The Siren's Immortal
Pirates of the Caribbean Fan Fiction
Rated: T (13+)

Summary: Jack Sparrow has lived through events in his past that even he will not speak of. Events that led to a man's death, and changed Jack's life forever.

Prologue

The Black Pearl.

Terror of the seas, some would say.

Her Captain, however, knew it was neither her intention, nor his own.

Throughout his life he'd worn many a hat, called himself by many a name, and had had more bizarre adventures than any man should rightly experience. Yet through it all he'd always had but one desire, and that was for freedom.

Pure and simple.

Now, this was not to say his Pearl could not strike terror into the hearts of those who crossed her path, nor that her Captain didn't use this to his best advantage whenever the opportunity presented itself.

She was, after all, an intimidating and formidable ship. A full-rigged three-masted galleon outfitted with two gun decks, worthy of a true man 'o war, and a full set of sweeps that assisted in making her the fastest ship in the Caribbean. For a band of mangy pirates, the Pearl's size and type was extremely rare. Most pirates preferred smaller and sleeker vessels, designed for a quick getaway.

But the Black Pearl was distinctly unique. Only one pirate that sailed the Seven Seas knew of her true origins, and he'd not so much as whispered the truth to any other living soul, despite how much he loved to hear a good tale pertaining to himself tossed about.

The Pearl's canvas and hull were midnight black. She was heavily ornamented above and below deck, and perhaps the most stunning woodwork on the ship belonged to her figurehead; an enchanting lady of the sea, arm outstretched as she held a bird, readying itself to take flight. Actions frozen for all eternity, preserved forever, flawlessly carved in Egyptian ebony.

Her three masts had recently been stripped and refitted with new canvas, and a lot of canvas she held, indeed. Still black as the pearl his ship was named after, of course, but not in tatters like those he'd stripped.

Barbossa had known nothing of the dedication it took to keep his Pearl shipshape. To keep her content and fit for such a sea. Barbossa had let her rot on the seas as he had rotted, and Jack's heart ached at the thought of her mistreatment for those ten long years.

It had taken much work for Captain Sparrow and her new crew to restore her to her original beauty. Nay, in all actuality there was still much more to be done.

She lay anchor in calm seas this night, not far out of Aruba, as her crew absorbed in drink and song. Her Captain stood off from the rest of the crew, content to survey the scene from the quarterdeck, as a slight evening breeze swept through his unruly hair, sending his beads and trinkets jangling.

The Captain smiled wistfully as his crew began a chantey he'd not heard since he was but a lad.

The Pearl's Captain gazed out towards the endless horizon as they sang, lost in thoughts of a time gone by. He remained that way for a minute or so - or an hour for all he knew - until Anamaria's voice broke through his musing.

"What has ye so lost in thought, Capt'n? I be thinking ye'd surely be loaded to the gunwales by now."

Jack shifted his gaze to his First Mate, flashing a wide grin. "Aye? Then I be thinking I have a bit of catchin' up to do."

As his men finished the chantey, Jack's gaze wandered past Anamaria and scanned the faces of the crew, stopping on Gibbs, who was red-faced and clutching a tankard of rum, his knuckles white. No doubt he thought it was bad luck to be singin' about Sirens aboard ship.

Jack fought a chuckle at the sight, and followed Anamaria down to the main deck. His unusual gait was tailored to the roll of the sea, and the rocking of his dark galleon, be it gentle or rough. When aboard ship, his swagger never appeared awkward, but natural, giving him a grace like no other while sailing the Caribbean waters.

A crewman by the name of Twigg immediately placed a bottle of rum in Jack's hand as he joined the bunch, and the group livened up at the Captain's arrival.

Jack roughly uncorked the bottle with his teeth and held it high. "To the best bad eggs I ever had the pleasure of sailin' with!" he declared. His accent was a distorted cockney that must have had true English roots at some point or another. He downed a good deal of the potent liquid in one gulp, and felt the satisfying burn as it went down his throat.

The crew let out a cheer before following their Captain's example, imbibing more drink. He'd won over the hearts and loyalty of his crew these past few months, and they believed it was a true honor to sail with the infamous pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Tonight was a night of celebration, for they had a full load of swag below decks. It would fetch a good price. To make matters more joyous for the men, Tortuga was their next port of call, and their Captain had promised to hand out their equal shares, with free time in port to squander it away as they pleased.

The Pearl sat low in the water, weighted down by their haul. Jack didn't fancy carrying such a load for long, for it slowed the Pearl down and made the galleon sluggish. In waters where His Majesty's ships of the line sailed frequently, that could leave the Pearl and her crew in a rather awkward situation, should they run across one another unexpectedly.

Now, Jack Sparrow admitted that he might be a bit daft, but he wasn't downright loony. He would rather avoid such encounters, if at all possible, and rendezvous with His Majesty's fine men at a more opportune time.

"Capt'n, tell us one o' yer tales!" a crewman shouted, accompanied by more of the crew's sounds of approval at the idea.

Jack grinned and eased himself down on the deck, cross-legged, assuming his storytelling position.

"A tale, eh? And what tale do you fine upstanding rapscallions wish to hear tonight?" he asked with a slur, before pausing a moment, one hand toying with his plaited beard as he did so. "How about the time I sacked Nassau Port without firing a single shot?"

A resounding silence was his answer.

"Nay? Right then! How about the time I vanished under…"

"How 'bout a new one, Jack? Perhaps a tale explainin' how ye came to acquire your compass?" Gibbs interrupted, his voice laden with curiosity, as murmurs passed through the crew. "Ye know, the one that leads to Isla de Muerta."

Jack rocked back, startled by the query. Suddenly, he inspected his crew. Sharp brown eyes narrowed into slits of black as he thrust his chin high. "Aye, I can tell you the tale, but it ain't fit for the superstitious man," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious as he looked pointedly at Gibbs, who crossed himself in response before gulping down another helping of rum.

Jack set aside his own bottle. He'd need both hands for the telling of this tale.

"Who gave it to ye?" another crewman queried, anxious to hear his Captain's story.

Gold teeth glittered in the dim light as Jack answered.

"A beauty of a woman, the likes of which you lot are likely to never lay eyes on. Nay, you should pray to the heavens you never do! For even if you scabrous dogs were to witness her beauty, you'd likely never live to tell the tale." Jack smiled ominously, jeweled hands fluttering in their unique way as he spoke, ready and anxious to illustrate his fable with their hypnotic motions. "My compass was bestowed upon me as a gift. A gift from the possession of a Siren…"

Alright. So admittedly, he'd embellished his tale a wee bit, here and there you understand. Spiced it up a smidgen, you know?

Still, like any good legend it was based on fact, but he could deduce that most of the crew thought it naught but more mad ramblings from their daft Captain.

Pure fantasy.

A damn good tale to share in a tavern with a hogshead of rum, but nothing more.

Of course, they were partly right. The story he'd told was quite unbelievable, and he'd managed to exclude the most important bits of fact pertaining to his person while spinning the yarn. The most important being that he hadn't actually been the infamous pirate, Captain Jack Sparrow, when it had occurred.

He knew his crew would spread his fantastical tale of the Siren while the Pearl was anchored in Tortuga, as they always did when he chose to present a grand new tale of his high-seas adventures to the rest of the Caribbean population.

He rather enjoyed observing these tales hop from port to port, and many a tale there was, dozens of which were naught but pure flights of fancy.

But always one question remained, one which he had every intention of keeping a mystery.

Who is Captain Jack Sparrow?

Oh, he'd heard whispers surrounding his origins in taverns and pubs, told in hushed tones tainted with drink.

One tale said that he was an unfortunate son-of-a-gun of a well-to-do Captain. Another said he was born in Tortuga, the illegitimate son of a whore. A further one said that he was a prince, hiding from the throne. Yet another, which amused him greatly, proclaimed he'd risen from the depths of the sea herself.

They were good bits of yarn, he had to admit. All spoken as if pure fact.

Fascinating really.

The tales were bilge water, of course, but fine tales nonetheless.

Opening the door to his cabin, he stepped inside and removed his effects, followed quickly by his coat and boots.

Lying down on his cot, sleep quickly claimed him as the rum ran through his blood. Visions of his present soon transformed to memories of a past he never spoke of.

Paradise in the midst of massive gray rocks that jutted out of the sea, the likes of which he'd never seen.

It reminded him of Poseidon's trident rising from the water, and he thought that no mere mortal man should ever bear witness to such a sight.

Somehow, he'd made it past the rocks, despite the bullet lodged in his chest, courtesy of a treacherous scalawag who'd decided his ship was easy pickings, and a far improved vessel than the one he currently possessed.

He thought, certainly, he would be lost to Davy Jones' Locker as the rogue fired a shot into his chest and tossed him overboard for the sea to devour. He'd barely had enough strength to struggle to the surface after such an assault to his person. He'd succumbed to the sea and the darkness of death not long after.

Yet here he was, lying in this green meadow, surrounded by the most exotic and lush vegetation he'd ever laid eyes upon.

He hadn't the foggiest notion of how he'd come to be there.

Still, he was in an awful lot of pain if he was dead, and as he lay immobile his gaze took in the surrounding landscape. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and pain pierced his chest with every breath.

He looked down to view the fatal wound, as there was no doubt in his mind that it was fatal. Missing his heart by a mere rabbit's whisker, but still lodging deeply into one of his lungs. The damage was done; it was just a little less swift than a shot straight through the heart.

Too weak to move, and still losing a good deal of blood from the bullet wound in his chest, he knew he had only another hour to live, if that.

He had to admit, though, that it was a beautiful place to die. Be just his luck to die in a lost island paradise before he could explore it proper.

His only regret was that his newly wedded wife in England would never know what became of him. She would become a widow before she ever truly experienced being a wife.

With each passing minute he could feel his life ebbing away. His breathing short and fast, the pain becoming dull as his ability to feel mercifully began to perish. Black tainted the edges of his vision, and he thought, 'It be looking like I won't last through the hour after all.'

He closed his eyes, ready to let Death take him, but as he did so a voice broke through his haze. It was singing; melodic and beautiful. Distinctly feminine.

'Is it an angel?'

The singing was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard in all of his short life, and as he felt his mortality slipping away from him, he couldn't conceive of a more wondrous sound to accompany his departure from earth than this angel's song.

"Stay with me.
Stay.
Listen to my song, beautiful sailor.
If thee remain, thou shall leave charmed."

He struggled to see the source of the enchanting voice, but no longer had the strength for even the simple action of opening his eyes.

He knew it would not be long now.

"I can bless ye with many a gift,
My sailor.
Let me envelop thee.
My spell can bind thee heart.
I promise thou shall not be displeased.
Stay with me. Stay."

He felt a gentle hand on his brow, pushing aside the long black hair clinging to his face, the tie that held it back long gone, his hair now a tangle. Her touch sent a comforting warmth through his dying body, and he found himself thankful for her presence.

For no man truly wanted to die alone.

As he listened to her song he realized she was really speaking, but her speech naturally flowed and changed into that of a seductive song.

"Stay with me. Stay.
In return I shall bestow upon ye a most favorable transformation.
To become a son of the sea, beautiful sailor.
She is waiting for thee,
As am I."

Her touch was soft, warm, gentle, yet strong as well.

"Open thine eyes,
Let me see thy soul."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound passed his lips. His mouth dry, his voice gone.

She moved her hand down to his eyes and swept over them lightly.

"Open thine eyes,
Open thine eyes for me," she continued to sing.

Again he tried to lift his unnaturally heavy lids, and much to his surprise, succeeded in doing so, if only just barely. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his hazy vision, as black still threatened to close in.

She stroked his forehead again, and he was finally able to focus on her face.

His breathing ceased momentarily as he beheld her features. With skin like the finest porcelain, long waves of hair the color of the sea fell past her shoulders, and matched the color of her eyes.

Quite naturally, it didn't take long for him to lower his gaze, and he noticed that she was wearing not even a shred of clothing on her upper half.

Well now, he had a fine wife at home, but let it be said that he was no eunuch, nor a man who favored other men, and he couldn't in all honesty say that he didn't enjoy the view.

"Ye have awakened," she said in her seductive sing-song.

He attempted again to force words past his lips, and managed after a few heavy, deep coughs.

"Aye, lass."

He almost cringed at the sound of his feeble voice.

"Stay with me. Ye will stay with me, will ye not?" she asked, her turquoise eyes begging him.

He coughed again, and it racked his lungs, filling his body with pain. "I'd be delighted to acquiesce to your request, luv," he whispered, each breath a struggle, "But it be looking as if I'm in Davy's Grip and he's not likely to be letting go."

She frowned, and he thought that it seemed a shame to mar her perfect face with such a displeased expression.

"What ails thee?"

He might have laughed, had he not been sure he would speed his death in the process.

He thought the large hole in his chest was rather obvious.

"I be no doctor, luv, but I sense this hole in my chest be the cause of my present difficulty."

Her eyes left his and her hand drifted down to his wound, probing it delicately.

He moaned as the light pressure brought back the pain that had been trying to fade away.

"Poor soul, poor soul," she sang.

Laying her head upon his chest, she listened to the beating of his heart; fast and uneven. It was then, when she had bent over him, that he could see the long, slender wings that emerged from her shoulder-blades. They were not covered in feathers as one might have expected; instead fish-like scales adorned the wings, slick and matching the hue of her hair and eyes.

His breath caught in his throat as he fully comprehended what this seductress truly was. He was thrown off guard at her actions however. He thought, from the tales he'd heard, she'd surely have brought him death by now.

At his hitch in breathing, her eyes looked to his in concern, and he exhaled painfully, his face contorted in pain.

Her gaze changed from sympathetic to curious, and she asked, "What be thy given name?"

Another shallow breath, the air becoming heavy and increasingly unavailable to him with each passing minute.

"Commodore Dylan Jackson Laraine," he said in a whisper, too weak to speak any louder.

"Ah…" she breathed, and stroked his face once more. "Then, ye be my bird of the sea."

"Eh?" He coughed again, and this time the bitter, metallic taste of blood came with it. He had naught but a few more moments, he knew. His gaze moved down to the rest of her figure, and he was not surprised to see her lower half was that of a fish, the scales matching those on her wings.

"Sea bird, sea bird," she sang, for his last name was Latin in origin, and meant just that.

"Beautiful sea bird. Have ye come to visit me?"

A weak smile broke through his pain-laced features.

"Nay, I fear this be my last voyage," he said, and it came out almost inaudible, blood emerging from a corner of his mouth, garbling his speech. "I be… in a bad way… luv."

Slender fingers gently caressed his features, and right before he closed his eyes, he could have sworn a tear slid down her porcelain cheek.

She leaned close to his ear and sang softly, almost urgently, "What does thine heart desire most, beautiful sea bird?"

'It be making no difference now,' he thought regretfully, as he felt his life draining away.

"Tell me, my bird of the sea, tell me now," she sang again, desperately, into his ear.

There was no need for him to think of an answer, he knew instinctively, like a bird knew how to fly. He tried to voice it, but as he did so only blood emerged, and he coughed violently.

She cradled his head in her arms, and kissed his forehead lightly, once his convulsions had subsided. Faintly he could feel her warm, wet tears meet the cool skin of his forehead, and he briefly wondered why she would cry for him.

"Please tell me. Please, beautiful sea bird," she sang, almost begging.

He began coughing again, as he struggled to draw air into his damaged lungs, and answer this Siren who had the compassion to stay with a dying man as he took his final breaths.

"Freedom."

The simple word came with more blood, and he couldn't be sure that his answer made it past his lips as anything comprehensible to the Siren who held him, but apparently it did.

Her head tilted to the side, her wings catching a slight breeze. "Ye ask not for life, nor treasure, nor power?" A sad smile passed her features. "Nay, rather, ye ask for freedom?"

She picked up one of his limp hands, and ran it across her wet cheek.

She would mourn for him.

He opened his mouth to answer her query, to tell her why, but as he did so, only his life's precious fluid passed his lips.

It was not meant to be.

With one last shallow breath, Dylan Jackson Laraine died in the Siren's embrace, and Jack Sparrow was born.

Chapter 2 – The Island

When he awoke to find himself upon a lost isle of unspeakable beauty – one that he’d spoken of on but a single occasion – he was not entirely surprised. When he had been all but fitted for a dead man’s chest all those years ago, this was where he’d washed ashore. Was it so strange that after Jones’ ghastly beastie swallowed him whole he should end up here once more?

He thought not.

Pushing himself upright he swayed about as if he’d been spun ‘round before settling into a seated position. Brushing the fine grains of beach sand off his face, he squinted at the sunlight as it glistened off the vast ocean before him.

Realization ebbed in like the coming tide. His Pearl was gone. He’d lost her once more to the depths, and wasn’t so sure fate would deem the Black Pearl or its captain worthy of saving from the locker yet again.

There was many a fine captain who got far less chances than he, so he couldn’t rightly complain. It was a peculiar thing, but the thought of his ship lost to the depths – left to rot on the ocean floor – was more troubling to him than his own passing.

The Wicked Wench was his reason for making his fateful bargain with Davy Jones; he could not bear the thought of parting with her. She’d been a different ship after Jones had resurrected her, and thus Jack had re-christened her The Black Pearl.

Hence the reason for his return to the Pearl whilst the Kraken tore it apart; there was little joy in sailing the seas without her. Neither ship nor captain was complete without the other, and he wouldn’t let her go down without a battle. It would be a great surprise to most that when the last survivors boarded the longboat, and he ran his hand across The Pearl’s damaged exterior to say goodbye, he’d seriously considered going down with her.

Elizabeth needn’t have gone to such lengths to keep him aboard the Pearl. If her actions hadn’t proved him right about her, he would have felt hurt by her betrayal. Instead, he was angry; angry at himself for letting his guard down with a pirate. He should have known better.

Elizabeth was a pirate. She’d crossed that line in the sand, where no manner of nobility or goodness could pull you back. She and William would have to square with that one day, and he thought that might be punishment enough for the both of them.

But, enough of such ponderings. He was seemingly stuck on an island with no ship, no food, no effects but his compass, and lingering memories of the Kraken’s innards. There were more pressing matters, he daresay.

Many believed that luck must surely follow Jack Sparrow, but this belief missed one very important actuality; he found luck just as easily as he lost it and there was nothing so cruel as to endlessly lose what you desired most.

He couldn’t keep hold of anything; not his ship, his title, his name…

Not even his hat.

Jack’s shoulders sagged tiredly as reality hit him like a tidal wave. His gaze fell on the compass, still strapped to his belt.

More curse than sea charm. Blasted siren.

It was a good, long moment later – once his vision stopped swimming and his head stopped spinning – that he truly looked at his surroundings.

Presently he sat near the shore on a narrow stretch of beach. The sand was nearly white as pearl and, now that he thought about it, quite hot beneath his rump.

Standing, Jack spotted the trident-like rock jutting out from the water. He’d not seen it straight away because of a particularly leafy palm. The trident was a natural monument that could stand guard to only one island; yet it was an island that had neither name nor precise coordinates.

The Trident didn’t possess the same magnificence it’d once held, and he could admit to a touch of disappointment at the fact. But then, what manner of natural wonder would seem astonishing when you’d been swallowed whole by a mythological creature not but a few hours before?

The day held no promise of storm, with little wind to jangle his trinkets or cool his skin. Before him lay the beauty of the ocean and he found himself squinting as the light danced merrily about the blue waves of the warm Caribbean waters.

‘I could stare at you forever, luv’ he thought.

He ran a bejeweled finger underneath his right eye, checking his finger to see if any kohl remained.

None. No wonder the light made him squint so much.

Turning around, he surveyed what was behind him as the beads in his hair clinked lightly with the motion.

Jungle.

Although not as dense as the Isla de Pelegostos, it was still a bit dense for his taste. Here and there large stone structures peeked out through the undergrowth. From where he stood they looked as though they were ancient temples, long left to nature and her destructive elements; the soft, white stone they were built from eroding a little more each day.

Moving his gaze away from the temples and back to the jungle he couldn’t help but think that there was something different about this island; it had undeniably changed, yet he’d have a hard time putting a finger on exactly what had altered during his absence.

Had the surrounding jungle been so dense upon his last visit?

As he pondered the thought, the rhythmic lapping of the waves was interrupted by a splash, and he turned to see what had caused the sound.

Indeed, death must have been unkind to his sanity, for he saw nothing despite hearing it distinctly. Be just his luck to go mad only after his death.

Speaking of which – or rather thinking, as it were – he couldn’t say with all certainty whether or not he was well and truly dead.

Funny thing, that. After all, you’d think the least He could do is let you know.

Indeed, he now found himself stranded on an isle he only graced when seemingly dead or dying, but appearances could be deceiving. Who knew? Perhaps he wasn’t dead. Perhaps the Kraken had found him as distasteful as respectable landlubbers had, and spit him back out… it seemed plausible enough, if you accounted for the implausible.

Once again turning to face the ocean, he stood there staring unthinkingly at the lapping waves.

What are you waiting for, sea bird?

He shook his head as if to clear it, chuckling to himself; he was waiting for her. He expected his enchanting siren to come… but seconds passed, becoming minutes, and she had yet to appear.

Would she not come to welcome the Captain Jack Sparrow?

He didn’t see why not. In his mind, he was far more grand and worthy now then when he’d first laid eyes upon her.

‘You’re wasting your bloody time,’ he thought after another minute of gazing at the ocean. Turning back toward the jungle, he contemplated the best course of action for the baffling situation he found himself in now.

If he was dead, he could belay his worries of what to do next. If he wasn’t… well, he’d best get a move on.

Until he knew for certain, he decided to opt for the latter possibility.

Now, he had to admit to a bit of trepidation at the idea of waltzing into the forest. Jungles made him feel trapped; he couldn’t see the horizon. He was stuck between wanting to find the place his siren had taken him to heal, and an almost indescribable longing to stay along the shoreline.

After a minute of contemplation, he decided to keep to the shore as much as possible. Just in case a ship should happen to sail by. Stranger things had happened… and Jack knew from experience that even the most improbable things were entirely probable.

After a five minute trek down the beach, he began to notice the change in the landscape. The beach had been white and sandy where he’d washed ashore. Now the sand beneath his boots was becoming increasingly rocky. Soon, there was no sand at all; only rock. The jungle to his left was also different. It was not only thinning, but dying. Trees were barren, vines were dead, and anything green was in the process of being consumed by growing patches of brown. The further west he walked, the more desolate the island became; as if half of the island was dying.

He was starting to think that perhaps he should have taken his chances in the jungle after all. This half of the island was not only turning out to be less than promising, but ominous as well.

Stumbling a bit over a piece of driftwood that had escaped his notice, he caught his balance just as he became aware of the melody of a musical instrument, carried on the wind. It had a harp-like quality to its sound, but was somehow… less soothing.

‘Could it be her?’ he wondered.

As the melody sang in the breeze he slowly made his way closer to its origin, soon reaching a large escarpment of rocks that acted as a wall to the other side of the island.

Bugger!

They blocked his view of whomever or whatever was playing the instrument. He’d have to climb over, or go around through the dying jungle. Since the rock was only about fifteen feet high, and seemed easy enough to climb, he chose to try and scale it.

As he climbed to the top of the rocks it became obvious that this was not his most inspired plan. He’d not the foggiest notion of who was playing on the opposite side of the escarpment, in spite of his hopes, and no plan on how to escape if he should find himself in a troubling situation.

He supposed he’d just have to count on that damnable luck of his once more. He was, after all, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Reaching the top, he took the opportunity to regain his footing, then looked out to what was beyond the natural rock wall. What he laid eyes on nearly caused him to tumble back down the way he’d come, and he surely appeared three sheets to the wind as he caught his balance atop the rocks.

It could only be described as a graveyard – of both ships and men – but Jack doubted that the vast stretch of rocky beach before him could ever be called a place of rest.

Shipwrecks lay scattered and broken across the shore and shallows for as far as his eye could see; hundreds of them, in all shapes and sizes. Their disfigured forms jutted from the landscape like skeletons, left to rot for eternity amongst countless others in this seafarer’s necropolis.

The ocean’s waters no longer caressed the shore gently. Now she crashed against the rocky shore relentlessly, as if trying to rid the world of such a grim spit of land, and he was rooting for her to win.

He knew he should turn back, but he had to know to whom the music belonged. He had to know if it was her.

Making his way down the embankment, his arms flailed wildly for balance as he teetered and leaped from rock to rock. He noted that the music had grown in volume, the sound no longer blocked by the rocky outcrop, yet there was still no visible source of the melody. The music had changed in both rhythm and tone as soon as he’d completed his climb and set foot on the other side of the rocks. As if the player was aware of his attendance at their private concert, and no longer had their mind focused solely on their music.

His progress along the beach was thwarted by the increasing difficulty of the terrain. Now only large rocks, wreckage, shallows of water and dark gray mud made up the shore. Impeding him even further was the maze of decaying wood, sail, rigging, and almost anything else that made up a seafaring vessel.

Jack made his way as best he could towards the music, but soon found a large wreck of a thing in his path. The oddity and sheer size made him stop to consider it further. He dare not call the thing a ship, because surely it hadn’t been able to float with so much metal and iron. Yet the massive wreck was most surely a ship in its design, and was extraordinary, regardless of the folly of its creation.

A bloody metal ship! It was of no surprise to him that this particular vessel had ended up here, for building a ship solely of such material could only bring failure. He did sorely hope to escape from this island, just for the pleasure of telling this new yarn.

However, though he thought the ship incapable of floating, he couldn’t overlook the fact that it had gotten here somehow.

“Madness or brilliance,” Jack muttered, reaching out to touch a piece of its deteriorating hull. Making contact with it, he reassured himself that he wasn’t hallucinating. However, no sooner had he rested a hand on the rusty hunk of metal, than the music stopped.

Jack parroted the action; he froze in place, listening intently. He stood still as a figurehead, hoping to remain inconspicuous during the silence, though he had a strange feeling that it mattered little.

After about a minute, the music began a second time, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to see who was playing, so that he could assess whether or not all his covertness was necessary.

He neared where he thought the sound had been coming from, concealing himself behind the immense hulk of the strange metal ship. Carefully tip-toeing his way over the rocks, he did his best to remain quiet.

He wasn’t quite sure why he bothered, as he was convinced that the person who was playing was aware of his presence. He wasn’t sure why he was certain of it, but he’d learned it was best to trust his instincts. They’d led him afoul only a few times… honest.

Spotting what might be a decent peephole a bit further up he edged his way towards it. It was then that he took note of how truly odd the ship before him had been. Not only had it been made of metal, but it had no masts. Indeed, there were no sails at all, nor were there any sweeps.

How the devil did she ever sail without sails?

Thoroughly perplexed by the ship, his attention was forced back to the mystery musician as their music changed from an absentminded melody to a much more purposeful song. He neared the hole in the shipwreck’s keel, close to her bow. The hole would give him a fine view to where he thought the musician might be.

Peering into the hole and beyond the wreckage, he spotted her on the other side.

Not her, mind you, but most assuredly a creature of the feminine variety. She had her back to him, and like his siren she had the lower half of a fish, and scale-covered wings. But unlike his siren’s sea-green locks, this one’s hair was black and adorned with some sort of weave or netting.

The siren perched on a rock just off shore, and he could see from his precarious spot amongst the wreckage that she was indeed the musician, for she was playing some sort of instrument… although what instrument he couldn’t say. It was harp-like, but certainly not large enough to be the type of harp he was familiar with. He was too far off to see her or the instrument in detail, and he thought he might be the better for it.

She paid him no mind as he watched her, though he was certain that she knew of his presence. Her gaze was firmly fixed on the horizon, and as he followed her intent look he saw what captured her attention so.

A ship; it was still merely a dot on the horizon. Her attention was fixed solely on it, and her expression was more than a trifle unnerving; hunger, lust, and anticipation. Her emotions colored her music, and it soon became a seductress’ song of lust. At that moment, she saw nothing else but that ship, and he saw no one but her.

But don’t let it be said that Jack Sparrow had succumbed to her spell. Quite the contrary; he was more anxious to make haste into the jungle, for now it seemed a more than welcoming option. He’d heard more than his fair share of siren tales, of course. How could he not? Some were quite bawdy and entertaining, while others were more… horrific in nature. They all had the same lesson in their telling, however, and that was a mermaid or sea siren would bring about your demise.

Even though his siren had shown him kindness, he wasn’t ready to trust that they’d all be as hospitable. From the look of his surroundings, he’d wager his dreadlocks that it was a wise choice. Again, many may voice their disagreement but Jack Sparrow was not a simpleton.

Daft? Common knowledge, I should think.

Mad? A probable probability in its possibility.

Suicidal? Is rum or treasure involved?

Stupid? No, I don’t fancy myself that.

Dylan Jackson Laraine had not been a stupid man, nor was Jack Sparrow a stupid man now.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the siren as she sang her song of seduction, he began backing away with the full intention of taking French leave. The further he was from this graveyard, the healthier he’d stay.

Because of his preoccupation with the siren, he hadn’t noticed what manner of creature lay in waiting closer to his person, hidden in the remains of the metal ship. That was until it made a sound, much like a hiss.

Jack spun around to face the creature, hand instinctively reaching for a sword that was no longer in its hilt. Realizing its absence, he took a step back to distance himself from what was beginning to crawl out of the wreck. Unfortunately he’d no solid ground to step back on, and tumbled into a tide pool behind him before he caught a decent glimpse of his attacker.

The tumble was not a gentle one. A sharp rock cut deep into his forearm as he fell. He had little time to react to the pain before his head was bursting with a similar sensation, and his vision darkened before him.

To Be Continued...