Pirates of the Caribbean: Fate Intervenes

A Heart Regained

 A sobering orb of fear and dread soared around the room, wrenching itself in each of the crewmen's guts. Save the distant ticking of a chronometer and muffled grunts of the restless babe, the space was silent enough to trouble anyone; Realization sunk into their brows that their lives were now changed forevermore.

"Whadda we do now, Cap?"

Cockeyed Samson was wrenched from his thoughts, and likely was fortunate, for he'd nearly torn his entire fingernail off between his worried teeth. He glanced up, looking into each ghastly face and trying to suppress his pride. Though they had become a successful group of ne'er-do-well cads and had none other to credit for their transformations than Samson himself, it was not the right time to dwell on his achievements. They had a serious issue.

His thoughts felt like a snake inside his mind... writhing between memories and pain, dodging the inevitable, and probing for a solution. Though he resented what he felt would come to be, he feared his emotions could not take the transformation. What he mostly defied was that he hadn't any control over the income, nor the outcome.

The day had begun like any other trip to port. The men had scarcely seen land in the past half-year, so naturally, a day in Port Tortuga could include nothing less than the utmost indulgences. Some focused on food, trinkets, and pleasurable company, but Cockeyed Samson had priorities much loftier than that. He sought to convince himself and every pirate who came across him that he felt no mercy, no pain, no emotion. He drank, fought, drank more, and then oftentimes forgot what happened after that. His stalky, scarred frame verified the image he sought to create.

After their long resting day, jolly laughter and swaggering pirates sauntering their way up the gangplank towards the glorious Wicked Wench, the crew shared their last carefree moment together. For just as they made way, directed heading, and sought to find their hammocks for much-needed sleep, they found something which offered them nothing less than utter despair.

As he reflected on the perfection of the day previous to their discovery, he became both conscious of the blood dripping from the tip of his sword against the deck and aware that he didn't remember to whom it belonged. He fought against the beating of his temples, trying to focus his blurred sight. Now of all times why did he have to be drunk?

"How far be us from shore?" His voice was croaked and frightened.

"Too far to redirect, sir. That is, without a bootleg turn." The Quartermaster gave a playful chuckle, which was not gleefully received. He cleared his throat to avoid awkwardness.

Samson nodded with a sigh, leaning back against the desk and finally allowing himself to look up at the bundle of blankets wriggling beneath the brim of the basket, which sat upon the countertop. He had to will his hand to stay in its place, his body naturally itching to impart a comforting pat against the child. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk his heart. He had worked so hard to cultivate it into something harsh and cold, but alongside that chill came a dryness that risked cracking. He could allow nothing inside.

He slammed a frustrated hand against the countertop. "That dreadful cur was a clever one, eh? Left the child in a place just tricky enough to find that it wouldn't be before we made way. It would be too late for us to make rid of..." His voice trailed off and pursing his lips, a shaky hand met them. "...hardly could call herself a mother. Leavin' her child to the unknown."

He clenched his eyes shut, willing the images popping before them to disappear. He wished not to see his wife and young children die more than once in a lifetime. He wished ne'er to feel that way about a child or woman again. Yet he battled against a heart he thought sufficiently numb; the babe within the linens before him called to his chest.

"Do you have any suggestions, Cap'n?"

His eyes failed to leave the swaddle. "None, Master Rory."

Silence suspended the obvious on the empty air.

"You don't... feel warmth for it, do ye, Cap'n?"

The First Mate sounded dreadfully alarmed at this even being a possibility. Samson moved forward on his seat briskly, peering into the basket and fixating on the crystal blue eyes, feathery lashes, and loveable scatterings of freckles.

"It? I'd hardly call her an it, mate." He suppressed a smile as he leaned back once again, forcing up as close to a carefree nature as he could muster. "But, in any measure, I care not for the outcome of a mere babe."

"Then it's settled, boys." Lance wrapped his bony fingers around the wicker handle, heading towards the door. "It goes overboard."

Emotion burned through Cockeyed Samson's dead soul, washing in a sickening blow towards his stomach. Without thought, his body bounded itself to his feet, throwing the wooden chair against the planked floor and causing all attention to shoot towards him.

"No." He called, wondering what exactly he was planning on doing by jeopardizing his entire life in such a reckless manner as he made his way across the room to retrieve the basket. But as he held it, reaching inside to clasp her alabaster fist for the first time, he saw in her crystal eyes the warmth he needed to thaw his imprisoned soul.