A/N: Yeah I know what your all thinking- only I crazy person starts another long story when they have like 8 to do and no time... Here I am... I obviously don't own any rights... also this is to be partially blamed on the girl on the At Worl's End Board... They encouraged me... poked me... Bastards...

Old God's Of A New World


The Past Stirs

History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.

Edward Gibbon (1737 - 1794)

"So after rescuing said maiden from a certain, fiery death- her father gave me it as a gift- not to mention he also offered the affections of said virtuous lass- but I was too decent a man for that sort of a thing." The story finally died on the cool night air and Jack's hands settled back down onto the bed, one resting lightly back on Cutler's shoulder.

Silence crept in for a moment as Cutler considered the air that Jack's enthusiastic hands had just left, eyes heavy-lidded with impending sleep.

Really, it was his own fault; he'd made the monumental mistake of asking Jack about the large jade bead twined into his hair at the front, the last in a short string. It sat cool and weighty against his fingers, an odd contrast to the soft dark curls and Cutler twisted it idly; mind adrift.

"Don't you think that story's a little farfetched for a bead Jack?" He mumbled, scrubbing at his eyes before yawning.

"You're right of course love-" Jack conceded after a moment, voice twisting the last word with an odd infection.

"She was not at all that virtuous." There was an involuntary drunk-sounding little giggle on Cutler's part and he blushed over it, curling closer to Jack's shoulder.

"Yes Jack- maidens with virtues of a poor quality were the most fanciful part of your… epic narrative."

Beckett started awake as the disjointed memory of searing pain across his back surfaced through and shredded the otherwise peaceful dream. He panted in the dark for a moment, before sitting up gingerly, forcing a slower, less panicked rhythm back into his breaths.

The Endeavour rocked beneath him gently, in an entirely familiar sway, recently though waking to such did nothing to settle him, to dissipate the horrid shroud of discomfort that pricked at him, fraying his nerves.

Beckett sighed and kicked the damp covers from his bed irritably, showing the sweat-slicked tangle of blonde curls about his head the same treatment, jerking them from his eyes, hating what he considered to be a ridiculously feminine feature even when it wasn't inconveniencing him in some way. The thick locks fell back into place, as if they were mocking him almost.

A breeze found its way in from someplace- slid in between the closed windows, or under the bolted door before trickling across his back and Beckett suddenly found himself deeply unsettled being alone in the dark. He stared into the dimness and tried to picture things, as they were when the room was lit. The vague outlines he could see seemed normal enough, furniture set in a darker shade of black. Nothing moved, the only sound was his own overloud breathing… and that awful feeling…

Beckett sat still for several minutes, peering into the gloom- it wasn't until he was wracked by the urge to lean down and peer under his bed that he realized how infantile he was being and swept his hand over his face again, pressing hard against his eyes.

Beckett moved to light the lamp at his side before pushing his legs over the edge of the bed- the sickening thought that something would grab his ankle settling in for the few seconds before he stood fully and moved away to the window. His fear disappearing entirely after drawing back the heavy curtain on the impending sunrise, pale light flooding the room.

Beckett pinned back the drape before leaning in the frame- watching the Suns slow climb over the horizon- the cleaved orb reminding him of Jack's tattoo. His hand touches his lips without his intending it to and he flinches as threads of dream pull at him.

"Jack-" He sighs into the cold morning air- almost spent embers in the fireplace barely keeping it at bay.

He had always expected to dream about Jack, at first- but for twelve years, there been nothing, Jack had only ever come to mind whilst he was awake- brooding and there had been other memories to plague him while he slept… strange to start dreaming of Jack now.

Beckett's hand dipped to his chest, fingers dancing over the mark he'd let Jack leave on him- hidden beneath a thin layer of cloth, but then he didn't need to see it, touch it, he could feel it constantly. His thoughts turned to Jack's own, that angry red brand that Jack hadn't let him put there.

He though about the accusing gaze and the smell of burning flesh and for the first time in twelve years- felt absolutely nothing. Found no satisfaction in the fact that Jack had ironically been swallowed whole by his precious sea- of all things.

The ocean along the horizon bobbed rhythmically making it seem like the Sun was shuddering lightly and Beckett shared in its discomfort- apprehension trickling along his back- disturbing the delicate hairs there. He turned back sharply to study the room, feeling eyes on him. Beckett found himself alone with his sense of unease.


"Troubles waiting on the horizon." Will started a little before turning to watch Tia Dalma. She stood silhouetted in the deceptively small door to what was otherwise a large and peculiar abode, which could be counted as vaguely normal only when measured up against Tia Dalma herself. As he watched her, she fiddled nervously with the string of rocks about her neck and Will was struck by the impression that if Jack Sparrow had been born a woman…

"Trouble?" He asked and she tugged more violently at the necklace and moved to stand by him on the small wooden platform.

"The moon bleeds. Trouble- for some… for others… death calls." She explained and Will looked up towards the orb- bared tree branches cutting across it in inky lines, whilst a dusty red cloud hung around its silver edges.

"Do you know who?" He didn't name her specifically- but his eyes slid towards Elizabeth tellingly anyhow.

"No one else will be taken from you William." Tia Dalma assured turning to watch Elizabeth discussing various pieces of their plan with Barbossa, the two seated at her table. She turned back to watch his eyes sink back down onto the murky water below them, frog calls rippling through the otherwise still night air.

Will flinched as something cold hit his cheek, a second droplet dripping down with the first from somewhere overhead. He swiped at his cheek and frowned when his fingers came away red and sticky, he rolled his thumb over the digits and found the substance was thicker than blood- sweeter smelling, though the same unsettling crimson shade.

Tia Dalma moved to pluck one of the fat white blossoms from the trees above.

"They've always wept like this." She said stroking the waxy petals lightly; mindful of the red streaks snaking out from the dark center.

"I'm beginning to think they mourn lost love." She sighed- handing him the delicate bloom.

"Have I lost her?" Tia Dalma can't help but feel sorry for him; he looks like some kind of wounded animal. Like something that has lost a paw and laps at the bloody stump in the hopes that, it will suddenly reappear as it was. William Turner in that moment reminds her of another young man- that same enduring sweetness. She can also recognize fractured pieces of herself in Elizabeth and wonders with a vague sense of misery if history intends to repeat past actions with yet another set of lovers.

It won't be anything new- so much of the future already mirrors the past as it is, it's simply the way of things.

She sighs and considers his question and finds herself confronted with another anomaly, her perceptions of the future are askew- stronger and weaker all at the same time. She looks off into the darkness and finds an answer as to why the world is shifting so restlessly- but doesn't want to accept it.

When her eyes finally fall on William again, she finds him looking at her- question clearly written on his face and she has to think as to what was actually asked.

"No." He frowned and looked past her to Elizabeth again; doubt clear in his expression.

"Will I?"

"In time." She watched as he tossed the flower over into the water, eyes following it as she questions her own answer.

The love between them is white-hot, like a candle flame, but it flickers terribly like one too and she senses no future there.

"If I don't go for my father?" Will suggests after a moment, having watched the bloom fill with murky water and disappear from sight. He feels filthy for having given any consideration to leaving his father in his current despair and voicing such a thing thickens the streak of guilt

"Would you?"

"No." She doesn't look at all surprised and neither is he.

"Then it doesn't matter- do not torture yourself with what might have been William- it's a long, cold, lonely path." She advises.

"A road you've been down?" She stares at him for a long moment- feels the past creeping up on her.

"Everybody has a history William- even those of us who do not want one."