Guardian Angel 9

Mocking Heaven

by

Manic Intent

A rather dirty Elizabeth Swann, hair shorn short just above the shoulders, was tearfully and incoherently embracing her father. William Turner was beaming at the side, though something in his eyes and Elizabeth's poise suggested at exhaustion on the verge of physical collapse. Both were dressed in very disreputable, assorted buccaneer clothes that Jack didn't recognize, crusted with salt and sand—William's were a little too small, Elizabeth's a little too large. One yellowing sleeve on William's arm was torn up to the elbow, and there was an ugly, just-healing scar next to his elbow. Elizabeth's hands were no longer pretty and ladylike—a working woman's hands now, callused and cracked from where they were buried in her father's brocade clothing. William glanced up at them when they entered the room, his eyes widening slightly, and then he looked away quickly.

Jack looked within himself and, at this moment, only felt overwhelming relief. Bootstrap's whelp and Elizabeth were well, if rather painfully thin and perhaps changed beyond polite society's ability to reaccept completely. With both here, Governor Swann, at least, was free from Beckett. The guests were being ushered out pointedly, with apologies from the butler—Norrington turned to go, then found that William had sidled up alongside and was poking him in the arm.

"East parlor."

Norrington arched an eyebrow, then nodded slightly. He turned right at the foyer instead of exiting with the guests, murmuring something about having left an item behind. Jack sauntered after him, wondering what William really wanted to say to the Commodore. Nothing violent, he hoped, especially if it had anything to do with the heart disappearing. Good lad, but sometimes leaned far too much towards heavy-handed means. Jack remembered, wincing, sharp knocks on the head in treasure caves. And people wondered why he seemed odd, with such strange friends.

Eventually William entered the room, closing it behind him. He glanced at Norrington again, then, to Jack's considerable shock, looked directly at the pirate—and grinned. "No halo, Jack?"

Norrington whirled, frowning at what was to him thin air, then stared back at William. "You can... you can see him?" Incredulous—and a little jealous, Jack noted.

"Don't tell me ye have cat blood somewhere in yer family tree, Will," Jack said slowly, "'Cos, y'know, that'd be very sick."

A blank look, then a little frown. "What are you talking about?"

"Yer ability t'see me, mate," Jack gestured impatiently at a wing. "How?"

"Oh. That." William reached into a pocket, frowned, then reached into the other. "Ah, here it is." Fingers tanned brown from too long in the sun pulled out a walnut-sized, brilliant orange gem, at its heart a perfect black circle. Jack felt oddly uncomfortable, simply looking at it—like a tingle down his spine, goosebumps over his arms. And he was suddenly, inexplicably sore from last night—something which up till now he had been grateful to his current immortality for sparing him.

"Very useful little thing. Gave me a bit of a shock, also, the first time I got it. Seeing Saad here." He pointed to his right, over at nothing (or a grandfather clock, actually, but that likely wasn't it).

"It's a Hell's Emerald," Jack frowned, racking his brain and coming up with a reference. "I've seen one belonging t'Tia. But it sure as hell didn't let ye see angels. Only ghosts. An' usually they be far smaller than that."

"This one's special." William said, rather unnecessarily. "We had to find World's End to get it."

Jack blinked. "How'd ye get it off th'Cap'n? Wait. Ye went off t'find World's End all by yerself? Ye an' 'Lizabeth? An' did so?"

"What are the both of you talking about?" Norrington asked at the same time, irritably, left out of half the conversation. Apologetically, Jack pitched his voice to be audible to Norrington.

"World's End, Commodore, be a pirate ship 'bout th'same type as th'Flyin' Dutchman. Crewed by immortal scallywags, an' th'Cap'n be some sort o'... evil psychopath. Differin' accounts. Usually they hang 'bout th'edges o' th'Pacific, harryin' ships." A pause. "Can't remember what his story is, actually, an' in any case, Tia probably be better placed tellin' it. Probably somethin' melodramatic, like Davy Jones'."

William handed Norrington the gem when the Commodore held out his palm. The taller man looked around, blinked, then tentatively put a hand on Jack's shoulder. There was a sharp, painful jolt, and Jack flinched away. "Ow!"

"Uh. Forgot. You shouldn't touch guardian-class angels when holding that," William said apologetically. "It sort of... repels them. Painfully."

Norrington was looking over the whelp's shoulder, with a frown. "That's yours? Saad?" Tilted his head, then smiled wryly, and dipped his chin. "My apologies. Pleased to meet you."

"Don't mind him, he's been firmly trying to believe he's still invisible, ever since we got this," William plucked the gem back from Norrington's grip. "I mean, even when Elizabeth offered to hug him in thanks for services rendered, keeping me safe from Kraken and whatnot."

"How'd ye know where t'go? What t'find?" Jack asked suspiciously. He knew no one else still alive who had gone with him once on a wild dare to find the World's End.

"It's a little complicated," William said apologetically, "Tia sort of summoned Barbossa's spirit. He's not actually alive, but he can be quite um, solid, and he tends to keep materializing apples to eat."

"She did...?"

"Uh, and then she came with us to look for World's End. Purchased a ship in Tortuga. Long, long cruise towards the Pacific. Didn't go all the way there though, we met it somewhere around after Rio de Janeiro." William's eyes were unfocused as he counted unlikely events off grimy fingers. The unsure, naive edge to the blacksmith was gone now, its last evidence in his speech—months of travel on the sea had likely drowned it, in sun-worn hardship.

"Yer tellin' a story wi' huge gaps in between it, mate," Jack said wearily, walking over to an armchair and leaning against the plush back.

"Okay. I'd start again," William took a deep breath. "After you went down with your Pearl—Elizabeth is really sorry, by the way, so I hope you can forgive her—we went off to Tia Dalma, under Gibbs' influence. She said that to help you, we had to sail to the 'ends of the earth', to World's End. And then she introduced Barbossa, who on closer inspection wasn't really alive, but he didn't seem to mind much."

"We get down to Tortuga, and buy a ship, stock up, then start heading off towards the Pacific, which was where Barbossa said he last saw World's End—somewhere off the coast of San Diego, apparently. Tia decides to go, and besides, we needed a few more hands—with her attendants—and someone to negotiate properly, she said."

"Apparently, the Captain of the World's End has a... Hell's Emerald of a curious make. The least of its abilities is to allow a mortal owner to see angels, and touch them." Quietly. "Even hurt them. But that's not why we went to fetch it, of course. The Host has been after this particular emerald for a while, so Tia was thinking maybe we could trade it to them. For returning you back to life, or something. Since you didn't seem to be in Hell or Purgatory. That surprised her, by the way, that you could have gotten into Heaven," Another boyish grin. "Unless you like being an angel. Feathers. And... it looks like you're actually clean. You know, this probably suits you better." William grinned when Jack glared at him. "Anyway. That's because we thought you were dead, see. Just dead, that is."

"Then about a couple months into the trip Tia cuts open some unsuspecting seagull on the deck—really disgusting, by the way—and says you're back on Earth. As a Guardian Angel. After she was done scolding everybody for laughing themselves sick, she said well, since we were all the way here already we might as well continue with the original plan. Get the emerald, head back to Port Royal and give you the choice of whether or not you really want to go back to being human." William opened his arms wide. "And after that, then I'd start on the whole business of the heart and my father." A glance at Norrington. "I suppose you traded it to Beckett."

"He doesn't have it anymore," Norrington said absently, struggling, like Jack, to absorb the information. "It's with the Earl of Southsend."

"Well, blast," William said with a deep sigh. "Jack, this is all your fault. If we didn't have to... " A pause. "Oh. I guess you could always steal it for us. Being, you know..." He clasped both hands before him, as though in prayer.

"Ye still have t'tell me how ye got it off th'Cap'n, mate," Jack ignored the suggestion as well as the illogical accusation.

"Well, er, we borrowed it."

"Borrowed it, as in, in the sense that Sparrow borrows something?" Norrington asked slowly. Surnames again. "Or in the sense of, having the consent of the owner?" Obviously worried over the wrath of supernatural pirates and further raids on Port Royal.

"Consent. In a sense. No, really," William protested, when Norrington and Jack both raised an eyebrow. "We found the ship, told them what we wanted it for, and they let us have it. Tia negotiated, though. In private, with the Captain, so we're not really sure what happened."

"Where's Tia now?"

"Back at her island, with Barbossa and the monkey," William shrugged. "She has a note for you." He reached in his coat, and took out a heavy envelope, handing it quickly to Jack. "To be opened in private. I don't know what it is, but sometimes it moves."

Jack pocketed the envelope gingerly. "An' where's World's End now?"

"The Captain was nice enough to take us back. It's currently anchored in a cove near Port Royal."

"...What?"

That gave Jack some time to disappear up onto the roof, away from hissing ship's cats, and open the envelope. Perhaps if he got over whatever Tia wanted to tell him so urgently that she'd use this personalized scrying spell, he'd go check on Commodores who could hopefully take care of themselves for an hour. Grimaced, as something black, cold, flat and spidery crawled out of it and onto his palm. The circular body pressed into his skin, and ten long legs formed perfect concentric patterns. A prickling burn, and the... thing was merely marks on his palm—like an exotic tattoo, that in Jack's experience would begin to fade after an hour or so.

He held up the hand before his face, and looked through the black circle—and into Tia's cottage. The table was cleared of its usual clutter, instead holding four guttering candles, set at the points of a circular pattern that matched the one on his palm. "Wanted t'speak t'me, luv?"

Tia was lounging in her chair—she smiled slowly, dark eyes looking straight at him. "Jack. How's bein' an angel doing for you?" (Ain-Ghel).

"Not bad," Jack said, adding playfully, "Didn't know ye cared, luv."

"I knew youse get yourself killed someday, Jack," Tia shook her head pityingly, dreadlocks shifting, her oddly cadenced voice wry, "Just dinna think it'd be to somethin' so troublesome."

"I'm wonderin' now, luv, how ye managed t'get Cap'n Brand t'give up somethin' o' his," Jack commented mildly. "An' such an interestin' little trinket, at that."

"The Cap'n o' the World's End is not Cap'n Brand, no more than your pistol be th'Cap'n o' your Pearl," Tia corrected. "He be a tool. The real Cap'n be one Matsumono Ichiro." A grin, alien syllables fielded with some difficulty. "He be what ye call a rogue angel. Used t'be Brand's Guardian. I owed him a favor, long time, now I be payin' him back."

"But you took the emerald."

"The debt be far less than the repayment otherwise," Tia flapped a hand impatiently. "An' we be borrowin' it only. Supposedly."

Jack was beginning to develop a deep suspicion. "Wait. Does this have anythin' t'do wi' Miyako?"

"Youse be knowin' any other people wi' such strange names now?" Tia asked, with an arched eyebrow.

"What does it have t'do wi' Miyako?" Jack asked skeptically.

"Usual things. A little like Davy Jones," Tia said with some measure of disdain. "Men be no different, be they white or color, love be their worst undoin'. Miyako be the daughter of a Lord, an' Ichiro be one o' his knights. Samurai, I think he say it was called. Sure youse can guess what happened. She be promised t'another, they live apart, promisin' t'meet in the afterlife. Except that they both became guardian angels, dedicated to different charges an' all across the world. Round his second charge he be losin' patience, an' takes control. Turns the charge into a puppet an' goes around lookin' for her."

"Let me guess. She was deeply unimpressed by his actions an' dumped him," Jack drawled. "Mebbe violently, wi' a lot o' slappin'. Seems th'sort."

"An' then, bein' a hot-tempered sort, he be getting his charge to kill hers," Tia nodded. Jack groaned. "After that he was cast out o' Heaven, an' he's been captainin' the World's End ever since."

Jack groaned again, and lay down on the roof, keeping the hand before his eye, folding wings carefully to either side. He was just, just beginning to feel stressed. Why couldn't the whelps have had the decency to reappear in Port Royal in, say, a month's time, when everything else had settled down about the Lady Katherine Issue? Not to mention the soiree, and all the other female guests? Now he had to handle all the pesky little questions, to live or not to live, scheming women, Lord Beckett, as well as an additional potential issue about Miyako. "Don't tell me ye told him she's here."

"Information trades better than gold, for gems," Tia shrugged fluidly. Her smile was full of mischief. "Ye don't really need t'be worryin' 'bout it. 'Tis their problem. An' wi' Bootstrap's whelp havin' the emerald, he can't be hurtin' her."

"It's me problem if he ends up killin' Governor Swann," Jack moaned. "William might use that gewgaw an' zap me!"

"Dat be yer ego speakin', Jack," Tia chuckled. "Nothin' t'do wi' ye, how he be comin' about knowin' where Miyako is."

"Yer way too pleased wi' yerself, luv," Jack growled, now worried. "What did ye do t'Barbossa?"

"He's here an' there," Tia said, purposefully and irritatingly vague. "Took the bought ship. Off to the Indies, I think, t'have some fun until he's summoned back t'the realm of the dead. Oh. An' ye be best goin' t'steal that heart back for Bootstrap's whelp. An' maybe ye could even use it t'get back your Pearl."

"An' how am I s'posed t'do that, without suspicion fallin' on Norrington?" Jack drawled. He supposed other than Norrington, Beckett also knew where the heart now was... but he felt the strong urge to be... difficult. Especially given how conveniently everything appeared to be sliding slowly into place, at the moment.

"Tia be sure youse can come up with something," she smirked. "'Sides, youse already dead, nothin' t'lose, 'ey?"

Jack sighed. "Thanks, anyway. Tia. I'd be thinkin' 'bout it. What t'choose."

"Aye. Youse think careful now," The voodoo witch smirked. "Don't you come cryin' to Tia if you make a mess o' this."

"What did Beckett say?" he asked finally, to break the silence.

Norrington glanced up briefly. "He gave me a folded piece of paper with several names written on it. I'm to give it to the twins—apparently they'd understand." Irritably. "I'm not really sure I wish to know why. Some of the names are highly ranked in Naval command."

"Pretty obvious t'me, luv."

"I said I don't want to know."

"Awlright. Ignorance an' bliss, eh?"

Norrington muttered under his breath. Funny how he wanted to keep his little illusions in the face of very strong circumstantial evidence. Of corruption in the ranks, and how a Lord of the EIC out of Madras ha managed to cobble together influence and evidence to forge a rather odd warrant for the arrest of the Commodore of Jamaica who had really not done wrong enough to deserve it. Worse decisions had been made before by command, Jack knew (had personal experience, being the excuse for many of them) that had not gone punished.

The guarantee—disclosed puppets at the ends of strings. The twins could set a watch on the names, block any further attempts to ruin Norrington's career through them. Beckett probably thought it a safe bet. After all, that book could very easily ruin the twins' careers—possibly hang them both, if it had far too much detail over certain 'accidental' deaths. Not for the first time, Jack wondered, with some irritation, what they were both playing at now.

"I don't understand it," Norrington said finally, showing that he was likely following the same train of thought as Jack. "Why give up the book so easily?"

"Mebbe it's a blank book," Jack suggested. "An' it's all a trick."

"I doubt Beckett's sources would be that inaccurate, somehow."

"An' ye think th'twins would be goin' about showin' that sort o' book to just anyone? Sure it has t'be second hand information. Th'very least. Wouldn't put it beyond those two t'circulate about th'existence o' a book that could be their downfall, just t'check on who might be interested in such a book. Scope out th'enemy, savvy."

"But if that was so, then they wouldn't give up the book so easily. If they want to go along with the... pretense that it is of such value," Norrington said mildly. "Beckett should know that. So the book must be... something. But probably not what it's said to be. That's why he's willing to give that guarantee. Curiosity."

"They're probably doin' this fer ye too. Gain yer trust."

"I admit to being better disposed to them for willing to do so," Norrington confessed, locking his hands behind his back, looking up at the clouds slowly crawling over the half-moon. "But I wouldn't be surprised if they are every bit as ruthless as Beckett described."

"Don't buy pet lions," Jack repeated, then snorted. "That's really just askin' fer it, though. Buyin' those sorts o' pets. Can't th'man just be contented wi' a normal cat? Deserved t'be fed to it, in me opinion."

"That's a very odd way of looking at criminal responsibility," Norrington observed, though the edge of his lip quirked up briefly. A smirk, but an affectionate glance upwards. "Though I suppose I really should expect a skewed ideas of responsibility, from you."

Steps from the road made Jack bite back his retort. William was huffing up the slope, slightly out of breath, and instantly tumbled into an apology over his lateness. Something about Elizabeth, and pudding for supper.

"Jack... an angel..." Gibbs managed, stuttering, then burst again into howls of laughter. "Good Lord! An' I was thinkin' that the lady be pullin' our legs!"

Jack glanced at William, who was failing to hide his snigger. Cotton was grinning, and the parrot darted bright-eyed glances at Jack. Even Norrington lips were twitching. He pouted. "Et tu?"

"You'd have to admit it's rather... um, rather, well..." William snickered, reached over, and poked a wing. Jack snapped both appendages shut behind his back, glaring at him. Marty was gasping on the ground, on his side, his small body warring between the urge to laugh some more or breathe. Gibbs had to sit down, hiccupping.

Finally, with a whiskery grin, "Sorry 'bout that, Cap'n." He crossed himself. Marty, who had just managed to calm down, burst into howls of laughter again, as did William. Jack exhaled irritably.

They were aboard the World's End, which was an elaborately modified galleon painted in what Jack felt was terribly garish dark red and gold. Large eyes painted on the hull, the sleek ship painted elaborately to resemble a carp. The ship was anchored just offshore, and was suspiciously empty of supernatural pirates—in fact, any pirates at all, except for members of his (former) crew. "Where's th'Cap'n o' this ship?" he asked sharply, cutting through the latest bout of laughter.

Gibbs sobered instantly, looking around them. "Round here, I bet."

Jack glanced at William, who shook his head. Gibbs frowned, then shrugged. "The crew be ghosts, Jack. They appear only when th'ship has need to set sail. Only th'Cap'n's puppet be human—mostly human, an' he keeps t'his cabin. They'd be droppin' me an' Marty off at Tortuga. No sense in hangin' around, beggin' th'pun, Commodore."

Norrington nodded. "Tortuga?"

"Aye. I be hearin' that Anamaria's comin' back from North Carolina, an' she need crew for her Dawn Huntress." Gibbs looked steadily at Jack as he said this, his voice apologetic. "Sorry, Cap'n. But we need... employment, bein' still, well..." An embarrassed cough. "We tried, though. T'do ye one last good turn, 'fore we left. Don't know if it be doin' ye any real good, th'gem. But well..." Another cough, "At least I'd be able t'tell Anamaria ye got one foot in Heaven, aye?"

Jack decided not to tell Gibbs anything about the whole business of the mistake and the deal with Heaven, instead nodding, with a shrug and an outrageous grin, and told Gibbs what the man wanted to hear with a drawl and an elaborate flutter of his right hand. "Hell can't keep Captain Jack Sparrow, mate. Ye be givin' Anamaria me best wishes, now."

"'Tis a good ship ye picked out fer her when she wanted t'go her way," Gibbs pointed out. "Sure she be knowin' that already." The large man looked down at his fingers, briefly. "'Course, uh, we'd be waitin' a week or so in Tortuga, or until Anamaria shows up, whichever be longer. See how things turn out wi' ye. If ye be getting, well, uh, getting alive again, an' need a crew, our first loyalties always be t'ye."

Marty and Cotton nodded.

"So... when're ye leavin'?" Jack asked solemnly.

"Whenever th'Cap'n be of th'mind to," Gibbs shrugged. "He said somethin' 'bout havin' t'meet a lady."

Jack had a sudden icy moment of dread. "An' ye be sure that he's at his cabin?"

The sharp sound of a palm smacking into a cheek caused Jack to flinch automatically and flail hands forward to protect his face. No pain, though—he peeked. Miyako was tensed, her petite frame coiled, one hand coming up from the downward curve. Another angel stood before her, hands curled into fists, face snapped to a side. A wild mane of black hair that writhed down half his back, chiseled, handsome face ruined by knowing eyes that had seen far too much of damnation. A long, curved sword at his hip, and a shorter one, both with elaborate, long hilts and black-enamel scabbards, held in place by a white sash over oddly designed layered black robes with billowing sleeves. Very odd two-toed white socks, sandals. Lips that could once have been capable of gentle smiles instead curved into a habitual sneer as Jack was noticed. "Captain Jack Sparrow, I presume."

Miyako transferred her glare briefly to Jack, who found himself backing away up against the tree and fluttering his fingers in the face of feminine wrath. Hell hath no fury, and all that. "S'pose yer Cap'n Ichiro."

"Matsumono," Ichiro corrected. "Is my family name. The witch woman didn't know better."

"And the first Matsumono to disgrace it so utterly," Miyako said icily. "Leave!"

"I haven't concluded my business," Ichiro said blandly, and glanced over at the Swann mansion eloquently. "Same terms, Miyako-sama. Old times."

Jack flinched again, as the next slap snapped Ichiro's head to the other side. He smiled though, wryly, as he looked back to her.

"You dare," she spat. "You dare mock Heaven again?"

Ichiro shrugged. "Heaven mocks us both, Miyako-sama. We worked so hard to avoid happiness when we were alive, and it is denied us both in death. Heaven also seems slow to mete out justice." A curt gesture at himself. "For I have gone unpunished. Can you say then that Heaven is just? Yet it shows such caprice. Think you nothing odd that Captain Sparrow is dressed as he was in death?"

Miyako glanced thoughtfully at Jack, then her eyes narrowed as she looked up at the still-lighted rooms of the Swann residence. "I care not. Jack may have his faults, but he has a good heart. I do not believe he will fail. I feel he deserves Heaven."

"I find it a travesty, Miyako-sama, that we were treated so, yet this man who has not led an honorable life has been given a second chance in the afterlife, to do with as he sees fit." Fingers idly played with the hilt of the longer sword.

"Aye, well, mebbe if ye asked them nicely," Jack swayed as he leaned forward and grinned, fingers gesturing with no particular meaning. "P'haps they'd warm t'ye too, aye? Could be they really thought this was what ye wanted, savvy?"

Ichiro's response was a mockery of a pleasant smile—he shifted almost imperceptibly—right foot ahead of the other, one hand curled in the air above the hilt of the longer sword. "When I draw my blade, Captain Sparrow, either my opponent or myself must be destroyed."

"M'surprised ye can say that sort o' thing out loud an' keep a straight face, mate."

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