First Mate

Jones rose the bottle to his sore lips and swallowed it’s contents. The liquid burning as it trailed down his throat. He sighs, agreeing with the first mate’s words with a slow nod. Nothing mattered to him anymore, just the crew and the ship itself. He might include his leviathan on that list too.

“Aye…” He sighs gently.

He rubs at his always aching neck as he puts the bottle half full of rum onto the wooden floor. Part of him wished that they’d continue conversing about the past, however the other part had greatly disagreed. For there was not much for them to talk about anymore. It was always the same cherished memories, and they were starting to fill of those spent slaving away on the Dutchman. Just the same annoyingly painful memories of the time on this cursed vessel.

Perhaps in the future, all their memories would be nothing but about their cursed pathetic lives?

It was a grim thought indeed, but not one that Davy Jones could ignore.

It seems there isn’t a time when a shadow isn’t cast over his captain’s face. The first mate has learned to read it like a book, take note of the subtle changes, and he sees Jones plummeting into an abyss. His eyes have grown used to darkness, but is there any sensitivity for light left in them? The sea whispers outside, no. No.

The leader of the cursed will always burn in the hottest hellfire, and Maccus wishes he could begin to understand the immensity of pain the captain’s heart is in. It would help no one, but the inescapable sense of camaraderie invariably draws the first mate to Jones. Maccus owes him more than a life, and so let it be cast into the ocean and devoured by it.

He takes a swig from his bottle without seeking an excuse to look his captain in the face, for should not one’s right hand know the thoughts of the head?

He sighed as if all his hope was beginning to vanish. The old captain supposed that all hope was probably lost when she didn’t show up on that damn island like she had promised a decade earlier.

Jones’ head was starting to pound rather violently as a wave of sickness exploded in him. The strange unknown moisture scattered on his pale forehead was starting to feel more like a horrid sweat that made him felt like he had woken up from another nightmare. He opened his mouth to say something to the first mate behind him but however the burning wave of illness grew larger with each passing second and his milky blue eyes widened with panic.

He removed Maccus’ hand that was rested on his shoulder and he quite literally sprinted to a filth stained bucket that was resting in the corner of the room. He threw himself on top of the bucket and vomited. Sucking in large amounts of breath through his gritted teeth and gripping his fingers onto the chipped wood with enough force necessary. Nausea washed over him as he pushed himself backwards into a sitting position on the damp floor. Jones gripped at his forehead with his stiff dry hand as the aching headache had faded slightly and the urge to throw up had completely gone now. He felt this odd sickness grow each passing day now and it was starting to concern the captain.

Before he stood up however, he noticed that the liquid in the bucket was a murky black.

There are few things that the first mate can’t stomach, and one of them is watching helplessly. He does just that as Jones rushes to the bucket and turns his guts inside out. Somehow the blackness that comes out of him shakes Maccus to the core. Such colour is never a good sign. He’s seen men die in agony from that. A few long strides take him to his captain’s side. He helps Jones into the chair, uses his shirt’s sleeve to wipe away the strange perspiration that won’t cease. It takes him a few seconds to recognize the same symptoms in himself. Terrible, terrible pain all over.

“If this continues the whole crew will die in no time. It’s the witch. The damned wench, she cursed us.”

Captain Jones never knew a rival, and they were winners by his side, but this time it looks like they have no other choice but surrender to the strange ailment. As Maccus speaks, he claps his hand over his mouth. Into his palm fall two of his front teeth. He feels the soft holes in the gums with his tongue, spits blood. A razor-sharp pain stays in the place of the teeth.