Marooned, 15
In Which Jack Listens to the Rain
by
Gloria Mundi
See Chapter 1 for full headers
Originally Posted: 1/16/06
The rain came at dawn, and the din of it—not to mention the sensation of warm water dripping onto his face—woke Jack Sparrow. For a moment he lay there dumbly, recreating the previous day from the various aches in his body. He'd hauled a monster's corpse for miles: washed off the worst of the sand, sweat and blood from himself in the sea: sung to the absent mermaids, as a sort of apology: staggered back here and feasted on a lavish array of dried fish, fresh seaweed, coconut milk and coconut: and fallen into a sleep that had, mercifully, been dreamless.
His leg ached.
All in all, a typical morning on the Isle with No Name. But the rain was bucketing busily down outside—and, to a lesser extent, inside—his little hut, and the palm-leaves would need replacing, and he'd better set out every shell, sea- and coconut-, to catch the water, and—
Fresh water.
Jack sprang naked from his bed and pushed aside the vine-curtain that kept the insects away. The sky was grey and heavy, and the clouds seemed close enough to touch. The rain came down diagonally in wide silver bars, and Jack cavorted merrily in it for a while, face upturned to drink the rain as it fell, feeling his parched skin soak it up and turn from dry leather to supple silk once more.
'Twasn't natural to be so dessicated, not in the middle of the deep blue sea.
Oh, the rain felt like a lover's caress. Jack closed his eyes and pretended that the storm was touching him with intent, teasing and sliding and ticking wherever it could reach: torrents of dark water clinging to his nipples and navel, drumming like gentle fingers on his collarbone, his belly, his cock. He laughed aloud when he felt himself hardening; a shame, because he'd caught himself out and spoilt the mood, but it just went to show it was all in the mind.
He cupped his fingers and drank the water that pooled in his palm, and grinned again at the sensation of his own warm tongue against his skin.
Maybe if it rained enough, the island would slip its moorings and float away into the ocean. Maybe the winds that had brought the rainclouds this way would bring flotsam and jetsam too, the makings of a boat. Sure, a ship was freedom; but it was a practical thing too, a bridge from here to the places where other people lived. A bridge to carry him beyond the horizon; a horizon which (Jack spun to a halt, swallowing hard against nausea, and cocked his hand above his eyes to keep off the rain) had crept much closer in the grey morning.
He'd given up counting the days of his exile long ago. For one thing, he had no idea of how long he'd been out of his mind with fever and pain. But now Jack was suddenly sure of how long he'd been alone in this trap.
Too long.
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