Jack and Barbossa, set during CotBP.
The trickster is gone; without need of moonlight the Fool transforms into Death, and his eyes, murder-black, are unforgiving.
He remembers, then, the scowling figure on the beach, smudging into the horizon as they sailed away with the boy-king’s prize. For ten long years that murderous glare has haunted him, burning colder than the grave.
“This shot is for you,” Jack promised, arms sweeping into a swan dive. “You’re already dead, Barbossa.”
An inch, either way, would have made him a liar. But the wound leaks heart’s blood into his shirt and the sweet scent of apples is already fading.