The night before his hanging, Jack Sparrow does not sleep.
Every moment seems to slip off a silver chain of time like a precious gem—each heartbeat, each breath of foetid air. Oh God, each faintest scent of salt sea and limitless horizon. Even when the dream comes he is not sure he is sleeping.

She glides towards him through tossing seas, her torn black skirts swept by the wind, her hair undone, whipping across her face. Her mother of pearl eyes glow through the black strands like stars caught in the lace of rigging. For one caught breath, he has never seen anything so beautiful.

But then the waves crash around her as though to drag her under. In the pale moonlight, he sees her eyes are empty. The bird she has cradled in her hand, safe for all these years, is limp in her palm, its wings falling, its neck twisted, broken. Blood drips between her fingers and spirals slowly down her forearm.

Her arms are outstretched, reaching towards him, and he stumbles, sinking, to grasp her hands. But he cannot quite touch her.

The clatter of boots and the jangle of keys, the cold voices do not wake him. They merely interrupt his sight.

Jack only knows that she is gone. He has failed to save her; and she cannot save him.

~.~