link it to that throwaway line in the last movie
I don't think I can take credit for that link. I've known for a long time before the movie came out, that Ted and Terry were planning on taking the little throw-away lines in CotBP and giving them increased weight and history in DMC, and that line " ... and then they made me their chief" was one of them. "Clearly you've never been to Singapore" was another. Singapore will show up in PotC3. So the minute the cannibal village slipped into the spoilers, I knew this was Jack's cheifdom. It makes sense, since he knows a little of the language--though obviously not enough--and he thought of this place as a refuge. I just wanted to explore how he would have come to them the first time and not been eaten nor received any hint that he would be eaten.
it's all very funny in the movie: but it is SO not funny really
This is true of both movies. Ted and Terry operate on the principle that the humour in these movies must be external--something the audience experiences while the characters are experiencing something deadly serious. These scenes with the Pelagostos have really captured my imagination. For one thing, Ted and Terry have said that the Pelagostos are correct in their analysis of Jack's soul. Which gave me leave to take their beliefs and their culture seriously. For another, I always love a good challenge in making meaning and motivation clear in less beloved scenes and characters.
Since this movie was so "Tragical History of Doctor Faustus" that it is almost a rewrite, I recognized the Pelagostos scenes instantly by the feel. This is the Renaissance comic subplot that parallels or illuminates the tragic plot. Only, in this case, the tragic hero is also the comic one. I'd just been to a live performance of Marlowe's play, and I got a similar feeling. DMC had a definite Jacobean tragedy twist to it.
That's so perversely sweet
The moment the sweetness seemed clear to me was when the people were standing in the surf mourning the disappearance of their god. I object on general principal to seeing primitive peoples as idiots just because they don't have shopping malls or speak English. So I took their grief seriously and worked back from that. There had to be an internal logic to their culture.
particularly like the curmudgeonly irritation
This movie was about backing Jack Sparrow into the whirling fan blades. He knows they're behind him, but the swords in front are equally deadly. He's going to end up as the main course, no matter how far or fast he runs. No wonder he's a bit irritated.
As for majuscule, how could I resist, mate? I love that word and I finally got to take it out of my word-hoard, polish it off, and use it outside of discussions of medieval scripts. Yay! I'm glad to give you a logophilic moment.
Thank you again for commenting on my little story. I appear to be doomed to novelize the cannibal island scenes as soon as I can get a transcript of the dialogue.
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Date: 2006-08-04 02:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-04 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-19 03:56 am (UTC)"Being merely mortal, as far as he knew"
Funny how the naive, sometimes-stupid-but-loved-anyway, cumbersome son of Bootstrap Bill Turner could appear as salvation... Cheers to you!
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Date: 2008-08-05 10:04 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed this. Jack does seem to be pretty equal opportunity about everything--anything might be true. Thank you so much for commenting.