CHAPTER 19: DESERT ISLAND
The rowboat scraped sand, and Barbossa's skeletal crew shoved us over the side.
I hit the beach hard, sand in my mouth, wrists still raw from rope burns that hadn't healed. Jack landed beside me with more grace—the man had practice at being thrown out of things.
"Your pistol, Jack." Barbossa stood in the bow of the departing boat, holding a single weapon. He tossed it to land in the sand between us. "One shot. You know the tradition."
Jack didn't move to pick it up.
"Rather unsporting of you, Hector. Marooning me on the same island twice."
"Worked well enough the first time." Barbossa's lipless smile stretched wide. "Enjoy the sun, Jack. I'll be feeling it myself soon enough—once young Turner's blood pays his father's debt."
The boat pushed off. The cursed crew rowed with inhuman efficiency, and within minutes, they were gone.
Silence. The crash of waves. The cry of distant gulls.
I spat sand and pushed myself upright. My tongue still tasted blood from where I'd bitten it during the recapture, and every bruise from the escape attempt throbbed with renewed enthusiasm.
"So." I looked around at our prison. "This is it?"
The island was tiny—barely large enough to be called an island. A spit of sand surrounding a cluster of palm trees, with no visible fresh water, no shelter, no hope of rescue.
Except.
Jack was already moving. Not panicked—purposeful. He walked toward the palm cluster with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going.
"Coming?" he called over his shoulder.
I followed.
The palm trees marked a particular formation—three trees in a triangle, their trunks weathered by decades of Caribbean storms. Jack stopped at the center point and began digging with his bare hands.
I helped without asking. The sand was loose here, clearly disturbed before. Within minutes, my fingers hit wood.
"What is this?"
"Insurance." Jack grinned as we hauled the buried chest free. "Rum runners used this island as a cache point. When I was marooned here the first time, I stumbled upon their supplies quite by accident."
The chest's lock had rusted through. Jack pried it open to reveal—
Bottles. Dozens of bottles, packed in straw. Rum, most of them, but also sealed containers of dried meat, hardtack, even a small keg of fresh water.
"You knew this was here."
"Of course I knew." Jack pulled out a bottle of rum with reverent hands. "Why do you think I survived before?"
He popped the cork and took a long drink. Then he passed the bottle to me.
The rum burned going down—harsh, cheap, exactly what I needed. Warmth spread through my chest, chasing away some of the cold fear that had lived there since capture.
"So the legend about sea turtles..."
"Fabrication. Though I did consider it." Jack retrieved another bottle for himself. "The truth is far less heroic. I drank rum, waited, and eventually a trading ship spotted my smoke signal."
"Then we can do the same."
"We could." Jack's expression darkened. "Except Barbossa knows about the cache now. I told him, years ago, when we were still... friendly. He'll expect me to survive. He'll be watching."
He won't watch long, I thought. Elizabeth will escape. The signal will draw Norrington. The timeline continues.
But I couldn't say that. Couldn't reveal that I knew how this story ended.
"Then we'll need to be clever," I said instead. "Find a way to signal that Barbossa won't expect."
Jack raised his bottle in salute. "Now you're thinking like a pirate."
We built a fire as the sun set—small, just enough for warmth and light. Jack produced more rum, and we settled into the comfortable routine of men with nothing to do but wait.
"Tell me about the first time." I gestured at the island around us. "All of it. Not the legend—the truth."
Jack was quiet for a moment. The firelight played across his face, making his features dance between shadow and gold.
"Barbossa led a mutiny against me. I'd shown him the location of Isla de Muerta, you see. Told him about the treasure. Trusted him." A bitter laugh. "Never trust anyone that much, mate. Lesson learned."
"They took the Pearl."
"They took everything. My ship, my crew, my reputation. Left me here with a pistol and one shot." Jack touched the weapon now tucked in his belt. "The tradition is to use it on yourself. Quick death rather than slow starvation."
"You didn't."
"Couldn't bring myself to it. Not while there was still rum." He drank deeply. "Three days later, a ship appeared. The rest, as they say, is history."
I watched the flames dance. Thought about my own resurrection—that moment of gasping awake in the harbor, salt water in my lungs, no idea how I'd returned from death.
"I understand holding onto hope," I said quietly. "Even when it seems impossible."
Jack's eyes sharpened. "You mentioned dying before. In the brig."
"I did."
"Feel like elaborating?"
The rum had loosened something in me. Or maybe it was the isolation, the shared circumstance, the way Jack had stopped performing and started being genuine.
"I washed up on a beach," I said. "Weeks ago. Before Tortuga, before any of this. I have no memory of how I got there, no idea where I came from. Just... sand under my face and salt water in my lungs."
"That's not dying."
"No." I took a breath. "Dying was in a tavern, three days later. Bar fight. Knife between the ribs."
Jack went very still.
"I bled out on the floor. Everything went dark. And then—" I spread my hands. "I woke up in the harbor. Naked, confused, and very much alive."
"The sea brought you back."
"Something did."
Silence. The fire crackled. Waves whispered against the shore.
"That's why you're not afraid," Jack said slowly. "You've already died. Death holds no mystery for you."
"Death holds plenty of mystery. I just know it's not permanent. For me."
"For you." Jack's eyes glittered with calculation. "But not for everyone. Not for me."
"I don't know." The truth, as far as I understood it. "I don't know why I came back, or if it would happen again, or if there are conditions I don't understand."
Like being tied to you, I didn't add. Like that golden thread I saw in the brig.
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—genuine, surprised, almost delighted.
"A man who cannot stay dead, stranded on an island with a man who cannot die." He raised his bottle. "The universe has a sense of humor."
I clinked my bottle against his. "To surviving."
"To surviving."
We drank. The stars wheeled overhead. Jack told more stories—increasingly absurd tales of ships he'd stolen, ports he'd burned, women he'd loved. I laughed at the right moments, asked questions when expected, let the rum carry me somewhere warm and distant.
Eventually, Jack's stories trailed into mumbles. His head dropped against his chest, and within moments, soft snoring rose above the fire's crackle.
I stayed awake.
Through my fading Curse Sight—still flickering at the edges, never quite fully active since the cave—I could see that golden thread. It stretched across the sand to where Jack slept, pulsing gently with each beat of his heart.
My survival depends on him, I thought. This ridiculous, brilliant, unreliable man.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, watching Jack sleep in the firelight, it felt almost like comfort.
We were tied together. For better or worse.
Now I just had to keep us both alive long enough to figure out what that meant.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1