Guardian Angel 1

Heaven

by

Manic Intent

It was like something out of a rum-soaked dream, perhaps after far too many Church services or bible studies. In the space between his last consciousness of being 'aware' (giant squid-monsters with terrible charnel-breath) and 'now', Jack could only feel a large gap in his memories—perhaps thankfully, if it had involved any sort of business of being chewed up and eaten. Eheh. 'Now', however, seemed to involve a vast sunlit plain of... clouds, which felt solid under his feet, shifting gently, in an odd mockery of the sea. A massive golden gate hinged to two pillars of white marble, ornate with decorations that seemed to attempt to depict every single creature under Heaven. Which was, presumably, where this was.

Tricorn hat—check. Sea urchin spine, beaded hair, dreadlocks, sash—check. Shirt, vest, coat, boots... rings, sword, and pistol—all present. No horrible wounds that might suggest how he died (though given the manner of it, he could guess). Also, a little annoyingly, he was sparkly clean. Fingernails were absolutely clear of dirt for the first time since he could remember, and his clothes smelled... starched.

There was a queue towards the gate, and Jack had been unable to stop himself from following—it was an irresistible compulsion. A curious mixture of individuals of mixed races from different walks of life (here one in beggar's rags, there another in noble's finery) their faces caught mostly in expressions of rapturous wonder (scary). Fidgeting, Jack had waited his turn up until he faced the bearded angel standing at the white marble podium before the Gate.

Definitely an angel. White, trimmed beard. Halo (not really a golden circle over the head, but behind it, its spokes carved with detail far beyond mortal comprehension). Folded, massive white wings, the primary feathers extending past the clouds. White robe. Currently looking a little confused, as he checked a long scroll. The queue was being held up—all those before him had been processed with a smile and a benediction.

"Um. Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Yep. Er. Ye sure there hasn't been a mix-up? Not that m'complainin', y'know, just that it seems mighty odd t'me."

"Er... this is highly, highly irregular." The angel looked apologetic, glancing at Jack over the edge of the scroll. "There's probably some sort of clerical mistake. You're... um, listed for acceptance into Heaven, but looking at your... remarkable record, I can't help but wonder if there's been, um, like I said, a clerical mistake of the highest order."

Jack grinned, actually highly tickled over the situation. He wasn't sure, at this point, whether he really wanted to go to Heaven—his vaguest idea about the issue being something along the lines of playing harps and singing praises—not exactly the most amusing sorts of past-times. On the other hand, if he had to place a bet which place would most likely have rum and debauchery, it'd be Hell. Ignoring the question of eternal torture and penance, and such.

Besides, outside of the 'remarkable record' of indiscretions and sin, Jack was also fairly sure that he had never given the issue of whether there was a Higher Power any more thought than occasionally using His name in vain, usually in the midst of performing said indiscretions and sin. He guessed he actually did believe in said higher power (not difficult, when in one's career one had faced undead pirates and various degrees of the supernatural)... but he didn't exactly worship him, per se.

"So... what ye be doin' wi' old Jack, now? There be lots o' people waitin' t'get approved behind me, see, an' I don't want t'be any trouble." Cheerfully. "Mebbe ye just return me t'Earth fer th'time bein'? Say, alive, an' nowhere near giant monsters o' th'squid persuasion?"

"No, that'd be even more irregular. Um. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I'd have to consult with my colleagues. Excuse me." The angel pressed some sort of golden button on his podium. Far away, behind the gate (although all Jack could see behind it was more clouds—though those before him had just vanished when passing through) there was the faint sound of a bell.

Another angel abruptly appeared next to the one at the podium—a woman, with very curly, shoulder-length brown hair—no halo. They spoke musically, in a language that Jack didn't understand, gesturing occasionally at him. The woman grimaced, then vanished again. The first angel shot Jack another apologetic grin. "Sorry. Um. Could you wait at the side for a while? It'd be sorted out."

Jack sat down next to the podium, on the oddly fluffy, soft ground, and watched as a baker, a fisherman, a nun and a small boy dressed finely in ermine passed through the closed golden gates. He ran his eyes down the line, studying the differing faces of humanity, and noting that there was, indeed, a definite skew in favor of the middle classes or lower, as compared to the nobility. And several members of other races, of which were unlikely to believe in Christianity. Odd. The angel, however, was busy, and didn't seem inclined to answer questions—after a few attempts, Jack just gave up.

After another handful of people were processed, the female angel appeared again, and spoke to the first one. Who nodded, and passed her Jack's scroll. She then turned to Jack. "Captain Jack Sparrow?"

He got to his feet. "That's me."

"Sorry about all this. My name's Alisa. I have to take you to the offices to resolve the issue." She held out one small, bronzed hand, as her wings spread.

"It's a wee bit unexpected," Jack ventured, as he put his palm in her hand. "Th'bureaucracy, that is."

Alisa's lips moved into a faint grin. "I know. Some souls are quite shocked by it. But usually, it works a treat. We haven't had any clerical errors for the last hundred years."

"So what causes these... errors?" Jack asked, then yelped as the landscape blurred, like a thumb smudging a wet painting. He gripped the oddly cool hand tightly as the melting colors reformed into a white marble waiting area—with angels seated on benches that lined the circular walls, under gorgeous paintings of scenes on Earth. There were two archways, at their apex carved doves with outstretched wings—one leading out into a dizzying drop of elegant silver buildings interspersed with intricate glass archways and graceful towers. Another angel, a chubby male, with wispy blonde hair and nondescript features sat at a table, looking up when they appeared, giving them a nod then indicating some seats with a wave. The other archway was curtained off.

Jack and Alisa sat where they were pointed. Wings folded themselves carefully around her, primary feathers brushing at the ground, as she leaned back against the smooth wall. "I'm not sure. There's a theory that clerical errors inevitably occur in the procedure of mass processing of souls, in sorting. And, of course, for some souls it is difficult to judge whether they are to be sent to Hell, Purgatory or Heaven. Another theory is that it is simply part of the Divine Plan, in some way."

"Oh. What'd ye think?" Jack felt, all in all, that he wasn't experiencing some sort of hysterical mental breakdown. Getting to Heaven, and being a clerical error, and now sitting in an office in what was very obviously the Silver City.

"I prefer the Divine Plan theory myself," Alisa said, twiddling at her thumbs, Jack's scroll across her lap. "I find it hard to accept that there would be clerical errors from the fault of angels. As much as most of us nowadays used to be human, and still have human tendencies, it's disturbing that there'd be mistakes from the likes of us, with such potentially disastrous consequences." Another apologetic glance. "I'm really sorry. You know, you're taking this really well. The last soul we had with a clerical error, he kept swinging between being fury and hysterics. Lots of histrionics."

Jack snorted, looking out of the exit. Occasionally, angels flew by. He was in Heaven by mistake, and neurotic bureaucratic angels were apologizing to him. Surreal. "No, no. M'really don't mind, luv. It's been... educational. An' it's a good change from bein' et by giant beasties."

"I see you were a pirate," Alisa patted the scroll, grinning, reassured by Jack's apparent lack of ire. "How was that like?" A pause, then quickly, "Not that I'm condoning thievery and violence, of course."

"It was freedom, luv," Jack said, with a faint smile at fragmenting memories, then frowned as something occurred to him. "D'ye just accept human souls? Or, say, non human spirits?"

"We do, on occasion. Why?" Alisa asked, puzzled. She consulted the scroll briefly—Jack peeked, but the silvery script was also in a language he did not understand—all curls, dots and arches. "Oh. I suppose you're asking after your Black Pearl. No, she's not in any of the afterlifes. I'm not even sure that she can die—she's really more of an idea than a soul." A pause. "It's a little hard to explain in English."

"Ah." Jack blinked, wondering if he should feel relieved or not. "D'ye know where she is, now?"

"I could find out," Alisa ventured helpfully, "If you end up in Purgatory or Heaven. I'm afraid I'd be persona non gratis in Hell."

"What do ye do here? Customer service?"

"In essence," Alisa looked up as an angel walked out of the curtain and flew out of the building. "I'm technically a junior negotiator. I help resolve problems."

"There be problems in Heaven?" Jack grinned.

"Sometimes," Alisa admitted. "But not often. And most of the time, they're just very minor disputes. Usually I help handle the larger disputes to do with the jurisdiction of Hell."

"Aren't both sides at war?"

"Technically," Alisa agreed. "But the Divine Plan doesn't include armaments and actual battles, at the moment."

Jack was about to ask about that, his curiosity piqued, when the angel at the counter called to them. Alisa got to her feet, and patted Jack's shoulder. "Our turn."

"Archangel Barachiel," Alisa pressed her palms together and touched her nose to the tips of her fingers, in greeting. He nodded at her, then at Jack.

"Jack Sparrow."

"Captain Jack Sparrow," Jack corrected, out of habit.

Barachiel absently pushed one slender hand through straight, long silver hair. "Captain Sparrow, then. Your case has been considered, and it appears there has been much... disagreement as to whether you should be allowed into Heaven." Dryly. "It seems that some of my colleagues have been following your progress on Earth with much interest for the last three decades or so of your life, and they argued that in your case, it would be the greater wrong for you to pass into the Inferno, seeing as there is a general consensus that you are a good man."

Jack could feel his ego growing at an alarming rate. Fans in heaven—who'd have thought it? He grinned impishly, and fluttered his fingers. "'Tis easy t'warm up t'me."

"However, you have managed to just about break nearly every Commandment in the Holy Book over the course of your life," Barachiel continued blithely, taking the scroll from Alisa. "And allowing you into Heaven could be the start of an unnecessary and inconvenient precedent."

"So... what'd ye be doin'?" Jack asked, blinking. Thievery—check. Not respecting his parents... check. Thou shalt not kill... check. No other Gods... well, that one he hadn't broken, purely because he hadn't exactly thought about it. Taking the Lord's name in vain, check. Adultery... check. He couldn't remember the others, but figured that six out of ten was pretty good.

"After some debate, we've all managed to come to a compromise," Barachiel said pleasantly, as if he were discussing the growth rate of daffodils rather than the concept of the rest of Jack's existence, waving his rose absently in the pirate's direction. "You'd be given an amount of time to prove yourself. That you're worthy of Heaven."

"An' this amount of time, bein'?"

"To be determined by an consortium of angels, but not to be known to you," Barachiel tapped at the scroll with the rose.

"An' this manner o' provin' meself?"

To his side, Jack could hear Alisa gasp. Apparently something very unorthodox had just occurred—probably to do with how his scroll had just changed from rolled parchment to finely tooled silver. He didn't understand what that meant, however... then blinked when he shifted his weight to his other foot, out of human habit.

There was an odd sort of... resistance, behind him.

Twisting his head to look over his shoulder, Jack gaped at the sight of two white wings, sprouting from his back. He tried to move one. Muscles he had never had clenched, and the wing flexed. Jack turned back to stare at Barachiel, in uncomprehending shock. "Ye did what?"

"The task of starting you in the manner of proving yourself fell to me, as chief of the guardian angels," Barachiel put the silver scroll down on his desk. "Congratulations, Captain Sparrow. You are now, temporarily, a guardian angel."

"Of what?" Sparrow managed to sputter. "And doin' what?"

"An individual whom you wronged very much in the last year or so of your life, Captain Sparrow," Barachiel said, snapping his fingers. Parchment and quill appeared before him, and he wrote something on it. "His last angel had to be reassigned some time back, as we were running short in Cathay. After that, it seemed, mayhem broke loose over his life, most of which to do with you. You're to... guard him. Protect him, answer his prayers, offer guidance. By the end of the unspecified time, if the consortium is satisfied with your performance, you will be accepted into Heaven, instead of the limbo of Purgatory or the torment of the Inferno."

"An' who's this individual?" Jack asked suspiciously.

The whelp. It had to be the whelp, Bootstrap's whelp. William Turner. Jack supposed he could be of help, since he was fairly sure the boy was still bent on some misbegotten attempt to help his father.

Barachiel had settled back in his chair, and he twirled the rose dismissively. "Alisa will show you, and teach you a few basics. You may go."

A smaller scroll appeared in Alisa's hands, which she opened and read, then she pulled Jack out of the office before he could ask any further questions.

Alisa hovered outside, rolling her eyes. "It's easy. You'd know instinctively what to do. And besides, you're already dead, Captain Sparrow. It can't hurt." A pause. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."

"An' that's s'posed t'be reassurin'?" Jack could feel the breeze from up here, tugging at his beaded hair.

"Oh, come on. You have to get on with your new duties, and I have work to do too," Alisa said persuasively, beckoning. "Just flap. And don't look down until you're sure you can handle it."

With a lot of grumbling, and to the background of badly stifled laughter from the angels watching in the waiting room, Jack stepped out into thin air. And plummeted with a yelp. Alisa rolled her eyes, and dived.

"Don't think too hard about it," she advised, keeping in pace with the pirate, who was pinwheeling his hands and flailing his wings.

"M'not s'posed t'think too much 'bout how it's goin' t'hurt when I hit th'ground?" Jack yelled, over the roar of the wind in his ears, holding on tightly to his hat out of pure reflex.

"Okay. Look. Flatten out your wings to either side. You should glide." Alisa demonstrated, banking up into the air.

Exerting all his self-control, Jack forced his brain not to think too much about said previously non-existent muscles. Wings pulled him out of his drop, feathers ruffling as a breeze pulled him up—the moving air oddly pleasant, tingling. Wings wider than the span of his body. Marveling at the miracle, Jack nearly crashed headlong into a spire, clinging on to one of its elaborately carved winged lions with a harsh gasp, wings flaring for balance.

Alisa hovered next to him, poking an arm, her face scrunched up as she obviously fought an overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. Jack pouted. "T'aint funny, luv. An' I don't see why this is so necessary. Can't ye just snap yer fingers an' take me t'this new place?"

"The wings are a symbol of your newfound status, Captain Sparrow," Alisa said, perching on the head of the lion Jack was holding on to. "And in this place, symbols have power. You'd need to master them, in order to move around the way I can, amongst other things. Teleportation. Healing. Stuff like that." A pause. "Little miracles that don't look like divine intervention of any sort. No water into wine miracles, they hate that."

"Any rules I should know of?" Jack asked, as he attempted to pull himself up onto the lion, boots kicking at a stone haunch ineffectively. "An'... a little help here, luv."

Alisa ignored the latter plea for aid. "Well—unless there's an exception, you're not supposed to show yourself to the person you're protecting. You also can't really aid him directly—just put suggestions into his mind, or make sure if he trips he doesn't fall onto sharp rocks, that sort of thing. It really depends—guardians get a lot of discretion. That's really all you need to know."

"So what makes a good... guardian?"

"Someone who only interferes enough to help, but not to make the other person rely on 'luck' as he or she sees it. Who aids in the development of the charge, accepting that he or she must sometimes, out of necessity, be hurt. Ultimately, to ensure that the charge is able to forge his or her happiness." Alisa grinned, her eyes far away for a moment. "I was a guardian angel, once."

"Then?"

"I got promoted," she shrugged one shoulder. "They only rank higher than cherubs." She reached down, and tickled Jack's sides.

Jack yelped, and lost his grip. Thankfully, this time he remembered how to glide, before he hit the sharp-looking tip of another spiral. Alisa drew level with him, laughing, and then took herself higher with a little flip of a wing.

"To one of the exits to Heaven," Alisa replied, running her eyes over the patterns of streets, headed apparently to a set of five pillars in the distance, set as the points of a star. "It'd take you to the person you're supposed to guard. Then you can, well, start with the guardianship. Now that you can fly I'm sure everything else will come naturally to you—it tends to."

Jack risked a glance downwards. On evenly paved streets men and women in differing types of clothing walked leisurely, occasionally conversing with each other or with passing angels. There were none of the usual signs of an actual human city—no refuse, no commerce. The buildings appeared mostly to have no entrances from the ground level, especially the spirals—archways were set high above the ground. "No housin'?"

"What do souls need of rest?" Alisa asked, with a faint grin.

"Then what do they do all day?"

"Contemplate the eternal wonder of the Lord. Socialize with other souls. Enjoy the music of infinity. At least, that's what the souls who are sent to the City itself are content to do," Alisa waved at a passing angel, who nodded and winked at her. "Some others who envisage more unorthodox Heavens are elsewhere. The nature of Heaven, after all, is to reward."

"Ah. I was getting a wee bit worried, there." Jack looked over to his right, where at the center of the silver city was a massive palace, its domed tip higher than all the spirals, gleaming in the sun—gold, precious gems, mother-of-pearl. "An' God is there?"

"God is everywhere, Captain Sparrow," Alisa said absently. "But that is where the throne of Heaven is—or at least, its manifestation. It too, technically, is everywhere."

Jack was reminded of exactly why he hadn't gone to many church services at all (save the impersonation bit). Religion tended to spiral in on itself, and hurt his brain with circular logic. Wisely, however, he kept his opinions to himself, as they landed with varying degrees of grace on the top of one of the towers. Painted onto the flat, circular ground was a mandala of mind-numbing complexity—circles, patterns, symbols and flowing script that Jack could not read.

"Good luck," Alisa said, careful, Jack saw, to stand on the edge of the tower. "I wish you well, and I hope we meet again. Remember, you're supposed to be invisible. Just think 'invisible'. Easy."

"Wait... so, m'just s'posed t'guard Will Turner? That's all I'd be... judged on?"

Alisa frowned a little, just as the mandala began to glow disturbingly, the black paint turning silver, the circles beginning to revolve. "Will Turner? Who?"

Smudged paintings.

He began to develop a horrible suspicion in his gut.

Muttering to himself about a poor divine sense of humor, he peered more closely at said correspondence, and then moved the sword case, picking up the first dispatch. And hastily put it back down as the door opened, scrambling for the balcony.

Think 'invisible'. Right.

Commodore James Norrington walked into the room, shouldering off his brocade coat and dumping it on the rack, followed by his hat. The man looked bone-weary as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, head tilted back, taking deep, slow breaths. Fists clenched at his side, then uncurled, and he stalked over to the desk, slumping in the chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. And stilled, frowning.

Jack grimaced. He'd forgotten to replace the sword case on the papers.

Norrington picked up the case, then glanced at the papers. The case was placed back on the desk, soundlessly, and Norrington drew his pistol, looking around himself sharply. Jack pressed himself against the rail, ignoring the uncomfortable pull on feathers, even as the other man stepped out into the balcony. Glances upwards, then over the rail.

Jack let out the breath he had been holding in (habits, it seemed, died hard), and relaxed. Passed a ringed hand in front of Norrington's frowning face. Grinned wickedly when there was no response. "Well, I'd be."

Norrington stalked back to his desk, walking around it, then headed to the door, speaking sharply to the guard outside. "Was anybody in my office?"

"Uh... no sir." Puzzled. "We've been here all this while since you left for the meeting, sir."

Jack sidled over to the desk, and put the case back exactly where it had been on the papers, with a mischievous smirk.

"Hm." Norrington closed the door again, and made as though to walk to his desk—and inhaled sharply with a start at the sight of everything back exactly as he had left it before Jack had happened along. The man glanced out suspiciously at the balcony again, then, to Jack's considerable amusement, looked under the desk. Another little frown, then a muttered, "I've been working too hard."

Jack watched the man start sifting through the dispatches for a moment, and was instantly bored. What in the world was Heaven thinking, making him the guardian angel of Commodore bloody Norrington? The man likely led an incredibly boring life, normally, when not out chasing pirates or pretending to be one. Though his fortunes seemed to have improved from the last time James had seen the thieving Commodore... reinstated and pardoned, eh? Considering he had been the one to indirectly cause Jack's death with the theft of the heart, the pirate didn't particularly feel very charitable towards the man at the moment, let alone any manner of protective.

Perhaps that was the test, though. To see if he could be selfless, to a man who owed him—though Jack conceded Barachiel's point. Norrington's life had indeed taken a turn for the worse ever since they met in Port Royal harbor. To be fair, so had Jack's, but, well, he was fairly winning to cede the issue in face of the matter of his afterlife. To a point. After he'd had a bit of fun.

He waited, wings furling, until Norrington absently moved the quill up to the inkbottle to dip it in, and then flicked it over. Black ink spilled instantly over all the paperwork, and Norrington cursed a foul string of oaths that would have done a denizen of Tortuga proud, as he yanked the papers away and attempted to undo the incipient damage to his desk and the dispatches.

Jack laughed so hard that he had to sit down. Perhaps guardianship of a Commodore wasn't so bad after all.

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