|What Do You Want Most?
Author: GoatMilkandTACOS PM
Two friends find themselves in the world of POTC, discovering they have found what they want most. But what have they given up? Self-insert, Jack/OC, Will/OC First in a series.Rated: Fiction T - English - Adventure/Romance - Capt. Jack Sparrow & Will T. - Chapters: 15 - Words: 15,168 - Reviews: 11 - Favs: 65 - Follows: 8 - Published: 03-21-09 - Status: Complete - id: 4938521
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"We will shortly be arriving at London Charing Cross."
The clear, electronic voice echoes from the train's many speakers, and I jerk awake. Beneath me, the wheels are slowing, the eight carriages all jolting slowly into the station. The right side of my face is numb from sleeping against the window and I squint as bright sunlight catches my eyes.
Wearily, I gather my possessions; notebook and pen in rucksack, rucksack on back, suitcase standing up, ready to be wheeled off the train. The air con makes the carriage perfectly cool, but I can see from the golden sunshine and azure sky that it is another boiling day outside. Great, I think to myself, I'm travelling during the worst heat wave for a century.
The full force of the humid, suffocating heat hits me as I climb off the train and join the throng of commuters on the platform. London during the rush hour is like a stampede or buffalos, except louder with more mobile phones.
"Catch a cab to King's Cross" my mum told me repeatedly before I left, and now I see the line of waiting, black taxis. I could easily climb in and ask to go to King's Cross Station, where I am to catch the next train to Heathrow Airport, but it's hot and I don't feel like wasting all my money on a taxi when the station is not far. Instead, I dodge the taxis and cross the road determinedly, in order to walk in the meagre shade of the street's few trees.
Up ahead, I see them; gypsies...just like the one who forced me to buy a sprig of heather for £2 last time I was in London. The city is full of them, and I am in no mood to argue with them today. Holding my head up and tossing back my hair in an effort to look intimidating, I walk faster, hoping to march past unscathed.
"Ni-im." one of them grabs my arm and whispers my name in a singsong voice. She is old, with a wrinkled, wizened face and a mass of magnificent black hair that streams down her back. I notice a familiar locket gleaming at her throat.
"How do you know my name?" I ask stupidly. Isn't that what heroines ask in movies? Usually before being gutted by a serial killer?
"I know more than you think." she steers me into an alleyway and I am forced to drag my suitcase behind me, "For example, I know you're unhappy...bored of life. I know...you would like a wish."
"Look, I need to catch a train." I say pathetically, actually believing that this mad woman cares about my time schedule. I reach into my pocket and pull out £2, "Here."
The gypsy pockets my coins and I make to leave, realising now that her hand is still gripping my arm, clawlike.
"You are very lucky, Nim. Today you will meet your double, someone who needs what you need...am I right?"
I certainly am going to meet someone today. That's the whole point of this little trip across the sodding Atlantic Ocean.
"Meg..." the name escapes me before I can stop it.
"Take this." the gypsy removes her locket and hands it to me. It's point digs sharply into my palm, drawing blood, "Now close your eyes, and let go of me."
Dizzily, I see that I am holding her hand and that she is no longer holding me. But then my eyes are forced closed, as if by an invisible hand, and white light burns behind my eyes. Something falls away inside me, and I am suddenly floating...floating apart. My mind is detached from the rest of me and the light grows brighter. Then everything whooshes back together, and for the second time today, I wake with a start.
The hustle and bustle of the airport terminal surrounds me as I realise I am sitting on a plastic chair. A screen over the heads of the milling passengers tells me that I am in the right terminal and as I move my foot, I feel it hit my suitcase which, to my relief, has survived our jaunt through time and space. No, Nim, I remind myself, my dream. It was a bloody dream. And now I have to check in.
Wobbly-legged, I make my way to the desk, the suitcase bumping along behind me. There is a shooting pain in my hand and as I examine my palm, I am forced to close my mouth around the scream that explodes inside me. Lying there, against my pale skin, is the locket from my dream, bloodstained. Beside it is a small gash in my skin...just like in the dream. Hastily, I cram the locket into my rucksack and retrieve my ticket before blindly stumbling to the desk and wordlessly handing it over to the desk clerk.
"Are you alright?" the woman behind the desk is middle-aged with a kind, concerned face, "You look really pale."
"I'm always pale." I mutter, holding out my other hand for the boarding pass.
"You know, you might have heatstroke. Lots of girls have collapsed here lately because of it. I could get you some water if you like." she prattles on.
"No! I'm fine!" I snap, and she hands me the pass, obviously offended.
A couple of hours later, I sit on the plane, calmer and ready to examine the locket some more. It looks familiar again as I turn it over in my hand, and I realise it is Tia Dalma's...Calypso's...locket from Pirates of the Caribbean. A replica of Calypso's locket, I correct myself. It opens in my hand and plays that familiar tune, the little music box tune I hear almost daily when I listen to the soundtrack. Very cute. It must've cost the gypsy a lot. But there was no gypsy, was there? It was a dream. I am confused and angry, so I shake the locket. As I do, a piece of yellowing, faded paper falls from it and into my lap. Glancing about to see if anyone is watching me, I fold away the locket and unfold the paper. Written across it in spidery, black ink is a rhyme;
"For the lost and lonely girl
Who must escape her lonely world,
A wish that can't be wished alone.
She'll need one with a soul just like her own."
After reading it several times, I put it back in the locket and wonder what my arrival in America will bring. Could the gypsy have been telling the truth? Adventure overpowers me, and soon I am asleep, dreaming in disjointed fragments made up of gypsies, airports and scenes from Pirates of the Caribbean. But the clearest image of all is my own hand, bleeding and injured, holding that locket, and time itself falling away beneath me.