Author's Notes: Here is the third and final part of The Heart of the Swann, written in the perspective of Captain Jack Sparrow. I apologize for the wait, I wasn't able to access a computer with a word processor yesterday. But to make up for this, this is three hundred words longer than the other ones. If you have ever written Jack Sparrow successfully, then my hat is certainly off to you. I am not as pleased with this part as I am with Norrington's, because Jack has so much voice that it is incredibly difficult for me to capture it! This is also a bit more humorous, because I think that, even though he's in quite the predicament, he wouldn't lose his humor. I just hope it isn't overdone. So, without further ado, here's the Mr. Sparrow. I do hope it is as good as you hoped it would be.
Captain Jack Sparrow
First and foremost, now, you've got to realize that I'm a pirate. A downright scoundrel, actually, whose only love, you might anticipate, is the sea. Well, you've got me sleeve pinned, I'll wager, but the rest of Captain Jack Sparrow is running free and uncharted. What I mean to convey is that I'm not what you might expect. After all, there are two things that I love more than the vast expanse that is the so very much admired ocean blue.
There's the Black Pearl, of course, my beautiful ship—God rest her soul—who now lays in pieces far beneath the depths. I wonder if it is inevitable that this became her fate. A sunken ship once sunken is supposed to stay precisely so, I suppose. Sunken, you savvy? But I believe dear Lizzy just might decide to do something even more drastic to me if she thinks I'm more fond of a ship—and the rum, perhaps—than a human being. More than her. So for all intensive and safety purposes, the Pearl is, for a moment, a bygone of sorts.
Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy. What a pirate that woman's become. And I'm most certainly one that has every qualification of being full aware of this. The trouble with fair lady pirates is that they are entirely too willing to use certain feminine aspects to get what they want done. That, and they're highly temperamental, and Elizabeth is no exception to these. After all, she gave me one of the best kisses my humble self has ever been on the receiving end of, then chained me to the Pearl and left with the whelp when said job was done. And to top it all off, she decided that she wasn't in any way, shape or form remorseful. Well, we'll see about that, won't we, love? After all, she's never really killed anyone, has she?
You might expect, as any logical someone might, that I very much despise Lizzy, but I'm afraid that you would be very much mistaken if you thought such a thing. You see, in truth, I couldn't be more proud. She's come a right long way from the prude Governor's daughter I rescued from the harbor. I mean, there's really no denying who she is… technically… but you wouldn't know it as to look at her, so it makes you wonder. Well, I don't wonder, of course,as I'veknown her true nature for a much longer time than she has, if I may accredit myself with this. We are very much alike.
The key thing to understand in order to comprehend Miss Swann herself is that what she wants the most in the world is freedom. She may deny this all she very well likes, but there's really no use. Futile, as it were, though she could probably argue that even my compass doesn't point to this. Yet, I can argue as well that this isn't necessarily true.
I had a sneaking suspicion of what was tying her corset in a knot about said compass of mine, though I don't pretend to honor myself with being absolutely positive of this. My somewhat intuitive nature often proves to be rather biased; it habitually tells me what it is that I wish to hear, though I can't deny that it's how I prefer it to be.
But funny, really, how pirates are commonly interpreted: heartless bastards that care only for themselves—and gold, and rum, et cetera… It's so very rarely expected that we have the capability of getting weak in the knees, with our hearts all fluttery-like and whatnot. But perchance a look at old Jones might persuade that someone otherwise. He, being one of the most ruthless creatures I meself have known to sail the seven seas, had to cut out his own heart for the twinkling eye of his bonnie lass. Me, on the other hand… Well, I'm not about to cut out me heart, due to a certain lack of qualities—immortality, and all that—but I do confess I've come to the realization that even I am not as impervious to Miss Swann as I perhaps had thought.
Now, don't come to the wrong conclusions here—don't be hasty in your bloody romanticisms. I don't believe in this love falling-into that happens in an instantaneous manner… ah, what is it? Love at first sight, and all that lovely storybook rubbish. You see, said Governor's daughter was perhaps the biggest nuisance I thought I'd ever had the deep misfortune to encounter. I used to believe in first impressions, too. Because that's when she was still in the annoying mindset of the high class lady of society she was reared up to be. (That's partially why I'll swear by Tortuga, and nigh nothing else.) She was still tied down by chains—corset stays—inhibitions, as it were. She had not yet tasted what freedom was and truly is like.
And so I do commend myself for bringing Lizzy the Pirate about. She's a piece of work, that one is.
Now, it wasn't my intention to corrupt the lady, and neither was it entirely my doing. Bootstrap's boy is wholly responsible for that which I'm not. No, on second thought, Barbossa had a small hand in on it. Gave us the key, so to speak, to unlock her from her cage. But I'm getting ahead of meself.
I didn't actually notice her until we'd been put out as island-mates on that God-forsaken spit of land. The rum runners' spot—former spot, regrettably.
The interesting thing among other things about rum is that it has the capability of bringing out the best or the worst of a man's character. Or a woman's, of course. That was when Lizzy became inconceivably drunk. I did too, of course, which I suppose makes it all the more peculiar that I even remember any of our little sojourn. But when Lizzy was drunk—or doing a damn good impression of being in said state—she sank right down to the same level as meself. And I know my own kind.
After that, however, I didn't think much of her, with my mind being somewhat preoccupied with burning revenge and hers with Will Turner. I do respect a mate and his girl most of the time. And after all, what was I to care when the lass was out from under foot—and perfectly happy, of course, with dear William. Who was I to object?
I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, actually. And to be fantastically blunt, she and I have a certain… connection: a similarity, more like, because we both want the same thing—fundamentally. We want the freedom of doing whatever we please when we jolly well decide. So why, then, would I not want what wants so desperately what I want and have mostly gained? It's undeniable logic, really, that there shouldn't be some attraction.
I can't say that I'm in love with her, like the whelp or thieving former Commodore most certainly can. I'm not a sap or a ponce, or a variety of unflattering terms. And I'm not about to send her flowers or jewels or delectable sweets. But I would give my life up for her, wouldn't I? I mean, haven't I, after all? I'm dead or dying or something that's similarly unpleasant. Because, for a moment, a very noble moment, methinks, what I wanted the most in the world changed to something else. Perchance something that I'm still not quite even sure of, though, the compass most certainly knows it, the tricky thing.
Elizabeth Sparrow. Now that, mate, is an interesting idea, even if it's one I oughtn't consider. I'm not the type for marriage, you see. If Miss Swann is to become anything, it will be a Turner, or nothing different. After all, my chances have now become remarkably slim. However, if indeed I have won fair lady's heart to the point of no return—as she has or will mine—then, well, you know...