A Flight of Fancy

I just want to mention three authors whose work inspired me to write my own Pirates fic: Firesignwriter, CinnamonGrrl who also beta'ed this for me most helpfully, and Khylaren.

Chapter 1: Hold fire


Commodore James Norrington was standing on the poop deck of the HMS Dauntless, surveying the work of the sailors all over the ship. Blue vests were busying themselves with the sails or with cleaning, while red coats were polishing their weapons. A measure of apprehension swelled in the commodore's chest. A few leagues ahead of them was the Contester, captained by Ted. Captain Theodore Sinclair Groves. Norrington had long hesitated over whether he should hand over the captainship of the new ship to his first or second lieutenant – Gillette or Groves. But while Gillette was a steady officer, Norrington had his doubts as to his judgement capacities. Ted had proved more reasonable and his loyalty to his superior was unquestionable. James and he knew each other since their childhood; while their friendship itself had held no weight in his decision, it did allow the commodore to know Ted well enough to trust him with this ship.

The Contester was not unlike the late Interceptor. She was much swifter than the Dauntless, but with less fire power, too, a lively sloop-of-war. Groves had been captaining her for a few weeks now. A few more weeks than the Interceptor had been lost; a few more weeks than Sparrow had escaped from under their very noses. A few more weeks than Norrington had let him escape.

His decision still troubled the commodore.

It troubled him all the more now that they were giving chase to the Black Pearl. The ship of legends, holed sails or not, not captained by the damned anymore but by, much worse, a trickster figure that Norrington could not bring himself to look forward to seeing hanged. No, he would get no pleasure from seeing Sparrow's feet dangling for their last dance, merely the satisfying sense of accomplished duty at last.

The winds were with them. Maybe twenty more minutes and they would catch up with the Pearl, less so for the Contester, which Norrington would never have sent alone against Sparrow's ship. Groves had her well in hand; he was a fine choice of a captain indeed. The Contester sailed out of sight behind the curve of an island. The Dauntless was sailing quite nicely herself, with her usual stubborn imperturbability. She might not be as swift as others, but she was reliable and powerful. She eerily reminded Norrington of his father sometimes. She was not quick to anger, but her wrath was mighty once awakened. All men were tending to her eighty cannons now. If Sparrow had any sense left, which Norrington doubted, he would surrender immediately.

"Commodore. Look at this."

Norrington took the spyglass Gillette was offering. They had just rounded the isle, hardly more than a patch of land. What Norrington was expecting to see was the Contester coming up on the Pearl. What he saw was a sloop coming up on the Contester, and the Pearl sailing back towards them, without striking any colours. Them not being the Contester and the unidentified sloop, but the Dauntless. The Pearl was heading straight for them!

Forcing himself to direct the spyglass away from the black-sailed ship to set it to the study of the sloop, Norrington tensed when he recognised the flag. The red skeleton was well-known in these parts. The Fortune had not set sails in these waters for a few months, but it appeared that she was back... and Norrington doubted that Edward Low would have forgotten him. In any case, his colours were clear: no quarter.

Captain Edward Low – giving him such a title always grated on Norrington's nerves – had a reputation almost worse than Barbossa's had been, probably due to its anchor in reality. Barbossa had been the stuff of legends, the Black Pearl a myth. Low and his Fortune were all too real for any officer, no matter their nationality. Tales of prisoners forced to eat the ear or heart of other captives had assured their reputation. The commodore himself had known one of the pirate's victims.

And despite all the faith Norrington put in Ted and in the Contester, he was not sure they would make it out of a stand-off between the two ships.

And then, there was the small matter of the Pearl heading straight for the Dauntless.

Everyone was already at their post, ready for battle. All six hundred and some hands on board knew what their places were. It was a well-oiled routine. The Pearl did not stand a chance in a confrontation against the Dauntless; Norrington knew Sparrow better than to think him stupid. He had done that mistake one time too many, and it had cost him the Interceptor.

"Hold fire."

"Sir?"

"I said hold fire, Mr Gillette," Norrington curtly repeated. "And heave to alongside the Black Pearl."

This was why Groves had got captainship of the Contester. He would not have questioned such an order; he would have seen the reasons behind it. And this was why Ted was now facing off with Edward Low, risking his body parts to be eaten by his crew members.

The Pearl and the Dauntless hove to side by side. Norrington was still amazed by the black-sailed ship herself, a hybrid the likes of which he had never seen elsewhere. She could have been a barque, she could have been a galleon, she was neither. Sparrow's figure was unmistakable on her quarter deck as the pirate performed an exaggerated curtsey with complicated flourishes of his hat. As if on cue, the first cannon blasts were heard over the sea, and clouds of powder rose from the two confronting ships.

"Many thanks, Commodore, for holdin' fire on us," the pirate hailed from the quarter deck, making himself heard across without seeming to unbecomingly yell, a feat which Norrington would have applauded if he had not been quite capable of the exact same thing. "I always figured ye for a man of some intelligence."

"How do you deem my patience?" Norrington replied sternly, hands linked behind his back, trying to ignore the sounds of the battle so close at hand, and yet so far away. The Pearl stood in their way.

Sparrow flashed his surprisingly white teeth at him in a humorous smile. "You mighta noticed your little friend here be in a right predicament. I believe you'll be needin' me help if you want them men o' yours to make it through."

Norrington gritted his teeth together. He absolutely, positively hated Jack Sparrow, in this very instant more than usual. The pirate had the detestable habit of having ulterior motives that one could never exactly guess at, but always expect to turn to his advantage without fear of being wrong. Norrington's attention was momentarily caught by the grim faces looking at him from the Pearl, visages twisted in different degrees of hate and contempt. Some of the lined faces looked as if they could have been sailors of his own fleet. He thought he actually recognised the squarish man standing beside Sparrow, but dismissed it as a flight of fancy. His gaze settled back on the captain of the Pearl, the only face he could see that remained nonchalant, almost... carefree.

"And what would make you think that?" Norrington's eyes flickered towards the Contester. She was a fiery one. She would give Low a run for his money, at least enough of a run for the Dauntless to come to the rescue. It would, of course, mean letting Sparrow escape, but there was no doubt in the Commodore's mind that Low needed hanging much more than the captain of the Pearl. "I am well capable of bringing aid to my men."

Another disconcerting smile. No pirate should have teeth that white, despite those few gold teeth; it added to the enigma that was Jack Sparrow, and Norrington disliked enigmas intensely. "Not if I decide to stand in your way."

The statement was offered with such nonchalance that it took a few seconds for its meaning to sink in. But of course. He was a pirate; what else could be expected of him? Norrington reigned in his fury, eyes flickering towards the Contester again. The Pearl would not come out victorious of a battle against the Dauntless, but she would surely delay them long enough to give Low the time to go about his business with the Contester. "You are a despicable man, Sparrow."

"Captain, if you would."

Norrington forced a tight smile on his lips. "Captain Sparrow." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, the foretaste of the compromise he was considering. Life had been simple before Sparrow waltzed in. "I have little time to lose, be quick about it."

"I'd say you have time enough to lose, Commodore," came the drawled answer. Even from the distance, Norrington could not but notice the challenge in Sparrow's posture, dancing in his eyes. Or then again, it very well could be another flight of fancy. "Seein' as how the alternative is to fight me Pearl and let your men fend for themselves."

Anger flared to a previously-unreached level within Norrington's chest, suffusing his every thought. He seemed to be breathing the very emotion. He would, after all, feel much pleasure at seeing Sparrow hanged. The mere thought of it sent tingles of anticipation running up his spine. He waited for the din of the battle, which had roared louder, to subside slightly. It gave him time enough to compose himself. "What is it you want, Spa – Captain?"

"For starters, ye'll be comin' aboard for a bit o' parley, Commodore."

"Unacceptable."

"Very well then. I see your long nines are quite ready to blow holes in my ship. I'm every bit in love with her, and I'll be holdin' you personally responsible for that, James. It is James?"

Oh yes. Norrington would turn Jack Sparrow into his own crusade. He would see the pirate hanged if it were to be the last thing he did. "What guarantee would I have of my own safety?"

"Sir –" Gillette started, but Norrington shut him up with a look. Dissent in the ranks was the last thing he needed right now. Sparrow was one to turn such a small fissure into a gaping breech.

"You only have the word to say, Commodore."

Norrington gritted his teeth. His world seemed to narrow down to naught but this choice, now. Gillette had not heeded his warning look and was listing in a hushed, rushed tone all the reasons why Norrington should not do this. The Commodore was not taking in a word of it. He knew perfectly well each and every reason why he should not accept this, but all he could focus on was the noise of the battle; the wind had turned against them and carried every sound, every cannon being shot, every plank of wood splintered and every cry uttered, a din made of incomprehensible sounds. Any cry could be the death cry of one of his men. And there was Sparrow's irritating figure, mocking him with his lack of morality and the incomprehensible loyalty he had managed to spark in the Turners.

With that thought came a sharp pang of pain Norrington suppressed straight away. He forced himself to relax a little, shoulders sagging. This decision had been taken with the first cannon blast, but he had not acknowledged it until now. He only had the word to say. His voice rang true and clear, without the smallest hesitation or tremble to it.

"Parley."

That, at last, shut Gillette up.

***

Groves cursed under his breath when the first pirates boarded. The Contester had not yet drawn her last breath. She was having a hard time, yes, but she was far from ready to surrender. The only reason why he was cursing was that, as far as he could see through the gunpowder, Edward Low had not stepped aboard with his men. And Groves desperately wanted to cross blades with the pirate and be the one to plunge steel into his bowels.

One of the lieutenants he had started out with, some ten years earlier, had been taken captive by Low. Gregory Elliot had been a good man, an excellent officer, and an intimate friend.

Groves shot the pirate rushing him, then tucked his empty pistol back in his belt as he switched his blade to his other hand. His goal was still on the other ship. That was no trouble. He would make sure Low found reason to come aboard the Contester. Exterminating every one of his men as he encountered them seemed a good enough way to do it.

Of course, they were outnumbered by two to one. But Groves would try his best.

***

Commodore Norrington set his shoulders squarer as Sparrow offered him a glass of wine. He merely raised an eyebrow in answer and the pirate put the goblet down with a knowing smile. Norrington quickly surveyed the room. It was well-furnished, much more extravagantly luxurious than any officer's cabin. What caught his eye and puzzled him were the books he spied in a corner. Norrington forced his gaze not to linger, but he was curious as to what kind of reading such a pirate would have. He had never imagined Sparrow to be the literary type, and still could not.

"So. I s'pose you'll be wantin' to know what I'm playin' at."

"What could possibly have given you such an impression?"

Sparrow settled sideways in an armchair, crossing his legs elaborately over an arm as yet another volley of cannon fire was heard. He waggled a chiding finger at Norrington, a small pout drawing out his lower lip. "Now, now, Commodore, I hardly think sarcasm will get you anywhere."

His right hand tightening around his left fist in his back, Norrington took a moment to compose his tone. "Very well, Captain." The title still rang false as he uttered it, and he made no effort to hide it. "What are you playing at?"

"Do you want to save your men, Commodore?"

"Do you have many other stupid questions, Captain?"

An ugly smirk quirked Sparrow's lips, but his brown eyes were devoid of laughter as he swiftly put his feet on the ground, leaned forward and steepled his fingers together. "I'm proposin' my service, and that of my crew, to the Royal Navy."

Norrington was too shocked to say anything for a few seconds. He could feel blood rise to his face and heat it up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, come now, surely you can think of a worse privateer than the famed Black Pearl, can't you? And pray don't answer that with an insult to my ship." Sparrow leaned back, one brown finger circling the rim of his glass of wine. His dark eyes seemed to study Norrington closely. "What say you, Commodore?"

Norrington drew himself in. "I say that you must have turned mad at last, Sparrow."

The pirate moved so quickly that Norrington barely noticed his movement until he was nose to nose with him. "Captain Sparrow." His breath reeked of rum and other even less pleasant smells, but Norrington forced himself not to move. All of a sudden, the face an inch away from his looked extremely dangerous. This would be the first time he met the real Jack Sparrow, then. "It's Captain Sparrow, James."

"Captain," Norrington repeated through gritted teeth, his every effort bent on not reacting one way or another to the pirate's proximity.

"You'd do well not to forget it, 'specially when you're on my ship with but two of your men outside my cabin. Who knows what I could decide to do to you." The tone was conversational again as the pirate turned away and picked up the goblet he had still not drunk from. He faced Norrington, making a small circular motion with his hands. "Listen, mate, all I'm after's the chance to see Low done in, once and for all. And to do it meself, I may add."

Norrington bit back the numerous retorts he could have snapped at Sparrow. He had no doubt as to why the window of the pirate's cabin was open; the ongoing noises of the battle were an unnecessary reminder that every instant that passed, good men of the Royal Navy were injured, maimed, or killed. The commodore knew with equal certainty that every little delay Sparrow had orchestrated had had one purpose only: to make sure Norrington had as little time as possible to think this through. It greatly unnerved him that the pirate was once again ahead of him, and in control, despite Norrington's understanding of his scheme. It greatly unnerved him that he had, indeed, no time to think this through.

"Consider yourself hired."

The arrogant smile that stretched Sparrow's lips made Norrington want to take this bloody useless compass of his and knock his teeth out with it. "I've actually scribbled out a small somethin' for you to sign, Commodore. Not that I don't trust yer word, 'course... I just don't trust any man's word."

Norrington grabbed the sheet of paper Sparrow held out for him. He idly wondered whether this was the pirate's own handwriting; it looked to be the work of an educated man. If not Sparrow himself, who on his crew? As for the contents, it seemed to be an exact copy of an Act of Grace. Norrington would sign to the Black Pearl being a privateer for the Royal Navy in lieu of the governor, meaning of course that the crew would get all their previous offences pardoned.

It simply revolted Norrington, but he had even less choice now than he had when he was still aboard the Dauntless. Sparrow had trapped him into this quite magnificently. It was with gritted teeth and throbbing temples that Norrington signed the act.

"And I'll be keepin' this, thanks very much," Sparrow said as he spilled some sand on the sheet to make the ink dry up, then carelessly tossed it on top of a heap of papers in an open drawer. "Cheers, mate!" And with that, Sparrow proceeded to down his glass.

Norrington had been patient long enough. "Now that you are, in all purposes, under my orders, I –"

Sparrow held up the hand with the empty glass in it, his first finger raised. "Now wait a minute there, Commodore, who said anything about orders?"

"Any privateer of the Royal Navy sailing in these waters answers to me, Captain." This time, the title had taken on a most ironic note, as had this whole situation.

Sparrow put the glass down on the table. "I believe things will be workin' differently here, with all undue respect." He strode to the door before Norrington had the chance to interrupt and barked out the order to raise the flag.

Norrington was fuming by the time Sparrow turned back to him. The pirate shot him a woebegone look. "Ah. You did not honestly expect me to follow your orders, James, did ye?"

"You will call me Commodore."

"Aye. Commodore," Sparrow repeated with next to no respect, eyes twinkling with mirth. "I expect you'll be wanting to go back to yer own ship, 'ey?"

Norrington did not dignify this with a reply and strode out of the cabin as Sparrow parodied a curtsey. The two red-coats that had been positioned outside the cabin fell in stride a step behind him. The atmosphere was thick enough to cut, men who knew he would have seen them hanged glaring at him quite openly, and he heard a pirate grumble about an accursed flag. Only when he looked up at the main mast did he understand: over the impressive black sails of the Pearl, the blue ensign of the British Navy was blowing in the wind. It was something he had never thought he would see, and he idly wondered to what ship the flag had originally belonged, from what mast it had been unrightfully torn.

"Well, Commodore, we're all awaitin' your orders."

The irony-laced words were spoken far too close to his ear for his liking, but Norrington made a show not to move away as he turned to face Sparrow. Clear green eyes met dark brown irises, both pairs carefully hiding their emotions under impassibility for the ones, amusement for the others. "Indeed."

Things happened quickly after that. Norrington stepped back aboard the Dauntless and announced the news. He did not let anybody time to complain, least of all Gillette, and immediately ordered that both ships made for the battle ahead. It seemed, however, that luck was against them. Low must have spotted the Pearl's new flag, for the Fortune was already sailing away by then. The wind was against them; they would not catch her now.

But Norrington had seen the look in Sparrow's eyes. If there was one thing he could count on from the pirate, it was that he would do all in his power to catch Low. He had not asked then because of time running out, but Norrington would find out what made Sparrow so eager to see Low dead. All this, however, would have to come later.

Now, as they sailed towards the motionless Contester, Norrington could only wonder how many had died, and whether Ted was one of them.

Chapter 2: Heave to


Groves cried out in frustration when he heard the order pass among the pirates to retreat. He was dazed by a bad blow he took to the head from the guard of a pirate's sword and fell to the ground, black stars spotting his vision. By the time he recovered, the Fortune was manoeuvring away. The ship had not taken half as much damage as the Contester. Groves looked at the sails blowing in the wind and the red skeleton mocking him on the flag.

Oh, but leave Groves time to get the Contester back in shape... Low would not get away forever.

Groves spotted his first lieutenant, Ellis, and was glad to see he seemed relatively unharmed, apart from a vicious gash on his brow. The captain headed for the lieutenant when he saw the young Hunt, a thin youth going by the name of William, a hand to a gash running across the skin visible through a slit of the sailor's shirt. Groves stopped short and helped the young topman up, locking eyes.

"Does the doctor know?"

William only replied by nodding once, boyish features distorted by pain, pale blue eyes eerily sparkling with intelligence.

"Go on then, sailor. Get yourself fixed."

Groves pushed concern for the youth to the back of his mind as he came across Ellis at last. The gash on his brow, although it did not bleed anymore, looked far more serious from up close, and the lieutenant's complexion was too livid to comfort Groves. Ellis had tried to wipe most blood out of his face but some had remained, giving his usually attractive features a more primal look by underlining them with crimson lines and cerise traces.

"Just a scratch, sir," Ellis said as he straightened, having no doubt noticed the concern in Groves' eyes. "We've lost about a third of our crew, or so it looks. Men are already working on mending the breeches to the hull."

"Good," Groves approved with a sharp nod. "Other reparations can wait. Mr Ellis, check in with the doctor, see that this nasty gash is tended to. That's an order," he added before the lieutenant could protest.

George Ellis nodded and strode away. Groves compelled himself to keep a tight rein on his emotions. A third of their men... lost, Ellis had said. Dead. He forced his eyes away from the bodies – corpses – his men – to the poop deck, where a lone figure was standing, looking into a spyglass. Yes, this was the matter at hand now – supervising the reparations to the Contester, and assessing what had sent the pirates fleeing. It was the Dauntless, Groves had no doubt about that, but he wondered how she had fared against the Pearl... what exactly Captain Sparrow had had in mind when he had headed for the Dauntless, colourless.

Groves' hands stroked the wood of the railing as he climbed the steps up to the quarter deck. He had grown to love this ship and was glad that she had made it out of this battle. His fingers encountered a sticky substance he could not but identify as blood and he pulled his hand back as he crossed the quarter deck in long strides, wiping it on his already blood-battered uniform coat. A few more steps brought him to the poop deck.

The lone figure happened to be Lieutenant David Kensington, a burly man maybe a few years younger than Groves. Although the state of his uniform proved that he must have been in the thick of things, Kensington seemed to bear no wound, not unlike Groves.

"Sir." The lieutenant extended the spyglass towards him. "You'll want to see this for yourself."

Groves hastily wiped the forming frown from his brow and took the spyglass. However, the frown reclaimed its territory as soon as Groves realised what he was seeing. The Pearl was sailing towards them, immediately followed by the slower Dauntless. Something did not seem quite right with the picture, apart from the glaringly obvious. Then it struck him.

"The Pearl's bearing our flag..."

"Thank you, sir." Groves looked away from the spyglass, wondering what his lieutenant meant by that. The man's hard-lined face was unreadable, brown eyes shining faintly. "Seeing something like that, I was starting to wonder whether I had not turned crazy."

A small grimace twisted Groves' lips. "Clearly, someone has."

***

Low could wait just a while longer, Jack decided good-humouredly, and issued orders that would have them heave to alongside the Contester. He had been made a privateer of the Royal Navy, and one of the perks was that his past offences had been pardoned. Irrevocably so. He intended to enjoy that state before he committed brand new offences... hence, before he caught Low and dealt with him.

Aye, today was a good day to be pardoned. He would need the counter-signature of the governor for said pardon to be water-tight, and he was quite certain bonny Elizabeth would plead his cause to her father, once Jack told her how much of a good subject of the Crown he intended to become. Doubtless she'd be unable to resist him.

Pearl was rocking angrily under his feet, the heat that her black wood radiated speaking of fury today. Jack walked to the edge and stroked the bulkward lovingly. She was not any happier with the ensign than most of the crew. "It's only temporary, sweets. Only temporary."

Jack's attention was caught by the Contester then. They were coming up alongside her. A pretty boat she was, too; nothing to rival with the Pearl, of course, but an elegant sloop-of-war who was as quick as she looked sleek. Quick enough that Jack could make them believe they were catching up on the Pearl on their own, instead of because he wanted them to.

He spotted the captain right away, pleased to see a man younger than himself, probably the same age as dear Commodore James, wearing a bloodied uniform. The state of his coat said that he had been in the middle of the battle, his lack of injuries that he was either a good fighter, a very smart man, or a lucky devil. Probably all three.

"Captain Sparrow," the man greeted him with a wary nod. "I'm Captain Groves, and rather puzzled to see you flying this ensign."

Jack smirked. "Captain Groves. I'll wager you're not the most surprised of us all."

A quick flash of something lighter crossed the man's face. Jack would have put his money on amusement, or approval, or acknowledgement maybe; the distance made it impossible to know for sure. "But, perhaps, the most curious. Would you care to step aboard and share a cup of tea?"

Share a cup of tea, was that what bloodied captains of the Royal Navy did after a battle? The idea of stepping aboard the Contester, among men who had just lost crewmates to pirates, with nothing but a slip of paper and a few scribbled words to assure his safety, was enough to make Jack hesitate.

"No harm will come to you," the other captain added loud enough for his men to hear. "You have my word of honour."

"Now, what would I care about yer word of honour, Captain?" Sparrow replied with a hint of a smile. "Gimme a second, 'ey?" He motioned Gibbs over. "I'll be goin' over for a nice lil chat with the cap'n, shall I?"

"Bloody madness." A spit to the deck, and Jack raised his eyes to face an infuriated Anamaria striding up to them, her angry features concealed in the shadow of a wide-rimmed hat. He remained serene in front of her, knowing full well that nothing would be able to calm her down. "And that flag's a disgrace to us all!"

"The flag's stayin' where it is, Anamaria." Jack took a step towards her, his serene façade dissolving into his dangerous, stalking look. "I'm captain of the Pearl, savvy? She answers to no soul like to me, and I don't think you'll be wantin' to break up my deal with Norrington just while we're surrounded by Navy ships. Now hurry back below deck before any one of them sees ye, if ye wanna keep serving on this ship. Savvy?" he added for good measure, tugging her hat down on her face.

He could feel her glare even without seeing it. After a few silent seconds, heavy with unvoiced recriminations, she turned around and stalked off towards her cabin.

"I told ye, Jack, frightful bad luck," Gibbs muttered.

Jack tutted sharply. "No such thing as bad luck in takin' 'er in. She'd raise hell if we didn't, you know her as well as I."

"Not quite," Gibbs smartly remarked.

"Not quite." Jack could not help a brief, lascivious grin. "Back ter to the point, Pearl's yours while I go off to have a chat with Cap'n Groves."

Jack turned to go, but Gibbs called him back. "Cap'n?" He did not speak up until Jack was looking at him expectantly. "Anamaria's right. That plan's bloody madness." A pregnant pause, a pit of bitterness rising in Jack's guts. "Daft like you always served me right."

Jack flashed him a grin, wondering at the pull at his heart. Could it be that these last years had led him up to caring about the old man? No. Most likely, the strange sensation was due to his lack of rum for the past few hours. There was something not quite right about being sober.

Captain Groves had already gone to his cabin by the time Jack stepped aboard the Contester. He spent a few seconds oblivious to the rest of the world, simply feeling the way she rolled under his feet. He could already tell she liked him, unlike the Dauntless. This one had a way to whisper to him, she was eager for battle and a chance to prove herself, and this despite the beating she'd taken today. Despite, or because of.

"Sir."

It took Jack a second to realise it was him the kid had addressed. Sir? He was simply not called sir. And hell, that one was even younger than young William Turner. No stubble on his cheeks, yet a hardness in the pale blue eyes that said without a doubt that he had seen far more than young Will. His features were almost feminine, but he made a far more handsome lad than he would have a lass. His brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, his clothes those of a sailor. There was a slit in his shirt that let Jack see the edge of a binding. He stood at ease on the deck, with all the effortlessness of someone in whose blood sailing ran. Jack took a liking to him, for some reason that rather escaped him, much quicker even than he had taken to Will. Hopefully he wouldn't have to threaten to kill this one.

"Well, lad?"

"I'm to take you to the captain's cabin, sir."

Jack waited expectantly for a few seconds, then nodded and made a small inviting gesture with his hand. The lad nodded back and led the way to the quarter deck. His body was lean, not overly tall, he had likely not signed up long ago. The white shirt clung to his back where sweat had permeated it, probably during the battle, and Jack focused on it as they crossed the deck on which the dead were being readied for their funerals.

"What's your name, lad?"

"William Hunt, sir."

Jack could not but smile. Another William, eh? "Well, Will, 'm not incredibly partial to that 'sir' business. Y'might wanna call me Jack."

William stopped in front of a door, face carefully devoid of any emotion. Jack knew that face quite well, he'd seen Commodore James and other officers pull it off a few times already. The Navy face. "Here's the captain's cabin, sir."

Jack rolled his eyes as he opened the door and strode in without a care for that annoying habit he had never indulged in, knocking. Captain Groves looked up halfway through buttoning a clean shirt up. He did not appear embarrassed in the least, and Jack raised a speculative eyebrow. Groves simply ignored it, gesturing at a small table and some chairs. "Captain Sparrow, if you please? I'll be with you in a minute."

"I'd rather you called me Jack," the pirate immediately answered, taking a step toward the table but keeping his eyes locked on Groves. He made a vague gesture indicating the space between the two of them. "Gettin' rather tired of such formalities."

"Already? I'm afraid you've badly considered this new career choice." Captain Groves stepped towards him, eyes shining with something like good humour. Jack was feeling increasingly comforted in his first assessment of the man. He wondered why this captain of the Royal Navy would welcome him so. The man seemed... friendly. Not something he was familiar with in Navy men. "I hope you won't mind my not being in full uniform. It's rather warm and those wigs are a bore."

Jack smirked as he took off his hat and hung it on a peg. "Not at all, Cap'n." He took his first good look at the cabin, finding it exactly what he expected from the cabin of a Navy officer. Simple, unadorned, bare... impersonal. "Not that I complain, but... what's with the warm welcome? I'm not exactly in the habit o' seeing your kind so laid back around the likes of me." He paused, frowned, relented. "Not exactly in the habit o' seeing your kind, either."

Head bent slightly forward, Groves allowed himself a brief smile before washing all signs of amusement from his face. His eyes were quite serious when he spoke. "I believe there are different kinds of pirates, Cap - Jack," he amended himself. "Mr Turner named you a good man. I will make you a compromise. You are a good pirate. Do not mistake this welcome for trust." Jack raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, rocking on his heels and looking at the unwavering face from beneath half-closed lids. The steel in Groves' eyes seemed to melt all of a sudden, leaving the usual warm expression in place as a hand was thrust forward at him. "Theodore Sinclair Groves. Call me Ted."

Jack looked at the hand with distrust, an echo of the day he had rescued the lovely Elizabeth from the sea, unknowingly sealing her fate, Will's, and his own, bringing the Black Pearl back to him. He did not quite know what to make of Groves after this small heart-to-heart, so to speak; but no matter what the captain said, he still seemed much more malleable material than the commodore. Jack would have to bear this in mind for future use.

The pirate shook the hand before it was completely retracted. "Jack Sparrow." He smirked wickedly. "But I reckon my reputation got here far before meself."

The handshake was firm and steady, the smile back to full force in the eyes. "Not so much your reputation as first-hand experience. I was there when you commandeered the Interceptor. Brilliant work."

Jack pulled his hand back almost reluctantly, watching with amusement the glint in the other man's eyes. "Glad you approve... Sin. I'll be callin' ye Sin if you don't mind." Without leaving the man time to protest, Jack turned toward the table. "Now, as for that tea, I don't s'pose a prime Navy man as you are would have some rum to offer a fellow instead." He frowned as he noticed for the first time the three cups and saucers on the table. "Three?"

As if on cue, the door opened to reveal Commodore James himself. The gaze the man levelled at Sinclair Groves was evaluating, but a cursory glance around the room seemed to assure the commodore that nothing was amiss. His eyes came back to Sin firmer, as if reassured, but also merciless. "I suggest you dress yourself properly, Captain."

"Sir."

The relaxed man Jack had observed so far had turned into a true officer of the Royal Navy, back ramrod-straight and ready to follow any orders given by his superior. Jack thought he saw Sin's cheeks begin to heat up before the man turned away to put on the rest of his uniform.

It was a shame, Jack lamented. Especially the bloody wig.

"Was your welcome everything you hoped, Sparrow?"

"Much better than I coulda hoped for, Commodore, and that's Captain Sparrow for ye," Jack replied offhandedly, the better to irate the man.

"For me?" Norrington levelled another merciless gaze towards Sin, who had the common sense not to turn around from the mirror he was looking in to adjust his wig. Norrington's tone was probably warning enough.

"Aye," Jack simply replied.

"I shall assume you did not explain to Captain Groves the circumstances of your hiring as a privateer."

Jack hid away a frown. "Not enough time as it was. You came in too early."

Norrington's eyes would have frozen the Vesuvius up. He left it unsaid that he thought he had come in at precisely the right moment, but the statement was made nonetheless. Captain Theodore Sinclair Groves, complete with his white overcoat and cravat, blue frock coat, white wig and hat, joined them and invited them to take a seat.

It was William who came in to pour the tea, watching all three men with the same controlled gaze. The most crookedly friendly grins of Jack's did nothing to change the youth's expression and it troubled the pirate more than it should have. He was simply a kid who'd likely just seen his first battle, seen his mates killed by bloody pirates, what would he do with Jack's familiarity?

Still, Jack's irrational anger had to find a way out, and it did as soon as the door closed on young William Hunt. "Now what, we sit back and sip tea? Would that be what ye people do whenever you lose men?"

It was a mistake, Jack knew it as soon as the words left his lips; but worse than that, it was unfair. Sin's face hardened, anger flashed in his eyes, his fists closed on the table. Norrington laid a hand on the captain's arm and, after a quick glance at his superior's eerily calm face, Sin spread his hands flat on the table, keeping his gaze fixed on his cup of tea.

"I believe it time to instruct Captain Groves of the circumstances of your hiring, Captain Sparrow." The last two words were uttered disdainfully and for some reason the tone hurt Jack this time, although he did not let it show. He did not reply, simply held the commodore's taunting gaze unwaveringly. James was staring right back at him as he explained calmly. "He ransomed you and your men, Ted." Finally, the merciless eyes strayed away, but it was no admission of defeat as they settled, suddenly warmer, on "Ted." Jack followed the eyes and found that Theodore Sinclair Groves was looking straight at him, unchallengingly, taking stock. "He would have delayed us, leaving you to the mercy of Low, if I did not sign him in."

"Aye, mate, 'tis all true," Jack confirmed steadily, before looking back at James. "Only I knew you'd do the right thing, Commodore. D'ye really think I would have let you blow holes in me ship when I could have sailed away just as easily?"

"Jack." Jack lost all signs of amusement as he turned from the irate commodore to the grave captain. Brown eyes showed absolutely nothing in this instant, just as guarded as young William's had been, but his voice had been ringing with barely controlled anger when he had spoken Jack's name. Something in the set of the mouth suggested that something of dire importance was about to be said. "Stay aboard for the funerals." It sounded awkwardly close to a plea, a plea with a sharp, unmistakable undercurrent of fury and demand. "Some of those men you could have saved if you had not dallied, if you had given aid. They were good men, good sailors and soldiers, but good men first and foremost. My men." The captain rose abruptly, turning towards Norrington. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to go and check where the reparations are at."

"By all means, this is your ship, Captain."

Jack stirred the unfamiliar brown beverage with a spoon, watching it swirl about as he listened to Sin's fading footsteps. After a moment, he decided to try it and tentatively brought the cup to his lips, pinkie raised in a parody of good manners. It tasted off and was no help at all. The commodore's silence was unsettling. Jack put the cup back down and met the man's gaze. "Still won't forswear rum. Nothin' worth it."

The sea-green eyes were relentless, the face around them a mask of nothingness, but them... They were studying him, probing him as if they expected something from him. The itch of uneasiness grew between Jack's shoulder blades, a feeling he was altogether unfamiliar with, and he'd been quite happy that way, thanks very much. He stood up and strode a few steps away, looking out the window at the rolling sea. She did not offer him the same sense of comfort she usually did. He spread his hands on the base of the window, feeling the ship's wood, touching her as he would have a lover.

Jack was almost surprised – almost – when Norrington stepped by his side, staring ahead of him at the sea. The man's expression was almost serene – almost – and it was somehow even more unsettling than what had come before.

"If I did not know you for the heartless pirate that you are, Captain, I'd think you were feeling some guilt." A flicker of the eyes, the shadow of a smile, before Norrington's face became grave again, graver than it had been. "Will you stay for the funerals?"

It was only a whisper. "Aye."

To his credit, Norrington showed no reaction whatsoever. Side by side, the two men watched the heaving sea outside. Jack wondered whether Norrington could feel the Contester as he did, the agility of her quality and the nervousness of her youth, much more impetuous than the Interceptor had been. Probably not. He was a man of the Navy.

Norrington turned away from the sea at last and made for the door. He stopped a few feet short of it. "Come up on deck, Captain."

Jack could not find enough energy to make himself believe that the few words were a request disguised as an order. From the phrasing to the inflexion, Norrington had left no room to such speculation. It was nothing but an order, and yet there was more to it.

There was more to it, or else Jack wouldn't have obeyed, snatching his hat on the way out.

Chapter 3: Run out the guns


"Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy," Jack grumbled for what seemed like the hundredth time. Probably was, too.

He sent a withering glare towards the Contester and the Dauntless. They had been gone from Port Royal for a few hours now and were on their way to Tortuga. Jack's return to Port Royal had been everything he could have hoped for, until thirty minutes from their departure. He had got his Act of Grace signed by that funny little man that happened to be governor and father to the lovely Elizabeth; he had paid his regards to Will's ass and had had his apologies accepted regarding that red hot metal rod accident, as far as he was able to make out what the animal was saying with those overly sad eyes of his; he had got himself a free new sword that belonged at his hip and was a proof of how much young Will belonged to this trade; he had rebuked lovely Elizabeth's desperate plea for him to take them on as a honeymoon, much to Will's relief; and finally, he had had Will pay him many a drink in gratitude.

Then there had been that dreadful business of being awoken by two red-coats in the tavern - the very same ones to whom he had told the cannibal tribe version of his escape from the island, he recalled with a fond grin, then suppressed it as he remembered why he was in a foul mood. Those brave two soldiers had awoken him from a well-deserved sleep and left him no time to rouse any of his crew. Most of them had already regained the Pearl, but not enough to set sail as the good commodore James wanted, or so Jack would have them think. Then Sin had to have the worst idea possible and caught Jack at his own game, suggesting they lent him men. Lent him men? He was a bloody pirate! He didn't take on Navy tars.

Except when he was passing as a privateer to get his hands on Low, of course. His reluctance had seemed to greatly amuse bloody Norrington, too.

Ah, well. At least they were heading for Tortuga. The commodore seemed to have enough sense to want to use Jack to find information about where the Fortune made berth. Jack had refrained from pointing out how unlikely it was that he would find anything. There was no point reminding the commodore that Jack turning privateer would profit no one but Jack himself, and there was always a slight chance that he could learn something in Tortuga. Still... bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.

Whatever the blazes had possessed Jack into cooking up this plan? It had seemed brilliant at the time. Enlist the Navy's help. Make his task all the easier. Except Norrington was smarter than Jack had given him credit for; he was the sort of man Jack could have appreciated, if he had not been so very Navy. He was also the sort of man Jack should try to avoid, and not just because of his wish to see all pirates hanged, but because he was the sort of man that was perilous to play.

But then, Captain Jack Sparrow loved himself a good challenge.

There was a short scuffle on the main deck. Jack was thankful that Gibbs stepped in and put good order to it. Having Navy sailors on board was hard on all the crew. Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy. Most of the men simply hated them for being Navy, the very same Navy that would see them all hanged. A few others, like Gibbs, did not so much hate them as resented the memories their presence aboard brought forth, memories of a path not taken. Jack understood this all too well. His quartermaster had seemed to be going through the motions ever since the sailors had stepped aboard, a constant frown on his worn features and a dull ache reflected in his eyes.

Bloody ruddy blazin' bleedin' Navy.

Jack glanced at his compass – the new one, that did point North – and slightly corrected the course. The brief respite in her discontent Pearl had offered him the previous day was well over, and had been ever since the first foreign Navy feet had trodden her planks. She was uneasy with them, and she characteristically tried to hide her uneasiness under a façade of anger.

"It's only momentary, love," he pleaded yet again, stroking her wheel.

Well. It was time to go pay a visit to the other fuming female he had to deal with. Jack would have likely passed up on that, but if Anamaria thought he forgot her, she was likely to disregard the bit of sense she did possess and stride up on deck to yell at him about it. Or, most likely, slap him soundly a few times.

"Bart, come take her over."

Leaving the shaggy-haired pirate to the wheel, Jack purposefully made his way down the stairs to the main deck. Right as he walked by, another scuffle erupted. Jack caught his own man's wrist before he could strike a second time with the dagger. He didn't know that one well, he had been picked up in Tortuga only a few days before. "I don't want any fights on my ship." And he pushed the man to the deck floor.

Not sparing a glance at his man, Jack turned to the Navy sailor that had been assaulted. Ah, William. The youth sported a shallow cut across his right cheekbone. With a bit of luck, it'd give him a slight scar to sport. William's usually indifferent mask had slipped, and there was a spark of something Jack could not quite name in those sharp blue eyes. The kid would take some watching after.

"Shiver me timbers!" Mr Cotton's parrot cried out, snapping Jack out of it.

"Take that one to the brig," he ordered with a casual nod to the man he had knocked to the floor. "And let that be a warning for all o' ye. I'll take no fights on my ship. Now back ter work!"

All hands rushed back to their tasks. Jack held William's gaze for one more second, then turned to head for Anamaria's cabin. Gibbs barked out a few orders then fell in stride with him.

"The men aren't happy with this, Jack."

Jack waited until they were in a deserted corridor to turn to his quartermaster. "Do you think I don't know that?" He leaned a hand on a wall of the Pearl, feeling uncharacteristically off his game. Things were bearing down on him all of a sudden. "We'll get Low. I sworn that to meself, and to Pearl. Any means to an end."

"Aye." Gibbs' face was grave, serious eyes searching for something in Jack's face. The briefest wonder, would he find it?

Jack's voice dropped to a whisper, the admission of a wound that would never quite close. "They're not thinking o' mutinying, are they?"

Gibbs hurried to shake his head. "'Course not, Jack. Most men are fierce loyal ter ye. I'm only sayin', the sooner this be all done with, the better fer us all."

Jack straightened, resting his hand on the pommel of his new sword. "I don't need you to tell me that." Something on the tip of his tongue, words that would not yet catch form, the surge of some nameless sensation in his chest, all deftly quelled. "I'll be with me first mate, 'ey?"

"Ah. Good luck with that."

Jack nodded, trademark smirk tugging at his lips, then turned and left for the cabin Anamaria was confined to. He did not bother to knock and found her sharpening her cutlass. She hardly spared him a glance as he closed the door behind himself. Something with that picture was just right. Pearl was rolling beneath his feet, angry and yet so very his; a beam of sunlight fell on the cot of the small cabin; Anamaria was bent over her cutlass at the table, sharpening stone and blade regularly meeting in a hissing noise.

"How is the crew?"

Jack did not bother to lie. "Restless an' eager for a fight."

"At least they got more 'n eight feet to stretch their legs."

Jack leaned a hand on the table with a pensive frown. It had just been an illusion, there was nothing right about any of this. "Bein' up there's just as much of a prison, Anamaria."

She raised surprised eyes at him, dropping her usual mask of defiance. The mask she had to wear to live the life of a pirate; Jack was puzzled at the restrictions her life style brought upon her. But if he were honest, he had the same restrictions to contend with. The look of plain surprise on her face was because she was not used to hear sincerity from his lips. Things were bearing down on him.

"I'll make this as quick as I can."

She held his gaze for a moment, brown meeting brown in an unusually bare way. Then she nodded. Once. Sharply. "You do that, Jack."

"Aye, I do that." He slipped back into his usual persona and grinned at her. "If you're well and good here, I'll –"

"I could use some rum," she cut in imperiously, checking the sharpness of her blade.

Jack stopped mid-sentence, expressive hands hanging in the air. His shoulders sagged a little. "Aye. So could I."

***

The nervousness of the Navy tars had gone up a notch ever since the Dauntless and the Contester had fallen behind and the Navy ensign had been lowered. Thankfully, the fights had been less frequent since Jack had put the first man in the brig for that, a couple days before. They were now coming up on Tortuga, and Gibbs had been ordered to have the Navy sailors look like pirates. The making of it was easy enough, but some of the sailors had refused to comply. They'd been sent to the brig as well.
The closer they sailed to Tortuga, the further from the Navy ships, the more nervous the sailors... and the more laid back the pirates. Rum had been brought out on deck, a habit prevented the two previous nights by the shadows of the Dauntless and the Contester, a habit which now helped the crew forget about their discontent. Young Matthews had brought up his fiddle and merry songs and dances were aplenty. 'Twas a good night, and it would get better once they reached shore. They'd made good time, almost three days, and it would be another hour or so before they did.

Gibbs came up on the last one to inspect, the young lad Jack seemed to always be eyeing so closely. The youth was not altogether repulsive, and he was a fairly good sailor. Seemed at home on the Pearl, he did, as if he were born on it. Gibbs could only wonder what Jack's interest in the boy was, especially since said boy could hardly be said to carry Jack in his heart. He went about everything with nothing but duty in his gestures, but the occasional heated look the captain's way betrayed him.

As it was, the lad had kept his original breeches, but that was all that remained of his Navy attire, along with the blue ribbon that tied his hair back. He'd passed on a dirty white shirt that was much too big for him, whose sleeves he'd rolled up. He was barefoot. The last couple of days' travel had dirtied him up royally, and if his teeth weren't quite damaged enough, nor his eyes yellow as they ought to be, it could be blamed on his young age. The lad could pass for a pirate, especially with the not really fading scar he'd got on his first day aboard, and the way those eyes shone sometimes.

"There's only one thing missin'," Jack commented, appearing at the side of the boy and eyeing him speculatively. "What d'ye think that could be, Gibbs?"

Hearing in the background the sounds of merriment, Gibbs had no doubt what his friend meant. "I'd say the smell of rum, Cap'n."

Jack clapped him on the shoulder with one of those grins of his, then draped an arm over the lad's shoulders. "What say you, Will, to learnin' why we scallywags hold so dear to rum? I'll be takin' ye with me to Tortuga, so you may get a whiff of what other pleasures drove us to choose this life."

Gibbs was surprised to see the lad break into a grin. He'd never seen him smile in those three days' time. It looked almost... dangerous, but it might just have been the shadows dancing on the lad's face from the lanterns. Jack didn't seem to notice anything amiss as the lad spoke, so Gibbs dismissed it as a flight of fancy. "I'd like that, sir."

Jack waved that aside as he led the lad towards the merriment. "I told ye, that sir business doesn't sit right with me. Ye call me Jack."

"All right... Jack."

Jack undraped his arm from the lad's shoulders and clapped his hands loudly to get the crew's attention. The violin stopped playing. "Now, Matthews, ye know what I'm after."

Gibbs could not help a chuckle as Matthews started playing and the crew half-heartedly groaned. Jack thrust a bottle of rum in the lad's hands and took one for himself. Everybody, groaning or not, joined in for the song, and soon enough the kid knew it, too.

Gibbs sang it on top of his lungs. "We're rascals, scoundrels, villains and knaves, drink up me hearties yo-ho! We're devils, we're black sheep, and really bad eggs, drink up me hearties yo-ho! Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me!"

In her cabin below deck, hearing the melody only faintly, Anamaria found herself humming along despite her better judgment.

***

The lieutenants had finally left and the two of them had gone back to James' cabin. Groves could see something had been troubling the commodore all through supper, but he had refrained from enquiring. James would tell him when, and if he wanted to. For what other purpose than sharing his discomfort would he have invited him aboard the Dauntless for supper tonight?

Groves sat down at the table and waited patiently for his superior to come out of his dark thoughts. The commodore walked to the window instead and looked out at the rolling sea with his hands clasped in his back. It was calmer tonight than it had been since they had set sails from Port Royal. Groves could hear the faint noises of the tars' merriment upstairs, knew that it would be the same on his ship, tonight when the Black Pearl's shadow was no longer haunting them by her very presence. A part of him longed to be on his ship with his officers, to take a stroll among the men even. He sometimes did that, despite James' advice that it might make the men think him too weak a commander.

A part of him longed to be on his ship, but he had his own share of dark thoughts to contend with that would not leave him be, no matter where he was. He watched James' back, the way the lamp's shadows fell on his shoulders and played across the white cloth. Already when they had both attended the Royal Academy, and probably far before that too, there had been something about James that set him apart from other men, something about his deep voice and the intensity which his eyes sometimes acquired, but something that could not quite be defined. A sobriety, a nobility and yet a storm of emotions only hinted at, maybe.

"You have tried hard to appear carefree tonight, Ted," James suddenly remarked, snatching Groves out of his thoughts.

The use of the nickname said as plainly as James could have that they were now between friends. Groves studied James' profile for a few seconds, taken in once again by the gravity that he could read there. "And you have made no such effort."

A faint smile graced James' lips, accompanied by eyebrows raised briefly in acknowledgement. "Yes."

The commodore took his cravat off methodically, then his wig, and finally unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Groves followed his example, thankful as always to be rid of the wig. James then went to his cabinet and came back to the table with a carafe of brandy and two glasses. He poured them both a drink. Groves took his glass with a nod of thanks and watched the alcohol swirl about as he slightly shook it.

He looked up at James. "What shall we drink to?"

Green eyes acquired an even deeper look of gravity. "I'm coming up short."

A wry twist of his lips, then Groves raised his glass slightly. "To the upcoming, timely end of Edward Low?"

James raised his glass in acknowledgement. They both sipped the brandy in silence. It was a good one, by Groves' standards; he wouldn't expect any less from James, after all. The first sip burned slightly as it went down. A few sips later and the only feeling was a warm glow coming from where the brandy settled, in the pit of his stomach. It predictably did nothing to ease Groves' spirits, only perhaps rendered everything seemingly clearer. Clearer, and sharper. The weight of the decision he had not yet taken, abstention a decision in itself, was slightly lifted, but seemed much more painful. Tonight more than ever, he battled with his decision not to tell James. Tonight more than ever, he had trouble making himself believe that he had no choice.

"We haven't had a single chance to talk these last few days."

Groves looked up at James, wondering how long he had remained lost in his thoughts. His friend's face betrayed nothing, his eyes studying Groves closely. "We did not take the time, James. It's quite different."

Again, a wry smile. "Indeed." Another long silence, a few more sips of brandy. "How much do you trust Sparrow?"

"Not at all," was the direct answer. Groves could not but admire the sharpness of the pirate's mind, but he was not blinded by it. Jack was a pirate. "Or rather, I trust him to do what will turn to his advantage."

James nodded sagely. "Is it really in his advantage to help us bring Low down?"

"It does seem to be the only reason he joined us," Groves offered. "My guess is, Low took something from him."

"Do you trust him to keep your men safe?"

Groves frowned, sitting up straighter in the chair. He would not have sent any of his men, least of all young Hunt, if James had not approved. But for the Commodore to send some of his own men had to mean that he trusted them to be safe, or so Groves had assumed. "Don't you, sir?"

James tutted sharply. "It's just you and me, Ted. And what I think is not the question."

Groves checked himself. "As long as he needs us, I think he can be trusted to take care of them. When he doesn't need us anymore... He doesn't strike me as the blood-thirsty kind, but I wouldn't say the same of his crew."

"As I thought," James agreed quietly.

So that was what had troubled him. Nothing more than this. Having his men at the mercy of Jack. Groves wished he had only that to worry about, but the added weight of his other concern pulled heavily at his conscience. He ought to tell James, he knew it. But the implications were more complex than ever. The consequences could be disastrous, for him if not handled with care; his career and his very life were at stake. And, undoubtedly, that of...

He ought to tell James. It was a certainty now, only questioned by a few ineffective, cowardly tendrils of doubt. Why had he not told him sooner? There seemed to have been no valid reasons, and shame and guilt whirled in his chest. He would tell him. Now. "I should go back aboard the Contester," was all that he managed.

James looked up at him, obviously snatched from his thoughts. Groves could not read the emotion behind the gaze directed at him. "It gives you no trouble, reconciling a pirate with a good man, does it?"

Groves put some order in his appearance and stood up. "No, sir. I've never had any trouble with shades of grey." He paused, the urge to tell his friend sharper than ever before. It took him a second to master it. "Thanks for the drink, James."

James smiled faintly and Groves took this as his dismissal. He was frowning all the way back to his ship. The sailors were indeed drinking and singing on the forecastle. They stopped abruptly when they noticed him, but he waved for them to carry on and went to stand in the shadows of the upper gun deck. He did not know how long he stood there, listening to the tars and doing his best not to think, until Jeremy came to join him.

Groves simply nodded at the tar, then went away to his cabin. Jeremy slipped in a few minutes later. He was a tall, burly sailor with a scar running down his neck to the middle of his heavily-muscled torso, expressive blue eyes set deeply in the middle of his suntanned, stony face. He was also fiercely loyal to his current captain. Loyal enough that Groves would trust him with his life.

And tonight, he would trust him to make him forget, if only temporarily, what he had not told James.

***

Jack had his arm draped across the lad's shoulders in a companionable fashion. Young William was laughing at something the pirate had just said – something about the commodore, wasn't it? Jack could hardly be expected to keep track of everything he said. Especially when William laughed that entirely distracting laugh of his, a shrill, joyful sound that was everything but manly.

Jack changed course, deciding that they could go and visit Marty for information later in the night. He was going to enjoy Will's surprising mood while he could. He made them head for Old Joe's Tavern instead and kept talking on the way, a rush of words that seemed to keep the lad entertained despite their probable lack of sense. Jack had had enough rum to trust his tongue to do a right business on its own, without the aid of his brain. William seemed to have had enough rum to be satisfied with this, twinkling blue eyes and constant quirk to his thin lips. There was something in those eyes...

They soon found themselves at a shadowed table in a corner of Old Joe's, a tankard of rum in each of their hands. From hands to lips, then back down on the table, the movement was natural, made whenever Jack paused in the story with a dry throat. Those eyes never left him, giving him the feeling he was depended upon.

"And this day will always be remembered as the day that they almost... hanged... Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Do I remind you of him?" And before Jack could ask: "Will Turner?"

There had been a thought almost formed, but it evaporated as Jack reflected on the answer. "Maybe... As it is, you show much more promise than old Will, you do. You drink rum, for one. And you get it." He raised his tankard. "Take what you can..."

Will knocked his own against it. "Give nothing back." The smirk on his lips almost awakened something else in Jack's muddled brain. He drank some more and the shadow of acknowledgement disappeared.

Jack leaned back against the wooden bench, running his fingers along the edge of the table. "You get the pirate thing, you do. He had a bit of a problem with that." He pricked one of his fingers on a shard and grimaced, then licked at the pooling blood. When he looked up at Will, the lad was staring at him with an odd expression on his face and Jack suppressed the rising smirk just in time. He drummed his fingers on the table in a rolling rhythm, surge and tide, surge and tide. "Tell me, Will, d'you plan on going back to Commodore James once we're done here?" He tilted his head to the side, watching the youth invitingly. "Or would you be rather willing to engage yourself in the underrated career choice that's piracy?"

William licked his lips as his eyes snapped back up to meet Jack's. "I wasn't serving the commodore."

"Right. Will you be going back to Sin then?"

"Why do you call him that?"

A secretive smile passed furtively across Jack's lips, dancing for one more second in his eyes. "Theodore Sinclair Groves. Sin... It suits him... don't you think?"

"It does."

The words rang harshly, condemningly. Jack frowned, then leaned forward on the table, as earnest a look as he could manage plastered on his face, in his eyes. "Did he try anything on you then?"

Will seemed to force himself to relax, eyes flickering to his drink for a split second. He gulped down some rum before answering, more softly. "He might have."

"And you..."

"He wasn't my type."

It rang almost like a challenge, defiance clear in the pale glinting eyes. The flicker of a nearby candle reflected in them, making them burn singularly. It was almost arrogance... something else yet again escaped Jack's mind only barely. He leaned back and enclosed the whole of the tavern with a sweeping arm. "Which one of those fine ladies would be your type, then, William? Tonight's on me."

Will studied one whore after the other and Jack wondered how badly he'd miscalculated, and whether he would indeed find himself paying for Will to have some good time. The blue eyes came to settle back on Jack. "None. None of them's my type."

Jack could not help it. "You're not a eunuch, are ye?" He dismissed it immediately with a wave of his hand. "No, that was the other Will." He finished his tankard and rose, if a bit precariously. He missed the roll of Pearl beneath him. "Time to go information a-seeking. Will you care to grace me old self with your good company?"

The eyes did not waver as he answered, "Aye."

***

Groves could feel Jeremy's befuddled gaze on him as he got dressed. Poor Jerry. Groves had no doubt as to the tar's loyalty, but they were not in the habit of talking. About anything. Sometimes the mood was so that streams of profane words tumbled from their lips, but tonight there had not even been that. Tonight's silence had been filled with grunts and moans, with the sound of the sailors' merry-making in the background. Jeremy was there when Groves needed him, and usually he was more than enough to sate the officer. Tonight, however, was quite different.

"Sir?"

Groves turned around as he buttoned up his overcoat. Jeremy had sat up on the edge of the cot and was looking at him questioningly. The captain smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Jerry. There's some business I need to attend to with the commodore."

Something flashed across Jeremy's features, a hint of something Groves could not quite fathom, or simply did not have the energy to try. The jack-tar picked up his clothes and got dressed quickly as Groves busied himself with fixing the hated wig on his head. He then snatched his hat. Jeremy was by the door, fingers curled around the handle. Throat tight, Groves could do nothing but nod at him with another faint smile that felt fake to the core of his being.

Jeremy held his gaze a moment longer, then opened the door and strode out. There was an underlying current of pain coursing through Groves' chest, but he took no heed of it as he headed for the cockboat. The swain was not yet asleep and the small boat was quickly put to the water.

His decision taken, Groves felt surprisingly light-headed, despite the prospect of facing James' wrath. Yes, he had deferred too long. James ought to know about young William Hunt.

Chapter 4: Grapples at the ready


Jack's swagger was even less steady than on land as he opened the ornate double-doors widely and stepped into his cabin. It was partly due to the rum, partly to the exaggerated sway he gave his hips with each step. He made a grand sweeping motion with both arms, turning around to face Will. His words were more slurred than usual, too. "An' 'ere's the cap'n's cabin."

The youth stepped in almost cautiously, taking everything in with interest. Jack grinned as he lit a lantern, then moved to close the doors. Will slowly advanced further into the cabin. Jack wondered what exactly it looked like to the boy. A pirate's cabin, with luxurious furniture that seemed to be there to contrast with the blackness of the bulkhead. The books in the corner; that probably wouldn't puzzle Will as it had Norrington. The commodore was every bit predictable. The boy's eyes alighted on the cot, the satin sheets and the many, many cushions. Jack smirked, swaggering to a corner of the cabin to pick up another bottle of rum.

"Wan' more?"

William turned his blue eyes on him, a flicker of gold from the lamplight. Smiled, an unreadable twist of his thin lips that sent another flash of almost-knowledge to Jack's mind. "No, thanks." Pointedly. "Jack."

Jack paused for a split-second, then shrugged and uncorked the bottle. "More for me." Pointedly. "Will."

He downed a few gulps, then kicked off his boots and went to lean against the bulkhead. Pearl had been hot enough during the day; she radiated heat even now, in the middle of the night, all the heat the sun had poured onto her. She was uneasy tonight, rolling a warning under his bare feet. He followed a few knots in her wood with his free hand, trying to comfort her as he could.

"You really love that ship, don't you?"

Jack looked up at William curiously. The youth had come a few steps closer, the singular glint back in his eyes. "As much as she loves me," Jack answered softly, frowning steadily. "We're made for each other, the two of us."

William took a few more steps, coming to stand but a few inches from Jack, who straightened up slightly, a hand still on Pearl's wood. "You think it was worth it. All of it. Manipulating the Turners. Risking your neck. Going after Captain Barbossa. Killing him."

The pale eyes seemed to shine with more life than there should have been in them. "I don't kill for fun, Will. He did."

"You only kill when it's necessary. When you feel... justified."

"Aye."

Suddenly a hand was on his, around the bottle of rum. William's lithe fingers took it away from him, and the cork from his palm, fingertips brushing at the sensitive skin and sending a shiver up Jack's spine. William put the bottle down, then took a step forward. Their lips were inches apart. Rum was on the lad's breath, the reflection of the lamplight in his eyes giving him an almost feral look. His lips were slightly parted, his hair fell around his face in waves, his tanned complexion slightly flushed. He was breathing heavily, just like Jack. Anticipation. The exquisite anticipation, before...

Jack darted backward just in time to avoid meeting the sharp blade of the small knife William held in his hand. His sash, however, was not so lucky and now sported yet another cut. He made his tone slightly whiny but no longer slurred, keeping his eyes on the lad. "I like this sash. If only everybody would stop having a go at it, it might actually last." A brief pause, then seriously. "Now, would you mind telling me who you really are?"

"I'm a sailor for the Royal Navy, and I think I'll be doing everyone a favour when I plunge this into your bowels, Jack."

The name was uttered with definite contempt, and the boy's tone was otherwise ringing with hateful anger. Jack had no more trouble placing the pale eyes, or the scornful twist to the lips. The lad even went as far as baring his lips in a snarl before attacking again. Jack sidestepped him only just, earning himself a shallow cut across the chest, through his shirt. He liked his shirt, too! Did William think you could find such exquisite cuffs in any market town? He grabbed the boy's wrist and twisted it so he dropped the knife. Jack wished he had kept his boots on when he cut his foot as he swept the knife aside.

A short scuffle ensued, hands grabbing what they could, clothes or hair or wrists, feet almost but not quite slipping on the blood-covered floor, and for once Jack remained silent as they struggled, the silence only broken by the faint murmurs of the pirates who were on mid watch on deck, the rolling waves, the occasional creaks of the Pearl and the ragged breaths of the two men. The scuffle ended abruptly when Will slipped on the blood on the floor and hit his head on the bulkhead. His body crumpled to the floor. Jack stayed on his guard a few more moments – if the lad was anything like his father, Jack was not about to trust his apparently lifeless appearance.

He nudged William with his foot, then again harder, before turning away with a shrug. He whipped back towards the body almost immediately, and then only was satisfied that the lad was really out. Jack's eyes lingered on the floor of his cabin, covered with the blood from his chest and foot. It seemed the foot had bled quite a lot, for such a harmless cut. Jack looked down with a pout at the slash across his chest, running between the bullet wounds. It was shallow, but he was ready to wager it would leave a long scar, if only because of who had made it. Scars behaved that way, or at least those Captain Jack Sparrow got.

Jack's eyes lingered on the boy. He crouched down next to him and brushed his brown hair aside. The harmonious features that had not yet lost their boyish softness, the wide forehead, the masculine nose, and those thin lips, pinker than his had been. A bonny lad, much more so than his father had been.

Jack's other hand came to follow the slash on his own chest as he trailed his fingers down William's cheek. Aye, he would carry a scar there, and he would let the story be known that it was given to him by one William Hunt, the son of Barbossa. The lad deserved that much.

***

"How long have you known?"

Norrington was only just able to contain the anger that was bubbling up in his chest, to keep his voice low instead of shouting, to glare daggers at Ted instead of throwing insults at him. Long years spent repressing his emotions helped, knowing that he would never stoop so low, but the urges were there all the same.

Groves held Norrington's glare as he answered, "A fortnight."

"A fortnight?" he repeated, every line of his body taut and his tone dripping with incredulity. "And all this time, you kept..."

"William never volunteered any other name."

"You kept 'William' aboard. Among your men. Because..."

"You know why, sir."

In three long strides, Norrington reached the edge of his cabin and looked out of the window into the night, not taking in anything. A fortnight. And now came the decision he would have to make. He was all the angrier at Groves for having put him in this position where he was forced to admit that yes, he probably did treat him differently than others, due to their friendship. Following the law to a fault, that had always been his way of life, and yet already, ever since he had stepped into a room he had thought empty to discover his friend in a rather – compromising – position, Norrington had known to turn a blind eye. Doing otherwise would have meant, at the very least, the end of Groves' career. Certainly prison, too, and maybe even death.

Even now, despite the pain and the rage, Norrington could not bring himself to do that to the otherwise accomplished officer. It added another layer to his anger, anger at being unable to hide behind laws, anger at finding that the choice he had was no choice at all, by his standards.

"I never thought it my business who you shared your cot with, Lieutenant. As long as it did not interfere with your duties."

"Yes, sir."

"You have betrayed my trust and failed in your duties. Mr Gillette will take over captainship of the Contester. I shall not file a report, given the... specificity... of the matter. This will need to be taken care of smoothly."

"Thank you, sir."

James turned back towards Groves, suddenly forsaking the relative safety of pretending to be naught but naval officers. He let his shoulders sag and the measure of his hurt reflect in his eyes. It was reflected, too, in every line of Groves' face, in his eyes and the set of his mouth; he wore an expression that James knew all too well, that which he wore whenever he was trying to hide his pain. His brown eyes shone darkly with a well of violent emotions too deep to fathom.

"You let yourself be blackmailed into betraying your duties, Ted. Into..." He forced the mask of duty back on his face and turned partly away when he felt emotions surge within him and threaten to spill over the surface. He could not make his voice harsh and martial again, though. "Into lying to me. You endangered... William."

Groves hung his head. William had volunteered to go serve on the Black Pearl, for no reason that the - sailor would give Groves, and Groves had agreed, lest William should mention that he was... a deviant, as some would say. The fact that the young Hunt had asked for it did not diminish Groves' fault. He had sent William among a crew of pirates, and tonight said pirates had sailed away from the Navy ships' relative supervision, to an island full of their lawless brethren.

Ted had come forth and confessed to it. James clang to that fact as if to a life saver. Ted had come forth and confessed; he had learned his lesson. His fault did not warrant such a punishment as the revelation of the whole case might lead to. He had come forth and confessed. Frustration at the fact that Ted could not really be punished for his true fault rankled again in his chest.

"She said she wanted a chance at a normal life, sir. A chance any boy would have had."

The glare James directed at him convinced Groves not to press his case. Or hers.

***

A sharp, jabbing pain to the back of her skull. She tried to raise a hand to her head, was prevented from it. Couldn't move, she couldn't move. Didn't know whether the rolling motion was in her head or because they were at sea. Probably both. Opened her eyes to look right into two kohl-rimmed, near-black ones. She was tied to a chair in Jack's cabin. The knots were strong and out of her reach, pointless to struggle, trust him to make it so. She forced her muscles to relax.

Jack smiled, a flash of white, silver and gold, but his eyes were not amused. "Welcome back." He stood up from the chair he had been straddling and stepped away to grab another bottle of rum. She quenched the hope in her lungs; she had learned first hand tonight that, no matter how inebriated, Captain Jack Sparrow remained Captain Jack Sparrow.

The pirate settled down on the chair again, a leg on each side of its back. His every move seemed to speak of casualness, but she had learned not to trust appearances regarding that man. She had learned not to trust anything regarding that man. His black eyes searched her face intently for a few seconds, before he tipped his head back and took a swallow of rum.

"Now, young William, if that be your name, I'm looking hard for a reason not to gut you, and I'm coming up short."

The pain at the back of her head increased a notch. She was glad that her voice did not tremble as she spoke. "I can think of a few off the top of my head."

A sceptical quirk of his lips. "Care to enlighten this humble pirate?"

"When did you know I planned to kill you?"

"When did I not? I'd have to've been blind, Will." A twinkle in his eyes, but it rang false. "Took me a while to understand why, though. You have his eyes."

Surprise and rage battling in her chest. Rage won out, transpiring in her voice. "I wouldn't know. I never met him."

"Why shouldn't I kill you, Will?"

"You only kill when you feel justified."

"I'd say your trying to make me late Captain Jack Sparrow tends to gimme justification."

"Norrington'd break up your deal."

"That he might, if I told him the truth. But see, Will, I left you in Tortuga in the company of one mighty fine lady, and you sadly did not come back this morning."

A sneer twisted her lips. "You tell him that."

"What, I should make her a lad so's to make it probable? Aye."

Another flash of anger, but she pressed her lips together and did not reply.

Jack leaned forward, arms crossed on top of the chair's back. The beads in his hair clinked as he tilted his head to the side. "What made you feel justified to kill me, Will?"

"You killed my father."

"And he'd killed many a lad's father before that, Bootstrap Bill a case in point. Nothing justified him in that." The black eyes would not let it go. "What made you feel justified to kill me?"

"What was his first name?" She had not meant to ask, but now that she had she might as well press it. "He's always Barbossa, no first name. What was it?"

A lopsided grin graced the pirate's lips. "Aye, no first name. You'd think it was something quite shameful, wouldn't you, undeserving of a pirate. Always been of the mind it was Hector." A derisive snort. "Beware, the fierce pirate Hector is a-coming!"

She was not amused. "Was Barbossa even his real name?"

"Mighta been." A casual shrug, eyes staring off into nothingness. Guarded, maybe, as they gained focus again. "We never were that close, and the mutiny pretty much put a stop to our blooming relationship." Life back in those black pools, directed at her again. "What made you feel justified?"

"What else was I to do?"

Jack shook his head as he stood up, taking a few steps to look out the window. Moonlight was filtering in and he stepped into the beam. He looked almost otherworldly there, bathed in the pale, wan light, his skin seemingly paler than she had ever seen it. He looked like a legend, with his inimitable style and a posture that spoke of a hundred fables.

"The big tragedy of you Navy men," Jack declared solemnly. "You fail to see the choices you have." A slight pause, he resumed before she could intervene. "You could join me crew. You'd be on the Pearl, almost as good as killing me, wouldn't ye say?" He turned his head slightly towards her, flashing her an inviting grin. "'Course, that would mean you stopped with that particular plot o' yours."

"I would never turn pirate."

Jack probably heard the irrevocability of her answer, for he turned saddened eyes on her. "And yet you were willing to end me in the memory of one o' the worst o' them. Why?"

"What else was I to do?" she repeated, jutting her chin defiantly.

Jack made a few gestures of his hands before speaking, as if the movements could encourage the words to follow. "It isn't my area of expertise per se, how honest lads earn a living, but there are other choices than the bloody Navy, mate. Like... being a blacksmith, I was told that wasn't too bad a living."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

The back of her eyes prickled and she blinked the impending tears away before the pirate had a chance to glimpse at them. "An honest lad."

"Because you tried to kill me? Many a man would think that in itself would not only make you honest, but a bloody hero. If a foolish one."

"I didn't mean that part."

It took a few seconds for comprehension to dawn on the pirate's face. It appeared that, at last, he was at a loss for words. It of course lasted only moments. "Would you be telling me that..."

She spat it all out as if each word could hurt him. "My name's Claire. Barbossa didn't know he'd knocked my mother up eighteen years ago. I cut my hair, bound my breasts, dressed as a boy and ran away from home in Port-de-Paix, when I heard the first rumours about the Black Pearl being back in your hands. So tell me, Captain Jack Sparrow, what option does life have in store for me?"

"You're a lass."

Contempt twisted her lips again. "Aye," she uttered, bitter irony swirling in her stomach. "We covered that."

His whole face was a mask of intense reflection. He finally threw his hands up in surrender. "All right. I'm willing to admit you don't have so many options as I thought, but... look at you. A tar for the Navy. Isn't that a good position for, er, one such as yourself?" He winced, looked saddened. "I can't believe I just advocated the Navy."

"You mean praying that those who discover your secret will either let you fuck them into silence, or be drunk or underestimate you enough that you can knock them out and throw them overboard before they blabber?" An ugly chuckle broke past her lips. "I don't suppose I'm much of an honest lass either."

"So when you said Captain Sin wasn't your type..."

"More like I'm not his."

Jack scratched the back of his head, shuffling his mane of hair, beads clicking together. "Again, you could have your place aboard the Pearl, and you wouldn't have to hide yourself. Anamaria –"

She spat at his feet. "Never."

"Aye, I can see a resemblance." He raised both of his first fingers, as if to signal he had had a grand idea. "I'll arrange a meeting. Won't take long to find her on shore, she'll be at Joe's or Bill's most likely, and there's none better 'n her at making someone see reason against their will, just you wait."

"Reason in joining with pirates?"

He stopped as he was about to gag her with a dirty bundle of cloth. His eyes were again dead serious. "Much better for you than the alternatives, luv." And he stuffed the gag into her mouth before she could protest. "Now be a right sweetheart and wait here gently while I go get the lady. Savvy?"

And with a pat to her head, he strutted out of the cabin.

Claire let her head fall backward, trying to ignore the new surge of pain from the back of her skull. And he called those choices.

***

There was the sound of broken glass, then raised voices – both of theirs – before Anamaria strode back out of the cabin, swinging the doors closed behind her, looking as angry as Jack had ever seen her. Which meant that she would have given a harpy a run for her money.

"'Twas a bright idea to keep my cutlass for me, Jack," she agreed, black eyes flashing with anger. "I'll be havin' it back now. I've got meself a throat to slice."

Jack was slightly surprised that, lacking her weapon, Anamaria had not tried to slice Claire's throat with her bare teeth, and reflected that confinement to her cabin must have somewhat sweetened his first mate.

"No throat slicing, Anamaria. Commodore James wouldn't take too kindly to a lass being killed on me ship."

The woman did not say anything, simply extended her hand more pointedly, eyes flashing again.
Jack gave her her weapon back, but did not let go until after he had insisted. "I mean it, luv. No throat slicing."

Anamaria wrenched the cutlass from his grip and headed for Pearl's bulkward where a small boat would take her back to shore, tugging the wide-rimmed hat lower over her features in case she met any Navy tars. Jack followed her progress for a few seconds, eyes straying to that determined sway in her hips, before walking back into his cabin. He grimaced in disarray when he realised what the broken glass had been. The smell permeated the whole cabin, which was far from disagreeable, but...

"Why did it have to be the rum?" He looked at the shards of glass from the bottle broken-heartedly, then up at the young lass still tied to a chair. "You're starting to cost me, d'you know that? Between the attempts against my life, which I hold very dear, and the rum without which the life would be held a lot less dear... I don't suppose Anamaria strode out in such a rage because it upset her that you'd accepted to be the second woman aboard, 'ey?"

The pale blue eyes were cold, so very much as Jack remembered his. The thin lips were pressed together in a disdainful line, and Claire did not answer.

"Very well." Jack moved to put out the lanterns, then headed for the cot and stripped out of his clothes. "Then I'll be having meself a nice bit o' sleep, and handing you over to Commodore James when we rendezvous with him in the morning."

Her only response was to spit to the floor again. Jack might have protested if it had not already been covered with a mix of blood and rum. Spit would not make it much worse. The pirate dropped on the cot that was gently swinging with the roll of the waves. Pearl lulled him to sleep amid the cushions, soft and warm. That one, at least, loved him completely, and she was the only woman to truly matter.

Chapter 5: Still the guns and stow 'em


Norrington spared but a glance at the young woman standing on deck, looking so like a boy, her wrists bound behind her back, before he ordered for her to be released. Next to her, Sparrow winced and raised a finger towards Norrington to stress his point. "Just so you know, she's quite the deadly thing."

Norrington raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? And here I was wondering how you had come to discover her subterfuge."

"That would be when dear Claire tried to end the legend that's Captain Jack Sparrow."

Norrington did not try to hide his surprise, turning towards the sullen-looking girl who was rubbing her wrists. "Claire, is it? No last name?"

Again, it was Sparrow who answered: "Father's name, 'ey? That would be Barbossa."

It took Norrington a few seconds to be able to close his mouth. "Ah. That would answer my next question. Was there any particular motive behind her attempt against your person, or was it just the logical result of having spent some time in your company."

Sparrow smiled affably at Norrington. The commodore turned to look at the girl again, and more pointedly at her cheek. "That scar?"

"A mere scuffle on deck, a few days back," Sparrow once again answered for her. Norrington looked expectantly at the girl for confirmation. She nodded once, sharply.

The commodore turned to Groves, who was standing by his side. "Take her to a cabin and set two guards to it, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

Norrington watched them head for the forecastle, his brow lined with concern. He would never have thought her a girl if Groves had not told him so, but it was now painfully obvious. Her features were not so much boyish as feminine, if not particularly attractive. The daughter of Barbossa, was she? Who would have known.

"Lieutenant, 'ey? Did he come forth with his own lil confession last night? Bad timing, that was. For him."

Norrington turned back to Sparrow, then set off for his cabin without a word, his authoritarian look making it clear enough that the pirate ought to follow. Sparrow walked in a few seconds after him. Norrington was standing as straight as was humanly possible next to the closed window, and gestured for Sparrow to close the door. The pirate raised teasingly inquisitive eyebrows, but complied without a word.

"Lieutenant Groves had nothing to confess to, for he was just as much taken aback by your news as I was." He did his best at hiding his uneasiness. He had still not wholly come to term with this decision. "Wholly independent reasons, my own and not anyone's to question, made me reassign Mr Gillette to captain the HMS Contester."

"Gillette? You made Gillette captain of the Contester? He wouldn't be able to know whether she wanted swiftness or a bit o' rest if she were screaming it to him on top of her lungs, mate!"

"I find that your talent to... communicate... with ships is quite rare indeed, thank the Lord," Norrington tersely replied. "Now, Lieutenant Groves would, I am sure, be most grateful if you kept what you knew to yourself."

Dark eyes rendered even blacker by a lining of kohl danced amusingly over Norrington's face as Sparrow purposefully walked closer to him, one slow step after another. "Would you be grateful, James?"

"I told you to call me Commodore."

"Aye. Commodore James." Another enticing smile, followed by one of those nonsensical gestures of his hands. "Would you then? And how grateful exactly, if I... kept quiet?"

Norrington allowed himself a tight smile. "Grateful that I did not have to send you to your unlawful end, Sparrow. I'd much rather see you dance at the gallows after a fair trial than have to come up with a story to explain how I was forced to kill you in self defence."

Sparrow's face closed down and he straightened up. "I see."

"Do you? Excellent. Now we might be able to get some work done. Were you able to glean some sort of information last night?"

Sparrow turned away, tossed his hat on the table, sprawled into a chair – he seemed to make the chair melt under him to follow his shape more than anything else – and propped his feet up on the table. "Aye, Commodore."

A raised eyebrow. "Your feet, Captain."

"I was much able to do that, with my natural skill of persuasion." A cocky grin.

A step forward. "Your feet, Captain."

"You know what I'm talkin' about, right Commodore James?"

Another step forward; he unsheathed his sword. "Your feet, Captain Sparrow."

The black eyes travelled back and forth between blade and face, as if to gauge Norrington's mood and the likeliness of his using that sword. Meanwhile, he kept talking. "'Course, I had to add some earthly motivation to my persuasion, but I expect the outstanding Navy will pay me back in kind."

Norrington used the flat of his blade to push the feet off the table. The boots clapped loudly on the floor. The commodore came to stand between Sparrow and the piece of furniture to prevent any reoccurrence. "What did you learn, Captain?"

"There was none what could tell me the location of the Fortune's berth, 'course, but I did learn she be headed for the Lesser Antilles."

Norrington considered this. With the winds against them, it would take at least ten days to reach the Northern of those islands. At the very best, if they were extremely lucky, they would be back in Port Royal in little more than a fortnight to hang Low. That, of course, was counting without Sparrow. No doubt the pirate would have revealed his hand by then. "I suppose it would be futile to ask you whether you might have withheld any information?"

"As much as any other question you already know the answer to." A childish grin that stretched the tanned skin over the cheekbones, created dimples in the cheeks. "I wouldn't want to be ordered to stay behind, Commodore."

An amused half-smile, the rise of his lips' corner that he could not control in time. "Of course, Captain."

Sparrow frowned, looking up at Norrington with mock-puzzlement and genuine amusement hidden underneath. "You wouldn't be startin' to like me, Commodore James, would ye?" And suddenly serious, before Norrington could fervently protest, "What will you be doing with the girl?"

His objection died on his lips. Ah, yes. He had quite forgotten about her during this short conversation, and reprimanded himself for it. Norrington's brow creased with concern, his eyes unfocused as he went over his options.

"Said her hometown was Port-de-Paix," Sparrow added, an unreadable look on his face. "Might be best to return her there, don't you think?"

On the same mock-shocked tone Sparrow had taken so very recently, Norrington asked, "Would you be asking for my opinion, Captain Sparrow?"

Sparrow crossed his hands and spread them to accentuate his forceful, "No. Absolutely not. What I'm doing... is trying to influence you, mate. Commodore. You're the one to make the decision after all."

"I'll talk to Miss... Hunt." He could not quite bring himself to call her Barbossa. It seemed a name unfit for a member of the fair sex. He ought to enquire after her mother's name; if she came from Port-de-Paix, a Huguenot settlement on the Northern shore of Hispaniolia, not so far from their current position, it was most likely something French, and very much not Hunt.

Sparrow stood, swiping his hat up in the same movement. "If that be all, Commodore." He turned to go, putting his hat back on.

A question that had been troubling Norrington rose to the surface, and this seemed as good a time as any to ask it. He could never be sure whether the current conversation was the last civil exchange he would have with Sparrow, before the pirate turned on them and they both resumed their expected roles at last. "Captain?"

Sparrow turned about in that brisk, unsteady way of his. "Aye?"

Norrington licked his dry lips. "I've been wondering, watching your crew these past few days. How do you bear it, having so little ultimate control over them?"

Again, that altogether childish grin that seemed to hide nothing. "That's the price of freedom, Commodore James." A rush of hand gestures as he went on, "And I might have less control 'n your type over me crew, but they're more loyal to me than half your men to you."

"My men are –"

"Ready to follow yer every order, aye," Sparrow cut in, taking a step closer as he let his passion about the subject take over, "let's admit to that for argument's sake. They respect your station, your rank. It's no rank what ties me men to me. Savvy?"

Norrington frowned as he seemed to understand the pirate's point, then straightened when he realised how lax his stance had become when he had stopped paying it heed. "Yes. Thank you, Captain, for that... interesting... foray... into a pirate's mind."

"Don't mention it, Commodore. Really, don't."

And with that and his eternal sway to the hips, Captain Sparrow exited Norrington's cabin.

***

She didn't say anything until he was about to walk out. She had volunteered no answer to his considerate question, would she need anything. His brown eyes rested on her for a while, and then he turned to go, his Navy face in place, and she couldn't help wonder whether the other question had been on the tip of his tongue.

She answered it anyway, and made it sound like a challenge. "I won't tell anyone about you."

He turned back to her with a frown that cleared away almost immediately. He'd never been much for circumlocutions, for what little she knew him. He nodded, eyes warming up in that impassive face. "Thank you."

She nodded back defiantly and watched him stride out, heard his voice murmur some order or suggestion to the guards set on the cabin. Why did she have to make everything a challenge? It felt as if it were the only acceptable alternative, either that or submission, and she'd take challenge over submission any day.

How she wished that knife of hers had driven into suntanned flesh to the hilt, eyes widening in shock, mouth open to let out one... last... gasp...

The cabin was small, just long enough to hold the hammock, no other piece of furniture. There was a small window, she could have wiggled her way through if it had opened. She could always break the glass, but the sound would alert the guards instantly. Where could she go to, anyway? Back up on deck, or throw herself into the sea, seeking the oblivion of Davy Jones' locker? Neither alternative suited her.

Of course, Jack would have insisted she did have a choice in that.

Her pale eyes roamed over the waves. He'd said she had his eyes. Did it mean cold, merciless eyes, or had Jack ever seen something else in her father's eyes? It felt as if it should matter, but it ultimately didn't. She had missed her shot. She settled down in the hammock, one hand under her head, the other on her stomach, one leg dangling off the side of it, the other folded in it, and listened to the ship. She'd never been on the Dauntless before, was not used to her constancy, her reliability. It made her long for... something. The shadow of another life, and Jack's words came back to haunt her, along with that annoying grin of his, so good-natured, almost boyish.

The big tragedy of you Navy men... you fail to see the choices you have.

Her fingers itched for her knife, images of the scuffle flashing before her eyes, and the blood pooling on the cut on his chest, marring the golden skin, his dark eyes so close to hers and burning with something more than the lamplight's reflection, muscles tense, breaths ragged, chests heaving, every sound outside of the cabin dulled during that every-instant struggle for death, and survival.

There was some of his blood on her shirt, she noticed, a few splattered drops of crimson on the dirty material. She idly ran her fingertips over them; those calloused hands of hers, hardened at the service of the Navy, were no more befitting of her sex than her clothes and she liked it this way. The blood had, of course, long dried. It would take cold water and a good deal of scrubbing if anyone wanted to wash it off. She didn't. Through the rough material of her shirt, she could feel the long strips of cloth binding her small breasts, pressing them flat so they wouldn't betray her. She wondered whether Captain Groves – no, Lieutenant now, hadn't the Commodore said so? – had his doubts about the two tars that had gone missing over the last few weeks. He probably didn't. He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would let men be killed to salvage his own career and life. Moreover, he didn't strike her as the kind of man who would think her capable of such a thing.

Cold-blooded murder. Well, maybe not so cold-blooded as that. There had been rum, and hushed voices, discord and a definite heat coursing through her veins...

She brought her second hand under her head and stared up at the wood-coloured bulkhead... not this strange black wood she had come to know the last few days, that of the ship her father had all but stolen from Jack. What was she to do now?

The knock on the door took her aback and she straightened up too quickly, unbalancing the hammock. She barely managed to steady herself by leaning a hand against the bulkhead. She did not get up, they be damned if they thought she was going to show manners, as she answered. "Enter."

It was Commodore Norrington himself, and she found with displeasure that the Navy had moulded her well: she was standing straight on her feet, a "sir" on the tip of her tongue, before her supposed rebelliousness kicked in.

The officer looked at her with confusion, lips parted as if to say something, before his brow cleared. "At ease, Miss... Hunt."

She scolded, both that he would need to issue such an order and at the way he addressed her. Crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin out defiantly.

The commodore seemed almost hurried as he turned to close the door, all the while talking: "The guards are of course still outside, for propriety's sake."

She almost snorted at that, but the respect due to an officer prevented her from doing quite that. Propriety? Was the commodore such a fool? As he turned back to her, Navy face full in place and eyes shaded with something akin to nobility, she wondered whether he was not, more simply, such an honourable man. A different sort of fool.

They stood there for a few seconds in silence, the officer rather awkwardly searching for words, and her not having any to utter. He broke the silence at last, hands clasped behind his back: "I feel obliged to ask. Did Captain Sparrow or any of his crewmen... mistreat you, in any way?"

He, too, was the kind of man that would never think her capable of doing what she had done. She let the bitterness twist her lips. "No."

Some measure of relief showed in the green eyes. "Good." Another pause, awkward on his part. She simply waited. "I must admit, Miss... I'm at a loss what to call you," he interrupted himself.

"You know my father's name." He would never think her capable of doing what she had done.

"But I assume you grew up bearing your mother's?"

Not in her heart, not after she had wrestled his name out of her mother's lips. "Calvet."

"Well I must admit, Miss Calvet," the learned man that he was, who must have been taught French from an early age, did not pronounce it Calvay as most Englishmen would, "that I am at a loss what to do with you. Captain Sparrow mentioned that you originated from Port-de-Paix..."

She knew her eyes had flashed dangerously, reflecting the burst of anger in her chest, for the commodore's gaze turned cautious. Her tone was low when she spoke. "I won't stay there."

"And what will you do, Miss Calvet? You cannot possibly think to seek employment with the Navy again. If your thoughts are to turn towards piracy..."

"Never!" Arms uncrossed, tense at her sides, fists clenched. "I will never turn pirate."

The officer surveyed her thoughtfully. "Did you not wish to avenge your pirate of a father? While I do not carry Captain Sparrow in my heart, he is a far better man on his bad days than Barbossa on his good... moments," he finished, as if doubting that her father had had such long periods of goodness as days.

She had not known her father, could not judge him. She could judge Jack for having killed him, though, for having prevented her from knowing him. "I meant to avenge my father, not a pirate, and I still do."

"Did you ever meet him, Miss Calvet?"

A stubborn set of her jaw as she was forced to answer, "No."

A faint smile, humourless, as if she had confirmed something to him. "I did not have the pleasure either. Did you ever care to wonder why your mother would have kept the identity of your father secret? She did, did she not?"

She turned her head away sharply, looking out the small window, refusing to answer. This did not deter the commodore from pressing on.

"Those who did not know what kind of a... man your father was might attribute it to the fear she might have felt at the thought his enemies would want to use you for leverage." His tone rang with martial veracity, his words tracing a truth she had always kept locked away in her bosom, only to be examined in the middle of the night when she could not find sleep. "Others might know better. He himself might have come back to throttle the babe that you were, to eliminate his own offspring for fear they would be turned into leverage. What could such a fierce pirate want with a daughter, regardless?"

His fingers closed around her wrist a few inches before her fist would have connected with his jaw. His grip was hard, but not painful, and he held her gaze for an instant before letting go.

"What options do I have, commodore?" she flung at him, lowering her arm along her body. "Go back to Port-de-Paix, find a husband that would want of a creature like me? Better yet, why not drop me off at Tortuga, and I'll play the wife for any who can pay me right!" She paused, realised with awe that her whole body was slightly shaking. She turned away fully, unwilling to face him any longer, and walled herself up into stubborn silence.

He remained quiet, too, for a few instants. Something caught in his voice as he next spoke, and she forced herself not to wonder at it. "You will remain aboard until I decide of your fate."

He stepped away to the door, stayed there for a few seconds, then opened it and strode out without one more word. Claire slowly unclenched her fists and raised her outstretched hands so she could spy at the crescents her nails had dug into her palms. She was still trembling, and she laid her hands on the bulkhead in an effort to steady herself and get a hold on her body. Her knees buckled under her and she slid down the length of the wooden wall, one that gave off no heat.

The sobs wrecking her body were silent, but to her they were everything, baring her very soul, in and out with her shaky breaths. Just outside her door, the guards did not have a clue.

Chapter 6: Lower the starboard anchor


James Norrington was pacing. He was well aware of the fact, and under any other circumstances would have remedied it. But the situation warranted some pacing. He had earned the right to pace some. He slid off his hat and wig and threw them on his cot in a careless gesture. They landed neatly on the pillow.

He was just back from yet another visit to Miss Calvet. Little good those visits had done, over the ten days or so, for no solution presented itself to him about what to do with her. Worse, visiting her invariably unsettled him. He had thought Sparrow a master at perturbing him, but it seemed as though Miss Calvet were just as good, if not better at it. However, unlike Sparrow, she did not seem to do it purposefully.

He ran a hand through his hair, then took off his frock coat and put it away neatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to delay the impending headache.

Her attire was still that of a boy, she would not part from this guise. He had offered to have a tar's uniform brought to her so that she might at least shed her pirate clothes, and he had voiced his regret that they had no woman's clothes to offer, but she had huffed and refused to change. Such a refusal to accept her own nature perplexed the commodore. She reminded him of Elizabeth in a strange, painful way, an Elizabeth that had been born much lower than what she deserved, an Elizabeth driven wilder than she were by the choices she felt she did not have, an Elizabeth turned angry and bitter. It was partly Elizabeth's feisty nature that had called to him; while he had hoped for a wife in the very British sense of the word, he had also wanted a companion, someone who could challenge him. Elizabeth had seemed the perfect choice.

He had grown to love her, yes, driven by his rational choice. He had loved her as much as he could love, and he still did, if he were honest. Stepping back to let Mr Turner have her was proof of how rational his love was. He was as of yet stranger to passion, and hoped well to remain this way.

He was trying hard not to think of the face that haunted him during his sleepless nights when there was a knock on his door. He snatched his wig and put it on swiftly, checking his appearance in the mirror before straightening up. "Come in."

Groves walked in, the picture of naval obedience and strictness. The sight reawakened the feeling of betrayal and disappointment. Disappointment in himself, too, that he had misjudged Groves so, had thought him ready for captainship; but more than anything the dull ache announcing the end of a friendship that had started some twenty years ago. "We are in sight of the Antilles, sir. Captain Sparrow has signalled that he wanted a word with you."

"Heave to, Mr Groves, and tell Captain Sparrow he might join us aboard." Then, as Groves nodded: "Have Captain Gillette join us as well."

"Sir."

Yes, the wound was still fresh and raw. Norrington had not reflected on how much trust he placed in Groves until the sharp pain of betrayal brought his attention on it. What he had told Groves had been true. He could care less who he shared his cot with, as long as it did not interfere with his duties. It had, and yet Norrington could not bring himself to file a report. Could not bring himself to do this to Ted. The consequences would be disastrous.

Norrington checked his thoughts, shrugged on his coat and coiffed his hat. He strode on deck to meet the two captains. He stood by the bulkward, watching the two cockboats being rowed. Gillette's arrived first, and the gloating look on the captain's face was unmistakable. Any other day, Norrington might have been amused. On this day, however, it only irritated him. He felt he had no patience whatsoever, should it be for Gillette's misplaced hostility or Sparrow's antics.

"And how is Miss Claire?" Sparrow asked as they stood in Norrington's cabin.

"As well as could be expected," Norrington replied sternly. "I assume you had something of more importance in mind than asking about Miss Calvet's wellbeing, when you requested a word?"

"Aye, but I'd like a word with the lass first."

"To what purpose?"

"My purpose is my own, Commodore, but 'tis to be a word in private with the young miss afore I tell you of things of more importance."

"You cannot think that you can blackmail the –"

"That will do, Captain," Norrington cut in before Gillette could say anything more. The commodore steeled himself, eyes boring into Sparrow's. "Do not make the mistake to think that I trust you. You will have five minutes with Miss Calvet, not one more, and I shall ascertain that you have not been inappropriate in your conduct by asking her myself. You will then fully cooperate, Captain, else you wish me to revoke your privateer nature on the basis that you not follow orders."

"We have an accord," Sparrow agreed with a flash of golden teeth.

Gillette had the good sense to wait until Sparrow had been led away to express his disagreement.
"I must question the wisdom of indulging a pirate, sir."

"This pirate is the one that can lead us to Low, Captain. Moreover, Miss Calvet hates the man probably even more than you do, I find it highly unlikely that anything could transpire between those two that would turn to Sparrow's advantage against us."

"Yes, sir."

Norrington tried to chase the tendrils of irritation still rankling his chest. It seemed that anything could set him off these days, and he berated himself for his lack of patience. When he tried to go back to the source of it all, the same cheeky grin with the hints of gold and silver always came to mind.

***

She was going to turn crazy. She could feel the unfathomable depths of madness threatening to engulf her, could sometimes see shadows at the corner of her eyes, imagined them to be waiting to get their clutches on her. The commodore was trying, but there was no help for her, she knew it. Her restlessness grew with each passing day, whose monotony was only broken when the commodore or Lieutenant Groves came to take her up for a walk on deck. But even those short strolls were not helping much; her eyes kept darting towards the Pearl, and she hated herself for hoping to catch a glimpse of the unmistakable figure of her captain.

Her breath caught in her throat on the few occasions when she did.

Her attention was jostled back to the here and now at the knock on her door. She put a stop to her pacing and adopted a purposefully relaxed stance, looking out the small window. "Enter."

"Captain Jack Sparrow requested a word with you, Miss," the red-coat informed her, taking her by surprise.

And in swept the pirate, with his unbelievable boots, the sash across his waist with his pistol carelessly tucked in it, and his new Turner blade at his side, testimony to the loyalty of a young couple of honourable Port Royal citizens. His unbuttoned coat let her see a new shirt, identical to the one she had slashed, a hint of his chest's golden skin, and she wondered not for the first time if she had given him a scar. He took his hat off in a flourish to bow at her, a parody for which she wanted to tear those intense dark eyes out of their sockets.

"Miss Claire," he said mock-politely, before turning to the red-coats. "If you could leave us a measure of privacy, gentlemen."

The soldiers looked at him distrustfully, but closed the door. Claire checked herself while Sparrow's back was turned, straightening her spine and steeling her gaze into something cold and foreign.

The pirate turned back to her with a golden smile and a small motion of his hands, taking a step forward. "Ha, alone at last."

She instinctively retreated a step and cursed herself for it.

His face showed a mixture of confusion and hurt, too overdone to be sincere. "You can't be thinkin' I'm here to wrong you, luv. If that were my way, I'da done it much sooner 'n this."

She remained stubbornly mute.

"Oh, I see how it'll be then," he noted with another grin, but one that looked less genuine than the others. "Looks like I asked this small favour of Commodore James for nothing. You still haven't warmed up ter me, have ye?"

She wanted to answer, to tell him where exactly he could shove his propositions, such coarse language as a lass should never have come in contact with, but something in the light dancing off his dark eyes rendered her unable to trust her own voice. She remained silent.

He took a step closer, and she prided herself in holding her ground so steadily. He dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper.

"Give me something to work with here, luv. I'm tryin' to save ye from whatever option the good commodore will finally choose for ye." He looked steadily at her for a few seconds, then gazed out the window. "You'd make a fine pirate, I'm sure you would. 'Course, Gibbs would protest you be bad luck, but he always does, dunne? You'd give Anamaria a run for her money, too, and that wouldn't be such a bad thing. She needs to be kept on her toes, that she does." He tilted his head towards her, an inviting pout drawing out his bottom lip. "I'm offering ye freedom, lass. La liberté. Savvy?"

"La liberté?" she repeated the French words in a disdainful whisper, then snorted loudly. "If you're so free, Captain Sparrow, why do you hide behind all this? The beads, the clothes, the hair, the attitude?"

"Now –"

"I've been watching you. You're no freer than I am."

"I'm not confined to a cabin," he saw fit to point out, as if it mattered in the least.

She simply looked away from him, a disdainful sneer twisting her lips at his refusal to tackle what was of true import. Then, after a few seconds: "Why do you even care? I tried to kill you."

"You won't believe me if I say it's for your father, will ye?"

She levelled an icy glare at him.

"Yet it is," he pressed on nonchalantly. "In a manner of speaking. I –"

A knock on the door interrupted him, and immediately the commodore stepped in. "I believe you have had enough time to trouble Miss Calvet, Captain."

She hated the look of regret in Jack's eyes as he looked at her to answer. "Aye, Commodore. I believe I have." He put his hat on with the same lingering dullness in his eyes, so very opposite to the amused tone of his voice. "Good day, Miss Claire."

He walked out, brushing past the commodore who suffered it without the slightest hint of a frown, before looking back at her. "I trust he has behaved as a gentleman towards you, Miss."

"As much of a gentleman as he can be," she answered scornfully, then turned away to look out the window. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the commodore nod, then step out.

The shadows seemed to be closing in on her.

***

James was not happy about it. Groves had not been invited to attend the meeting of the captains and commodore, but it was clear when James strode back out of his cabin and curtly led Gillette and Sparrow to their boats that he was not happy about what the pirate had had to say. And then he had given the order. Follow the Black Pearl. They should have known. Of course Jack would not want to lose his upper hand by revealing too much information; it was, after all, what had made him lose the Pearl to Barbossa. Groves suspected that the mutiny had done a lot in shaping Jack Sparrow into the man he now was.

It had now been a little over two hours. James had given the order and retreated to his cabin, trusting Groves to handle the Dauntless. Trusting... not so much. Groves knew better than to think James still trusted him, in the way that mattered. He had to wonder that he was even still an officer, that James had not confined him to the brig pending their return to Port Royal and his court martial. But it seemed that James was giving him another chance to prove his worth as an officer.

But as a friend? Groves was not sure he could ever make things right. He felt oddly accepting of the end of their childhood friendship. There had always been a rift between them, a rift between James and most of the world actually, no matter that Groves had lacked the maturity to note it until they had both been attending the Academy. Looking back on their childhood games now – their mothers had been friends and had always delighted in bringing the two of them together, the last Norrington and the only Groves – it was all too clear that the rift had always been there. James had always taken things so seriously. Making him laugh had been young Ted's mission statement on many a day.

Groves nodded to the two guards on duty outside of her cabin, then knocked on the door. "Would you care for a walk?"

As usual, she simply nodded and followed him on deck. As usual, he did not offer her his arm as James invariably did.

"Why was he allowed to visit me?" she asked after a minute's silent walking along the bulkward.

They stopped, standing side by side. She had her hands thrust in her pockets and was looking off at the sea, while Groves had a fist in his back and a hand laid on the bulkward and was studying her profile closely, trying to understand her.

"I was not present when the authorisation was granted, but I trust Captain Sparrow to be persuasive enough."

Her clear blue eyes glinted harshly as she turned to face him. Her whole stance spoke of defiance, but Groves had learned not to take offence. The defiance was not anything personal, simply the only way she found to function. "Do you fancy him?"

He raised eyebrows at her question, unable to hide his surprise, then regained his composure. "I fail to see how this is any of your business," he replied harshly.

She shrugged, absolutely unfazed by his tone. "He's strangely handsome."

Groves was about to ask, do you?, when she abruptly changed subject. "Do you trust him?"

"He's a pirate."

"Do you trust he'll fill in his end of the bargain?"

Groves took a few seconds to think. "Yes." Another pregnant pause. "Do you still wish to kill him?"

She turned away and leaned forward, her elbows on the bulkward. Not for the first time, he had to remind himself that she was not the boy she masqueraded as. Her answer was but a whisper that he could have thought another murmur of the wind. "No." And suddenly he had no trouble seeing the girl in her, in her frailty and vulnerability. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. She still would not meet his eye, but her whole face betrayed her openness. Another question in a whisper. "Do you know what the commodore will do with me?"

Groves' chest tightened uneasily and he shifted, suddenly restless. "No. The safest course would be to return you to your family –"

"I don't have any." Was it his imagination, or were her eyes shining with unshed tears? "My mother's dead. My uncle wanted to sell me. I ran away."

"I am sure the commodore would be willing to put in a good word for you, should you be ready to become a maid in –"

"Would you be satisfied being a servant when you've known," she straightened up and made a vague motion with her hand, encompassing the Dauntless and the sea around them, the waves, the wind, the setting sun, the salty air, the freedom, "this?" She did not wait for an answer but carried on. "What do you think of Jack Sparrow?"

Groves was taken aback by the question and wondered whether she again meant to enquire after his taste in men, then realised that the question ran much deeper than this. He took a few seconds to think it through, carefully phrasing his answer. "Captain Sparrow is a pirate. But as far as pirates go, I think there are many others more deserving of the gallows than him."

"But he deserves to be hanged?"

The pain was back in his chest as he thought of the men they had lost during the fight against Low. He went back to the pirate's aborted execution, the stubborn face of a Port Royal blacksmith, and a good man. Summoned up Jack's solemn eyes during his men's funerals. "Yes," he lied.

Her clear eyes seemed to lose themselves on the waves. "Do you think we always have a choice?"

His throat smarted and he tried to understand what they were talking about; or perhaps he knew exactly what they were talking about. He dropped his own voice to a whisper, switching to French, his mother's native language, to reduce the chance of any successful eavesdropping. "Did Jack have an offer for you, is that why he requested to see you?"

An undecipherable shadow fleeted across her features before she looked up at him, the hint of desperation glinting in her eyes. She laid a hand on his arm, a boy's hand on his frock coat, but the eyes were most definitely feminine. "If I could ask a favour of you, sir... Let him know that I said... aye."

Groves drew himself up. "I am an officer of the Navy, Miss Calvet, do not forget it. I think it is time for you to return to your cabin."

Her hand gripped the blue cloth, preventing him from moving. "Let him know. Aye." Then she looked away as if to hide her desperation and released his arm, allowing him to escort her back to her cabin without another word.

He closed the door on her, but his own discomfort only grew as he walked away, back to the deck. Despite his better judgment, he was already planning how to get the word across to Jack. Her helpless, pleading eyes left him no choice. Or, perhaps, gave him one.

***

Norrington woke up in a cold sweat, images of the same face dancing behind his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes wearily and swung his legs off his cot, running a hand through his hair. The moonlight filtered in through the window and his sight quickly got accustomed to the half light, enough for him to be able to make his way around the cabin. His throat was dry and he helped himself to some water, hoping against hope to quench his thirst. His hands were trembling, he realised with awe.

This was becoming absurd and, worst yet, it was getting out of control. He had not had a decent night's sleep since she had set foot on his ship. Her defiance... it rattled him to the core of his being. She was not beautiful, did not measure up to Elizabeth's charms by half, but she obsessed him in a way the governor's daughter had failed to achieve. She was everywhere he looked, a silent, relentless figure that could set him off with a look or a word.

It disturbed him greatly. She was much below him, she was not beautiful, even now she would not shed her boyish disguise, and yet he wanted her... fiercely. His desire surfaced most at night, during the shameful dreams that would not fail to wake him up. His violent urges scared him. It was so unlike him. James Norrington was a stranger to passion, he told himself numerous times. Passion had no place with an officer of the Navy. Passion had no place with an honourable man.

He dressed in a daze and was out on the deck before he realised where his feet planned to take him. He stopped himself short and took in his surroundings. The sea was calm, as was the whole ship. Two tars that walked by saluted him in a whisper, to which he replied by a terse nod. If they found it odd that the commodore should be up at this hour of the night, they made no sign of it. He frowned slightly, wondering when the taller of the two had been reassigned from the Contester to the Dauntless, but it was no more than a fleeting concern.

He strode to the forecastle and frowned when he saw Murtogg and Mullroy asleep on each side of the door of her cabin. His resolve melted. He felt a burst of anger that they should be asleep on watch, but his passion overtook and quelled the fury in a heartbeat. His heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest as he turned the key in the lock; the door opened without a sound; there was a loud beat at his temples; he stepped in and closed the door.

A beam of moonlight fell on her face, highlighting the planes and angles of her usually soft features and throwing the faint scar on her cheek into sharp relief. She was sprawled in the hammock as only a sailor who was used to sleeping in one could be. More than ever she looked like a boy, and more than ever the knowledge that she was not stirred something deep within Norrington. He was but a few feet from her, so close...

Yet he did not move. Did not make a single gesture in her direction. Simply watched her sleep, this girl-child who his reason knew to be a dangerous woman, a woman driven by her absence of choice. He ought to offer her a choice. He ought to be able to do better for her than life had chosen to. He could not stand by while she made a tragic figure out of herself. The moonlight seemed to drain all colour from her, shades of blue grey and grey blue defining her forms, and if not for her regular breathing he might have thought her dead.

She stirred and he tensed, but she settled down immediately, her thin lips slightly parted. They seemed to be everything to Norrington then, two grey blue touches on the blue grey face, open slightly as if waiting for something. He forced his eyes away from them, over the closed eyes and the fine eyebrows, the smooth forehead, the brown hair still tied back in a ponytail, the narrow shoulders and the arms he could picture too muscular for a lady despite their slimness, the calloused hands, the hips he could now guess at under the clothes, the lean legs, the small feet that balanced her so well on a ship...

"It's your turn, then?"

He stepped back instinctively at the sound of her contemptuous voice, his back hitting the door. He needed a second to acknowledge that he was not dreaming, that she had awoken. She had sit up in the hammock and her pales eyes were fixing him with disgust and, perhaps, hurt.

He frowned, gulped, licked his dry lips. Somehow managed to straighten his shoulders, calling to every ounce of dignity he still possessed. "I – apologise, Miss Calvet. I realise the impropriety of my presence here at this hour. It shall not happen again."

He made to go, but she held him back with one word. "Wait." Against his better judgement, he turned back to her, to find her standing just a few feet from him. A few wisps of brown hair had escaped her ponytail. "What were you doing here?"

The question was soft-spoken, and for the first time Norrington thought he heard a woman's voice. It shook him more than he cared to admit, for he had never heard her use this voice, save from the whispers in his shameful dreams. The beam of moonlight now lit but her midriff, and her features were softened by the shadows again. "I... was thinking that perhaps, you would consider another offer."

He surprised himself by the thought that had struck his fancy, wondered at his sanity. This was thoughtless, ridiculous, unlike him in all regards, and yet – there was something undeniably enticing in the thought as he watched the glint in her pale eyes. In knowing that he could offer her this, more, that he could be the one to save her from what she would turn herself into.

She frowned. "An offer for what?"

"Regarding your future life," he replied, gaining in confidence despite the warning a part of his mind was shouting at him. Madness, it said. Absolute madness. "It would greatly sadden me to see you going to waste for lack of opportunity; I am consequently here to offer you one." And he had mocked Sparrow's madness? It was as the blind mocking the visually challenged. But he had to be able to offer her something, something better. "It shall give you a better position than you could have hoped for. As you may not know, I am still a bachelor. I would be prepared –"

A dry chuckle escaped her lips, making the words die on his lips. "You propose to wed me?" Another humourless laugh which hurt Norrington's ears. "I'd make such a wife, wouldn't I? Not quite the kind a successful young Commodore could show off at receptions, though. More the kind you hide away for shame."

"I would not –" Norrington took a deep breath before resuming on a more gentle tone. "I would not take anybody to wife that I were ashamed of."

"You're in earnest."

"Of course I am," he replied patiently. "Have you ever known me not to be?"

"You're even dafter than Jack!" she exclaimed.

He ground his teeth and took a second to get his emotions under control. "This would be an excellent match for you. A match you could never have hoped for. I would be a good husband to you, I would be fair to you."

"No."

"I would, I assure you."

"I mean, no. I won't marry you, Commodore. I refuse your proposal."

He took the blow in silently. The part of his mind, the one he liked to call rational, the one that had been protesting most vehemently against this new development, was now doing its best to prevent him from a peel of hysterical laughter. The situation was preposterous. He, Commodore of the Royal Navy, had just been refused by the daughter of a pirate! He was equally relieved and saddened that she had denied him.

He needed some sleep. Yes. A couple of hours each night were not enough, and the lack of sleep had apparently resulted in delirium. Temporary madness. Dafter than Jack.

His tone was deliberately spiteful when he spoke. "I hope you do realise that you have just refused your best option, Miss Calvet. I apologise for having disturbed your rest. It shall not happen again."

"Commodore," she called him back, and he noted with surprise that her eyes were flooded with tears. Her voice was harsh as she spoke, the better to cover up her weakness, but there was no doubt in his mind that she meant every word. "A cage is still a cage, no matter how good it looks. I'd rather die."

His hand fumbled for the door handle in his back and he was outside, locking it and almost stumbling away. The pain and the force of his passion only caught up with him then with more violence, that he had previously held them at bay.

Around the corner of the hallway he ran into someone – Ted. His friend's face went through a quick succession of surprise, alarm, then concern. "James, are you all right? You look..." Norrington managed to straighten up and immediately Groves' whole attitude changed. "I'm sorry sir, I did not see you coming."

There was a gaping hole in Norrington's chest, but his cool Navy exterior remained well in place. "It's quite alright, lieutenant." He walked by Groves up on deck, torn from the inside although nothing on the outside would betray his agony. He made for his cabin and only once safely inside did he sink on his bed, draw his legs to himself, and drop the mask. Now perhaps more than ever, she held him captive against his will, inescapably drawn that he was to something in her he could not quite define.
There were no tears to be cried. Only shame.

Chapter 7: Man overboard


Norrington woke to a particularly nasty headache. He let go of the empty glass he still clenched in his right hand and raised his head from the table. He realised the frantic pounding was not only coming from inside his head when he heard his name called from the other side of the door. Fighting down a surge of nausea, he rushed about making sure he was presentable, before straightening up, thinning his lips to a line and answering, "Come in."

The door opened and a red-coat entered and saluted. "Commodore, sir..."

"What is it, Mr Hobson?"

"Miss Calvet, sir. She's gone."

A weight of lead settled at the pit of his stomach. His voice was devoid of emotions as he spoke, but so much so that he might as well have screamed the simple word for all the pain that it carried. "Gone?"

"Jumped through the window, sir."

The image came, unbidden. I'd rather die. Her still body, clothes torn by the water, being washed ashore on an unknown beach. The pale lips, the unseeing eyes, the ghastly skin.

Anger came, swift and rising, sweeping everything in its wake. Anger at the soldiers that had been sleeping, that they had not heard her. Anger at himself, that he had not woken them up, shame dictating his actions. He followed the red-coat to her cabin, where Groves was waiting for them. A few bloodied shards of glass littered the cabin floor, and Norrington could picture her cutting her hands on them as she pried them out of the pane, her face a mask of determination with only the occasional flashes of pain. Anger at her, that she should have gone through with this, that she had believed that truly, death was her best option. Anger at himself, that his irrational actions and words might have helped convince her of this.

He listened absent-mindedly to Groves' report, nodded his agreement at the rather lenient punishment suggested for the two soldiers on duty. He could not look away from a particularly sharp shard of glass, its edge turned red with blood. He frowned, looked at Groves' honest face, at the hints of sadness in his dark eyes, and frowned some more. But before he could speak, a commotion was heard on deck, and soon enough they heard the cry, "Sail ho! The Fortune!"

As the perfectly trained Navy officer that he was, Norrington pushed to the back of his mind everything that was not of immediate import as he strode up on deck. He headed straight for the poop deck and took the spyglass Lieutenant Wilson offered. Yes, it was undoubtedly the Fortune, with the unmistakable flag of Captain Low.

"The Black Pearl and the Contester have already started to give chase, sir. Shall I give the order to follow?"

"By all means, Mr Wilson."

Another sort of tension had replaced the one in his chest. This was it. Sparrow would undoubtedly lay his cards on the table now, if he were to turn on them. Norrington wished Gillette would have waited before sailing forth, but it would have been just as hazardous, if only more careful, to give the Pearl such a head start. Norrington did not fancy leaving Sparrow any time to parley with Low.

He remembered the glint in Sparrow's eyes when he had mentioned bringing Low down. He might not have to worry about such a thing. He directed the spyglass back to the Pearl and froze at the sight that greeted him.

Why had he never been informed that the Black Pearl had oars?

***

If Jack had one regret in this particular moment, it was to be unable to witness the look on Gillette's face when the man saw the sweeps. The Contester would now quickly fall behind, leaving Jack time enough to have a tête-à-tête with Captain Ned Low. He glanced at the small figure that was currently up in the rigging, working as any other man despite her bandaged hands, and grinned. Today was most certainly looking up.

Pearl had grown used to the Navy tars, it seemed, and she had stopped complaining a few days before. He could now feel her trepidation, as she realised that she would soon be free of them, and of the flag. Aye. He was just as eager as she. She gave him all she had and brought him within cannon's range of the Fortune in a record time. He manoeuvred her so that she would sail in the Contester's line of fire without presenting a target to the pirate sloop, and proceeded to catch up with the Fortune.

They quickly boarded, firing their cannons only to retaliate. They had the advantage of numbers, and the party Jack had dispatched to disable the Fortune's cannons accomplished their task quickly enough. Only then did Jack leave Pearl to go look for Low on the other pirate's ship.

After a few minutes' vain search below deck and in the captain's cabin, Jack set foot back on the main deck and spotted Low's quartermaster. He headed straight for the tall, scraggy man sporting a black beard and long black hair that seemed to accentuate the sharpness of his brown features and the glint of his clear blue eyes.

"If I might have a word with you, Mendoza," Jack requested as their swords clashed.

"That's Captain Mendoza now."

Jack dropped just in time to dodge a loose pulley, but it caught Mendoza in the chest and sent him sprawling. Jack lost no time and rushed forward, pressing the tip of his sword – it felt so right in his hand, Will was a true genius of a blacksmith – against Mendoza's throat. "Is that right? What happened to Low?"

"We voted him out. He had it coming."

Jack tried to ignore the knot in his chest. "Marooned him, did ye?"

"Aye. On a small boat. We've a wager goin' on 'bout who will pick him up, if anyone."

A flurry of emotions was raging within Jack, from disgust to anger at identifying with such a one as Low. Back to business, he ordered himself. "You know why I'm here. I only want back what's mine."

"And for that you'll help them send the likes of us to the gallows," Mendoza spat out contemptuously, blue eyes shining with passion in the middle of the suntanned face.

The battle was all but done around them, probably thanks to the proposition he had allowed his crew to make to the other pirates, rendered efficient by the impending threat of the approaching Navy ships. The Contester would catch up shortly, however, Jack knew it without turning to check on her position, and he had no time to enter into a debate about his intentions with Mendoza. "Just tell me where it is, mate."

A slow grin spread on the man's thin lips, distorting his face into a grotesque mask of glee. "What do you think, Sparrow? We already spent it all. We're pirates, not bankers. There isn't but the likes of you to keep so much gold to spend later."

Jack did not try to hide his incredulity. "You spent it all? But there was – never mind that. There was a particular coin, Spanish, with a hole inside?"

Mendoza's glee only seemed to increase. "It's for that trinket you was so intent on chasin' us? It explains why Low always carried it around with him."

"You mean to say he has it still?" Jack asked with a woebegone look.

"Aye."

Blast.

***

Claire had been fingering the knife in her pocket, all the while observing the conversation between Jack and the man sprawled on the deck. Jack had of course issued orders that she not set foot on the Fortune's deck, and that she not have a weapon, but he must have known that unless he confined her to a cabin, she would manage to get her hands on one.

And she had made it very clear to him that she would not switch from a cabin aboard the Dauntless to a cabin aboard the Pearl. He had muttered something about Anamaria having his hide when she learned of it, but agreed.

This was her chance. Jack's whole attention was on the man with the crazy blue eyes and nothing would have been easier than to have him now. Killing him had been her sole aim when she had accepted his proposition, when she had played Lieutenant Groves and then Commodore Norrington into believing her to be a frightened, wounded, desperate woman after all, when she had broken that window and when she had jumped into the cold water, only to be rescued by the small cockboat of the Pearl's and a grinning Jack. He must have known it, but he intended to make the best out of her murderous intentions, it seemed.

Except in this instant, he seemed oblivious to anything but the man sprawled beneath him.

And she found that she lacked the motivation to drive her short blade home, right into his heart, because it would just be another cage. One cage after the other. The commodore had offered her a golden cage and she had refused it; did she really mean to accept such a hideous one as this?

***

Captain Trevor Gillette surveyed the deck of the Fortune with something akin to respect for Sparrow's efforts. There seemed to have been few dead, which was surprising for a fight between two such parties of scoundrels. It forced him to somehow readjust his view of Sparrow, and while the occurrence did not please him, he could hardly do any less with such proof displayed before him.

He stepped onto the Fortune with the air of a general come to congratulate his troops. He felt slightly let down that no one should acknowledge his presence.

"Where did you leave him?" he heard Sparrow's voice clearly ask, ringing with a seriousness he had never before heard the pirate use. "Where did you leave Low?"

He walked through the crowd of pirates and finally came upon the scene that held everybody's attention. Sparrow was towering above a pirate on the floor, the tip of his blade inches from the man's throat. Of course, this was the moment when Sparrow's true motives would be revealed.

"Some hundred leagues to the East of Guadeloupe, and good luck finding him, mate," the pirate replied with arrogance, despite his inauspicious position.

Gillette watched the faces around, and only then realised that an incredibly small number of pirates seemed to be held prisoner. Too small to be the whole of Low's crew. And there was simply no way to differentiate them from Sparrow's.

"Captain Sparrow, I trust you did not hope to incorporate any of Low's men into your crew," he haughtily remarked.

Sparrow looked away from the man on the floor. "Ah, Captain Gillette," he replied without any of his usual bonhomie.

Just then, there was an alarmed cry and a young tar crashed into Sparrow right as the shot fired. The two bodies fell to the floor together, while a brown-skinned woman stepped forward and kicked the pistol out of the hand of the man on the floor, before dealing him a backhanded slap that made Gillette wince in sympathy. A few of his red-coats had stepped forward as well and their rifles were pointed at the man.

Sparrow was laying out the body of the youth, hands opening the shirt to check on the bloody wound. It was only when Gillette saw the layers of cloth binding the youth's chest that he realised who this was. Who she was. He knew they ought not to have let Sparrow have a word with her! Sparrow cut through the cloth with a knife he produced seemingly out of thin air and Gillette gasped at the sight of her small breasts, feeling blood flush his cheeks in embarrassment. Dying or not, did Sparrow have no shame?

Despite his embarrassment, Gillette had seen enough wounds to recognise a lost cause, and apparently so had Sparrow, because he covered her back up immediately.

"Now Miss Claire, I think you grew confused here," Sparrow told her with a hint of his usual grin as he brushed a wisp of hair from her face. "You were s'posed to kill me, not save me luv."

The lass gulped with much difficulty. "Couldn't have... someone else... kill you." With a trembling, bandaged hand, she took a small knife out of her pocket and placed it in Sparrow's hand with a faint smile of her own. "No... cage now."

Her chest grew still, her eyes lost their focus, her hand became limp. Sparrow clung to her fingers nonetheless, staring at her empty eyes for a few more seconds. "Aye luv. No cage now." He let go of her hand and got a better grip on the knife she had given him. And before anyone could react, he had turned to the man who had fired, uttered the fateful words, "You die for her, mate," and cut his throat.

Any protest or comment Gillette might have made died on his lips when Sparrow stood up and turned around to face him, kicking the officer's survival instinct into action. The captain had always seen Sparrow as something of a buffoon, not to be taken seriously, but in this instant the pirate looked like the most dangerous thing Gillette had ever had to face, including vicious undead skeleton-like pirates. Cutting the other pirate's throat had splashed him with a line of blood across the chest, and his face looked utterly empty, the sort of emptiness that hid a well of emotions too violent to be shown.

"I suggest you take your men off this ship, Captain," Sparrow stated as the tars the Navy had lent Sparrow were brought forth. They silently made for the Contester. "I am no longer a privateer of his majesty's Navy. And before you think of trying to blow holes in my ship..." Sparrow turned an inquisitive look on a point beyond Gillette's shoulder, and the officer turned around in time to see a small Black tar slip back from the Contester onto the Fortune with a few other pirates and nod his head. "... your rudder chain has been disabled." Gillette cast a look at the Dauntless, still out of range, that would not be able to help before a few long minutes. Sparrow did not miss it. "I don't suggest you try and procrastinate, son. I might not have a thing for bathing in blood, but I'm in an evil mood of sorts. Don't tempt your luck and let us sail away."

Gillette glanced at the man whose throat Sparrow had just cut and did a quick mental calculation of how much time Sparrow would need to defeat them, should Gillette try to resist. They were even more outnumbered than Low's men had been; it was a lost cause. But if there was a chance that they could delay the pirates enough for the Dauntless to be in time... He looked at Sparrow's impassive face, but it was the look of the brown-skinned woman that convinced him that they did not have the slightest chance. Not after the death of that girl.

He nodded his head at the red-coats, that they follow him back on the Contester.

Uncharacteristically, he did not have a parting quip for Sparrow. Gillette had enough respect for the dead to forego that, and anything he could think of would have been highly inappropriate in such a situation.

He watched the Black Pearl and the Fortune sail away with helplessness, his pride piqued, angry at himself for not having risked it. And now he would have to make his report to Commodore Norrington, and he would have to bite back his reproaches when he thought of the lass that had been killed before his very eyes. The Contester on her own was no match against either of the pirate ships, and they would have to model their speed after that of the Dauntless to give chase. It was doubtless they would catch up with them.

Oh, but one day Gillette would celebrate, after Sparrow's feet danced their last jig on the gallows in Fort Charles. He would see the day his corpse hung off at Gallows Point, a warning to any and all.

***

Norrington listened in silence to Gillette's report. When the captain was finished, the commodore rose and poured them both a glass of brandy. He downed his while Gillette only took a sip. The silence stretched, almost palpable, between them.

"We can safely assume they will try to find Low," Norrington remarked once he felt he could trust his voice. "No indication as to why Captain Sparrow was so interested in Low himself?"

"No, sir."

Norrington clenched the empty glass in his hand, flattening his other on the surface of the table to stop its slight tremor. "And Miss Calvet... saved – his life, you say."

"Yes, sir. If I may add, she seemed almost... relieved. She was content in death."

Norrington looked up at Gillette with surprise. Did he look so very shaken that the man felt he had to tell him this? Yes, undoubtedly. He nodded his thanks with a faint smile.

Gillette acknowledged this without a word, then spoke on. "Shall we sail east then?"

Norrington looked back down at the empty glass and made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. "They will be long gone when we arrive, but yes. I suppose we ought to." He knew his exhaustion showed in his voice, but he could have cared less. He trusted Gillette not to spread rumours or take advantage of it.

"Shall I go give orders, sir?"

Norrington frowned. "Yes. And bid Lieutenant Groves come to my cabin."

"Yes, sir."

Once he was alone, James poured himself a new glass of brandy and downed it. The first had been to settle his nerves, this one to dull the pain. It did not seem to be working much. He saw her eyes, he imagined the dull glaze death must have brought over them. To have lost her twice in so short a time... That she had given her life for Sparrow... It seemed impossible.

Improbable, Norrington corrected himself. Death seemed to shy away from taking one such as Captain Jack Sparrow. Maybe that, too, tied his men to him. They had not got all of the tars they had lent Sparrow back, and Norrington was not foolish enough to think it was due to anything but a decision of the sailors themselves. He supposed the sort of life Sparrow could offer them was a tempting one.

A knock on the door informed him that Groves was here. "Enter."

There was something cautious in the manner in which his long-time friend came in and closed the door behind himself.

"I assume the news are all over the ship by now," James enquired as carelessly as he could manage.

"Yes, sir. They say that Miss Calvet - that she was with them, and that she saved him. That she is..."

"Dead, yes," Norrington agreed. "I have given a thought to how she came to find herself aboard the Black Pearl." He studied Groves closely, noted the way his shoulders seemed to acquire a more rigid stance. "She probably did jump into the sea, only they were waiting for her. How lucky that they should attempt this when the two soldiers on duty fell asleep. Not the best of soldiers, but good men who have always done their duty so far. Then there is the matter of the men on deck not having heard anything. Most peculiar, isn't it?"

Groves remained silent, watching James impassively. A challenge seemed to be dancing in his eyes. James remained silent a few more seconds, weighing his decision.

"I shall not enquire after the identity of the plotters, Ted," he finally stated, and slipped off his wig. "For I believe they did this in her interest, without ill-intent in their hearts. I trust that Mr Murtogg and Mullroy were likely drugged and will lift their punishment. Once we are back in Port Royal, I will have you assigned to Captain Johnson on the HMS Discovery."

The Discovery was currently careened in Kingston for cleaning and served as an escort ship to the British merchant vessels that sailed from Jamaica to the Northern colonies, sometimes even back to England. Captain Johnson was a fair man, if not the most friendly fellow. Groves seemed on the brink of saying something, and for an instant his impassive mask broke to show a tumultuous look of guilt and earnestness. James immediately cut in, before the lieutenant said anything that he did not want to hear.

"That will be all, lieutenant."

Groves nodded. "Thank you, sir." His voice was hoarse with emotion and he immediately turned away.

Once alone again, James unsteadily walked to the window of his cabin and opened it. The sun was beating mercilessly hard. He fleetingly thought that sailing on the Pearl in all her black glory would be hardly bearable in this heat. He swept a hand through his sweaty hair and looked at the sea for a long while. He could not even hate Sparrow that she had given her life for his. He could only hate himself for not finding a true solution for her. One that did not equal a cage. He would have to keep chasing Sparrow out of duty, then, as long as there was life in him, or in the pirate. Nothing more personal than this. Knowing that they had both done their best to offer her another way out. And he would have to go on with his life, knowing that the pirate had had a better chance at it than he had, and trying to expiate the relief that had washed over him at the thought, free from the clutches of passion.

He went and splashed his face with some water, then put his wig and hat back on, checked his appearance and went above deck.

***

The cot was so near... and then so far the next moment. Jack suspected there was something wrong with his perception of distances in the present moment, but could not be bothered to care. When again the cot appeared to be near, he reached out for it...

... and toppled forward, missing it by a few good feet.

He heard his door open and then was helped back up on his feet and directed towards the cot. He sprawled on it before his eyes focused on the face of one of his helpers.

"What're ye doin' 'ere?" he grumbled. "Ye've got yer own ship now, just as you asked. And much better 'n than the one I owed you one for, might I add."

Uncharacteristically, Anamaria seemed to take no offence at his words. She only straightened up to look at him straight in the eye. Jack distantly felt someone else tug his boots off his feet before swinging his legs on the cot.

"You did a right thing, givin' her a proper sailor's funeral," the woman said. Then, as if on an afterthought, she leaned forward and tugged painfully on Jack's hair. "And I won't hear ye speak ill of my late boat." She straightened back up and planted her fists on her hips. "Now listen up, we got a question we want an answer to."

"We?" Jack grumbled.

"We," Gibbs agreed sombrely as he stood up next to Anamaria.

"Oh. Let's have it then."

"We all thought we were after Low for the gold he took from us, the blazin' rascal," Anamaria spoke stubbornly on. But then, Jack would rather have her speak than actually do things. Whenever she did things, it tended to be painful. "Looks to me like you had a personal interest in it beyond the gold."

Jack frowned, pursing his lips in disapproval. "Didn't we specify in Pearl's articles that there would be no personal questioning of me?"

"Hang the articles," Anamaria snarled. "I want to know why we're chasing a godforsaken coin all over the bloody seas."

"Is that any way to speak to your commodore?"

His rum-fogged brain did not register that Anamaria had moved until she had viciously twisted his nipple. He cried out in pain, placing a protective hand above his injured nipple, and she thrust her forefinger in his face. "You are not my commodore. We went over this. The only reason I'm stayin' now I have my boat is 'cause I wanna. I sail away when I wish to."

"Aye, aye," Jack agreed for fear of a further assault on his nipples.

He shot a look at Gibbs that seemed to ask, "How could you let her treat me like this?", to which his quartermaster replied by one that said, "Either that or we both get the same treatment." Jack rolled his eyes.

"Well?" Anamaria prodded.

"Well what?"

"What the blazes is that coin?"

Jack sent a hand rummaging through the back of his hair. He finally found the right lock and held it out for them to see. "That... is where it belongs. Barbossa took it from me, that'd be how it got mixed with the gold."

"What is it to you? And how come Low knew of it?" Anamaria spat out as aggressively as ever.

"That is not a story you'll ever hear," Jack stated, uncharacteristically not in the mood to make up an improbable story, then raised a warning finger. "And if you try to take it out on my innocent nipples, I assure you I'll have ye sent to the brig for it. Savvy?" He schooled his features into a meaningful look. "A man's gotta have his secrets, luv."

Again, she shoved her forefinger in his face. "Don't! Call me that."

"Aye, aye, Captain Anamaria. Now if you'll both excuse me, I have an appointment I'm eager not to miss with those plush pillows o' mine." And he turned his back on them, ensconced in the softness of the bed.

There was a short silence, and then he heard them head for the door of his cabin. He raised his head slightly to ask Gibbs, before he went, "'ey, y'old rascal. Still think she was frightful bad luck, too?"

Another silence, then the gruff answer, "No, Jack."

Satisfied, Jack dropped his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes. Sleep was well on its way to claiming him when he thought he heard a faint whisper: "Buena noche, Captain Jack."

Then the doors closed with a soft click, and Jack fell asleep with a faint smile on his lips.

~~ FIN ~~