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flyingflosser09 · 2 years

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Cursed / Armando Salazar x OC / Chapter 29

Lesaro and Santos help a numb and emotionless Salazar aboard the Silent Mary as Poseidon’s Tomb falls close in crashing waves and sea foam. Even the ship’s curse has been broken, and most parts restored to their former glory.

But the atmosphere is dead, just like the Capitán ’s soul.

Magda, who’s been at the wheel all this time, hands it to one of the officers and quickly descends the helm to see the look of joy on his fellow officers’ faces. He’s been so happy when he felt it skin regain color and feeling, overjoyed to smell and taste the salt in the air. He and the few officers that followed him at Samira’s command, celebrated on their own while the others were still at the bottom of the ocean.

However, he pauses at the quarterdeck when he notices the ashen expressions of Lesaro, Santos, and the others. Surely, they should have more color in their faces, no? He almost checks his hands just to make double certain that the curse it broken.

When he approaches them, he’s perplexed to find them…grieving?

What did he miss?

It hits him like the hilt of a sword to the back of his skull. Searching their faces for one in particular, he feels cold dread creeping down his spine. “Where is the señorita?” When no one answers immediately, he grabs Moss by his collar and almost shouts, “Where is Samira?”

Lesaro looks between Magda and Armando, expecting the latter to share the devasting news with the rest of the crew. But his Capitán just sits there, face passive, but eyes empty of emotion. Lesaro isn’t even certain if Armando heard what Magda said.

So, he takes it upon himself to fill everyone in. “Samira, she sacrificed herself so we can live. She is…” he can’t bring himself to say it as a knot form in his throat.

But those who didn’t see her get crushed by the waves, heard enough to know what happened. Magda’s expression darkens as he feels a sinking feeling weigh him down. He had to sit to process the tiding.

“No,” he shakes his head, unable to accept it, “No, she’s not dead. She cannot be. The ocean will bring her back like it did before. It will bring her back…”

“Mi amigo,” Moss takes a seat next to him, placing a sincere hand on his shoulder, “she’s not coming back. When she broke the Trident, it took away her power. I’m sorry.”

That’s all it takes for Santos to back up and retreat to the forecastle deck, wanting nothing more than to be alone, to grieve alone.

Lesaro looks about the Mary, conflicted. As the second in command, a Lieutenant, he knows duty comes before personal matters. Looking at his fellow officers, he feels he needs to give them a motivational speech to lift their spirits. And while the Capitán is not himself, he needs to give the orders so they can set sail.

But alas, Lesaro can’t find it in himself to do either of that. He needs time to grieve. He might not have loved Samira in the way the Capitán did, but he cared for her just as much. She brought out the good in him, and oh, how he longed to feel that after twenty-five years.

Now she’s gone, gave up her life for theirs.

The Lieutenant slowly approaches Salazar and joins him on the deck. He knows he needs to handle this matter delicately to prevent any raging outburst.

“The señorita’s sacrifice was honorable, mi amigo. She achieved what she set out to do; setting us free.”

“But this wasn’t how it’s supposed to end,” Armando mutters darkly. “She should be here. She would’ve been here if I wasn’t so blinded by revenge, if I didn’t go after the Sparrow –”

“Blaming yourself won’t make the pain go away.” Lesaro places a steady hand on his Capitán ’s shoulder. “The only way to live with it, is for her sacrifice not to be in vain. Perhaps it is time to let the past go.”

“You mean the Sparrow?” He can’t even imagine a world where killing Jack is not on his to-do list. How is he supposed to just let a twenty-five-year plan go to waste? “That pirate took everything from me, and now, he’s taken her!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, amigo,” the Lieutenant almost whispers, “Sparrow might have been responsible for trapping us in the Triangle, but he isn’t responsible for Samira’s fate. From the beginning, her goal was to set us free, and now she has achieved that. Let us not dwell in the past but instead honor her memory and return to Spain. I know she wanted that for us… and for you.”

Armando knows Lesaro is right – he is always right. Samira wanted them to return to Spain to see what is left of their former lives there. He wanted nothing more than to take her with him and settle down in that estate he always dreamt of.

But considering how close he feels to being dead again, he can’t even think about it. How does he move on after this, after her? For a moment he had everything, and now it’s all gone again.

A new sort of rage stirs within him, an emotion he identifies as anguish. There is nothing he can do about it. He can sink a million ships, kill a billion pirates, but nothing will bring her back. He feels helpless and…empty. And that is his worst fear come true.

Armando has remained so long on one spot; his legs have gone numb. But when the looming shadow of a ship cast over the deck of the Mary, he slowly looks up at the row of faces staring at them from across the water.

Pirates.

He sees the boy – Samira’s friend – among them, searching the Mary for her. And then there’s the person he hated the most, making himself small behind his crew in hopes he won’t be seen.

But Armando can’t care less about Jack Sparrow anymore. Yes, he still wants to see him dead, but he’d rather see Samira alive.

“Where is she?” the boy, Henry he remembers his name was, calls to them. “Where is Samira?”

It seems he already suspects the answer to that question, given the grieving looks on the Spanish crew’s faces. But he needs to hear it to accept it.

Standing up from the deck, Armando numbly approaches the rail to hold onto it, not trusting his legs to stand. Tilting his chin, he looks only at the boy and shakes his head.

It’s like watching an invisible man punching the boy in the gut. He’s floored, stumbling backward until the girl at his side steadies him. His face is blank of emotion, but his eyes betray the grief he’s struck with.

Armando knows the boy was like family to Samira. He feels he should say something but can’t for the life of him form any words. So instead, he turns to the bane of his existence and says in a voice dripping with venom, “Consider yourself lucky, Jack. Today, you will live to tell the tale. I will not pursue you further. But if I see your ship on the horizon, if we ever cross paths again, I will attack, I will run my blade across your neck, and I will watch the sharks tear your crew apart piece…by…piece. Now go. VAMOS!”

Jack literally bolts for the wheel to sail away from the Mary as far as he can possibly go. Armando watches the pirate vessel depart, eyes lingering on the boy a moment longer, who hasn’t move since receiving the news.

He could’ve ordered the crew to board the ship and kill at the pirates. He could’ve had his revenge on Jack. But unless it brought Samira back, it made no difference.

Only when the ship is too far for him to see the people on it, does he lose composure and slouch down the rail.

“That was an honorable thing to do, amigo,” Lesaro says behind him, “Samira would –”

“Please,” he cuts him off, and the Lieutenant blinks at the crack in his Capitán ’s voice. Is he…

Understanding that Salazar only wants to be alone now, he nods and says, “I…will order the men to set course then.”

“No, just…” A ragged, shaky breath, and he continues, “…let’s set sail tomorrow.”

He just wants to stay here a bit longer, hoping for the ocean to wash ashore the precious life it claimed. Only once, he wants to hold Samira in his arms before letting her go. Only once, he wants to see her face before returning her to eternal depths of the sea, where she can finally become one with its wonders.

#armando salazar #armando #salazar #pirates of the caribbean: dead men tell no tales #pirates of the caribbean #potc dmtnt #potc #dmtnt #jack sparrow #henry turner

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fandomvariousness · 3 years

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gifs are not mine.

Captain Salazar headcanon

Warnings: brief mention of blood, battle

Request: “Idk if you take requests but would you maybe write a Salazar x pirate! Reader headcannons? I know it's impossible but I'd love if you'd indulge me just a tad?”

Salazar x pirate!reader would include:

You being his nemesis ever since he started off fighting pirates, when you were just a young rascal girl

He can never catch you because you never settle - you don’t have a ship of your own but you’re well known and so other pirates gladly let you sail with them

Where you go, trouble follows. Always. That’s why he’s so bent on apprehending you

Him becoming so obsessed with it that he plots on his plans day and night, sometimes not even sleeping, and if he does, he dreams about catching you

Him realizing that he never thinks about the aftermath of catching you

This realization is followed by another realization that you two are like yin and yang - one cannot exist without the other, so similar, yet so different

What good is good, if there’s no evil?

Him gradually hating himself for thinking about you so much, because deep downs he knows he wouldn’t be able to actually hurt you, the reason of which he will never admit to himself, he fights it so hard

“Hola capitán”, you meet him for the first time as you sneak into a fancy Spanish pub disguised as a navy sailor

He looks over at you at first trying to remember if he knows you, but when he realised you’re not even a man, his face drops, reflecting pure shock

That was because he never really saw you up close, but now he could clearly discern the glimmering sheen of your suprisingly silky hair, the mischievous sparkles in your eyes, and that devilish smirk

“What? Don’t tell me I make a lame soldier...”

He was absolutely dumbfounded, having lost his gift of speech as several possible reasons of your coming into the viper’s nest swam in his head. When? How? Why?

“I know you won’t arrest me here. How could you? It would be shamefully easy...” you continued taunting him

Some sailor of his crew called him over and he turned around perplexed, but when he turned back, you were nowhere to be seen

Him thinking about this meeting for weeks

Until one fateful day, when the Silent Mary had finally surrounded a pirate ship you were travelling with at that time, he had you lying under the tip of his sword

You were panting heavily from all the fighting, a cut just below your eye oozing with bright red blood, making him think about the Virgin Mary’s tears of sorrow

“Do it,” you hissed, staring right into his lost dark eyes

But he couldn’t. He absolutely couldn’t.

He gradually lowered his sword, body rigid form the realization that he does keep you in his heart.

Your face dropping as you reach the same realization - there could be no other reason why he’s letting you go

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kathaariawrites · 4 years

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Nights in Cádiz - Armando Salazar x Reader (Chapter 1)

Hi my lovelies! This was supposed to be an oneshot for my beloved Capitán but I have so many ideas that I can’t so it’ll be divided into chapters. I actually dreamt with this story and had to write it. Armando may seem sweet here but don’t be fooled. Will be uploaded to AO3 as soon as possible with my other works, I'll publish the link here. Spanish to English translations at the end of the chapter.

Things to note:

This is an AU where the crew was freed from the curse, Jack Sparrow and basically everyone in Barbossa’s ship were killed by them and they went back to Spain. Pirates of the Caribbean (this movie at least) has a very confusing universe and I don’t think the timelines fit so I took some liberties with that. They were not gone for too long (25 years in my head though it felt longer for the crew while cursed).

For historic accuracy (someone has to care about that, right Disney?) I gave the reader a Spanish family name and set names for her parents.

Although I speak Spanish, it’s not my first language so I’m here begging for forgiveness for any mistakes and also begging for corrections if that’s the case.

Enjoy!

Life in Cádiz was monotonous to say the least. The city was not big and most of the life in it revolved in the Armada: if you did not work there, you probably knew someone who did, a friend or a family member. In your case it was your dad, Almirante Caballero. Your relationship with him was good. He was a honorable man, with a stable income that was more than enough to provide for his family and keep a big house. You had no complaints even with the long periods of absence in you childhood, a part of you knew it was part of the job.

Recently though, the whole Armada seemed restless and the rumours were endless. The crew of La Maria Silenciosa was back from the dead, freed from a supposed curse that seemed too fantastic to be real even to you and coming back to Spain after years of being declared dead to the world. You remember clearly as a child how the widows wept, the families broken as they received the news, the ship being late to their return, no communication from the captain and pirate activity on the rise again, the rumours reaching the Spanish shores in no time. The crew had passed, the ship was destroyed and the pirate named Jack Sparrow was to blame.

The captain and the lieutenant were your dad’s closest friends and the loss of such an esteemed member of his life destroyed a part of him you thought you would never see again. The friendly, warm shimmer in his eyes was gone since then and your mother begged him to leave the Armada, that they could survive somewhere else and do something else but he refused every time; Armando Salazar had renewed his will to get rid of the pirates, a goal they shared, and to protect his country. Now, with his return, your father seemed eager to receive him, to have him back to his house, show what had happened in these years.

That’s why today, standing in a beautiful blue dress the same shade of the sea that bathed Cádiz, you stood beside your father in front of the docks to greet them, eyes trained on its sails. How was it possible for the ship to be back in shape, like nothing happened to it? You don’t remember the captain or teniente Lesaro but you were just as nervous. Would they look like what the rumours said? Would they be aggressive, rude? So immersed and nervous you were that you did not notice the ship anchoring, the officers leaving and the families hugging and crying in celebration to have their loved ones back until your father’s strong voice shouted.

“¡Armando! ¡Guillermo!”

His voice sounded strained and you looked at your parents for the first time since arriving. Your mother had tears in her eyes, a hand covering her mouth and your dad did not look much better. He almost ran to the officers and embraced them, as did your mother, though the captain and the lieutenant were not in your line of sight for you to evaluate their reactions. That did not stop you from seeing their arms embracing your father too and the sobs that left his chest made your eyes go wide.

You stood there, uncomfortable, until your father walked with all three in your direction.

“I trust you remember mi hija, ¿[Y/N]?”, your father asked and you gave them a little curtsy. The eyes of the captain were trained on you the whole time, the weight of it was borderline oppressive. Lesaro smiled at you and nodded, taking your hand and planting a soft kiss to the back of it. The captain did the same, his eyes still piercing yours and bringing a soft blush to your cheeks.

“I certainly do, Hugo, though she was much smaller when we left these shores.”, Lesaro added with a smile. “A lot of time has passed, ¿eh?”

Your father agreed, “Sí, mucho tiempo. We have a lot to talk, Guillermo, over a glass of wine. I trust you and Armando have decided on staying with us for the time being?”

“Sí, I don’t believe we have other option and I look forward to having a real meal, fresh and delicious. Is Lucia still working for you?”, the captain replied and you started walking to your house together, your father giving them a briefing of life and happenings in Cádiz and the Armada while they were gone. Every now and then the captain’s gaze layed on you and you wanted to hide, the walk seemed endless.

In the house, the afternoon passed calmly and quickly. You didn’t see them the entirety of it, both men staying in the guest rooms to rest and get some energy back after the weight of the journey and their final battle. You walked through the gardens until a maid called you in for dinner.

Your father was happy and it showed in his face and actions. The capitán and the teniente seemed equally happy to be around the living and eating a well made, hot meal. After you were finished you stood up and excused yourself, resuming your walk in the garden with a book in your hands until you heard steps from behind.

“You are not very talkative, señorita. ¿Te ha comido la lengua el gato?”

You turned around, your eyes finding his on instinct. “Soy perfectamente capaz de hablar, capitán. I am merely giving you the opportunity to talk to my father, your absence had a great impact on him.”

His eyes softened at that and he hummed gently, stepping closer to you. “Lo siento, señorita. I am afraid my time away from the living has taken some of my social skills.” He offered you his arm as an apology, to which you promptly took and resumed your walk.

“Do not fret over that, capitán, it is understandable. But does it not make you uncomfortable to speak about it? The curse, these years? You seem so at ease.”

He chuckled then, his free hand resting on top of yours on his elbow and his fingers flexed, as if appreciating the warmth of the touch. “It is...a numb feeling, I admit. I used to think I would not wish to talk about it if we were ever set free but now I find it does not bring me any feeling. Besides, I presume there will be a lot of explanations to give to the Armada, so my talking is not over.”

You smiled and nodded in sympathy, “You have quite a tale to tell, capitán. All of you do. And it could be quite hard to tell it, some might be disbelieving but you have friends in this house, I am sure you will be back on the sea in no time.”

“I do not think of sailing again, señorita. I’m afraid my time in a ship is over.”

Her eyebrows raised, “You will not? The Armada has relieved you of duty?”

“You’re an inquisitive one, señorita.”, he chuckled again. “I believe this information is classified and therefore not for a civilian’s ears.” Another chuckle at your indignant huff and then silence for the rest of your walk. He took you back inside, leaving you by the doors of your room and leaving with a kiss to the back of your hand once more.

“Buenas noches, señorita.”

“Buenas noches, capitán.”

“Llámame por mi nombre, señorita. Armando.”

“Entonces te digo lo mismo, Armando. Llámame por mi nombre. [Y/N].”

“Pues. Buenas noches, [Y/N].”

“Buenas noches, Armando.”

Spanish translations:

Armada = how the Spanish navy is called

Almirante = Admiral

La Maria Silenciosa = The Silent Mary

Mi hija = My daughter

Sí, mucho tiempo = Yes, a long time

Señorita = miss

¿Te ha comido la lengua el gato? = Cat got your tongue?

Soy perfectamente capaz de hablar, capitán = I’m perfectly capable of speaking, captain

Buenas noches, señorita = Goodnight, miss.

Buenas noches, capitán = Goodnight, captain.

Llámame por mi nombre, señorita. Armando = Call me by my name, miss. Armando.

Entonces te digo lo mismo, Armando. Llámame por mi nombre = Then I tell you the same, Armando. Call me by my name

Pues buenas noches = Then goodnight

#captain salazar #armando salazar #captain salazar x reader #armando salazar x reader #captain salazar x you #armando salazar x you #potc #potc fanfiction #potc imagine #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean fanfiction #pirates of the caribbean imagine #dmtnt #potc dmtnt

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hampop · 4 years

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Really wish POTC5 had just done more with less, you know? They introduced too many characters and had too many unnecessary plot points (the bank robbery, the wedding, the estranged orphan daughter, the British Navy guy that had 3 scenes, the Witch and her 2 scenes). All they really had to do was give us more with Salazar and more of Jack struggling with his “I’m too old and I’ve lost my mojo” and it would have been a much more cohesive movie rather than a clusterfuck of small ideas.

For starters, what did Salazar and his crew even really do that whole movie? Aside from looking cool and killing the crew at the beginning—what did we see them do? Smash a boat with their ship? Point swords at people? Have blurry ghost fights? The coolest thing we got to see was the flashback of their deaths. And you might say “well, they ran on water and that was pretty cool. And they possessed Henry!” To which I would say “yea, it was cool so why did they even bother with the sharks then? I would much rather see jack and Henry having to swim to shore, diving under the water and having to rise back up for air only to avoid the swinging of swords.” Call it underwater wack-a-sparrow.

And the possession scene just pisses me off because??? Salazar leaves one man alive every time he kills a crew so why didn’t he have his crew possess another crew then they could go kill Jack, like, a week after they died? Sure, the triangle would not have let them leave. But at least tell me they tried that. Just—SHOW ME what makes them so desperate to kill Jack. Show me the years and years they were trapped in solitude. What is the point of having such a new and cool set of villains if you don’t give them any life (no pun intended)? And the possession scene also comes completely out of nowhere otherwise. Give me. Context. What are their abilities? Can they all do that? Why haven’t they—just to get new and living bodies?

And what was with the eerie red lights that resurrected Salazar’s ghost? Are we gonna talk about what that was? Because the movie sure isn’t. Why did it bring them back but not the dozens of soldiers they killed in the triangle afterwards? Why not give Salazar the ability to wield those powers, why not show him resurrecting his own crew? Why not use that against him later, having it be revealed to Lesaro and the rest of the men that they could have found peace years ago but their capitán brought them back to suffer alongside him? Or why not have Barbossa sacrifice himself..only to bring him back and force him to fight against Jack and Co?

Idk idk.

#i dont hate the movie but it did really confuse me #also dont??kill your new characters disney #you had Javier Bardem do you know what a waste it was to kill him?#and no one really needed or wanted henry and Carina to have that many romance scenes #and NO ONE wanted her to hit him at the end wtf #potc #pirates of the carribean #pirates of the caribbean #dmtnt #dead men tell no tales #captain salazar #jack sparrow #disney

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lighthouseborna · 3 years

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You Cut The Boy

Hello today I make (partly) good on my ooc tag. This is a companion drabble for Lottie / @trickstercaptain’s [wonderful drabble on the same topic] and uh. No actually I think that’s all I have to say, somehow.

Henry had had a blade to his neck before.

More than once, actually. More than he particularly cared to put a firm count to, now that it had come up.

The only good to come of it, he supposed, was that he knew better than to be concerned about the sword itself. If they were going to kill him, they would have already. The ghostly aspect of this situation was new, but a sword to the throat was a sword to the throat whether it was held by king’s men or by what remained of their shadows. It always meant that something other than blood was wanted. Henry leveled his eyes on Salazar and held them there. He, like the whole crew of the Silent Mary gathered around the remains of the foremast, waited to hear what.

Something worthy enough to make el matador pace, agitated.

Something unspoken, though the whole of the crew seemed to simply understand what the question was, and merely waited on the answer.

The longer the silence stretched, the more Henry struggled to ignore the tangle of dread gathering in his chest. Whatever took this much debate could not be good.

Dawn.

Worthy of a preoccupied glance, first light gave way to a half-circle view of the sun that streaked both the sky and sea with shades that belonged on the petals of roses. Blinking at all that light, Henry could think only that he was grateful. They had found the island. Carina would unearth the trident and, hopefully, whatever else it was finding it meant to her. If he could not be there to witness it, or to use the trident to free his father, Jack would. They were safe, wherever they were. That alone made this worth it.

Salazar stepped forward and planted his feet in front of Henry, summoning the boy’s sneering attention. The light had given him something too. A decision. Salazar lifted his chin, nodding to himself. Henry pressed forward. Neither the blade nor the ghost across from it balked from his posturing. He was forced back.

“Capitán,” an officer -lieutenant? the uniforms were outdated, and half destroyed, it was hard to tell- appealed to Salazar from the far edge of the weather deck, prompting a turning of all eyes. “You know the danger, don’t do it.”

“He has no choice,” another crewmember jeered, “Jack is on land going for the trident.” The lieutenant did not even look at the crewmember.

“There must be another way. You will be trapped in his body forever.”

The knot of dread in Henry’s chest hatched into a writhing nest of fear, dousing him in a wash of icy cold then boiling heat and back again. The lack of further objection from the crew only made matters worse.

“The trident will set me free.” Salazar reassured his lieutenant in a surprisingly soft voice. When he turned again to face Henry, Salazar’s face was downright serene, save for his eyes. They were glowing like coals in a high wind, a bright, unsightly yellow. “Time to kill a sparrow.”

“No!” the first word since being dragged on board, Henry’s protest rang out over the open ocean around them. He thrashed against the grips on his arms and did, briefly, break halfway to freedom, but the ground he gained was quickly retaken. More hands settled on him, pinning him in place. There were twenty of them versus one of him and nothing else to do, no diversions to even the odds.

Before them, Salazar had taken on an even-grimmer-than-usual cast. He dappled, then went entirely dull, like the light of the sun could reach him no more. He began to fall apart. Cracked at the edges already, Salazar drifted to pieces like embers in the wind. The ash danced forward and settled on Henry’s skin, stinging where they landed. Rather than burn him, though, they were frigid, like great long teeth made of ice. They seized and searched, stabbing at nerves and the back of his neck.

So sharp was the cold that it stole Henry’s breath, leaving his mouth agape but no air passing through. Suffocating! But the panic of the realization seemed… less than it ought. Removed, and growing ever more distant. Slowly at first, and then with a gaining speed that felt like falling, Henry was compressed while something else overlaid his will with its own. He tried again to throw the hands from his arms. His shoulders barely twitched. He tried for a turn of his head, a shout, something, anything, but nothing happened. Control slipped so easily through his fingers. It was through and through him now. His frantic anger at being robbed only served to further blur the lines – whose righteous fury was whose? A growl rolled forth from within a closed jaw. The crew tensed around them – who was responsible, invader or invadee?

One or the other, both or neither, it mattered not. To the outside world, there was nothing left but all of both. Standing there, in the exact same space, one whole thing the same as one body of water poured into another: the foulest of poisons into a freshwater spring. It was all poison, now.

Within was a separate matter.

Two remained two and they were nowhere and yet somewhere, standing in something akin to memory. It was a sense of the boy’s sense of himself presented like the tangible world (built in a rush for a mind that cannot rightly conceive itself without the world around it.) A dive into the heart! and there they were tearing at each other.

Claws and teeth, biting and scratching — if such things were things that could be done when nothing had a proper form. Captain barked an order and something was ripped apart; boy shouted back and a secret became shared knowledge to wield like an unexpected left hook. The outside world was on hold for them, each individual breath drawn out into a thousand moment to argue, to fight, to fight back.

Henry mounted an honorable attempt at a defense. He did not blink, did not flinch from this; a credit owed to the so many precious things worth fighting for.

But that cold. That bitter, aching cold. Less specific than pain, now, it was a broad and omnipresent discomfort, a numbness that wounded him in a way no physical blow could have. He was at the disadvantage. He had no knowledge of exacting his will upon another, no experience with intangibility. If he tried to keep it all, it slipped, like water, through his fingers; catch a breath that reached his lungs and the far edge of the cliff crumbled in a little nearer, think too hard about the faraway feeling of his feet moving without his say, and the sky swirled from a shade of pure blue into paint water grey, clouded by a rain of black ink. He was forced to retreat and retreat and retreat, gathering what he could, holding desperately to the shreds of himself left after all that clawing.

The conclusion was inevitable: this clash of wills was all but entirely predetermined. Salazar could not eject Henry entirely, nor destroy him, it was not his right. He could not, for all his effort, snuff out the light from within. Henry could hold his final ground. It was not nearly enough to stop this.

“I delivered your message as I said I would,” a speech? a thought? Either way, a vow projected from what remained for him to stand on: “but I will not easily be the hand that carries it out.”

The pirate hunter… smiled. Black ichor pulsed from between his teeth.

“But you will.”

Both were ricocheted back into the real time of the moment. A hand outstretched. Fingers flexed, testing. Salazar began to laugh -uproarious in a wicked fashion that suited his new appearance none at all- his mood, evidently, greatly improved. He swept his arm through the air and pointed at the strange little island.

“To the trident!”

Cheers erupted on deck.

The island was scarcely more than a pitted black rock. Rife with deposits of precious and semi-precious jewels Salazar cared nothing for, the footing was treacherous and – familiar jewels; the exaggerated constellations of rubies gave it away. He’s spent too much time these past weeks staring at the heavens under Carina’s tutelage not to notice – the journey was made all the more frustrating by distractions. By and by the way was made to a place where the ground seemed to have fallen away. They stood before the open maw of the ocean, a great parting of the sea down to the very sand and vanishing at the horizon. With only a glance for the marvel before them, Salazar pitched them onto the incline. That is, pitched down it.

They dropped quickly, skating over the first dozen feet or so, but the collapsed rock was as pitted and perilous as the island, and they caught... bounced.... bumped off of the many obstacles in their way. By the time they reached the bottom, the body was bruised in no less than a dozen places, possibly even bleeding. Still Salazar stopped only as long as it took to get feet beneath him and set off again.

As Salazar continued doggedly down the corridor of coral and sand, he nearly forgot the boy was there at all. Aside from a passing flicker of notice for the dizzying height of the water, the relative depth they were standing at, all was quiet. He may as well have been gone entirely, curled, deep and still, around what he had managed to save. There was only forward, and therefore only this path. The only place for Sparrow to have gone. Ahead, into the cracked columns and crumbling spiral of what may have once been a tomb of the highest honor. Ahead, only ahead.

He forgot entirely in the final sprint. They were there, ahead, within reach. Carina and -

“JACK!”

What ought to be a cry of warning left him as furious bellow that consumed the length of the watery canyon. Pushed free in the shock of the sudden grab for control, twisted by the dominant rage, it nevertheless served its purpose. Jack had time to turn and ready himself. Time, even, to push Carina out of range lest she become collateral damage.

They met, all, at the cross of two swords, blade falling upon a blade with a clangor that was jarring from even the dull, faraway place Henry found himself. The tide of battle swept the boy off of whatever footing he had managed. He was passenger; no, further. Witness. The dance of a duel was an automatic response, a trap, even, for what trapped him. For Henry, then, it was a writhing fit that was impossible to make heads or tails of. The thudding blows could have been canon fire carrying a hundred miles over open ocean or a foot to his left, it would make no difference in that he couldn’t understand why they were firing. The clearest thing was Salazar’s irritation –each swing maddeningly slow, the result of a negligent arm, such contemptable complacency with his lack of skill, his blatant lack of discipline– and that this was nothing anyone could be prepared for. The trained instinct of swordplay came from one, the familiar nature of their opponent from the other, and a pool of strength from both. Jack spent strike after strike on the defense.

Though, maybe that was a choice. Forward, then, came a block that made for an opening. Jack advanced with a shove- and a retaliating slash. The edge of the blade swept, sure and clear, through skin.

The cheek!

They staggered.

Not from the cut itself (truthfully more inconvenience than proper injury, though the way it seemed to spread was distantly disconcerting) but the void rendered unto what had been joined. A lapse in grasp that every bit of what had been crushed down surged forward to take advantage of. They were pulled to halves more strongly, one which seethed at the thought of being bested, even for a moment, by a pirate, and one which recoiled sharply, frantic and dismayed in suddenly overwhelming equal measure. Let go, how he begged for a once effortless action. The hand holding the cutlass… trembled. But the lapse evaporated as quickly as it had been torn, control fled, and the matter was once again settled. Worse, now, they had both been affronted. The fear could be a fuel. The rage could not be reined in. His jaw moved and, without consent, spoke nothing but the surest truth it had taught them:

“You cut me you cut the boy, Jack.” In more ways than one. (Get the fuck out of my head!)

A well-aimed lunge. There was no verbal reply, only a half-open mouth and a raised blade which, besmirched by the betrayal, faltered in its guard. Taking advantage of the distraction, Salazar’s assault resumed, a rain of heavy blows and whirlwind of flashing footwork that scattered the glittering black sand and Jack’s defenses. They surged across the ocean’s floor, each strike more savage than the last. Each block more harried, just managed.

Until Jack set his feet once more. Until Jack held on to his most recent block and leaned into the cross of blades.

“Shame that he won’t let you kill me.” The words sparked a torrent of… something. Disgust – Hope. “He’s still in there, Capitán-” I am! “Kicking and screaming and attempting to thwart all that you’ve fantasized about for years.” Jack- “Reckon that makes it two against one, and I don’t fancy your odds on this one, mate.” I can’t stop him.

No words escaped, trapped behind a barbarous baring of teeth. Salazar shoved at Jack, sending him reeling. The strike that came next, if Jack had failed to send it skating down the flat of his sword, would have killed him.

“Did he make me do this, Jack Sparrow?” Salazar spat.

Another teeth-shattering blow. Jack righted himself once more, but his eyes lingered too long on the ocean wall. Frothing with his rage, Salazar nearly did not notice – except that Henry did.

“Or this?” The narrow tooth of the darting blade bit a line across Jack’s collar. It was quickly exaggerated by the crimson stain that blossomed forth.

Salazar’s satisfaction at the well-struck –cheating! – blow proved to be a weakness; Henry’s outrage set on it with the locked jaw of a wolf upon a rabbit. His goal this time was not let go but hold on. Hold still. Stall, if nothing else. It was to him as though the world had narrowed to just one arm, just weighing down his own right arm. It meant he had retreated elsewhere. Given up tracking the words between Jack and Salazar, given up another something inside of himself that crumbled to ash, lost (and now nameless for it.) But he was holding off death. He could feel it. The command for the arm to strike, he could feel it. And the anger, overwhelming anger, that it had not yet been done. He felt, too, when the compulsion suddenly shifted.

His empty hand swept forward. It fell on Jack’s collar and pressed; blood welled up between his fingers. The sensation –his blood on your hands, boy– was pressed into his awareness on purpose, and Henry flinched. His focus fractured: Salazar threw the boy entirely. Black crushed in on Henry, thick and arresting as tar, dragging him from any further bids for control, freezing and locking him out. The sword dropped from the argued over hand, abandoned in favor of crushing two birds with one strangling. Salazar closed his hands around Jack’s throat. This was it: the life would finally, finally be squeezed out of one — that stubborn, obnoxious hope choked out of the other.

No no no — oh yes.

No amount of distress or outrage could serve Henry now, dragged away from himself so far, so many things gouged from his identity he barely even knew what he was fighting for, only that he must, he must keep trying. But there was no lapse to take advantage of, no gap in the grip to pry at. Salazar was as strengthened by this act as he was blind to all else because of it. Only the entirely forgotten could possibly surprise him out of his long-awaited revenge, and indeed, that was exactly what the rush of wind and water from the trident was.

The trident!

Two heads turned.

The girl.

Somehow the –worth more than ten of you– had managed to free the weapon from its pedestal. Salazar held Jack for a moment longer, taking in the empty look in his eyes and the slowed attempts to pull the hands from his neck. It could be over. He released Sparrow’s neck. Where was the gratification in that? There was no escape for any of them, now, and here the trident was, propped at an angle on a risen bed of broken coral.

In the same moment that Salazar set upon it, so did Carina. She flinched from his growl but kept her grip.

“Henry?” a desperate, confused plea that managed to stab over a great distance. He could not reach back.

Salazar attempted to rip the trident from Carina’s hands, but she was determined not to let him. They fell to each pulling, wrestling over the ancient weapon like children over a wooden toy. The air in the gorge became heavy, a thing unto itself, charged with lightning so that the hair on arms and the back of the neck stood tall. Salazar’s lip curled. Something in the trident surged.

No- - the power lashed like a whip. Carina was thrown from the miniature bluff. She struck the sea floor hard. Henry heard her gasp -like falling from the cliffs, wind knocked out of you- and hoped it meant she would be alright.

The power of the sea … held in hand.

The thought of what to do next came, in truth, from both. The trident’s power stirred like the sleepily raised head of an ancient serpent, turning to look upon this unholy union of souls with ancient golden insight. It slipped in through Henry’s palms and went easily to work.

Being freed, it turned out, was just as unpleasant as the sensation of being combined. Something sifted through and separated them again, bit by bit. Pulling the embedded thorn out none too gently, unearthing the damage it had done. Restoring what had been razed to ruin. The last thing to let go was the contempt, twisting as it was pulled free, scoring and souring everything it touched. For one moment longer pirate and pirate hunter both stood in the same place; poison sucked from a wound. With a final push from Salazar, Henry was discarded, tipped from his balance, and sent down to the ocean floor with as much grace as could be expected from a boulder.

Henry arrived, by gravity’s grand sense of humor, on the full of his back, sprawled in the sand. He could hear the roar of the parted waters, feel every bruise and scrape and battered bit of himself, smell the spray that hung in the air – he could breathe again. He could think.

He could not move.

Salazar still had the trident, but Henry could not move.

Carina had been thrown, but Henry could not move.

Jack had yet to get to his feet, but Henry could not move.

Sand scattered over him. He would have flinched were he able– but it was only Carina, falling to her knees at his side, clumsily searching for some grievous wound to stem that she would not find. (It was not visible.) Calling his name. (He could not answer.) Trying to rouse him. (He could not- - )

“Wake up!” she begged: I am, he thought. She splashed his face with water from the impossibly divided ocean. It was devoid of warmth, and the salt managed to find its way into every possible fissure of broken skin and bite. “Henry please!” I’m trying. She shook his shoulders. “He’s killing Jack!” I know, I know, I’m sorry.

She made a sound he could not quite name- a sob? He wouldn’t blame her. She was on her own against a ghost wielding an unknowable, powerful force, her only allies thrashed and beaten. If only the diary had bothered with anything about the trident’s nature. He had scoured his way over fragments of stories, how the gods imposed their will, how the trident obeyed. Nothing that had explained-

Release.

No discernable reason at hand, Henry broke free of his paralysis with a gasp. All of him, every inch, tensed then let go and then tensed again. His shoulders bunched beneath him, lifting from the ground – a twist and a shiver, like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin. Carina sat back, startled, then leaned forward, cradling his uninjured cheek.

“Henry?!”

He was still shivering, sluggish, but he needed to- she needed to know what he’d just realized. The words crowded together, stumbling over each other on their way out of his mouth.

“The power of the sea.”

“What?”

“The power-” he exhaled shortly. This was so much worse than the worst hangover he could imagine, and yet that was the only thing he could compare it to, focus shot and head pounding and body so very far removed from any sensible means of steering it. He managed to catch her wrist. He held fast. “The power of the sea,” he said again, begging that she somehow understand. He couldn’t find a way to explain it any differently.

“To release the power of the sea,” she quoted, searching Henry’s face between glances away, at the wall of water and whatever was transpiring between Salazar and Jack -in shouts and roaring waves, but he could not spare the- “all must divide.”

“Divide.” Henry nodded. That was it. The only part of her puzzle they had not worked out. It had never been part of how to find the trident, but something else. The trident’s nature. Like the island – like the ocean itself. Like him. Everything pulled apart. He squeezed her wrist. “To release, divide.”

Her eyes met his. She shook her head.

“Divide? I don’t-” Understand. But she did. Glancing at her hand, she mimed holding something and lit up like a sky full of stars, “Divide! Break. Break the trident-”

“-and you release the power inside of it-”

“-and he can’t walk on land!”

Henry’s head fell back into the sand. He could have cried.

If they broke the trident, the power inside of it -for it was a power held, trapped even, not the weapon itself that changed the oceans- would be uncontained. Unusable. Without that power, Salazar was a mere ghost the same as the rest of his crew. The ocean floor was as much dry land as a beach at low tide and, well. That would solve that problem, anyway. They just had to figure out how to break the trident.

And she had gotten to all of that from a riddle written in Latin and his begging.

Brilliant, he thought, she is brilliant. He’d tell her as much later. In the meantime, he pushed himself to his knees and, when that didn’t kill him, dragged himself unsteadily to his feet.

Much the same as Jack did some twenty paces ahead.

Over Salazar’s shoulder, Henry’s rise drew Jack’s attention and held it. Their gazes met. Something shifted. A sharp shine appeared in Jack’s eye, catching in the scattered light, and he gave a small nod that Henry sensed ought to mean something, but which only baffled him.

“Ready to surrender yet, Capitan?” Jack barked over the rush of water.

“You want me to surrender to you?”

“Oh I’d highly recommend it.”

Salazar scoffed thickly, black spittle flying, and plunged the trident into Jack’s chest.

Carina screamed; Henry’s breath, barely caught, left him completely. For a suspended, sickening moment, it seemed like the old haunt had thusly obtained his long awaited revenge… but Jack did not crumple. He grinned like a snarl and grabbed the trident with both hands. Salazar howled and leaned on the weapon, face twisted into a mangled roar. He advanced. He backed Jack against a crop of rock and coral. Both men had both hands on the trident, battling over the trine of barbs.

Henry was of two minds and half a body.

He needed the trident to- but Salazar was–

His father- “Henry!” Jack.

He had come so close. Held the trident in his hands! The scope of the energy within it was nearly unfathomable, that had been clear from the moment he touched it, made evident when it had pulled him apart to put him back together as though it were a task of the greatest ease. The thing that contained it, though, the body of the weapon itself, that had seemed—

Henry swore inwardly, already moving toward the grappling pair.

Heathen gods, England’s God, the gods of ancient Greece: damn them all!

Henry was not a fencer. He had no arsenal of disarming twists nor array of calculated parries nor even, at that moment, feeling in the ends of his fingers. He had only a weathered cutlass recovered from the ground where his hand had dropped it, only his family in mind. He had a swing which arched overhead as far as his arms would go and Salazar’s narrow focus to take advantage of. When Henry brought his blade down, it fell over the glowing center of the weapon.

—as fragile as the coral it was formed from.

And he broke Poseidon’s Trident.

#☩ It does not matter when you begin or end; only that you bend a knee and say the words ( DRABBLE. )#lottie was like ''nearly 2k monster'' and my brain went ''double it''#anyways.#uh.#............ pls read this ? can i say that and not be annoying? slkfjglskjfg #☩ the thing with a sharp beak beneath all those feathers ( T.H.R.E.W. )

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trickstercaptain · 3 years

Text

POSEIDON’S TOMB / ‘YOU CUT ME YOU CUT THE BOY’ DRABBLE

tl;dr; here i am torching the entire canon version of this scene nearly four years later. it’s actually been a creative urge of mine for a while to revisit this part of dmtnt, but i finally got around to it after a little nudge from @lighthouseborn and therefore this is specifically dedicated to hannah <3

~ ~ ~

If Henry uncharacteristically barrelling towards the two of them hadn’t been the first sign of something being amiss, then there were two others: the boy’s speed, and his stance. Henry’s tuition with the blade was something of a patchwork of several different influences back on Shipwreck, one of which being Jack’s own ( whenever the boy wasn’t more content to scrappily solve an altercation with his fists, which was always his go-to preference ). While not being the superior swordsman himself, and having adapted his form and bent the rules of the engagement over the years to suit his own whims, Jack knew the boy’s approaching stance right now was one of somebody who had been schooled in the art of precision fencing for years ---- more akin to the boy’s father or even the man with whom Henry shared a name. It most certainly was not, could not, did not belong to the lad who he’d had to chastise on several occasions for holding a sword more like a blunt instrument than a tool --------------

No, Jack knew who this was. He didn’t know how it was possible ( when did he ever? ), but he knew.

The next few seconds passed by in a blur. Jack could only remember drawing his own blade, shoving Carina aside, and throwing himself forward ( in a rash move that would no doubt win him both Henry and William’s approval ) to meet Henry’s first strike with a shattering clash that rung out throughout the length of Poseidon’s tomb.

The fact of the matter was that Captain Salazar was a much better swordsman than him. He also had the benefit of years on Jack if he was indeed using Henry as some sort of vessel, as well as a seething, roiling anger at the supposed injustice dealt to him that would see his stamina extend further than it might have done otherwise. These were all the things that Jack was sizing up as he went through the motions, parrying each blow as it arrived, trying to figure out his strategy to buy Carina enough time to get herself over to the trident and solve the final part of her diary.

And then there were the things not to size up, but to swallow down and put to the back of his mind. That this was Henry staring him down with the look of a man who had wanted him dead for decades. That this was a familiar, always warm, always loving set of brown eyes now regarding him with such contempt. It was difficult to meet them and not contemplate the less rational questions of the moment. How Salazar had accomplished this. How Jack might even start to think about reversing it. Whether there was a chance in Hell that the Trident might in fact help matters, not make them worse.

How he was planning to live with himself should the unimaginable happen.

The last question was enough to re-align his thoughts like tacking a sail back to windward. Emotion made you vulnerable to mistakes and sloppiness. Much like Salazar’s anger exposed his own weak spots. And, as Jack raised his blade to block another blow and, in doing so, push the boy away from him, he spotted the opening.

It was a mere flesh wound, a nick across the boy’s cheek in the hope that it would enlighten him as to the limits of this particular brand of magic. But perhaps that in itself had been too great a risk to take given the potential consequences. Perhaps it was too reckless. Too callous. Particularly when the halt in Salazar’s counter-strike, and the words he levelled back at him made the blood turn to ice in his veins.

“ You cut me, you cut the boy, Jack. ”

Jack faltered, and Salazar advanced. With every frantic block and step backwards, all he could focus on was the way his freshly-inflicted cut blended in with the mottled, cracked flesh on the side of Henry’s face. On the side of Salazar’s face. Despite the confirmation that was lodging itself somewhere in the levelheaded part of his mind that the two of them were now one, now connected, the conclusion he subsequently reached of this making the Spanish captain human was meaningless. Not when he could see that fresh mark on that face, and could feel the revulsion rising in him that he was the one to put it there.

Jack didn’t care how fallible this made him. Not when the fallibility was Henry’s. So, that left him no choice but to try a different approach, and summon up the guile from somewhere to make it convincing.

“ Shame that he won’t let you kill me. ” Said with much more confidence than he felt as he planted his feet and met Salazar’s blade with another loud clang. Leaning towards the gap between their crossed blades, Jack lowered his voice. “ He’s still in there, Capitán, Kicking and screaming and attempting to thwart all that you’ve fantasised about for years. ” At least, he hoped that Henry was in there still. If he was, then he most certainly was fighting, and perhaps that meant that this assumption wasn’t entirely --- well, an assumption. “ Reckon that makes it two against one, and I don’t fancy your odds on this one, mate. ”

It seemed to anger him. Salazar --- or rather, Henry ---- pushed Jack away with his blade and, with a cry of frustration, renewed his offensive. The back of Jack’s boot came into contact with a coral rock, and as he carefully stepped around it, he only just managed to parry the force of his opponent’s next blow. “ Did he make me do this, Jack Sparrow? ” He swung again, with even more power this time --- and for the first time Jack caught sight of the man’s crew at the ocean’s edge, waiting on both sides of where it had parted to reveal Poseidon’s tomb. “ Or this? ”

The distraction was the first time Jack had let his guard down. It took a moment for the injury to register: a slash from just below the nape of Jack’s neck to his collarbone, but when he spotted the blood soaking through his shirt and waistcoat the potential severity of it became clear. How many times had he aimed for the same area, hoping to sever the vein that would swiftly put an end to a fight? Of all the people to think of in that moment, Jack saw Robby Greene’s face in his mind’s eye, and the warning he’d given him after his first duel to the death.

If that had gone an inch or two deeper, you’d have been lying there dead, right beside Christophe.

Was this how he would come full circle? Certainly, in this case, he very much hoped that it hadn’t gone any deeper ---- and for now, the adrenaline was stopping the wound from doing little more than stinging at the spray from the rushing ocean beside them. The more concerning matter at present was his own laboured breathing, in comparison to Henry who was barely breaking a sweat. He was half-tempted to glance over his shoulder and verbalise his frustration at being the only one here to pull his weight. Has Carina not worked the bloody thing out yet?

Whatever was going on behind him, Jack was running out of options for the problem in front.

“ Then why make it a fight at all? ” He noticed that Salazar’s ( or was that Henry’s? ) gaze was, for the moment, preoccupied with the growing bloodstain on his shirt, giving Jack enough space to briefly catch his breath. To glance around him. To look down at the lightly bloodied sword in his hand and debate his next choice. One that he should have made hours ago, when the Pearl had first encountered the Silent Mary and Salazar’s crew. One that, until now, he’d been too cowardly to make. “ All you’d have to do is let Henry go and I might just stop resisting altogether. ”

“ No, no no no, Jack, don’t you see? ” There was a peculiar softness in the way the words were spoken, an intimate whisper between the two of them that was the most he’d sounded like Henry since this had started. Salazar didn’t raise his sword to strike again. Instead, he crossed the scant distance between them, and pressed his ( Henry’s ) hand into his blood stained waistcoat. Jack hissed, and fought against the black dots dancing around in his vision, but otherwise didn’t say a word. “ Don’t you see? ”

Jack might have been forgiven for thinking that there was something kind in Salazar’s expression, then, but it didn’t last. The look on Henry’s face quickly morphed back into rage, and a hand tightened with surely supernatural strength around Jack’s throat.

As things went, it wasn’t the first time that someone had tried to strangle him, but having had experience of such things never made it easier to resist the urge to struggle. Ringed fingers rose in a desperate attempt to claw the hands ( Henry’s hands ) off of his neck and release his airway, but it ended up not being his efforts at all that spared him. Instead, it was the loud, rushing noise of the Trident being released from its perch; loud enough, and promising enough, it seemed, for Salazar to momentary abandon any desire he may have had to finish Jack off.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Jack was in much condition to resist being finished off even if he’d wanted to. As the air rushed back into his lungs, so too did the sea floor rush up to greet him. And only when he’d finally pulled himself up into a sitting position, using one of the rocks on the seabed as an aid, could he finally turn his gaze on the commotion at hand: Captain Salazar picking up the Trident, and Henry seeming to slide out of his control and physically collapse at his feet.

Carina was nowhere to be seen, but he knew where, or indeed whom, the focus of the Trident’s ire was about to be directed towards. He also knew that, physically speaking, he was just about spent.

He could have rushed to Henry’s aid, but he didn’t fancy his chances of being intercepted before he got there. Or whether he’d even like what he found.

All he could do, really, was wait. And it took but mere seconds before Salazar’s eye was once again trained on him ---- though this time, more importantly, looking much more reassuringly like his unnervingly ghostly self.

Jack steeled himself. You’d better have a bloody plan, Carina. He drew a deep breath, carefully pulled himself to his feet, and had just enough time to slip the girl’s diary under his waistcoat. Just below the bleeding wound. Just above his breastbone.

One final gambit.

#&. the more that people know of you; the more of you those people feel belongs to them ( drabble tag. )#trying to decide where to wrap this up was a Challenge but i figured i didn't have the energy to try and make #jack getting attacked with the trident more serious than it is in the film lmao #but this scene that immediately comes before it would /drastically/ change under the better canon that jack and henry know each other #and are close #and the more i wrote the more i had to keep writing so #hence why this is a 1800 word monster lmfao

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intricatecaprice · 4 years

Text

Continuing on with a look at how the fathers of my favourite characters in Dead Men Tell No Tales have influenced them, I want to talk about this precious woman.

Carina Smyth: Introjection

Introjection is the subconscious adoption of character traits or qualities you don’t naturally have.

For example, following the loss of a parent, a child might start to exhibit the qualities they subconsciously felt their parent either had or would have approved of.

By doing this, especially in the case of a parent who has died, children reassure themselves that some aspect of the parent is present, even if the parent is physically absent.

“I confess that I am not a witch. That I’m a woman of science. I confess that I have survived on my own, with nothing but a diary from a father I never knew. On a quest for the truth of who I am. I confess that I will die before I give up this search. And I confess that while we’ve been talking - I picked this lock.”

Abandoned to an orphanage, her only possession a journal with an uncut ruby in its cover; Carina’s need to find the Trident has nothing to do with ambition (like Scarfield) or desperation (like Henry) or even revenge (like Capitán Salazar). It’s to do with her identity. She needs to find it, because it’s the only way she’s going to find out who her father was, and therefore ‘the truth of who I am‘.

In lieu of knowing who he was, I headcanon that Carina spent years subconsciously absorbing and reflecting the traits she thought her father might have had. Traits a father might have admired. Traits she admires. But on a conscious level, I suspect Carina occasionally has grave doubts about who she really is.

Looking at Carina as a modern day audience, I wonder if it’s easy to forget just how unusual her choices are. We have to remember that she lived in an era where women were not allowed to vote, own property, go to university, learn ‘manly’ subjects (like astronomy), or even show their ankles in public (ankles! How scandalous!).

(Oh, Henry, you innocent)

Women could even legally lose their own children in the event of their husband’s death. A woman’s social identity and political freedom lay solely in the man she married.

So for her to reject all of that, in order to pursue the question of who she is and where she came from, is huge for that time.

But back to Introjection: I firmly believe Carina is introjecting as a coping mechanism for not knowing who her father was. I believe she subconsciously reflects certain character traits that she imagined her father had, in order to both comfort herself and keep herself motivated in the task of finding the Trident of Poseidon.

But wait, you say - how? She never knew her father, so what traits could remind her of him?

The journal is the only thing Carina has in connection to her father - and so it should surprise no one that she pursues the sciences, especially astronomy, since it was the most obvious trait she deduced her father would have had. I also think Carina subconsciously absorbed traits from her favourite fairytale characters – especially the clever, quick, focused ones (not characters like the fairytale princess!). I think she would have preferred the stories of Robin Hood: flaunting unjust authority, living rough in a forest, escaping the bad guys.

And when you look at Carina’s qualities, as revealed by her actions, you can certainly see a generous dash of the Robin Hood in her!

Carina picks locks, distracts the priest for her escape, runs from soldiers, risks her life talking to Henry Turner, kicks her executioner off the platform, negotiates with pirates - all to achieve her goal of finding the Trident. And it’s all done with the same kind of haughty eye-rolling and tired of your sh-t attitude reminiscent of her real father.

The interesting thing is, for all her need to cling to logic and rational thinking, she seems to be very idealistic about the father she ‘never knew’. She defends him very hotly to Barbossa – “The memory of my father will not be defiled by the tongue of a pirate!” – when he accuses her father of being a thief. She seems to frame his death in heroic terms, saying he gave up his life in his search for the Trident. What’s both heartbreaking and at the same time fascinating about this brief conversation she has with Barbossa, is that her strong idealistic views must have affected him so much, that he became the heroic and self-sacrificing father she always thought he would be.

Post the ending of Dead Men Tell No Tales, Carina would have a lot of conflicting feelings to work through. She’s lost her father, only to find him alive (and a pirate captain!!!) for a split second - before losing him again. And now that she knows who her father is, I imagine her entire psychology would be going through a fundamental shift, as she - perhaps for the first time - analyses herself. It’s unfortunate that she must rely on others to tell her more about who Barbossa was now, and not hear it from him; but I would hope that after the canon ending, she is allowed time to truly grieve, and look at not just who she is, but also who she wants to be.

(Whether Captain Barbossa’s self sacrifice was utterly necessary, is a post for another time)

#30 Days of Dead Men's Tales #day nine #carina smyth #Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Men Tell No Tales #potc 5 #captain barbossa #the fathers #headcanons #pirates of the caribbean

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blukoffee · 4 years

Text

Out of Place, Out of Time (AU Oneshot)

Okay, so. I rarely (read: never) post original stuff on here, so this is a learning curve for me, pleasebenice, but I swore/promised/crossed my heart that I would contribute to @intricatecaprice 30 Days Dead Men’s Tales. And here we are! This’ll probably be messy and not nearly as pretty as the rest of those gorgeous posts, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?

So, I of course had the idea of Isabeau being plonked into the lap of one Cursed Capitán. I mean, who wouldn’t? But as it is currently being wonderfully done by so many talented authors, I decided to stick with my human Salazar. But this is just a small scratch of satisfaction to that itch. I hope you enjoy! (Also, just wanna note that this isn’t the Monarch and these are different prisoners than those in the beginning of the film. I tried to make that distinct, but just want to clarify. Also, this is purely self-indulging, so please excuse any errors.)

Prisoners Should Know Their Place

It was the screams that told Isabeau her luck was about to change for the worst. And that was a feat, since she was pretty sure her luck had already hit rock bottom.

The guy in the cell next to her, barely a few years older than her, if even that, began to whimper in terror, his fingers tugging at dirty red hair. The wrinkled old man with him started muttering prayers under his breath, the gaps of missing teeth flashing every now and then.

Pretty sure that's not gonna help anyone, dude. Isabeau sighed, then grimaced when her ribs protested the movement. The nasty bruise from the officer's boot would take a while to heal, especially since he hadn't bothered holding back when he'd literally kicked her into the cell.

Asshole. I hope he was one of the ones that screamed like a little girl.

Despite the tone of her thoughts, Isabeau was worried. Whoever had boarded the Victorious were going through the crew with lightning speed, and nothing outside gave away any hints of who the attackers were. For all she knew, they'd be worse than the British she found herself prisoner of.

Great. This day really can get worse. I honestly didn't think it could.

There was a couple of loud crashes up above, and a distinct sound of crackling that sent tendrils of alarm snaking down her limbs.

Fire. I smell fire.

Cinders began to float down through the cracks in the boards and she struggled to keep the primal part of her brain from sending her into a panic.

The younger guy apparently had less control and suddenly threw himself at the bars with a loud crash, screaming at the top of his lungs. The old man tried to calm him, to keep him quiet, but he was thrown off.

Mere seconds later, slow footsteps began to thump heavily down the stairs to the brig.

The screaming man instantly quieted, staring up at the deck above in horror.

Isabeau looked up from where she sat curled in the corner, surprised by the prickle of unease that skittered with spider legs across her nape.

Whatever was coming their way wasn't anything good.

All three of them froze as boots suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly descending to show a large man leaning heavily on a cane as he made his way down the steps.

It wasn't his sheer, intimidating size that made Isabeau's breath freeze in her lungs.

It was the way his hair wafted around his head in a halo of black strands, like he was underwater.

It was how flakes of ash floated in his wake whenever he moved.

It was his burnt and decrepit uniform, shifting and following his movements in a way that wasn't natural.

It was the grey skin, covered in ashen cracks and the splintered skull with sharp, jagged edges of bone.

It was the burning amber eyes, almost glowing with their brilliance in the dark.

They all stood staring at each other for a brief second, then the man was joined by more men, men that had similar appearances of unnaturalness.

Isabeau was grateful she was already sitting down, else she would have collapsed on the floor.

They had walked through the walls. They had simply walked the walls, as if it'd been empty space.

What...the fuck…

The old man next to her began to moan his prayers, a note of bleakness in his tone that said he knew he was about to die.

Isabeau wasn’t feeling much more optimistic, but she had bigger things to worry about. Such as why the apparent leader of the ghostly horde was now staring directly at her, and he hadn’t blinked since he’d spotted her.

In her short experience in an 18th century world, she’d come to the quick realization that women were simple commodities to be acquired, to be seen and not heard. To actually have intelligence as a woman was considered unnatural, a short step from being pronounced a witch or insane.

So the fact that any man, not merely a ghostly one, was staring at her with such unnerving focus was not a good thing.

She bit her lip, blood seeping on her tongue in an effort not to snap at the man to ask what he was looking at.

The older man’s moaning grew louder, the other man trying to figure out if he was going to fight while there was a distinct stain on the front of his pants, his blue eyes wide with terror.

Apparently, the imposing figure staring at her had had enough. A slight jerk of his head towards the other two prisoners and one of the ghostly apparitions behind him stepped forward, through the cell bars, and thrust a corroded sword straight through the moaning inmate.

Silence instantly echoed through the brig following the thud of his body.

And still the man continued to stare at her, making her skin itch under his perusal, making her want to curl into herself to hide from his burning gaze.

Finally, he stepped forwards, and no, she hadn’t been imagining things.

His entire body passed through the iron bars, sliding through them only a faint resistance and leaving them sizzling and smoking in his wake.

Definitely not human, definitely not human!

Isabeau pressed backwards into the corner, curling tighter as the man or whatever he was continued to move towards her with slow, steady steps. She kept her eyes lowered, so as not to seem as a challenge, and was surprised to find him crouching in front of her.

She squeezed further into the corner, bracing herself for another boot, or possibly a hand, when she heard a deep voice rumble, “Look at me.”

It should have sounded like rocks grinding together, as deep as his baritone was, but instead it sounded like liquid honey, like the purr of a lover, his accent making it roll through the air like music. She could hear a gravelly rasp to it that only added a smoky flavor, making her skin shiver and tingle in the wake of the sound.

Carefully, she slid her eyes up, taking in the once elegant uniform that still flattered his powerful body with its faded stripes, the tattered cravat that floated and swayed in a nonexistent breeze, until her gaze landed on a face that would haunt her dreams.

She sucked in a quick breath, surprised by how utterly handsome the ghostly man was, even in death. Her eyes skimmed over strong, mature features of a male in his prime, who would have been beyond devastating had he been alive.

Nor had he missed her interest, something flaring visibly in those burning amber eyes that made her swallow convulsively.

The man straightened, towering over her, and turned to gesture at another of the men that accompanied him, one with an eyepatch over one side of his face.

Unfortunately, the other inmate still alive had apparently found his courage, if not his brains.

He slammed his hands into the bars, one of his fingers crooked as if he’d broken it, and sneered at the man standing in front of her, “What use do you have of some whore, Spanish dog? You can’t-”

He never got to finish before the man whirled and his hand flashed out, instantly wrapping around the inmate’s throat. He was lifted off his feet in a frightening display of strength, while the man in the striped coat hissed, “She’s mine, and you would do well to remember that.”

Isabeau honestly thought he was going to kill him, but instead he only held him for a few seconds more, just long enough to make sure his point got across, then dropped him, leaving the man in a crumpled heap on the filthy floor.

Wait. What does he mean, “she’s mine”?

“Moss, bring him.” The man before her whirled around with blazing speed, reaching down to grab her arm and hauled her to her feet.

Isabeau gasped at the feel of his icy fingers on her arm, as unbreakable as any manacle, before she was dragged after him.

One of his men broke the cell lock and he continued to yank her along, making her ribs scream in protest.

“...wait,” she gasped as he headed towards the stairs. “Wait!”

She threw herself backwards, no mean feat when her weight was being continuously dragged forwards, and the man holding her whipped around to glare at her, his eyes a burning crimson.

“I will not wait, chica. You are my prisoner now, and I do not wait for prisoners!”

Prisoner. That hated word burned in her gut. She’d heard it more over the past few days than she ever cared to again, along with a good many more slurs against her simply for her gender.

Fury made her hiss up at his face, “I’m not your fucking prisoner, now let - go of me!”

With a burst of frantic strength, she managed to wrench free of his grip, which had slackened a hair in his surprise at her outburst.

She turned and bared her teeth in a snarl at the one-eyed ghost that stepped in front of her. His eye flickered over her shoulder and he moved out of her way, staring at her with such hostility that her anger faltered.

Two others paused in the act of dragging the unconscious man out of his cell, his dirty red hair hanging lank about his face.

Isabeau shuddered, glad she hadn’t been put in the cell with him, and limped towards the room where her bags had been carelessly tossed. Sighing at the sight of her clothes thrown haphazardly on the bench, she closed her eyes wearily, just wishing this day had never begun.

She heard wheezing breaths behind her and knew that the man had followed her. The one who had claimed her as his prisoner. The one who stared at her with uncomfortable intensity.

Squeezing her eyes harder before opening them, she stepped forwards and began picking up her things, the smell of smoke gradually growing stronger.

“You are not English. What are you doing in an English cell?” the man asked suspiciously, stepping around to peer curiously at her belongings before swinging his gaze back to her.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” she muttered, then finally couldn’t take it anymore and pulled her shirt over her head, not caring if she was being watched or not.

She heard a wheezed curse and felt her face burn in embarrassment, then quickly grabbed another of her shirts and slipped it on.

Grabbing the rest of her things and tossing the strap on her big bag over her shoulder, she turned to see the man had given her his back out of some form of courtesy.

Claiming her as his prisoner or not, she appreciated the gesture.

“I don’t even know your name.”

He turned to face her, his stance proud even with his slightly hunched back. “Capitán Armando Antón Salazar de Estrada. And yours, chica?”

A spark drifted down from the ceiling and she sidestepped it warily, suddenly realizing just where they were. And what was happening to the Victorious. “Isabeau Revanne. Okay, fine, I’m your prisoner, take me to your brig.”

She’d been trying to expedite matters to get off the burning hulk, but apparently the only thing she’d managed to expedite was Capitán Salazar’s temper.

He stepped forwards, towering over her even without a straightened spine, and glared down at her. “Sí, you are my prisoner, and prisoners should know their place.”

Isabeau swallowed as she struggled not to stare at his face. “My place is in your brig, isn’t it?”

Salazar stared at her for a good long minute, making her grow more and more nervous as heat began to filter down to the room, before he suddenly smiled.

It was a smile that made her extremely uneasy.

“Perhaps I have another purpose for you. Your companion in the brig had a good idea, no?”

Her companion? Wait, the one who had called her a-

“I’m not a whore!” Isabeau spat indignantly, gritting her teeth in outrage at the suggestion. She’d been called worse since she’d been tossed into that cell, but honestly, she’d somehow been under the impression that Capitán Salazar was different.

His burning gaze flickered over her, taking in her clothes that must seem incredibly strange to him. “That remains to be seen.”

Both their attentions jerked upwards at a loud crash, but Salazar was quicker to recover.

Isabeau yelped as she was suddenly lifted into the air, wheezing as a broad shoulder was wedged into her stomach.

Salazar turned and snapped an order, one of his men slinking forwards to pick up her belongings.

Clinging to the back of his coat, Isabeau struggled to breathe as she was carried along.

Salazar paused at the top of the stairs before moving over to the railing.

What is he-

Her thought vanished as he leapt over the railing, the sudden shock of it sucking the scream right out of her throat as she saw pitch-black water rushing towards her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel herself suddenly jolt to a stop.

Confused, she cracked open one eye, then both went wide in shock as she still saw water beneath her, yet it wasn’t getting any closer.

Salazar was walking on water. He was walking on water.

An explosion of fire and noise drew her attention away from this new knowledge and she hissed in pain when one chunk of burning debris grazed her arm.

Salazar instantly jerked to the side, swinging her out of the way of another piece of debris before breaking into a run.

Another explosion and she looked up to see a cannon sailing straight towards them. “Look out!”

The massive metal construct whistled by them as Salazar swerved at her warning, his pace increasing to a lithe run as he put distance between them and the exploding wreck of the Victorious.

Finally, he began to slow down to a rolling jog, then coiled his big body into a crouch before springing upwards.

They landed lightly on the deck of a rotting hulk of a ship, a vessel twice the size of the one she’d been on, if not bigger, but all she caught was a quick glimpse, catching sight of the red-haired man sprawled on the deck where he’d been dropped before Salazar turned and carried her down a corridor,

Indignation began to fuel a burning strength. She’d spent the last several days locked in a cell, she’d woken up in this hell hole of a time period with no warning, she had no idea how to get back, and for the icing on the fucking cake, she had been kidnapped by a stupidly handsome ghost whose intentions she didn’t have the slightest clue about.

And she was tired of feeling his shoulder digging into her stomach!

“Put. Me. Down!” Isabeau thrashed and threw herself back against his restraining arm, ignoring the screaming in her ribs at the sudden movement.

Salazar grunted at her unexpected struggling, then shoved his way through a door, slamming it closed behind him.

Isabeau found herself flung into the air with a squeal and she flailed wildly before landing on something plush and slightly lumpy. She laid there for a second, sucking air into her lungs as her bruised stomach ached, then carefully sat upright, staring at the ghostly captain warily.

But to her confusion, he wasn’t looking at her face. Instead, his gaze was somewhere lower, and she glanced down in alarm, only to see that her shirt had ridden up when she’d been tossed onto the settee. And the bootprint bruised into her ribs was clearly visible.

“Which one?”

Isabeau’s attention flashed back to Salazar, his deep voice ominously quiet, rage turning his irises a bloody crimson. Black blood ran down his chin as he bared his teeth in a snarl. “Which one?!”

Slowly, she inched her shirt down to cover the bruises. “One of the officers. I’m pretty sure he’s dead now.”

Sanguine eyes flicked to her face. “Did he touch you - anywhere else?”

She quickly shook her head, even as she wondered why the mere thought of it enraged him. Surely such a thing was commonplace in this time period.

Salazar made a noise in his throat, almost a growl, his face still stern and unyielding in his anger. His fist tightened around the hilt of his rapier, which she just now noticed was still gripped in his hand.

Isabeau edged backwards along the settee warily, then yelped in alarm when he lifted it up and plunged the tip into the floor with a loud thud, the blade quivering from the force of the blow.

They were both frozen for a second, then Salazar straightened and sent her a harsh glare. “Do not move.”

And with the ominous implications of what would happen if she didn’t obey his orders hanging in the air, he whirled and walked through the door without opening it, leaving wisps of ash trailing behind him.

Isabeau didn’t feel like moving from her spot on the settee. She had seen how deep the blade had plunged into the floorboards and felt it was wise not to incite the captain’s temper. Though that didn’t stop her curiosity from lifting its head and creating questions about the man.

She didn’t realize that she’d dozed off until she felt weight depress the cushions next to her.

Something cool was spreading soothing bliss over the aching bruise on her side, making the pain fade to a background hum.

She cracked open bleary eyes to see a man sitting next to her, huge and imposing, yet his touch was gentle as he feathered calloused fingers over her skin.

“Thank you.”

Salazar paused at her words, then resumed rubbing whatever it was into her bruise. “You are welcome.”

Isabeau was quiet for a second, watching him groggily before blurting, “Why are you helping me?”

This time he didn’t pause, merely pulled away for a second to wipe his fingers off on a rag. “You are my prisoner, therefore my responsibility.”

She couldn’t help but be fascinated by his smooth, efficient movements, the complete unnaturalness to him. He shouldn’t exist, but here he was. Still, questions continued to bounce around in her mind.

“Why did you bring that other man too?”

He chuckled ominously as he suddenly leaned over her, those eerie eyes fixed on her face. “Because I always leave one man alive to tell of me. And since I’m not letting you go, I needed someone else.”

She swallowed nervously as she felt his fingers stroke her hair back behind her ear, felt his weight depress the cushions around her. “What do you mean, you’re not letting me go?”

His hand slid under the back of her skull, huge and powerful against the bone, and he held her still as he leaned closer. His hair flowed downwards to tickle her cheeks when he stopped, his nose almost touching hers. A black grin spread across his lips. “You’re mine, now. And I don’t let go of what is mine.”

#30 days of dead men's tales #Armando Salazar is hot even dead #Just how #Out of Place Out of Time #Potc5 #We need more Salazar #There seriously isn't enough #I need help #Think it might be addiction

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anklesalltheway · 3 years

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😳

Meme: send me 😳 for my muse to accidentally blurt out to yours how they feel about them, good or bad!

“As one who knows both sides... the Royal Navy and the Pirates’ creed... I feel there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to the Matador. I could be wrong, Salazar could be a brutely beast parading in medals... the Spanish Navy is a laughing stock I wouldn’t be surprised to know they’d place a butcher at the helm as Capitán, but all that aside... Don’t get me wrong, he’s a grand rival, legendary. But, perhaps, wishful thinking, if only he wasn’t so... obstinant, didn’t see quite everything so starkly monochrome, I feel that in an opportune moment if we put our differences aside, and had a common enemy like the Company, he’d make a fine ally.”

“And then, perhaps at the end of all that, I’d want nothing more than for him to realize he was still in his own form of the trappings of the Triangle long before he was ever cursed there... that is, the longer he sees through his monochrome lensed view of the world.”

The Pirate King realized Salazar’s presence... and what he had just overheard.

“Oh, it’s you.”

#thepiratehunter #;; answered

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fanficsbysenneres · 1 year

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I was nervous about writing Calypso's speech.

I'm Australian, the closest I've been to the Caribbean is visiting the Gold Coast where potc 5 was filmed, I've never met anyone from Jamaica. I'd no idea what I was doing. It was my first multi-chapter potc fanfic, and I was just fumbling along, learning as I went.

Confession: Calypso wasn't even going to be in the story.

But Tia Dalma/Calypso is arguably the most powerful character in the potc trilogy.

We only get to see her full powers for maybe a handful of minutes in the 3rd movie, but I had a gut feeling that it would be a crime not to have her in El Infierno; so it didn't take me long to write out the character who was originally going to free Capitán Salazar from the Devil's Triangle, and I wrote in Calypso instead.

But I had no idea how to write her speech. So I just decided to dive in and research Jamaican patois. I read articles about its origins, how certain words are pronounced, and even laboured through line by line translations of common stories / prayers in the language. I needed an idea of their speech patterns to create Calypso's dialogue.

But in spite of being serious in this one respect, I also had to give a nod to the At World's End game, and wrote in a couple of phrases from it just for fun.

El Infierno: Chapter 1 (on Ao3)

#tia dalma #potc fanfiction #dead men tell no tales #fanfic writing #writing poc #potc 5

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madamxmayor · 4 years

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Serving monarchs was nothing new to Capitán Salazar. Yet, as he was led through the dark halls of the castle by two Royal Guards, even El Matador del Mar would confess to a sense of unease. Summoned by the so-called Evil Queen. For a man dedicated to wiping darkness from the oceans, the idea of an audience with the Evil Queen sat uneasy in his heart. He had only entertained the idea from a single word in the summons: pirate. "You are in need of a pirate hunting down, Su Majestad?"

“indeed i am,” the queen grinned, her long black dress sweeping against the floor as she crossed the room. “i’ve heard many a tale about you, captain. and i think you might just be the one to succeed, where others have failed me.” a warning swung through her words; a promise that there would be consequences, if he were to fail her too. “i want you to bring me the man commandeering the jolly roger. killian jones. or hook, as you may know him.” fingers trailing against salazar’s shoulder, she leaned in close. “but to avoid any misunderstandings... i need him unharmed and in one piece. you are not to hurt him. —well,” her gaze darkened, eyes flashing dangerously, “maybe a little bit.”

#thepiratehunter #/thank you for sending this!!

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flyingflosser09 · 2 years

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Cursed / Armando Salazar x OC / Chapter 13

Chapter 12: https://flyingflosser09.tumblr.com/post/672713930116923392/cursed-armando-salazar-x-oc-chapter-12

I step back to admire my handiwork.

The once charred and broken bed in the Great cabin now has a new mattress, the one that used to be in the pirate captain’s cabin, to be precise. It has sheets, blankets, pillows, and everything. Although they smell of rum and pipe smoke, I’m looking forward to sleeping on something soft for once and not waking up cold and sore.

To add some character to the cabin, a hammock hangs from the ceiling which I thought is perfect for reading or just relaxing in after another thrilling training session with Magda. I’ve never had a hammock before, so this is by far the best thing in the room.

To list the other things I found on the pirate ship, there are another ten large barrels of rum, fortunately, some barrels of water, fresh fruit and vegetables, and… actual food that aren’t wet or moldy or suspicious. For a bunch of pirates, they certainly know how to dine in style. It makes me wonder how they came to acquire all this food. Bread, cheese - the dry kind - chicken, beef, sausages, jams, milk, cream, biscuits, and even some tiny cakes with cherries on top.

This will last me for weeks and considering how cold it already is here in the Triangle, I’d say it will probably stay fresh longer than it would have on the pirate ship.

But food isn’t the only thing I found.

There were books - dry ones - stashed underneath the captain’s bed. It doesn’t seem as if he read any of them, more like he stole them because he can and then kicked them underneath his bed afterward. There are books on astrology, books on history, books about countries all over the world, books with myths and legends, books about poetry, and books about true love. I cannot wait to read them, all of them.

Besides the books, there were more dresses hidden in a drawer of the captain’s room - no doubt stolen, of course. Some are fancy, others are modest, and I certainly found two in my size that fit each category. The modest one looks much like the one I’m currently wearing, except it’s a light beige color with a leather corset with floral shapes carved into it. The fancy one is a dark blue color, so dark it almost appears black. The riffles at the bottom of the sleeves are the same shade as seafoam, and the skirt is adorned with sewn-in white beads that remind me of pearls.

I’m slowly starting to wonder if the pirates got all of this from a merchant’s ship perhaps.

However, keeping my training with Magda in mind and recalling all the times this dress caused me to slip and fall, I had to find an alternative attire for those lessons. And that’s when I came upon the dead pirate. He was slightly on the short and scrawny side, not nearly as brutish as his crewmates, and he wore a pair of leather trousers and a loose white shirt. Luckily, nothing was blood stained and I deemed the outfit suitable for sword practice.

And let’s not forget the boots - I found boots that fit! Adiós, heels and aching feet!

My admiring of the new objects gets interrupted once three knocks sound at the door. Knowing that thumping is the Capitán’s signal, I cross the room to answer the door myself.

“Lesaro,” my mood brightens even more, “this is a surprise. Please, come in.” Only when he steps past me, do I notice the bucket of salt water in his hand, “And this?”

“As ordered by the Capitán, señorita,” he says and places the bucket on the table, “He said it’s for the cut on your neck. May I see it perhaps?”

“Oh…” By now, it shouldn’t come as a surprise when a bucket of water is delivered to the cabin for me to heal myself with. However, usually, it’s Magda who sends it. Hearing that the Capitán ordered it this time, I dare to say made my heart beat slightly faster. Remembering his question, I say, “Oh, yes, of course.”

Tilting my head back, I show him the fine cut across my throat. It stopped bleeding while I was looting the pirate ship, but the slightest neck movement would remind me of its presence in the form of a sharp, uncomfortable burn.

Lesaro emits a breath and looks away, “If that was a fraction deeper and if water could not save you, Samira, you’d be lost to us now.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I tell him softly, “I’ve tried ending my own life so many times now, I lost count. But when I find my life in the hands of another, I start to realize how precious every breath I take is. I don’t want to die and yet, it is always the only way I can think of to escape this curse.”

“For what it’s worth,” he says after a moment, “none of us think of you as cursed. To us, you are a blessing.”

With that, Lesaro turns and exits the cabin, leaving me to mull those words over in my head.

No one has ever referred to me and what I can do as a blessing before, not even Henry. Yes, he is amazed by my abilities and Elizabeth has gone out of her way to keep me safe and hidden from the outside world, but neither of them ever called it that - a blessing. I think to them it has always been another curse like Henry’s father’s, something that needs to be broken for me to be happy. They were sympathetic towards it if anything.

With my raging thoughts, I approach the bucket and scoop some water into my hand before splashing it against my neck. Shortly afterward, I start to feel the familiar itch that indicates the wound is closing and healing. It’s always worse on the neck, though, and I find it hard not to scratch.

Once the healing is complete, the front of my dress is soaked and stained light pink due to the diluted blood. At last, my modest blue dress has served its purpose and can now be deemed unfit to wear. There is no way I’d be able to scrub out those stains by just using saltwater. But I’ll keep the dress for a spare, anyway.

It so happens that, as I grab the beige dress with the leather corset to get changed, a few knocks sound at the door.

“Come in!” I call and fling the dress over my makeshift dressing screen. The door opens and a moment later, a set of heavy footsteps enters the cabin. I’d recognize those steps anywhere. “To what do I owe the pleasure of being visited by the Capitán himself?”

He huffs at my flattery and stops in the middle of the room, “The crew worries about you. I thought I’d see if you are well to give them some peace of mind.”

“So,” my voice trails off as I take a few steps towards him so we are facing each other, “is it just the crew who is worried?”

A dry laugh escapes his blueish lips. Instead of answering, he reaches up and tilts my head to the side, inspecting the now healed skin where the pirate’s sword cut me. I want to shiver when his thumb traces the thin white scar that is bound to be gone in an hour.

“Does it still hurt?”

With his gentleness rendering me speechless, all I can do is shake my head. What is it with him and this effect he has on me?

Forcing myself to think, I say, “Thank you for the water. Lesaro mentioned that you sent it.”

“Oh, he mentioned it?” He scoffs as if that was a strictly confidential discussion he had with his Lieutenant, who all but blurted it out, “Did he mention anything else?”

Should I reveal to him what Lesaro told me? What if he doesn’t share the same opinion? As safe as I feel with the Capitán, the last thing I want to do is push my boundaries and make him close up again.

But something tells me we’ve established trust between us - perhaps because he finally doesn’t see me as a witch anymore. Or perhaps because he saved me from that pirate. Or perhaps it’s the blue ribbon that is still tied to the hilt of his rapier. I want to smile as I notice the latter, feeling flattered that he kept it.

I’m going to go with my instincts and just tell him.

“Am I truly a blessing to the crew?”

…

Although it has been the talk around the ship for some time now, her question still catches him off guard. And it’s not as if he doesn’t know how to answer it, but he doubts he is the right person to do so.

Only a week ago, he accused her of magic, thus proving what he really thought of her. And a few days after that, he began seeing her for who and what she really is. Lesaro has a point, she cannot lift their curse fully, but she makes them forget about it for a short while.

He feels he isn’t worthy of answering her question, that it would make him feel like a hypocrite for believing her a witch last week, only to believe otherwise now. But how can he deny her that answer when she’s looking at him like that? With eyes as deep as the ocean, swirling with mysteries and danger?

Here goes nothing.

How is he supposed to say this?

Deciding to just go with his long-dead instincts, Armando finally says, “You were right about us being good men once. All we ever wanted was to serve the king and cleanse the ocean of pirates - it was our only purpose and the curse took that from us.” His voice softens as he continues, “But then came you and, all of a sudden, Lesaro can feel the wind, Santos engages in conversation, and Magda…” he shrugs and she understands what he means. Magda went back to being Magda.

“Are you implying that my presence is lifting the curse?” She whispers, astonished at the assumption.

“Not lifting the curse, no, but it is restoring my men’s sense of purpose. We believe that is what makes us feel.”

Her eyes glaze over as she ponders that possibility. Salazar seizes that moment to admire her face in the golden light of the lantern, how it makes her eyes stand out and gives her skin an ethereal glow. Now she reminds him of the ocean at sunset, when the sun touches the horizon and drowns the waves in gold.

And that’s when it dawns upon him that she is utterly and profoundly breathtaking inside and out. That’s what keeps him drawn to her, the mysteries she keeps hidden within her soul and the thrill of diving deep enough to learn all her secrets and desires. He wants to know what makes her happy, he wants to know what causes her pain, he wants to know what keeps her awake at night, and he wants to know what she thinks off when she falls quiet…

She represents the ocean in its purest form and he’s sailed right into the current that draws him to her.

“And you, Capitán?” Her voice pulls him back to the present, “What purpose do I restore in you?”

If only he can name just one…

Suppressing the urge to cup her face in one hand and running his thumb over her skin, he finally settles on an answer, “To be a good man once more.”

His dead heart wants to break free of its cage when her face lights up in a soft smile that he likes to believe she reserves only for him. But what nearly brings him to his knees is when she reaches up to place her hand on his cheek.

Of course, his first instinct would be to flinch away, remembering that his face is littered with cracks and signs of their curse. But the instant warmth he feels when her skin touches his renders him incapable of any movement. With little to no resolve left - and much to his inner horror - he leans into her touch, emitting a longing breath at the feeling of her thumb tracing over the cracks in his cheek.

“You are a good man, Capitán,” she whispers.

“Armando,” he says before he can stop himself. Hearing his own name fall from his lips sounds foreign, he hasn’t used it in years. But he wants her to know it, he wants to hear her call him by the name that has been forgotten along with the crew of the Silent Mary. “Call me Armando.”

“Armando,” his name falls from her lips like a siren’s song. Then, out of the blue, she turns around and sends him a smile over her shoulder, “Would you be so kind to undo my lacing again? I would do it myself, but you, Armando, just happens to be here.”

Despite his frightening appearance, despite the cracks on his face, and despite the black liquid pooling at the corners of his mouth, he breathes a laugh - and genuine laugh - and takes the final step towards her.

A/N:And that's how far I've come, it seems. Let me know if it's any good and if I should continue it sometime :)

xoxo

#armando salazar #armando #salazar #pirates of the caribbean: dead men tell no tales #pirates of the caribbean #potc dmtnt #potc #dmtnt #jack sparrow #henry turner

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kathaariawrites · 4 years

Text

Nights in Cádiz - Armando Salazar x Reader (Chapter 2)

So my writer’s block is finally down and I could finally finish the second chapter. I will be uploading three more works tomorrow so can I get a woop woop? Thanks.

Gravity. That was the first thing you noticed, as if you were at the bottom of the ocean but quickly being pulled up. You could not breathe but then, out of seemingly nowhere, you could breathe and see that you were aboard a ruined ship, the darkened hull burnt to a crisp and rough under your feet as you wandered through. The waves rolled in the background but other than that you could hear nothing but a creaking sound from below you.

It was a bit surreal, to be honest. It felt very real, as if you were there or had been there for long periods of time and you could’ve easily believed in a kidnapping scenario were it not for the fact you looked down and your night robe stared back at you. No one seemed to be on board with you except for a figure standing at the ship’s helm. From your point of view you could make out what was supposed to be a ruined uniform, as black and burnt as the rest of the ship.

Caution be damned, you thought, your curiosity getting the best of you as you approached with low, calculated steps. Whoever it was, it was obviously a man, broad shoulders and tall figure even if he seemed to be a little hunched. A captain, from the looks of it.

“Señor?”

The figure turned to you, its eyes widened in surprise and a gasp left you. “Capitán Salazar?”

He seemed puzzled, staring at you and measuring you up. In the blink of an eye his figure approached, a sound of some sort of cane and his steps following. “Señorita…what are you doing here?”

Through your shock you realized it was his cursed form that stood in front of you staring you down, hair floating as if underwater and a piece of his head missing on the left side. “I...I do not know, Armando, I woke here just now. Where…”

“The Mary...the ship. I have this dream every night since our curse was broken. I just stand here until I wake up.”

“So...this is the triangle?”, to which he replied with a subtle nod. “Why are you still cursed here?”

He sighed then and took a few steps back, turning his back to you. “Not completely. I do not feel the rage I did back then, or the pain. I am alive, but at the same time I am not.” His brow furrowed then, looking back at you. “You should leave. This is no place for you, even if it is but a dream.”

“A lovely point”, you replied, “if it was not for the fact that I do not wake up whenever I wish to.”

He chuckled, “Argumentative tonight, eh? Quite different from dinner.”

You rolled your eyes, taking advantage of the fact he could not see your lack of manners at that moment and walked to him, sitting on the railing. He reached for you, trying to pull you down but you chuckled and avoided his hand.

“Get down. Where are your manners, [Y/N]?”

“I am in your dream, Armando, I do not need to have manners.”

It was a bit overwhelming to Salazar. He was used to this dream, to the scenario and the long waiting periods alone until he woke up in the real world and life went on. Having you here was a completely different story and he had no idea what to do with you, let alone in such revealing clothes. Clothes that were not supposed to be seen by anyone outside of a bedroom.

“[Y/N], por favor. Vas a matarme, mujer.”

You laughed at that, holding his hand. “Armando, I am not going to fall. The ship is not moving.”

He stared at both of your hands joined at the railing. Armando Salazar was not, by all means, a sentimental man but the fact you sought his touch, leaving manners and judgements aside, warmed his heart a bit. It was the third or fourth night of him being at his friend’s home and each passing day you got closer, actively seeking him for walks and conversation. You took him to the city, bought him fruits and even accompanied him, your dad and Guillermo on their trip to the hearing at the Armada’s headquarters.

He was not used to it. It had been a long time since a lady had any sort of interest in him, let alone one that was not purely carnal and, as rusty as he was on his own manners, he could tell you enjoyed being around. Your father and Guillermo did as well, which earned him a few comments that would make a sailor feel embarrassed. It was not proper, he thought, to have a lady such as yourself tagging along all the time; and yet the fact he enjoyed it just as much was terrifying. Armando was used to rough handling, that was the life the Armada brought him and the one he grew up into, be it from his own years sailing or from the previous years as his dad was much the same.

You looked up, frowning at the lack of sensations and stars. It was not cold but neither was it warm; there was no wind blowing, no stars above, no moon but you could still see everything around you; you could feel the rough wood of the ship but it didn’t smell like it had been burnt. Was this how he felt when he was dead? How they all felt? “Are you going to tell me?”

The captain’s gruesome head turned to you then, doing the little tilt it usually did when he was confused or puzzled by something. “Tell you what?”

“How you died. How you got like this. How you came back. I could not attend the hearing but I wonder how it was to be trapped for so long.”

A sigh left his lips then, a frown set on his face. “[Y/N], you were not supposed to be here, to see me like this, and for the life of me I do not know how you ended up here. It was a pirate, a young boy, he...he took everything from me. I died here, we all did, it was our house for the past 25 years and the toll it took on all of us can’t be named. I was another man back then…”

You noticed the conflict on his eyes, how tormented he seemed to be to relive all that was in his past and raised a hand. “Do not. I can see it pains you.” You jumped down from the railing and touched his shoulder in a gentle, calming gesture. “You can tell me when, and if, you feel comfortable about it one day. I am happy you returned, that is enough for me.”

Armando’s eyes took another light then, one of gratitude. He put his own hand on top of yours and squeezed it, nodding. “Gracias.”

You stood together like that, occasionally making little jokes or small conversations until you felt the same pull than before and the next time your eyes opened you were staring at your ceiling. Your maid walked in not long after, helping you get dressed to move on with your day and if you smirked at Salazar when you met him at the table for breakfast, it was no one’s business.

Spanish translations:

Señor = Sir

[Y/N], por favor. Vas a matarme, mujer. = [Y/N], please. You’re going to kill me, woman.

Gracias = Thank you.

#captain salazar #armando salazar #captain salazar x reader #captain salazar x you #armando salazar x reader #armando salazar x you #potc #potc fanfiction #potc imagine #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean fanfiction #pirates of the caribbean imagine #dmtnt #potc dmtnt

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tockamybeloved · 4 years

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Thank you @montmartre-parapluie for the Ask!

Q: Fuck, Take a bullet for, Murder: Cutler Beckett, Barbossa, Officer Moss

I’ll preface by saying it’s probably a deeper answer than you were expecting.And turned into a rather sloppy one-shot but here it is!

Pardon the amount of time I took in replying to your ask. Now I shall explain why:

I hold no approval for the “fuck” scenario: Especially presented under the façade of “it’s only a hypothetical situation, no one is ‘really’ going to be hurt.” Whether you would or would not, the options are presented as a “MUST do or there are negative consequences”. This takes it into dubious territory at best and non-con at worst. I believe that, (while the majority I accept will disagree with me and say I am taking things too literally and ‘it’s only a joke’), the “fuck” option contributes to Rape Culture because it can plant the seed in one’s mind the idea that to fuck someone where consent is not 100%, is not only required, but to be tolerated.

It is not.

The “sleep with” option at least gives or can give the impression there is consent, at least in my point of view. People will see it differently.

Yes, I also take issue with the murder scenario, but I wanted to focus on the fuck one in this case. If you have ever been sexually abused or know someone who has, you’ll understand why.

So without further ado, and in keeping with the spirit of PotC, here is my answer: (Note, post DMTNT curse and all La Maria’s crew have survived thank-you-very-much)

The wind pushed across the main deck of the familiar ship. Cutler Beckett and Captain Barbossa stood before me, hands tied behind their back and muskets buried into their neck. Officer Moss stood there too, his hands tied but in front of him.

The single piece of paper snapped in my hands against the wind as I read the question out loud. I turned to look behind me. Capitán Salazar standing with several Spanish Officers, all holding a very quiet and uneasy position near the wheel of the ship.

“Ladies and Gentleman, Pirates and, er,” Captain Jack Sparrow yelled out across the ship, rolling his shoulder up and leaning away from the man in the grey and white uniform standing next to him, “Spanish.” He removed his hat and gestured to all in attendance. “Welcome aboard the Black Pearl!”

I turned from the prisoners in front of me. “Capitán! I can’t…I cannot make this choice!”

But the grand man only stood silent.

It was Captain Jack that addressed me. “You know the stakes, make your choice now.”

He then made is way down to stand beside me.

I released the paper into the wind and let it carry off the ship and drown in the water. I looked Barbossa up and down several times.

“Aye Lass, what’a ya say?” His black and gold teeth strikingly obvious as he smirked.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as chills ran down my back. Ugh, no thanks. I doubt it works anyway. Plus, as Jack had mentioned before, he smells funny.

Next, I surveyed Cutler Beckett. Fine suit, clean. Smelled nice. He glared back at me, just as annoyed about the entire ordeal as I was. You’d think he’d relish the opportunity to be with someone shorter than he! But I could tell this was an obscenely vain man, any interaction would be beyond awkward, and I had the impression he was hiding some sort of strange fetish he might want to try out. Also, employed by the East India Trading Company. Traders indeed. I raised my eyebrow at him and moved down the line.

Captain Jack stood next to the third prisoner. “Moss is it? Isn’t that what grows on trees and rocks and really, really, damp cave-y like places?”

Officer Moss straighten his back and stood tall. “Officer Antonio Moss of His Catholic Majesty’s Armada, Son of –“

Jack cut him off. “Now, now. Easy Spanish. You *could* end up dead. Very dead. I’ve been there you know. Death. It sort of, creeps up on you. Although I *will* say if you like spending a lot of time,” he shook his head and leaned in closer to Moss, “a *lot* of time alone, it’s pleasant.”

“A true soldier is ready to risk his life,” he replied.

I looked at Moss who kept his own eyes directly ahead. The adorable, smiling, wait…I’ve seen him in battle. He takes no prisoners and *other things*. Ugh, also no.

What if I took a bullet first, then murdered…no… I couldn’t think straight.

And I knew *his* mind was racing too. *He* would come up with a brilliant plan to get me out of this. What was taking so long?

I took another long deep breath, prepared to announce my answers when –

Officer Moss stepped forward and was given permission to speak privately to me.

“Senorita, I will…volunteer.” Poor Moss. The cringe in his voice made it clear this was probably one of the worst situations he could be in. “It would be less defiling for you. And I could not live with myself if that pirate or Beckett even touched you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Cortez will kill you!” I said.

“Si. I know. We are all willing to die for The Writers.” He returned to his place beside the other prisoners, eyes tearing up, and fumbling with tied hands to make the Sign of the Cross and begin his prayers, trying to comfort himself with the knowledge that at least Cortez would be swift when bringing Death.

It was then a plan manifest itself.

I brought myself again before Cutler Beckett and looked over my shoulder at Salazar and the Officers.

And told the soldier to release Beckett.

I stepped into Cutler’s personal space and allowed him to reach his arm around my waist. I allowed him to begin undoing the front of my dress.

That is when The Plan, the most perfectly executed plan, ran down the stairs. I heard his dagger cut through the air and then cut directly into Beckett’s throat. The British man was gasping, injured, dying, but not entirely dead. Not until I, with the help of Cortez, pushed Beckett’s body over the rail and hopefully into Davy Jones’ Locker.

“Check off *Fuck*-ed up and *Murdered*,” Cortez said cooly.

The ship was a perfect model of holy silence except for Officer Santos, who said very hushed what everyone was thinking. “Can she do that?”

“No rule against it,” Mullroy replied.

“Actually, there does not seem to be any rules at all,” Lieutenant Lesaro shook his head.

Captain Jack’s look of astonishment bounced back and forth between myself and Cortez. He then returned to the higher deck. “Mullroy, remind me *never* to make enemies of *that* woman.”

He turned to address the crew again.

“Cutler Beckett has been,” he cleared his throat. “Fucked up and Murdered. Do we let that stand? How say you?”

A booming and unified ‘Aye!’ reverberated across the ship.

“That just leaves ‘Take a bullet for’ Miss…er Senorita.” Jack was now at least trying to show some respect for me.

(SO I could have gone several ways with this, but decided to keep it simple)

“One bullet, one man!” I yelled to Jack.

“Are we negotiating terms then?” he quipped.

“No. Clarifying technicalities, Captain.”

I glanced over at Salazar, whose face had started to become pale. All this talk about bending rules and finding loop holes, or developing rules only on the whim of emotion was taking a toll on the scrupulous Capitán.

“Very well,” I stated. “I will take a bullet for – Captain Barbossa.”

The look on Moss’ face – indescribable. I was about to take a bullet for a pirate. The thing is, no one stated the condition of said bullet.

“First, I wish to speak to Barbossa. Privately.”

The soldier released the hands of the pirate, just as he had done previously with Beckett.

“Now Miss, you’re not going to have your Cortez um, have me killed too, are ye?”

“No Barbossa. One murdered, already done. However, I have a condition.”

“Name your terms,” he smiled back.

“Every man here pretty much either owes you something or wants you dead. I want something too. Treasure. I will take the bullet for you, you salvage and bring me treasure from the Spanish ships that sunk in 1715. Do we have an accord?”

“Deal.”

I was then placed directly in front of the main mast, Barbossa standing to my right and Moss to my left. The pirate who stood before me naively asked Captain Jack where he should aim.

Jack only flung his hands around in the air and replied, “Somewhere, in that general direction.”

I was sure he would aim for my head.

But he didn’t. It looked like his pistol was lining up with my right shoulder. He pulled the hammer back and just as he fired, Barbossa pushed me out of the way and into Moss, and the ball lodged into the wood of the mast.

“The rules only state that she has to be *willing* to take a bullet. Not that she would actually have ta.”

No one seemed willing to argue with Captain Barbossa’s reasoning. He turned to me.

“Now Lass. I spared ye life. As ye spared mine own. I call that even.”

There was applause from the ship and everyone agreed the ordeal was over.

Except it appeared Capitán Salazar was not fully satisfied.

“Explain yourself! Why kill Beckett and not this *pirate*?” He ordered an answer from me.

“Very well. Barbossa *is* a pirate. I would say a sort of reformed pirate though. His life is about gathering earthly treasure and having some adventure. You’d rather *not* kill people, would you?” I said.

Barbossa shook his head in agreement. “Aye. I’ve killed enough. Leave me to my ships and their gold, and I leave the rest of ye alone.”

I continued. “It’s not my fault no one is specific with the rules in this game! Aren’t they ‘more like guidelines anyway?’ Also! Beckett. Beckett is a slave trader. Worse in my mind. And to quote a pirate,” the Spanish men were starting to look concerned, “People aren’t cargo, mate.”

………

Which brings up all sorts of questions like, is evil simply evil, or are there different levels of evil? Is one evil deed equal in damage to another?

All three men are murderers.

Does that justify one more than the other?

What is Justice? Is equality Justice? When does one show Mercy? Is it Mercy to kill one to save many?

I know my answers.

Now you must seek your own.

#answered asks #potc 5 #dead men tell no tales #pirates of the caribbean #capitan salazar #captain barbossa #officer cortez #officer moss

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