Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘James, come with me.’

I would have, you know. And it is only now, with your open face upturned to mine in a desperate plea, that I realize I would have gone with you to the very ends of the earth...to hell and back.

You only ever had to ask.

‘Go. I will follow.’

It is a lie. We both know it. But there is nothing to be done now, no other recourse. The threads between us must be severed...and I see now that I must be the one to do it. How fitting.

‘Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth. But never joined.’

There is salt in your kiss. Are these tears on your cheek for me, Elizabeth? Or is it the sea?

It was always the sea.

‘Go now.’

And for the last time, you turn away from me to face your future, a future I will have no role in. That was all I ever wanted, you know. To be a part of the grand plans you had spread out before you. How foolish. There was never a place for me there.

I sever the tie, once and for all, feeling some small gratitude to hear you screaming my name even as the cold steel of Turner’s blade finds my heart. It has always been yours, though you never wanted it. And now it is no one’s.

Will you mourn for me, Elizabeth?

‘James Norrington, do you fear death?’

No. I don’t believe I do. In fact, now that it is upon me, it feels like a lover’s embrace.

It feels like the promise of redemption.

---

Chapter Text

James is gasping, choking, sputtering like a newborn babe as sticky air fills his heaving lungs. Coughing, he hoists himself upright, bracing an arm against the headboard and screwing his eyes tight as he wills the burning in his chest to stop. It is hours, moments, before the spasms cease, and he begins to suck in greedy gulps of air. Sweat soaks the bedclothes tangled around his legs and forms clammy beads beneath his hairline. He reaches up to brush them away and remembers.

James remembers.

He inhales sharply as his eyes flick open. The room around him is silent, still, dark and humid as a womb. Seized by a sudden dizzy mania, James’ hand flies to his heart, wild gaze quickly following. But...even though echoes of his wound remain in his mind, he finds the flesh beneath his fingers unmarred...whole. The discovery brings on an abrupt wave of nausea, and James barely manages to lean over the edge of the bed before bile forcibly rises and erupts forth, splashing against the floorboards.

Impossible, he thinks to himself, wiping his lips with the back of a trembling hand. I died. I’m dead.

But if this is the afterlife, it smells of sweat and sick and something altogether utterly familiar. Still palming his miraculously healed injury, James surveys his surroundings with a forced calm. The carved footboard...the chest of drawers...the captain’s uniform hung meticulously on the hook near the washbasin…

It cannot be…

Sunlight spears through the drawn drapes, dust motes dancing in its rays. It is far too stifling to think clearly, so James extricates himself from his damp bonds and rises, careful to step around his new, and unsavoury, addition to the floor. He draws in one more deep, shaky breath before throwing open the curtains.

Blinking against the mid-morning light, James undoes the window sash and finally feels the touch of fresh air ghosting across his skin, though it is barely cooler than the room itself. Summertime, perhaps? Jamaica is always unbearably humid.

He turns and examines the room once more, a deep frown cutting lines in his face. He knows this place: his chambers in Port Royal...from the time before he’d sprung for larger accommodations with his captain’s salary. Now that he’s discerned his location, he can hear the familiar sounds: hooves hitting the cobbles outside, someone hammering in the courtyard below his second story window, the cleaning girl, Abigail, humming softly in the hallway.

A panicked self-inspection reveals that he’s naked as his name day, and he quickly snatches up the nightshirt draped over the chair in the corner. He tugs the garment over his head and feels minutely better for having one more layer between him and this bewildering dream world. For a dream it must be. A delusion, some sort of last fantasy conjured by his failing brain. But why this? Why here?

He stares down at his clenched fists, uncurling his fingers to find his blunt nails have cut angry red half-moons in his palms. The dull sting barely registers, but James wonders at it. Not a dream then.

He begins to move about his sparse appointments, inspecting his worldly possessions with keen interest. There, on his night table, a book he’d misplaced during a particularly long voyage. But that was some six years ago. Mind spinning, James sinks into the corner chair, head cradled in his hands. He concentrates on breathing.

In and out. Surely, this is some sort of final hallucination. In and out. He is delirious, he must be. In and out. But the floorboards beneath his feet are cool, the breeze coming in off the cay carries a salty tang. In and out. He is too lucid for this to be a dream. In and out. He must get up. Get dressed. In and out. He must find out what the devil is happening to him.

---

He’s donned the captain’s uniform, fingers instinctively remembering each button and clasp. The reflection staring back at him in the glass on the wall is familiar and unrecognizable all at once. He leans forward and touches the high cheekbones, trails the line of his jaw, freshly shaven. It is his face. He knows that. But the map of lines at the corners of his eyes, forged from years of squinting in the unrelenting Caribbean sun, is gone. The pearly scar that rose from the flesh behind his right ear is missing. His dark hair is shorn short, only a few inches long, a decision he’d made before his first voyage as captain to make the heat somewhat more bearable beneath his horsehair wig.

Now he lowers that same wig onto his head, arranging it neatly before fixing his mirrored double with a pointed glare. Haunted green eyes glare back. There. He recognizes that at least: the eyes of a man who has seen and done the unthinkable, witnessed horrors and betrayal. A pang of all-too-familiar guilt shoots through him, and he averts his gaze.

There is a light knock at the door. Abigail. She’s come to clean his room. James can hear feet shuffling on the plush hallway runner.

‘One moment,’ he calls, grateful he’d thought to mop up his earlier mess before setting to. He crosses to the door and pulls it open. The girl stands before him, the top of her head barely reaching his chest, gaping up at him with startled eyes.

‘Beggin' your pardon, sir. I hadn’t thought- that is- I didn’t realize-’

‘No need to apologize,’ James murmurs as he shrugs into his coat. ‘I’m usually gone by this hour.’

Abigail flushes crimson, and steps to the side to allow his escape from his lodgings. ‘No, sir. I mean, of course, sir. Miss Mary has already put away breakfast, sir.’

Ah, yes. Miss Mary being Mary Harlow, the owner and operator of the boardinghouse. James remembers her being a pleasantly plump old widow with a penchant for trapping one in lengthy conversations and baking far too many sweets for her tenants.

‘That’s all as well. I find I’ve not much appetite this morning.’ James grabs his hat and sets a course toward the stairs, but stops as an afterthought and turns. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me today’s date.’

‘Today’s date, sir?’ The poor girl appears utterly flummoxed, and if James weren’t so vexed himself, he might have felt badly.

‘Please.’

‘25th of June, sir.’

‘What year?’

Now she almost scoffs at him, but then schools her features back into neutral respect. ‘Why 1721, of course.’

She might as well have doused him with cold water. It takes everything in him to hide his panic. He mumbles a polite ‘thank you’ before making a hasty retreat down the stairs.

Eight years. He’s gone back just over eight years. By the time he’s out the door and into the sun, settling his hat on his head, James is already forming a plan. He still has no idea how or why this has happened, but he’ll be damned if he lets it stupefy him. He has to get to the fort. From there, he can organize an attack.

---

It’s all the same...the charts spread out across the table, the lacquered top of the mahogany desk, the way the morning light slants through the high paned window overlooking the harbor…

James breathes deeply the still air of his old office, new now, he supposes. It was the one appointed to him upon his promotion to captain. There hasn’t even been time for dust to gather upon the array of collected trifles he has displayed on the shelves. He remembers the pains he’d taken when placing each one in its position, idly runs his fingers over the ship in a bottle he’d acquired during his very first voyage. How proud he’d been, then. Freshly a midshipman and eager to prove his salt.

On his way in, he had been stopped by his second, Lieutenant Gillette. The man had only recently been assigned to his charge, but James knows they go on to form a fast, if unconventional, friendship. The Lieutenant had admitted his surprise that James was at the fort today, seeing as he had been given these days following the ceremony that officially marked the dawn of his captaincy to himself. James had actually smirked at that, wryly replying that attempting to find an occupation in his time off is usually more work than anything he did in his office and earning a startled bark of laughter from Gillette.

As they parted ways, James realized he’d likely never been so familiar with the man before. He may need to be more careful if he hopes to avoid raising suspicion.

But now, surrounded by the trappings of his former life, James’ mind is floundering once more. It’s too real, being here. The sounds, the smells...they may as well have been from eons ago, but he knows them intimately. As he sinks into the high-backed chair behind the desk, his desk, James can’t help but despair. Is this permanent? If not, then how long is he to exist in this place? And more terrifying, what if it is? What then? Is he to go on as if nothing has happened? Live his life all over again? To what end? What is the point?

A thought flashes into his mind then, and he is overcome with a sudden and vicious curiosity. Rising, he starts toward the door and then stalks his way through the upper level of the fort, making a beeline for the Governor’s office.

Once he arrives, however, his resolve wavers. Standing here outside Weatherby Swann’s door, he recalls, with anguished clarity, Elizabeth’s face as she told him her father was dead. Murdered by Cutler Beckett’s lackey, an event James could have no doubt stopped if he’d been less focused on bloody duty and following orders. This understanding ultimately spurs him onward. He needs to face Swann. Needs to look into the eyes of the man he may as well have killed himself.

An almost sing-song ‘Come in!’ answers his more-forceful-than-necessary knock, and James unlatches the door.

Inside, the Governor sits behind his untidy, yet still organized, desk, a feather quill scratching away in his hand. His eyes dart up and to meet James’, and his features ease into genuine smile. He sets aside his work before standing.

‘Captain Norrington! What a pleasant surprise.’ James' chest constricts painfully as the man nears to give his hand a friendly shake. ‘I hadn’t thought to see you in today.’

‘I’m afraid I’m rather unaccustomed to free time, sir.’

The Governor laughs at this, as though James has told a joke. ‘Well, then! We shall have to find you some hobby to occupy your sabbaticals. Tea?’ He gestures to the silver service on the side table with an outstretched palm. ‘I’ve just had it brought up.’

The man is already leading him toward the platter with a hand on his shoulder, so James can hardly decline. ‘You’re too kind, sir.’

‘Not at all! Do you take sugar?’ James shakes his head, and the Governor pours a still steaming cup before passing it over with the accompanying saucer. He then makes one for himself, dropping in three lumps. ‘I always take it unbearably sweet, myself. My wife used to tease me mercilessly about it.’ Stirring, he motions toward one of the ornate chairs facing the center of the room. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

James highly doubts he will ever be comfortable again, but he falters through a reflexive thanks as he sinks into one of the maroon wingbacks regardless. The Governor sips his drink and hums in appreciation while James completely ignores the cup in his own hands.

Weatherby Swann had always been fond of James. He’d never been shy about that. And as his daughter approached a marriageable age, he’d been well nigh affectionate. James reckoned it was an attempt to encourage his interest by treating him like a son. The notion used to amuse him somewhat as his own father had never been so attentive. Not by half.

But now, having seen what was- is on the horizon, James is struck by how little he’d ever done to deserve such regard. He was well-respected, to be sure, always ready to do his duty, and very efficient at hunting pirates...but what did all of that matter in the end? As he sits here, making polite conversation with the Governor about trade and the weather, James determines that, if he truly is to relive his life, he will do better in this. Perhaps...he will do better in everything.

Footsteps come pounding up the walkway outside, and both men turn toward the door just in time to see it burst open, a short, breathless figure standing silhouetted by the sun. James squints in the light and barely has time to recognize her before the Governor exclaims, ‘Elizabeth! What on Earth?!’

Grinning, the girl sweeps into the room, a huffing maid nearly collapsing into the doorway behind her. It is all James can do not to drop his full teacup on the rug.

‘Estrella and I brought you lunch, Father!’ She lifts the large basket in her hands, shining like a solar flare.

She can only be about twelve. Though she is no less stunning than the last time he saw her, it is now an entirely different emotion that has seized James’ guts in a pitiless vice. Her fine golden hair falls to her shoulders in curls and a smattering of freckles bridges her nose. She is flushed from her recent sprint, eyes twinkling with mischief.

When she fixes him with those eyes, effectively pinning him like the ghost of steel through his heart, James fears he’s going to be sick again.

‘Captain!’ She affects a clumsy, yet exceedingly endearing, curtsy. ‘Would you like to join us? I’ve brought enough for three.’

The entire room is spinning. James detects the Governor rising in his peripheral and quickly averts his eyes, cognizant that he’s been staring. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude, Miss Swann.’

He feels, more than sees, her pout as her father gently admonishes her. ‘As much as I appreciate the thought, Elizabeth, you can’t just come tearing through the fort without a chaperone. It isn’t proper.’

‘Estrella is my chaperone.’ She pivots to the maid lingering at the threshold. ‘Right, Estrella? We were just having a bit of a race.’

The maid looks up in alarm, obviously not at all having been a part of Elizabeth’s game, at least not voluntarily, but the Governor simply sighs and waves her in, clearly not blaming her for the incident.

James fairly leaps to his feet, suddenly desperate to go. Go where, he has no idea, just not here. Not with her.

It seems fate has other plans.

Weatherby Swann turns to James and smiles apologetically. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Captain. My daughter is...well. If you have to leave, I understand. We can still expect to see you tomorrow for dinner?’

James feels the floor pitch under him. Dinner. With the Swanns. He remembers this. Plans made months ago...years ago. How can he possibly refuse?

Trapped, he has no other choice. ‘Of course, sir.’ His eyes flit to Elizabeth who is beaming up at him expectantly.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

---

Chapter Text

It takes James the entirety of the rest of the day to decide what he’s going to do next, resisting the impulse to spend the evening folded up on a stool at the tavern drinking himself into a stupor. As much as he’d like to, at this point in his life, he had not yet established alcohol abuse as a routine pastime, and it would do his career no favors to be observed thus engaged in public. Home, then. Where he can get inordinately drunk in the privacy of his own chambers.

Later, after he’s downed half a bottle of freshly purchased whiskey, James stares out his open window at nothing in particular. It’s twilight in Port Royal, the sun just having barely slipped past the horizon, and he has long since doffed his frock and waistcoat, finding a perverse thrill in tossing them across the bed rather than rehanging them neatly on the hook.

Arm propped against the window frame, he takes another long pull and winces at the familiar burn in his throat. It tastes like an old friend. The thought makes him smirk mirthlessly. Not yet. Don’t want to rush into these things.

He’s removed the cravat as well, leaving him in only his shirt sleeves and breeches, bare feet against the smooth grain of the wood floor. The night breeze is a cool caress over his skin, a welcome reprieve after the humidity of the day. Now if only he could stop thinking.

But that’s not likely to happen, and he knows it. This is quite the predicament he’s found himself in. Utterly unprecedented. And honestly? More than a little unappreciated. Is he to be denied peace even in death? Seems remarkably unfair, really.

James sighs, shaking his head at himself. Perhaps he's being obtuse. Is this not what so many men have dreamed of throughout history? The chance to fix their mistakes? Say he decides to believe that this change is permanent; it could be the perfect opportunity to try again. To atone.

The problem is, he’s not sure he does believe it. And that’s the damnable misery of it.

Another swig from the bottle, and he sinks onto the bed, idly swiping his uniform aside so he doesn’t rumple it any more than he already has.

The real question is: does it matter what he believes? Ultimately, when it comes down to it, this is where he is now. And if it is a dream or a delusion or a particularly cruel supernatural prank, he still has nothing to lose. In fact, he has less than nothing. And possibly everything to gain.

At this point in his previous life, James remembers being excessively focused on his career. He rarely spent time at home or out with friends, not that he had any, instead choosing to while away his 'free hours' in his office, planning. Plotting. For all the good it had done him.

But it had done him good for a time, hadn’t it? He’d been one of the most decorated officers in the western fleet. He’d carved a name for himself as captain, independent from his father’s accomplishments, through years of dedicated, and often bloody, work. He’d become ‘The Scourge of Piracy,’ earning the rank of Commodore before his thirtieth birthday. All accolades to be proud of. And he had been. Oh, he had been very proud.

James huffs in bitter amusement at that. None of it ended up truly mattering to him in the end, did it? In the end, only one thing had mattered. Only one.

And today she’d asked him to have a picnic lunch with her in her father’s office, young and vibrant and bright as any summer day.

He remembers little of Elizabeth’s childhood, just snippets here and there from when he’d been invited to visit by the Governor. It wasn’t until she was on the cusp of her Debut that he’d started to pay attention. It was hard not to, the way her father had fairly peddled her to James...but...that was not the only reason. Though lovely in her youth, Elizabeth became devastatingly beautiful in her adolescence. And she was bold, fiery and stubborn, determined to scandalize her father in most every way.

She’d tried to do it to him too, James muses with an ungentlemanly snort. Always attempting to shake her chaperone when they were together. He had never told her, but he was utterly charmed by her whimsy, her fearless resolve to be nothing less than herself. And what started out as a fancy had turned to love in two short years. A love that had defined him...as much as it had ruined him.

He should have told her. He should have told her the minute the notion had popped into his mind. For by the time he had decided to seek her hand, she had long since averted her attentions. And he’d been helpless to do anything but watch her go sailing off into the arms of her blacksmith, a yawning pit opening inside him that would never be filled.

James knows that is his greatest regret. He’d never told her how he’d felt. How he still feels, damn him. But he supposes he should cut himself some slack on that front given that he’d died saving her less than twenty-four hours ago. Damn. Has it only been that long? It’s felt like an eternity.

No matter. He sets the now nearly empty bottle on his bedside table with a resounding thump. If this truly is to be his reality, if he wakes up the next morning, and he is still in this room, in this time, then…

Then he’s going to do things differently this time around.

And maybe this time, he’ll get it right.

---

It’s ten minutes to six o’clock when James finds himself trekking up the drive to the Governor’s estate. He’d opted to walk, desiring the time to clear his head and prepare mentally for what is sure to be...an unusual evening, if nothing else. Not that he recalls it having been one, but with his current state, well. It will be interesting to see if he reads as normal to his hosts. He can’t imagine he will.

As he passes through the main gates, a sound comes to him on the westerly breeze, mingled with the scent of hibiscus. Singing? He slows his advance, quieting the clack of his heels against the stone flags, and picks up a sweet soprano voice coming from the gardens. Casting a quick glance about him, James alters his course, admittedly curious.

As he rounds the precisely cut hedgerow, he recognizes the tune: an Irish folk song he’d often heard at sea. Dead lovers and all that. How felicitous. But as he approaches, he spies the singer, perched blithely in a tree, her slippered foot swinging in the open air below, a sketchbook open in her lap. Her head is cocked to one side as she considers whatever it is she is drawing.

At first, James is hesitant to announce his presence, transfixed by her happy calm, a smile bubbling up to his lips. But the Governor is expecting him, both of them really, so he clears his throat.

Elizabeth looks up at him, shocked out of her reverie, the ballad dying on her lips. But then a wide grin splits her features. ‘Hello, Captain.’

James hazards a few steps closer, nearly beneath her now. ‘Good day, Miss Swann.’ He cannot help the mirth in his tone. ‘Lovely weather we’re having.’

She wedges her book in between two branches before leaning forward, her chin braced in her palm. ‘It is, rather. Though only in the shade.’

James narrows his eyes in mock concentration before observing, ‘You’re somewhat taller than when we last met.’

This earns him another brilliant smile, her nose crinkling as she giggles. ‘Oh yes. I’ve hit a bit of a growth spurt. Father has been in stitches trying to keep me in dresses.’

Glancing back toward the front walk, James adopts a conspiratorial air. ‘Speaking of your father, I doubt he’d look favorably upon your current engagement.’

Elizabeth doesn’t miss a beat, a challenge visible in her twinkling eyes. ‘I doubt he would.’

There is silence between them for a few ticks as she holds his gaze until he finally offers up a smile of his own, weary of holding it back. Only then does she reward him with boisterous laughter and move to climb down.

He takes a half step forward, hand outstretched. ‘Do you require assistance?’

‘No, thank you,’ she responds, deftly gathering up the folds of her dress as James politely averts his gaze and clambering down til she alights on the ground before him.

‘Impressive, Miss Swann,’ he says as she shakes off her skirts. ‘I daresay in the rigging of The Dauntless you’d be well nigh uncatchable.’

She hums her approval, the idea seeming to have much appeal. ‘Don’t think I’ve not imagined it. But father would die before he let me in the rigging of a warship. Or any ship for that matter.’

James nods in agreement and then, offering his arm, inquires, ‘Would you be so kind as to accompany me to the house, Miss Swann?’

Obviously charmed by his adult manners, Elizabeth wipes her hands on her dress and then loops her own freckled arm through his. He marvels at the contrast of her fair skin against the dark blue of his frock coat.

‘I felt much the same once,’ he offers as he steers them back out of the gardens, ‘about the rigging.’

Elizabeth is piqued by this bit of information. ‘Were you very young when you joined the navy?’

‘Twelve. My father was an acclaimed admiral, so I enlisted as a midshipman.’ He pauses briefly to smile down at her. ‘Spent more than my fair share of time in the rigging with the other boys. Leaping to and fro, shrieking like monkeys.’

She scoffs up at him, disbelief plain on her face. ‘Surely not!’

He almost laughs at the melodrama of her incredulity. ‘Absolutely. Is it really so hard to believe?’

Elizabeth gives him a calculating once over, and he is privately delighted by her arch study. ‘I suppose not,’ she finally concedes just as they are mounting the portico steps. ‘It’s actually rather entertaining to imagine.’

Once they’ve reached the door, James peers down at her, noting, with amusement, a stray leaf caught in her golden curls. ‘Shall we knock?’

She slides her arm from his, and flashes a toothy grin. ‘Of course not! It’s my house, silly.’

As soon as they are ushered inside by a stiff-backed butler who takes James’ coat, Weatherby Swann sweeps down the curving staircase, frustration knitting his brow.

‘Elizabeth! Where have you been!?’

‘Just in the garden, Father. I was sketching.’

‘Miss Swann met me coming up the walk, sir,’ James cuts in as he reaches them and affects a slight bow in place of a proper greeting. ‘She graciously offered to escort me the rest of the way.’

The Governor arches an eyebrow as he appraises his daughter, who bats her lashes, the picture of civil deference. ‘That was very thoughtful of her.’ He sighs and then places a hand on her shoulder, herding her toward the steps. ‘Go upstairs and change now. Estrella has set out a fresh dress for dinner.’

Elizabeth goes up on tiptoe to kiss her father’s cheek before turning and skipping away up to her room.

After she is gone, Weatherby Swann sighs again and heads to the dining room, motioning for James to follow. ‘What am I to do with her?’ His expression is exasperated, but there is tenderness in his voice as he stops at the sideboard to pour two snifters glasses of brandy.

He passes the first to James, who readily accepts. ‘She is rather spirited, sir.’

‘Spirited!’ the Governor laughs and raises his glass to James. ‘Thank you for putting it so delicately.’

James hides his smile by taking a sip. ‘She reminds me very much of my cousin at her age.’

‘And I assume that now she is a model of society, eh?’

‘Yes, sir. At least when others are paying attention.’

At this, the Governor throws back his head in laughter before upturning the decanter to refill their drinks. ‘Indeed? Then there is hope, after all. Come.’

The dining room doors are open, and the long, polished table gleams in the lamplight. Three places have been set at the far end near the empty fireplace. James takes a seat to the Governor’s left.

‘I wanted to congratulate you once again on your promotion, Captain Norrington,’ he begins as he places a napkin in his lap. ‘Your father must be very proud.’

James tries not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. ‘My mother allows in her letters that he is, though he has yet to tell me himself.’ Then he adds with an attempted air of levity, ‘My father was never one to be very affectionate.’

‘Well,’ Swann begins politely, ‘You see what happens when a father is too affectionate.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ James counters mildly, and Swann’s chagrined smile freezes on his face.

‘Miss Swann may be exuberant, and perhaps a bit lacking in self-control, but she knows that she is safe here. She knows that you love her dearly. I’d say that’s a worthy trade-off.’

The Governor adopts a thoughtful mien before turning his gaze back to James. ‘And how does one with no family of his own gain such wisdom on the matter?’ he asks, sounding almost impressed.

James feels his neck grow hot beneath his collar and resists the urge to pluck at it. ‘Observation, mostly. I’ve the unique circumstance to learn from others’ experiences.’

‘That shall serve you well,’ Swann confides. ‘I’ve known far too many men who have the inability to learn from even their own mistakes.’

Now James does tug at his cravat, feeling a bit too confined in his own skin as a chill runs down his spine.

He certainly hopes he can. In fact, he means to.

---

The first course has already been served, and the two men are engaged in banal discourse, when Elizabeth slips into the room. She stops just inside the doorway when James abruptly stands, surprise in her wide brown eyes. Inwardly, he chastises himself. She is still a girl, and one does not usually rise for children, but the damage has already been done. Old habits die hard.

But the young Miss Swann drops into a practiced curtsy, much more graceful than the one she’d performed the previous day. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

The Governor stands as well and slides out her chair as she approaches. ‘Not at all, my dear. We’d only just started.’

Elizabeth smiles to herself as the men take their seats, clearly pleased to be treated as a lady.

That lasts all of a minute.

Then she leans forward, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘I’ve just heard the most horrible thing,’ she asserts with an expression that suggests she thinks it anything but horrible. ‘Estrella told me they found the corpse of a two headed gull on the dock today, and all the sailors are saying it’s ill omen of things to come!’

‘Lord have mercy, Elizabeth!’ Undaunted by her father’s rebuke, she merely shrugs, and he mutters something about giving the maid ‘a stern talking to.’

‘Oh, please don’t, Father...she didn’t actually tell me. I overheard her talking to one of the other maids.’

The Governor fixes her with a scolding look, brows raised. ‘So you’re eavesdropping on the staff now.’

‘I can’t help it if the front hall echoes,’ she huffs. Then she turns her gaze to James. ‘What do you think it means, Captain?’

James tries his best not to smile. ‘I am not well-versed on the subject of portents, I’m afraid. But I do know sailors. They are a superstitious lot, and a great many things are observed to be omens of ill fortune.’ Elizabeth is less than moved by his answer, so he adds, ‘I suppose I’d have to see the creature myself to draw my own conclusion.’

‘Oh, could we!?’

‘Elizabeth! That’s enough!’ The Governor admonishes through clenched teeth. ‘This is hardly proper talk for the dinner table.’

Elizabeth pouts while the two men resume their previous conversation. By the main course, she’s completely lost interest, idly picking at her plate in unmasked boredom. Acutely aware of it, James tries to steer the exchange to something more to her interest. She perks up when she hears him mention his time abroad.

‘You’ve been to India?’

‘Yes, I have, Miss Swann. While I was a lieutenant, I spent a good eight months off the coast there.’

‘What was it like? Was it very beautiful?’

‘Yes, in the way that dangerous things often are.’

Elizabeth is at attention now. ‘Dangerous?’

James shoots a glance at the Governor to discern whether he finds this line of discussion suitable, and he nods, cheeks pink from drink, so James continues. ‘Oh yes. In addition to the French and Spanish, it seems the very land itself is trying to kill you. Tigers, mudslides...snakes longer than three men.’

She gasps at this, face distorting in thrilled disgust. ‘You saw one?’

‘Indeed I did. It slithered aboard our ship whilst we were taking on provisions.’

‘How utterly awful,’ remarks the Governor, his nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘I do hope it wasn’t poisonous.’

James doesn’t remember ever telling this story to anyone before and finds that he is very much enjoying regaling it. ‘I’m afraid so, sir. A king cobra. We didn’t even know it had stowed away in our hold until we were a week out at sea. It had plenty to hunt though. There’s always an influx of vermin aboard after disembarking from a port.’

Dessert is being served now, but Elizabeth scoots her custard aside, completely enraptured. ‘Did it bite anyone?’

James can feel the effects of the brandy he’s had and doesn’t stop himself from chuckling. ‘No, thank God, but it scared the wits out of one of the marines who happened upon it while inspecting the hold. He was white as a sheet as he reported to his captain and then fainted straight away.’

The Governor nearly snorts his drink. ‘I suppose I can’t blame the man. Long as three men, indeed!’

‘Did you hunt it down then?’ Elizabeth asks around her first bite of custard.

‘I did not. And I was very glad no one asked it of me. I was not keen on the idea of being killed by a giant snake.’ James sits back in his chair, crossing his legs, and stares ponderously into the middle distance before continuing. ‘It was the cook that got it in the end. Found it in the galley and just happened to have a knife in hand. Took its head clean off. Ended up serving it to Captain Bradshaw later for supper. Who said it tasted of chicken.’

Both Elizabeth and Weatherby laugh at this, and James can’t help but join in, acquiescing that in retrospect, the situation really was humorous. The Governor adds that knowing what he does of Benjamin Bradshaw, he might well consider the act to be cannibalism, which sets them all to merry laughter once again.

After she’s calmed down, Elizabeth sighs. ‘It is a shame he had to kill it. It did nothing wrong, after all. It was just trying to live.’

James considers the uncomfortable parallel to her future views on pirates, and piracy in general, before responding. ‘You’re right, Miss Swann. Perhaps if we hadn’t been so far from land we might have attempted to catch and release it.’

The clock on the mantle strikes nine, and the Governor cranes his neck to look. ‘Is it already so late?’

James pushes back from the table. ‘So it would seem. I’ve had a lovely time tonight, but I fear I prevail upon your hospitality.’

Swann assures James nothing could be further from the truth, allowing that it has been them putting the Captain out by keeping him so late. It is not long before farewells are said, Elizabeth giving a parting curtsy and waving to him all the way down the front steps, and James is en route back home, basking in the moonlight.

Now that he tries, he cannot remember how this dinner had gone the first time he’d lived through it. He certainly doesn’t recall having fun. But he also recognizes that most of the memorable events of this evening were due to the lack of his usual restraint.

That thought sobers him.

How much of his previous life had he missed out on due to formality? How many opportunities had he squandered? It isn’t as if he's going to go singing through the streets, but perhaps with a little less brevity and a little more levity, things could be the right kind of different this time around.

Or perhaps James is merely happily drunk.

He takes a moment to laugh at that since there is no one about to hear him.

Maybe he can let it be that simple. Just for tonight.

---

Chapter Text

James spends the next week and a half working: late nights in his office planning and early mornings seeing that The Dauntless is ready for her first cruise with him as her captain.

When he climbs the gangway for the first time and alights on her deck, James is overcome with some strong emotion that leaves him light-headed and a little breathless. He hides it admirably, however, taking the opportunity to run his fingertips fondly along her gunwale. He’d spent much of his captaincy aboard this ship. By now he knows her every nook and cranny, can recite her every dimension, can navigate her in the complete darkness.

He dictates orders to the gaggle of officers following him about during his initial inspection. Run this line tighter. Place extra ballast here. Use this method to ensure the powder stays dry. He is utterly in his element, and James finds a sense of relief in pouring himself into this work. Before he leaves, he eyes the rigging and thinks of Elizabeth, a private smile gracing his lips.

The cruise itself takes only a week, much like he had remembered it. There is a particularly tense standoff with a French brigantine, but the Frogs ultimately keep their distance and eventually change course entirely, and nothing comes of it.

James spends mealtimes getting to know his officers all over again, some of whom were his friends once upon a time. Lieutenant Gillette entertains them with his many misadventures, most of which feature a myriad of loose women. Theodore Groves engages him in several games of cards, always beating him, but only just. It occurs to James that the first time around he’d taken these moments for granted, which makes them all the more meaningful now. He wonders idly what had happened to these men after his death.

Not that it matters anymore. They’re here now. And so is he.

---

The day after his return to Port Royal, James is just arriving back at his office after taking luncheon with his lieutenants in town, smiling to himself over some pithy joke Theo had made, when he notices that the door is slightly ajar. While he hadn’t locked it, he is sure he had, at the very least, latched it, and he advances warily.

It turns out he needn’t have been so circumspect.

Peering through the doorway, James spies a familiar figure hovering over the large table in the center of the room, her hands sliding over and rustling across the many charts he’s laid out there. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, but it is transformed by an appreciative gasp moments later when she holds up a heavily marked map of the Indian coast. She is tracing the dotted line he’d drawn to represent the course he’d taken when James finally pushes the door open, effectively alerting her to his presence.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Swann.’

Elizabeth at least has the sense to be embarrassed for getting caught and blushes furiously, setting her prize down on top of the pile she’s completely disorganized. James can’t be bothered to conjure up even an ounce of annoyance.

‘Good afternoon, Captain. I was hoping to find you here,’ she gushes, disregarding the fact that it had been he who found her. But then she interrupts her own thought, turning and gesturing to the layers of parchment on the table. ‘Have you been to all these places?’

James approaches her leisurely, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Not all of them. Not yet. Some of these are for future voyages.’ He stops a few feet away and follows her gaze back down to the one she’d just been holding. ‘And some are much older than others.’

‘What adventures you’ve had,’ she intones wistfully.

Again she traces his drawn line with her finger, and James shivers as though she’s reached through time and touched him. It’s an altogether peculiar thing, her taking such an interest in his past. He’s careful with his next words. ‘Indeed. Many. But it’s always been dangerous as well.’

She nods gravely, not looking up.

‘You appear to have lost your chaperone?’ He frames it as an inquiry, hoping she’ll volunteer the reason.

Now she does look up, alarm written on her face. ‘Oh dear. Miss Morris was right behind me. I suppose she got turned around.’ She elaborates when James lifts an eyebrow in question. ‘My governess. Father thinks it’s time I start learning to be a lady,’ she confides with a chagrined sigh. ‘I don’t think she likes me at all.’

Then she brightens. ‘Oh! I nearly forgot!’ She begins shuffling through his charts again until she uncovers a sealed envelope which she picks up and hands to him. ‘It’s an invitation. To my birthday dinner.’

James accepts it, noting his full name, Captain James Norrington, written on the front in her looping girlish script, and purses his lips to fend off a smile.

‘It’s not until the 11th, but I wanted to make sure you had plenty of time, and that you wouldn’t be out at sea again.’ Her large brown eyes are turned up at him in such hopeful expectation that James is completely beyond refusing.

‘It would be my utmost honor, Miss Swann.’

And, once again, she rewards him with a brilliant grin. He is beginning to understand why her father is always helplessly spoiling her. ‘Excellent! Be there at six o’clock sharp.’

A shadow fills the doorway, a stern woman of around forty standing at the threshold, arms crossed, foot tapping. Her dark hair is pulled tightly back beneath a modest walking cap that perfectly matches her pristine dress. ‘Miss Swann,’ she enunciates tersely, and Elizabeth is instantly cowed.

She then diverts her attention to James, and her expression softens to polite civility. ‘Forgive us, Captain. I do hope Miss Swann has not been disturbing you long.’

‘I’m not disturbing him, Miss Morris,’ Elizabeth declares, fire lighting in her eyes. ‘I was giving him his invitation.’

James shifts his weight awkwardly as the two of them wage a silent battle of attrition across the room from one another, one he is quite literally in the middle of.

Eventually, Elizabeth relents. ‘Alright. I’m coming.’ She gives James a subdued smile and a shallow curtsy. ‘Good day, Captain Norrington.’

‘Good day,’ he returns with a bow, and then she is ushered out the door and down the walk by her governess.

James watches them go, musing to himself that Miss Morris appears to be more than qualified for her job, then his attention drifts to the envelope still clutched in his hand. He remembers being invited to this dinner before, but not by Elizabeth herself and certainly not by way of a missive she’d personally penned.

How interesting. Already he’s managed to change things.

He just hopes it’s for the better.

---

The invitation lies open on James’ desk for the entirety of the next month, leering at him like a gargoyle. He glances up at it almost as often as he stops himself from doing so. He’s not likely to enjoy the dinner party overmuch, seeing as the other guests will no doubt be society friends of Weatherby Swann that he has little to nothing in common with, but he is gratified to know Elizabeth desires his presence.

James is also, at the same time, rather annoyed by his feelings. What the devil has gotten into him? When did he become so desperate for a child's approval? When, indeed. It was right about the time her adult counterpart had ripped out his heart and dashed his dreams to pieces...but that satisfies him even less. And so he spends the next four weeks anticipating and dreading the celebration in turns.

---

The day of, James is trapped late at the fort, some small insurrection in the jail cells combined with the early return of one of their scouting ships who’d happened upon a group of rum-runners. It’s almost seven o’clock when he steps down out of the carriage and climbs the staircase to the Swanns’ front door.

It opens before he even knocks, his fist hanging in the empty air.

Standing on the other side of the threshold is Elizabeth herself, swathed in cream colored silk with her golden locks piled upon her head in the latest fashion. She gives him a serious once-over, but there is mirth in her eyes. ‘You’re late, Captain Norrington.’

James shifts the package under his arm and bows low. ‘A thousand apologies, Miss Swann. I was kept at work.’

She seems satisfied that he is appropriately supplicatory and steps aside to allow him entry. ‘I heard you coming up the walk,’ she says by way of explanation, though he hadn't asked for one. ‘I’m glad you still came.’

‘I made a promise, Miss Swann. And I always keep my promises.’ This is not strictly true, but he decides that in this new life it shall be, and therefore, he is not a liar.

He still feels like a liar.

Elizabeth's luminous gaze drops to his parcel. ‘What’s that?’

‘Ah,’ he looks down at the brown paper bundle. ‘It’s for you, actually. A birthday present.’

Her eyes dance as she takes the gift from him. ‘What is it?’

James offers a tight-lipped, teasing smile. ‘That would be telling, Miss Swann.’

For a moment she appears to be debating whether she should open it here and now, but James interrupts as the same stiff butler from before divests him of his frock coat. ‘Would you do me the honor of escorting me to the dining room?’

She does, and James finds himself being greeted all at once by the other guests gathered around the table, empty the last time he saw it but now nearly full. There’s Mr. Fitzwarren, the foremost Port Royal merchant, and his wife, Frederick Reeve, a politician and friend of Governor Swann, two other men James recognizes but doesn’t recall their names and what is evidently their wives, and one of the most prominent matrons of the island, Mrs. Dunham and her two adolescent daughters, who have been placed down at the opposite end of the table next to Elizabeth.

As soon as James is seated, the first course is served, and he is embarrassed to think that they may have been waiting for him. Throughout the meal he makes polite, if dull, exchanges with the other guests. One of the gentlemen he didn’t know, a Mr. Randall, is hellbent on steering all talk to the prosperity of his sugar plantations while his wife wishes instead to only discuss how well each of her three daughters has married. James navigates their discourse with appropriate one word responses and emphatic nods of his head all the while wishing he were anywhere else.

But if he is uncomfortable, it is nothing compared to Elizabeth. He watches her out of the corner of his eye trying to engage her guests and falling flat. The two Misses Dunham are little interested in their hostess, deftly dodging her attempts at conversation and instead spending much of the meal gossiping with one another. Mrs. Dunham, however, is more than happy to bend Elizabeth’s ear, going on and on about the ins and outs of society and what is proper for a young lady. He can tell she is as bored as he and shoots her a furtive conciliatory expression on the few occasions he meets her eyes.

Weatherby Swann is having a much grander time, however, his cheeks flushed from the wine he’s been drinking as he laughs at the political jokes his friends are making. James understands most of them, he just doesn’t find any of them funny. The only time he does almost laugh is when Mrs. Fitzwarren accidentally drops a pearl earring in her custard, and it splashes back onto her expensive evening gown. Everyone pretends not to notice, even Mrs. Fitzwarren herself, and James is struck by the insipid ridiculousness of it all.

He has always so hated dinner parties.

After the meal, the assembly retires to the drawing room and relaxes into a group of arranged chairs facing the pianoforte. Miss Morris takes a seat behind the instrument and begins to play as Elizabeth herself sings along, performing for her guests. She’s talented, James allows. Her lilting soprano voice is pleasant, but it is her clear pleasure in her own skill that makes the presentation so agreeable.

At first, she seems somewhat unsettled, not knowing any of her guests very well. But once she begins and lets her practiced knowledge of the notes take over, she starts enjoying herself, reveling in the way everyone stops to pay attention to only her. Some things never change.

Governor Swann is beyond proud, affection plain on his face, Mrs. Randall lets her eyes drift closed in appreciation, and even the young Misses Dunham cease their whispering and hum along. When she is finished, the room erupts in modest applause, and James thinks if Elizabeth beams any brighter they will all burst into flame.

He claps louder than perhaps is proper.

Later still, the men are invited into the Governor’s study for a nightcap, and even though James is keen to leave, he follows along, offering his polite ‘good nights’ to the ladies. Elizabeth curtsies farewell to them all flawlessly, the very picture of an elegant lady hostess...though the playful glow in her eyes spoils the effect, reminding those who see it of her scant thirteen years.

James doesn’t even stay the next full hour. Weary of the company and ample cigar smoke, he begs off saying that he’s been awake since very early, which is true, and that he has work waiting for him at home, which is not. He insists he can see himself to the door when the Governor starts to rise and bids them all goodnight.

As he’s putting on his coat in the lamp-lit foyer, he hears a whispered, yet urgent, ‘Pssst!’

He turns to see Elizabeth seated on the steps, barefoot, but still in her evening wear, his now unwrapped present open across her lap. Her face is almost cherubic in the dim light. She stands on the bottom step and motions him over.

As he nears, she closes the atlas and grants him a heartrending smile. ‘Thank you,’ she states in hushed sincerity. ‘This is a splendid gift.’

James is sure he’s imagined the tremor in her voice. ‘I’m pleased you approve, Miss Swann.’

She regards him again, her fingertips stroking the colorful binding. ‘Wherever did you get it?’

Male laughter floats down the hall, and James leans back to see the door to the study still slightly ajar as he had left it. He sighs, cognizant of how inappropriate this exchange would appear if someone were to happen upon them, but the look in her eye is so gently beseeching that he answers entirely in spite of himself.

‘It was sent to me by my older brother. Upon my promotion to lieutenant.’

Her brows knit together briefly. ‘Then...it is precious to you?’

James chuckles and tries to smile reassuringly. ‘My brother and I are not particularly close. No doubt he’d no other idea what to give me. I’ve since acquired several others. All more detailed or accurate.’

When she blinks up at him in response he adds, ‘I was very fond of it once, though. And I thought that if anyone were to appreciate it as I had, it would be you, Miss Swann.’

Elizabeth gives him that tender smile once again, and his heart clenches painfully in his chest.

‘I shall. And I will take very good care of it.’

She takes his left hand then, holding it in her warm, fine boned fingers, and James goes stock still, resisting the sudden impulse to turn and run and never stop.

‘Thank you, for being my friend.’

Even though he avoids stammering like a fool, his voice is still feeble to his own ears. ‘It is to my credit that you consider me such, Miss Swann.’

She releases his hand, and he lets it drop to his side, flexing the muscles involuntarily like she’d shocked him. Maybe she had.

But Elizabeth doesn’t seem to notice his agony, wrapping both her arms around her atlas and hugging it to herself. ‘Will you come back and visit soon?’

James bows slightly, placing his right hand over his heart. ‘As soon as I am able, Miss Swann.’

---

The last of the guests have left, and the servants have all gone to bed. Governor Swann has passed out in his favorite wingback chair in his study, and Elizabeth drapes a fine woolen blanket over her father, gently kissing his cheek, before blowing out the lamp and padding barefoot up the stairs to her room.

She leaps onto her bed, jostling the piles of parchment and books she has strewn across the duvet. Folding her legs beneath her and shrugging out of the sleeves of her robe, she stacks her drawings carefully before tucking them back into her sketchbook and setting it on her night table. Then, for the umpteenth time that evening, she lays on her stomach, her feet kicking in the air behind her, and slowly flips through the pages of, quite possibly, the best birthday present she’s ever been given.

Elizabeth admires the brightly colored illustrations, treasures the pleasant smell of the binding, charts the lines of longitude and latitude with her eyes. She imagines what it would be like to sail to such wonderful, exotic places: China, India, Singapore...would that it were proper for a young lady to join the Navy! Then she might see all these places and more, tangle with pirates, fight the French. She sighs contentedly, for at least in her dreams she can be free, and turns to the first page, pausing to run her fingers reverently over the words penned there in a fine slanting hand.

So that you may never lose your way whilst on your own adventures. - J. Norrington

She traces the curve of his first initial and smiles.

No. She is certain now. She has never received a more magnificent gift.

---

Chapter Text

Over the next few months, James is invited to visit the Swanns several times, and he is very careful to make sure he is never alone with Elizabeth. Dinners, tea, strolls along the path overlooking the harbor, even accompanying them to the theater once. James hadn’t enjoyed the production overmuch, but he did appreciate the Governor’s easy disposition and Elizabeth’s utter joy at being out in society. He finds himself savoring their warm treatment of him and each other, wondering if this is how it feels to be part of a loving family.

He quashes the thought almost as soon as he realizes he’s had it.

---

On one occasion, Elizabeth chooses to call on him at the fort, bringing with her a basket of fresh pastries that she generously offers to share with him, under the sharp eye of her governess, of course. She makes him laugh with her animated description of her most recent escapades, sitting a bit straighter in her seat when he does, pride shining in her dark eyes. She’s quite funny, his Elizabeth.

He quashes that thought too. Self-flagellating late into the evening for even allowing himself the knee-jerk notion that she might be his. She is a girl, you cur, he berates himself while staring down the barrel of an empty bottle of rum. What the hell is wrong with you?

That night he dreams of his childhood, watches the backs of his two elder siblings retreating from him as he stumbles forward on unsure feet. No matter how much he calls their names in his boyish voice, they never turn, disappearing into a deep fog and leaving him thoroughly alone in the darkness.

He intends to avoid seeing her for a time after that, but then Governor Swann practically ambushes him at the fort a few days later and invites him over for a game of whist and coffee. His face is so open and trusting, James' resolve crumbles to dust in his hands.

Honestly, it’s embarrassing. He’s one of the most revered naval captains in the Caribbean, respected by his allies and feared by his enemies. He spends his days barking orders at sailors and marines alike and does his best to present himself as absolutely unflappable. But none of it means one jot when facing the Governor’s polite disappointment.

So he does go, and the evening turns out to be unexpectedly entertaining, both Elizabeth and Miss Morris joining in on the game and beating the two men soundly. Weatherby Swann is generous in the sharing of his expensive brandy and his laughter, and though James is usually a maudlin drunk, he is surprised by how contagious the Governor’s good humor is.

---

The next time he visits, Elizabeth, with Miss Morris as a ready accompaniment, shows off the fruits of her labor at the pianoforte. She is apparently a quick study, though Governor Swann attests that it is a sheer ordeal to get her to actually practice without an audience. As such, no one in attendance is shy with their compliments. And Elizabeth glows under their generous praise.

---

In late November there is an altercation while he has The Dauntless out on one of her routine cruises. A Dutch merchant turns out to be a Spanish privateer flying false colors, and through cunning use of his ship’s superior speed and maneuverability, and a liberal brandishing of the nines, it isn’t long before the vessel gives up her flight, surrendering with few casualties incurred on either side.

This is James’ first prize as a captain, and his men are in high spirits as they return to Port Royal, the defeated ship in tow. While going over the ledgers in the captain’s quarters and taking stock of her contraband, which amounts to quite a bit of wealth, James happens upon a small, brass spyglass. It isn’t remarkable, really, even sporting a small dent in one side, but he pockets the piece before disembarking and presents it to Elizabeth the next time he sees her.

She spends the next several days driving the servants to distraction, climbing every vertical surface she can so that she may get a better position from which to view the horizon.

---

A month later, James is invited out to celebrate his birthday with a handful of his officers. He knows he has an appointment at the Swanns' upon the morrow but still spends the evening getting rollicking drunk with Gillette and Theo and another lieutenant named Toombs, though he is the least in his cups of the four of them. They are later joined by a group of marines who had been on The Dauntless at the time they’d taken their Spanish prize, and the Irish captain, O’Connell, buys them all another round of drinks.

James cannot even recall celebrating his 21st birthday the first time around.

---

The next day he suffers from a head-pounding hangover. It’s certainly not the worst he’s ever had (at least there are no pigs this time). He's mostly successful at hiding his agony, only betraying himself to the poor clerk who threw open the drapes in his office without warning and was snapped at for his trouble.

Fortunately, he’s nearly recovered by the time he arrives at the Swanns', and is greeted at the door by an exceedingly avid Elizabeth. She ushers him into the dining room and bestows upon him a slice of a cake she claims to have spent all day making for him. She watches intently as he takes a reluctant bite.

It is, undoubtedly, one of the most repulsive things he has ever been pressed upon to eat, but James schools his features into gracious appreciation, or as close as he can manage. He allows that it is well done, but she laughs impishly and stops him before he suffers through a second forkful.

‘It’s terrible, I know. I’m afraid I’ve no real talent for baking.’

She is a wicked little thing, James muses without an ounce of vitriol as the Governor and Miss Morris present him with a bakery bought confection clearly meant as the replacement. She’d snuck him in ahead of them just so that she could watch him choke back some of her nasty, not-quite cake and struggle to compliment her. Part of him delights in her teasing. The other part has to knock back a glass of port to get the taste out of his mouth.

---

Not James leaves for three months at the beginning of the year: a maneuver off the South American coast during which he’d taken a piece of shrapnel behind his ear the last time around. This time, however, he is prepared, diving away from the explosion just in time and taking an unwitting sailor with him. Ferguson, he learns later when the boy formally thanks him.

He had died from his wounds in James’ previous life.

---

In April, Elizabeth prepares for a trip to England where she will be spending several months in the company of her late mother’s family. Weatherby Swann will be staying in Port Royal and is increasingly doting as the date of her passage approaches.

To James’ understanding, they’ve very rarely been apart and never for so long. He promises the Governor he will send a retinue of marines with, so that she will be perfectly safe on the voyage over. It’s not as if she’s traveling alone, Miss Morris, Estrella, and a pair of manservants will also be accompanying her. But Swann knows his daughter’s penchant for mischief, and every moment he is not in her presence is spent in anguish over her future safety.

James would never admit it, but he’s anxious too.

The day before her departure, Elizabeth calls upon him in his office, acting very much the demure young lady her governess has been teaching her to be.

‘I’ve come to see Father,’ she tells him, Miss Morris standing vigil in the open doorway, pretending not to listen. ‘But I had something I wanted to ask of you.’

‘Anything, Miss Swann.’ He’s startled by how much he means it.

‘Would you please check on him periodically while I’m gone? I know he thinks very highly of you and...well, we’ve never been separated like this before.’ She wrings her small hands in her lap and adopts a wan smile. ‘He’ll miss me.’

‘Of course, Miss Swann,’ he consents with a nod. ‘I will.’

She smiles in earnest then, and reaches across his desk to squeeze his hand. He is paralyzed for the brief moment her fingers are locked around his. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

He rises when she does and sees her to the door, but she stops before leaving and wheels around toward him, her cool civility slipping to reveal the keen ardor he’s come to expect from her. ‘May I write to you?’

He says yes. When has he ever told her no?

---

The letters Elizabeth sends him are the distillation of decorum, making it manifest Miss Morris has been proofreading them. But they are all penned in her curling, fanciful script, and her indomitable, and often whimsical, spirit still shines through.

She tells him of her adventures: of rainy days whiled away in her uncle’s extensive library and sunny picnics in sprawling fields of wildflowers. She goes into extensive detail about her cousins, all of whom are a great deal older than her with children of their own. She gets along with them all swimmingly, that being the word she chose. She gushes about concerts and salons and music and art and all the new things she’s learned and experienced.

Inside one envelope, folded within the message, James finds a small silk handkerchief with a clumsy needlework border of blue shells and anchors, his initials stitched in the center. Elizabeth explains in her writing that her aunt has been attempting to teach her embroidery, though without much success. She declares the piece she sent him to be the only one worth saving and hopes he doesn’t find it too trifling.

James keeps it in his breast pocket, right above his heart. He finds with it there, he is less likely to wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air, the cold burn of steel biting his chest.

---

In the early summer, James receives a letter that is somewhat heavier than all the ones prior. He opens it to find a second, smaller slip of parchment tucked inside. The larger one is very much like all the rest, a pleasant regaling of her family visit, but the other is something else entirely, and it can be inferred she snuck this bit in without the knowledge of Miss Morris.

James reads it and feels his blood run cold.

I’ve not much room here to go into great detail, but I find I must ask you a tremendous favor. I have been writing letters to another dear friend of mine whilst I’ve been away, and his answers have stopped coming. I’m worried for him. Please, will you check to see if he is safe? His name is William Turner. He works for the blacksmith. Perchance you remember rescuing him on our trip over from England?

You’re the only one I can trust to do this.

Thank you.

James is reeling as if struck. He puts out a hand to steady himself on the corner of his desk and rereads the missive again only to feel bile rising in the back of his throat.

Turner.

Old hatred comes rushing at him like a wave, and James’ fingers itch to grip the hilt of a sword...or the neck of a bottle. He sinks into his chair and buries his face in his hands, not caring how it musses his wig.

William fucking Turner.

Of course. He should have known she would be in contact with the boy. Even in this second life of his where he’s been more involved in hers than ever before, James has been away as often as not. And why would she feel the need to tell him about her other relationships? What reason would she have for severing that tie?

He is a fool. A damned fool.

If Elizabeth had been beneath his notice in her childhood his first time around, Will had been tenfold. What use would the great Captain Norrington, pride of the Caribbean fleet, have for a juvenile blacksmith’s apprentice? And an orphan at that. He’d seen Turner occasionally over the years but almost never acknowledged him and, naturally, had never perceived him as a threat.

What unmitigated hubris that had been. It had cost him everything.

But what can he do? It is undeniable Elizabeth was taking a risk to send him this request. He could refuse. Or he could just pretend he’d never received it.

You’re the only one I can trust.

No doubt. Her father certainly wouldn’t entertain such a connection. But as much as he is galled by this reminder of his rival’s continued existence, James is also disgusted by his reaction. She trusts him. And not only that, she’s in distress.

It would be petty for him to deny her. It would be cowardice. It would be weakness of character. And though a solid half of him is ready to embrace that weakness, James firmly resolves not to. He’s doing things differently this time.

No more running.

It’s time to choose a side.

---

John Brown’s smithy is much like he remembers it. Wedged in a dirty corner near the docks, it is wholly unremarkable except that James knows behind its walls lurks the man responsible for ruining his life.

But that’s not right, is it? He’s not a man. Not yet. And James’ life is still very much intact.

He steels himself and pushes open the door.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, the scents of iron and sawdust and donkey piss assaulting his nose. James steps over the threshold and enters, surveying the high ceiling, taking in the tools lining the walls. He hears shuffling and, finally, his eyes alight on a figure near the forge. His back is turned to James as he stokes the fire, a pair of logs caught beneath an arm. James pulls the door shut soundly behind him so as to announce his presence, and the individual turns.

He is young, not yet broad of shoulder and gangly as a skeleton beneath his stained shirt. His face is dirty yet smooth, still soft around the edges in the way youth often clings. But it is Turner. Even if James didn’t recognize him he would still know by the twisting in his gut.

Will blinks at him blankly before saying in a voice that’s only just starting to change, ‘Mr. Brown isn’t here. Won’t be back until tomorrow.’

James approaches with forced calm, his hands linked behind his back, eyes wandering the room. ‘It’s fortunate, then, that I’ve not come to speak to Mr. Brown.’

‘Sir?’ The boy doesn’t seem to understand, rooted to his same spot until James is but a few yards away.

‘I suppose introductions are in order,’ James begins, but Turner shakes his head.

‘I know you, sir. I expect all of Port Royal knows you.’

This close, James can see the first hairs poking out of Will’s chin. Sees that what he has read as indifference in his posture is actually a careful rigidity.

The boy is terrified of him.

James can work with that. ‘Even so.’ He extends a hand. ‘James Norrington, at your service.’

Panic briefly widens Turner’s eyes before he wipes off his own on his apron and accepts the handshake. ‘Will Turner.’

His voice cracks a bit, but his grip is strong. Good lad.

Introductions made, James goes back to his idle investigation of the smithy. ‘I’ve been sent to ascertain your condition by a mutual acquaintance of ours.’

Once again, Turner looks hopelessly lost, picking nervously at his fingernails until realization finally dawns, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘Elizabeth.’

White hot fury spikes through James at hearing her name spoken in his voice. James himself hadn’t dared to so much as whisper her first name aloud since his return, not even when alone. The murderous black pit that once lived inside of him threatens to open up and swallow them both, and James almost entertains the idea of putting his sword through the boy’s eye.

But Turner has realized his misstep, flushing bright red and stammering, ‘I- I mean Miss Swann. She- she sent you, didn’t she?’

James has turned from the boy, feigning passing interest in a displayed set of horseshoes in order to hide the way his hands are shaking. ‘Just so.’

Turner sighs then and doffs his apron, leaning against a wooden support. ‘I’m sorry you’ve come all this way. I’m perfectly well, I just...haven’t had time to respond to her letters.’

His tone is so miserable, James turns around to regard him. He takes a moment to eye the boy up and down: considers his soot stained elbows, the calluses on his fingers...the bruises peeking out from beneath his shirt collar.

And James is ashamed.

He is ashamed of his hatred and his rancor and his pride. The boy standing in front of him is no more responsible for his past torment than the marines he drills at the fort. James was only twelve when his parents abandoned him to the Navy, but he’d still had their influence and connections, still had his station.

Will has nothing. And no one. No one except Elizabeth.

‘I’m not here to chastise you, Mr. Turner, merely to verify your health.’ The boy meets James’ gaze. ‘I understand what it is to be preoccupied with one's professional demands.’

James sniffs and laces his fingers behind his back once more. ‘Do you enjoy your work, Mr. Turner?’

Will seems startled by the question. ‘Yes, sir. I wasn’t trained in it before, sir. But Mr. Brown allows I do have some raw talent.’

James begins slowly pacing about the room. ‘And is this what you wanted to do?’

Turner’s brows knit together as he pushes himself off the post. ‘Well, not always, sir. But I hardly see how that matters.’

And here is the crux of it, James thinks. While Elizabeth rebels against her station and the behaviors that are expected of her, Will has completely resigned himself to them. His future is set in stone, and he wears it around his neck on an iron collar that drags him down, stooping his shoulders and dulling his eyes.

‘What’s your favorite thing to make?’

‘Well,’ Turner shuffles his feet and gestures to a wooden table against the wall. ‘Mostly Mr. Brown has me making nails and tools and such-’

‘I didn’t ask what Mr. Brown makes you do,’ James interjects. ‘I asked what your preference is.’

The boy thinks a moment, picking at his fingers again, before admitting, ‘Weapons, sir. I like making daggers. Someday I’d like to make swords.’

‘Swords,’ James nods. ‘An admirable goal, Mr. Turner.’

A ghost of a smile graces Will’s lips. ‘Thank you, sir.’

An idea flits into James’ brain and beats it’s feather-light wings against his skull. One that would shock him if he gave it the time to do anything more than cause his stomach to flip before asking, ‘Do you know how to wield them?’

Will shakes his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Would you like to learn?’

The question catches them both off guard, and Will stands up straight for the first time since they began conversing. James manages to keep his surprise hidden inside.

‘Well, yes, sir, but when would I have time? I’ve my duties here, and Mr. Brown isn’t likely to-’

‘Leave the noble Mr. Brown to me,’ James interrupts with a dash of contempt. ‘I’ll send for you once I’ve made the arrangements.’

And with that, James affects a brief farewell and is out the door and halfway down the street before Will Turner even realizes what has happened.

---

The next week finds the two of them on the parade ground at the fort. James has shrugged out of his coat, draping it over a waist-high wall and setting his hat on top. It’s evening now, so there are no prying eyes to watch them, but there’s still an hour or so of sunlight left, and James intends to make the most of it. He passes Turner a practice sword and begins by teaching him rudimentary positions, how to hold the hilt, where to place one’s feet. The basics.

Will is frustrated, at first, when he doesn’t get it right away but is careful not to let it come through in his sparing words. He asks short, clarifying questions (Like this? And then?), and spends the majority of the hour with his brow creased in concentration.

When the lesson ends, the boy apologizes for being thick, sure his inability to immediately pick it up is proof of his ineptitude. But James stops him and assures that he’s doing just fine. He tells Turner to take the practice sword with him, and that he’ll see him in three days.

And so their biweekly lessons begin. Unless James’ duties take him out to sea, they meet unfailingly after his shift, going until they lose the sunlight. James finds Turner to be, quite possibly, the most humorless young man he’s ever met, only ever witnessing a facade of deep fixation or of distracted blankness on his face. But the boy is tenacious, and he improves steadily in the passing months.

---

During one of their lessons, James spies Lieutenant Gillette out of the corner of his eye resting against the wall next to where he has laid his frock coat. Turner is so focused he doesn’t seem to notice their audience, but James calls their session early, giving the boy a list of maneuvers to practice in the interim.

As he’s pulling on his coat sleeves, Gillette observes cheekily, ‘I had wondered where you’d been sneaking off to. I can see how this would be much more diverting than having a drink with me.’

James shoots him an arch glare, but the Lieutenant isn’t fazed. ‘Isn’t that the blacksmith’s boy?’

‘His apprentice,’ James corrects, replacing his hat.

‘Ah. And what would a blacksmith’s apprentice need of fencing instruction?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, Lieutenant,’ James declares with his best withering glare, and this time Gillette is cowed.

‘Sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.’

‘Consider it a favor to a friend,’ James sighs. ‘Now, no more prying.’

The Lieutenant barely conceals his answering smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

---

It’s strange, James thinks, how much this time with young Turner has affected him. At first he’d done it merely because he’d said he would and hadn’t bothered to delve into the why of it. But as time wears on, and James watches Will increase in skill and how it has straightened his spine and given him purpose, he can’t help but ponder the changes in himself as well.

One evening, James has to return to his office for something he’d forgotten to finish earlier and bids Will follow him so they can begin right afterward. As they enter his appointments, and James crosses to his desk, Will slowly circumvents the room, scrutinizing its contents in his measured way.

Then his gaze snags on the table in the center, and he approaches cautiously, something akin to reverence in his eyes. James watches out of his peripheral as Turner gently shifts through the maps, careful not to make noise.

‘Have you been to all these places?’

James is struck by a sudden deja vu. Hadn’t Elizabeth asked him the very same thing a year ago? He can see the boy’s finger tracing the dotted line he’d drawn off the coast of India. The exact same route her fingers had taken.

The same route James had sailed in his youth.

He shivers in spite of himself.

‘Many of them, yes.’ He stands and approaches haltingly, afraid if he moves too fast...actually...he isn't sure what he’s afraid of.

Then Turner smiles, albeit wistfully. ‘My father was a sailor. A merchant,’ he explains, not looking up from his exploration. ‘He used to say he’d take me with him when I was old enough. Teach me everything he knew. To sail, to fish...to read charts.’

James places his own fingertips against the parchment, an indescribable emotion bubbling up inside him, pricking behind his eyes. It feels like pride.

‘Would you like to learn?’

Will does look up then, his gaze almost supplication. ‘Yes, sir.’

---

They don’t practice any swordplay that evening. Instead, James spends the next three hours showing Will how to read longitude and latitude, how to discern distance, how to triangulate one’s position using the stars. When the boy finally does start to head home, he stops in the doorway and offers up a heart-wrenching smile as thanks. James slumps into his chair once he is gone, staring off into the empty fireplace.

A half-hour later he touches his face to find he’s been weeping.

And that’s when James realizes what his vexing feelings for this young Elizabeth truly are, for he now feels them towards Will as well. This tender notion that he...he wants to help. Wants to be there. Wants to build for them and with them and…

James never had a younger sibling. In fact, he’d hardly had older ones. It wasn’t until he’d started to make a name for himself that his brother had taken any interest and his sister...well. They’ve not spoken for many years now. It occurs to him that other than his mother, James couldn’t say with any conviction that he believed his family loved him at all. They’d certainly never needed him.

But here, now, between Gillette and Theo and Weatherby Swann and Elizabeth and even William Turner of all people...he’s finally found someone who does.

He’s found a family.

---

Chapter Text

When Elizabeth finally returns to Port Royal it is mid-September. She’s grown several inches over the course of her visit and nearly her whole wardrobe has to be replaced, an indulgence her father is more than happy to bestow upon her. She spends an entire day combing through all the tailors and fabric shops in town with Miss Morris and Estrella in tow, marveling over fine textiles and trims, picking out the latest styles.

While her trip to England had been one of the greatest adventures she’s ever had, Elizabeth is relieved to be back. She’d missed the sun and the heat and the scent of the sea. She’d missed the relative freedom she’s retained in her home here and having ample time to herself to spend as she sees fit. She’d missed her father and Will. She’d missed James.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t enjoyed the company of her family. On the contrary, she found herself hungry for her cousins’ attention, spending hours conversing with them about everything from Roman history to modern economics. Her first cousins are all a fair bit older than her, but some of their children had been similar to her in age. One of them, a bright, ivory-skinned blonde named Julia, had seen fit to take Elizabeth under her wing. She was almost a year younger but had a worldly understanding Elizabeth was immediately drawn to. The two became thick as thieves almost as soon as they were introduced.

Elizabeth had been sorry to say goodbye to her most of all. They had agreed to write one another while locked in a tearful embrace before Elizabeth boarded the ship that would take her home. She finds she can’t wait to start, excited to have a penpal abroad.

A month or so into her stay, Elizabeth had a particularly vivid nightmare where she was fighting in a great naval battle and turned around only to be run through the middle by a pirate’s cutlass. She started awake to find her bedclothes and sheets soaked in blood. Her scream had woken nearly the entire household, and, as the servants cleaned up the grisly mess, Elizabeth was taken aside by her governess and a handful of her older cousins as they explained how her life was never going to be the same. She hardly slept the rest of the night, peevish due to the dull ache in her belly and the crushing sense of loss she felt.

She kept all of that out of her letters, though.

Letters...she’d sent so many of them over the past months. Of course she’d been in contact with her father, how could she not? She’d written him every other day, careful to leave out any negative feelings she might be having and instead focusing on how many new things she’d been experiencing. She knew he was already worrying about her and was determined not to give him any more reason.

Elizabeth had delighted in trading letters with Captain Norrington, though she only referred to him as such on paper or in public. In her mind he is James, and she longs for the day she can openly call him such. If she didn’t think it would completely mortify him, she would have tried already. But he is the absolute model of gentlemanly honor, and she doesn’t want to risk his favor by stepping over the line society has put between them.

She wrote him every week, trying her best to appear learned and grown in her wording. It helped that Miss Morris was checking over her work. Even though she had chafed at the idea at first, all it took was one attempt at writing him on her own to realize she actually very much appreciated the aid. Though she would never admit it to anyone.

His replies had been irregular; she knew this was because he was so often out at sea, but they had been altogether lovely, even in their simplicity. She spent hours reading and rereading them, sometimes to Julia, memorizing the way his penmanship slanted and curved. He always began with ‘To Miss Elizabeth Swann,’ and even though it was still formal, she was thrilled to see her given name penned in his hand.

She’d written to Will, too, though not as often, sneaking those letters past Miss Morris’ critical eye and into the post only with the help of darling, daring Julia. He sent one back maybe twice a month, and his replies were usually succinct. He was having a rough time of it with Mr. Brown, and though he refused to go into detail about it, Elizabeth was distressed on his behalf. So when his letters stopped coming, she’d panicked, fearing the worst. But what could she do all the way across the ocean? This was when she’d managed to smuggle a plea to James, hoping he’d sense the import of her request. She was sure he’d understand.

After all, he’d been nothing but understanding of her so far.

---

Upon her return, Elizabeth learns that James is currently gone, though her father won’t tell her where to or what’s happened, naval maneuvers being an unsuitable topic for a young lady. She is irked by this, but lets it go, deciding to visit Will in the meantime. She slips Miss Morris by way of feigning a migraine, begging off to her room and then sneaking out to see him.

Will has grown too, in the months they’ve been apart, nearly standing a head taller than her. There are sparse whiskers on his chin, and his hair has gotten longer. He keeps it tied back in a messy queue, flyaways clinging to his sweaty brow. He greets her at the side door when she gives their secret knock but doesn’t usher her inside, saying he expects Mr. Brown to return soon. Instead, he unties his apron and agrees to walk with her for a short while. Elizabeth recounts the more interesting details of her journey as they take the path that leads up the hill. It offers a splendid view of the harbor, and they stop to recline in the grass beneath a leafy tree.

It is then that Will begins to regale her with what he’s been up to in her absence. He tells her of his and James’ introduction, stopping to softly scold her for wasting the Captain’s valuable time on him. Then he goes on to express to her how surprised he’d been at James’ offer and, subsequently, his lessons. He shares his disbelief that such an esteemed gentleman would have any use for him. He continues on in this fashion for some time, extolling the Captain and abasing himself in turns until Elizabeth interrupts to ask him to show her some of what he’s learned.

Before long, Will has to return to work, and Elizabeth sets off toward home, mulling over this unexpected development in her brain. More unexpected, is the white nearly blinding flash of jealousy she’d felt at learning Will had been spending so much time with James while she’d been away. It isn’t as if she'd had any claim on the man, but she can’t shake the insistent sentiment that James is somehow hers.

She resolves that the next time she sees him, she will ask him to teach her to fence too.

---

James refuses, because of course he does. Swordplay is not typically the pursuit of young ladies and besides he can’t imagine her father would be amenable to such a thing.

Elizabeth pouts even though she’d expected him to say as much but soon gets over her disappointment when James offers a hesitant alternative.

‘I’ve heard archery is all the rage among European nobility.’

They are taking a turn about the gardens, Miss Morris following an appropriate distance behind, and Elizabeth halts to appraise him. ‘Archery?’

James politely stops as well, fingers laced behind his back, his coat a brilliant blue in the afternoon sun. ‘Yes.’

Elizabeth starts walking again, turning the idea over in her mind. The more she thinks on it, the more she warms to the prospect. ‘Do you believe Father would allow it?’

He regards her with a near smile that makes his green eyes sparkle, and Elizabeth’s stomach does a rather inconsiderate flip-flop.

‘Oh, I think he could be made to see the merits of it.’

---

And James is not wrong, as it turns out, though it does take several days of alternated beseeching and sulking before her father completely comes around. But a hundred nos and one yes is still a yes, and Elizabeth watches with unrestrained satisfaction as the stablehand sets up a scattering of targets for her in the garden. She is given a pair of simple wooden bows and a quiver of practice arrows and spends time firing them everywhere except where she’s trying to aim them. An hour later, muscles sore and mood sour, she gives up, stomping up the stairs to her room and slamming the door behind her.

The next day, however, she steels herself to the task and asks her father, over breakfast, to hire a tutor for her.

---

After she has seen a significant growth in her skill, Elizabeth requests for James to join her in her independent practice one evening before dinner, and he agrees. She’s played the scenario over and over in her mind since her lessons began, imagining how he might see her pulling her bowstring wrong and opt to help remedy her grip, taking her in his arms to teach by example, his large hands over hers as he murmurs encouragement into her ear.

But he doesn’t, of course, standing an appropriate distance from her at all times and offering charitable praise when she hits the target and polite instruction when she does not. In one instance she is distracted by a mosquito buzzing in her ear, and her arrow goes sailing over the hedge and out of sight. James tries valiantly to hide his laughter, but Elizabeth isn’t fooled and demands, through her embarrassment, that if he thinks it’s so easy, then he should pick up the other bow and try himself.

He quirks an eyebrow but moves to oblige, rolling his shirtsleeves past his elbows before nocking his own arrow and letting loose. His aim is much better than hers, but Elizabeth hardly notices as his next five shots strike very near the bullseye. She’s far too distracted by the way his muscles flex beneath the skin of his forearm.

She excuses herself from dinner early that night, claiming fatigue, and spends an unbearable amount of time lying on her back, staring at the ceiling in the dark, her duvet thrown to the floor as punishment for stifling her. Even with the window open she can’t seem to cool off. Nor can she stop wondering what it might feel like to touch the bare flesh of James’ arm.

The two things are completely unrelated, she’s sure.

---

Elizabeth eventually decides she finds James Norrington to be quite handsome.

She begins to become much more aware of the length of his elegant fingers, which she knows are surely rough from his life at sea. She lets her gaze linger, perhaps a bit too long, on the stately line of his nose, the sweep of his dark, expressive brows, or the gleam in his incalculably green eyes. She grows acutely conscious of his height and the broadness of his shoulders, admiring the straightness of his spine. She allows herself to appreciate the timbre of his voice and the curve of his rare, exquisite smiles.

But more startling than these discoveries is Elizabeth’s reaction to them. Completely independent of any will of her own, she finds her body unfairly mutinying in his presence. Her heart flutters, her stomach drops, her palms sweat and shake, and she finds herself sporadically tongue-tied in the most maddening of ways. She used to be so sure in all things, undaunted by anyone and everyone. She found it easy to laugh and converse and gambol about with James only just a year before...but now…

What has he done to her?

And why does it thrill her so much?

She’s always admired him, to be sure. He never treated her like her youth made the things she had to say any less important, behaved as though, to him, she was never just a silly child. And that had galvanized her, made her strive to deserve his good opinion. She stood up taller when he was around, hoped he would notice how hard she worked for his approval.

Though she was always sure he’d at the very least liked her, it wasn’t as though James was ever overly-affectionate. Quite the opposite, in fact. Apart from a very few instances, he’d always kept a proper distance between them that used to gall her, but now she finds it almost a relief, positive that if they were to be any closer she would spontaneously self-immolate. This fear drives a wedge between them only Elizabeth can see, and she is absolutely infuriated by it.

He never calls her Elizabeth, as Will does, but she finds now that she almost desperately wishes he would, longing to hear him form the syllables of her name with his lips.

And she is appalled by how often she thinks of his lips.

---

In the months following her return, Miss Morris’ lessons begin to take up much of Elizabeth’s time. Her Debut is in less than two years, and her governess is doggedly forging her into an accomplished young lady, resorting to all manner of discipline save fire itself. Elizabeth learns French and Spanish and practices painting, calligraphy, and needlepoint. She has varying degrees of success with these endeavors, finding herself to be beyond hopeless at embroidery and calamitous at baking, but she excels in sketching and music, becoming proficient at both the harp and the pianoforte.

As time wears on, she has less and less occasion to sneak off to meet Will. At first, she tries very hard to do so, yearning to keep something of her previous life, but he begins to cool to her in the most bewildering of ways, only keeping her company in short intervals, standing more than arm's length from her at all times, and more upsetting than all else, abandoning the use of her name entirely.

She is Miss Swann now to all but her father.

It makes her want to hit him.

Instead she settles for letting her visits peter out altogether. Why should she risk detection if he isn’t even willing to call her by her name? The shift well-nigh breaks her heart, but Elizabeth is too stubborn to let it show.

She only grieves when no one can hear her.

---

In May, James receives orders and unhappily tells her that he will be gone for quite some time. He will miss her birthday. Elizabeth tries to be gracious, masking her disappointment as best she can. She suggests he send letters to her while he is away, that she might know he is safe. He agrees, and she is pleased by the warmth in the smile he bestows upon her.

The day before he is to leave, James calls on her in the garden, a long package tucked beneath his arm. Under the discerning eye of Miss Morris, he presents her with a beautiful cherry wood bow and matching arrows. Curling vines are carved into the limbs, inlaid in green. She is utterly moved by the gift and tests the draw to hide her misty eyes.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she murmurs with feeling . ‘This is...magnificent.’

His expression is inscrutable. ‘You are most welcome, Miss Swann. Happy early birthday.’

She wants to leap into his arms, wants to clutch at his jacket and beg him to stay, wants to drag him into the house and hide him away from duty and the King and anyone else who would dare to take him from her.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she curtsies prettily and sends him off with the promise that she will remain safe in his absence.

She knows it is silly, but Elizabeth sleeps with her new bow for the next three nights, one end perched on the pillow beside her.

---

Elizabeth’s fifteenth birthday party is the first one she has where most of the guests are her own age, or close to it.

During the past year, Miss Morris has been working overtime making suitable connections for Elizabeth. She attended salons and hosted teas and went to sewing circles where she was introduced to a myriad of girls much like herself. Well, in circumstance, maybe, if not in spirit. Together, they form the next generation of Port Royal society. True, she wearies of their talk of marriage and households, but she is surprisingly happy to joke and gossip with them, eager for female companionship in spite of herself.

It is these fine, young, not-quite ladies and their escorts (older sisters or governesses) who make up the attendees of Elizabeth’s birthday dinner. She spends a full two days decorating and coordinating the menu, keen that everything should go perfectly. It is the first party she is to host, and though Miss Morris will be with her every step of the way, Elizabeth is excited to be given this responsibility.

It turns out to be a lovely evening. Her guests have fun conversing with her and one another, and after dinner they take turns about the garden under hanging paper lanterns. Elizabeth shows off her skill at archery, and the pack of onlookers applaud, avowing that she is most accomplished. Elizabeth beams under their praise.

One of her guests, and her best friend among them, Rebecca Scott, lingers after the others start to disperse in favor of cards or music in the drawing room and asks Elizabeth to teach her how to shoot. She is nowhere near the patient teacher James is, but as it turns out, Becca hardly needs any instruction at all before promptly getting the hang of it. Elizabeth swallows her jealousy with a mouthful of punch.

Later, in the drawing room, Elizabeth sits in rapt congress with some of the other girls as Becca entertains them with all sorts of wicked things she somehow knows about men and women and what they do together, her red locks curling round her plump, flushed cheeks. Elizabeth is at once disgusted and titillated, not at all sure how Miss Scott has come by this information but bowing to her greater knowledge on the subject.

That night, after all her guests have left and the household is asleep, Elizabeth sits up at her open window, staring out at the darkened horizon. She wonders where James might be at that moment, what he is doing. She wonders if he is thinking of her.

---

James does write to her while he is away, though it is only two or three times per voyage and mostly to assure her that he is safe. Sometimes, he will describe to her the places he goes and the battles he sees, but even this is done in such a way as to be entirely proper and, to Elizabeth, much less interesting. She wishes he wouldn’t be so circumspect.

Eventually, he begins to send small things with his letters, trifles from his travels that Elizabeth absolutely adores, lining them up on her mantle and windowsills, admiring them in the starlight. Among her treasures are all manner of shells and carved bits of ivory and wood, which she suspects he may have whittled himself. There are maps and tiny vials and scraps of sails and chunks of wood broken off in skirmishes. These remind Elizabeth of how dangerous James’ profession is, and even though the thought of combat excites her, she finds herself worried for his well-being on more than one occasion.

One of her favorite pieces is a miniature jade elephant with an elaborate saddle etched onto its back. It is small enough to balance on the end of her finger, and Elizabeth is enormously charmed by it. She picks up her many prizes often, especially at night before bed, and turns them over in her hands, writing stories in her head about each one and what it was about them that made James think of her.

She is gratified that he does.

---

The year marches on, and Elizabeth continues her lessons. She learns to dance, a skill she will especially need for her Debut, and practices constantly, not caring if the servants see her spinning about the grounds. Sometimes, she practices with her father, who is delighted by her progress even as he is sorry to see her grow up. He twirls her around the drawing room while she laughs gaily, fighting him for the lead, as Miss Morris accompanies on the pianoforte.

Elizabeth cherishes these moments.

She also takes up other new hobbies, things like macrame and decoupage, and even attempts horseback riding. But she has a nasty fall at this one day, suffering a bruised hip and awful sprain in her wrist. She also bleeds for the whole evening despite the fact she isn’t on her courses. That was the end of that particular diversion.

She attends the opera with Becca and writes scads of letters to Julia and hosts teas and dinners and her skill in all things grows steadily. She is shaping into quite the young lady, if she doesn’t say so herself, and she can tell even the prim Miss Morris is pleased by her improvement.

To her tacit disappointment, she doesn’t see James as often as she’d like, his duties taking him away from Port Royal even more often this year. He is off being ‘The Scourge of Piracy,’ and though she is tickled by the title and proud of his achievements, she misses him terribly.

She misses Will, too.

But he is even less friendly to her these days, his polite aloofness on the rare occasions she does see him feeling like a slap across the face. She wants to shake him, demand that he stop calling her Miss Swann. She inquires about him to James once, knowing the two have continued with his lessons, but the Captain’s reaction is so concise as to be icy, and she gives up trying.

---

The day of her Debut is nearing rapidly, and Elizabeth is growing restless. She is monstrously ready for this period of her life to be over and done with, ready to be out in society and free from her governess.

She is devastated when James has to leave on important naval business just a week before her Debut Ball and, though he promises to do everything in his power to be back in time, she spends the entirety of the next day moping about the manor and cries herself to sleep that night.

But it turns out her tears were for naught. The Dauntless makes port the day before her party, and Elizabeth is, once again, in indomitably high spirits.

After all, it could hardly be the best night of her life without him.

---

Chapter Text

‘Do you know how to wield them?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Would you like to learn?’

Will is sputtering, he’s sure. He’s been completely at sea this entire exchange, baffled as to why such an important figure would take any time conversing with him and utterly at a loss for how to respond to the Captain’s polite questioning.

What can he possibly say? That it’s been a long time since he’s been desperate to escape the confines of his life? That he’s given up all hope of ever being anything else, anyone else? Learning swordplay had once been a goal of his, yes...but it was the dream of a smooth-faced, foolish boy who had a family and dreams, both of which had been forcefully taken from Will some time ago.

‘Well, yes, sir,’ he begins, feeling exposed by the accidental admission. ‘But when would I have time? I’ve my duties here, and Mr. Brown isn’t likely to-’

‘Leave the noble Mr. Brown to me,’ the Captain responds with a slight sneer that freezes Will instantly, his fight or flight instinct kicking in.

But the man’s next words show the contempt was not directed at him, and Will relaxes, albeit minutely.

‘I’ll send for you once I’ve made the arrangements.’

And then he departs, striding out of the smithy in a blaze of navy blue and gold braid, dropping a brief goodbye in his wake and leaving Will alone, fidgeting nervously in the empty room.

What the hell just happened?

---

Miraculously, Mr. Brown does agree to letting Will have time for lessons, though there is little doubt in Will’s mind this was either accomplished through the exchanging of coin or threats or, quite possibly, both. Brown is not a generous man and is certainly not given to doing anything unless it directly profits himself. Will has had occasion to witness this personally many times.

When he’d first arrived here and was given the choice between the streets, the orphanage, or an apprenticeship, Will had thought he was making the smartest decision. He was certainly given that impression by the adults around him. But working for the blacksmith had turned out to be very much like slavery.

Will was given a place of his own in the attic above the shop and, though it had little insulation against the heat or the cold or the noise of the docks, and there was a constant battle against the vermin that was always trying to set up residence, this was treated by Brown as though it were some great kindness on his part. So he demanded Will work long hours, toiling away in the hot, and often dangerous, conditions of the smithy and considered the ‘room and board’ to be ample payment for his efforts.

At first, Will had rebelled against the unfair treatment, refusing to perform overly risky tasks or hurling the blacksmith’s insults right back at him. This had earned him more than one sound thrashing, and though he had tried to get away, Brown was unexpectedly nimble for a fat drunkard. Will has spent many a night favoring his cuts and bruises, licking his wounds like a whipped cur.

But, slowly, he learned his place.

The only light that had shown through in Will’s new life (if you could call it that) in Port Royal was in the form of Miss Elizabeth Swann. It was she who had spotted him drifting in the frigid waves of the Atlantic, her gentle hand that had pressed a cool rag to his fevered brow. She had taken it upon herself to nurse him for the rest of the voyage, and once he was well enough, to spend time exploring the ship with him, joking and cavorting in the unbiased way children do.

The Governor had indulged his daughter in this only until The Dauntless docked, then she was swiftly whisked away, clearly meant to forget all about the quiet, lonely boy she had saved. But she didn’t forget him. In fact, she visited him as often as she was able, sneaking away from The King’s House and into the town.

They’d worked out a system; she’d give a secret knock on the side door to announce her arrival, and Will would either smuggle her up to his room or, as was more often the case, they’d run off up the hill or down to the cove, sequestering themselves away from the demands of adults and their societal rules.

These are some of Will’s fondest memories. Though Elizabeth was tremendously spoiled by her father, she was no less kind for it. She never treated him like he was anything less than an equal, happy to share his space, his time, even his food. But he was also happy to give them to her. She was his saving angel, silly as it sounded. The lone spark of goodness in his terrible life.

When he is with her, he feels as though he could actually dream of something better.

But even that is starting to change. And Will knows, sooner or later, he’s going to have to give her up.

---

Will is immensely uncomfortable as he makes his way through Fort Charles, feeling as though everyone he passes is wondering what he’s doing here while also knowing that he’s more likely to be completely beneath their notice. Often times, he acts as a courier for Mr. Brown’s business, but his duties have very rarely taken him here, and even though it is late and there are not so many people as there are during the day, Will still feels crowded, acutely aware of the eyes that aren’t following him in the slightest.

It is a relief when he finally reaches the parade ground...until he spies Captain Norrington across the clearing, divested of his naval frock coat and holding a practice weapon in each hand. Will’s anxiety ratchets up tenfold. He fingers the scrap of dirty fabric he keeps in his pocket, what used to be his mother’s finest lace handkerchief, and takes a deep breath.

‘Be afraid, Will,’ she’d once told him, ‘But be brave, too. Fear is the important first step to finding courage.’

He approaches, then, standing just a bit straighter.

At first, Will is disappointed in his lack of skill. The Captain is a patient, if demanding, teacher, and bids him take the practice sword with him so that he may work on his stances in his free time. Will does, opening his dormer window at night to let in the breeze and carefully going through the steps in the lamplight. However, after several lessons where he is taught nothing but this and then drilled in it so continuously as to be vexing, he can’t help but question the practicality of it. Surely in an actual fight, such deliberate posing can be of no real use.

He says as much one evening whilst they are taking a brief rest, seated on the waist-high wall surrounding the courtyard. The Captain considers him for several moments, brows lowered over piercing green eyes, silent so long that Will is nearly ready to grab his things and flee.

Then something thoroughly unexpected happens. Captain Norrington smiles. Actually smiles! Will is so taken aback one could knock him over with a feather. His bewilderment must be plain on his face, because the Captain chuckles to himself and looks away. Will is positively petrified, his blood ice in his veins. What do I do? What do I DO?!

Norrington finally replies, his slight amusement still evident in his tone as he says resolutely, ‘This is the foundation upon which you will build all the rest of the things you learn, Mr. Turner. It isn’t flashy. It isn’t complex,’ he meets Will’s startled gaze again and raises an eyebrow as if to drive his point home. ‘But, trust me. It very well may save your life someday.’ He pauses for a tick, his countenance inscrutable and then adds, ‘If you should ever find yourself in a sword fight, that is.’

Will considers this late into the evening, staring up at the shadowed rafters above his bed long after he should have been asleep. Foundations are the business of men who prepare for the future, something he has not done for quite some time. Since his mother’s death he has been living day by day, focusing only on surviving. That has not left much room to dream, but it has also kept him from fixating on his past traumas. Or on his crushing loneliness.

But now, perhaps he is ready to start planning for what’s to come. Perhaps he is ready to actually start living instead of merely existing.

---

On one occasion, Will is invited back to the Captain’s office, as he’s forgotten something there but doesn’t wish to leave Will alone on the parade ground. As soon as the heavy door swings inward, Norrington heads to his desk while Will sucks in and then holds his breath, spellbound by the scene before him. He clutches his things tightly as he circumnavigates the room, taking in the various treasures dotting the shelves and hanging from the walls. He stops briefly to appreciate a stunningly detailed ship in a bottle and feels a sudden pang of loss, reminded of his father.

Then he spies the charts. All manner of them, scattered haphazardly across the large table in the center of the space. He considers, in passing, that it seems out of character for the Captain to leave them so, but as he approaches, the thought flutters away, leaving him with only some profound feeling blooming in his chest. He would be helpless to describe what it is.

He reaches out and, with reverent fingers, starts shifting through the maps, careful to make as little disturbance as possible. What adventures this man has had. ‘Have you been to all these places?’ he asks, for once not careful to check the emotion in his voice.

There are a few beats of silence in which Will can hear the gulls crying outside, the ticking of the clock over the mantle, a bell ringing somewhere in the harbor. He begins to trace a thin dotted line that has been drawn on one of the maps, the Indian coast, he recognizes. Was this the route the Captain took?

He doesn’t look up from his exploration as he hears Norrington crossing the room. ‘Many of them, yes.’

Hot tears prick behind Will’s eyes, and he marvels at their sudden arrival. He tells the Captain about his father, about how he’d once planned to teach him how to sail and fish and read charts. He feels as though some part of him is unraveling, as though he is losing and gaining something all at once.

‘Would you like to learn?’

The question is so softly spoken, Will thinks, at first, he’s imagined it. He peers up to find the Captain watching him, visage frightfully sincere, his long fingers braced on the table top.

In that moment, Will believes he has never known anyone so fine.

‘Yes, sir.’

It comes out like a prayer.

---

That night, as he leaves the Captain’s office, Will allows himself the fleeting thought that if he’d ever had an older brother, he would have wanted him to be like James.

He punishes himself the next day for the familiarity.

But something has changed between them, though Will is hard pressed to discern what. At first, it makes things unbearably awkward, Will having no talent for navigating complex social situations and, therefore, no idea how to react. So he simply doesn’t. Instead, he pours himself into his training, both in smithing and in swordsmanship, and finally begins to see improvements in himself— improvements that ease the weight of the misery on his shoulders.

After one of their sessions, the Captain congratulates him, saying he’s never had a cannier pupil. Will is embarrassed by the compliment but also feels something very like pride...until…

‘Wait...have you had another pupil?’

The Captain smirks over his shoulder as he shrugs into his jacket, laughter in his eyes. ‘No, Mr. Turner. I can’t say as I have.’

It is the first time Will has heard him make a joke. And he loves James all the better for it.

---

In time, Lizzie returns from her trip abroad, and the very first thing she does is feign illness and sneak out to visit him. While Will is certainly happy to see her, he is stunned by how much she’s changed over the course of these past months. She’s taller now, long of leg and of neck, her hair falling from its pins to curl gracefully over her clavicle. Her freckles have faded, due to spending the summer beneath an absent English sun, and he has to fight himself to keep his gaze from the slightly more obvious swell of her bosom.

The thought of being crammed into his quarters with her fills him with panic, so he quickly doffs his apron, suggesting they go for a walk instead. At least then, he doesn’t have to look at her.

But he finds he cannot stop. She is radiant as she animatedly tells him of the more exciting bits of her holiday, eyes glittering, chest heaving from their climb. When she sits next to him beneath their shade tree and gazes up at him from under her long lashes, Will has no idea what to do with his hands, which are now slick with sweat.

Will tries to think of anything to say, anything to distract himself from how she is unknowingly tormenting him, and settles upon his lessons with Captain Norrington. He finds himself enthusiastic to sing the man’s praises, and Elizabeth seems captivated besides.

He goes on for quite some time until she interrupts to ask him to show her some of what he’s learned. So he casts about for an appropriately long stick and does just that. She is generous with her flattery of him, lauding his skill and form. Will is sure if his face burns any hotter, he will burst into flame. It isn’t long before he insists they return, to her very vocal disappointment. He really does need to get back to work, but, more crucial, he isn’t altogether sure he likes this new power she has over him.

---

During one of his longer voyages, Captain Norrington sends Will a parcel. He arrives home from some errand to find it sitting innocuously on his work table, the address written across the brown paper wrapping in slanting, spidery script. Will takes it upstairs to unwrap and discovers it to be a book. Robinson Crusoe. He opens the cover to find a note tucked inside.

For finding adventure in the mundane. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. - J. Norrington

Will is mystified by the gift, and more than a little bit touched, for he can’t remember the last time someone gave him a present, but...he doesn’t read. It’s not as though he can’t, his mother was very adamant about his schooling back in England, but since coming to Port Royal he hasn’t even so much as flipped through a book. He’s never really been given to reading as a pastime, but as he thumbs through the novel, he thinks this might be as good a time as any to start. If for no other reason than to have something in common with James.

It is slow going at first; Will is frustratingly out of practice. But by the time The Dauntless returns, he has finished. He brings it with him for the next lesson, thinking to give it back, but James shakes his head.

‘It was a gift, Mr. Turner, and besides, every man ought to aspire to have a library of his own.’

Will asks if he does, and James offers a furtive smile before leading him back to his office and pointing out a rather large bookcase in the corner that is fairly overflowing with tomes of all size and color. Will wonders that he didn’t notice it before.

‘Feel free to borrow any you like,’ the Captain generously offers, his fingers laced behind him as they so often are. ‘So long as you bring them back.’

A thrill shoots through Will at the prospect, and he selects one of the shorter volumes. It turns out to be a play that begins with a great storm and ends with forgiveness. He devours it whole in one night.

Over the next year, Will accumulates stacks of books of his own that litter the surfaces of his small room. Don Quixote, The Odyssey, several other works by Daniel Defoe, who has become his favorite author...he finds comfort in their crisp pages, the smell of their binding.

And more than that, he finally begins to allow himself to dream of a brighter future.

---

But not everything goes so well. As Elizabeth’s tutelage to become a fine lady and member of society wears on, she has less and less occasion to visit him. He misses her, but her presence is also a jarring reminder of his station...and hers.

She is beautiful, effervescent in her enjoyment of life and all the pleasures to be found therein, but with her companionship comes the sinking realization that he must eventually let her go. She can never be his, in any definition of the term, and it does not benefit either of them to continue on in this way.

For him, it is because of the utter agony he is in now that he recognizes his attraction to her, and for her...well, it simply wouldn’t do for her to be caught unescorted in the company of a blacksmith’s apprentice.

As such, he deliberately cools to her, maintaining a respectable distance between them and dodging her attempts to traverse it. He also begins to refer to her only as ‘Miss Swann,’ something she teases, then berates him for when he does not stop. But he will not be swayed, no matter how she pouts. She is killing him with her closeness, and besides, he has to find a way to someday live without her.

Which ends up being sooner, rather than later. Miss Swann doesn’t at all approve of the boundaries he’s setting, and very quickly, her visits stop altogether.

It was as he intended, but Will still can’t help but be brokenhearted over the loss.

---

In time, Will begins to search for other camaraderie to fill the hole Miss Swann left behind. He is more outgoing at work, forming friendships with other tradesmen or sailors his age and reveling in them. He is invited out for drinks and gambling, and though he’s rarely interested in the more carnal of their diversions, Will is eager to come along. He is finally living his life now, and he longs for people to ground him in it. There is no one he is truly close to, but it’s still something.

I’m ready, he thinks at night, gazing out his window at the stars. Now bring me that horizon.

---

Chapter Text

It is the day of Elizabeth’s Debut Ball, and she has no idea what to do with herself. Her head popped off the pillow with the dawn, and, though she did force herself to get a few more hours of fitful sleep, she has been helpless to find suitable distraction ever since. She spends much of the morning trailing after the servants as they put the final touches on the decorations, worrying over the placement of this silk banner or that floral bouquet. Eventually, Miss Morris is called in to chase her out of the ballroom, and Elizabeth sulks for an hour or so in the garden.

Then she begins to help the gardener.

He is hardly more tolerant of her, and it isn’t long before she has been relegated to the drawing room, Miss Morris all but placing her in a chair and demanding, ‘Now, stay here!’ She is sent tea and refreshments, none of which she eats, and busies herself by practicing the pianoforte until she can no longer stand the confines of the room. Luckily, she hasn’t been locked in...though she’d half expected to be.

This time she does try to stay out of the way, settling for dragging a chair out onto the second story landing so that she may watch the bustle below her and have a unhindered view of anyone who comes or goes. At length, her father spies her and climbs the staircase, shaking his head but with a smile firmly in place.

‘And what, may I ask, are you doing up here?’

‘I’ve been banished,’ Elizabeth pouts as he comes to a stop beside her. ‘If Miss Morris catches me down there one more time, I’m likely to be chained to the wall.’

Weatherby Swann laughs, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘You may be right about that, actually.’

She glares up at him, an indignant retort ready, but then senses he is joking, and besides that, appears most forlorn. She reaches up and places a hand over his, giving his fingers a squeeze. He meets her gaze. ‘Don’t worry, Father. I shan’t be leaving you just yet.’

He smiles once more and plants a kiss on her brow just as Elizabeth notices that the orchestra has arrived. She fairly leaps out of her seat, gripping the banister so tightly her knuckles are white. ‘But they’re so early! Are they not early, Father?’

The Governor sighs good-naturedly, rolling his eyes heavenward, and starts back down the stairs. ‘Perhaps they need time to practice.’

---

Somehow, she makes it. She survives the long, arduous hours until she can finally start preparing herself for the ball. Estrella helps her into the lovely robe a l’anglaise her father had tailored expressly for this occasion. Elizabeth is stunned by the young woman staring back at her from the full-length mirror: the square neckline revealing a creamy swath of no-longer-freckled skin, the frothing of lace coming out just below her elbows, the petite flower motif that marches along the fine, powder-blue silk in golden thread. She’d picked the colors out especially, knowing it would compliment her complexion but also conscious of how much it would match James’ dress uniform.

She turns slightly, to and fro, eyes wide in appreciation. She’s never worn something so magnificent in all her life. Estrella meets her gaze in the mirror as she straightens the hem of the voluminous skirts. ‘Not done yet, Miss. Time for the hair.’

This takes much longer, and, though she is wildly impatient to see the end result, Elizabeth remains stock still as Estrella tames her tangled tresses into a sweeping updo, dainty curls framing her face and larger ones falling to her shoulder. The maid regards her seemingly finished task with an almost proud mien but won’t let Elizabeth investigate just yet.

‘One last thing, Miss.’

She produces a string of fresh blue and white flowers and pearls, small in stature, but exceedingly beautiful, and, by the clever use of pins, affixes it across the crown of Elizabeth’s head. Then, and only then, does she allow her lady to see her work.

The effect is astonishing. She hardly recognizes her reflection, so grown she looks. Elizabeth gently probes her lightly rouged cheek and watches her mirror image do the same. Still her, then. She breaks into a brilliant grin.

‘Father is going to fall right out of his chair!’

---

He doesn’t, but she is gratified by his reaction nonetheless. Weatherby Swann gasps as she steps across the threshold of his office, placing a gloved hand over his heart. ‘My dear, you are unparalleled in your beauty.’

Of course he’d say that; he’s her father. But Elizabeth preens under his high praise regardless. He takes her hand and gently kisses her knuckles. As soon as he lets go, she throws her arms around him in an embrace that is all silk ruffles and affection.

‘Thank you, Father.’ She kisses his cheek. ‘I love you.’

His tight lipped expression as she pulls away means he is fighting tears, so Elizabeth allows herself to be spirited out of the room by an uncharacteristically anxious Miss Morris. She stops in the hallway to give her charge a scrutinous once-over. ‘Have you eaten?’

Elizabeth hadn’t, really. She’d sat at the dinner table next to her father and picked her way through the meal. She hadn’t even finished her dessert, something so out of character even the manservant clearing the table had raised his brow.

She merely nods in response, not wishing to lie with her lips.

Miss Morris tuts, and then ushers her toward the front door. ‘Your guests will start arriving very soon, and while it will not be your duty to greet them at the door, you must be nearby so that they may announce their presence to you.’ She fondly fingers the lace that graces Elizabeth’s neckline. ‘Now, are you ready?’

Something almost like tenderness settles in the woman’s eyes then, and Elizabeth is overcome by a sudden amity for her governess. She reaches out and takes hold of her hands in both of her own. ‘With you as my teacher, how could I not be?’

---

Sure enough, the guests start arriving almost as soon as the two part. Elizabeth is joined by her father and is introduced to all manner of Port Royal society. She recognizes many of them but has spoken to far fewer, seeing as before this day she was considered a child by their standards, and therefore, was to be ignored.

Elizabeth promises herself that she will never treat children in such a way, for it had been beyond frustrating to be on the receiving end.

Rebecca Scott and her family arrive precisely at seven o’clock, and Elizabeth is immensely relieved to finally greet a guest her own age. Becca is dazzling in green and cream, and as she leans in close to kiss Elizabeth’s cheek, she whispers, ‘Has your dashing Captain arrived yet?’

Elizabeth whips out her newest brisé fan, the one with a mother of pearl handle, and shakes her head with a coy smile. She wants to stay and gossip with her friend, but more guests have materialized at her side, and she must give each of them her individual attention.

---

By seven thirty, nearly all of the guests have arrived and Elizabeth moves into the ballroom to begin mingling with them. Several of her male guests approach her, asking to be placed on her dance card for the evening, and she is the gracious hostess with one and all. The dance shall be starting at eight, and even though she has practiced enough to be rather adept at it now, she’s still all nerves at the prospect of actually dancing.

But it is a splendid sort of nerves. Surrounded by the admiring faces of her guests as they laugh and converse among each other, Elizabeth is on top of the world. This is the moment in her life when everything will change. She is out in society now, a woman grown. It’s what she’s been working toward for so long. This is when her future begins.

---

He is late. He is late, and it galls him. Technically, it isn't his fault; having only just returned the previous day, there was much work to be done and, as Captain, James was unable to delegate the tasks to someone else. But, at the same time, he recognizes that, while this is an entirely legitimate excuse, Elizabeth is unlikely to be assuaged by it.

He hopes she will be so busy with her other guests, she won’t notice him entering.

At the door, he is admitted by the stiff-backed butler, much like always, but this time he is not divested of his coat or hat, it being a formal affair. He nods in greeting to a few of the revelers he passes as he makes his way toward the ballroom, completely ill at ease surrounded by so many lofty strangers.

He has always so hated balls.

But then, even through the crowd, he spots her. Engaged in animated conversation with the Misses Dunham, Elizabeth is several dozen feet from him, all manner of party guest in between, and yet...she is altogether breathtaking. She seems amused by something, and, even though he has to real way to, he would swear he can almost hear her musical laughter over the din of the party.

He is frozen in place. Time feels like it’s telescoping around him. For the first time, she looks like his Elizabeth, and he is utterly undone.

Then she glances over, and her eyes lock onto his. He can feel the warmth in her gaze even from this distance. She excuses herself and begins to make her way toward him, and James finally convinces his feet to move. He meets her halfway.

Up close, he realizes she is still young, not yet the bewitching lady he’d once fallen in love with. But she is captivating nonetheless, a vision in blue and gold. His heart lurches painfully beneath his ribs as she extends a hand in greeting.

‘Captain Norrington. How good of you to join us.’

He takes her delicate, cool fingers in his and bows over her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles, an action he’s done countless times before and yet, at the same time, not at all.

She is practically sparkling as he straightens. ‘Forgive my lateness, Miss Swann.’

This earns him an amiable smile. ‘It hardly matters, Captain. What does matter is that you’re here now.’

He spends a moment effectively trapped by her regard, feeling much like a specimen pinned in a display case. Then he hears the orchestra start to warm up, glancing over to see a violinist rosining his bow.

‘Perhaps I might be permitted the first available space on your dance card?’

Elizabeth fans herself prettily; her answer is pure silk. ‘As it so happens, my first space is available.’

It is her Debut Ball. There is no way that could be true. Unless…

She’s saved it for him.

The moment the realization strikes him, James feels his stomach drop as his heart tries to climb out through his throat. Miraculously, he still manages, ‘Then, if it pleases you, Miss Swann.’ He holds out an open hand as the music begins in earnest. ‘May I have this dance?’

---

‘You may.’

And several more, if I have anything to say about it, Elizabeth thinks saucily as she accepts James’ offered hand and allows herself to be led to the dance floor. It’s so much larger than hers, she can’t help but notice, warm in a pleasing way with a broad palm and long, elegant fingers. She is already blushing by the time he takes her into his arms for the waltz.

That was, of course, the reason she picked it for the first set. For the past two years she’s been nearly mad to know what it would be like to be held by James, to have his hands on her. And now she does and the answer is: exquisite. He is as unsurprisingly skilled at dancing as he is in all other things, and she feels swept off her feet in every sense of the term.

Only when other couples start joining in does she chance peeking up at him. This close, she sees flecks of gold in his fathomless green eyes, and she is utterly charmed by the discovery. He catches her studying him and grants her one of his rare, sincere smiles, one dark brow lifted in question.

‘I was just thinking, Captain,’ she offers coyly as they spin gracefully about the room, ‘that you’ve some skill at dancing.’

He colors somewhat at her observation, something Elizabeth has never witnessed before, and she feels powerful to have caused it.

‘That’s kind of you to say, Miss Swann.’

‘Not kind, so much as curious,’ she probes. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘My mother taught me,’ he replies, and Elizabeth feels minutely relieved that it had not been some other woman. ‘But that may as well have been a lifetime ago.’

Elizabeth hums in appreciation, and they continue on in companionable silence for a few moments until he adds, ‘You are radiant tonight, Miss Swann.’

She is startled and jubilant in the wake of this admission, for admission it was. He seems surprised by it as well, but his manner is so open, so genuine...he’s no longer smiling but some strong emotion is tugging at the corners of eyes, his lips.

She tries desperately not to stare at his lips.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she demures, noting with alarm how hot the room has become. ‘Now it is your turn to be kind.’

‘Not kind,’ he begins with an almost rueful smile, but the orchestra finishes before he can, and they both come apart to politely applaud. Elizabeth wishes she could ask him to continue, but the second name on her dance card is already making his way toward her, so she settles for dipping into a low curtsy which James, of course, returns with a bow.

‘Shall we continue this discussion later, Captain Norrington?’

---

‘Of course, Miss Swann.’

And then she sails away from him, off to begin a Gavotte with some young, fresh-faced plantation owner’s son. James slinks back toward the wall, eager to lick his wounds away from prying eyes. It had felt so good, so natural, to hold Elizabeth’s hand in his. Which is ridiculous because, other than gatherings like this, when had he ever had the chance?

He remembers quite vividly what this party had been like the first time he’d been invited. He’d been similarly uncomfortable around so many highborn guests and had spent most of the evening trying to avoid conversation with them. He recalls there having been other officers in attendance...perhaps he’ll see if they’ve come this time around.

As he begins to skirt the bulk of the revelry, not particularly keen to maneuver through the crush of silk and brocade clad bodies, he is waved aside by a familiar face. He has never been so relieved to see Weatherby Swann.

Well...except for one other time.

‘Quite the turnout,’ the Governor jokes as he plucks two champagne glasses from a passing tray and hands one to James. It’s not his preferred type of spirits, but not wishing to appear rude, he accepts.

‘Indeed, sir.’

Swann’s face is already flushed, though whether from the drink or the humidity of the ballroom, James isn’t sure. Likely a bit of both. The Governor gestures out toward the dancefloor where Elizabeth is laughing as she prances about with her latest partner. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.’

James isn’t sure what to say so he merely nods, and Swann continues. ‘She’s been so looking forward to this. I’m glad it’s going so well.’ He turns to James then and smiles with cryptic amusement. ‘I recall hearing your name being spoken several times during the planning of this event.’

‘Sir?’

But the Governor’s smile only broadens. ‘Thank you for coming, Captain. Do enjoy the party.’ Then he’s off to join a group of men gathered at the refreshments table, leaving James to parse out his meaning in a cloud of mild distress and flowery perfume.

James has always so hated balls.

---

It’s later in the evening now, and Elizabeth has been dancing almost non-stop, standing up with James as often as decorum will permit. Though none of their dances are so intimate as their first, they spend the time in light, often conspiratorial conversation about the other guests. Elizabeth laughs, amused by his noticeable disdain for their company, though he is properly abashed when she tells him so. ‘I do not wish to appear discourteous-’

‘It’s alright, Captain,’ she interrupts, thoroughly delighted. ‘I understand that you are rather out of your element here.’

He frowns briefly. ‘Is it so obvious?’

Elizabeth adopts a meaningful smile. ‘Only to me. But I’ve come to know you quite well over these past years.’

Again, his brow raises. ‘Is that so?’

‘Oh yes,’ she insists teasingly. ‘Quite well, indeed.’

After that dance, she has to take a break, though not for lack of partners. It’s become awfully stifling inside, and Elizabeth eyes the open door to the gardens longingly.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Elizabeth turns abruptly to see that dear Miss Scott has appeared at her elbow, a pair of champagne flutes clutched between her dainty fingers. Elizabeth accepts one with a heartfelt thanks, suddenly parched. Becca’s unruly red locks have started to force their way out of her complex coiffure, giving her an almost halo in the bright lights of the ballroom. Elizabeth is tickled by the notion. Rebecca Scott is hardly an angel.

As if on cue, Miss Scott links her free arm through Elizabeth’s and begins to lead her on a slow walk around the throng of revelers. ‘I can’t help but notice, darling Lizzie, how pretty a picture you and your Captain make.’

Elizabeth sets her now empty glass on a table as they pass. She feels airy as a feather. Laughter bubbles up through her chest. ‘My Captain? Oh Becca, you are horrible.’

Miss Scott is somewhat older than Elizabeth, and therefore, had her own Debut about five months prior. Now that she is eligible, she has young bachelors clambering for her attention at every turn. She’s beautiful and charming and accomplished, but it is no doubt her large dowry that has them sniffing around. Far from being disheartened by this, Becca basks in it, amused by the way men are so easily manipulated.

Elizabeth doesn’t necessarily agree, but she admires Miss Scotts’ brazenness and all but sits at her feet whenever in her presence. Tonight is no exception. And after having a few bouts of champagne, she’s ready to be a bit brazen herself.

‘You doubt it?’ Becca asks, with mock incredulity. ‘Well! That is simply because you have not been watching the two of you dance.’ She gives a sophisticated sniff and pats Elizabeth’s hand. ‘Trust me. Anyone can see that he is plainly besotted.’

Clearly not anyone, Elizabeth thinks. ‘How can you be sure?’

Miss Scott gives her an arch scoff, as though she’s being most dull. ‘Please, Lizzie. Once you get to a certain age, you just know these things.’

Elizabeth mulls that over as the redhead goes on and on about the other things that have become natural in her old age. But...what if Becca is right. After all, they have spent so much time together. And James has always been so kind, so attentive. He’s sent her presents and lovely letters and listened to the things she had to say as though they actually mattered to him. She’s a woman now, eligible for courtship and all that follows. Why shouldn’t that translate to affection?

The more she thinks on it, the more she is sure. How can his actions be seen as anything but proof of his devotion to her? Why has she not seen it before? She’s spent so long hoping, longing for his good opinion, and now he must truly return her feelings! If Becca can see it, it should be most unmistakable.

So Elizabeth begins to devise a plan.

---

As the night wears on, James finds himself more and more anxious to leave. Even his dances with Elizabeth haven’t been so much ‘fun’ as wholly unsettling in virtually every way. He is at once amused and terrified by her irrefutable flirting, and it has him scrambling to find a suitable reaction. He feels as though the rug has been pulled out from under him, as though he’s tumbling into an abyss that half of him is more than ready to embrace.

Is this not what he’s always wanted?

No. It is not. And regardless of actions in previous lives, James is no pirate. He will not take what is not his.

Elizabeth had been similarly coquettish in this period of her life the first time he’d experienced it. She’d been so enamored with the idea of being adored, so eager to be grown, she’d become a shameless flirt. Not that he was much around to see it, but her father had bent James’ ear on the subject once or twice, powerless to make her behave. Within a few years she’d demured quite a bit however, and that was when James discovered he’d rather senselessly fallen in love.

Thinking on these things is doing nothing to improve his mood. Nor is the unbearable heat. Idly, he wonders if he might be able to sneak out through the garden, the thought of such an unorthodox retreat bringing an unbidden smile to his lips. He is actually considering it when he notices Elizabeth herself slipping out through the open doors. Unescorted.

He sighs inwardly, debating with himself momentarily before downing the rest of his drink and following. No doubt she thinks herself perfectly safe here in her own home, but James knows too much of the world to entrust her to the rest of the revelers. It only takes a moment for one’s life to be irreparably ruined.

It is a cloudless night, the moon nearly full overhead and providing ample light, but there are still hanging paper lanterns lining the walkways among the hedgerows. James crosses the threshold just in time to spot a flash of blue skirts rounding the leafy barrier. He surreptitiously checks to see that they are not entirely alone before trailing her at a leisurely pace, fingers laced behind his back.

Eventually, he tracks her to a clearing some distance from the manor, the one where she usually practices her archery. She is seated sideways on a stone bench, knees drawn to her chin as she stares up at the stars. James pauses, loathe to interrupt what is an undoubtedly hard won respite from the demands of her guests. The evening breeze is coming in off the cay, bringing with it the salty tang of the sea. He lets his eyes drift closed, savoring it. Now, free of the crushing press of bodies and overwhelming mixture of perfumes, James feels somewhat at peace. He was never truly cut out for society life, and he knows it.

A contented sigh escapes him, and he opens his eyes to find Elizabeth watching him.

‘Oh dear,’ she laments playfully, ‘it appears I’ve been discovered. You’ve not come to drag me back, have you?’

James approaches casually, trying not to focus on how heart-wrenchingly lovely she is bathed in starlight. ‘No, Miss Swann. In fact, I was hoping to escape, myself.’

‘Then it would seem,’ she swings her feet down, making room next to her on the bench, ‘Fate has destined us to be company in this moment.’

Fate. James still isn’t sure he believes in fate or destiny or any of that nonsense, perhaps a bit daft of him given his unusual predicament. But he certainly doesn’t believe it had anything to do with this. He reaches her but doesn’t sit. Something about this locale has his teeth on edge, like he’s waiting for a dagger in the back. Or a blade through the heart.

The swelling strings of the orchestra and distant laughter float toward them on the wind. Elizabeth considers him in silence, before coming to some private decision. She rises and takes a step toward him, closing the distance between them substantially. James stands his ground, curious to see her game.

‘Earlier, you complimented me, but said that you weren’t being kind. What did you mean by that?’

What did he mean? James can’t quite recall...her proximity is setting off all sorts of alarms in his brain. He’s gripping his own fingers so tightly he can feel the bite of his blunt nails in his palms. ‘Only that I hadn’t meant it as a kindness, merely a statement of fact.’

This answer seems to please her. She takes another step forward. He can feel the heat coming off her.

‘I see.’ She reaches up and smooths back the lapel of his coat. James still doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, more paralyzed now, than stubborn. ‘In that case,’ she locks eyes with him, ‘I shall bow to your greater knowledge on the matter, James.’

She has never said his name before, at least, not in this lifetime. It is the most divine sound he has ever heard, and yet his blood runs cold at the sudden familiarity. He is seconds away from doing something, anything, to put a stop to her most likely intentional torture of him when she does the unthinkable.

Elizabeth tries to kiss him.

It is a clumsy attempt, and he can smell the alcohol on her breath, just barely managing to grab hold of her shoulders before she makes contact. Her eyes flick open and the stricken look there is enough to shatter his heart, if not his resolve. It is a few achingly long moments before he is able to form any words, and even then it comes out as a plea.

‘Miss Swann…’

He watches helplessly as her confusion melts into abject horror and doesn’t bother trying to follow when she spins on her heel and flees, leaving him alone and wretched in the courtyard, the ghost of her touch tingling on his skin.

That night, in the privacy of his own chambers, James drinks himself into a stupor, passing out just as the sun is peeking over the horizon.

He really does so hate balls.

---

I am a fool.

Elizabeth has fled around the house, straight through the front entrance, and up the staircase into her room, slamming the door behind her and throwing herself across her bed. Only then does she allow herself to become wracked with great, heaving sobs. She is despicable. She is deplorable and pathetic and an idiot beyond measure. How could she have acted so ridiculously?

She recalls the pain, the unmitigated anguish in James’ eyes as he all but pried her from him, and buries her face in her pillows, bawling so hard she is sure to have a tremendous migraine later. But she doesn’t care. She deserves it. What an absolute child she is! Things had been going so well, and she’d ruined everything by behaving like a common strumpet!

And to James! James! The one person in all the world whose opinion she truly cares about! She should have never listened to Rebecca. She should have never had so much champagne. To have lured him out into the garden like that! Utterly unforgivable.

There is a soft knock at the door. Estrella. ‘Go away, please,’ Elizabeth moans, totally inconsolable. She sits up and catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above her vanity. Her tears have cut frightful lines through the powders on her face, her eyes are puffy and red, her nose running. Her carefully done hair is now lopsided, and Elizabeth begins plucking out the multitude of pins and hurling them about the room. She jolts to her feet and shucks herself out of her infernal confection of a dress, the sound of ripping fabric not troubling her in the slightest. She doesn’t deserve to have beautiful things.

---

Much later, as dawn is just starting to paint the sky pink, Elizabeth wakes to find her head cradled on her father’s lap, his gentle hand smoothing through her hair. She doesn’t know how long he’s been here or what he must think of her or what happened to all her guests, but she is comforted by his presence. Without opening her eyes, she silently weeps as he shushes her.

‘There, now, Darling. Don’t fret. Sleep. I won’t leave you.’

She doesn’t deserve this either, but she sleeps nonetheless.

---

It has been a week since Elizabeth’s Debut. Though she had been positive at the time that it had been a disaster, she’s been assured by her father and Estrella and all her friends that, on the contrary, it’d been quite the success. Her guests were, of course, concerned for her health when she did not reappear for goodbyes, but Governor Swann is nothing if not socially adept, and he’d made do in her absence without anyone of import taking insult.

She’d thanked him profusely, but still never told him the real reason for her disappearance, instead claiming womanly woes. She knows Estrella is not convinced, but can’t be bothered to care overmuch. She did aid the maid in the cleaning of her room. She’d caused no small amount of mayhem in her tantrum and was more than a little embarrassed afterward. Estrella had tried to insist she didn’t need the help, but was plainly glad when Elizabeth persisted.

She hasn’t heard from or seen James since that night. And honestly? She’d be surprised if she ever did again. He’d always been so conscious of propriety and the line it placed between them, and Elizabeth is sure he must be disgusted by her. She is mortified by her actions and promises herself she will never again behave as such.

She is a lady now. No more childish theatrics.

On this day, she has been spending the last several hours holed up in the library, reading one of her favorite novels while folded into her father’s chair. She doesn’t take the trouble to move when there is a knock at the front door, merely turning a page while taking a sip of her now tepid tea.

A few minutes later, Estrella appears in the doorway. ‘You’d best come quick, Miss.’

Annoyed, Elizabeth stretches before closing her book with a thwap and setting it aside. She enters the foyer to find the door open as the butler and a handful of other servants bring in vase after vase of brilliantly colorful flowers. Bewildered, she approaches her father, who is surveying the procession with a knowing smile, his arms folded over his chest.

‘What’s all this?’

‘A gift, it would seem,’ he replies blithely. ‘I believe that one over there has a card attached.’

He gestures toward one of the arrangements on the long table below the staircase. Elizabeth makes a face at his evasive answer, but crosses to investigate. She recognizes the handwriting before she’s even close enough to read it, and her heart leaps into her throat.

To brighten your day, as you always brighten mine. - J. N.

Elizabeth feels a telltale pricking behind her eyes as she turns the note over in trembling fingers. Then she surveys the bouquet itself, finding a single yellow bloom tucked in among the pinks and purples. A daffodil.

She plucks it out, and smiling, takes it and the card up to her room, where she sets them on her bedside table. Her extensive training has seen her well-versed in the meaning of flowers.

Forgiveness.

James forgives her.

This time, her tears are of joy.

---

Chapter Text

Five days. It’s been five achingly long, miserable days, and James is still discomposed. He knows his frustration has bled over into his work, pretending not to notice how his staff gives him a wide berth, wary of being snapped at. Honestly? It suits him fine.

The only one who hasn’t opted to give him space is Theo Groves, who hovers after everyone else hastily exits the room, looking so lost, so desperate to offer some comfort, it makes James even more irritable. He knows it is unfair, and poor form at that, but the gravity of his decisions is bearing down on him, and he knows there’s not another soul in the world who could possibly understand.

He relives the moment thousands of times: the heat of her nearness, the devilish, determined glint in her eye, the way he could feel her hands on him through all his ridiculous layers of clothing. How had he not seen it coming? Why had he let his guard down? He should never have let her get so close, should never have been so damned curious.

And he was. Oh, he had been most charmed by her banter, flattered by the warmth in her gaze. For all intents and purposes, he’d been as drunk as she, though it had been on the beauty of the night and the heady tonic of being the sole focus of her attention.

Then she had said his name. No, breathed it. Like it was a sigh she’d been holding in. It had frozen and thawed him all at once. Plucked at a thread inside of him he hadn’t been aware was so taut. Not even a day past sixteen, and she was already tempting him beyond measure. He was only a man. And he wanted her. He wanted her so much it was reprehensible.

But no. Not her. Not yet. The woman she will become. The woman she is so distressingly starting to resemble.

Which is why he had to stop her. She could have no idea what she was offering, that it is the one thing he has ever truly desired. He had meant to sound much more firm, had meant to illustrate to her how such behavior was dangerous, but any justifications he could muster died on his lips when her eyes welled up with tears. And she ran.

Somehow, he had hurt her in this, and it has driven him to distraction, if not the bottle. That first night he’d drained his lodgings of all alcohol, would have gone for the shoe polish next, if it was likely to further numb him to his feelings. None of it did the job thoroughly enough, though, and he woke unconscionably early to empty the contents of his stomach for a solid three and a half hours.

He has not touched a drop since. And it has done nothing to improve his foul temper.

I am ever fortune’s fool.

He avoids the Governor at all cost, knowing that it is unlikely Elizabeth has told him anything of what happened, and not wanting to have to dodge an invitation to The King’s House. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see her. On on the contrary: he wants to throw himself at her feet, wants to explain his asinine behavior, wants to beg for her forgiveness. But he is quite positive that she will not want to see him.

---

Though it is the last thing he wants to do, James still meets Will for their lesson that evening. If the boy notices his dark mood, he is careful to give no sign, for which James is grateful.

It’s been two years since they’ve begun this instruction, and James has been unsurprised by Turner’s quick study. He’d known him to be a talented swordsman the first time around, after all. Their recent sessions have been more sparring than anything else, and James usually finds himself enjoying the exercise of his skills. Turner is as fast as he is cunning, always seeking to use the terrain to his advantage. There have already been a few times where James has almost been bested.

Almost.

This evening, they are seated side-by-side in companionable silence on the upper wall of the fort, watching the sun set over the ocean. Will’s feet are dangling over the edge, and he kicks them idly, lost in thought. James is turned to the side, content to let the breeze ruffle through his hair. It had been unbearably hot today, and he’d scandalously doffed his wig with his hat. What did it matter? There was no one here to see him but Will, who had smirked and said, ‘Ah. So you do have hair under there.’

But now there are no jokes, just the salt air and the sea and the dipping sun, glorious in orange and pink. That, and the roiling tumult inside him.

James hears Will sigh, and slides his eyes toward him. Turner is picking at his nails, a habit he exhibits when he is struggling to put something into words. James isn’t exactly in the best mind to deal with whatever is troubling the boy, but he waits patiently for him to press on all the same.

At last, Turner looks up at him, brows drawn, eyes wistful. ‘How is she?’

They haven’t spoken of Elizabeth since that very first day, but James still knows exactly who he means. At first, he is riled by the question, prickly as he is, but after taking a moment to consider the implications of the query, he realizes what it means.

They haven’t been seeing each other.

In spite of himself, he feels sorry for the boy. James knows better than anyone how bleak a life is without her. But, damn him, he feels triumphant as well. What a gentleman he is, taking pleasure in another man’s sorrow.

It is Will’s tacit acceptance that he will receive no answer that makes James finally reply. He stares out at the colorful horizon, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

---

‘Resplendent.’

It is all the Captain says, but Will has caught the true meaning well enough. That’s it then. He’d had his suspicions before, and there were always rumors circulating the port that one could hardly lend any credence to. But in one word, James has chased all doubt from Will’s mind.

He loves her.

And of course he does. She is everything a fine young woman ought to be: beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, well-bred. But she is also radiant and confident and generous and thoughtful. In this moment, as his heart is rending in two beneath his ribs, Will realizes he will never meet another woman her equal.

In this moment, he realizes...he loves her too.

It is all he can do not to pitch himself into the sea, drop off the edge of the wall and let himself be shattered on the stones below.

He settles his eyes on James, forcing the bile back down his throat with a heavy swallow, studying the way a few stray brown hairs cling to the Captain’s forehead. A fine man, and kinder to Will than he’d ever had any reason to be, James Norrington had swept into his life and given him purpose. And more than that, he’d given Will someone to look up to. Someone to live for. Someone to endeavor to make proud.

The closest thing he has to family.

Will lets his eyes fall closed, a doleful smile forming on his face. Yes, he loves Elizabeth. But he loves James too. And if they love each other…

He turns his attention back toward the sunset, a bittersweet ache in his chest.

‘Good.’

---

The idea for the flowers had been inspired.

James’ fever of melancholy broke the day after speaking to Will, and he finally set about trying to fix whatever damages he’d caused. He had to get the message to Elizabeth that he was sorry without alerting her father that anything had occurred to be sorry for. It was a bit of a conundrum, to say the least, but then he jolted awake the next morning and knew he had his solution.

Though such displays are frightfully out of character for James, Weatherby Swann would no doubt read the gift as an intention to pursue courtship, which he’d been angling for anyway. That would be his ticket in. As for the actual intent...well, he knows Elizabeth to be observant. And besides, at this juncture, what has he to lose?

He spends the day after sending the ostentation pacing the floor of his office, and then later, his bedroom. In the morning, he descends the stairs to find a note waiting atop the silver tray on the end table.

It is only two words, making the body shorter than the addressing on the front, but James feels his spirit soar as he clutches the paper to his chest.

Thank You.

His gambit had worked.

---

She is not nearly as openly affectionate as she used to be, and though it is very much a relief, James can’t help but be conversely disappointed. He misses the carefree enthusiasm of her youth. In her more candid moments, he can tell that she does as well.

But Elizabeth is a model of etiquette now. He sees her as often as his schedule, decorum, and the Governor’s invitations will allow. They are still never alone, Miss Morris being replaced by Elizabeth’s father or whatever servant happens to be on hand so that they always have a chaperone.

Sometimes, he will attend the same functions as her (teas, garden parties, that sort of thing), and though she clearly favors him over the other guests, she is never untoward in her attentions. Part of him wishes she would be, but he is suitably self-flagellating whenever that side comes to bear. James is nothing, if not patient. He can wait. He’s already waited a lifetime.

On the occasions that he does visit The King’s House, the three of them often repair to the drawing room after dinner, where Elizabeth will treat them to music and song. He can hardly bear it when she gazes into his eyes while singing in such a sweet, lilting voice, a fond smile on her lips. She is a siren, his Elizabeth. And he will gladly dash himself against the rocks if only to be close enough to hear her.

---

One afternoon, instead of sitting at the pianoforte, Elizabeth approaches James with a book in hand. Sonnets. She asks him if he would be so kind as to indulge them and read aloud. James quickly defers to the Governor who is of absolutely no help, declaring that the change of pace would be most splendid. The two of them are in cahoots, he swears. Left no other viable option, James does read to the Swanns, trying very hard not to be distracted by Elizabeth’s dreamy, far-off expression.

He wonders if she knows how much he likes Shakespeare.

---

At sea, James has become somewhat of a legend, the high regard of his subordinates often bordering on worship. With over a lifetime of experience, James is now very good at his job. He takes prize after prize, knowing exactly where the enemy will be and how to fight them. Gillette calls him a witch doctor, when they are not in mixed company, and though James only sighs and waves him off, he is admittedly gratified to be so successful.

There are, of course, instances where he is faced with something new; he doesn’t exclusively retrace his steps. But even then, having the knowledge of former battles and enemy ship movements undoubtedly comes in handy. One of the French captains he escorts to the brig spits the word ‘clairvoyant’ at his feet, and it takes him considerable effort not to laugh.

Later, as he’s having supper with his officers, he does.

Lieutenant Toombs affects a rather unflattering French accent and prances about the cabin, a wig he’s somehow fashioned out of parchment held to his head. ‘Oh, Capteen Norreengton, but you are ze most vexing of ad-ver-sa-reez!’ He crows, face red with drink.

Gillette is in stitches, delighted beyond measure that someone else is teasing James for once, and Theo, bless him, is trying valiantly not to fall out of his chair. James is surprised by how at ease he feels among these men. Yes, he is their commanding officer, and come tomorrow they will follow his orders to the letter. But for now...they are his friends. And he can’t help but marvel at the change.

---

By the first of the year, James has finally saved up enough to let a house. And not just any house, but the one he’d had before. Perhaps it is foolish to do the same thing twice, but he likes it. There’s something to be said for already knowing how to navigate a building in the dark. Besides, it has modest gardens, several spare bedrooms, and a magnificent view of the harbor. He would be hard-pressed to find a better fit.

After moving in, he spends the evening transferring the books from his office at the fort into the new one at his home, elated to finally have a proper library. He organizes them by author, then by color, then, still unsatisfied, rearranges them by height. One of the maids brings him tea with some petite refreshments while he’s at it, and he asks her name.

Blushing, she dips into a low curtsy. ‘Elsie, sir.’ She can’t be much older than Elizabeth.

‘Thank you, Elsie,’ he responds, feeling generous and more than a little invincible. ‘I hope you enjoy working here.’

She giggles before catching herself and blushes all the harder for it. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She all but flies from the room, but James is too high of spirits to care. He has a library again!

He remains awake until well into the wee hours of the morning, watching the sunrise from the front steps in just his shirtsleeves. It looks to be another beautiful day.

---

February arrives, bringing with it Will’s seventeenth birthday.

James meets Will at Fort Charles, as he always does, but this time stops him before he shucks off his jacket.

‘Actually, Mr. Turner,’ he intones seriously. ‘I was rather thinking of something else for tonight.’

Will, though having filled out so that he is not nearly so gangly as he once was, still manages to appear impossibly young when his eyes widen in shock. ‘Sir?’

---

‘Something else’ is a private booth at The Bee and Bonnet, one of the nicer taverns in town. James arrives to find Gillette and Theo already in their cups and shakes their hands with an eye roll, joking fondly about their impatience, before introducing Will.

He has rarely seen Turner so obviously uncomfortable, at least not recently, but bids him sit all the same. Another round of drinks is ordered and one of the serving girls brings a platter of tantalizingly savory smelling meats. They are joined in short order by Toombs and his younger brother, Roger, a marine who was just transferred in.

Roger is a good deal prettier than his brother, which Gillette is quick to point out, and he and Toombs get into a bit of a wrestling match over the table. James lifts his eyebrows, and his drink, in laughter, not wanting it to end up in his lap. He shrugs at Will, who, though he still has yet to say a word without being prompted, is watching in bewildered amusement. Turner shrugs back and downs the rest of his ale.

Later in the evening, Theo produces a deck of cards, the same ones he always seems to have on hand. James has lost more than a few pounds to the man in the course of their acquaintance. He arches a brow but reserves comment as Groves begins to deal them all in.

‘I’m onto you, Lieutenant,’ Toombs grins as he picks up his hand. ‘You’ll not get a single pence out of me this time.’

‘That’s cause you’re flat broke, you sod!’ Theo bellows, and they all explode into laughter once more.

James watches from the corner of his eye as Will gives Roger a few pointers on the game, even though they are betting against one another. The serving girl hovers intrepidly at that end of the table, always refilling their two flagons first. Gillette grins around the end of his cigar and gives a nod in their direction, muttering under his breath, ‘Enough to make a man feel quite passed-over, eh, Jamie?’

James ignores the comment, instead asking Theo, ‘So, how is your engagement going, Groves? Has she come to her senses yet?’

Theo spends the next fifteen minutes waxing poetic about his fiancée, at one point even climbing on a chair to recite a verse in her honor as his party, and even some of the other customers, hoot and cackle. He finally clambers down when they start throwing food at him.

‘Philistines,’ he grouses without malice.

Eventually, the night ends and the barkeep dumps the remaining patrons into the moonlit alley. Gillette and Theo holler their goodbyes and hobble away, leaning on one another for support. The Toombs brothers part their company shortly thereafter, Roger promising to come visit Will at the smithy as soon as he is able to walk straight again. Will and James continue to amble their way up the street until they come to the crossroads where they must also part paths.

Will stops and juts out his hand, swaying slightly in his drunkenness. ‘Thank you, sir. This was surprisingly fun.’

James takes his hand, giving it a firm shake. ‘You’re welcome, but...I think it’s high time you call me James. We are friends, after all.’

Turner instantly sobers, searching James’ face for signs it had been a jest. Finding none, he breaks into a grin, releasing his grip on James’ hand.

‘We are, aren’t we. Well, in that case,’ he nods to himself and then strikes a clumsy mock-salute. ‘Good night, James.’

James returns the salute with a chuckle. ‘Good night, Will. Do get home safe.’

Will turns and heads off, and James does the same, calling as an afterthought over his shoulder, ‘Oh, and happy birthday!’

---

Come summer, James is sent away on a particularly long tour. Eight months. There’s talk that this may be the last test before the brass decides a promotion is on the horizon. James is, of course, unsurprised. But he remembers this being a trying voyage, remembers losing an unacceptable amount of men despite their victory. He resolves that this time, he will get every single one of them home to their families.

He will miss Elizabeth’s next birthday, but she is gracious in her offer to write to him. She even comes to the docks to send him off, accompanied by her father and the coachmen. He is heartened to see her silhouette waving goodbye.

He also spies a lone figure on the hill in the distance, a sword raised in his hand.

Take care of yourselves, everyone. I’ll be home soon.

---

Chapter Text

It is just over a year before The Dauntless returns to the safety of Port Royal. James is exhausted: physically, mentally, emotionally...things had not gone nearly as easily as he thought they would. As it turns out, his foreknowledge is only helpful so long as the opposition does not alter their course. And this time, they’d done just that. The enemy had led them on a merry chase up and down the Atlantic, culminating in a trap off the African coast, and though James had kept his own ship intact, many of the fleet’s captains were not so lucky.

It was a disaster, and James is relieved to be home, not much worse for wear besides the powder burns on his forearms and a nasty bit of shrapnel he’d caught in the side. He’ll heal though, and that’s more than he can say for several of his crew.

He’s memorized their names, written letters to their families. It was not his mistake that led to their deaths, but he is still responsible. New red marks to add to the ledger of his life.

It is well past midnight when he arrives home, the few servants roused to receive him. He is annoyed by their fussing, but allows it as he doesn’t have the strength to argue. Once sealed in the sanctity of his own room, he spies a note on the dresser next to an arrangement of fresh flowers.

I’ve tended to the gardens in your absence. Welcome home. - Elizabeth

For the first time in what feels like an age, James smiles.

---

The very next time he is invited to dine with them, James announces his intent to begin courting Elizabeth. Weatherby Swann is obviously pleased, offering his permission forthwith. Elizabeth herself, is much more demure when he asks privately, but her eyes shine as she takes his hand in hers.

‘I think I should very much like that, Captain.’

Things continue on much the same after that, while also being completely different. Now that his designs are official, they are often seen together in public. Almost all society invitations are addressed to both of them, and James is struck with some small joy at seeing her name printed next to his.

Elizabeth is also less circumspect now, relaxing around him in a way he finds most appealing. She allows herself to complain and pout and show frustration when she does not perform as she expects she should. It is made transparent she is not completely satisfied by society life. But she is also free with her smiles and her rapier wit. She leans into the passion she feels for her many pursuits, a trait that might be off-putting to some men, but only makes James desire her more.

She never does anything by half measures, his Elizabeth, least of all when it comes to her emotions.

And he basks in her light.

---

On her nineteenth birthday, he attends the ball her father throws for her. This too, is very different. Since they are courting, she saves most of her dances for him. Not all, for she does have to maintain some semblance of propriety. Though they spend much of the evening furtively poking fun at their lofty company, Elizabeth is quiet while they are actually dancing, spending the time merely watching him. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so busy watching her as well.

---

In the Spring, he receives word that he is to be officially promoted to the rank of Commodore. The ceremony won’t be for another couple months, the politics of the Royal Navy being a slow, if well-oiled, machine. But the promise is there, and James is conscious of the fact he’s nearly come full-circle.

And this time, he has even more to lose.

He is not comforted by the realization.

Rather than wallow, he pays an impromptu, mid-day visit to the Governor. Elizabeth is not there, at tea with some other young lady. It’s just as well. He’s not here to see her anyway.

Weatherby Swann has already heard of the imminent promotion and offers his congratulations as soon as the Captain is seated in his study. James doesn’t remain in his chair for long, however, much too agitated to do anything but pace. The Governor waits patiently for him to declare what he came for, a knowing smile hidden in his teacup.

Finally, James forces himself to a stop and turns to Swann, hands shakily clasped behind his back.

‘Sir.’

‘Yes?’

‘This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have not yet achieved.’ The words feel familiar on his tongue, and he shudders involuntarily, plodding on in spite of it. ‘Elizabeth has grown into a fine young woman.’

It is the first time he’s said her given name aloud since his unexplained reset, and here, in her own house, it feels like blasphemy. But the Governor has set down his tea and shifted forward in his seat, aura as serene as James’ is stormy.

‘What I mean to say, sir, is that,’ he swallows hard. He doesn’t remember this being so difficult the first time around. ‘I wish to ask your daughter to marry me.’

Swann lets the declaration hang in the air for a few agonizing moments before a smile slowly blooms on his face. ‘I see. And is she aware of your intent?’

‘No, sir. I came to you first.’

The Governor’s smile broadens as he stands. ‘And when are you planning to make your intentions known?’

James considers that a tick. What is he planning? None of this feels real.

‘I thought, perhaps, once my promotion is official.’

Swann hums an assent. ‘A wise decision.’

‘Sir?’

The Governor reaches up and places a warm, steadying hand on James’ shoulder. ‘You have my blessing, both of you. I can not imagine a better match.’

---

James doesn’t stay long after that. His spirits are somewhat lightened, but he’s still outrageously restless and is eager to get home and tuck himself away in his library until he can form coherent sentences again.

‘Good afternoon, Captain!’

So distracted is James in his flight, he’s nearly stumbled over Elizabeth coming up the walk, trailed by a pair of manservants, their arms full of packages.

‘You’re here awfully early. Come to see my father?’

‘Ah...yes.’

She takes his inability to rally in her presence as professional prudence. ‘Official fort business, then? Don’t worry, I shan’t pry,’ she assures and then adds saucily, ‘I’ll just ask him about it after you’ve gone.’

It’s too much, her being here, with him, in this moment. Suddenly, his promotion seems so very far away. So much could happen between then and now. Dynasties could rise and fall. He makes the split-second decision to learn from his mistakes.

‘Actually...there is something rather pressing I should like to discuss with you.’ He eyes her entourage with a frown. ‘In private.’

The smile melts from Elizabeth’s face, and she nods gravely, signaling for the servants to take her things inside, and then grasps his hand to lead him to a clearing in the garden, the very same one where they’ve had such history.

‘I must admit,’ she states as she unties her sun hat and places it on the stone bench next to her. ‘You have me worried. Is it terrible news?’

James is shaken from his inward scrambling. ‘What? No. No...I’m being promoted to Commodore.’

Elizabeth beams at him. ‘Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ Her expression begins to droop as he sets to pacing in front of her. ‘I can think of no man more deserving of the rank.’

‘I...thank you.’ He stops, sinking to the bench as well, but as far from her as he can manage.

Dismay and something else flashes in her dark eyes, something like panic. ‘Something’s still wrong though. Are you being sent away?’ She leans towards him, grabbing hold of his coat sleeve as though to anchor him. ‘Oh please, you must not keep me in suspense a moment longer.’

He feels deplorable for letting her worry, but is still unable to gather his thoughts in any satisfying order. ‘Forgive me, I’d not intended to cause you alarm.’

‘Well it’s much too late for that.’ She sighs gently, visibly making an effort to calm herself, and releases his jacket, sliding her hand down his arm to grip his fingers tightly between her own. Even this small amount of intimacy leaves him undone, his heart beating to quarters in his chest.

‘James. What has you so troubled?’

His name is a plea on her lips, and it is that which finally rattles something loose inside him. He gives her hand an answering squeeze and, at last, meets her eyes. He is jarred by the amount of emotion he finds there.

‘You do.’

‘Me?’ her tone is somewhat indignant. ‘What on Earth have I done?’

He shakes his head at the question, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. ‘What haven’t you done?’

Elizabeth opens her mouth as if to say something, and then thinks better of it. She waits for him to continue, chagrin creasing her brow.

‘All these years, and it’s only become more unbearable,’ he muses, more to himself than anything. If he thought this had been arduous the first time, it is excruciating now. His every nerve is on fire, his mouth as dry as a bone. And yet, with her here, his hand caught so urgently in her own…

‘From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew my life would never be the same. You have tormented me, moved me, vexed me, bewitched me in every sense of the word. I am helpless against you. I cannot eat, cannot sleep, cannot dream without you following me, hounding my steps even when we are a world apart. Being with you...is an exquisite torture. One from which I hope to never be freed.’

Her lips have fallen open, and he rushes to finish before she can have the chance to speak. Now that he’s finally saying it aloud, after so, so many years, it is like the floodgates have opened.

‘I love you, Elizabeth. And I wish to tell you so every day for the rest of my life.’

She is silent for a moment, and then, eyes searching his asks, ‘...are you proposing?’

That is what he’s doing, isn’t it? Now he’s less sure. ‘...yes?’

‘Oh, James,’ she sighs and relinquishes his hand. In fact, she turns entirely away from him then, facing the courtyard as she continues. ‘I would make a dreadful wife. I’m not...docile.’ She punctuates this word with a deep frown. ‘Your peers, they would never take me seriously. I would be an embarrassment.’ She is pleading with him now. Seemingly trying to convince him that she is not what he wants. As if that has ever been the case.

‘I’ve no patience for society, or for anything, really. I’m not...I’m not like them.’ She gestures wildly about her with open palms and then sighs once more, tucking her fingers between her knees. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to be. I don’t think I want to.’

‘Then it is convenient,’ he grinds out, a sinking feeling settling inside him, ‘that I do not want them. I want you.’ She doesn’t meet his gaze, and he adds, barely above a whisper, ‘You’re all I ever wanted.’

Now she does look at him, eyes wide with disbelief and...outrage? ‘You cannot mean that.’

‘I do not make a habit of saying things I do not mean.’ It comes out harsher than he’d intended, but his hold on his terror is slipping. She means to turn him down. Again. The realization is crumbling him from within. He has to get out of here.

‘I recognize that...perhaps my timing is...well...think on it, at least. Take all the time you need.’ He is rising even as the words are tumbling out of him unbidden. Go, man. Take your twice broken heart and flee while you still can.

He is halfway down the drive, all but sprinting away from her, when he hears her calling out his name.

‘James! James, wait!’ Her tone is so desperate, he halts and turns to see her running after him, her wrap flying off her shoulders, forgotten, to land in the dirt.

She is gasping for air as she thunders to a stop beside him, and he instinctively puts out an arm to stabilize her. Even now, he is powerless to be anything other than what she needs him to be. He feels the cold bite of steel finding his heart.

‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to...oh, it must have sounded like-’

She bends over at the waist, hands braced on her thighs and then throws back her head and straightens, wild eyes begging him to stay until she has at least caught her breath.

Of course he stays. He always will.

Finally, she finds her voice, though she is still breathless, pausing between words to drag in gulps of air. ‘No one has ever said such things to me before. Nor have you ever spoken to me so vehemently. I was stunned. I feared I may have misunderstood. Or that you had.’

He goes to pull his arm away, and she latches on. Determined to make him listen, even by force. But she needn’t have worried; her words have raised enough doubt within him that he is rooted to the spot regardless.

‘But you’re right. You’ve never lied to me...and I should take you at your word.’

Elizabeth surrenders his arm only to seize the lapels of his coat, lightly shaking him until he meets her fervent gaze.

‘Of course I’ll marry you, James.’

He is frozen for a beat, utterly convinced this cannot be happening, then reaches up a trembling hand to caress her flushed cheek. She sways into his touch, and his stomach flutters.

‘Truly? You mean it?’

She smooths her hand over his and almost chuckles. ‘Did you expect I would say no?’

He is completely disarmed by her reaction. ‘I didn’t expect much of anything, really.’

‘How can a man who is so intelligent, be so daft?' She huffs and then snakes her arms up over his shoulders, stroking the nape of his neck, as her eyes sparkle.

‘James Norrington, I have loved you since I was twelve years old.’

This time, when she kisses him, he lets her. Not only that, he kisses her back, luxuriating in the way her soft lips slant perfectly over his, like they were made to do so. He is not idle long, lifting his hand to cup the back of her head, tilting her face up toward him for a much better angle. She moans softly into his mouth, and it shoots through him like lightning.

It is nothing like the first time he’d kissed her, all bitter ends and salty tears. This is sweetness and light, and he can feel her fingers inching under his wig to play with his hair. Eventually, she has to pull away for breath, and he thinks to himself, watching her gasp, lips swollen, that there would be no greater death than to drown in Elizabeth Swann.

She giggles endearingly and draws him down until his forehead rests against hers. He wonders in passing what has happened to his hat.

‘I thought you were leaving me!’ she grins.

‘What? Never.’

‘You have to admit,’ she insists with levity in her voice, ‘from the outside...well, you looked as though you were in agony.’

‘The best kind of agony.’ He smiles against her mouth, tugging her in for another kiss. He is drunk on the taste of her. Hardly gentlemanly, but there it is.

A thought strikes him then, and he mumbles against the corner of her lips, ‘We should…’

She pulls away, and he nearly sulks at the loss of contact. ‘What is it?’

‘Your father is under the impression that I was waiting until my promotion to propose. I don’t even have a ring.’

She leans back as far as his arms around her will allow and considers him with a guileless smirk. ‘That’s why you were here. Unannounced.’

‘Yes,’ he replies sheepishly, toying with the lace at her collar. ‘And I don’t particularly relish having to tell him I’ve gone back on my word.’

Elizabeth shakes her head laughter before untangling herself from him. ‘I think you underestimate how eager he is to have you as a son-in-law. It’s all he’s been able to talk about for the last four years. Ever since you sent me those bloody flowers.’

James is floored by her cheek. ‘I am sorry to have caused such an annoyance, Miss Swann.’

She places a finger over his lips, visage suddenly serious. ‘No. It is to be Elizabeth now. Or Lizzie, if you’re feeling brave. But when we are in private, you are never to call me Miss Swann again. Do I make myself clear?’

Issuing orders to him now? James can’t help the jubilant smile that splits his features. ‘Inescapably.’

---

In the end, they do make it back to the house, laughing as they practically dance down the hall, nearly colliding with the Governor in the process.

‘Father,’ Elizabeth announces, her arm linked through James’, ‘I find myself rather joyously engaged. I believe congratulations are in order.’

He should be mortified, but James only chuckles by way of apology. ‘Sorry, sir. I had intended to wait, but...she wore me down.’

At this Weatherby Swann bursts out into laughter. ‘I am familiar with the concept!’ He then throws his arms around the two of them in an animated show of approval.

James is sure he’s never been so happy.

---

It is decided; they are to postpone the official announcement of their engagement until the day of his promotion ceremony. This means they will have to keep their distance whilst in public for some months yet, but James is hardly bothered by waiting this final stretch. He is a patient man, after all. And it is enough to know in his heart that Elizabeth is his.

Finally his.

And there is nothing on God’s green earth that can take that away from him.

---

Chapter Text

Elizabeth could not be more pleased with her ‘secret engagement’ to James. True, she doesn’t get to lord it over the heads of her peers in Port Royal society, but the trade off is that every moment she is with him, though they are still almost never by themselves, feels stolen, every instant of eye-contact in public, illicit. It is thrilling beyond measure, like she is the heroine in some racy romance novel. Perhaps she should be subdued by that, but it only makes her more bold, more keen to push the boundaries.

And she does. Elizabeth is elated by how often James permits her to touch him. He is still a gentleman, of course, would never allow her to debase herself, but every time she manages to make physical contact that he doesn’t shy away from, Elizabeth grants herself a victory. Things like threading her fingers through his as they read next to each other in the drawing room or leaning against his shoulder as they take a turn through the gardens have become commonplace.

But she will also take more risky liberties: running her palm across the expanse of his shoulders as she walks behind him or nudging his foot with her own beneath the dinner table, sometimes even slipping out of her shoe to tease his ankle. He may pretend not to notice, but she can always catch the way his nostrils flare with her attentions, how he grips his fork harder, like he is holding back.

It makes her feel powerful.

Seeing how much it will take to distract him is quickly becoming her favorite pastime. The answer is always: very little. And though he will never call her out for her behavior in front of others, his retribution in the brief moments they are alone makes her hard-fought patience worth it. He chastises her by way of hissed expletives and greedy lips on her own, always careful not to rumple her clothing or muss her hair, which she has started wearing in looser arrangements while she is around the house. All the better for him to tangle his fingers in.

She finds she can easily unbalance him with a simple bite of her lip or a well-placed knowing smile. He is absolutely unable to avert his gaze if she should play with a stray lock of her hair. She relishes the moments where she catches him watching her, often holding eye-contact until he is utterly scandalized and has to look away.

However, it is not as though she is completely unaffected by his presence. Quite to the contrary, Elizabeth is flummoxed by the hold he has over her. And he hardly even touches her! Her heart is constantly at a gallop whenever he is near, fairly beating out of her chest if she should happen to ensnare his emerald eyes. He is so thorough in his study of her at a distance, she can’t help but ponder how much more meticulous he might be up close. The speculation is almost painful to endure.

So she considers her playful torment of him to be an appropriate punishment.

At first, a good deal of her happiness stemmed from the severity of her relief. When James had nearly bowled her over as she was arriving home from her shopping, she was, naturally, surprised to see him. To call so early in the day was remarkably out of character, and his request to speak to her in private had filled her with panic. She had attempted levity, but he was so agitated, so restless, it was all she could do not to leap up and start pacing herself.

She had been positive he was leaving her, that he was breaking off their courtship. And when he started by announcing his promotion as if it were the worst of news, she was even more sure of his abandoning her. He’s going to Nassau or India or bloody England itself, she’d thought to herself, barely able to conceal her dread. They’re stealing him away from me, and I’ll be left with nothing!

She’d been ready to cry. She’d been ready to fight.

But then he stunned her into inaction with a declaration of feeling that was so far from what she had expected, Elizabeth was reeling.

‘You have bewitched me in every sense of the word. I am helpless against you.’

That didn’t sound right. He claimed she haunts him, compared being with her to torture. And then...he told her he loved her. Now, Elizabeth has always been an intelligent woman and is not known for being unable to express herself, but that had been so abrupt as to cause emotional whiplash. Was he proposing?

Yes. He had been. And he took her confusion and her voicing of her doubts to mean that she didn’t want him. Stupid man. She’d had to chase him down in her laced up stays to stop him from likely marching out of her life forever. She would have had every right to be angry, but his countenance was so miserable, all temper quickly fled. She wanted nothing more than to assure him.

And then he had kissed her, and it had been so lovely and so passionate and so right...Elizabeth had forgotten all about her previous trepidation.

Even now, whenever she is with him, she still does.

But at night, when she is alone with her thoughts and the stars, Elizabeth knows that she is terrified of marriage. Not marriage to James, per se, but marriage in general. She knows that leaving her childhood to enter society was just trading one cage for another. She is less free now than she has ever been. And while she can’t imagine having given a different answer, she can’t but wonder…

What if she’d told James no? It’s unthinkable, of course. But the notion still needles her. If she’d not accepted his proposal, she’d be trapped, waiting for the next eligible bachelor to come sniffing after her dowry. And really...she’s trapped this way as well. She doesn’t truly believe James would ever make demands of her, but if he wanted to...he could. And she’d have no choice but to respect his wishes. Such is the way things are done.

When it comes down to it, what Elizabeth craves is an equal partnership. And even with James, she will never truly have that. For he is free to pursue his career, to explore the horizon and experience danger and adventure. He is free to reach and dream and achieve. And her? She will have to spend countless months waiting for him by the window, hoping that he comes home. She doesn’t blame him for this, for surely being married to James will be better than any alternative, but…

Elizabeth has never been good at waiting.

She fears...she really will be a dreadful wife.

But for now, these worries hardly matter. What she currently has with James is new and exciting and gives her something to titter about with Rebecca while they are having tea. She will take this one day at a time. Tomorrow’s woes can care for themselves.

---

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.

Fog.

A hand on her shoulder.

Whispers of bad luck.

James, so much younger.

A short drop and a sudden stop.

There’s a boy in the water.

Flames.

A shipwreck.

Will Turner.

I’m watching over you, Will.

Black Sails.

Elizabeth wakes up.

---

It’s been six years since she’s had this nightmare. Six years since she’s opened the false bottom of her desk drawer. And there it is, winking maliciously in the lamplight. Elizabeth reaches in and takes it, thumbing the layer of dust from the smooth gold of its face. How had she forgotten it was here?

She crosses to the mirror, watches the dark eyes of her reflection as she secures the chain around her neck. It rests heavily against her sternum, nestled in the valley betwixt her breasts. Elizabeth would be hard pressed to describe the emotion that has her guts gripped in a vice. But seeing it there, shining against the pale white of her night shift, she feels...mighty, possessed of some supreme destiny.

When there is a knock at the door, she hurriedly tucks it beneath her clothing and rushes to make herself decent as her father asks to come in. With him comes the morning, Estrella and one of the other maids throwing open the curtains as her father tuts about still being abed so late.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes at that, but is appeased when he presents her with a gift: a brand new dress, the latest style from London. She already knows the occasion; today is the day of the ceremony for James’ promotion to Commodore, and afterward, they are to officially announce their engagement. Elizabeth feels butterflies erupt in her stomach, threatening to carry her away, but the medallion against her chest holds her down.

It becomes apparent very quickly why the second maid has been brought along, it taking two of them to wrangle and twist and cinch Elizabeth into the garment. She has worn stays for many years now, but this! This is an entirely different animal, the slim waistline of the gown requiring the lacing to be mercilessly tight.

Her father can hear her distress from the other side of the screen. ‘How’s it coming?’

‘It’s difficult to say,’ she gasps as Estrella gives a particularly forceful yank. ‘Women in London must have learned not to breathe.’

---

Elizabeth can hear voices in the foyer as she makes her way to the staircase, trying to figure out how she’s going to survive this day when she can’t pull in a decent breath. As she is carefully descending, she discerns who has come to visit her father, and her feet nearly come out from under her.

‘Will!’

Both men are startled by her interruption and look up, the sword that’s been commissioned for the ceremony sitting in an open box on the table between them. She’s so excited to greet him, she’s forgotten all about being cross.

‘It’s so good to see you!’

Will is taller than when she’d seen him last, a man grown, and handsome, in a boyish way. Especially when he breaks into a smile.

‘I had a dream about you last night.’ It is such a coincidence, she can hardly stop herself from mentioning it, to her father’s horror.

‘About me?’ The look in his eyes is a mixture of hope and unrestrained joy. He’s happy to see her too. Elizabeth is jubilant. They’d hardly parted on convivial terms.

‘Yes. It was about the day we met. When they plucked you from the sea.’

‘I recall it quite well, Miss Swann.’

Her heart sinks. Now she remembers. ‘How many times must I tell you to call me Elizabeth?’ She knows her father is right there, knows that he is mortified by her familiarity with the blacksmith’s apprentice, but she doesn’t care.

There is an apology in his expression, but Will replies, ‘At least once more, Miss Swann. As always.’

All of her cheer at seeing him melts away. Her father is going on about what’s proper and trying to usher her out the door as quickly as possible. She lets him after deadpanning, ‘Good day, Mr. Turner.’ It is meant as an insult, but Will hardly appears upset as she turns away.

---

The ceremony is no doubt lovely. Elizabeth allows that James is distractingly attractive in his dress uniform, but she is too busy being monstrously uncomfortable to pay attention to much else. There is little relief from the sun, which is bearing down on them from the cloudless sky, and Elizabeth can’t seem to catch even a fraction of a breath, all but tugging at the neckline of her beautiful torture device of a dress. She tries very hard to be amiable for James’ sake, but finds she is hardly able to cough, much less converse with the other society attendees.

James is trapped in polite discourse with some white-wigged bureaucrat and clearly not enjoying himself. He shoots her a repentant look over the man’s shoulder, but Elizabeth gives a brittle smile and waves him off, fanning herself vehemently. She wanders toward the parapet, hoping to catch a breeze coming off the water. Anything to give her some relief.

Leaning against the stone arch, she realizes what’s about to happen. I can’t breathe. Elizabeth glances helplessly back at her fiancé.

He is the last thing she sees before she falls.

---

A woman is screaming. Men are shouting. Boots and buckled shoes are stampeding toward the outer wall. James’ gaze instantly follows, searching for Elizabeth. She’s disappeared. His heart plummets to his feet.

He knows exactly where she'll be.

---

Elizabeth is on her back, soaked and sputtering and alive. He is no less relieved than he was the first time...but…

The man hunched over her…

A face, a stench, he would recognize anywhere. In any time.

Jack fucking Sparrow.

James is momentarily paralyzed, panic seeping into his bones. How can this be happening? How can it still be happening? No. NO.

The rest of his retinue is close on his heels, and James is shaken from his soul deep terror by their calamitous arrival. He approaches in brisk, measured steps, unsheathes his sword, and points it at Sparrow’s throat.

‘Up.’ He commands.

The pirate obeys.

Governor Swann sweeps in to cover his daughter in his fine frock coat as she rises. Mullroy and Murtogg are pointing fingers, juggling Elizabeth’s ruined stays between them. Prying eyes have leaned over every gunwale, out every window to catch a glimpse of the circus below.

But James can only see Jack.

His chest is heaving, fury smoldering beneath his ribs. Hatred clogs his every pore, sloughing off him in black waves. He could do it. He could execute this man, this demon, here on the docks with his own two hands. He could hold him under the water until his eyes roll back and his lungs fill with the sea. He could run him through and feed his pox ridden body to the pigs.

And he would be justified. He would never feel an ounce of guilt.

The Governor gives the order for the cur to be shot.

But Elizabeth, his Elizabeth, steps in. Just as he knew she would.

‘Father!’ She looks to James, eyes pleading. ‘Commodore. Do you really intend to kill my rescuer?’

He does. And he would. But she is scorching him with that molten brown gaze. She believes him to be a good man. She expects him to do the right thing. And she would never forgive him for this.

In that moment, it is only the good opinion of Elizabeth Swann that saves Jack Sparrow from an instant, and painful, death.

James slams his sword back into its scabbard. He knows what will happen if he tries to apprehend Sparrow, knows the course time will take, but he has not lost yet. He seizes onto the fraying thread of hope that he can still stave off what’s to come.

‘I believe thanks are in order.’

The pirate must be able to feel the murderous intent radiating from him, because he hesitates even more than last time before taking his hand. James is standing closer this time, near enough to count the bastard’s teeth. He doesn’t let go, pulling the man’s arm toward him and flicking his gaze down to the brand poking out from under the edge of Sparrow’s sleeve.

‘Nasty bit of luck there,’ James intones darkly. ‘Might want to get that looked at.’

Jack’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, fear lacing through the uncertainty in their depths. He knows that James knows. The pirate snatches back his hand as though he’s been stung and tugs down his shirt sleeve, never breaking eye-contact. No one else in the vicinity can perceive the silent exchange that transpires then, where Sparrow wordlessly asks, ‘What now?’

James forces himself to address Elizabeth, but keeps the pirate in his peripheral. ‘Are you alright?’

Evidently sensing the intensity of the situation, if not understanding it, she offers a weak smile. ‘I’m fine. A bit cold, though.’

He nods brusquely. ‘Governor, perhaps you should-’

Weatherby Swann takes his daughter in arm. ‘Of course. Come by as soon as you’re finished here.’

Before she is led away, Elizabeth wheels around and dons a radiant smile which she all but fires at Sparrow. ‘Thank you, sir. You saved my life.’

The pirate affects a jaunty bow, and James nearly rolls his eyes out of his skull.

‘It was an honor, Miss’

Then she is gone, and it is once again James and Jack...and their blue and red clad accompaniment, which is going largely ignored.

James is careful with the phrasing of his next words. ‘You will not be staying in Port Royal long, Mr…’

‘Smith!’ Sparrow answers quickly, breaking into a lopsided grin. ‘And no, I’m afraid business will be taking me elsewhere...very soon.’

‘Good.’ James replies as ominously as he dares. ‘See that it does.’

Gillette, who is hovering at his elbow, is palpably bewildered by the exchange. He gives James an exaggerated shrug as the pirate gathers his effects and pushes through the company of soldiers, dropping ‘sorries’ and ‘pardon mes’ in his wake.

James disregards his friend, glaring hard at Sparrow’s retreating back, as if that alone could cause him to burst into flame.

However, Gillette is not to be evaded. He steps in close and asks, ‘What the devil was all that about, sir?’

‘Do not concern yourself, Lieutenant.’ James begins, stalking back toward the fort. ‘I want double the watch on the walls tonight. A pair of hands on every dock. And send word to our scouts to be on their guard.’

Gillette jogs to catch up with him, grabbing James’ shoulder to demand his attention. James halts and faces him. ‘Are we expecting an attack, sir?’

James stares out into the harbor, noting how the wind has not only picked up, but changed direction entirely, flags snapping like firecrackers in its furor. ‘Perhaps.’ He turns his iron gaze back to Gillette, lips tight in a frown. ‘I have a bad feeling.’

The Lieutenant nods emphatically and starts trotting up the hill, barking orders as he goes.

They’ve learned to trust James’ 'bad feelings.'

---

Chapter Text

James does eventually pay a brief visit to the Swanns, bringing with him three armed guards to place outside the manor. The residents of The King’s House are visibly unsettled by his sudden cautiousness, but Elizabeth must sense his determination, for she lets the matter drop with little resistance.

Then she launches into her excitement over the day’s events. She relays her anguish at being incarcerated in her dress, compares it to an iron maiden. James concedes a soft chuckle at that, and she places her cool fingers beneath his chin to draw his gaze to hers.

‘There we are. I was worried you might never smile again.’

He takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze but does not reply, and her brow furrows in response. She doesn’t pry, though, for which James is glad. He isn’t sure what he could possibly say if he was asked about his behavior. He’s still holding onto hope that it will all be for nothing.

Elizabeth changes the subject, detailing her fall and her rescue, paying particular attention to her rescuer, which James doesn’t like at all.

‘I wish I’d thought to ask his name,’ she muses as she reclines against him on the settee, her long legs thrown up over the arm to reveal a scandalous view of her ankles.

James sighs, not keen on this discussion in the least. ‘Smith.’

Elizabeth eyes him over her shoulder. ‘Beg pardon?’

‘He said his name was Smith.’

‘Well, that’s hardly romantic in the least.’ She laughs at his answering frown. ‘Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m only thinking of how I shall embellish this story as I’m telling Becca. You needn’t fuss so.’ She gives him a peck on the cheek in an effort to appease him. ‘It’s not often I get to have an adventure, you know.’

James hopes that remains true.

Shortly thereafter, he makes to leave, resisting Elizabeth’s usual attempts at dissuasion and eventual pouting. She sees him to the door and props her hip against the table as he shrugs into his jacket.

‘We never got to announce our engagement.’

He pauses, one arm through a sleeve, as taken aback by her disappointed tone as he is by the fact he'd forgotten entirely. She is tracing idle circles on the mahogany tabletop, her brows drawn, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her golden hair is loose, cascading down her shoulders in waves. She is haloed in lamplight. Madonna without child.

James’ heart constricts painfully in his chest. He fishes through his breast pocket, nudging aside her childhood favor, as he approaches her.

‘Perhaps this will do, in lieu of a public declaration.’ He produces a petite golden ring with a modest cut emerald glittering in the center. Elizabeth gasps, and he smiles as she allows him to slide it onto her finger. ‘It belonged to my mother. She sent it when I gave her the news.’

For a moment, she is speechless, merely tilting her hand this way and that in appreciation. He is captivated by her study.

‘This is…’ she looks up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘I must tell her thank you.’ Then she curls her fingers around the lapels of his coat, and her lips curve mischievously. ‘But, in the meantime, I’ll settle for thanking you.’

And she does.

---

It is raucous at The Bee and Bonnet tonight. Will has already heard five different versions of what happened today at the fort, and though he was naturally distressed on Elizabeth’s behalf, every rendition ends with her safe return home. He is relieved. Even though he has no claim on her...seeing her today...it had sparked some unnamed feeling deep inside him. He smiles as he recalls the way her face lit up when she saw him. How she had shone so brightly as she told him of her dream. And she had still wanted him to call her Elizabeth. The knowledge warms him.

‘You seem in an awfully good mood, mate.’

Will turns to see a dirty looking man slumped against the bar next to where he is seated. His hair is dark and matted, with beads that clack as he throws back his rum. The man slams down his cup and grins, a handful of gold teeth reflecting the dim tavern light.

Will regards the intrusion into his private thoughts as just that, replying tersely, ‘Yes. Though I don’t see how it’s any of your concern.’

The man laughs, a joyful explosion that grates on Will’s nerves, and then claps him on the shoulder. ‘Too right, mate! World would be a much better place if people minded their own bloody business.’

Will resists the urge to shrug off the man’s touch. Still, he can’t help but smirk at his clear failure to take the point. What harm could it do to indulge a drunk stranger for a short while?

‘You seem to be in good spirits yourself, sir.’

The man’s kohl rimmed eyes flash, and he taps the side of his nose dramatically. ‘Always good to celebrate a life spared. Or two in this case.’

Will spins on his stool, drink in hand, a question on his face. ‘You mean Miss Swann?’

‘Oh!’ he exclaims. ‘Was that her name! I didn’t get a chance to ask before she was whisked away.’

‘You were there?’

The man burps into his fist and chuckles. ‘'Twas I who plucked the young Miss from the briny deep.’ He drops a lopsided smile over his shoulder. ‘Some of me best work, really.’

Will coughs, nearly choking on the last of his ale. ‘You? You saved her?’

‘You’re a quick one, I can tell,’ the man asserts as he leans forward. ‘Why the interest? Do you know her?’

Will frowns and sets down his empty tankard with a dull thud. ‘Yes. Well. No. Not anymore.’

‘Ah.’ The man searches his face in silence for a moment before adding, ‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’

‘I’m sure I would remember such an occasion,’ Will deadpans as he waves the serving girl over to order another.

‘Bad luck to drink alone, mate,’ the man murmurs, canting so far into Will’s space, the blacksmith slightly recoils. Then he oscillates back and declares, ‘I know! I’ll join you.’

‘That’s not-’ Will sighs as the man drags over another stool and plants himself immediately nearby. ‘Sure, then. Why not? I’ll buy your next one. Since you saved Elizabeth.’

‘Right generous of you.’ The man lifts his freshly poured rum and toasts, ‘To dear Lizzie,’ instantly knocking back and draining the flagon. Then he resumes his shameless study once more. ‘You’re sure we’ve never met?’

Will sighs again, annoyed by the drunk’s presumption, and sticks out his hand. ‘Will Turner. There. Now we have.’

Recognition flashes briefly in the man’s narrowed eyes before he adopts a friendly smile. ‘Good strong name, that. No doubt a name for your father.’ He takes Will’s offered appendage.

‘Jack Sparrow, at your service.’

---

It is the middle of the night, and the alarm bells at the fort are clanging. The patrons of the tavern are filtering out into the street, some racing to get home while others merely stare, slack jawed, at the thick, knee deep fog that has settled in the town. Will hardly has time to turn to his compulsory drinking companion before the boom of cannon fire and report of rifles start to echo down the thoroughfare.

People are panicking now, dashing every which way. Will can see soldiers marching past the far end of the avenue. He starts in that direction, but Jack catches hold of his sleeve. ‘That doesn’t seem wise, mate.’

Will jerks his arm away, offended. ‘Maybe not, but only a coward would stand by and do nothing.’ And with that final rebuke, he heads toward the din, stopping briefly to arm himself with a weapon from the smithy on the way.

---

There is smoke. A fire. Will can taste gunpowder on the breeze. He spies black sails in the harbor. Pirates.

A figure down the block heaves a barrel through the front window of the bakery, shattering it, and climbs in, followed by two others. Will rushes at them, catching the last in the procession with a rock to the back of the head. The man whirls around and snarls, coming at him with a wicked looking cutlass.

Will is ready. He easily parries the pirate’s wild blow and sends him careening into a water trough. By this time, his fellows have come out the front door, the second one dragging the baker’s daughter, screaming, behind him. Will sets upon them instantly, barely giving them time to realize he is there. He knocks the first to the ground, giving him a sound kick to the face where he can feel something crunch sickeningly beneath his heel. The second releases his captive and reaches for his weapon, but Will is too fast. He springs forward, stabbing the would-be rapist straight through the heart, and then watches him sag against the door frame, dead.

Something strikes him painfully against the side of his head, and Will pivots to find a dripping wet and sneering face bearing down on him with a wooden club. He dodges the next blow but catches movement out of the corner of his eye. The pirate with the broken nose is up, blood dripping off his chin. Will is flanked. And he has no weapon.

He fakes to the left and then dips into a roll, leaping up next to the corpse that holds his sword. He whips it from its grisly sheath just in time to catch the cutlass careening toward his gut and elbows his assailant in the face. The second attacker grunts, and Will's eyes dart up to see that he’s taken a blade through his chest from behind. The pirate drops to the ground and reveals Jack standing behind him, sword drawn.

‘Looked like you could use some help.’

The final pirate, seeing he’s outnumbered, turns and flees, but Will gives chase. He skids around a corner just in time to see a distant figure in billowing white shrieking and flailing as she is dragged toward the docks.

‘Elizabeth!’

She doesn’t hear him, and he is too far to reach her in time. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

A shot rings out, and Will feels a gust of air whiz past his neck as he is narrowly missed by a musket ball. He spins to find four more pirates on his right, one of whom looks...disturbingly familiar. Something round and black lands at his feet, and Will barely has time to register it before he is tugged back by arms about his shoulders and then thrown some distance by a deafening explosion.

He is rolling in the muddy street, ears ringing as he watches feet pound past him. Jack is kneeling at his side, shaking him and shouting something he can’t quite hear. Elizabeth. Will clambers to his feet. He can finally start to make out some of the other man’s words.

Gone. Taken. Nothing you can do.

Will refuses to believe that.

---

The pirates have sailed off with the fog, leaving Port Royal to lick its wounds in peace. After surviving the attack, Will promptly heads to the fort. He has to find James. Tell him what happened.

James will know what to do.

He finds the Commodore in his new, much larger office, surrounded by the Governor and his officers. Will has to push his way through the door.

‘They’ve taken her,’ he laments, miserable beyond measure. ‘They’ve taken Elizabeth.’

The blue uniforms part, and Will is treated to an uninterrupted view of his hero. The sight turns his blood to ice in his veins.

James has lost his hat and wig, his hair slicked back from his brow. The arm of his linen shirt is missing, dried blood spattered across the once pristine fabric covering his chest and left side. His exposed shoulder has been wrapped as though injured, and his hands are gripping the edge of the table spread out before him so hard his knuckles have gone white. The look in his eye is like nothing Will has ever seen, and certainly not directed at him.

Anguish. Contempt. Murder.

‘I am well aware, Mr. Turner.’

Will takes an unconscious step back while still forging on. ‘Have they offered terms for a ransom?’

The Commodore straightens, approaching slowly, menacingly. A living shadow. And Will is petrified.

‘None,’ he grits out between clenched teeth. ‘It seems they have other intentions for Miss Swann.’

Will is shocked. Aghast. He’s never seen James this way before. Never seen him so...unhinged. Clearly, the others in the room haven’t either for they remain silent as the grave.

‘Surely...you must have a plan?’

James’ eyes fall closed, and he takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, the fierce expression is gone, and in its place is a cool mask of lofty disdain. ‘My plan, Mr. Turner, is to track the fiends down and obliterate them. Unless you’ve an idea of where to start looking, I would ask you to leave us to our work.’

Then he turns away, effectively ending the conversation.

Will makes a hasty retreat, unexpected fear pricking behind his eyes.

---

He returns to the smithy just after dawn, collapsing against the door once it's closed behind him. He wants desperately to help, to do something. But the Commodore has made it very clear his aid is unwanted. Will still stings in the wake of the rebuff. He feels outrageously alone.

Clang.

Or perhaps not so alone.

Clutching the hilt of his blade, Will furtively approaches to the forge where he’s heard the noise. As he nears, he puzzles over a disembodied off-key humming before a figure rises from the floor and starts rifling through his tools. Will clears his throat, and the intruder starts, then bares his teeth in a broad grin.

‘William! Good morning! I was wondering when you’d join me.’

‘Mr. Sparrow. What an unpleasant surprise.’

Jack purses his lips and drops the hammer in his hand back on the table with a clunk. ‘I take it your report wasn’t well received, then?’

Will sighs and strides over, placing his things back in their correct positions. ‘No. It was not.’

‘Pity,’ Jack sniffs. He then gestures to the row of swords Will has displayed on the wall. ‘These are nice. Your work, I’m guessing?’

Glaring, Will replies, ‘Yes. Were you here for any particular reason?’

Jack sucks on his bottom lip and nods. ‘To the point, I see. Very well. Yes, actually.’

Will crosses his arms, brows drawn. ‘Go on, then.’

Now Jack smiles, and it is so knowing, so wicked, Will is taken aback.

‘I have an offer for you, dear William. One that I think you may find quite interesting.’ He closes the distance between them as he continues, puckish expression never dropping from his face. ‘You see, I know how to find your lady friend. No doubt she’ll be very grateful to her rescuer. If you help me, well, then in return, I’ll help you.’

Will swallows the lump in his throat, unconvinced. ‘If you’ve information on the whereabouts of Miss Swann, you should tell the Commodore, not me.’

‘Ah,’ Jack tuts, picking idly at his dirt-crusted fingernails. ‘What makes you think the Commodore would lend any credence to the word of a common sailor.’

Will’s eyes narrow. ‘You’re no common sailor,’ he accuses in disgust.

The devilish grin is back. ‘Too right, mate. Which makes me...your best bet.’

---

Chapter Text

The myriad of treasures that used to line Elizabeth’s mantle and windowsill have long since been stored away, arranged in an upright cabinet with a glass door that she keeps in the corner of her chamber. There’s still empty space inside, places for the future gifts James will bestow upon her. But her latest acquisition? It is far too dear to shut away.

In the hours since her fiancé has gone, Elizabeth has been admiring her engagement ring in nearly every room of the house, tickled by the observation that the gem matches James’ eyes perfectly. Her father is delighted to see her so happy and tells her so before kissing her forehead goodnight. He is off to have a late drink with Mr. Reeve. She sees him down the front steps to the carriage and waves her newly bejeweled hand to him in farewell.

She is reading in bed by lamplight when the clamor at the fort begins.

Elizabeth flips back the duvet and pads barefoot to her open window. The alarm bells are ringing. Have the French declared war again? She plucks her dented spyglass from the cabinet and uses it to get a better view. Fog has settled deep into the town. There are men in uniform trotting through the streets. And in the harbor…

Black Sails.

Elizabeth gasps and recoils, dropping her glass to the floor with a clatter. She knows those sails. She knows that ship. Cannons boom in the distance, but it is a much closer explosion that draws her immediate attention. Someone has blown open the front gate.

Terrified, Elizabeth dashes out her bedroom door and onto the landing, catching herself on the banister and frantically exclaiming down to the butler. ‘Lock the door!’

Rifles discharge in tandem just beyond the front of the house. The guards James has placed, Elizabeth realizes as she scurries down the stairs. Oh, why had she doubted him? But surely he could not have foreseen this!

Estrella has come flying toward her in the fracas, grasping fingers urgent enough to bruise. ‘Miss! You must hide! They’re coming for you!’

‘What?’

‘You’re the Governor’s daughter!’

Silence outside. One side or the other is dead. All three of them collectively hold their breath.

One of the front windows shatters, and Estrella wails, ‘Go, Miss! Run!’

Elizabeth spins on her heel and flees back up the staircase. Heavy wood cracks and crashes open behind her. Bootsteps are following in her wake. Once in her room, she bolts the door, drags her vanity over as a barricade, then snatches her bow and arrows from where they are propped against her bedside table and mounts her bed. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other as her pursuers pound on the door, pulling the bowstring taught. The hinges are straining. It won’t be long, and they’ll be upon her.

Let them come.

An axe chops through the door, effectively taking out the lock, and Elizabeth lets loose her first arrow through the resulting hole. There is a cry of pain and muttered cursing on the other side.

‘Stay where you are!’ She commands, readying her next shot. ‘Don’t come any closer, or I’ll fire again.’

She can hear the smashing of glass below her, thumping and hollering. She can smell smoke. They’re ransacking the manor. She hopes Estrella has escaped.

Her attackers, however, have gone quiet. She strains to hear them over the ferocious hammering of her heart, positive they have not left.

‘There now, Poppet.’ The heavily accented voice chills her to the bone. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’

‘Not nice at all.’

So there are at least two of them. Elizabeth’s draw arm is starting to shake. She can’t hold her position much longer.

‘We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just here for something of ours.’

‘It calls to us.’

Elizabeth blinks. What on Earth could th-

‘The gold calls to us.’

Gold. Her eyes slip down to the medallion that has come untucked from her night shift, dangling freely upon her chest. Of course. That’s where she knows the ship from. The day they rescued Will. But how could it be here now?

The window behind her bursts into shards of glass and wood, and Elizabeth yelps, her prepared shot going wild. The pirates take the opportunity to storm into the room. She throws up her hands just as the first one through raises his cutlass at her.

‘Parlay!’

---

They are ugly and clearly stupid, but Elizabeth manages to convince the pair to take her back to their captain, though she is not at all sure what she will do once she gets there. She is manhandled and herded back down the hill, sliding unsteadily more than once in her house slippers, which offer little in the way of traction. At one point, the balding one threatens to sling her over his shoulder if she doesn’t hurry, and she gives him her best withering glare.

They are nearly to the docks when a figure on horseback comes galloping toward them in the moonlight. The beast rears back as the rider brandishes his sword. ‘Unhand her this instant, you curs!’

‘James!’ Elizabeth is knocked to the ground, a deafening bark of gunfire sounding behind her. She twists to see James toppling from his mount, landing hard on the stone-paved road.

‘No!’ She shrieks as her captors wrest her from the gutter. One of them is laughing as he tucks his weapon back into his belt. Elizabeth is fighting them now, tooth and nail, screeching, ‘No! Let me go! James! James!’

But it is no use. She is hauled, kicking and spitting away from her fallen fiancé, tears streaming down her cheeks.

---

Once on the ship, Elizabeth’s horror finds a new target. She demands to speak to the Captain and is backhanded across the face in answer. She holds her bloodied lip in shock as a bearded man with a large feathered hat steps forward.

She bargains with them in spite of her fear, praying silently that James is still alive. He has to be alive.

The Captain asks her name.

What can she tell him? If she admits she’s the Governor’s daughter, they will attempt to ransom her. If she names herself after ‘The Scourge of Piracy,’ she will be equally damned. In an instant, she has made a decision.

‘Elizabeth Turner. I’m a maid in the Governor’s household.’

This ends up having been wrong as well. She is roughly deposited in a cell in the dank brig, left to sob alone in the dark as they take her from the only home she has ever known.

---

‘Unhand her this instant, you curs!’

His shoulder explodes in fiery pain, and James drops his sword, the force of the blow propelling him back off the horse. He slams to the ground, his head cracking against the stone flags so hard he sees stars. Elizabeth is screaming his name, but he can’t breathe, can’t speak. He is on his back, vision swimming, barely able to make out the sight of her being dragged away between the wildly kicking legs of the mare he’d seized from the fort.

He rolls onto his right side, clutching his left shoulder, which is now slippery with blood. It takes an eternity to get his legs underneath him and even longer to lurch to his feet. Elizabeth. He staggers after her, barely able to remain upright between his riotous concussion and the way his fall has thrown him off balance. She is so far away from him, billowing white in the distance. He tries to run and stumbles. It is like a nightmare. He can’t seem to get his body to move.

‘Elizabeth!’ He is on his feet again, attempting vainly to catch her. They are tugging her into a launch now, preparing to spirit her off and lock her away in the belly of The Black Pearl. By the time he finally reaches the end of the dock, they have long since cast off, the wind shifting direction once more to fill their sails and whisk them away. The pirates...and the woman he loves.

James collapses to his knees, a roar of desolate fury erupting from his throat. He yanks off his horse hair wig, stained pink with his own blood, and flings it from him in impotent rage. Fog has completely swallowed up the black sails of the ship.

She is gone. Elizabeth is gone.

And he was helpless to do anything to stop it.

Again.

---

Twelve men are dead and two more lay dying. Countless others are wounded, to say nothing of civilians. Roger Toombs is gone, having been one of the three soldiers James had left to guard The King’s House. He had doomed those men in that act; all three of them survived the first time around, but in his futile planning, James had sent them to their death. And Elizabeth was taken regardless.

Theodore Groves had been the one to find him limping back toward the fort, a trail of scarlet in his wake. James had been pawed at and forced into a chair long enough for a surgeon to slice away his now blood-soaked linen shirtsleeve and ascertain the severity of the wound underneath. It was a grazing shot, enough to carve a jagged canyon of flesh out of the swell of his left shoulder, but missing any crucial bone or tendon. Nasty to the eye, but superficial in nature. James is unwilling to waste time on anything more than having it cleaned and simply dressed. It hurts like the devil, but is not nearly as devastating as it could have been. What’s more, he can still use the arm. He irritably waves off the surgeon’s attempts to put a sling on him, and commands Theo to gather his officers at once. He’s been shot before, though not in this timeline, and had survived that too. He had forgotten the shock of it, if not the pain. But it is of little consequence. Not when Elizabeth’s life is on the line.

Governor Swann arrives not long after that, beside himself in distress. James wishes he had something, anything, to tell him. Anything besides the fact that he had known this was coming and had still been unable to thwart it.

He is cursed. He knows that now.

Cursed to relive his greatest failures.

In his hubris he had thought this a second chance, an opportunity to get things right. He had rebuilt his life along the same track as before. What folly. And Elizabeth. She had nearly been his. Truly been his! It is enough to drive him to bitter tears, which leak out from the corners of his eyes unbidden as he bellows orders and desperately flips through the charts in his office.

James knows he cannot track them. He doesn’t understand why, but he knows the Isla de Muerta cannot be found by anyone who does not already know where it is. The only means he’d have to get there, to get to Elizabeth, is in the hands of that damned Jack Sparrow. The compass. He should have confiscated it. He should have…

But he didn’t. He let Sparrow go, fool that he was. The pirate is no doubt long gone, taking with him the only hope James has of rescuing Elizabeth. He is nearly incapacitated by the ironic truth that the circumstances are entirely of his own making.

And then Turner comes barging into his office, her name on his lips like it is his to say. James can’t help the black bolt of contempt that spears through him. He chases Will out before his resolve snaps, and he starts throttling the boy in front of all his officers. It isn’t fair of him, but then again, nothing about the situation is fair. Why should he have to be the only one to suffer?

---

Aboard The Dauntless, James has set up a sort of mobile command center. After changing out of his ruined dress uniform, no mean feat with the limiting nature of his injury, he’d begun sending out his captains with orders to search for any sign of the pirates who have taken the Governor’s daughter. He knows the ship’s name, knows much more than that, in fact, but he is also aware that his subordinates have already seen him coming apart at the seams. It would gain him nothing to start raving about a legend and a curse.

James has been making a conscious effort to clamp down on his agony, well aware that it has been unnerving his men, to say nothing of the Governor. He wonders now, that it was so easy for him to remain calm the first time around. How had he managed it?

...by being so bloody assured of his infallibility, that’s how. The previous James had every reason to believe he would resolve the situation swiftly, no cause to suspect such impossibilities as fate or magic.

But now? Now he must search vainly, fully cognizant that he is fumbling in the dark once more. He must search and pray. Pray that events do not change so much that Elizabeth is killed. Pray that, somehow, she ends up marooned on that same godforsaken spit of sand for him to find.

James’ fatalistic musings are interrupted when he catches movement out the massive paned window in front of him. The unfolding scene gives him pause. There, drifting out into the open water of the harbor...The Interceptor.

He grabs up a spyglass and focuses in, can see Theo Groves standing stiffly on the foredeck as the crew he’s been assigned prepares to set sail. Everything looks completely commonplace…

Except James hasn’t ordered them to leave.

He snaps the glass shut and calls for Gillette.

---

The plan had been entirely insane, of course. Will needs quite a bit of convincing before he finally agrees to help Jack. It is for Elizabeth, he tells himself. He must do anything and everything in his power to save her. And if James- the Commodore, won’t allow him to help...well, it can’t hurt to cast as many nets as possible.

At first, Will is hesitant to commandeer (Jack’s word) The Interceptor, cognizant that taking it will diminish the Commodore’s firepower...but...there’s nothing for it. It is the fastest ship in the fleet. If they take another, it will only be a matter of time before The Interceptor is used to hunt them down. And that would mean death. A fitting punishment for a friend turned pirate, he thinks bitterly.

Lieutenant Groves has been placed in command of the ship, which is lingering in the harbor until given a heading by her commanding officer. Will recognizes him instantly and is sickened by what he is about to do. Before this day, he’d considered the man to be a friend in the making. No doubt this charade will be easier for it, but it will likely also be the end of any civil association between them.

For Elizabeth.

He steps out from his hiding place on the dock, and the farce begins.

‘Theo!’ he cries in false distress, and the Lieutenant spins on his heel to see Will Turner clutched in the arms of the dirty scoundrel from the excitement the day before, a loaded gun to his temple.

‘No sudden moves,’ Jack threatens, his foul breath in Will’s ear. ‘Or the whelp gets it.’

Groves' eyes narrow, but he motions for the alerted sailors near him to stand down. He takes in the men in front of him, trying to gauge the direction of the exchange. They are halfway up the gangplank, Jack inching them forward as he continues. ‘Back! I mean it! I’ll blow a hole right through his pretty head!’

‘What do you want?’ Theo demands evenly, his eyes flicking between the two of them.

Jack halts once they’ve dropped to the deck and considers this with pursed lips. ‘I want a great many things, mate.’ He smirks. ‘But there’s only one that you can give me.’ He plants a hand in Will’s back and gives him a sound shove, sending him to collide with the officer.

In the resulting confusion, Will pulls two pistols from where they were tucked in the back of his trousers, leveling them at the lieutenant. The stricken expression he receives in answer is enough to turn his stomach, but Jack is giddy as he starts ordering the crew back. Then he places two fingers in his mouth and releases a sharp whistle.

Will is perturbed, not at all sure what that’s supposed to mean, but he spots Groves stirring in his peripheral and aims a gun. ‘Don’t move, Lieutenant. Please.’

Theo spits at his feet.

The intent of the signal becomes apparent when a series of wet, grimy, haggard looking men slink up over the gunwale, weapons in hand. ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ Jack grins as they rush forward to take over policing the navy crew. He then approaches Will and his glowering prisoner.

‘Right, then. On to business.’

---

He still doesn’t think all that highly of the pirate, but Will has to admit there is a certain elegance to Jack’s deception, even if he chafes at not having been completely in on the plan. Sparrow’s first stop had been the prison, where he’d recruited all the men slated for the gallows from their cells, offering them their freedom and passage away in return for their temporary aid.

Through clever use of overturned lifeboats, they had ludicrously submerged and walked the sandy bottom of the harbor, surfacing once they reached the lee side of their prize. Then, remaining hunkered behind the gunwales, they held the naval crew at gunpoint as they prepared to cast off.

They’d managed to take the ship without firing a single shot. Thanks to Will.

Currently, The Interceptor is slipping toward the open sea at a leisurely pace. Jack is certain of their success, but if the hate-filled glare Theodore Groves is giving him is any indication, Will believes they are not in the clear just yet. He can hardly blame the man. This is an undue betrayal, and they both know it.

‘Cap’n!’ one of the erstwhile prisoners calls at just above a whisper. ‘The big one is changing course.’

Jack crouch-walks to the man’s position and peers through a stolen spyglass. ‘Hm. Looks like the Commodore suspects something’s up.’ He turns toward Groves and cocks the hammer of his pistol.

‘Smile, Lieutenant. Give a little wave.’

The officer complies, but only after casting a worried glance at his men, held hostage and relying on him to save them.

‘You won’t get away with this. He’ll catch you,’ he hisses through clenched teeth.

Jack breaks into a triumphant grin. ‘I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, son. He can try.’

The Dauntless is on full intersect trajectory now. It’s time for the next stage of the plan. Jack directs his makeshift crew and then counts them down silently. 3...2...1!

The pirates leap up, brusquely forcing The Interceptor’s crew into a lifeboat. At once, there is a clang of alarm from the approaching ship, but they are already too close to freedom to be stopped. The launch splashes into the water just as the sails are dropped, and The Interceptor starts cutting toward the open water at a breakneck speed.

Jack waves his hat from the stern as the distance between the two ships begins to yawn.

‘Thank you, Commodore! She really is a lovely ship!’ The crew laughs, jeering and cursing their pursuer as they set a course for Tortuga.

Will, alone, is silent in their victory. He wishes it didn’t have to be this way, wishes none of this had ever happened. But it has, and now? He is no better than a pirate himself.

He hopes that someday...maybe James can forgive him.

---

Chapter Text

‘Sparrow, sir. He said his name was Jack Sparrow.’

Gillette frowns at Lieutenant Groves from across the compartment, arms akimbo. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’

Why, indeed, James thinks, head in hand as he tries to relieve a pounding migraine by massaging his temples.

‘I don’t know,’ Theo grumbles, leaning forward in his seat. ‘But he has got to be the best pirate I’ve ever seen.’

James almost groans aloud, but there is a putrid lump lodged in his throat that stops him. Gillette huffs. ‘He certainly got the best of you. Made us all look like right idiots.’

Theo shoots him a pointed glare. ‘Well, he wouldn’t have if Turner-’

‘Enough,’ James wrenches himself out of his desk chair and both men fall silent, snapping to attention...well, as much as Groves can while seated.

They are in his office aboard The Dauntless. James had sent everyone else out after receiving Theo’s official report on what happened. It appears Sparrow never left Port Royal at all, tarrying to muck up James’ life in some new way. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. But Turner...that chafes. Betrayal always does, though it is somehow much different from last time. He chooses not to waste any spare thought on the matter for now.

James rounds his desk, lacing his fingers behind his back as he so often does. The gesture strains his injured shoulder, but he won’t permit himself to so much as wince. ‘Did they give any indication of their destination, Lieutenant?’

Theo sighs and looks down. ‘No, sir. And...I am sorry. This is my fault, my responsibility. I should have-’

‘You kept your men alive,’ James interrupts severely. ‘More than that, you cannot blame yourself for. The fault lies with Turner. And Sparrow.’ He softens a bit at Theo’s dejected mien.

‘You cannot see the future, Lieutenant.’

Groves offers a weak smile. ‘I suppose not, sir.’

‘Right,’ Gillette interjects, pushing off the wall. ‘That’s your purview, isn’t it, Jamie?’

‘Clearly not anymore,’ James scowls. ‘Now. Back to work, both of you. We’ve got an entire ocean to scour.’

The two of them hit a brace almost in tandem and quit his office, leaving him alone once more.

None of his men need to know it, hell, no one does, but James is almost relieved by this turn of events. Yes, once again, he appears a proper fool. Yes, once again, his fastest ship is in the hands of a pirate. But...Turner and Sparrow teaming up...it means things could still turn out the same. And while that is a terrifying thought, it also means they could reach Elizabeth in time. It means she could survive. All he would have to do is wait for her signal.

However...it also means...no. James refuses to think on it. Her life is what is most important right now. He cannot waver out of fear she might choose Turner again.

Even if it would surely kill him.

---

‘I’m not a simpleton, Jack. You knew my father.’

Will already knows it, but he is still not prepared for the answer. Somehow it picks at a wound he’d long thought closed.

‘Good man. Good pirate.’

He is furious, wants to call this brilliant madman out for his gall, wants to force him to recant. But even as he unsheathes his sword and is nearly tossed overboard for his trouble, Will recognizes that it fits. It all fits.

On his back, staring up at Sparrow as he is handed back his weapon, he realizes nothing will ever be the same.

‘Tortuga?’

‘Tortuga.’

---

The ugly men are back, and they have a bundle of wine-colored cloth clutched between them. She is to dine with the Captain in the dress or to dine with the crew in the nude. It’s not really a choice at all. Elizabeth spews all the haughty venom she can muster, which is a fair amount, until they depart. They will not see her tears. Not a one.

Dinner, as it turns out, is a lavish feast with only one place setting. The Captain watches intently as she picks at and then lays into the meal, stopping only to offer her additional vittles. This, of course, puts her on edge. Was the wine poisoned?

He laughs at her horror and tells her of a legend. A chest full of Aztec blood money. Greed. A curse. The dim light of the swaying lanterns casts deep shadows across half his face, making his countenance impossible to read.

Whether she believes him or not is entirely unimportant. He believes it enough to proclaim, with a leer, that they intend to kill her, sacrifice her to some pagan god. She whips out her palmed knife, driving it straight through his heart, but Barbossa is more entertained than upset. Elizabeth flees in a panic.

‘You best start believing in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You’re in one!’

---

Tortuga is a cesspool. Will is reluctant to touch any surface with his bare hand. And the smell? It will linger. It’s worth it, however, to see Jack slapped across the face by a procession of angry women. Immensely satisfying.

They meet a man in the pig sty. Gibbs. An old friend of Jack’s. While Will is set to ‘keep an eye out,’ there is hushed talk of taking back The Pearl and ‘leverage.’ Only then does Gibbs agree to help.

The crew he scrapes together is rather lackluster and has Will battling doubts for the umpteenth time. But Jack is struck again, twice, and that takes the sting out of things.

---

The storm is like nothing Will has ever experienced. He is a fast learner, and helps the others with the sailing as best he can, but the waves are constantly washing him off his feet, spraying salt water into his eyes. It is miserable, soaking work, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Any amount of suffering is bearable as long as they can get to Elizabeth. And besides...

They’re catching up.

---

I will not cry. If I cry, I am lost.

Elizabeth’s expression is stony as the pirates prepare her for the ceremony, preening her like a doll. Captain Barbossa adds the finishing touch himself: hanging the cursed medallion from her neck like a noose. Its weight is no longer a comfort to her.

The cliffs of the Isle are as blanched and jagged as a shattered rib cage, jutting up toward the sky in a cacophony of razor sharp rock. She is rowed through them in a launch, barely daring to breathe as they are swallowed up by the mouth of a eerily malicious cave.

Elizabeth had always dreamt of adventure, of pirates, but this is not whimsical swashbuckling or freedom in the form of wind-filled sails. This is a funeral procession. She is being led to her death. And all she can think is that, if she’s lucky, James will be waiting for her. It is reprehensible to allow herself to believe he is dead, but if she is to go bravely into that eternal night, she must trust there is something kinder anticipating her on the other side.

Inside, the grotto is lined with treasure, mounds of it. Ten years worth of stolen contraband. And there, in the center, fairly towering above all else...the chest. It is menacing in the low light, sinister in a blood curdling way Elizabeth can’t explain. She barely pays attention as the crew excitedly adds to their hoard, dumping out piles of red-stained silver taken from her own home.

That may as well have been years ago.

---

If the worst should happen, the crew is to keep to ‘the code.’ Anyone who falls behind...is left behind. Will is, once again, disgusted by the company he keeps. No heroes among thieves, it would seem.

As they slink into the cave, Jack tries to convince Will how much they are alike. ‘You’re wrong,’ he hisses into the darkness. You don’t know me. No one does.

There is some sort of gathering in the main cavern and in the center, illuminated by a ray of slanting sunlight, is Elizabeth. She is forced to her knees as the Captain brandishes a knife. Will refuses to wait another moment to act. He refuses to be Jack’s leverage.

---

Her neck is stretched out over the chest, her vision full of glinting golden skulls. The fiends are chanting. This is the end. Elizabeth closes her eyes…

-and is hauled right back to her feet. Barbossa slices her hand and smirks at her surprised gasp of pain.

‘Waste not.’

The intent dawns with paralyzing dread: there are worse things than death.

The crew goes silent as the blood smeared medallion tumbles downward. And then...nothing happens.

The Captain turns on her, and she is morbidly exhilarated to be able to sneer into his face. It is not her blood they need. And she will take the truth to her grave before she says a goddamn word.

Then he backhands her. Hard.

She goes down.

---

Will slips through the water as silently as he can manage, stopping at Elizabeth’s side. She wakes, startled, at his touch and follows him in. They escape the grotto together, her trembling hand clasped in his.

It feels so right, Will thinks he might be sick.

---

The Interceptor floats in the shallows. Elizabeth is so relieved she could bawl. James! He’s come for me!

But it is not her fiancé’s comforting visage she sees as she tips over the gunwale. Instead...pirates. More bloody pirates. One of whom is strangely familiar. ‘Mr. Gibbs?’

‘Where be Jack?’

She turns to Will, who has his arms protectively around her as he actively steers her away from the questioning crew. ‘Who’s Jack?’

‘He fell behind.’

They duck below deck just as the sails are dropped.

Elizabeth cannot say she is sorry to see her adventure coming to an end.

---

‘What sort of man trades a man’s life for a ship?’ She is appalled by the very thought of it, incensed on Will’s behalf.

‘A pirate,’ he answers in careful monotone.

He has taken the time to tell her everything that has happened: of the sack of Port Royal, of Jack, of their coming to rescue her. Elizabeth feels a weight taken off her shoulders when he flatly tells her of his interaction with the Commodore. James is alive. Injured, but alive. And more than that, he is looking for her.

‘That is no excuse,’ she asserts sourly, clumsily attempting to wrap her injured palm. ‘He sounds like an absolute wretch.’

Will is silent in reply. Seated across a table from her and bathed in dusky lantern light, Elizabeth is struck by how sullen he appears. Shadows dance along the planes of his face, pooling in his eyes. Gently, he nudges her fumbling hand with his fingers, taking hold of the bandage himself. He is so close. His long eyelashes fan out over his cheeks as he surveys his work. How has she never noticed how handsome he’s become? When had it happened?

He asks her why she gave his name as her own, his touch becoming a caress. Elizabeth’s skin tingles. Her heart thunders in her chest.

‘I don’t know,’ she states simply. She had a reason, once. She must have. But here? In this intimate space where it is just the two of them? All past logic abandons her.

Will leans in, a labor roughened thumb stroking across her chin. ‘Elizabeth…’

Despite herself, she is pulled in by the gravity of him. She's waited so long for him to say her name. So long…

...and yet...somehow...it feels wrong. The wrong voice framing the syllables. The wrong eyes gazing into her own. The wrong fingers trailing her pulse point.

The wrong man.

She flinches, and the spell is broken. Will’s attention drops to the medallion nestled between her breasts.

‘It’s yours,’ she confesses, plucking it from her neck and placing it in his open palm.

He smiles then, a wistful twitch of his lips. ‘It was a gift from my father.’ His brows lower. His expression is an accusation and a plea. ‘Why? Why did you take it? Why did you keep it? All these years…’

She was afraid. Afraid he’d think her a thief. Afraid he’d take it and leave. Afraid he was a pirate.

Will laughs humorlessly at her admission. ‘Of course. That would be unforgivable. To be a pirate.’

Then something in him shifts. His eyes are so earnest, she feels pinned to the spot. ‘Be afraid. But be brave, too. Fear is the important first step to finding courage.’

Elizabeth doesn’t understand why he’s said it, but she thinks she knows what he means, that he’s talking to himself as well.

‘It’s my blood that they need,’ he laments. ‘My father’s blood.’

A single tear forges down his face, sparkling in the flickering lamplight.

‘The blood of a pirate.’

---

The actual battle is nothing like she expected them to be, all choking smoke and salt spray. Will barks orders like he was made to, and it is Elizabeth’s idea to drop the starboard anchor which hauls them to bear. She doesn’t even have the time to be proud.

‘Fire all!’

The noise is a harrowing dissonance that leaves her ears perpetually ringing, her teeth on edge. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth fires a musket, taking out a pirate swinging toward The Interceptor to board it and plunging him into the foamy sea. They are outgunned and outmatched, and she is grimly impressed when the main mast is destroyed by chain shot and crashes to the deck.

‘Mr. Smith’ appears at her side, asking after the medallion and then Will. Elizabeth is mortified to find he’s been trapped below decks, helpless to do anything but strain ineffectually at the grate.

They are boarded. She is grabbed up by their attackers, dragged from Will’s increasingly waterlogged form, screeching and howling, throwing her fists wildly.

When The Interceptor explodes, a vice of despair clenches around her heart. She is thrown to the crew, hands roaming across her skin, pulling her hair, as she struggles futilely. She is drowning in a sea of stinking flesh and cruel intent.

And then Will reappears, a fierce-eyed savior silhouetted by the by the sun.

‘She goes free.’

The deal is struck. Her life for his.

As her bare feet hit the water, Elizabeth understands it was no bargain at all. She will drown or starve. And Will? He will die alone, stuck like a pig, his blood darkening the sands of the Isla de Muerta.

---

Chapter Text

Elizabeth reaches land before her accompaniment, but only just. Her soaked chemise is weighing heavily on her shoulders as she wades out of the shallows, squinting in the unforgiving Caribbean sun. Her feet have finally found the dry sand as Jack appears in her peripheral, dripping and miserable, his scant worldly possessions caught in his grasp.

She casts around and grabs hold of a shell the size of her palm. Then she hurls it at him.

‘Wretch!’

He yelps, though the projectile misses him by a full foot, and stumbles backward, still knee deep in the surf.

Elizabeth throws a hunk of driftwood next, which bounces harmlessly off his flailing elbow. She is advancing on him in her fury, stopping to pelt him with a fistful of sand.

‘Hey!’ He high-steps his way out of the water. ‘What- Stop that!’

‘No!’ She shouts and flies at him, closing the distance between them even as he attempts to back away. Her fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, and she shakes him, hissing up into his baffled face. ‘You’ve as good as killed him, you coward! You absolute snake!’

She is fairly panting now, in her rage, her grief. Her eyes bore furiously into his as she wills him, dares him, to say anything to defend himself.

The pirate’s visage slowly melts from bewilderment to an almost calm indignance. His hands close over hers one finger at a time as he leans down until their noses nearly touch. ‘Sticks and stones, Love. And a bit of the pot calling the kettle black as well.’

Elizabeth’s frown deepens as he wrests from her hold and flops to the ground to wrench off his boots. ‘That-’ she crosses her arms irritably. ‘What could you possibly mean?’

Jack grunts as he pops free of his second boot and offers her an arch scoff. ‘What I mean, Missy, is that dear William would have never left home if he weren’t coming to save you.’

She has nothing to counter that, and Sparrow clearly takes her piqued silence as guilt. He totters to his now bare feet and turns inland, surveying their new home...at least until they die of thirst.

‘Love makes a man do stupid things,’ he comments distractedly, a hand extended to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Some more than others.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Elizabeth protests. ‘Will doesn’t...we’re not-’

Jack smirks at her, effectively interrupting her denial. ‘Might want to tell him that, Love.’ He purses his lips thoughtfully. ‘Though I suppose it’s a bit late now, eh? Shame, that.’ Then he starts toward the trees, shedding his waistcoat in his wake.

Elizabeth huffs, galled by his brass, and follows. ‘There are no promises between us, Mr. Sparrow. And besides, I’m engaged.’

He spares her a disinterested glance over his shoulder. ‘Are you now? To whom?’

‘None of your business,’ she snaps testily, and he shrugs before continuing on. But Elizabeth finds she can’t just leave it at that, adding, ‘It’s not official yet. It’s...complicated.’

Jack actually stops then and whirls round to appraise her, giving her a once over that ends in a shrewd smile. ‘Some things should be simple, Lizzie.’

‘It’s Miss Swann,’ she corrects firmly. ‘And what could a pirate know of love? Or fidelity, for that matter?’

He turns from her, and to her vexation, knocks on the trunk of a nearby tree. ‘Love and marriage aren’t the same thing, Miss Swann.’ He begins making large, animated paces away from her before halting in a clearing and hopping a few times. A grin splits his features as he reaches down. ‘Neither is fidelity, you’ll find.’

It is no doubt meant to impress her, so Elizabeth shows no sign of her shock as he pulls up a trap door and descends into the resulting hole. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’

‘Rum-runners used to use this island, though from the looks of it, they haven’t been back in a while. Probably have that bloody Norrington to thank for it.’ He begins shuffling through the shelves.

Elizabeth flinches at the name, but Jack doesn’t seem to notice, filling his arms with several unbroken bottles. ‘You’ve been here before?’ Realization dawns as she recalls several tales she’d heard long ago, back when she’d fancied meeting a pirate. ‘They rescued you.’

He freezes at the bottom of the steps, meeting her gaze.

‘Is there any truth to the stories? Any of them?’

Jack’s face goes blank, but his eyes burn. ‘No truth at all.’

---

It doesn’t take that long to get him drunk, and Elizabeth finds a grim pleasure in knowing it is likely because he is just as upset as she over their fate, even if he won’t show it. But she has a plan now, one he has unwittingly given her the resources to enact. She just has to wait until he’s asleep.

She hasn’t consumed much of the rum herself, dumping it out in increments when his attention is elsewhere. It is a vile drink, and though she may enjoy the warmth in her belly and the relaxing of her muscles, the taste leaves more than a little to be desired. Her charade requires her to loosen up, though, so she does, skipping about as she teaches Jack a favorite childhood song.

Sometime after night falls, he collapses into the sand, tugging her with him, both of them cackling like gulls. She fakes a pull off her bottle and catches him smirking at her out of the corner of her eye. ‘You know, Lizzie, you don’t seem the marrying type.’

Elizabeth doesn’t allow herself to be baited by the crude observation. ‘Oh? And how could you know that, Mr. Sparrow?’ she slurs.

Jack sways unsteadily and points a finger back and forth between the two of them. ‘Peas in a pod, Love. It’s not what you want.’

She laughs, affecting drunkenness, and slants toward him. ‘And what do I want, Jack?’

He smiles, eyes swimming. ‘Freedom.’

His answer sobers her, but she keeps the merry expression plastered on her face. He goes on to compare marriage to being marooned on this island, stopping to interject that a ship, The Pearl, now that’s what freedom really is.

Freedom. It is the one thing she has always truly craved. The one thing she will never truly have. In the privacy of her own mind, she allows that, perhaps, in this one way, the two of them are similar. Then she takes in his sloppy, lopsided grin, his dirt-crusted fingernails, his gold teeth glinting in the firelight. That is where the similarities end, she thinks peevishly.

Elizabeth extends her bottle seaward in a toast, leaning brazenly against his shoulder. ‘To freedom!’

Jack passes out an instant later, and she takes a moment to marvel over how much she’d meant the words.

No time to contemplate it now, though. She has work to do. It’s time to get off this godforsaken spit of sand.

Come find me, James.

---

He is in his office aboard The Dauntless when the signal is sighted. Lieutenant Groves pokes his head through the door and bellows, ‘You’ll be wanting to see this, sir!’

And James does. In fact, there has never been anything in the world that he has wanted to see more. He orders his men to set a course for the billowing tower of smoke on the horizon, and the Governor approaches as the crew brings her around.

‘What is it, Commodore?’ Swann asks, hope threading through his query. ‘What can it mean?’

‘We can’t know until we get there, sir.’

But James is already positive. It’s her. Elizabeth. He turns away and heads briskly to the quarterdeck, careful to hide the tears of relief that have gathered in his eyes.

---

It is the same island, because of course it is. James sees that he, personally, is in the front of the first lifeboat sent ashore. Unconventional for the commanding officer, perhaps, but as the launch is lowered, and James watches the Governor pacing the deck, he knows there is nothing that does, or ever has existed that would keep him from Elizabeth’s side a moment longer.

A figure appears over the dunes as they row toward land. Sparrow, barefoot in the sand. James hears Theo take in a hiss of breath beside him, and lays a hand on his shoulder. ‘Steady, man.’

He should take his own advice. He is all nerves himself.

Then he spots her, shining white and gold in the unrelenting sun. James doesn’t even wait for someone else to pull the skiff onto the beach, he is over the side in seconds, boots hitting the water with a splash.

Her squinting eyes widen when they snag on him, and her serious frown goes slack. ‘James!’

She breaks into a sprint.

And so does he, straight past the dumbstruck pirate and into her arms, which she throws around his middle as she buries her face in his chest. He knows his hands are shaking as he strokes through her hair, clutches her to him, but she is trembling as well, fingers fisting in the back of his coat. James loses track of how long they remain that way, his eyes having fallen closed once he tucked her head beneath his chin, but she leans back and looks up at him, tears staining her cheeks as a brilliant smile graces her features.

His own cheeks are so stained.

‘I knew you’d find me, James.’

He kisses her then, in front of the landing party, in front of Sparrow, in front of the world. In this moment, he is once again reminded that she is the only thing that matters, and the rest of it, the entire globe and everyone on it, can go to hell for all he cares.

She is his. And he is hers.

He has always been hers.

Elizabeth’s lips are chapped, but no less sweet for it. She nuzzles his nose with her own and smiles against his mouth, ‘I thought you were dead. I thought they’d killed you.’

Then she pulls away, worry creasing her brow. ‘They shot you.’

He nods, giving his injured shoulder an experimental roll. It hurts, but in the best way. It means he’s alive. And this...her, here in his arms...it is real. ‘Yes. Though the resulting fall did more damage.’

Her eyes dart past him, and he glances back to find his obviously uncomfortable crew looking everywhere but at them. Sparrow, however, may as well have dragged up a chair, seeming much too amused for a man held at gunpoint.

‘James,’ he turns back to find her countenance has taken on a haunted aspect. She swallows. ‘They have Will.’

Of course they do, but James lets her finish all the same.

‘He came to save me, and they’re going to kill him. It’s all my fault.’ She is becoming increasingly agitated as she goes on. ‘Please. We have to help him.’

He sees the suffering plain on her face, the unmitigated fear in her eyes. Her next words are barely above a whisper. ‘But...you’re never going to believe me.’

James is more than certain that he will. ‘Let’s get you aboard first. Once we’re settled, you can tell me everything.’ He offers a placating smile. ‘Your father is worried sick. He’ll want to know you’re safe.’

‘He’s here?’ There is a tremor in her voice that nearly breaks his heart.

‘Yes.’ James caresses her shoulder affectionately with his thumb, and then takes in her...rather lurid state of undress for the first time. No wonder his men are so embarrassed. He chuckles and clears his throat. ‘I think we shall also have to find you something more suitable to wear.’

Elizabeth blinks, but a mischievous glint sparks in her brown eyes. ‘Oh? So it isn’t to be bare breasts and ankles all the way?’

James can’t help the sharp bark of laughter that explodes from him then. He doffs his coat and drapes it over her. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Swann. I can’t have you scandalizing my crew.’

She gives him a playful eye-roll as she accepts the offered clothing. ‘Of course, Commodore Norrington. Blushing maidens that they are.’

He begins leading her back toward the lifeboat, ignoring Sparrow as they pass. ‘Someone has to protect their virtue,’ he teases.

Elizabeth purses her lips, but her eyes are filled with mirth. ‘You know, you’d make a very good governess. If the whole Royal Navy thing doesn’t pan out.’

James laughs again, utterly disarmed.

In this moment? He has never loved her more.

---

A bosun’s chair is lowered for Elizabeth, and while she makes a face, she doesn’t protest as James straps her in. She is already on deck by the time he has followed, enfolded in her father’s arms.

The first order of business is to find her some decent clothing, not that there is any on board for a woman. James supposes he could have prepared better for this. After all, he had expected to find her here, but…

He’d be lying if he said that the marine’s uniform they found for her wasn’t uniquely becoming. He had, naturally, noticed the first time around, but...now that he knows the taste of her, knows the sweep of her roaming hands...it is distressingly distracting, being in her presence.

After Elizabeth is finished dressing in the privacy of his office, he and his officers are allowed inside. She hasn’t taken the trouble to button the coat over her chest, letting it hang open. And the breeches? There is so little left to the imagination, James’ mouth goes completely dry. She is reclining back against his desk, legs crossed at the ankles, golden hair loose over her shoulders.

James has a sudden and very titillating image fly into his mind: her, bent over the desk, trousers around her knees, moaning his name as he drives into her from behind. The invasive thought stuns him so thoroughly, he barely hears her addressing him. ‘Pardon?’

She quirks a dark brow. ‘I said I left your coat hanging on the back of your chair.’

‘Ah. Thank you.’ He doesn’t move to retrieve it. That would require him to walk past her, and James doesn’t trust himself to take even one step nearer than he already is.

A throat is cleared behind him, and he turns. Theo. Right. Yes. They were having a meeting. Gillette is there too, and the knowing smirk he sports is unbearable. Damn him. Weatherby Swann, who joined his daughter and is ushering her into a seat, seems thankfully unaware of the exchange. Some small mercy.

Steeling himself against this rather inopportune bolt of lust, James directs them all to the task at hand. And this time, she tells them everything. The medallion and Barbossa and the curse and the sacrifice. James’ grasp of the events which led to his crew fighting corpses beneath the moonlight had always been tenuous, at best. Elizabeth had never explained the situation before, and Sparrow certainly hadn’t, leaving James and his men to, quite literally, fumble in the dark. Many of them lost their lives that night.

But if he is honest with himself, James supposes he can understand why they hadn’t bothered. Would he have even believed them? He knows the answer is no. And what’s more, he wouldn’t have risked it. He would have let Turner die.

Once she has finished her account, the men in the room are tellingly silent, disbelief carved into every face. To her credit, Elizabeth remains calm, eschewing theatrics in favor of keeping her eyes planted on the floor.

It’s time to choose a side.

‘Gillette.’ The Lieutenant perks up at the command in his voice. ‘Pay a visit to Mr. Sparrow. We’re going to need a heading for the Isla de Muerta.’

All eyes are on him now, standing, arms crossed, in the middle of the room. Gillette regards him as though he’s grown a second head. ‘Sir, with all due respect, you don’t actually believe in this nonsense, do you?’

‘No,’ James begins coolly, ‘but I believe in her.’ He flicks his gaze to Elizabeth, who seems just as agog as any of them. ‘And besides, Mr. Turner remains a subject of the crown, and as such, it is our duty to see him safely home.’

Theo is the first to respond. ‘If...those are your orders, sir.’ This seems to remind Gillette of his place. He drops the incredulous look and hits a brace.

‘Right away, sir.’

They are both gone immediately, leaving James alone with the Swanns. He sighs as he finally dares to approach his chair and lowers himself into it after donning his frock coat. The Governor is perturbed, not entirely buying the fantastical story but not wishing to voice his doubts in front of his daughter.

‘Commodore, are you sure this is wise?’

James meets his eyes, adopting an expression that brooks no argument. ‘Time will tell, sir. But for now...’ He folds his hands atop his desk. ‘I cannot allow these blackguards to roam free.’

Swann nods. Even if he doesn’t agree, he understands. The man gives Elizabeth a kiss on the forehead, then, with a wan smile, he quits the room as well.

It is hardly proper for him to leave them unattended, and James is struck by how much the Governor truly trusts him. Given his thoughts in the not-so-distant past, he is forced to admit that he still does not.

Elizabeth is examining him now, her visage wary. ‘Did you mean all that?’

He is gentler when he says it this time. ‘I do not make a habit of saying things I do not mean.’

She stands, and he does too. Old habits and all that. ‘James...you can’t kill them. And their captain...he is an evil man. He won’t stop. And I’m frightened…’

James rounds the desk slowly, coming to her side. She meets him halfway, laying her head against his chest. ‘What if we’re too late?’ she laments softly.

He allows himself to place an arm around her shoulders, but he doesn’t know how to respond. He remembers how this all played out before, knows the debacle will be even trickier to navigate this time around. And this time, he won’t have the confidence of his crew. James doesn’t doubt their loyalty, but he knows that, until they witness it with their own two eyes, not a man among them will really believe in the curse.

Elizabeth drifts backward to peer up at him, her fingers splaying out across the front of his waistcoat. ‘I was so afraid when they shot you. More afraid than I was of dying.’

James places his hands over hers, if only to keep them from wandering. ‘So was I. I thought I’d lost you.’

She sniffs, casting her eyes downward. ‘You nearly did. If it hadn’t been for Will...and Jack…’

He doesn’t care for this line of conversation one bit, but James knows what it is to experience trauma. He patiently waits for her to continue.

Instead, she surprises him with a mild chuckle. ‘It’s a shame, really. To have bled all over your dress uniform. I rather thought you looked quite dashing.’

His answering smile is somewhat confused, he isn’t sure why she’s bringing this up now. ‘I thought you hated it.’

‘Just the wig.’ She reaches up to give his current one a tug. ‘Bloody awful things. It is a sin I never get to see your actual hair.’

James blinks. This is as far from what he’d expected to discuss as possible. He is once again dazed into silence.

Then Elizabeth takes a step back, out of his arms. She nods to his shoulder. ‘May I see it?’

It is a simple enough question, but James finds himself at a loss for how to respond. She wants to see his wound? An odd request, even for her. He briefly entertains denying her, but there is a plea in her gaze that paralyzes him.

So James haltingly shrugs out of his coat and tosses it across a chair, abruptly aware of how many layers he’s wearing. Is he to strip here in front of her? Surely not.

But her eyes darken as his fingers hover over the buttons of his waistcoat. He watches her closely as he begins undoing them one at a time, doesn’t miss the way the tip of her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. All at once, his skin is too tight, the air is too stifling. He should stop...but…

Elizabeth has him in a trance.

Finally, the task is finished, and the garment parts. James’ heart is hammering behind his ribs, his blood racing through his veins. He goes for the cravat next, and Elizabeth takes a half step forward. He starts at the sudden movement, but she doesn’t come any closer. He is grateful. She cannot help him in this, for it would undo him. He would have her against the wall in an instant.

The waistcoat drops from his shoulders, and he lays it with the rest, giving the cravat a quick jerk from his neck. When he straightens again, before her now in his shirtsleeves, he sees that her chest is heaving, her pupils blown wide, lips parted. She wants him.

The realization thrills and terrifies him in equal measure. His iron grip on his control is starting to slip.

In the end, he decides not to take off his shirt, merely untying the laces and dragging the gaping neckline to the side, exposing his wrapped injury. He cannot be sure how he must appear in this moment, vulnerable as he has allowed himself to become. The atmosphere between them is electrified, but James remains riveted to the spot, eyes fixed on hers, waiting for her to act.

Her concentration never falters. She advances purposefully, fingers dancing up his arm, across his clavicle. Then she presses a feather light kiss to his shoulder. She is so close, he can smell the sunshine and salt in her hair, can feel the heat coming off her.

When Elizabeth pulls away her eyes are glistening. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

He lifts a mutinously shaky hand to brush her cheek. ‘So am I.’

She leans into his touch, his name tumbling from her like a prayer. ‘James.’

And his lips are on hers. He can taste the bitterness of her tears, but it does nothing to temper the sweetness of her kiss. His fingers are threading through her golden tresses, his other arm gathering her close, brushing against the rough fabric of the marine jacket. One of her hands has slid underneath his shirt, carding through the hair on his chest. She is winding him painfully tight, the way she is sighing into his mouth.

It is monstrously unfair, the power she holds over him. He wants to give in. There is nothing he has wanted more in this life or the last. But James can hear the thumping on the deck above them, the clatter of footsteps outside. He cannot be found here with her like this. It would ruin her.

He draws back, placing his forehead against hers as he tries to catch his breath. ‘I have to-’

‘I know,’ she interrupts in a whisper. ‘Just, please. Promise me you’ll be more careful.’

He does. After all, this time, he has a very compelling reason to.

---

Chapter Text

Redressing turns out to be a little more difficult. James is tacitly mortified when Elizabeth steps in to help, the limited range of his shoulder causing him to have to attack the task too slowly for her taste. She even attempts to tie his cravat for him, which is almost unbearably dear, except that she can’t quite get it right and, after three tries, gives up. James bites his lip to keep from laughing.

‘Bloody ridiculous thing,’ she grouses, as she settles for smoothing the lapels of his frock coat.

‘I’ve never had much trouble with it myself,’ he quips, willing his body to stop reacting to the nearness of her.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, James. I’m well aware that you are supremely capable in everything you do.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Everything except making polite conversation at dinner parties, that is.’

‘Ah, but if the goal is to not actually be having the conversation?’

The smile broadens, and her eyes sparkle. ‘You could just not go to them.’

James fakes acute incredulity. ‘Then however shall I hear about which new blight has taken to Mr. Randall’s sugar crop?’

Elizabeth places the back of her hand to her forehead in a faux swoon. ‘Or which color Lady Ellis has scandalously commissioned a new gown in!’

This is one of their favorite games, often times played in plain sight while at the same society function, trying to see who can come the closest to outright mockery of the other guests without being discovered. Elizabeth always wins. She is more daring than he has ever been. And he adores her for it.

A sharp knock interrupts the farce, and James is exceedingly grateful it did not come sooner.

‘It’s Sparrow, sir,’ Gillette says through the open door when prompted, hand still on the knob. ‘He says we’re nearly there.’

Of course he does.

---

James does not care for the situation. Even less so than the last time. In fact, knowing what’s waiting for them has only made things more complicated.

Sparrow’s advice is the same: remain aboard The Dauntless while he goes inside to rescue Will, and blast the pirates when they come out in the boats. It is transparently self-serving, but James knows it ultimately works...even if he doesn’t know how. Sparrow also urges him to lock Elizabeth up, which leads James to the true conundrum of the entire circumstance.

What is he to do with her? He knows what happened last time; she escaped from his office and snuck aboard The Black Pearl, freeing Sparrow’s crew...who then turned and fled. Why she ever thought they would do any different used to strike him as naive, but now, knowing her as he does, he considers her belief in others to be more a strength than a weakness.

The problem is, The Pearl then returned to Port Royal to rescue Jack and lead James on a merry chase that culminated in his utter ruin. He’d very much like to avoid repeating that, if he can. Especially the part where Elizabeth tosses him aside for a blacksmith.

But that’s unfair of him, and he knows it. Things are different this time.

...even if that’s done little to stop the past from happening again. Almost exactly the same.

The only way he can truly keep Elizabeth from sneaking off is to keep her in sight, either remaining in the office with her and staying out of the coming fight, or having her on the deck in the middle of the fray. Both options are completely untenable.

What’s more, he only knows of one course of action where she absolutely survives the altercation, and that is for her to be nowhere near it. As dangerous as it will be for her to go through with her previous plans, he knows she can manage it and come out unharmed. Anything else? Anything new? He has no quantification for. And his flailing efforts to alter events so far have resolutely led to disaster at every turn.

Perhaps there are some things he just wasn’t meant to change.

James isn’t sure what lesson he’s supposed to be learning through this strange twist of fate that he’s found himself in, but he will not gamble with her life. Everything else? Maybe. But not Elizabeth.

So he lets Sparrow go on his errand, and for the first time in either of his lives, prays the pirate succeeds. It feels dishonorable to risk his crew, knowing full well what is coming their way, but what choice does he have? Saving Turner is...more important to him this time…but he is also aware of what Barbossa and his crew are. They must be stopped. And he’ll never have a better chance to do so.

He is still, after all, ‘The Scourge of Piracy.’ How could he balk at taking down one of the greatest pirate threats in the Caribbean over a little thing like immortal walking corpses?

He’ll be damned if he lets them get the jump on him this time, however. He might not be able to change the others’ reactions to the situation, but he can certainly change his own.

The men don’t understand why he orders them into the positions he does, but his penchant for ‘knowing the future’ lends him some sway. They comply without a single syllable of dissent. Especially after Theo reminds them of how James had predicted the attack on the fort in the first place. Groves is no more sure than they are, but the vote of confidence edifies James nonetheless.

It is good to have friends.

---

So they lie in wait. Rather than go out in the lifeboats this time, James stays on his ship. He knows this is where the fight will be. The crew prepares the guns quietly, just in case Sparrow should be more successful in his scheme than last time, but…

Another plan is in the works.

When the ‘distraction’ drifts out into the cove, James allows himself a private smile. They’re playing right into his hands, and it is glorious. From his place on the quarter deck, he gives Gillette the signal to keep his eyes open. This isn’t what they’re waiting for.

What they’re waiting for will be coming up over the fo’c’sle any moment now. And James is ready for them. He’s directed all his visible men to the main deck and stern, given them direction to be on their guard, but to appear as natural as possible. The bulk of them are waiting for his order in the lower decks, swords drawn, muskets primed.

The hellions are in for a devil of a surprise.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. They’re here. Wait...not yet...let them come…NOW!

James yanks the pistol from his belt and wheels around, aiming at the pirate taking point. He fires and the bastard jerks back and falls. James smirks approvingly. He always was an impeccable shot.

‘Marines!’ he barks, and the pile of canvas they’d heaped on the main deck flies back, revealing a phalanx of riflemen. Then everything is a cacophony of gunshots and smoke. No sooner had their first volley been made than the moon finally slides out from behind the clouds, revealing their adversaries’ true nature. James can feel his entire crew freeze in terror, if only for a moment.

They are ghastly, all rotten flesh and murderous resolve. James is the first down the steps and into the melee, sword drawn, teeth bared in a snarl. He takes the front one’s arm clean off. And it feels good.

The tumult of battle is raging around him now, his men finding their courage in his wake. Musket fire, the clash of steel, the tang of gunpowder on the air. There is gore spattered on his face, and his shoulder is on fire, but his blood is singing through his veins, a feral laugh bubbling out of him as he takes on one enemy and then the next. It’s never been like this before. He’s never felt so...fearless. So manic. But the fight is his, the ship is his, and he is enjoying the bloody work in spite of himself.

After all, he knows exactly how this skirmish will end.

---

Everything else goes precisely as he remembers it. Elizabeth climbs out the window, much to her father’s abject horror, and frees Jack’s crew on The Pearl...who then turn tail and flee. Will is alive, rescued by Jack who, in turn, kills Barbossa. The rest of the pirates, suddenly mortal, surrender immediately, the utter defeat in their eyes a treat James relishes no less this time around. He is very well suited to his profession.

By altering his own actions, James has more than halved the losses among his men. To say nothing of their renewed belief in his omniscience. Gillette, who has lost his hat, if not his cheek, in the fracas, can't resist a droll comment as the pirates are being filed into the brig. ‘As I said. Witch doctor. You must have sold your soul.’

It is meant as a joke, but James is instantly sobered by the phrasing. He may as well have.

Elizabeth, Turner, and Sparrow are brought on board in their lifeboat, each more dejected than the last. Though he wants nothing more than to rush to her side, James keeps his distance. The Governor takes charge of his daughter and sequesters her away in James’ private cabin, seeing as his office is now in shambles. The other two are taken to the brig in irons. Jack is talkative despite his dire situation, but Turner? He doesn’t look up from his shoes even once.

They are headed back to Port Royal and the gallows.

It is not ideal. Not in the least.

Elizabeth makes her stance on the issue very clear, especially where Will is concerned, appealing to both her father and James at once, releasing the full force of her particular brand of persuasion on them, pleading and condemning in turn.

‘He did it to rescue me! If they had not come, I would have been killed! Or worse!’ She rounds on James then, eyes flashing. ‘Would you not have done the same in his place? If it was all you had?’

The answer is, of course, yes. He’s already turned pirate for her once, though not in this timeline. If it meant saving her life, there is nothing he wouldn’t do, no corruption to which he would not stoop. James is well aware of the kind of man that makes him. He just refuses to say it aloud.

Hypocrite.

Governor Swann agrees to grant Will clemency. A single act of piracy in service to the crown could be easily pardoned. But Sparrow? There’s nothing he can do for Jack Sparrow. Elizabeth is not appeased by this concession, spending the remainder of the return voyage locked in James’ quarters, speaking to no one.

Her reaction is more choleric than last time...it makes James wonder what has changed.

---

When they are only a few hours out, James has Turner brought to his office. He knows there is a conversation they must have, even if he is loathe to actually have it. He has never been particularly adept at acknowledging his feelings, specifically when they are injured, and he certainly isn’t practiced at discussing them. What’s more, he is starting to realize that his efforts to change his own life may have had a disturbing consequence he has hitherto been unaware of.

James is propped against the front of his desk, arms crossed, when Will is ushered into the room. The shackles are gone, but Turner still moves as though he is in chains, feet shuffling, head bowed. Very much like how he’d carried himself when James first met him. Gillette leaves with a nod, closing the door behind him.

He doesn’t have anything prepared, and so he waits. James can hear The Dauntless’ sails snapping, the tick of the clock on the side table, muffled voices on the quarterdeck. He doesn’t move but for his steady intake of breath, studying Turner wordlessly.

His patience is eventually rewarded.

‘I know...I know no apology I can make will ever be enough.’ This is said to the floorboards, Will’s voice so wretched, James grits his teeth. ‘There is no excuse for what I’ve done. To you…to Lieutenant Groves...to everyone. I-’

‘Stop.’

Will’s eyes snap up. James holds them with his own, visage stern. ‘I understand why you did it. And if you hadn’t, Miss Swann would likely be dead.’

The blacksmith’s face remains purposefully blank at the admission, and James bristles in response. It is a defense mechanism, he knows by now, that Turner deploys whenever faced with potential confrontation, an effort to make himself as non-threatening, as unremarkable, as possible. James is sick of this, sick of the way they tiptoe around the chasm between them. But, before he takes the plunge, he has to be sure.

‘You love her, don’t you?’ He hopes the answer is no. He knows it isn’t.

Will’s expressionless mask crumbles in slow motion, revealing an honest misery James can relate to on an intimate level.

‘Yes.’ The word fairly echoes off the walls, though it is barely more than a whimper. ‘I do. I always have.’ He smiles, a tilt of the lips so devoid of mirth it hardly warrants the term. ‘But she doesn’t love me. How could she, when she has someone like you?’

James' determination briefly falters, but he won’t allow himself to look away, even though he fiercely wants to. Seeing his past heartache mirrored in Turner is wholly upsetting. He is struck by the injustice of reality, by the cruel truth that one or the other of them must be without her. All at once, his efforts these past years, all the revisions he’s made, the measures he’s taken to ensure his own happiness, they seem...selfish. If he’d only moved on, poured his time and energy into some other venue, perhaps they both could’ve…

But he hadn’t. And, because a life without Elizabeth was unlivable, James has taken his fate-given edge and stolen her from another man. It chills him to the bone.

‘I never deserved to be your friend,’ Will continues, once more casting his eyes downward. ‘And I don’t deserve to be forgiven. But even so...you...you are the closest thing I have to family.’

Something stirs inside James, lodges in his throat, wraps icy hands around his heart. ‘I was wrong before, Turner. You aren't my friend.’ He pushes off the desk and crosses the space between them in three long strides. Will is startled by his abrupt approach, flinches when James raises a hand, as though he expects a blow.

Instead, James settles the hand on his shoulder.

‘You are my brother.’

Silence. Will’s eyes are wide as saucers, filled with...disbelief? James feels too raw in this moment to waste time trying to parse it out. He allows himself a wistful smile. ‘After all, is it not family that has the power to hurt us most?’

‘I never meant to,’ Turner answers too-quickly with a minute shake of his head.

‘I know.’ He never did. Not in this life. And not in the last. Will had only ever been a man loving a woman. Loving Elizabeth. There was never any malicious intent in his actions, no guile or arrogance. He was honest and humble and brave. Elizabeth had loved him for it. And so James had hated him.

What kind of a man does that make him?

‘I’m sorry,’ Will pleads. ‘James, I’m sorry.’

Though he is currently a tempest of doubt and self-hatred, James pushes his inner turmoil aside. ‘I forgive you.’

Then, a most unexpected thing happens. Will throws his arms around James in a desperate embrace. Even more unexpected, James finds himself returning it with equal intensity, mystified that Turner has become so important to him, moved by his open sincerity.

‘Thank you,’ Will murmurs, and, when they part, he is almost smiling.

‘I have one stipulation,’ James asserts with a quirk of his brow. ‘You must forgive yourself as well.’

Turner nods, albeit hesitantly.

‘Good. Now.’ James turns and heads back toward his desk, hands clasped behind his back to keep them from noticeably trembling. ‘Governor Swann has offered you a full pardon.’ He sinks into his chair, suddenly exhausted. ‘Once we return to Port Royal, it will be as though none of this has happened.’

He knows it is a lie. And so does Will.

‘And Jack?’

James looks up, jarred by the question. Sparrow. The hanging. He’d almost forgotten the defining moment of his previous life. ‘Mr. Sparrow,’ he begins carefully, ‘has a dawn appointment with the gallows.’

There is a pregnant pause as Will seriously considers something, all the while picking at his fingers. ‘Of course,’ he replies after some time. ‘A fitting end for a pirate.’ The word is a curse on his lips, the statement a rebuke.

He’ll still do it, James realizes with alarm. Turner will still risk everything to save Jack from execution. Old fear comes rushing back at him, panic flooding his system with adrenaline. Without the prospect of losing Elizabeth, Will has even less to gamble.

...without Elizabeth.

How unbearable had it been for James to lose her? How long had she haunted his dreams? How often had he nursed an empty bottle as he spotted her in every dark corner of every room? And that was in Tortuga. How much worse would it have been to have remained in Port Royal, actually seeing her happy and in love with another man?

Will doesn’t mean to endure it any more than James had. He means to leave.

One way, or another.

James latches onto a split-second decision, one that could very well cost him the life he has rebuilt. He begins making a show of shuffling through the paperwork on his desk.

‘Actually, I intend to postpone the hanging until Friday. Port Royal is still recuperating from the attack. Furthermore, neither of the Swanns are accustomed to battle. I believe it would be best to give them a few days to rally.’

He peers up from beneath his brows to see Will watching him calculatingly.

‘Sparrow will be kept in the prison at the fort in the third cell. The one closest to the stairs. Under a retinue of two armed guards who will be rotated out every six hours.’ None of this has been ordered yet, but James will see it so.

‘In case you should need to make plans to say goodbye.’

That is not the reason he’s volunteering the information, and they both know it. James is completely aware Turner built the cell doors, recognizes three days is more than enough time to secure passage out of town for two. He is offering Sparrow up on a silver platter in an attempt to avoid repeating the catastrophic events of before.

A parting gift to a man who could’ve been his brother.

Will nods slowly, apparently catching James’ unspoken meaning.

‘Thank you,’ he says simply.

James nods back, and then waves him away. ‘Off you go, then.’

The blacksmith turns to leave, and when he reaches the door, James adds pointedly, ‘And Turner?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do be sure to say goodbye.’

Grateful comprehension shines in Will’s eyes. ‘I will.’

After the door shuts behind him, James lowers his head into his hands. This could very well backfire, but he knows he is not the only one who warrants a farewell.

---

Wednesday night finds Will Turner on the grounds of The King’s House. The moon is bright and high, giving him ample light to pick his way along the side of the manor. He stops when he reaches his destination, fingering the pebbles in his pocket. He has never ventured here without being invited, and certainly not so late. But there is light filtering through the gauzy curtains of Elizabeth’s second story window, so he knows she must still be awake.

He lobs the first projectile, and it pings hollowly off the newly replaced glass. No turning back now.

It only takes one more try before a face appears, and the window is thrown open. When she sees him, her eyes go wide. ‘Will?’

He shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with how stunning she is in the moonlight. ‘Elizabeth.’

She seems to sense the gravity of his errand, for she quietly calls, ‘I’ll be right down.’

The minutes it takes her to reach him are an eternity. When she finally does emerge, she has donned a robe that she clutches around her, slippered feet whispering across the grass. Worry is etched into the lines of her face. ‘What’s happened? Are you alright?’

Will tells her he’s leaving, and she is visibly rattled.

‘When? Why!?’

He shushes and leads her away from the house, further into the gardens. ‘Tonight. I’m going to save Jack. We’ve made plans.’

Elizabeth is aghast. ‘It’s too dangerous, Will! What if you’re caught? You’ll just be giving the hangman two pairs of boots instead of one!’

‘Maybe. But at least my conscience will be clear.’

She considers that briefly then adds, resolute, ‘I can help.’

‘No.’

‘Yes, I can! I could...create a distraction or-’

‘No,’ he interrupts softly. ‘You have to be as far from this as possible so you’ll in no way be implicated. You have a life here, Elizabeth.’

She’s closed the distance between them, eyes brimming with tears. ‘So do you.’

Will smiles sadly, gestures to her bejeweled hand. ‘No. Not really. Not anymore.’

Elizabeth is weeping in earnest now, fat tears shining on her cheeks. ‘That’s not true!’

He is touched by her attempts to sway him. Perhaps she really does love him, in her way. A childhood friend. Maybe even as family. But even that would lead to scandal. And so he must let her go.

Will reaches out and thumbs away one of her glistening tears. ‘I’ll miss you.’

She locks her arms around him then, face buried in his shoulder as he strokes through her hair. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ he returns gently. ‘I wish you every happiness. Both of you.’

Elizabeth regards him forlornly, her injured hand cupping his cheek. Then she kisses him, a salty brush of her lips against his that breaks his heart in its earnestness. A parting gift from her as well. He allows himself to indulge in the honest intimacy for only a moment before it ends.

‘Don’t forget me, Will Turner.’

He actually chuckles at that. ‘As if I ever could.’ He forces himself to smile. ‘Goodbye, Elizabeth.’

Clasped hands stretch out between them as he backs slowly away until his fingers finally slip out of hers. Will turns from her for what is to be the last time, and slinks off into the night, the ghost of her touch still burning his skin. It will never be enough, and yet it must be.

Will breathes deep the scents of cloying hibiscus and fresh-turned earth and starry skies. They smell like change.

It’s time to rescue Jack. It’s time to move on.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.

---

Chapter Text

Losing Will hurts more than she could ever say. And what’s worse, there is no one at all to whom she can talk about it. When he had turned from her in the garden, fingers slipping from her own in the moonlight, Elizabeth was already in mourning, crumpling to the ground as soon as his silhouette faded from sight. She knew he was right, knew his life would be easier without her in it. But, still. She had wanted him to stay. Selfish of her, really.

Sparrow’s escape isn’t discovered until just before dawn; she knows because she spends the hours after Will’s departure staring blankly out her bedroom window. Fort Charles is alight as soldiers bustle about, searching the town, the docks. A retinue of them is sent up to The King’s House to offer protection, should the pirate attempt to make an appearance. But Elizabeth knows they are gone. Both of them. Out with the tide and on to some new adventure without her.

---

James is well aware he won’t find them there, but he goes to John Brown’s smithy anyway. After all, he does have to appear as though this turn of events was entirely unforeseen. He was tacitly impressed by the efficiency with which Turner enacted his plan as he surveyed the unpinned iron door and the neighboring locked cell where the unconscious guards had been stored. He hadn’t killed anyone, just as James expected. A pirate and a good man.

Mr. Brown falls all over himself to be accommodating in their search, even going so far as to personally open the door to Will’s private room. It locks from the outside, James notes with revulsion. Odious son of a bitch, he thinks with a scowl. May you get what you deserve.

Will’s room is stark in its appointments, only a bed and a side table occupying the floor-space. The blankets have been neatly folded and placed near the headboard, a tin plate and cup sitting on top. James smiles in spite of himself. Ah, Turner. Polite to the last.

There is a trunk stowed beneath the bed, but it is empty as well. He must have either packed all his belongings or sold them. The latter is more likely. James knows from experience; life at sea offers little room for material possessions.

He is just about to turn, tell the men downstairs Turner has gone, when he spies something on the window sill, leaning against the pane. Upon closer inspection, he discovers it to be a well-worn copy of Robinson Crusoe. James turns it over in his hands thoughtfully. The edges are singed and the binding is loose, but it is still instantly recognizable. It is the one he’d sent Will years ago.

James opens the cover, and a slip of parchment flutters to the floor. He stoops to pick it up, finding it to be a note addressed to him.

If you are reading this, then I am gone.

I want you to know that you were one of the few bright lights in my otherwise dark life, the North Star by which I charted my course. Your patient tutelage, your unwavering dedication to doing what is right, it has always inspired me to try to be a better man. I will never forget you. And I pray that we never meet as enemies.

I know I’ve no right to ask it, but watch over her. Please. I think we both know she’s prone to wander. Be sure you wander with her.

Oh, and take care of this book for me, will you? It was given to me by my brother.

He has signed his full name at the bottom in angling script, an accidental blot of ink revealing his haste.

James doesn’t allow himself to break down until he is alone in his office, his erstwhile gift clutched in his fingers like a rosary.

---

Elizabeth finally does sleep, if only for a few hours, waking when Estrella lightly shakes her.

‘Miss,’ the maid imparts in hushed urgency. ‘The Commodore is here to see you.’

More accurately, he’d been here to see her father, but had lingered in the drawing room after catching Estrella listening at the door.

He stands when she enters the room, having waited patiently as she dressed. ‘I suppose-’ he stops and begins again, clearly unsure how to broach the subject. ‘There’s been a development.’

Elizabeth is surly in her fatigue, in her grief. ‘That much is obvious. Why has it brought you here?’

James blinks, taken aback by her brusque tone. ‘Because...I had thought you would rather hear the news from me than the rumor mill.’ His expression is so worried, his timbre so gentle, she feels guilty for her irritability. She sighs and crosses to her favorite chair, sinking into it.

‘You’re right. I would.’

He tells her what she already knows: that Sparrow has somehow freed himself from his cell, that they’ve combed the city and have found no sign of him. Then he takes a knee before her and folds his hands around hers. ‘Elizabeth...Turner has also disappeared.’ He is searching her face for a reaction, but by now, she only feels numb.

‘I see. And you think he may have come here, is that it?’

James glances over his shoulder and then leans in, voice lowered, eyes probing. ‘I was hoping he had.’

She is temporarily speechless before, with equal circumspection, asking, ‘Why?’

‘It would have been callous not to say goodbye.’

Elizabeth almost gasps with the realization that, ‘You knew?’

He nods once.

‘How much? Were you in on it?’

‘No.’ He casts his eyes downward, his thumb idly stroking her wrist. ‘And I’ve no idea where they’ve gone.’ When he lifts his gaze back to hers, his brow is creased with some emotion she can’t quite place. ‘Which is fortunate, otherwise I’d be obligated to hunt them.’

‘You let them go.’ It’s not a question, for she has already seen the answer plain on his face. ‘Why?’

James is silent for a moment, seeming to have some trouble finding the words.

‘I did it for you.’

Heat blooms in her chest at his admission. ‘For me?’

‘In one way or another, nearly everything I do is. Surely, you knew that.’

She didn’t, and to hear him say it…

Elizabeth reaches out to cup his cheek in her bandaged hand, much as she had with Will only hours before, some profound feeling swelling within her. She thinks it must be love.

---

Their engagement is finally announced a week after their return, the wedding slated to be April next. In celebration of the proclamation, Governor Swann hosts a grand ball, which is close enough to Elizabeth’s birthday she decides to merge the events, if only so that James doesn’t have to attend two parties in one month. She tells him as much, and, though he laughs, he is apparently pleased by her consideration, for he allows her to bully him into taking off his wig later in the evening. Not for long, mind, but she counts it a victory nonetheless.

Though she is still not particularly keen on the idea of marriage, Elizabeth finds herself growing increasingly impatient as time passes. A fire endlessly smolders inside her that makes even the most mundane tasks a chore, a fire that blazes out of control whenever she is in James’ presence. She is more and more vexed by the steadily shrinking distance he still keeps between them, rebelling at every turn only to have him recoil and hold her at arm’s length for a time.

Elizabeth desires him. Now more than ever. And she is sick with it, lying awake at night, pent up and wanting, so achingly empty she could cry.

---

Rebecca nearly snorts her tea when Elizabeth tells her of her suffering, assuring ‘Dear Lizzie’ amidst shallow coughs that she is not making fun, merely entertained by the wording. Miss Scott listens with poorly disguised glee as Elizabeth chronicles her attempts to needle James into a response, any response, and nods sagely when she is finished.

‘Well, my dear,’ she alleges with shrewd amusement, ‘If he is not just as put out as you, then I am no judge of men.’

Elizabeth scoffs, tearing violently into a biscuit with her teeth. ‘That remains to be seen. James is so infuriatingly in control of himself at all times, I’ve no way of knowing what he’s truly feeling.’

Becca dons an impish smile. ‘That’s not entirely true, is it? You know him better than anyone.’ She giggles then, ginger curls bouncing against her forehead. ‘You could just ask him to ravish you.’

Now it’s Elizabeth’s turn to cough. ‘As if that would work. The stubborn man appears to have resolved not to give me an inch until we are safely married.’

The redhead’s answering grin is wicked. ‘Hopefully several inches.’

Elizabeth’s sputters around her mouthful of tea. ‘Becca! How could you?! I was drinking!’

Miss Scott gives her hand an affectionate pat. The wizened look is back. ‘Oh, my darling Lizzie. You’ve so much to learn. But I am not unfeeling toward your plight. If you’d like, I can teach you an effective method of relief in the meantime.’

It is the most disgustingly scandalous thing Elizabeth has ever heard, and she is, naturally, anxious to try it for herself.

---

As it turns out, Becca’s method, though wondrously diverting, is hardly a relief at all. Every time she peaks, sobbing his name as her inner walls clamp around nothing, it is never enough to slake her thirst.

And now she can only think of what it might be like to have James’ fingers on her instead.

Part of her hopes he is equally miserable.

---

One day, when she is out in town shopping for new dress fabrics, Estrella and a manservant in tow, Elizabeth hears a whistle from across the lane. She peeks over to spot a man, the cooper, she remembers, giving her a lascivious leer she doesn’t care for at all. He leans over, and, in a vaulted aside to a nearby friend she was no doubt meant to hear, quips something that ends with ‘plucked by a pirate.’

The men around him laugh merrily, their vile eyes roaming her retreating figure as her cheeks burn. Elizabeth keeps her pace even, continues with her errands despite the echo of their foul jeering in her mind. She will not give them the satisfaction of chasing her home over a spurious rumor.

Plucked by a pirate, indeed. She hasn’t even been plucked by her fiancé.

By mid-afternoon, she’s more amused by the incident than anything. Have the smallfolk nothing better to discuss amongst themselves than the state of her virtue? What nonsense.

James does not join her in her laughter over the event when she regales him. His eyes flash as he drops the book he’s been reading into his lap. He demands to know the names of all the men implicated in her story, not allowing her to weasel out of it by making jokes. He is so agitated, he departs not even an hour later, storming out the front door without even kissing her goodbye.

It leaves her in a peevish mood that she takes to the garden, firing arrows at a target she imagines to be his obstinate face.

---

The next morning, word reaches her that a Mr. Owen has been found in an alleyway behind a tavern beaten half to death. She asks the unwitting messenger for clarification. ‘The cooper, Miss,’ the gardener elaborates shyly. ‘It’s been the talk of the port all morning.’

James is the very picture of unruffled calm when she next sees him, a veritable spring in his step as they walk arm in arm. She tests him by musing about the subject, and he merely responds with a shrug.

‘How mysterious.’

Elizabeth doesn’t think it’s a mystery at all, given the fresh bruises on his knuckles, but he artfully veers the conversation toward something not nearly as interesting, and she lets him.

She doesn’t much like the idea of him fighting her battles for her, but in this case, she decides to make an exception. The mental image of him coming unhinged as he throttled the lech into a pulp sparks like wildfire in her core.

---

After he and Groves' midnight excursion, public question of Elizabeth’s virtue all but ceases. They had worn civilian clothes, of course, bought the bastard drinks until he as much as boasted about his crime, then ushered him out back. Breaking a man’s nose had never felt so good. Theo had only been meant to keep watch, but he ended up rushing over to pull James off the scoundrel.

‘He can’t warn others if he’s dead, you know.’

A fine point. James spat down at the wretch, who was peering up at him through blackened eyes.

‘Spread the word. Anyone who wishes to can meet me at dawn.’

No one does. Not exactly a surprise; James is quite well known for his impeccable aim.

---

In light of their recent misadventure, James finally relents and grants Elizabeth’s request from so many years ago; he teaches her swordsmanship.

It does take some effort to get her father on board, but James can be every bit as convincing as Elizabeth when he means to, beginning by slipping the idea into casual conversation and then allowing it to stew as she takes over with subtle laments over her past plight and concern for her future safety in private. Governor Swann approaches James on his own a few days later, asking for an expert opinion that he is only all too willing to give.

They practice in the garden where Elizabeth’s targets are set up, the hedges there tall enough to keep their impropriety from prying eyes.

Impropriety being the key term. Very early on in their lessons, Elizabeth laments that her clothing is hardly suitable for such active pursuits, and before he realizes it is a trap, James agrees. She shows up to their next session in the marine’s uniform from before, her hair braided down her back in a long queue.

‘You can’t be serious,’ James deadpans, half hard at the sight of her. ‘Why do you still have that?’

Elizabeth’s grins impudently. ‘I find the color suits me.’

James scrubs his face with his hands. He’s not going to win this argument, and knowing he is so vehemently against her wearing it will only cause her flout it all the more. ‘Fine,’ he concedes, and she beams in her triumph.

She is a remarkably quick study, his Elizabeth. As eager to improve as she is to unbalance him. She picks up the basics in less than a month, showing extraordinary dexterity in addition to an indomitable focus he has never seen in her before. It is maddeningly attractive, and James is as tortured by the knowledge of it, as he is by the flex and twist of her shapely legs in those damned breeches.

She is killing him by inches. But what a way to die.

Several months into her training, she ‘bests’ him while they are sparring. He distinctly has the upper hand, much like always, when she huffs and wrests out of the coat, tossing it away. Underneath, it becomes painfully obvious she has not seen fit to bind her breasts this time. Her advance causes him to blanche, which was a foolish mistake. She presses her advantage by essentially pinning him between her and the hedge as he tries vainly to concentrate. In his panic, he’s lost track of the stone bench and ends up tumbling over it backwards, Elizabeth’s jubilant laughter following after him.

James gapes up at her in disbelief as she shrugs back into her jacket and then offers him a hand up.

‘That was hardly sporting, Elizabeth.’

She laughs again, quick to point out that a real fight is almost never fair.

---

Nothing about Elizabeth is ‘fair.’ Her practice ensemble being the least of it.

She has ramped up her torment of him to ludicrous levels, fraying the edges of his control purposefully. She teases him into a barely-contained frenzy every time they are together, refusing to keep her hands, her feet, her lips off of him. It is even worse when they are in public, for she takes the threat of being discovered to be some sort of challenge, and he is humiliated and tantalized by her efforts in turn.

His hands shake. His palms sweat. He has narrowly escaped the impulse to drag her to the floor and make her scream his name on far too many occasions. And it is getting harder. It is still five months until their wedding, but it may as well be an eternity.

Night is always the worst, of course. When he has no other distractions to occupy his mind, James stares up at the dark ceiling in agony, taking himself in hand, hoping to find some modicum of relief. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing he does matters, for she comes to him in his dreams, plush lips roaming his body, wrapping round his cock as he seizes a fistful of her hair. He wakes sticky and ashamed, his desire for her not curbed in the least.

For the first time in his life, James misses his nightmares.

---

Near the end of the year, James has to leave for a month. Some short tour of middling importance, but as Commodore, there’s nothing he can do to get out of it. Not that he particularly wants to. As much as he loves her, Elizabeth is unraveling him bit by bit. It might be good to put some actual distance between them for a brief while. Give him a chance to catch his breath.

She is resolutely opposed to his departure, unsurprisingly. Though he knows it is because she undisputedly enjoys the exquisite suffering she inflicts, James is still moved by her attachment to him. It will never cease to surprise him, her feelings for him. Even after all these years, some small part of him still expects a blade through the heart.

The day of, Elizabeth and her father see him off at the docks. After embracing him in a salacious goodbye that will undoubtedly set tongues to wagging, she presses a small package into his hand. ‘To keep you warm on those long, cold nights at sea.’

It is the Caribbean, and his uniform is several layers thick, but the sparkle in her eye makes her meaning inescapably clear. It takes James nearly a week to work up the courage to open her gift, six days of watching it rudely proposition him from his bedside table. He feels half a fool when he finally relents, tearing into the paper with purposefully steady fingers.

Inside, he finds a folded bit of lace wrapped around a small vial he remembers sending to her some years ago. There is liquid inside it now, and when he pops the cork, he discovers it to be a sample of her favorite perfume, a pleasant blend of jasmine blossoms and summer nights. His eyes fall closed as a gentle smile graces his lips. A sweet sentiment for her to send with him. He recorks and sets the bottle aside.

The lacy fabric had fallen into his lap during his investigation, almost slipping to the floor when he stands, forgotten entirely. It appears to be some manner of petite fichu, the tatting so fine that, when pressed, it takes up almost no space at all. An odd thing to bestow upon him, but James knows Elizabeth well enough by now to recognize that there is very little she does that is unintentional. What could it mean?

Once again feeling absurd, he lifts the garment to his nose. It smells faintly of her perfume, but there is a subtle musk as well, a heady bite of salt it takes him a few seconds to place. Sweat. And something earthy with with an underlying tang that speeds his heartbeat to a gallop. He pulls it away to consider the implications of such an offering, brows lowered. Then he recalls the mischief in her eyes on the docks, and, suddenly, the pieces fall into place.

James audibly groans as he sinks onto his berth, having to shift to accommodate his steadily swelling cock, his face in his hands. He doesn’t know how she possibly came up with the idea, but now he has the scent of her burned into his brain forever.

It was doggedly wicked of her to give this to him, and, as James begins fumbling for the buttons on his trousers, he entertains the idea of putting her over his knee in punishment.

---

James is fortunate enough to finish his tour early, arriving back in Port Royal a full week ahead of schedule. After completing his business at the fort, he heads directly to The King’s House, intent on giving Elizabeth a bit of a surprise...and perhaps a bit of revenge as well, her ‘gift’ tucked safely away in his pocket.

When he arrives, he is told by the butler that ‘Miss Swann is currently in town,’ but Weatherby invites him in over the attendant’s shoulder. They converse briefly, mostly about the upcoming nuptials, and then James is seen into the drawing room.

‘She’s due back very soon, Commodore,’ the Governor confides as James sets the flowers he’s brought on the pianoforte. ‘I’ll make sure to send her your way.’

Excitement bubbles up into James’ throat, making him nearly giddy as a schoolboy. He worries idly that maybe it is unwise not to check this emotion, but his spirits are too high for the notion to take root. He is in love with Elizabeth, and she loves him in return. They are to be married in just over four months, and he has the blissful privilege of not knowing anything of what will come next.

It’s freeing, really, to finally have his previous life behind him. Like falling asleep in fresh linens.

He begins casually surveying the room, if for no other reason than to give him some occupation while he waits. Other than her private chamber, he knows this to be Elizabeth’s favorite place in the manor, and he can see evidence of her day to day life everywhere: the piles of books stacked against the base of her favorite wingback, the half finished, and likely abandoned, needlepoints tucked away in a basket beneath the window, the china tea service left on the sideboard still bearing the imprint of her lips. The thought of how easily these things could be transferred into his own library plucks at his heartstrings.

He is eager to stumble across the evidence of her in every room of his, no, their home, if only to prove to himself, once and for all, that she is forever and always his.

James reaches down to pick up a volume she has left on the piano bench. Twelfth Night. He smiles, pleased by their mutual love of Shakespeare. He begins unthinkingly flipping through the pages until they catch and fall open to reveal a folded piece of parchment tucked inside. Her name written across it in a jagged scrawl that freezes the blood in his veins. Head spinning, he plucks it from its hiding spot and begins to read what is clearly the last page of a longer letter.

-though that will hardly astonish you, I would imagine. You were always so eager to compliment my form.

I’m afraid this is the last bit of paper on board, so I’ll have to finish with this:

I miss you. Truly. Ardently. There is not a day that goes by that I do not remember your gentle kindness. I should have told you every day from the moment I met you

I love you.

James’ hands are trembling, the crinkling of parchment echoing through the room, through his skull. Something inside him is shifting, shattering, exploding into a thousand tiny shards that ricochet off his rib cage.

Give my regards to the Commodore, will you? And please, burn this letter like all the rest. It’s safer that way.

Ever Your Servant,

William fucking Turner.

The book in his left hand hits the floorboards with a thump. James can hardly see, hardly breathe, his mind is so clouded with bitter, all-encompassing pain. He reads it again, and that pain hardens into a diamond of stinging rage, as potent as any poison. And just as deadly.

He doesn’t realize Elizabeth has come through the door until she gasps in delight, wrenching his eyes toward her. ‘You’re back! And are those for me?’

She takes a step closer to him, and he jerks away, his face utterly slack in his anguish. Her brows lower in confusion. ‘Has something-’

But James doesn’t let her finish, he stalks straight past her and out the door, dropping the damning letter to the floor in his wake.

---

Elizabeth is beyond flummoxed. Her father had hinted at a pleasant surprise, but, while unexpected, this was nowhere in the vicinity of ‘pleasant.’ James hadn’t even said a word to her before storming out. What could have-

Then she sees it, lying open on the rug. Oh, God. No!

Elizabeth doesn’t even bother picking it up, sprinting after her fiancé before he charges out of her life forever.

---

‘James! James, wait!’

He is clipping down the drive in a daze, barely registering her protests behind him.

‘Please!’ she wails desperately. ‘Please, stop! You must give me a chance to explain!’

James wheels on her so fast, she nearly collides with him. ‘Explain?’ His voice is foreign to his ears, much too full of emotion to be his own. ‘I should think it more than self-explanatory.’

She winces at his harsh enunciation, and before he can stop himself he demands, ‘How long?’

When she doesn’t immediately respond, he booms, ‘How long, Elizabeth!?’

He has never shouted at her before. Both of them are startled by the deviation.

‘Since July,’ is her meek response, her wide eyes brimming with tears.

James laughs, though it sounds more like a death rattle. ‘I suppose that’s it then.’

He is a fool. A damn fool.

She makes a half-hearted attempt at righteous indignation. ‘You went through my things!’

‘Went through your-’ he advances in his irate incredulity, and she retreats an equal distance. ‘No. The fact of the matter is I didn’t have to! I found it without even looking!’ He’s yelling again, face twisting in his fury. ‘You left it in plain sight! Your infidelity on display for anyone to see!’

Elizabeth recoils as if struck. ‘Infidelity?’ Every syllable resonates hurt, but he won’t allow her to manipulate him this time.

‘You should have taken his advice.’ He turns away, too raw to even look at her. ‘You should have burned it. Just like all the others.’ It is like acid oozing from his lips. And it burns them both.

She is weeping in earnest now, tears streaking down her cheeks to gather on the tip of her chin, drip off the end of her nose. ‘Why are you being so cruel?’

James won’t let himself be swayed.

‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

Elizabeth struggles for a moment, clutching her stomach. ‘I...I find…’ There is so much misery in her voice, he meets her gaze. ‘I find I can’t bear to learn you’ve such a low opinion of me.’

She closes her eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. When she opens them again, she is not fierce, not imperious, but the dejection is gone. ‘I never wrote back, James. Not once. He didn’t want me to. Too dangerous.’ She has drawn herself to her full height now, somehow looking down her nose at him despite being several inches shorter. ‘He was worried about my reputation. But he knew I’d want to know he was safe. Alive.’

‘I kept it a secret because, if you knew, you’d be duty bound to hunt him. You’d leave me again. And what if you found him? The two of you on either end of a sword? And someone dies? Where does that leave me!?’ She punctuates this last bit by pounding her chest with a fist.

‘So, yes, James. I burned the letters. And I would do it again. Because I am capable of being loyal to more than one person.’

His wrath is ebbing, leaving him hollowed out and despondent. She senses the change in him and crowds his space.

‘He writes about you every time, misses you more than me.’ Then she hisses through clenched teeth, ‘And it killed me to keep it a secret.’

James is speechless, dumbstruck by her words. He had leapt to so many conclusions…

‘I know what it must have looked like,’ she continues, a thread of hurt back in her voice. ‘But you could have asked me.’ The last part is barely above a whisper, ‘I trust you, James. I always have. I had thought...that you might trust me as well.’

Her tears are back, slipping from the corners of her glistening eyes and raking molten paths through his heart.

And James falls to his knees before her.

‘Elizabeth,’ her name is supplication on his lips. ‘I- I’m…’ He looks up to meet her red-rimmed gaze. ‘I’m so sorry. I should never have said those things. They were bitter and ugly and small, and I said them to hurt you out of fear. And that is-’ He shakes his head. ‘Unacceptable. Cowardly.’

He’s taken hold of her skirts now, clutching them like a lifeline, his expression pleading. ‘I have never had a low opinion of you. Ever. And I’m sorry. I’m so-’ He’s never cried in front of her, he realizes as she lowers to the ground beside him, taking his face in both her hands, forcing him to look at her.

‘Please,’ he begs. ‘Please, forgive me.’

‘Only if you forgive me,’ she replies, eyes searching his. ‘I should have told you. James, I should have-’ She collapses into his open arms, sobbing against his shoulder as he strokes his fingers through her hair.

‘No. Elizabeth, you were right. I should have trusted you.’ He kisses the top of her head, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I love you. I love you so much.’

She doesn’t speak, but her arms wrap around him all the tighter before she draws away.

The tearful kiss she presses to his lips is a benediction.

---

Eventually, they manage to get up out of the dirt and head back toward the manor. Elizabeth had lost a shoe in her mad scramble to reach him, so James helps her look for it, and when it eludes them, he carries her the rest of the way.

She has him watch as she burns the final page of Will’s latest letter, the one she hadn’t the heart to destroy when it arrived the previous day. He doesn’t ask her for clarification of the contents, and she doesn’t volunteer the information, moving on to find a vase for her already wilting flowers.

Blue hyacinths. For fidelity.

He departs not long after, both of them too exhausted by their argument to keep up conversation. Elizabeth kisses him at the door, long and sweet, praying her desire to put this behind them is reciprocated.

---

It is. And, though James is markedly more careful around her, he doesn't mention the incident again.

But from that moment on, Elizabeth can’t shake the feeling that he expects her to one day leave him. It makes her sad, for she hates to see him suffer so. But it also makes her angry. He doesn’t trust her, not really. And she has given him no reason to doubt her.

None at all.

---

Chapter Text

Elizabeth loves James. She knows that she must. That is the only way the knowledge of his ill feelings toward her could possibly distress her as much as it does. She is sick with it, lying awake at night for an entirely new reason now, playing over the whole of her life in repeat, desperate to understand what she has done to hurt him.

Ideally, she would just ask. After all, Elizabeth has always preferred being direct to emotional subterfuge. But her assumed slight had provoked a reaction from him like she had never seen, never expected. For the first time since she’d met him, James had ignored what she had to say, had thrown her words back in her face. His tone had been coated in acid, his eyes full of contempt. He had shouted at her, advanced on her.

For the first time in her life, Elizabeth had been frightened of James. Grievously, viscerally frightened.

Before that moment, she would have said that, other than her father and Will, James had been the only man to actually value her as a person, to lend absolute credence to the things she had to say. She had admired him for it as a girl, adored him for it as an adult. To have that regard ripped out from under her had been devastating, had left her literally gasping for breath.

And all because he believed her to be duplicitous? While she is well aware the secrecy had been misguided, the contents of the letter had hardly been damning. So Will loves her? What did that matter? He is halfway around the world living a life that has no room for her in it. And besides, has she not been all but begging James to bed her? To have assumed that she would dally with some other man, especially Will...it doesn’t make an ounce of sense.

Her whole adolescence, she had been nearly obsessed with becoming someone James could love. She practically worshiped the ground he trod, grateful for whatever attention he deemed fit to bestow upon her. She had respected him. Longed for him. She had chased after him to accept his proposal.

But even that memory is starting to sour. He had expected her to say no. He had expected her to turn him down despite the fact that she had only ever encouraged his affections. Looking back with her current knowledge, Elizabeth can see that James has never truly trusted her at all, while she has been so open, so reckless, with her own.

And it began long before Will started sending letters.

Though there is nothing she wants more than to forget all about their argument, to pretend as though it had never happened, she can’t pry the image of James’ betrayed incredulity from her mind. Can’t reconcile the tortured begging, the weeping into her skirts. She had reduced him to that. She had made him suffer. Somehow, she had broken his heart.

And she has no idea how. Or when. Or why.

Elizabeth has never known James to be anything but constant and honest and true. To have confounded him so thoroughly, even unintentionally...it is unforgivable. And even when she is with him now, doubts beset her from every angle.

James Norrington is a good man, the best man she has ever known. And she loves him. She is sure of that now. But Elizabeth is now equally sure of this shattering truth:

She doesn’t deserve him.

---

Spring arrives, and with it, Cutler Beckett.

James wasn’t in Port Royal the last time the East India Trading Company fleet pulled into the harbor, but this time, he watches them loom over the horizon like the ferryman of Hades, bone deep terror coursing through him. He knows exactly what this portent means, knows exactly why they’ve come. And what’s worse, he knows what it had cost him before.

What it will cost him now remains to be seen.

Despite the torrential downpour, James meets Lord Beckett, in full regalia, at the docks when he arrives. No pleasantries are exchanged, which suits James just fine. The blistering hatred burning in his veins and clogging his throat would have made it difficult to converse anyway. The villain demands to see the Governor at once, and though James is obligated to arrange it, that does not keep him from imagining what it might be like to personally, violently, end Lord Cutler Beckett.

Perhaps he may yet be given the chance. But for now, he must do as he’s bid.

There are only warrants for Will and Jack this time, no danger to Elizabeth as she was in no way involved in the pirates’ escape. James is reprimanded and threatened with demotion for ‘allowing’ their flight, but he knows as well as Beckett that there’s no way anyone can prove he had any foreknowledge of the incident, and therefore, nothing the upstart can make stick.

The Governor steps in, framed by the blaze in his office fireplace as he defends James’ actions. They had no way of knowing Turner would throw aside his pardon, no inkling of where the two had gone afterwards. James is privately humbled by Weatherby Swann’s protective attachment to him, grateful even if he cannot permit it to show.

Beckett is unfazed. He has come with a purpose and intends to see it through, making preparations to set up a command center at the fort. He flings orders at James as if he were a common lapdog, one of rank and file in red and gold. James does only the things he must, and then, only enough to barely qualify. He cannot serve this monster again. He will not. He is still a high ranking officer of His Majesty’s Navy, by God. He’ll find a way to get out of this, find a way stop it.

He has to.

---

Elizabeth’s first interaction with Cutler Beckett is as a guest in her own home. In an effort to be as accommodating and transparent as possible, her father had extended an invitation to The King’s House for tea. As he has already been in town for a few days, she has, naturally, heard dozens of accounts as to why he has arrived. By the time she finally meets him face to face, she is somewhat nonplussed by his appearance, having pictured him being much taller.

James is with him. He’d been most adamant that he must also be in attendance. Elizabeth has had very little opportunity to speak with her fiancé since the EITC set up shop, but she can glean all she needs to know of his opinion of the events that followed from his body language. James is angry. Angry and, far more distressing, afraid. No one else seems to notice, but Elizabeth does, and it makes her afraid as well. Of what, she has no idea.

Tea is served in the drawing room, and though she tries very hard to be the model of an elegant lady hostess, James’ stormy silence has put her on edge. He glowers from the wingback next to her, untouched drink clutched in his lap. It isn’t until Lord Beckett sends the Governor from the room that she finally understands the reason for James’ ill humor.

The insufferable louse fairly grills her about her relationship with Will, her interactions with Sparrow, at one point going so far as to make a rather backhanded remark about her virtue. James is out of his seat at that, towering over both of them in his barely contained fury. Beckett is more polite afterward, but only just.

Elizabeth is no fool. She knows the comment had not been directed at her at all. It had been made to nettle James. And she mislikes being used in such a fashion.

When Lord Beckett asks her about the compass, James visibly flinches. Elizabeth answers truthfully, but her warnings regarding the Isla de Muerta are waved off. Beckett is not interested in cursed Aztec gold. There’s more than one chest of value in these waters.

After he leaves, James collapses into a chair in the front hall, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut.

‘What was all that about?’ Elizabeth hazards, catching her father lingering at the top of the stairs in her peripheral.

‘I’m to hunt down Jack Sparrow, bargain with him, if necessary. All for that bloody compass.’

‘And Will?’

He peers up at her then, misery in his eyes. ‘The offer of the letters of Marque was not extended to Mr. Turner.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ she asks, then louder, to her father, ‘Nothing either of you can do?’

‘Elizabeth,’ Governor Swann chides as he descends the steps. ‘Mr. Turner knew the repercussions of his actions before he ever took them. We cannot stand in the way of justice.’

She is incredulous. ‘Justice? Is that what you think that man wants?’

‘It doesn’t matter what he wants.’ Elizabeth turns to James, not at all liking the acceptance in his tone. ‘He has the sanction of King George, and therefore...I’ve no choice in the matter.’

Beset on either side by the men she loves most as they tell her the things she wants to hear least, Elizabeth’s stomach curdles at their resignation, their willingness to follow orders, even if they are wrong. It is the last thing she’d expected from James, but then, she had never really been privy to his work in the past. Who knows how many grim decisions he’s made for King and Country. It seems he is as much a victim of society’s constraints as she. That is not a comforting revelation.

When she sees him off that evening, hands gathered in his on the staircase outside her home, James apologizes. ‘I shouldn’t have let him speak to you like that. Shouldn’t have let him speak to you at all.’

Elizabeth makes half an attempt at a smile. ‘You said it yourself, James. You didn’t have a choice.’

He is displeased by this response, brow furrowing, and she feels guilty for needling him, though not enough to rescind her words. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. He cannot take credit for only some of his decisions.

But she doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to do anything but retreat to her room to be alone. So she leans forward and places a kiss against his cheek. ‘I accept your apology. When will you be leaving?’

‘Within the next few days.’ His expression has softened somewhat, but the familiar pain is there, the one that reminds her of how she’s mysteriously hurt him.

‘And how long will you be gone?’

James hesitates before answering. ‘As long as it takes.’

There is a beat of silence. ‘But we’re to be married next month.’ The words sound weak to her ears. Hollow. She sounds like a pitiful child.

He seems unable to find a satisfying response, instead heaving a wretched sigh. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘If you find them,’ if you find Will, ‘What if they don’t want to come back?’

The haunted look is in his eyes again. ‘Pray that they do.’

‘But if they don’t? What then?’

‘Then I will have no choice but to do my duty.’

---

Later, as she is buttoning up the waistcoat of her disguise, Elizabeth muses through her tears that life is supremely unfair. She will not be complicit in feeding the greed of that despicable Cutler Beckett. She will not allow James’ dedication to the Crown to cause him to kill the only brother he’s ever known. If he will not break the unjust rules set for them, then she must. She will take the letters of Marque. She will find and warn Will. She will save James from himself.

And she will save him from her.

Because the truth is, all we have is our choices. And at the end of the day, Elizabeth chooses the freedom to choose.

---

James arrives at his office just after dawn, and though the door is firmly shut, the lock is broken. He enters warily, hand lingering over the hilt of his sword. A cursory search turns up no interlopers, no obvious vandalism or theft, which only makes him more suspicious. Someone has forced their way in...but why? He is just about to embark on a more thorough investigation when he spies a blank envelope sitting squarely in the center of his desk, one he did not leave there.

He approaches slowly, brows drawn, and then stops, glaring at the offending stationary. It is his own. Whoever this intruder was, they’ve left him a note. His heart beats to quarters behind his rib cage, waves of panic threatening to crest in his mind. His primal instinct to flee has kicked in in full force.

There is only one person who could inspire such a reaction in him.

He opens the envelope and something metallic pings off the edge of his desk, bouncing across the floor to settle beneath the window sill. He already knows what it is, but can’t help the trance that pulls him toward it. James leans down, his trembling fingers closing around his mother’s ring.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be. Not again.

James allows himself to give into despair for all of a minute before setting his jaw and marching back toward the desk. If he is to accept this, he must know why.

The letter itself does nothing to calm the tempest inside him.

James,

I cannot be complicit in this scheme. I cannot sit idly by and watch you suffer in the name of duty. I cannot resign Will to the gallows. I cannot wait to live my life by the leave of those around me, not even you.

It is time for me to act. Time to take a stand.

I know this will hurt you, and for that I am truly sorry, but what I am about to do will condemn me as surely as any act of piracy. Which is why I must return your ring. I do not deserve it. I do not deserve you. I never have. And I do not wish to be a black mark on your record.

Take care of yourself, James Norrington. And thank you for loving me. One day, I hope you will forgive me as well.

His eyes linger on the looping lines of her signature for only a moment, grief looming in the corners of the room like shadows. Then he crumples the parchment in his hand, settling upon rage instead.

Doesn’t deserve him? Of the myriad of excuses she could make, that certainly is the most ridiculous. A black mark on his record, indeed. As if being jilted is any less of a crime against him.

At least it wasn’t in public this time, he thinks morosely before shaking the notion from his brain. No. It is unacceptable. Untenable. Unbearable.

Turner’s words fly unbidden into his mind, giving him pause. James stuffs the crushed missive into his pocket and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Be sure to wander with her.

He intends to do just that. Whether she will have him or not.

---

Within the hour, James has changed into civilian clothing, packed a satchel of necessities, and made arrangements for passage on the next ship heading in the direction of Tortuga. He’d had to pay quite a bit extra to get them to put in there, but it didn’t matter. What was money in the face of losing Elizabeth forever? Again.

Before he departs, James pays a final visit to The King’s House. It is highly suspect that no alarm had been raised. Perhaps Elizabeth hadn’t stolen the letters of Marque this time. Perhaps the Governor hasn’t yet woken up. But when he knocks, it is Weatherby Swann himself who answers, flinging open the door, his eyes full of split-second hope only to be replaced by urgent distress. James notes the roll of parchment caught in the Governor’s hand.

It seems his isn’t the only heart she has broken this morning.

‘She’s gone,’ Swann gasps, nearly a sob. ‘Do you know where?’

James steps over the threshold and shuts the door quietly behind him. ‘I have a good idea.’

‘They’ll hang her for this. If Beckett finds out-’

‘I’m going after her,’ James interrupts, and the Governor stills. For the first time, he takes in James’ clothing, the lack of wig.

‘...but not as Commodore?’

James nods almost imperceptibly, not wanting to admit his desertion with his own lips. Somehow, after everything, even despite the fact that he has been operating with the knowledge that Elizabeth is the only thing that matters for some time now...it still hurts to leave.

The Governor is silent for a tick, searching James’ face, though for what, he can’t imagine. Then the man says, ‘You’ll keep her safe.’ A statement, not a question. He still trusts James so much.

‘Until my dying breath, sir.’ It’s already been true once, why should it not be again?

Weatherby Swann steps forward then, reaching up to brush his fingers against James’ cheek. A tender gesture, so forward James is at a loss.

‘In spite of everything, I want you to know...I always thought of you as a son.’

James is reeling but manages an equally heartfelt response. ‘Then I shall endeavor to deserve it.’

---

As the ship that will bear him onward pulls out to sea, James casts a parting glance at what has become his home. He has an inkling of what the future holds, and he never expects to see Port Royal, or his friends, again. He wonders what they will say about him. Will they curse him for a traitor? Will they miss him?

The wind is whipping stray strands of his hair into his face, but he ignores them. He’d told the Governor to go, get as far from the Caribbean, and Cutler Beckett, as he could. Warned him. Only time will tell if it does any good. Beckett could expect such a reaction from Swann, and therefore, it might already be impossible for him to get away.

James remains above decks for the entirety of the passage, preferring to have the horizon in his sight at all times. As he paces the length of the starboard gunwale, he ponders his next step. He is only acting on a hunch, for he has no guarantee that Elizabeth has repeated her steps. But why would fate end it’s cruel mockery of him now? No doubt he’ll find her in that same tavern, Jack Sparrow not far off, ready to recruit her in his search for the Dead Man’s Chest.

He wonders if Will has been traded to The Dutchman this time around. Wonders if he’s met his father. But then the invisible scar over his heart begins to itch, and he chases the thought from his mind.

The more he mulls over the situation, the more angry James becomes. He plays the words of Elizabeth’s letter over and over to himself, scowling every time he reaches her assertion that she doesn’t deserve him. What the devil is that supposed to mean? How could she believe she is anything less than his sun, moon, and stars? Has he not been more than transparent in his affections for her, his willingness to give her anything she asked for?

James is so lost in his heated musing, he nearly collides with a figure flying toward the railing in front of him and then retching over the side. The man straightens, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

‘Sorry ‘bout that, mate. I find I’ve no stomach for this open water.’

He is young, not a man at all upon closer inspection. No older than sixteen, with dark, dancing eyes and jet black hair pulled back into a messy queue.

‘It’s no trouble,’ James dismisses, attempting to step around the boy.

But he juts out a hand. ‘Name’s Arthur, by the way. Arthur Fitzpatrick. Everyone just calls me Fitz.’

James sighs inwardly, not at all in a mood to make introductions, much less conversation, but he takes the hand anyway. ‘James.’

When James turns and starts his rounds again, the boy follows at his elbow. ‘On business then, are you, James?’ When this doesn’t earn a reply, he forges on, embarrassed. ‘Oh, sorry. Really not my affair, is it? Mum always said I was too nosy for my own good.’

It seems churlish silence isn’t going to be an effective method of escaping because the boy continues to prattle despite James’ best efforts not to engage. Within ten minutes he’s learned Fitz’s entire life story without having asked a single question.

‘So that’s why I’m here. After mum died, Da got mean. Would’ve killed me one of these days. So I’m off to greener pastures. Well, bluer, I guess. Gonna get me a job on a proper ship. Tying knots and what not.’

For the first time, James risks a retort, seeing as disregarding the boy has proved futile. ‘Why not the Navy, then?’

Fitz perks up at his question and scoffs good-naturedly. ‘Pfft! A bloke like me?’ He gestures down at his ragged clothing, his second hand shoes. ‘I’m not the type they make officers. And I figure if I’m just gonna be a sailor, I’d rather not have all them rules to follow.’

James fights a brittle smile at the irony. ‘Yes, I can see where that would be troublesome.’

---

They arrive at Tortuga sometime after nightfall. James disembarks and finds Fitz being chased down the gangplank in his wake. The boy smiles sheepishly up at him, clutching a meager sack of belongings to his chest. ‘They say I gotta get off here. Didn’t pay enough to go any further.’

James thinks it more likely the boy has worn out his welcome with his insipid friendliness, but he keeps that to himself. ‘Well, best of luck to you, Mr. Fitzpatrick.’ He doesn’t even wait for a response before heading into the town, making a beeline for his destination.

The tavern stinks of stale rum and piss, an unending row raging near the bar as the patrons mill about in their drunkenness. James pushes his way through the crush of reeking bodies, flinching as he nearly gets a faceful of what a brazen working girl offers as he passes. He tersely declines, idly marveling over how he ever got used to such a place before. It is amazing what perfect failure and liberal amounts of rum will do to a man. What it did to him.

Then he spies her. Across the room, seated behind a table, Jack Sparrow to her left. The pirate leans over and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh, and it is enough to make James see red. He stalks over and drops his satchel on the table with a thud, effectively interrupting them.

Sparrow gives him a disinterested once over. ‘Do I know you?’

James hardly has time to pointedly not appreciate her choice of outfit before Elizabeth gasps, leaping from her chair. ‘James! What on Earth are you doing here?!’

‘What do you think?’ he enunciates cooly. ‘Your father is beside himself. He wants you to come home.’

Elizabeth glances back at Jack, who is wearing an infuriatingly bemused expression. ‘I...I can’t do that. You already know why I left.’

She at least has the grace to look ashamed. Good. ‘Oh yes,’ he returns, patience worn to a single thread. ‘You were very clear on the matter.’

Her brows lower, her mouth pulling into a frown. So they are to have it out here? Fantastic. No better place for it.

‘I thought you, of all people, would understand my reasons.’

James chuckles humorlessly. ‘That’s the rub, Elizabeth. I don’t understand.’ Then he adds derisively, ‘You could have at least had the decency to cast me aside in person.’

She advances on him. ‘I didn’t have the luxury of time! And what of you?’ She gives his chest a solid poke. ‘So very eager to charge off into the sunset on the orders of that odious rat of a man! To leave me behind for God knows how long and return with Will’s head!’

Elizabeth is exaggerating, and they both know it. James is privately pleased with how much he’s unbalanced her. Let us meet on an even playing field.

She crosses her arms over her chest stubbornly. ‘Well, I’m not going back with you. I’m going to save Will.’

‘And I suppose there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?’ He already knows there isn’t.

‘Nothing.’

‘Very well.’ James pushes past her and picks up the quill lying on the table.

‘Wait,’ she demands. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I should think that obvious, Miss Swann.’ He spits it like a curse as he dips the quill in ink and begins to scrawl his name across the parchment.

‘No! Stop!’ She is tugging ineffectually at his arm now. ‘You can’t!’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Giving me orders now, are you?’

‘But your command! Your men, your status! Your home! I won’t be responsible for-’

‘It means nothing, Elizabeth,’ he hisses into her upturned face. ‘All of it. Any of it! It. Means. Nothing.’

She is momentarily cowed, something like sorrow clouding her eyes. ‘You can’t mean that.’

James smiles, perversely thrilled to be given the chance to be the one doing the hurting for once. He punctuates every syllable. ‘I do not make a habit of saying things I do not mean.’

The sorrow flutters away, and her narrowed eyes fill with defiance. ‘I’m still not going back. You can’t make me.’

‘It is fortunate then, Miss Swann, that I have no intention of doing so.’

Her jaw clenches before she spins on her heel and stomps out of the room, fists balled at her sides.

Sparrow clears his throat, and James pins him with an icy glare. ‘Well…’ the pirate stands. ‘See you on the docks then, sailor.’ And with that, Jack follows Elizabeth, sniffing after her like the cur he is.

James swallows hard. This is going to be even worse than last time. There is movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to see a familiar face, Gibbs, rolling up the document on the table. He looks up, and his eyes lock with James’.

‘Commodore?’ he asks, disbelieving.

‘No, not anymore. Weren’t you listening?’

---

Chapter Text

‘My tremendous intuitive sense of the female creature informs me that you are troubled.’

Elizabeth looks down from her perch in the port side ratlines of The Black Pearl, more than a little testy and not at all thrilled about being followed, even by Jack. Especially by Jack. ‘Figure that out all on your own, did you?’

He leans companionably against the gunwale and casts a lopsided grin her way. ‘I’ll admit the, uh...shouting match with the former Commodore may have given some hint as to your general state of mind.’

She sighs, and begins climbing down. Once her boots hit the deck, she picks at her rope-roughened palms. ‘I can’t believe he followed me.’

‘You can’t?’ Jack’s tone is almost teasing, and she shoots him a warning glare, against which he raises his hands in surrender. ‘I mean, of course. Yes. How could he?’

Sparrow pulls a flask from his pocket and passes it to her without even taking a pull first, a gesture so magnanimous, she almost likes him for it. Elizabeth takes a generous gulp and immediately sets to coughing as the liquid burns its way down her throat. ‘That’s not rum,’ she gasps.

‘Whiskey.’ Jack winces after his own turn. ‘I know better than to give you any rum.’ He chuckles at his own joke, closing the flask and tucking it away.

The two of them stand side by side, listening to the creaking of the ship as the gulls shriek overhead. Elizabeth chances studying Jack out of the corner of her eye. He’s staring up at the moon, as content an expression as she's ever seen on his face. She thinks, in this moment, she could possibly consider the pirate an acquaintance worth having. Maybe even a friend.

Then he spoils it by opening his mouth to speak.

‘You don’t think it’s a trick, do you? I mean, your erstwhile fiancé isn’t exactly known for his compassion for our kind.’

Our kind? How very presumptuous of you, Jack. ‘Really? He’s spared your life more than once.’

Jack truly looks at her then, eyes raking across her form in a calculating way before settling on her own. Elizabeth refuses to so much as flinch under his scrutiny. He seems satisfied by whatever he finds, for he adopts an irritatingly knowing smile. ‘I’m under no illusions he did that for me, Love.’

Elizabeth frowns. She doesn’t want to be having this conversation with Jack, but the words slip out before she can think to stop them. ‘To abandon everything he’s worked for…’ It’s just one more thing he can hold against her. One more reason he’s better than her. ‘He’ll never forgive me for it,’ she finishes grimly. And now she must bear his disappointment in person. If she weren’t so angry, she could weep.

‘But you want him to?’

Her gaze flicks up to Sparrow’s grinning face. Is he baiting her? ‘Whose side are you on, exactly?’

Jack laughs, the beads in his hair clacking as he shakes his head. ‘I’m on nobody's side, Lizzie.’ He sobers then, lips pursed. ‘Except for dear William’s.’ The pirate gestures to the compass she has tethered to the sword belt swung across her chest. His compass. The one that’s supposed to lead one to what they want most in this world.

‘Remember what I said,’ he intones seriously. ‘Don’t get too distracted, or it won’t work.’

She nods gravely, if only to humor him, not at all convinced it ever worked to begin with.

---

The first time she opened the compass, it had oscillated back and forth for some time before making a sudden stop, decidedly not pointing north...nor toward the Isla de Muerta. Jack assured her this is because that was never its purpose, and even though she is loathe to believe him, Beckett’s words still haunt her. There’s more than one chest of value in these waters. She wonders what Jack has gotten himself into. What he isn’t telling her.

When she found Sparrow in Tortuga, to say he was surprised by her arrival would be an immense understatement. It was his subsequent delight that put her off balance, though. He was happy to see her. And she hadn’t been under the impression they’d parted on particularly convivial terms.

She’d demanded to see Will, of course, and had been regrettably informed that ‘Dear William’ had gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Naturally. As if threat of execution wasn’t enough. She had offered to help, and Jack fell all over himself to be as accommodating as possible, even going so far as to offer her the use of Will’s cabin. She had declined, choosing to use one of the smaller, unoccupied rooms, but still asked him to let her in, just to see.

Will’s cabin hadn’t been locked and was almost immaculate in its appointments. There was still evidence of him there, however. Sheaves of parchment bearing his spidery script tucked into a stack of portfolios, a pile of books stowed under the side table, a pair of fine daggers next to the wash basin. What’s more, the room smelled of him, like iron and leather and home.

Though she’d questioned Jack about it repeatedly, coming from different angles each time in an effort to test for a lie, Sparrow was still steadfast in his telling of the tale. Will had made a bargain that went sour, and now he was a crew member on The Flying Dutchman. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but then, neither had the Aztec curse or undead pirates.

Either way, Elizabeth knows the only way to save Will is to play along with Jack’s plan.

For now.

---

Once dawn arrives, the new crew boards, and The Black Pearl embarks, following Elizabeth’s heading. After giving that, however, she becomes rather superfluous, not being much of a sailor herself. So she follows Jack around, asking clarifying questions about how this or that works and offering up generous flattery as he teaches her. Sparrow obviously eats up her attention, but he catches one or two of her pointed looks thrown in James’ direction, and, eventually, calls her on it.

‘My dear Lizzie,’ he leans in to murmur conspiratorially. ‘Are we attempting to make the late Commodore jealous?’

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs as though he’s made a hilarious joke. ‘We are not attempting. We are succeeding.’

Jack slides his eyes to where James is fairly looming on the foredeck, and his eyebrows raise. ‘Have you not considered the danger that presents?’ He turns back to her with a playful frown. ‘To me, specifically.’

Elizabeth has considered it. Quite thoroughly, actually. She’d stumbled upon this method of torment by mistake, really, only noticing James’ black mood after one of the new recruits pointed it out to Gibbs while she was within earshot. It is wholly satisfying to watch him out of her peripheral, punctuating every task he does in her direction. Serves him right. He shouldn’t have belittled her in front of the crew. In front of Jack.

‘It has occurred to me.’ Elizabeth simpers as she picks some bit of imaginary flotsam off of his coat lapel. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying yourself.’

Something impish flickers in Sparrow’s eyes. ‘Immensely, Love. But how far is this going to go?’

Elizabeth halts her roaming hands and squints up at him. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, Captain.’

He reaches up and curls his fingers around her own, effectively trapping her as he slants even further into her space. ‘Play coy all you like, Pet, but freedom is a strong aphrodisiac. You’re more of a pirate than any of the men on this ship.’

‘You presume to know a lot about me, Mr. Sparrow.’ She tips her lips toward his, curious to gauge his reaction. His pupils dilate ever so slightly, his pulse beneath her palm picking up a notch. She smirks. That could be useful.

Jack pouts. ‘It’s Captain, if you please. Or Jack will do.’

‘Alright, then, Jack, I’ll bite.’ The pirate actually licks his lips at that. Lord, it’s too easy. ‘How can you possibly know so much about me?’

‘Peas in a pod, Love,’ he declares with a grin.

And this time, she begrudgingly agrees with him.

---

As he was coming down the dock just before dawn, James ran into none other than Arthur Fitzpatrick. The boy was ecstatic to know one of his ‘new mates,’ but all James felt was resigned choler. What with everything else, this may as well happen too. He briefly entertained the idea of warning Fitz against this particular career move due to the nature of their employer, but the boy was so excited he vomited on James’ boots, and, ultimately, he decided against it.

The more the merrier, after all.

And James had been right: it is so much worse this time around. It is as though fate has conspired to place him in his own, personal version of hell, one where everyone else is blissfully unaware of how much he is suffering. Well, not everyone. He’s positive that Elizabeth knows exactly what she’s doing to him. He grasps at his anger in desperation, attempting to draw it around himself like a cloak so that he might fend off the storm of his mounting arousal. It’s baffling to him, this change. But watching her strut around the deck like a ruling monarch in those snug little breeches is driving him insane.

The crew doesn’t treat him much better than last time, distrustful for very obvious reasons. He hasn’t personally chased them through a hurricane this time, though, so there’s at least that. Sparrow seems absolutely tickled to be able to bark orders at him, and James obeys with an increasingly darkening humor. It keeps most of the other pirates out of his way, but Fitz is entirely unaffected. James ignores the boy as he jabbers away next to him, attempting to focus primarily on whatever task he’s set to, and failing miserably.

He is unable to do anything but glare as Elizabeth and Sparrow orbit each other, clenching his fists or biting his tongue every time she touches the pirate, permits him to touch her. The flirting isn’t the worst of it, James had endured all that before. It is the unmitigated gall she possesses to make sure he is watching. This unravels him faster than any of her amorous advances ever had. And he is thoroughly vexed by it.

---

Elizabeth manages to get away from Jack later in the day, carving out some time where she can be alone with her musings as her eyes explore the horizon. Naturally, her thoughts turn to James. She’s still smarting after their fight in Tortuga, still trying to reconcile her indignation at his treatment of her and the rather mystifying lust that draws her to him like a moth to flame.

Luckily, she was able to save face with the crew. She’d been working very hard before James showed up, building the persona she would use to survive on her own. Jack is up to something, and he’s dancing around the truth, of that she’s certain. If she is to keep pace with him, she has to play his game.

But James doesn’t have a mind for games. He had marched in and made her look like a proper fool.

Before all this, before their relationship took this vicious plunge, Elizabeth had come to the conclusion that, though marriage would require her to hand over the control of her life to someone else, it would be an acceptable sacrifice with James. She trusted him to cherish her, to respect her. He wouldn’t keep her on a leash or try to force her into a box.

But then he’d found that damnable letter, which she’d kept out of piffling sentimentality, and it had ruined everything. She learned James doesn’t trust her, but in addition to that, his anger was disproportionate to her crime...and it didn’t abate after she apologized and took steps to make things right. It was still there, humming beneath his skin like a swarm of hornets. Suddenly, they were no longer on equal ground, in fact, they never really had been. Elizabeth just didn’t know. And now she’s been presented with this side of him that is willing, even eager, to hurt her.

His resignation toward being an instrument of Beckett’s evil had merely been the cherry on top. She was faced with the dawning realization that she doesn’t know James as well as she’d thought. She can’t trust him with the control of her life, can’t gauge how he’ll react to her anymore. That’s why she didn’t take the ring with her when she left. This is not the James she fell in love with...and she is still mourning the loss.

Then he had followed her. He was more livid, more demonstrably upset than she’d ever seen, and the first words he spat at her were that her father wanted her to come home. Not him, but her father.

She’d tried to explain, to offer her reasons, but he’d intentionally disregarded her. And then, as he’d signed away all the things in his life he’d worked for, he told her they meant nothing.

It’s not true. In all the time she’s known James, he’s found such fulfillment in his work, such pleasure in his achievements. He has friends. A home. He had Will. She hated hearing him neglect these things. She wanted to tell him, show him what a full and rewarding life he has, that he can’t place the burden of his happiness on her shoulders alone. It isn’t fair.

She’d softened, tried to appeal to him...and he threw it back in her face. Like she was a petulant child.

It is fitting that this is the direction her mind has taken when he chooses to finally approach her.

‘You appear to be enjoying yourself.’

She is enjoying herself no more than he is, but the statement is bait, and she knows it. Elizabeth leans back on the gunwale and adopts a casual stance. ‘I am, rather. Aren’t you?’

If he will not be direct, then neither will she.

It is not the reaction he was angling to get from her, and he is palpably displeased, a scowl carving ugly lines into his handsome face, a muscle ticking at his jaw. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he hisses through clenched teeth.

Despite how he’s hurt her, how he continues to hurt her, she loves him. She wants him. More than anything. But he’s made a habit of turning on her when her guard is down, so instead of telling him these things, Elizabeth settles for haughty banter. She hates that this is what they’ve become.

‘Doing what, Mr. Norrington?’ Not Commodore. Not Captain. And now...not even James.

‘Why are you being so cruel?’ he demands.

Because it seems to be what he expects from her, and she has only ever wanted to please him. Her lips curl in a humorless smile. ‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

His expression darkens at having his own words used against him, and he ominously invades her space, much like he had during their first argument. But James doesn’t scare her anymore. And if he thinks this trick will work twice, he is sorely mistaken.

‘What do you want from me, Elizabeth?’ His tone is almost wretched, and she can feel her resolve crumbling. There is undeniable vulnerability in the question, and Elizabeth has never, never done anything but reward these rare instances where he cedes his power to her, never slapped his tender feelings out of his open hand.

Even if he is willing to do that to her, she is not.

So she decides to give him an honest answer, hoping he’ll understand what a precarious place that puts her in. ‘I used to want a great many things from you, James. And now?’ She pushes off the railing, looks him directly in the eye, willing him to understand.

‘All my life, since I was twelve years old, I have tried to be someone worthy of your affection. Someone deserving of your love.’ She swallows hard. It’s true, every word, and she is lightheaded under the weight of the confession. ‘But, as it turns out, I could never be good enough.’

James scoffs, and it is like he’s backhanded her across the face. Here she is, admitting she feels inadequate, handing him back the power to hurt her, her fragile sense of self-worth hanging in the balance, and he has audacity to scoff at her!

‘Oh? You would deny it then?’ She counters, ready to defend herself if he should dig in.

‘Of course I deny it!’ He is shouting now, and even though it’s been more common as of late, she still hasn’t gotten used to the way his raised voice frightens her, makes her want to flee. ‘Of all the ridiculous-’

She doesn’t let him finish. ‘You don’t trust me, James! You never have!’ What a scene they must be causing. If only she could work up the energy to care. ‘And I can’t think of a single thing I have done to warrant it! I can’t be with someone who-’

‘Have I not told you,’ he interrupts darkly, effectively silencing her. ‘Not shown you over and over how you are the only person in this world that matters to me?! I gave up everything. Everything for you! And I would do it again. In a heartbeat.’ He snaps his fingers for emphasis. ‘I could live my life in repetition for all eternity, and I would still choose you every single time. Even if I knew you would never have me.’

It is a queer way to phrase it, but Elizabeth thinks she understands his intent. The fight is leaking out of her now. She feels her walls collapsing around her. She doesn’t want to do this anymore, hates the way it feels. She wants to hold him, console him, assure him that she loves him so much it is practically rending her in two.

Elizabeth just wants him to love her again. The way he used to.

But it seems James has other plans.

‘As for trusting you...’ he adds, quieter now, but no less menacing. He motions outward, indicating the deck, the sails, Jack standing behind the helm. ‘Is it really such a mystery as to where that stems from?’ He sniffs derisively. ‘But then...I suppose you couldn’t understand.’

She knows nothing good will come from asking, but she can’t stop herself. ‘Why couldn’t I?’

‘Because what matters most to you isn’t another person.’

Elizabeth is floored. It is the most unfeeling thing he has ever said to her, and it was almost delivered with a smile. The only possible goal of such a declaration would be to hurt her. And it does. How could he believe that? How could he say it?

She stares at him for some time, not at all sure where they can go from here. He has stepped over a line, and she wants him to know it. As calmly as she can manage, she warns, ‘I don’t think I care for the man you’re becoming, James Norrington.’

‘What a coincidence.’ He sucks his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Neither do I.’ Then he leans in and hisses, ‘But he is the man you’ve made me.’

‘No.’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘I didn’t make you this.’

The fury in his face starts to transform into something like confusion, but Elizabeth doesn’t have the stamina to bear it any longer. She turns and leaves him, opting to hide below decks in her private cabin.

James had essentially told her she was selfish. Had essentially said, ‘You don’t have the capacity to love me like I love you.’

But if her broken heart is any indication, he couldn’t be more wrong.

---

That night, when it is James’ turn to take watch, he alights on the deck to hear a clear, lilting voice drifting from the rigging above. Somewhere among the billowing black sails, Elizabeth is singing beneath the stars, and the whole crew below is working in silence so that they might hear. She sounds so forlorn, the tragic ballad settling over him like a burial shroud.

Even now, despite his ire, despite his pain...he is utterly captivated by her. As he always has been.

He can feel his mother’s ring branding his flesh where it hangs from a chain beneath his shirt. His heart thuds painfully behind his ribs.

How unfair it is, that he is doomed to love her.

Always.

---

They don’t speak again after that, but James continues to watch her. Honestly, he can’t help himself. As livid as he is, it has sparked a flame within him that licks fiery tongues perilously close to the powder magazine of his barely contained libido. Somehow, the lines in his brain have gotten crossed, and his temper is translating into blinding need. He wants her. More than ever. And it is destroying all the carefully erected barriers he’s built against her.

Late the next morning, he is swabbing the deck by hand (a giddy command given by Captain Sparrow) when the aforementioned pirate saunters past, Elizabeth in tow. She stops in front of James, the toes of her boots filling his view, effectively stalling his work. He slowly turns his eyes up to meet her imperious visage. No words are exchanged, but he catches her meaning well enough.

She likes seeing me on my knees.

James wants to devour her. Wants to hold her down and fuck the self-righteousness right out of her eyes. He wants to mark her, fill her up until she has no room left to think of Jack or the chest or anything in the world but him. The impulse terrifies him.

What’s more, he recognizes that she is never far from him, intentionally in his peripheral at all times. She’s circling him, hovering just within sight like a bird of prey. He can feel the magnetic pull between them, now, tingling on his skin like the air before a lightning strike. It’s only a matter of time before he is tested again.

And James doesn’t think he has it in him to resist any longer.

---

A sudden and vicious storm catches them that afternoon, raging long into the evening. It isn’t the worst James has been through, not by a mile, but Captain Sparrow is cautious nonetheless, ordering them to trim up the sails enough to keep the ship moving into the cresting waves without placing too much strain on the masts. James knows precisely what to do and how to do it, and he takes over a good portion of the work, having more experience than most of the rest of the crew. Though he is reluctant to admit it, The Pearl is a fine ship. He loses himself in her maintenance for as long as he is able.

Fitz is petrified by the squall, and James sends him below after the boy is nearly washed overboard. Annoying or not, he is of no use to them dead. And as James watches Fitz stumble astern, he catches sight of Elizabeth.

A flash of lightning illuminates her features, and he is struck dumb by the spectacle of her. She has planted a foot on either side of the centerline of the ship, stance wide, back against the main mast. She is cackling into the wind, hair whipping about her like a living thing, teeth bared in a feral grin.

She is a goddess, he realizes with a start, a tempest unto herself. She is not the sun, as he once had mistakenly thought, though she may reflect its light. No, she is the sea: boundless and vengeful and teeming with life.

And he is lost in her. Just as he always has been.

Elizabeth turns her face to him, eyes wild, and James is shaken to his core. How could he have ever thought to tame her? To possess her? When had he, in his hubris, reduced her to a relic he could stow away in some cabinet while he went off to play war? She is resplendent. She is treacherous. She is eternal. And his pithy anger means nothing in comparison. He is an ant cursing a hurricane. He is a child cowering in the dark.

He is a man. A man loving a woman. Loving Elizabeth. And what an awesome fate that is. Ultimately, it would be a kinder death to pitch himself over the side into the roiling waves, than to endure whatever she has in store for him. But now that he sees her, truly sees her for the incredible calamity that she is…

James knows he should have worshiped her far sooner.

---

Elizabeth’s hands are rough and scabbed, her hair hopelessly tangled. There is dirt under her fingernails and sweat stains on her clothes, and she is so marvelously, wondrously alive.

The storm has breathed into her a new life, a manic rapture that has her shedding her skin like a serpent, emerging new and scoured clean, shining like a solar flare. She tilts her face toward the boiling sky, teeth bared in a savage grin. This is freedom, she decides. This is power. Mortal squabbles mean nothing in the face of such unbridled, unbiased might. And she is drunk on it.

A jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, and she spies James in its wake, watching her intently, the same way he has for the past two days. But no. Upon closer inspection, it’s not the same at all. His expression is no longer guarded, instead, it is a perfect mix of open appreciation and raw hunger. It chases all her lingering fury away in an instant, leaving behind only fathomless need.

In this moment, Elizabeth knows she will break him. Prove to him, once and for all, that he’s no better than she is. The anticipation is startlingly arousing.

---

By design, she quite literally runs into him on the way below decks after the running crew is rotated. He is dripping, soaked through to the skin, but so is she. Elizabeth allows her fingers to glide up and start wandering the forbidden lines of his body, finally able to appreciate them since he’s foregone his waistcoat today. She hardly breathes as she charts the ledge of his collarbone, the swell of his heaving chest, the ridges of his abdomen.

Usually, this is when he’d stop her, take her hands in his and feint away. But he doesn’t this time, and she is dizzy with the implication. Then James dips his head and claims her lips in a searing kiss that is all pent up rage and overwhelming longing. She knows, because she feels it too.

He is not gentle, and it is glorious. He bites her bottom lip, plucks at the buttons of her vest, clutches at her arms, her waist, her neck hard enough to leave marks. Elizabeth gives as good as she gets, nipping at his earlobe when he buries his face in her shoulder, raking her fingernails over any exposed skin she can reach. Frantically, she pulls back just enough to untuck his shirt to give her that much more acreage to cover. His flesh is blistering hot beneath her hands, and she relishes the way his muscles twitch and flex under her ministrations. Nothing has ever felt so fine.

Elizabeth sucks at his pulse point until he growls, a primal sound that skitters down her spine and pools between her thighs, then he takes a fistful of her hair and yanks her head back, only to plunder her mouth with his once more. Her breath hitches on a moan when his tongue pushes past her lips and begins to explore hers. It is too much and not enough, and she is drowning in the sweetness of it as she melts against him.

It’s never been like this before. Even when she’d provoked him into semi-public displays of affection in the past, James had still been in complete control. But this? Now? He is spinning the both of them until he has her caught between him and the wall beneath the stairs. She gasps for air as he lays hot, open-mouth kisses down the slope of her neck, liberal with the use of his teeth. Her arms wind around his broad shoulders, a hand tangling in his hair. His two day growth of stubble is scraping her skin, rasping against the hollow of her throat.

Elizabeth wraps a long leg around his hip, desperate for some leverage, clinging to him like a lifeline in a storm. She can feel his hard cock bruising her hip, and her inner walls ripple in response. God, she wants him. Needs him. Now, yesterday, ages ago.

Bootheels sound on the steps above them, and James goes stock still. Two of the other crew members are in conversation, laughing as they pass by. Elizabeth rolls her hips against the pronounced bulge in James’ trousers, eager to keep going, but his hands fly down to hold her fast in a mercilessly tight grip. His green eyes are boring into hers with a fervency she’s only witnessed while they’ve been fighting, his brows drawn in a severe frown.

As soon as the interlopers are out of sight, having not noticed them, James drops her as if he’s been burned. Then he immediately turns on his heel and strides away, hastily disappearing down the next flight of stairs. Elizabeth gapes after him, panting, her thighs slippery with her arousal. How could he just leave? She’s so frustrated she could scream, so alone she could cry.

Later, in her private cabin, she does a bit of both.

---

Chapter Text

It’s not fair. She had been so close to breaking through when James had somehow managed to conjure up enough sense of control to leave her high and dry. Well, not dry at all. Soaking, really, and more wound up than she’d ever been. And she is sure he was more than enjoying himself as well. Why must he be this way? Why must he be so goddamn stubborn!?

Elizabeth is in her quarters, pacing her meager strip of floor, arms crossed over her chest. She’s pulled off her boots, liking the feel of the wooden boards beneath her toes. It is a small comfort, though, doing nothing to improve her mood. The decreased pitch and yaw of The Pearl indicates that the storm is starting to die down, but the tempest in Elizabeth’s mind rages in full force. Why does he still deny her? Is it supposed to be some sort of punishment? If so, it is badly done. He so obviously wants her too. What has he to gain from their mutual suffering?

She sighs when a particularly abrupt turn creates a gust of air that causes the candle on the side table to gutter out and fumbles around in the dark for a match to light it again. Once that’s done, she sinks onto the bed and stares at the wall.

They can’t go on like this. It’s unbearable. And, more than that, it’s hamstringing her efforts to save Will. Jack’s compass, their only hope of finding the chest, has been rendered completely useless. It only points at James. Follows his movements across the deck like an unspoken accusation. The only thing she’d been good for on this bloody ship, and now it means nothing. James has taken that from her too, it seems. How generous of him.

But he cannot know unless she tells him.

So, rising from her seat, Elizabeth decides to do just that. She’ll find him. Make him listen. Even if he is determined to pick a fight with her every time they speak, surely he can understand the need to help Will. Perhaps they still have that in common, if nothing else.

However, when Elizabeth marches to the door and throws it open, intent to seek out her erstwhile fiancé, she finds he is right in front of her, just across the threshold, a fist raised as though he were about to knock. For a moment, they make startled eye-contact, neither one of them expecting this, before Elizabeth forces her expression to harden into mild annoyance. He is the first to break the silence.

‘May I have a word?’ She notes he has left his jacket behind, before her in only his shirtsleeves...which have been rolled past his elbows. He probably has no idea how much that gets to her. Probably.

Elizabeth feigns piqued consideration for a tick in an attempt to make him sweat but eventually relents, intensely curious as to what’s brought him here.

‘You may.’ She opens the door a bit wider, tone as disinterested as she can manage. ‘Though it’s no captain’s cabin. I’ve no decent place for you to sit.’

He shifts awkwardly, manifestly made uncomfortable by her tacit refusal to move out of his way. ‘I’ll make do with standing.’

‘Suit yourself,’ she shrugs, and heads to her berth before sitting cross-legged, an expectant look on her face. It is only then that he enters, closing the door softly behind him.

‘Go on, then,’ she urges when he doesn’t approach further. ‘Why are you here?’ She is trying to play it as though she weren’t just about to go after him herself, hopes that he’s distracted enough he didn’t notice she was leaving.

‘I have...been thinking on what you said in our earlier conversation. And...I was wrong. I was wrong, and you were right.’

Elizabeth blinks. An admission of guilt and confirmation of her rightness? How unexpected. She is, of course, tempted to immediately take it to heart, but he’s hurt her too much recently for her to fully trust him. She decides to test the waters, make sure he is actually offering an olive branch and not tricking her into lowering her walls again so he can attack.

‘Refresh my memory. Which conversation was this?’

His brows lower, but he keeps his tone neutral, passive even. ‘You know very well what discussion I’m referencing.’

She does. But she’s not letting him off that easy. ‘Oh? But we’ve had so many recently! Indulge me.’

There is a beat of silence. His stance is open, his arms at his sides. She realizes he’s made himself as non threatening as possible. James lowers his eyes before answering, voice threaded with guilt, ‘I called you selfish.’

She laughs without an ounce of levity. ‘No, you didn’t, actually. Though I’ve no doubt you were thinking it. I believe your exact words were ‘What matters most to you isn’t another person,’ to which I replied-’

‘That you don’t care for the man I’ve become.’ His interruption has no fire behind it, only miserable acceptance. It plucks at her heartstrings. ‘The thing is, Elizabeth. I haven’t become anything. I’ve always been this way.’

‘No, you haven’t. This rancor, this venom, it-’

‘Has always been inside me.’ That stops her, and she waits as he struggles to find his next words. ‘I’ve always been...very careful not to let it show. But it is a part of me. As much as anything else. And...to blame you for it was- is unfair. What’s more, I said it for no other reason than to wound you, which was...despicable. Cruel. And I’m sorry.’

Elizabeth swallows, hope blooming in her chest like wildflowers in May. He still hasn’t come any closer, remaining just beyond the threshold, but all evidence of his previous belligerence is gone. She isn’t sure what to make of his assertion that he’s always been capable of such malice, but the apology goes a long way toward mending her battered feelings.

‘I see.’ She sighs, dropping her fabricated aloofness before forging on. ‘Well, my own motives behind the things I’ve said haven’t been entirely altruistic either. You hurt me, James. Made me feel inadequate. There were times when I was keen to return the favor. So as it turns out...neither one of us was right. I’m sorry, too.’

He nods and finally takes a few tentative steps forward. ‘I should never have lost my temper.’

‘But you did. And so did I. It is what it is, James. But I forgive you, for what it’s worth.’

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs toward the floorboards.

‘It didn’t used to be like this.’ She glances down at her hands resting in her lap. ‘And I know that’s partially my fault. But I don’t like arguing with you, James. Especially here. Where you’re the only person I can trust.’

‘You don’t trust Sparrow?’

She pulls a face. ‘Trust Jack? Everything that comes out of that man’s mouth is a lie, or at least half a lie, and he seems to love watching people try to parse out which is which.’ James is pinning her with appraising eyes, as if she has said something profoundly puzzling and not common knowledge. ‘He told me himself that we were alike. Peas in a pod- his words. And while I’m still uncomfortable with how much that’s turned out to be true, it’s helped me to realize…’ She shrugs to cover her unease with the disclosure. ‘I can’t trust a single thing he says.’

‘But you believe him about The Dutchman? About Will?’ That same calculating look. Does he really think her so naive?

‘I believe Will is in danger. And I believe this chest nonsense is somehow linked to that. But I also believe that finding it will likely benefit Jack more than it does anyone else. And that it happens to also serve another purpose is entirely secondary.’

When she meets his eyes again, there is a smile dancing in their depths, and she is utterly charmed by it. ‘You’ve changed.’

Elizabeth chooses to take that as a compliment. ‘How decent of you to notice.’

Now the smile leaks out onto the rest of his face, pulling up the corners of his lips, and she can’t help but return it. She stands, closes on him with her hands linked behind her back, a mimicry of one of his most prevalent mannerisms. ‘There is still one thing about our earlier interaction that troubles me.’

‘What is that?’

‘The way you were looking at me on deck. In the storm. What were you thinking?’

He swallows hard, and she is close enough by now to hear it. ‘You already know.’

Elizabeth leans in close, lips a hair’s breadth from his own. ‘Indulge me.’

James draws in a shuddering breath, and she has all of a second to fear she’s overextended her hand before his mouth crashes against her own so hard their teeth click. His hands come up to frame her face, tilting her head for a better angle. He tastes like rum and saltwater and desperation. Her fingers splay across his chest, and she pushes back just enough to say, ‘While lovely, this is not exactly an answer to my question.’

His thumb brushes her lips as a look of frank sincerity settles upon his features. ‘I want you, Elizabeth. So much I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t breathe without you on my mind. You undo me in the most maddening of ways and…’ The hand that has dropped to her waist tightens slightly. ‘It’s getting harder to resist taking what I want.’

The confession, though plainly difficult for him, is precisely what she was hoping to hear. However, delivered in his low voice, so full of feeling...it is having more effect on her than she’d anticipated, flooding her with arousal. ‘Why do you, then? When I so clearly want you to?’

His brows lower, as if in confusion. ‘I...don’t…’

She blinks. ‘Or...have I not been clear?’

It isn’t sarcasm. She means it. And if the searching look he is giving her is any indication, she hasn’t been clear. At least not enough to make it past his steadfast disbelief that she could crave him too. Stubborn man.

‘Well then, allow me to remedy that. I do want you, James. I have been nearly delirious with desire for you since I was old enough to know what it was. I lay awake at night, aching for your touch. Desperate to know what it would be like to have you inside me.’

‘And this,’ she gestures up and down, indicating his disheveled appearance. ‘I find this to be very appealing.’

James rakes a hand through his hair, closing his eyes briefly with a ragged sigh. When he opens them again, he quirks an eyebrow at her. ‘The irony here is that I would have given you anything, you know. Anything you asked for. My rank, my status- I achieved that so that I might have the means to cater to your every whim. But now? Now that I have absolutely nothing to offer you-’

‘Nothing to offer me?’ She almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it. ‘Oh, James. You really can be quite dense sometimes. Those things didn’t matter to me. Or they did, but only because they were important to you.’

‘You found such purpose in your work, such pride in being a part of something greater. And, while I was very fond of seeing you in your dress uniform, if you had never risen above the rank of midshipman, my feelings for you would still be the same.’

‘And it has never mattered to me to have a home filled with spare bedrooms and fine furniture. I don’t even like entertaining guests all that much. But...you wanted a grand library for all your books. A view of the horizon from the great front window so that I might watch for your return from sea.’

‘And as for social standing, I only behaved as much as I did for your sake, because I knew it was important to you that I be well respected among our peers. But I never cared one jot for what the height of Port Royal society thought of me. If every single one of them hated me, but you loved me...then that would have been enough.’

‘All I ever wanted was you. And the freedom to have that be a choice. To have my acceptance of your proposal mean something because I had other options. Which I didn’t...but I never blamed you for that.’

‘I don’t understand.’ His countenance is so full of bewilderment, she can’t help but love him.

Elizabeth smiles, reaching out to stroke his cheek, enjoying the scratch of his facial hair against her fingertips. ‘Can you realign the stars? Can you hold the tide? Can you command the heavens? I know you to be a very capable man, James Norrington, but even you must admit that there are some things you cannot change.’

Then she lifts one of his hands to her lips and lays a soft kiss across his knuckles. ‘And I would never ask them of you.’

‘What would you ask of me?’

She ponders that for a moment, taking into account the plea in his tone. He is handing her the power to hurt him, the control over what he will do next. It is a heady elixir. ‘I would ask that you stay. Here. With me. Tonight.’

When he fails to react whatsoever, she adds, ‘Please?’

James frowns at that. ‘I think we both know there’s nothing for which you would have to ask me twice.’

‘Oh really?’ she teases. ‘I seem to remember you dodging my first attempt to kiss you.’

‘That was different. You were sixteen, a girl. And I...I wanted it too much.’ He pauses, abashed. ‘I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop.’

She is amused by that. ‘For a man so widely renowned for his iron restraint, you are very hard on yourself.’

‘That is because I know my own mind. I fear the man I could become if I lost control.’

Elizabeth raises a brow. ‘I don’t. In fact, if he’s anything like the one I met in the hall, I’d very much like to make his acquaintance.’

His frown has vanished, leaving behind something like wonder.

‘Or do I have to ask for that twice, as well?’

She does not.

He dips his mouth to hers again, though not nearly as frenzied this time, instead plying with deliberate brushes of his lips and steady fingers cradling the nape of her neck. It is still nothing like when they were courting. There is a promise in his actions, a purposeful overture, and Elizabeth’s knees are weak with it.

She begins undressing him further, untucking his shirt, and he breaks contact just long enough to pull it off, dropping it to the floor in a heap. Underneath, she is unsettled to discover that he is wearing his mother’s ring on a chain around his neck. Guilt threatens to stay her, but James picks up the offending jewelry and tosses it over his shoulder, effectively hiding it behind his back, without so much as betraying a single ounce of regret.

Elizabeth adores him for it and lets her greedy hands wander.

James has never been shirtless in front of her before, and she takes full advantage, exploring the expanse of his newly bared torso while he stands completely still, allowing her to do so uninterrupted. His body is all lean muscle, firm beneath her daring fingertips in a most pleasing way. He’s scarred, evidence of his dangerous life at sea scattered across his skin like marks on a map. Elizabeth pauses to appreciate each one she encounters, treasuring this side of him even as a weighty sorrow settles over her. She doesn’t know where any of them came from, how close each one had come to stealing him away from her forever. They are a testament to the half of his life he has kept hidden from her. All except one.

She presses a tender kiss to the pearly blemish on his shoulder, willing him to comprehend the depth of her admiration. Never again, she thinks as she feels him shiver beneath her caress. No more secrets.

Elizabeth claims his lips once more, using her tongue as he had before, though not nearly as aggressively, slipping it past his parted lips and earning a rumbling sound from deep in his chest that spikes straight to her core. He starts for the buttons of her waistcoat, but bats her hands away when she goes to help him. The determined glint in his eye carries the message plain enough. He wants to do it himself.

James is as meticulous in his undressing of her as he is in all things. Cautious. Constant. He continues to grant her the absolute privilege of plundering his mouth as he unhurriedly undoes the fastenings of her clothing, and eventually, pushes the garment off her shoulders altogether.

But his careful veneer of calm is starting to crack, his lips are more demanding, his fingers more bold. Elizabeth is drunk on the idea that she can drive him to this. She gets to see this part of him no one else does. It makes her feel powerful. Unstoppable. Formidable.

Though she is loathe to rush him, Elizabeth’s patience is nearly at an end. She backs away to take care of the breeches herself, untying them and then letting them drop to pool at her feet. The tails of her shirt are long enough to cover her, but only just, and as she steps out of the pile of fabric, she starts to feel a little self conscious.

No man has ever seen her fully exposed before. And, while she is no longer as vexed by it as she once was, Elizabeth knows she is not beautiful by society’s standards. She is thin, willowy even, bony and freckled from the sun, with few curves to speak of. She may have been able to hide it beneath the illusion of modern women’s fashion and copious layers of petticoats and panniers, but now she is without all those things.

The sudden shyness rankles her, and she combats it by divesting herself of the shirt entirely, standing before James in the candlelight, dauntless as the dawn. He steps forward, hands hovering over her without making contact, like he isn’t sure where to start. So Elizabeth decides for him, taking hold of one and placing it over her left breast with a playful smile. This silent invitation is all it takes.

James’ hands are everywhere, burning against her skin, lighting her up like a beacon. She leans into his touch, a contented moan escaping her lips as his thumbs trace the underside of her breasts.

‘You are a goddess,’ he asserts reverently, and she laughs.

‘What rubbish!’

At first he seems nonplussed by her reaction, but then his lips are charting a course along her jaw and down the slope of her neck. She weaves her fingers into his hair, gently working it out of the queue he’s tied it in. As soon as it’s loose, she begins massaging his scalp, and she can feel him practically purring against her collarbone.

Then he starts guiding her toward the bunk.

When the backs of her thighs hit the edge, he tells her to sit. And she does, feet lifting off the cool floor to dangle in the open air.

James goes down to one knee, and Elizabeth feels a bolt of electricity shoot through her. It is still new, this awareness of how much she likes him on his knees before her, and she hasn’t given herself the opportunity to truly decipher the implications of it beyond how it makes her want him even more.

His fingers study the length of her legs, starting with the knots of her ankles and then trailing slowly, achingly slowly, over her calves and onward. His expression, all the while, is one of acute concentration, the same mask she’s seen him wear while memorizing the lines of an atlas.

Gently, he coaxes her knees apart, intense green eyes searching hers for any sign of reluctance. She has none to offer, less than none, in fact, and all too eagerly allows him to tease up the inside of her thighs. Then, while still making smoldering eye contact, he traces the soft petals of her quim, and Elizabeth bites her lip, her head dropping to the side as her eyelids flutter.

‘Christ,’ he whispers as he continues to stroke her. ‘You’re soaking.’

‘I was earlier, too,’ she counters breathlessly. ‘But I ended up having to take care of that myself.’

The smile that splits his features then could only be described as wolfish, and Elizabeth hisses as he slips a finger inside her, his thumb sweeping the bundle of nerves above. It’s so much better than when she does it herself, and she tells him so before leaning back on her elbows, spine arced like a bow.

When he adds a second digit, she curses and lets her head fall back. He’s winding her tighter and tighter, pushing her toward that shimmering peak until, finally, she shatters, coming apart with a gasp of his name.

James slides his fingers out, considering them briefly before deliberately meeting her gaze and sucking them clean. It is, without a doubt, the most wicked thing she has ever seen him do, and Elizabeth’s eyes go wide as he croons his approval. ‘Like fine wine.’

Speechless, she is helpless to do anything but acquiesce as he lifts her knees up over his shoulders, laying a contradictorily chaste kiss just below her navel before murmuring huskily, ‘Just tell me if you want me to stop.’

Elizabeth reaches down, taking a fistful of his hair at the back of his head and giving it a tug, delighting in the groan it drags out of him. ‘You had better not,’ she commands.

His eyes darken, filled with palpable lust, and he doesn’t look away as he lowers his mouth to the heat of her, starting with sultry kisses along her sensitive skin before pointing his tongue and licking up the length of her folds, setting her body on fire. James’ eyes fall closed as he begins enjoying her in earnest, lapping at her sex, and she instinctively thrusts up to meet him, which has him humming against her in amusement.

She’s actively pulling his hair now, wanton moans bubbling out of her unbidden. Becca had mentioned this before, but God, it’s so much better than she could have imagined. So intimate. So scandalously arousing. His two days worth of stubble is rasping against her tender skin, driving her further to distraction.

Just when Elizabeth thinks she can’t possibly take any more, James slips a hand down and presses his fingers into her again. And, oh, how can anything feel so good? So perfect? She’s spiraling up and up, certain she’s going to die is she doesn’t come now.

She doesn’t realize she’s told him so until he sucks her, hard, right as his fingers curl inside and hit a spot that has her trembling, spasming as release rips through her a second time.

When she comes to, gasping for air, he is wiping his mouth on the back of a hand, smirking in a most becoming way. She laughs breathlessly as she drags his lips to hers and can taste herself on his tongue. She is baffled by the wave of heat that sends through her.

Elizabeth manhandles him to his feet, and then settles back against the pillow as he sits to wrench off his boots, fanning her hair out around her. She’s preening, really. But when he turns back to her, he seems to appreciate the spectacle, so she’s hard pressed to feel bad about it, even if she is glad he didn’t catch her.

James crawls up her body and sets to unraveling her all over again, starting with toe-curling kisses and moving on to open mouth attention to her neck and clavicle, intrepid hands roaming. Elizabeth should be startled by the indecent noises she can’t seem to stop making, but she is equally unable to work up the wherewithal to care. She rewards herself by stroking his bare shoulders and back, captivated by the feel of his muscles flexing beneath his skin.

When he dips his head and suckles a breast, she looses a high-pitched keen. How? How is he doing this to her? Isn’t he the one who’s supposed to be losing control? She grounds herself by carding her fingers through his glorious dark hair, vowing that she will never, ever, let him wear a wig again. Not so long as she draws breath.

By the time he has worked his way to her stomach, Elizabeth is pleading, ‘No more, please. I can’t take it.’

‘Can’t take what?’ He asks without looking up from his task.

‘The waiting. Please, James.’

Now he does look up, mischief in his eyes. ‘Please, what?’

He’s going to make her say it. The cheeky bastard intends to have her begging for his cock. It should upset her, but instead, she is insanely titillated.

James must take her stunned silence for stubbornness, for he whispers into her ear, ‘You must not want this very badly.’

Elizabeth is galled by his teasing, his pretense that he isn’t just as intent on this as she is, and reaches down to grip the proof through his trousers, causing him to hiss.

‘Only as badly as you do.’

He pulls back, and she fumbles with the fastenings until he is free. She tests the weight of him in her palm, not missing the hitch in his breath when she tries an experimental squeeze. When she gives a firm pump, James makes a strangled sound in his throat that is half a sob. She likes it so much, she does it again, luxuriating in the feel of him. How can something be at once so soft and so hard?

James’ hands fly down to stop her, and she lets him for no other reason than she intends to explore this particular brand of intimacy later. Suddenly impatient, he stands to divest himself of his last bit of clothing, and she is monumentally pleased to finally see the whole of him.

Then he’s back, is gathering her legs over his elbows, and she can feel his tip tracing her slit. But that’s as far as he goes.

‘Well, then?’ she huffs. ‘Are you going to give it to me, or not?’

‘Give you what, exactly?’ Saucy to the last. She likes this side of him a great deal. Would like to see it more often. Much more.

‘Why, that incredible cock of yours. Or will I have to ask for that agai-’ She can’t finish. He’s sliding into her, filling her so completely, so deliciously, all she can do is pant and scrabble for purchase in the sheets. It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt? Oh, God, it’s so good and right and oh, he’s sliding out again, and her blood is singing through her veins with the divinity of it.

His voice is ragged, low. ‘You feel incredible. Like molten silk.’ A gasp. ‘I can’t...I can’t…’

She meets his hooded gaze and orders, ‘Then don’t.’

And that breaks the spell, or perhaps casts a new one. But either way, it’s no time at all before he is pounding into her with reckless abandon, driving them both toward completion. She is transfixed by the obscene way he fills her, by the desperate noises he is making. The ring now dangles between them, dragged forward accidentally by her wandering hands. James doesn’t seem to notice, too far gone to care.

Elizabeth doesn’t want it to end even as she knows it must. She can feel another orgasm building inside her and moans, ‘James.’ He must sense she’s close, for he drops one of her legs and starts driving her pearl back and forth with his thumb.

And that’s all it takes before she’s coming around him, screaming his name, stars dancing before her eyes. There is nothing that could ever be so fine, so natural. And he doesn’t stop, gritting his teeth through her release and continuing to thrust until she is beyond sensitive.

Then he gasps and pulls out swiftly, sitting back on his calves, giving himself a last solid stroke before finishing on his stomach. His expression is pained bliss, and Elizabeth logs it away forever. She is holding herself up to watch him, arms shaking from the effort.

His face is in his free hand, and he chuckles before meeting her gaze. She has a loopy grin to match his and absolutely no words left in her brain. So she scoots to the side and pats the space next to her.

He reaches down to pick up his shirt, cleaning himself off and then tossing it back on the floor. She is enchanted by this show of flagrant untidiness. When he collapses next to her, she rolls onto her side and throws a leg over his, her body along the length of him.

Elizabeth props her cheek in her hand and traces circles in the smattering of dark hair across his chest. ‘Goodness. We should have done that much sooner.’

James laughs, wrapping his arms around her and planting a kiss on her brow.

‘As you say, my love.’

---

Chapter Text

It is a terrifying notion, that he could lose himself so completely. James has sequestered himself in a corner of what passes for the crew’s quarters on this infernal ship. He’s hiding, really. Hiding from his disappointment in himself. Hiding from the depth of his muddled feelings. Hiding from Elizabeth.

What a coward he has become.

James has been fully aware of how he’s been barreling toward his limits since setting foot on the gangplank of The Pearl, knew it was only a matter of time before Elizabeth pushed him too far, but it is still no acceptable excuse. Regardless of outside influences, he is unconditionally responsible for his own actions...as she had so effectively pointed out when last they spoke.

And, oh. Oh, how he has wanted to give in! He’s been holding back for so long, so careful to be mindful of societal constraints. Expectations and reputations seemed so important in Port Royal, so crucial to navigate and protect. But now? What does any of it matter anymore? He is no more an officer than she is a fine lady, as far as the world is concerned. Why does he still resist?

The answer is: because James knows better. He knows Elizabeth deserves more than he currently has to offer, which is nothing. Not a single thing besides the clothes on his back, the effects on his person, and the turbulence in his heart. It is not enough, could never be enough. And still, she is the only thing he wants in this life, or any life. He wants her so much it is destroying him.

He’d lost control. How could he do that? And Elizabeth had nearly been caught in the crossfire! He’d almost...if they hadn’t been interrupted, he would have...

It is abhorrent. His behavior was reprehensible at best, and utterly unforgivable at worst. What’s more, the rampant anger he’s been feeding, the terrible temper he’s turned on her? They could very well have chased her away. And he would have deserved it, fool that he is.

Somewhere along the line, James got distracted, forgot what it meant to truly put her first. He should be worshiping at her feet. He should be begging for her forgiveness.

In fact, the more he thinks on it, that is his only option. He must go to her, throw himself upon her mercy. For a life without Elizabeth would be unlivable, he knows that first hand. A life with her can only be better, even if it must be entirely on her terms.

So James lays his sopping coat out over a barrel to dry and heads toward Elizabeth’s private cabin.

Just as he is about to knock, the door swings inward, and there she is, barefoot and bewildered and no less beautiful for it. They stare at each other for half a moment before her visage settles into irritation. He is the first to break the silence, asking to come in. She lets him, folding herself onto her meager berth gracefully and demanding the reason for his visit with all the authority of a regent on her throne.

James fumbles through an apology, all the while trying to appear as deferential as possible. She needles him at first, and though he frowns, his all-encompassing fury is long gone, swept away in the maelstrom on deck and leaving behind only regret and grim humility.

He tells her what he has always known, that the brute she’d rebuked has always been inside him. Lurking. Coiled to strike. She seems hesitant to believe this, but forgives him nonetheless, offering an apology of her own.

James is so relieved he could weep, but merely stares at the floorboards instead.

Then Elizabeth declares he’s the only person she can trust. Before he even has a chance to police himself, the question is past his lips, ‘You don’t trust Sparrow?’

Her reaction could not be more unexpected. Elizabeth’s nose wrinkles in distaste, as if she is offended by the very idea. No, she doesn’t trust Jack, in fact, she doesn’t even appear to like him all that much. James is floored. She hasn’t been fooled by Jack’s charade, hasn’t fallen for him in the least. It is so unlike before, James starts to think…

‘You’ve changed.’

And she has. Not just from the precocious young girl he once saw as a sister. Not just from the blushing debutante he’d once led around the dance floor. But also from the ruthless young woman who had once demanded everything of him, even his life. Before him now...is not the same Elizabeth he’d died for. She is very similar in many ways, yes, but very different as well. And, honestly? What a tremendous revelation that is, for James is beginning to believe this Elizabeth might actually love him.

Then she starts to tease him again, familiar ground, and yet, James swallows so hard he nearly loses his tongue.

‘Indulge me.’

How could he not? James claims her lips in a desperate kiss, but she pulls away, determined to hear him give voice to his hunger. Once, he would have resisted, would have attempted to distract or parry, but now? He knows that he will give her whatever it is she asks of him. For the rest of his life.

So he imparts his ever-present need for her, of what it has made him, what it has nearly made him do. And her response is to ask why he doesn’t just give in, as she clearly wants him to.

That gives him pause. Clearly? No doubt, Elizabeth had been increasingly forward in her advances as their engagement progressed, but James had never allowed himself to make any assumptions of her intentions. She liked ruffling his feathers, liked getting under his skin. She was bold and, sometimes, wicked in her torment of him...but...he’d always thought it must be more about what she could get away with than...a means to an end.

He’d been wrong, as it turns out. Elizabeth is explicit in her description of her desire for him. It would be a lie if he said his pulse didn’t quicken at the way she says ‘inside me.’ But she doesn’t give him time to linger on that rather exquisite mental image, forging on to indicate his unkempt appearance and informing him she finds it to be appealing.

It is, of course, more than ironic that she should want him now. Now that he has nothing to offer her. And when he tells her so, she interrupts, seeming almost amused.

Through a markedly sincere speech, Elizabeth reveals that his achievements didn’t matter to her so much as they mattered to him, and James is left dumbstruck, for she’s right. Though he hadn’t been nearly as focused on his career as last time, it and his friends and his home and the life he was building...they had become important to him. Even after he had promised himself she would always come first.

And that hadn’t even been true after he’d left it all behind, for was he not still mourning the loss? Had he not been holding it against her?

Well, no more. In this moment, James decides he is to be her man in every sense of the term. He will serve whatever purpose she requires of him, be whatever she needs when she needs it. After all, he is blessed beyond measure that she even wants him to be a part of her life, especially given her newfound knowledge of his capacity for cruelty. He swears an oath to himself that he won’t become distracted again. From this day forward, he will plot his course by her heading alone.

‘What would you ask of me?’

He is handing her the helm not just for tonight, but forever. And her reply is to ask him to stay. She wants him to stay. And not only that, she assures him she is not afraid of the intensity of his feelings for her, of the man he is underneath. She wants all of him. James isn’t sure he can give it, but for her? He’ll sure as hell try.

James is much more deliberate with his kisses this time, despite the urgent voice in the back of his mind insisting he devour her then and there, on the floor, against the wall, anywhere so long as he is on her, inside her. But he tamps that impulse down. It is very possible Elizabeth doesn’t really know what’s she’s asking him for, but he does. And, if he’s going to give it to her, he intends to do it right.

Her roving hands tug at the waistband of his trousers, eagerly untucking his linen shirt. James finds he is equally eager to be free of the garment and draws away to help her. Once he is bared, heated flesh all but steaming in the comparatively cool air of the compartment, Elizabeth’s gaze lands on the ring hanging in the center of his chest. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes, and James quickly hides the damning symbol behind his back. He cannot ever truly be rid of it, for his desire to be bound to her is as constant as the passage of time, but…

He will not ask her again. And he will not cause her to feel guilty for being unable to make such a promise to him. He will take whatever she is willing to give him. No regrets.

Elizabeth smiles a soft thanks, and her fingers are on him again, caressing, exploring, investigating as she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. James is thrumming with need but holds back, remaining still beneath her ministrations. The look on her face is so appreciative, so full of almost childlike wonder, he has trouble believing it’s for him.

She pauses then, fingertips lingering over a poorly healed wound on his side. Canon blast, he remembers. It had broken three ribs and made a shrapnel pincushion out of much of his right flank. He’d survived, which is more than he could say of the fellow midshipman who had also been manning the turret at the time, but the recovery had been painful. And itchy. He’d been picking shards of wood and stone out of his skin for weeks afterward.

When he meets her fathomless brown eyes once more, he finds a sort of grief there that momentarily perplexes him. Then Elizabeth leans forward and lays a tender kiss against the puckered scar on his shoulder. The bullet he’d taken for her. He cannot know exactly what she is thinking, but James believes he may understand. And he loves her all the better for it.

Unsurprisingly, Elizabeth proves, once again, to be a quick study, drawing him down for a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and certainly nothing like anything they’d shared before that frenzied bit of unrestrained cavorting in the hallway. She tastes like sweet dreams and the sea. She tastes like home. And, as he starts to unbutton her waistcoat, James recognizes it’s because she is home. That is why he never feels complete unless he is in her presence.

Her hands drop to aid him, but James knocks them away, determined to do it himself. She allows him this concession, for which he is grateful. When he’d pictured undressing her before, and, God help him, he had pictured it often, she wasn’t wearing men’s clothing but a wedding gown. They weren’t in the belly of The Black Pearl but in his own airy, candlelit chambers. He’d imagined clean linen and an evening breeze billowing through the open window. He’d imagined all the time in the world to introduce her to the depth of his admiration.

But Elizabeth hadn’t wanted that, hadn’t wanted his fantasy. For a fantasy it was. He had sought to acquire her. To cage her. Never again.

Impatient, she steps back to shimmy out of her breeches, and James’ mouth goes dry as a bone. Her shapely legs are exceedingly tantalizing, long and pale and tapering at her ankles in a way that has his heart trying to climb out of his throat. He aches to touch her, thirsts to chart every inch of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue. God, but he wants to taste her. He has ever since she gave him that damned vulgar favor covered in her scent.

He has barely had time to rally before she shucks her shirt as well, dropping it in their growing pile of discarded clothing. James hesitates, trembling hands unsure where to start, but, as always, she is daring, placing one of them over her heart in silent invitation. And, oh! How divine she is! Truly a goddess in human form. He tells her as much, but she merely laughs at him. Fine. If she will not take him at his word, then he shall have to worship her until she knows it as surely as he does.

When he dips his head to sample the column of her elegant neck, he can feel her fingers weaving into his hair, pulling gently at the roots. His eyes flutter closed at the pleasant sensation, and he sighs against her clavicle.

Then he starts guiding her toward the bunk.

James bids her to sit, and she obeys, eyes darkening with lust as he takes a knee. It is not new to him, the fact that she seems to prefer him in a supplicatory position, but he finds, in this context, it is a supremely thrilling notion. It feels almost natural kneeling before her. Like it was what he was made to do. Like it’s where he belongs.

He takes his time with her, finally able to survey the expanse of her legs up close, before coaxing her knees apart, all the while checking her expression for any sign of reluctance. But there is none to be found. Elizabeth is stunningly enthusiastic, gamely meeting his gaze as he inches his fingertips up, ever so slowly, to touch the heat of her, finding her dripping with arousal. James’ cock throbs.

‘Christ. You’re soaking,’ he marvels in hushed tones.

She admonishes him breathlessly, without an ounce of pique, ‘I was earlier, too, but I ended up having to take care of that myself.’

The knowledge excites him, and he can’t help but picture her laid back on the pillows, fingers buried in her cunt as her face goes taut with pleasure. Did she come? Did she cry his name? He smiles.

She surely will this time.

He is delicate with her at first, plying with light brushes against her swollen petals and anchoring himself by bracing his other hand across her thigh. But when he slides a finger inside, finding her tight and eager, James picks up the pace. Her needy little moans are driving him insane.

‘God, James,’ she hisses as her hand fists in the blanket below her. ‘It’s so much better when you do it.’

Pride is a sin, he’s been told, but there’s no way the emotion that swells inside him then could be anything but right. He adds another digit to show his approval.

‘Fuck,’ Elizabeth curses as her head falls back, and James smirks, doubling down on his efforts until she gasps his name, her inner walls clamping down on him like a benediction. As she recovers, he is overtaken by the need to savor her. So he does, all the while watching her watching him as he sucks his fingers clean.

At least in this, he has managed to surprise her, Elizabeth's’ eyes going wide. He finally has the taste of her, and it’s nowhere near enough, so James intends to remedy that immediately.

Her knees are lifted over his shoulders, her heels resting against his back, and, even though it would surely kill him, he still gives her an opportunity to withdraw. But she doesn’t. Oh, no. She yanks his hair, commands him to continue, and it arcs down his spine like wildfire.

What a siren his Elizabeth has become. What rapture to be dashed upon the rocks by her leave.

James studies her as he lowers his mouth to her quim, as he navigates her slick folds with lips and tongue. When he discovers something she particularly seems to like, he does it again, fervent in his wish to please her. But she tastes so good, and he is losing himself to it, especially after her hips start bucking up to meet him. The helpless little noises she’s making are quite superb as well, and he is rigid beneath his trousers, straining against the fabric in his appetite for her.

‘James, I need to come. Now.’ The order spikes through him, and he does everything in his power to facilitate just that. She is pulling his hair again, shuddering as he snakes a hand down to fill her with his fingers once more. And then she is tipping over the edge, keening as she arches her back like a bow. James can feel her essence dribbling down his chin, shining on his cheeks. It is glorious to be the one to do this to her. But, God, if it isn’t also taking its toll on him.

Elizabeth releases a sated chuckle and drags him up for a sloppy kiss, not at all appearing to be put off by his recent vocation. He parts from her just long enough to take off his boots and returns, his breath catching as he takes in the celestial image of her spread out before him, hair shining in the dim light like a halo. Her inviting smile is pure enchantment, and he is drawn to her as the moon draws the tide.

He sets to examining the rest of her bared form as thoroughly as he can, intending to burn the map of her flesh into his mind forever. As he stops to suckle her exquisite breasts, her nails, which have been roaming his back and shoulders, dig in, and she bites back a high-pitched whine. James is gratified she’s enjoying herself, for he could no doubt make an evening of just this. But if the insistence of her fingers in his hair means anything, she’s not likely to let him linger long.

Soon, she is all but begging for him. James resists, wanting to hear her tell him exactly what she desires. But he can hardly believe he’s asking it of her, can barely recognize the husky timbre of his own voice.

Not to be outdone, Elizabeth reaches down and grabs hold of his painfully hard erection with a becoming smirk. He really should know better than to underestimate her by now. It takes him less than a minute to rid himself of his trousers and be back, her knees over his elbows as he teases her entrance.

When she does make her request aloud, cheekily, no less, James interrupts her by steadily sliding in, barely registering anything but the molten press of her enveloping him. He tries to go slowly, but it’s too much. She’s so tight. So goddamn wet. And the sounds she’s making? It’s like nothing he could ever have dreamed. His limbs are shaking with the effort of fighting the urge to bear her down and fuck her into the mattress. He tries to concentrate on the droplet of sweat trailing between his shoulder blades.

‘I can’t...I can’t…’

‘Then don’t,’ she commands, and it snaps his last thread of control.

It is a most confounding relief, finally letting go. James feels raw and exposed and frantic, and as he pounds into her, Elizabeth rewards him with wanton moans and seductive gasps of ‘more’ and ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop.’ As if he could. The friction between them is mounting, driving him further into desperation, but so is the need to show her what she’s done to him, body and soul. He is hers. Always and forever.

When her voice hitches filthily on his name, James feels her rippling around him, knows she’s close again. So he drops a hand to help her along until she clenches down on him, his name on her lips over and over, and he can’t look away, won’t stop. He grits his teeth as her spasming walls pump his cock until he can no longer bear it and pulls out to spend on his abdomen, biting his palm to stifle a shout.

She is watching him, he realizes as he vision clears, grinning from ear to ear. So is he, it seems. James is wrung out and jubilant, quickly cleaning himself off before collapsing next to her. Elizabeth snuggles close, artfully observing that they should have done this much sooner.

James can hardly disagree. He wraps her in his arms and kisses her sweaty forehead for no other reason than he can.

---

‘As you say, my love.’

He has never called her that before. Unlike Jack, James has always been very sparing with his endearments. And when she tries to, Elizabeth can’t recall more than three other times he’s called her anything but variations of her name. Silently, she decides to fix that, and, as her lover begins to doze in her arms, she ponders what she might call him in return.

Then she joins him in contented sleep.

---

Elizabeth starts awake and finds herself in an unfamiliar room. Panic begins to set in until she hears a whisper of a sigh and turns to see James laid out on his back next to her. The Pearl. She’s on The Black Pearl. A smile turns up the corners of her lips as her memory comes flooding back.

James is so peaceful in his slumber, so handsome. She takes the rare opportunity to admire, without fear of discovery, the curve of his strong jawline, the stately slope of his nose. She feels her cheeks flush as she remembers, with perfect clarity, where that same nose had been buried just a few hours ago, but effectively beats back her embarrassment. It had been lovely. Enlightening, even. She refuses to regret a single second of her hard-fought intimacy with him.

Then she spots the ring, still sitting on his chest, rising and falling with each of his steady breaths. Elizabeth begins playing with it idly, careful not to wake him. She knows she would always have made an awful wife, even to James. Perhaps especially to James. But, while she can’t regret this decision either, she still feels a dull sadness clogging her throat. He had wanted it so terribly...and she had wanted to give it to him almost solely on that merit.

She dares to hope that what she can give him will be enough.

---

When he finally rouses from his blissfully dreamless sleep, James finds his head pillowed on Elizabeth’s thigh. She smiles down at him, eyes twinkling. ‘Welcome back, James.’

He blinks up at her. ‘What are you doing?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘What does it look like I’m doing? Braiding your hair.’

He can see that. It probably would have been more helpful to ask why.

‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ she lightly admonishes when he makes a face. ‘I’m merely celebrating its liberation from that ghastly wig.’

James fights a smile of his own. ‘Just...don’t go weaving any nonsense into it.’

Elizabeth pauses in her endeavor, recognizing his jibe at Sparrow. ‘Hm. Grouse all you like, but he does possess a rather roguish charm, if you go for that sort of thing.’ He scoffs at the irony, and she affectionately pats his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Darling. I prefer my rogues to be much more...hygienic.’

James nearly chokes on his laughter, having to sit up to actually catch his breath.

‘Oh, that pleases you, does it?’ she asks, bemused.

He takes in her still bared form, the rosy blush on her cheeks. ‘Elizabeth, there is nothing about you that doesn’t please me.’

Now it’s her turn to laugh. ‘Well, I know that to be a lie,’ she contradicts good-naturedly. ‘But I think I understand why you’re in such a forgiving mood.’ She reaches out and strokes a thumb across his whiskered chin. ‘I like this. I think it suits you.’

‘It’s mostly out of necessity. I had forgotten to pack a razor, and no one on this bloody ship seems to have one I could borrow.’ He’d thought about trying to use a dagger, but the threat of accidentally slitting his own throat with an unfamiliar implement was enough to keep him from attempting.

Elizabeth smirks. ‘I should hope they didn’t! I expressly instructed them not to.’

James merely stares at her for a moment while she practically glows with the revelation of her plotting. Then he grabs her up and drags her into his lap. ‘Maybe you’d like a closer look then.’ He dips down and begins rubbing his scratchy stubble against her face as she squirms to get away, giggling like a schoolgirl.

‘Back, you bearded ruffian!’ she squeals under his onslaught, feeble fists striking at his chest. ‘I shall not be used in this fashion!’

‘And how would you prefer to be used, Miss Swann?’

She stills, briefly contemplating before leaning in so close their lips are but a hair’s breadth apart. ‘Oh, James, I thought I was clear before.’ One of her hands slides down and squeezes his burgeoning cock hard enough he sees stars.

‘Never call me Miss Swann again.’

---

Some time later, after Elizabeth has arguably had her way with him despite his still being in control, James sets about gathering his discarded clothing. When he picks up the linen shirt, Elizabeth issues an unladylike snort. ‘You might want to see that washed first.’

James quirks an eyebrow. ‘If I don’t wear it, the crew might come to certain conclusions.’

‘Never mind that those conclusions would likely be true,’ she huffs. ‘We haven’t exactly been discreet.’

‘Does that bother you?’

Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘Not at all. Unless...does it bother you?’

James smiles, warmed by her concern. ‘It would have once.’

‘But not anymore?’ Her tone is so hopeful, James’ heart skips a beat. How fortunate, he is, to love her.

‘No. Not anymore.’

---

Chapter Text

James manages to slink away from Elizabeth’s cabin without being seen, thankfully making it back to the corner he’d deposited his belongings into before so much as seeing another soul. It is a rare bit of luck that he, naturally, doesn’t trust at all. After switching out his linen shirt for the only spare he’d brought and shrugging back into his now dry frock coat, he feels somewhat less exposed and deems himself fit for duty, or whatever constitutes it aboard this ship.

There is a meager breakfast of salted pork and ship’s biscuits offered in the galley, and James sucks in a steadying breath while he listens to the crew conversing inside. He’s anxious, and the stupidity of it irks him. But when he ducks into the room and takes a seat alone to eat in silence, there seems to be a slight ripple of laughter. He glares at them all accusingly, but no one is even looking his way.

Perhaps he’s imagined it.

As the morning progresses, James thinks that less and less likely. On deck, the crew is undeniably friendlier than usual, grinning or tipping their hats in greeting, and, as he passes them, Ragetti giggles and Pintel leers. He always leers, but today it feels...on purpose. When the white-haired mute actually winks at him, James is positive he’s the butt of some shipwide joke. He resolves to ignore the lot of them.

If they think for an instant they can hurt him with finally bedding the love of his life, then the joke is most certainly on them. He just hopes Elizabeth doesn’t catch wind of it. She’s apt to respond less passively to their teasing.

When Elizabeth finally emerges from below and joins Sparrow on the deck, James tries his best not to be completely distracted by her and fails just as spectacularly as before. She is noticeably in a better mood today, all sparkling smiles and genuine laughter that he can hear even from a distance. He is charmed by the change, but the others have patently noted it as well, and James feels their eyes on him even if he doesn’t see them.

They cannot find that bloody chest fast enough.

---

Sometime midday, James is pointedly not watching Elizabeth where she is perched in the rigging practicing knots. She seems to be considering the length of rope in her hands very seriously before looking up and locking eyes with him across the deck. With a smirk, she pulls the line taut and then proceeds to wind it around her hand. James flushes, swallowing hard at the devilish gleam in her gaze.

He is interrupted in his panicked arousal by movement in his peripheral, and turns to see Fitz standing next to him, blessedly, if uncharacteristically, quiet for once. It is so jarring, James is almost alarmed. Almost.

The boy doesn’t remain so for long, though, shuffling his feet before pronouncing, ‘Thank you for last night.’

James blinks. Of all the things he remembers from the previous evening, Fitz isn’t registering as having been involved in any of them. ‘Last night,’ he repeats, waiting for clarification.

‘In the storm. You helped me,’ he prompts with a frown. ‘I was pretty useless and almost took a dip. You sent me below and took my portion of the work.’

Now James remembers. Had that really been last night? It’s felt so much longer. ‘Ah, yes. Don’t trouble yourself over it.’

‘Don’t trouble myself?’ Fitz repeats incredulously. ‘Well, it might all be business as usual for you, but I could have died, you know. So it matters some to me that you stepped in. You don’t have to get all-’ He clicks his heels together and goes straight, pantomiming James’ posture and mannerisms with an exaggerated scowl.

James rolls his eyes. ‘In that case, you are welcome. And you can stop that now.’

Fitz does, adopting a cheeky grin as he ties off a few lines and launches into some rambling anecdote James wearily checks out of.

Now that he isn’t so preoccupied with his own emotional turmoil, James takes a moment to actually study the boy. His cheeks, nose, and the tops of his ears are peeling from a recent sunburn and fine creases have started to gather at the corners of his warm, dark eyes from squinting in the sun. James notices his lips almost disappear whenever he smiles, which is constantly. Fitz is as exuberant as Will had been dour at his age.

Still, James can’t help but find some similarities between the two. Fitz is flighty, tenacious, and genuine. All wiry muscle and the desire to prove himself. But he is so damn talkative as to bring on an abrupt headache every time he comes around. This makes James miss Will all the more. There’s something to be said for companionable silence.

As he continues to prattle on, Fitz crosses to the gunwale, slumping back against it, and James surreptitiously wanders over to inspect his work. The last thing they need is for a poorly anchored line to come loose because it’s securer had been distracted. And Fitz is always distracted. But…

‘These knots are flawless,’ James interjects with a modicum of surprise.

Fitz halts in his monologue, eyes going wide as though he’d been caught in some misdeed. Then his mien turns sheepish. ‘Yeah...Marty’s been teaching me. Says I may become a decent sailor yet!’

James keeps his opinions on that to himself, but smiles nonetheless, which Fitz cheerfully latches on to.

‘You’re in good spirits today, I see!’ the boy beams. ‘Well, comparatively, I guess. Did something happen?’

‘You could say that,’ James equivocates, intent to leave it at that. If Fitz doesn’t already know, he isn’t keen to inform him.

When it becomes clear James isn’t going to explain, Fitz chews his lip thoughtfully. ‘You know, I heard the crew talking about you.’ James stiffens a bit until the boy elaborates, ‘About who you are. Or used to be, I mean.’

James scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘I can’t imagine they’ve been overly kind in their description.’

‘Uh, well...not all of them,’ Fitz hedges tellingly. ‘But the general word is that you’re a wicked shot and a hell of a sailor.’

As he isn’t sure how to take that, James remains quiet.

‘I knew about you before, though. I mean, you were famous, mate! ‘The Scourge of Piracy.’ A hero. The kids in my building used to pretend to be you. With sticks as swords, you see. Talk was, you were on the fast track to the Admiralty.’

James is immensely uncomfortable with the idea that children pretend to be him.

‘Everyone knows what they do to deserters. I guess I just can’t understand why you would give it all up. Fame and respect and all that hard work. Why would you abandon everything like that?’

It is a highly impertinent question, but James has come to expect such from Fitz. And it is a fair thing to be curious of. His answer startles him in its sincerity, in how easily it tumbles from his lips.

‘Because I fell in love.’

There is a beat of silence before Fitz chuckles. ‘Such sentiment.’

Something hard has threaded into his voice, and it draws James’ attention. Fitz’s brows have lowered as he stares into the distance, giving his face lines that make him appear somehow older. Colder. His eyes glint like flint in the sunlight as the corners of his lips tilt sardonically.

Then, as sudden as it was there, the expression is gone, and Fitz almost looks embarrassed in its wake. ‘But I suppose we should all be so lucky, right?’ He pushes off the rail and starts ambling away before turning back to drop over his shoulder, ‘I hope she’s worth it, James. For your sake.’

Then he’s gone, leaving James behind to puzzle out what just happened. Not for long, though, for Elizabeth approaches shortly after, an amused air about her.

‘Playing nice?’

‘Nice enough,’ James returns. ‘Have you spoken with Fitz at all?’

She shakes her head, a stray lock of hair falling into her eyes which she tucks beneath the band of her rather jaunty little tricorn. ‘Not beyond pleasantries. But if the rest of the crew is to be believed, I’ve gotten off quite lucky for it.’

‘He’s not all that bad,’ James grumbles.

Elizabeth smiles knowingly. ‘Remind you of someone?’

He is slightly troubled by how transparent he feels. ‘I can’t get anything past you.’

She laughs merrily, like the tinkling of silver bells. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you even try.’

James clears his throat, changing the subject. ‘Has the crew, uh...they haven’t been treating you differently?’

‘No. Why? Have they been you?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Do I need to have a word with them on your behalf?’ She teases, mirth brightening her eyes.

‘Of course not,’ James grouses. ‘Forget I mentioned it.’

‘If you insist.’ And with that, she saunters off toward the quarter deck. James is captivated by the sway of her hips as she goes, his mouth practically watering as his heart pounds like a drum behind his ribs. It’s very inconvenient, this hold she has over him. Inconvenient and supremely enjoyable.

---

‘Goddamn piece of junk!’ Elizabeth curses, shaking Jack’s compass violently in her right hand before snapping it open again. Like all the times before, the needle oscillates briefly before pointing behind her. She doesn’t even have to look to know its destination. She heaves an exasperated sigh before leaning her elbows on her knees, her chin propped in her palm.

She is seated cross-legged on the front end of the fo’c’sle, staring out at the dark waves that pass under the bowsprit. She’d had to come here to get away from Jack and his continual questions over her given heading, which have all been answered with lies. Elizabeth has no idea where they’re going, no idea where the chest is, and, most importantly, no idea how they’re going to be able to help Will.

In truth, she’d been hoping that after last night, and earlier that morning as well, she would be in a position where the compass could be of some use to her. But no. Even after finally convincing James to take her, and, God, but he did take her, he seems to still be the primary object of her desire.

To be fair, it does make some sense. Now that Elizabeth knows the perfect pleasure to be found in his arms, she can’t help but formulate a plan on how she might make it happen again. And soon. She bites her lip as she remembers the pained ecstasy on James’ face when he was fully sheathed inside her, the guttural moan he had released when she pulled his hair. Being with him had been so much more than relief, it had been empowering. There is a completely different facet to him that she has yet to explore, and the knowledge of it has piqued her interest in the worst way.

So much so, she is resolutely unable to do the one thing she’d been brought on this ship for in the first place.

‘A fine bloody mess you’ve gotten into,’ she admonishes herself with a huff.

‘I cannot disagree, but I am curious which specific mess you might be referring to.’

Elizabeth turns to see James lingering at the top of the stairs behind her, the preamble of a smile on his lips. She wonders how long he’s been there. ‘I was talking to myself. And it’s rude sneak up on people, you know.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was sneaking.’ He takes in her poorly hidden distress and asks, ‘Is there a problem?’

There is. A big one, really. But Elizabeth already feels monumentally foolish over the whole affair...to say it out loud… ‘No. I mean...yes. You’ll laugh at me.’

He crosses over and crouches next to her, visage serious. ‘I won’t. I promise.’

Well, that’s something. James, at least, keeps his promises. She grimaces, but decides to tell him.

‘It’s this wretched compass,’ she complains. ‘I can’t get it to work.’

He raises a brow as he watches her turn it over in her hands. ‘Did it ever?’

‘Not since you climbed aboard this ship, it hasn’t.’ She pops it open, and it spins twice before, once again, landing on James. ‘See? Useless! I’m supposed to be leading us to Will, but all it does is point to you.’

‘I’m...not sure I understand.’

‘It’s supposed to point to whatever you want most. Theoretically, I want to find this chest so that we can use whatever’s inside to help Will. But…’ She meets his eyes and finds them dancing as he fights a smile.

‘You promised!’ She pouts as she clambers to her feet.

‘I didn’t laugh,’ he points out evenly, rising as well.

‘Not out loud, maybe. But I could hear it all the same.’ Elizabeth blows a few stray tendrils of hair out of her eyes. ‘I had thought…’ Now she battles a blush that threatens to climb her neck and lay siege to her cheeks. ‘I thought that perhaps after last night...it might…’

James is offering her no mercy on the subject, seemingly enjoying her embarrassment.

‘This is serious, James! We can’t just keep sailing around blind. Will is in danger! Time could be running out!’

He scratches his chin before offering, ‘Have you told Sparrow? About your...difficulties?’

Elizabeth’s brows draw in a deep frown. ‘Absolutely not.’ She knows she must eventually, but the prospect is too unbearable to even think of. Too humbling by half. ‘Here,’ she holds out the offending item and demands, ‘You try it.’

The bemused expression is back. ‘Surely you don’t think I’ll get a more conclusive result.’ But he accepts it from her anyway and...it points to her. He takes a few steps from side to side to test it, and the needle follows.

‘I see.’ Elizabeth sighs with a tired smile. ‘Well, while deeply flattering, that is of no help whatsoever.’

James seems to ponder that seriously for a minute, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he thinks. She resists the urge to reach up and stroke it.

‘...I could talk to Jack.’

‘And tell him what, exactly? That I’ve been lying to him for days and am an utter wanton besides?’

His lips curve briefly at her choice of words. ‘A gentleman does not kiss and tell, Elizabeth. But I meant asking if someone else might try. There are others on this ship.’ When she continues to be unconvinced he adds, ‘Surely, it is a better option than doing nothing?’

‘I don’t need you to fight my battles, James.’ She means it, although some small part of her is eager to wash her hands of the entire situation.

‘I know that,’ he assures softly. ‘But this is likely to be less of a battle and more ribald teasing and thinly veiled innuendos. If you want to face him, then by all means. I just meant that-’

‘Fine,’ she interrupts, trying to hide her piteous relief. ‘Just...make sure he knows it was your idea.’

James quirks a brow again, as he so often does in her presence. ‘I am capable of being discreet.’

Elizabeth is dubious, but she sends him off with her blessing all the same.

---

James finds Sparrow at the helm, Gibbs at his elbow. Though he is still exceedingly unsure of this plan, it is the only one he has. He clears his throat before taking the plunge. ‘Captain, if I might have a word?’

Jack sniffs, not even bothering to look at him. ‘No one’s stopping you.’

‘I meant in private.’

The pirate slides his shrewd gaze to James and purses his lips in consideration before saying, ‘Very well. Mr. Gibbs, if you would be so kind.’ Then he leads the way to the navigation room.

Once inside, Sparrow immediately moves to put the large table between the two of them, seemingly wary of an altercation. ‘So. What’s this about...Jim? Jamie? Jimothy? What do I call you?’

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ James sighs with a furtive glance back at the closed door. ‘Listen, Sparrow...I know where the chest is.’

Jack’s eyes widen at first before narrowing to slits. ‘And how, pray tell, could you possibly possess that information?’

James braces himself against the back of a wooden chair and crosses his arms over his chest. This is a risky maneuver, but he honestly can’t see any other recourse. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so I’ll save us both some time and keep my source to myself.’

Sparrow smirks. ‘Well, that’s not much of an incentive for me to trust you then, is it?’

‘Of the two of us,’ James observes wryly, ‘I think it’s fair to say I have the better record for being trustworthy.’

Jack can’t really argue with that, but he tries to anyway. ‘Ah, yes, but it’s the honest ones you always have to worry about.’

Whatever that means. ‘Why would I waste your time?’

‘I don’t know. Why would you?’

James is starting to get another headache. Why must it always be a game with this man? ‘What have you to lose, Sparrow?’

The pirate’s brows lower. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’

‘Well, so have I.’ Meaning Will. Meaning Elizabeth. Meaning his history and his sanity and his life.

The statement hangs in the air for a whole minute before Sparrow speaks again, tone cautiously disinterested. ‘Alright. Let’s say for a second that I’m willing to entertain the idea that you have this knowledge. What would it cost me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘...nothing?’

James tries not to roll his eyes. ‘Yes, nothing. I’ll just tell you.’

Another beat of silence before Jack breaks into a lopsided grin. ‘Not too good at this whole bargaining thing, are you, mate?’

‘Do you want to know or not?’

Sparrow leans forward, hands spread on the table before him, and nods. ‘Go on, then.’

This is it. The point of no return. James swallows down the bile in his throat. ‘Isla Cruces.’

Jack’s eyes narrow again as he searches James’ face for a lie. ‘Isla Cruces? Really?’

In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Yes. The beach on the lee side of the island. You can see the ruins of the church from there.’

Now the pirate’s tone is almost accusing. ‘That is a very specific location.’

‘Perhaps it came to me in a dream.’

They stare at each other for some time then, James refusing to give an inch on the very remarkable circumstance by which he came to have this bit of intelligence and Jack seeming to size him up, inscrutable in his calculations.

Eventually, Sparrow sighs and journeys the short distance to a cluttered sideboard, pushing aside a pile of parchment to get at a crystal decanter. He pours himself a glass of what looks to be brandy and wordlessly offers one to James, who readily accepts. Once that’s done, the pirate drops into a chair nearby. ‘You know,’ he muses as he swirls his drink, ‘this has become a bit of a pattern with you.’

James refuses to react, merely sipping his own beverage and finding it to be a surprisingly good vintage. Sparrow continues despite his efforts not to engage.

‘It’s common knowledge on the high seas that you’ve an almost preternatural sense of your enemies’ minds. What’s the French term? Clairvoyant?’

‘Hardly,’ James scoffs. ‘It’s all rumors.’

Jack’s eyes glitter as he leans back, propping his booted feet on the table. ‘Yes, you see, that’s what I always figured. But then I met you. And, despite us never having crossed swords, you knew exactly who I was. I could see it in your eyes.’

A shiver skates down James’ spine, but he stands his ground, refusing to show his uneasiness.

A smile and a shrug. ‘You still let me go, which was unexpected. Though not unappreciated, I might add. Right generous of you, all things considered.’

‘More the fool I, for then you commandeered my fastest ship.’

Sparrow chuckles. ‘Aye. That I did. Not me best work, but still. Mighty satisfying.’ He taps the side of his nose dramatically. ‘But that’s off topic. What really interests me is this: you believed in the curse.’

James keeps his voice as neutral as possible. ‘Elizabeth told me all about it. I believed it on those merits.’

Now Jack actually throws back his head in laughter, the beads in his hair swaying with the movement. ‘On those merits, my ass! Any other man would have written it off as the ravings of a hysterical woman. Too much sun. Drank seawater. Shock. But not you. You bought in hook, line, and sinker.’

James frowns as Sparrow knocks back the rest of his brandy. ‘What’s your point?’

‘My point is, you already knew about the bloody curse. That’s why you changed your plan as soon as I left.’ He sets his empty glass on the table with a clink, his countenance unreadable. ‘Brilliant, by the way. I hadn’t expected them to ‘take a walk.’’

‘Then you let me go a second time, risking your position in the process.’ James opens his mouth to interject, but Jack stops him with a raised hand. ‘Don’t deny it. William told me everything.’

‘And now this. Isla Cruces. Another example of your seeming omniscience in action.’ A sly smile splits Sparrow’s features, and James feels inexplicably cornered.

‘You know too much, James Norrington. There’s more to you than meets the eye. One might even think you’ve done this before.’ Then the pirate shrugs again and averts his gaze. ‘Makes me right glad you’re on my side.’

James almost laughs, though there would have been no humor in it. ‘Don’t delude yourself, Sparrow. I’ve never been on your side.’

This only serves to amuse Jack all the more. ‘Just so,’ he simpers. ‘And does Lizzie know the true nature of this visit?’

It is precarious no matter how he replies. Either way, if Sparrow deems it necessary to relay it to her, Elizabeth will be upset by James’ actions here. And, no doubt, full of questions he cannot answer. In the end, he decides to be honest, hoping Jack will honor his wishes for no other reason than he sees no profit in going against them.

‘No. And I would prefer to keep it that way.’

Sparrow smirks, but there is warmth in his eyes. ‘I bet you would.’ In a flurry of movement, he’s out of his chair and back at the sideboard, this time, bringing the decanter with him. When he raises it in offering, James shakes his head. ‘Suit yourself.’ He pulls out the lid with his teeth and spits it onto the table as he settles into his seat once more, taking a long swig.

James is mildly disgusted and sets the rest of his own drink aside. ‘Sparrow...why does Beckett hate you so much?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ Jack’s tone is passively defensive even if his posture is relaxed.

‘Curiosity, mostly,’ James hazards with no small degree of sarcasm, ‘that, and I thought we were building a rapport.’

Jack snorts, but responds nonetheless. ‘The honorable Lord Beckett hired me some years ago for a number of jobs. The last one...I was to deliver a ship full of cargo to his patron, Viscount Penwallow. But...I didn’t.’ He takes another pointed pull from the bottle. ‘People aren’t cargo, mate. But that doesn’t make a lick of difference to Beckett. Eventually, he caught up with me. Had me thrown in a dark hole. Gave me this.’ He gestures to the brand hidden beneath his shirtsleeve. ‘No doubt he had more creative means of torture in mind, but I got loose before he could get to it.’ He lifts his fingers to pantomime a pistol. ‘Gave him a mark of me own in return.’

‘You shot him?’

‘I intended to kill him. Bloody well deserved it. But no food, water, or sunlight for a week will do things to a man’s aim. I got him in the hip and ran.’ Jack cracks his knuckles with a smirk. ‘But I guess it severed some sort of artery or nerve or something. Word is, since then, he hasn’t been able to...shall we say, stand at attention.’

James’ eyes go wide before he erupts into explosive laughter. ‘You castrated him!?’

Sparrow is taken aback by this response, something like awe on his face. ‘As I said, not me intent. But I’ve managed to live with it.’

This only causes James to laugh harder, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. ‘I always assumed he was merely compensating for his height!’

Now Jack laughs too. ‘In retrospect, I suppose it is rather hilarious. But the unfortunate consequence is now he will never leave me be.’

James composes himself with some effort, but can’t seem to wipe off his absurd grin. ‘No doubt. I do not envy you that.’

After a few moments, a pensive look settles over Sparrow’s face. ‘You know...I had the occasion once to meet your father.’

That sobers James instantly, as though he’s been doused in cold water.

‘I was quite young at the time. He was...a cruel man. It’s good to see you’re nothing like him.’

James has no idea what to say to that. A compliment? From Jack? He suspiciously scours the pirate's expression for any evidence it had been a joke, but Sparrow stretches languidly and then rises.

‘Well, I’m off to give the helmsman our heading. Thanks for the tip, Jamie.’

‘Wait,’ James prompts, and then tosses Jack the compass. There is an inquiry in Sparrow’s eyes, so he clarifies, ‘it will be easier to avoid interrogation if you pretend to use it.’

Jack releases a bark of laughter. ‘Deception! From you!? Will these wonders never cease?’ He brushes past on his way to the door. ‘Feel free to stay and finish your drink. Then report back to your post, sailor.’

‘Yes, sir.’ It is the first time James has ever said it without being consumed by hatred.

---

Jack is the first to quit their exclusive congress, offering Elizabeth a playful wink when he catches sight of her and then heading up the stairs to the quarter deck. It is several more minutes before James emerges, a smile on his lips. She approaches him forthwith.

‘What happened?’ she asks, bewildered by his good humor.

James shrugs. ‘We came to an understanding.’

She peppers him with questions, all off which he deftly dodges, assuring her he hadn’t had to mention her at all. Then he grins, so boyishly handsome with it, her heart lurches in her chest.

‘Wait until you hear what he’s just told me about Beckett.’

Elizabeth leans in, her fingers playing over the lapels of his jacket. ‘You know, I think I’d very much like that. Might I persuade you to accompany me to my cabin so that we may discuss it in private?’

At first, James merely blinks in surprise, and she worries he may refuse her. But then his smile is back in full force, mischief sparking in his green eyes. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

---

Chapter Text

As it turns out, James doesn’t get around to relaying his news about Beckett until some time later, having been substantially distracted by Elizabeth in the meantime. The door had only just closed behind them when she leapt upon him, thrusting her hands into his hair, dragging his mouth to hers.

Patience has never been one of Elizabeth’s oft practiced virtues, and she is utterly unapologetic for it. They are still mostly clothed this time, and she rides him slowly, eyes screwed shut against the pleasure of it. She is absolutely delighted at being so in control while James struggles to stifle the helpless gasping moans he breathes against her lips.

At next meal time, she plops herself on the bench beside him and carries on an entire (if mostly one-sided) conversation with Fitz, all the while teasing James beneath the table, working him loose of his trousers with deft fingers to explore the length of him. The chatty young sailor is adorably oblivious, she thinks. When James drops his face into his hand with a ragged sigh, forgotten fork in his fist, Fitz pauses long enough to ask after his health.

James abruptly knocks her hand away and rights himself before pushing back from the table and marching out of the galley, scowling all the way. Elizabeth merely shrugs in answer to Fitz’s questioning. ‘Perhaps it was something he ate.’ Fitz eyes James’ mostly untouched plate dubiously, but launches back into his previous story soon enough.

Not more than five minutes later, Elizabeth makes her own excuses and departs, only to be ambushed in the hallway. James’ eyes are dark with lust as he tugs her into the corner, hissing into her ear, ‘You are a wicked thing. Someone ought to put you over their knee.’ Her tactful response is to turn and catch his bottom lip between her teeth.

This earns her a frustrated growl as James hoists her over his shoulder and packs her back down to her cabin for a markedly rougher version of his previous ravishing of her.

She is learning to enjoy pushing him to roughness.

Later still, he takes her against the wall in the navigation room. Her idea, of course. Though she may be impatient, Elizabeth is not needlessly reckless. She had made sure Jack would be significantly distracted elsewhere beforehand. It’s not as if they would require very much time.

James initially resists, anxious about the location and risk of discovery, but Elizabeth is now aware of his great weakness for dirty talk, and sets to intimating in hushed tones exactly what she wants him to do to her. He does not hold out long under such an explicit onslaught, choking back a groan as his mouth covers hers, and his hands fumble with the ties of her breeches.

Maybe it should perturb her, but the threat of being caught in such a compromising position only makes her all the more desperate for him.

Elizabeth is, in a word, insatiable. The taste of his skin, the warmth of his hungry lips, the sinful perfection of him moving inside her. Every moment they are not intertwined, she is thinking on how she might make it happen again. Every interaction in front of the crew feels flooded with subtext, dripping with promise.

She has always loved James. Admired him. Adored him. But now...things are different in the best of ways. Though he is still circumspect around the others, he smiles easier, laughs more. He is casual in his joking with her, almost carefree. All the tension she’s been accustomed to seeing him carry, since the day they were introduced some years ago, seems to evaporate whenever they are together.

And James loves her. He tells her in a hundred tiny ways: soft smiles and chaste stolen kisses and playing with her hair during their quieter moments. He is so obviously, incandescently happy, her heart swells.

If only they could sail like this forever.

---

Isla Cruces. It’s been a lifetime since he was last here, but, in some inexplicable way, it feels to James as though a part of him never left the cursed, sandy beach. That he will encounter the hollowed-out, shadow of a man he once was haunting the crumbling churchyard.

Even from the shallows, as they row the launch ashore, the overbearing menace of the island weighs on him, on all of them. Suffering and death has been absorbed into the very air the way the flavor of a barrel permeates through the whiskey held within. It has created an invisible miasma that clings to the skin, clogs one’s pores with uneasy dread.

James mans one oar, Fitz the other. The boy had begged to come ashore, eager for ‘honest to God, proper pirate shit.’ Sparrow had agreed with an observable amount of exasperation but made Fitz swear, in return, not to speak a single word unless asked. So far, he’s managed to keep his end of the bargain, though it is evidently a struggle to do so, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he constantly reminds himself of his agreement.

Elizabeth is seated in the rear of the skiff, back ramrod straight as she surveys their destination with narrowed eyes. Whether it is due to the intensity of her scrutiny or a reaction to the relentless sun beating down on them, James can’t be sure. Perhaps a bit of both. When she catches him studying her, she offers wan smile and an emphatic shrug toward Sparrow, who is positioned much as before: wedged in the bow, hunched over his glass jar filled with dirt.

After they start inland, Jack directing Fitz to stay and watch the boat, James is struck by how much it all still looks the same: the sparse shrubby growth leading up to the green wall of the dense jungle, the warm, gritty wind blowing the palms almost sideways in its furor. He is able to approximate the location of the chest fairly easily, and silently signals Sparrow toward it behind Elizabeth’s back. He is then called forward to start digging.

The hollow ‘thunk’ indicating he’s struck something pulls the others in and, together, they work the chest from the sand. Inside there are letters, piles of them, intermingled with dried flowers and other small tokens. James hadn’t paid them any mind before, but now, after having spent some time in the rather unfortunate company of Jones, he feels a minute pang of sorrow that catches him by surprise.

He understands what it is to be driven to extremes by heartbreak...or by running from it.

And then, Jack lifts out a smaller chest, carved with tentacled reliefs. All three lean in to hear the dull thud of its contents. Elizabeth is the first to speak.

‘It’s...it’s real. I didn’t think…’ She gapes at Sparrow. ‘You were actually telling the truth.’

‘I do that quite a lot. Yet people are always surprised.’

James tries not to roll his eyes and deadpans, ‘Yes. Such a mystery, that.’

Jack shoots him a glare as Elizabeth runs her fingers over the chest, lingering on the hole in the front. ‘Look here. It needs a key. Where are we supposed to get that?’

‘Ah,’ Sparrow sighs, sitting back on his heels. ‘Well, there are other irons in the fire, Love.’

Other irons meaning Turner, James surmises as he scans the beach. Will is not there to offer a sarcastic rebuttal himself, however, and it is worrisome. Has he failed to escape from The Dutchman? Had they tarried too long and missed him? James frowns as Sparrow lurches to his feet and offers Elizabeth a hand up, which she ignores.

‘Best get this back to The Pearl,’ the pirate grunts, tucking the chest under an arm.

‘And what of all this?’ Elizabeth asks, gesturing to the larger box filled with fluttering parchment.

Jack raises a brow. ‘You’re welcome to it, Lizzie. But I think it will be hard to lug it back, don’t you?’

She huffs in answer and then pushes past him, making a beeline for the coast.

As they crest the final dune it becomes apparent there are two men standing near the lifeboat when they had left only one. Fitz is clearly having some disagreement with the other, who turns to see them and starts their way. It isn’t long before his identity is discernible.

James has never been happier to see Will Turner in either of his lives.

‘Will!’ Elizabeth gasps, racing out to meet him, and James notes Sparrow slowing considerably in his peripheral. As he nears, James is relieved to find them merely embracing, though he feels uncharitable for it.

‘We came to find you.’ Elizabeth grins up into Will’s face and turns to gesture toward James. Turner’s eyes follow and then widen once they meet James’ own.

‘Hello, Will,’ he nods.

‘James.’ Turner pulls away from Elizabeth and takes a cautious step forward as he gives him a quick once-over. ‘You’re not in uniform.’

Ever keen to state the obvious. ‘So it would seem.’ James lets the statement hang for a moment before breaking into a smile. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘What a blessed reunion this is.’ Sparrow appears at James’ elbow, and Will’s fond expression instantly settles into bitter disgust.

‘Blessed?’ Turner sneers. ‘Certainly not through any effort on your part.’

Elizabeth’s hackles are up at the accusation. ‘What does he mean, Jack?’

‘I mean that he sold me to The Dutchman in exchange for his own life.’

‘And is that true?’ she spits at Sparrow in outrage.

Jack purses his lips as he weighs his options, gripping the chest a bit tighter when he finally replies. ‘Fraid so, Love. But I did have some very good reasons.’

‘Don’t you always?’ James scoffs, earning a sideways glance from the pirate.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Will intones derisively. ‘What does matter is that I met my father on that godforsaken ship. And I intend to save him.’ With that, he draws the sword from his belt and points it at Jack. ‘Give me the chest.’

‘To what end, William?’ Jack retorts, his voice taking that tone it gets when he’s bargaining for something and thinks he has the upper hand.

‘If I kill Jones, my father is released from his curse.’

‘I thought that might be the case.’ Now Sparrow drops the chest to his feet and draws his own blade in one fluid movement. ‘See, I can’t let you. If Jones is dead, who’s to call off his beastie?’

It’s not quite the same, but still, the way things are progressing is all too familiar. James’ eyes flick down to the hilt of his own weapon. A part of him is tempted to lean into the disorienting deja vu he is experiencing, to live up to the singular role it seems fate has deigned to cast him in.

Until Elizabeth unsheathes her sword as well.

‘You gutless snake. How could you? Everything you told me was a lie!’

Emboldened by Elizabeth’s martial support, Will closes the distance, yanking the key from his neck. ‘Unlike you, I keep my promises, Jack.’

‘Wait!’ James stretches out a hand, and Will freezes in his advance. Elizabeth, too, pauses in her verbal assault and regards him, visage curious. ‘I can’t let you do it either, Will.’

Turners eyes narrow. ‘You don’t understand. My father-’

‘I do understand,’ James interrupts urgently. ‘But not like this. It is-’ He inches to the right, carefully placing himself between Turner and the chest...and Sparrow. ‘The cost is too great.’

‘I swore an oath, James.’ Desperation has started to lace into the man’s words. ‘I can’t leave him there. I won’t lose him again.’

James lowers his hands to his sides. ‘Please, Will. We’ll find another way. But you have to trust me.’

For a few tense moments, all talk ceases, nature’s symphony filling the void with the crash of the surf and the rustle of the high winds through the trees. James watches as the fight melts from Turner’s face before he lowers his sword.

‘I do trust you.’

James has all of a second to feel relieved before the crack of a gunshot rings out, and the sand at Will’s feet explodes in response. All four of them turn to find the source, and James' stomach drops at the sight of the company of red and gold clad EITC soldiers that are making their way down the hill, rifles ready.

The ranking officer halts and hits a brace. ‘Orders, sir?’

James feels the demanding gaze of his companions upon him and panics, eyes darting from the marines to Elizabeth and back. No. This isn’t right. He hasn’t betrayed anyone this time. He’d deserted. Abandoned his post and his men and the bloody EITC. He’s just about to spit his denial when another voice interrupts.

‘Well done, lads. They never saw you coming.’

Fitz steps into view, pistol drawn, its barrel pointed directly at Elizabeth. ‘Gentlemen, Miss Swann, you will now drop your weapons.’

The incredulity in Elizabeth’s eyes mirrors James’ own, while Jack sulks, and Will merely looks confused.

Fitz chuckles, all friendliness leached from his tone as he pulls back the hammer. ‘That was not a request.’

One by one, they are disarmed, the soldiers coming forward to surround them. Fitz tucks his firearm back into his belt and surveys them all with an arch appreciation as he rocks back on his heels.

‘Well. I must say, this is even better than I’d hoped. Every single one of you all in the same location. It’s like Christmas, really.’ The gutter accent is gone, along with the disarming slump of his shoulders. The hardened look James had glimpsed before is back, his eyes glinting like obsidian in the sunlight. He smirks wickedly when he returns James’ gaze, and it ages him drastically.

‘I suppose I should be thanking you, Norrington.’ The smile broadens, a cold flash of teeth. ‘Would have been considerably more difficult if you hadn’t led me straight to them.’

And he had, hadn’t he? Fitz had been tailing him since his departure from Port Royal, so obvious in his pursuit he had even introduced himself. James had been so focused on his hurt, his anger at Elizabeth, he had allowed himself to become careless. He had let his emotions overcome his reason. And now Elizabeth is in danger. His eyes fall closed in shame.

‘So what now, Fitzy? If that really is your name.’ This from Sparrow, who is shrewdly eyeing his former hire from James’ right.

‘Lord Beckett desires the contents of that chest. If I deliver it, he’s offered to promote me. Seeing as the ranking officer of Port Royal has recently run off.’ He throws James a cutting grin. ‘Shame about that. I really did used to look up to you, but, honestly? I expected more.’ He slants his eyes toward Elizabeth. ‘Such sentiment was...disappointing.’

Then the man takes a step back, his voice carrying as he continues on. ‘The lot of you will be coming with me. There are warrants out for each of you, and I’m sure Lord Beckett will be most grateful to have done with this in one fell swoop.’

With that, Fitz makes a circling motion and the soldiers draw closer, shackles in their hands.

They don’t get the chance to use them before a scout comes scrambling over the embankment shouting, ‘Sir! It’s Jones! They've-’

He’s stopped short by a pike promptly stabbing out through his chest.

Pandemonium ensues. Jones’ nightmarish crew comes flooding down onto the beach, intent to kill, and, with the EITC soldier nearest him significantly distracted, James is given the opportunity to rearm himself just before he is set upon by a pirate with a conch for a head. He parries a wild blow meant for his neck and uses the resulting momentum to take the villain in the gut before delivering a kick that sends him back onto his ass in the sand.

The battle raging around him is a whirlwind of clashing steel, gold brocade, and putrid flesh. James manages to maneuver himself closer to where Elizabeth has reclaimed her sword and is holding her own against two of Jones’ foul creatures, but he is nearly caught in the side by an errant cutlass and realizes, if he is to survive this encounter, he has to pay more attention to his immediate surroundings. Thus resolved, he sets to taking as many of the bastards down as he can.

It could have been minutes or it could have been days before James gets Fitz in his sights. The cur is headed after Sparrow, who is hunched over the beached lifeboat, his purpose, James can only guess.

‘Fitzpatrick!’ James booms, sidestepping an attack by one of his various foes before striding forward. Fitz turns, the blood spattered across his face making the white of his toothy grin all the more startling. James levels his blade at him in a challenge, brows drawn.

Fitz laughs. ‘There, now, James. It was nothing personal, you understand?’

‘I understand that you are a liar,’ James retorts darkly. ‘You may think you played me for a fool, and perhaps you have. But I would set that to rights.’

‘Fair enough,’ the man responds, and in a flash his pistol is out and pointed at James. ‘But then, I’ve no mind to fight fair.’

Fitz fires just as one of Jones’ men slams into him from the side, taking him off his feet. James quickly glances down, his hand roaming the front of his shirt to find himself unharmed. Some small mercy. It is at that moment that Will appears at James' side, a cut on his brow leaking blood into his eye. ‘We have to get out of here. We’re outnumbered.’

James swings around to find Elizabeth is making her way backward toward Jack, motioning wildly in their direction as she fends off another barnacled attacker before taking off his arm in a violent swing. But the chest? The chest is nowhere to be seen.

‘Very well, Mr. Turner. Lead the way.’

---

Some of the soldiers rally enough to loose a volley their direction as James and Will row the launch back toward The Pearl, but the moving target proves too difficult to hit. Elizabeth presses Sparrow on the location of the chest, but he merely smiles smugly and taps the side of his nose. ‘Worry not. Ol’ Jack has his ways.’

James frowns, not reassured by that in the least. It is too familiar by half.

---

Sparrow does not, in fact, have possession of the heart as he’d believed. James watches him sift through the smashed remains of his jar of dirt in a frenzy, too hollow to feel anything but detached amusement. Any subsequent efforts on Jack’s part to parlay with Jones fail, and the Kraken is sent after them.

The ensuing struggle is like nothing James has ever experienced, sea monsters generally being outside his purview. And, though Turner’s plan involving the remaining powder barrels and rum stores is successful, it still doesn’t kill the beast. They must abandon ship or perish.

---

Freedom. He tastes like rum and spice and freedom. As Elizabeth shackles Captain Jack Sparrow to the mast of his beloved Pearl, she feels him smile against her lips. Lips that found his for the express purpose of leaving him to die.

‘It’s after you, not the ship.’

He knows. And what’s worse, he understands. The gleam in his eye says everything.

‘I’m not sorry.’

And she isn’t. Not really. And neither is he.

‘Pirate.’

A compliment. A curse. A confirmation that he’s had her pegged since the very beginning.

She senses it should hurt more than it does.

---

Elizabeth is the last one into the lifeboat, sitting down hard on the plank next to him and proclaiming that Jack has elected to stay behind and give them a chance to get away. The rest of the crew seems all too willing to accept this tacit act of selflessness on the part of their captain, but James’ eyes don’t leave Elizabeth’s face as they make their flight toward shore. There is a determination in the set of her jaw, and, even if he hadn’t glimpsed her locked in Sparrow’s embrace moments before, he still would have had his suspicions.

When she finally does meet his gaze, he sees the intent there, the declaration of guilt. And it all falls into place.

It was a ruthless act, calculating and fierce, and she has likely saved them all.

Silently, James reaches out and takes her hand in his. She grips his fingers tightly, trembling under the weight of her actions, but the intensity in her eyes never wavers, even as the Kraken returns to drag The Pearl and her captain to the depths.

James has never been more proud of her.

---

Spirits are low as the tattered remnants of The Black Pearl’s crew head into the swamp to lick their wounds. The moonlight slants through moss covered boughs overhead as the launch makes its way around gnarled mangrove roots that snake through the murky water. Lights begin to appear on the shore, candles, lanterns, held by figures drenched in darkness. James’ hair stands on end. There is something wholly unsettling about this place. He still doesn’t know why they’re even here.

Turner must sense his disquiet, for he leans over and, in hushed, almost reverent, tones says, ‘Tia Dalma. That’s who we go to. She was a friend to Jack.’

‘What manner of friend?’ James returns, ever wary of the muted sounds of movement in the black water around them.

Will considers that a moment, eyes narrowed, before replying. ‘A witch.’ And that is all he says on the matter.

James is not comforted by this elaboration whatsoever.

Once at their destination, a ramshackle bungalow stilted a story above the waterline, the mute ties off the boat as the others move to go inside. Only James seems to be opposed to the idea; even Elizabeth is following along, visage pensive.

A warm glow beckons the party through the open door. James brings up the rear, struck by the oddity of the place. Candles burn on every surface, casting dancing shadows across his companions’ faces. All manner of curiosity hangs from the ceiling and walls: bottles of multi-colored liquid, jars and vials filled with dried plants and what looks to be animal viscera. He is startled by and sidesteps a large snake that has wrapped itself about one of the wooden supports, its tongue flicking out in an almost teasing way.

Low voices float toward him in his distraction. Someone is here with them. James leans forward to catch a glimpse of their host, and his eyes land on a slight, dark woman with a mess of jet black hair. She is baring stained teeth at Will in a sad smile, gentle platitudes falling from her lips in a heavy accent. Her hand rests against Turner’s cheek, which he reaches up to cover with his own. And then she freezes. In fact, everything does.

Sound stops. Time telescopes. The very air itself seems to cease movement. James’ blood turns to ice in his veins as the woman’s head pivots toward him in slow-motion. Piercing, ebony eyes find his own, and James feels the invisible scar over his heart start to burn. He can’t move. Can’t breathe. She is rising from her seat, weaving through the unmoving others who have become nothing more than human additions to her bizarre grotesquerie.

‘James Norrington,’ she chuckles as she nears. ‘What has the world done to you?’

She reaches out, fingers brushing his chin. ‘A heavy burden you bear.’ A sinister smile curls her lips. ‘You are a man out of time.’

He blinks, and the spell is broken. The witch is still in comforting congress with Turner. The pirates are still seating themselves about the room. Elizabeth is still perched on the table in the corner studying the mug in her hands. Terror settles into James’ bones. Who exactly is this woman?

And how has she wrapped invisible, frigid hands around his soul?

---

Further conversation does not reveal the answer to this question, instead offering up a scad of new ones. The witch presents a plan for rescuing Sparrow: a voyage to the weird and haunted shores at World’s End. The others seem willing, but to James, it doesn’t make an ounce of sense.

Even more senseless is the man who is supposed to be their captain in this endeavor.

Hector Barbossa. Alive.

James knocks back the rest of rum he’s been given. If this is their plan, he’s going to need several more portions. Or perhaps a looser grip on his own sanity.

Ah, well. Better mad with the rest of the world, than sane alone.

---

Chapter Text

The events that transpire next are equal parts waiting and the willful suspension of what little reality, and morality for that matter, James has left to cling to. Barbossa calls in a favor. A colleague from his younger days has been sent for and is to ferry them the not insubstantial distance to Singapore. There, they will acquire a map that will lead them to ‘World’s End’ and allow them to rescue Jack Sparrow from purgatory. Or some such nonsense.

Now, James has been sailing for many, many years and has never heard anything about such a map, the edge of the world, or the ability to literally go there, but he does recognize the name of Barbossa’s contact. Robert MacMurray: the Scottish captain of an eighteen gun brig called The Retribution who is known for his particularly low opinion of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, having been a defector himself. On more than one past occasion, James had caught sight of the ship in the distance, but she had always eluded capture at his hands. Some small bit of luck, that. MacMurray has never seen his face.

Even if he doesn’t much understand it, James doesn’t want to jeopardize their mission with his identification. It would be inconvenient, to say the least.

Actually meeting MacMurray is an altogether singular experience. After he and Barbossa exchange emphatic greetings, the Scot moves on to survey the temporary additions to his crew. He seems to know Gibbs and is at least familiar with the others...Tia Dalma, even Will. James infers they must have met some time before Sparrow traded him to The Dutchman. Friendly handshakes and hearty laughter abounds.

MacMurray is instantly taken with Elizabeth, as all men seem to be. He gives her a deliberate once-over, eyes twinkling as he utters something in Gaelic with a smirk. Undaunted, she juts out her hand and introduces herself with all the authority of a proper master of ceremonies. James almost smiles at her boldness, but the impulse is stymied when the Captain takes her hand and lays a kiss across the back.

‘An honor to be havin’ ye with us, Miss Elizabeth. This isnae exactly a pleasure cruise, but I can at least offer ye a room of yer own.’

James can sense Elizabeth bristling at the condescension, but she keeps all evidence of her annoyance from her speech. ‘I thank you, Captain, but that won’t be necessary. I don’t require any preferential treatment. And I certainly don’t anticipate an overabundance of pleasure to be found on this particular vessel. Cruising, or no.’

There is a moment of silence before MacMurray bursts into laughter, casting a wink in Barbossa’s direction and then nodding to Elizabeth. ‘Ach. There’s no need fer the stiff upper lip, Lass. But if yer set on sleeping in a hold filled with strange men, then yer welcome to it. I’ll leave the room empty if’n ye change yer mind.’

It is then that MacMurray appears to notice James for the first time. The smile drops from his lips, though it lingers in his sky blue eyes. ‘And what have we here?’ Standing almost the same height as James, broad of shoulder with a closely cropped black beard shot through with iron gray, hair shaved beneath his tam, the man puts off a pleasant sort of air, almost disarming. But James knows better. A deserter with no love lost for the Sassenach invaders of his home country, MacMurray is renowned for his ill treatment of British Naval Officers once taken prisoner...if they are taken at all and not swiftly executed.

‘This is James,’ Elizabeth interjects when the question remains unanswered just a beat too long to be unintentional. ‘An excellent sailor and mine and Will’s friend.’

MacMurray’s lips twitch in amusement but his eyes never stop searching James’. ‘And do ye have a last name, James the excellent sailor?’

James breathes deeply through his nose before simply replying, ‘Smith.’

This prompts an almost playful grin from the Captain, who is obviously not fooled in the slightest, but elects not to pry for his own reasons. Just as well. James isn’t particularly practiced in the art of lying.

‘Well, Mr. Smith. Welcome aboard The Retribution.’

---

Elizabeth’s refusal of preferential treatment goes largely ignored, though she’d be hard pressed to conjure any real outrage over it. MacMurray’s crew is surprisingly respectful, accommodating even. All polite smiles and ‘excuse me, Lass’ or ‘do you need any help with that, Miss?’ She suspects this is due in equal parts to their captain’s rather amiable example and the staunch protective aura the crew of The Pearl puts out whenever she is around.

Though she somewhat resents the notion that she needs to be taken care of, Elizabeth also recognizes that, historically, pirates aren’t exactly renown for their kindness toward the fairer sex. She’d be a fool to assume any differently. So, while she isn’t keen to be coddled, she does make an effort to be less open with her frustration at being treated differently than the rest of the crew.

The voyage to Singapore is to take over two months, and Elizabeth determines that, in that time, she will learn everything she possibly can about sailing, fighting, and piracy in general. It’s not as if she intends on making a profession of it, but gaining such knowledge will no doubt prove incredibly useful in the immediate future, and, truth be told...she wants to. It would be ever so nice to pull her own weight for once.

And so she follows James, Will, even Gibbs, making them stop and explain their duties to her, let her try her own hand when she thinks she understands. Will is eager and hesitant to show her what he knows at the same time, having a tendency to step in and take over if he imagines the work too difficult for her. This results in him getting his hands slapped away more than once.

James, however, is a natural born teacher: patient, clear. She knows he likely spent a great deal of his career instructing others in such a way, a parade of boys in Naval blue, all as anxious to impress him as she is. Which she absolutely will not allow herself to admit...not aloud anyway.

Elizabeth remembers stealing up to the fort when she was younger to watch him drill soldiers in the courtyard, how she used to wish she could slip into their ranks and join. A silly notion, but it was a favorite fantasy of hers growing up that she might don a uniform and sneak out to sea for a proper adventure.

Her efforts to become a working part of the ship’s crew seem to please, or at the very least, amuse, MacMurray. As does her decision to ultimately take him up on his offer of a private room. There’s no real need to let her pride get in the way of sense, and an astounding number of the men on board snore, making it utterly impossible for her to sleep the few nights she does spend in the hold.

When she goes to MacMurray to finally accept his hospitality, he shows remarkable restraint by declining to tease her, merely settling for a friendly, if smug, smile and a playful, if brief, tour of her meager quarters. She thanks him, and he stops to consider her for a moment.

‘Don’t think I’ve no’ seen how hard ye’ve been trying, Lass.’

Elizabeth dons a mask of faux indignation. ‘Only trying?’

She receives warm flash of teeth in return. ‘Aye. Fer now.’

---

In her quiet moments, whenever she allows her mind to wander while she sets to a task that doesn’t require her entire attention, or worse, while she is attempting to fall asleep, Elizabeth is in a constant battle to keep her thoughts from Jack. The struggle distresses her a great deal. The man was a liar. A snake. He was selfish, and she had done the right thing. But, despite the steadfast belief of that in her mind, she still feels a tumult within her that is most vexing.

Elizabeth had been very grateful for James’ support in the immediate afterwards of her actions, startled that he somehow knew, but edified that he hadn’t judged her for it. They haven’t spoken about it yet. in fact, they haven’t had much of a chance to speak privately at all. There’s always someone around to listen in. And some things...well, there are some things she’s not ready for anyone else to know about her. Maybe she’s not even ready to know them about herself.

---

It’s wonderful to be around Will again. Granted, their friendship is different than it used to be. They are both pirates now, equal in more ways than ever before. Also, Will has changed from when she knew him. He’s still frank, sincere, and thoughtful, but he’s gained a sort of confidence that makes his actions, his words, feel more deliberate. He’s more relaxed around her, joking even. But there’s also an edge to his previously guileless worldview. He’s more cautious now than he’s ever been. Betrayal will do that to a person, she expects. Even a person as genuine as Will.

This makes her resent Sparrow all the more.

If he is smarting over his dealings with Jack, Will is careful not to let it show around her. She knows he must be worried about his father, but this also goes unaddressed. Elizabeth is loathe to bring it up if he will not. Will’s proclamation of love, year in the past though it may be, causes her to tread lightly. She’d been careless with his feelings before and couldn’t bear to hurt him again.

James is clearly glad of Will’s renewed company as well, and she takes a great deal of pleasure in watching them interact with one another from a distance. Their relationship wasn’t something she’d been privy to before. She’d heard about it from both of them, but had never actually been around to observe it. The fondness they share is in no way overt, but Elizabeth finds it immensely endearing all the same. They really do behave like brothers, and it brings out a side she has not seen before in either of them.

Will’s admiration of James sparkles in his eyes when they are together. He is one of the few people who she’s ever seen make James truly laugh, and the expression he wears after doing so is very akin to joy. And James? There’s a tenderness to him that shines through around Will. It would only be visible if you knew him well enough to look for it, but Elizabeth does. James is far less guarded with Will. He trusts him.

James loves Will.

She had known it for some time now...but witnessing them together, Elizabeth feels a twinge of guilt. Will had fled Port Royal because of her, had left everything behind, including James. She can hardly be blamed for it, but seeing them together now…

Elizabeth hopes they realize how much they need one another.

---

One day, Elizabeth is singing to herself on deck when a lovely tenor joins in harmony. She casts about without stopping the ballad, not wanting to break the spell, and finds one of MacMurray’s crewmen lingering in the ratlines above her. They finish the song in tandem, the pirate plucking the tam from his head with the final note.

‘Well, now,’ he says as he climbs down and alights next to her. ‘I’d say it’s a bit strange fer an English lass to ken a Scottish song about the faeries, though ye more than do it justice.’

Elizabeth smirks. ‘Strange, indeed. But then, we are strangers, Mister…?’

The man laughs, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he runs a hand through his dark curls. ‘Fair enough. But there’s no need fer a mister. Name’s Alistair, but ye can call me Ally.’

‘Elizabeth Swann.’

He takes her offered hand in both of his own, ‘Miss Elizabeth. It is a pleasure.’ His visage goes thoughtful. ‘Me and some of the lads play at making music, ye ken? We were thinkin’ to get together tonight. Ye’d be more than welcome if’n ye’d like to lend us yer sweet voice.’

The idea of a performance holds a great deal of appeal even if she does demure at the compliment, and Elizabeth makes sure to be on the main deck when festivities start up that evening. Fair winds mean light work, and the men gather around as Captain MacMurray breaks open a cask of whiskey to kick off the celebration. What they are celebrating, she has no idea, but spirits are high as the band begins to play. Ally saws away on a fiddle, accompanied by a penny whistle and a drummer. The sailors clap and stomp along and a few even start to dance.

Elizabeth is enchanted. Now, this is what she’d pictured when she’d dreamt of running off to sea as a girl. Someone presses a mug into her hand and she sucks it down eagerly, already drunk on the atmosphere before the liquor even hits the back of her throat. She spies James through the crowd and starts making her way toward him, but is stopped by Ally as she passes by.

‘Do ye by any chance ken ‘Tam Lin,’ Miss Elizabeth?’

She does, and the admission earns her a place on the makeshift stage, where she trades verses with the drummer, who is grinning ear to ear. There is an instrumental interlude where Ragetti beckons her over to learn the steps to the reel, which she picks up in no time despite being tipsy with drink.

The tune ends and another kicks up. Elizabeth takes a turn dancing with Cotton next and then Captain MacMurray, who is surprisingly light on his feet for such a large man. She laughs as he spins her about the deck, curtsying low when they part at the end of the song. She hasn’t smiled this much since Isla Cruces, hasn’t had this much fun.

After pausing for another dram and realizing she’s lost track of James, Elizabeth catches hold of Will’s arm as he sidles past and bullies him into dancing with her as well. He protests at first, but ends up enjoying himself, eyes bright with a perpetual grin.

Eventually, she does manage to hunt James down. He's lingering near the fo’c’sle, on the edge of the festivities...much like he had a tendency to do at the balls back in Port Royal. Elizabeth watches him watching her as she approaches, perhaps putting more of a sway in her hips than is strictly necessary. He gives her an appreciative appraisal, arms crossed over his chest, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

‘I hope you haven’t come to ask me to dance,’ he teases, though she has to lean in to hear him.

‘I would, if I thought you would actually agree to it. But I can respect your preference for being a wallflower.’

His eyes narrow, but a smirk betrays his farce. ‘Insults, is it? Hardly ladylike behavior.’

‘Well, I’m hardly a lady anymore,’ she retorts. ‘So that shouldn’t surprise you overmuch.’

The mirth dissolves from his face. ‘Elizabeth, I didn’t mean-’

She waves him off with a sigh. ‘Oh, quiet. It was a joke.’ Then she reaches out and takes both of his hands in her own. ‘Now, if you’re quite done avoiding social interaction, I require your presence below decks.’

James allows himself to be towed back her private room, where she reacquaints herself with the taste of his lips as music drifts through the walls and ceiling. She is more drunk this time than any of their other encounters, and has stolen all her coordination. James tries not to laugh when she smashes her elbow on the doorframe while manhandling him out of his clothing. Tries, and fails.

Elizabeth pouts until he agrees to ‘kiss it better,’ and practically cackles when she drags him to the floor so he may continue kissing the rest of her. All his efforts to not-so-subtly hint at the perfectly good berth are steadfastly ignored in favor of expedience. It’s been too long since she’s had him, an eternity since they’ve been tangled up in one another. James sees the logic of her argument in short order, and she nearly sobs at the fantastic relief of him finally sheathed inside her, the steady stretch within that has her arching up against his chest, moaning his name.

Afterward, she permits James to carry her to bed, and folds up against his side when he climbs in next to her, pulling the blanket over them both. Elizabeth falls asleep in his arms, calmed by the steady beating of his heart against her back. For the first time since Isla Cruces, since what happened with Jack, she feels safe. Even if they are not, she still feels it. And that goes a long way toward assuaging her anxiety for the future.

---

James is awakened by the sound of quiet weeping and movement on the mattress next to him. His eyes flick open, taking a moment to adjust to the gloom before he picks out the silhouette perched on the edge of the berth, staring into the dark nothing beyond, one knee drawn up under her chin.

Elizabeth’s voice is soft, thick with emotion, and she doesn’t look at him as she speaks. ‘I know...I know it was the right thing to do. And I’m not sorry. Even if I could go back...I would still do it again.’

Jack. She’s mourning Jack. James sits up slowly, allowing her to continue as he shifts to sit beside her, hands folded over the blanket pooled in his lap.

‘It’s foolish. I didn’t even like him half of the time. And he was going to doom us all in his cowardice...but…’ A pause. He feels, more than sees the tears staining her cheeks...the guilt behind them. ‘I killed him, James. I left him to die. And it’s done something to me. Or rather...thrown some ghastly part of me I never wanted to see into sharp relief.’

Silence settles between them in the wake of her confession, broken only by Elizabeth’s intermittent sniffing and the creak of the bulkheads. James wishes he could take this pain from her, wishes there were anything he could do to make it easier. There had been many times throughout his career he’d been forced to make a Devil’s bargain, had been ample opportunities for him to accrue a substantial amount of red in the ledger of his life. Ruthless decisions sometimes had to be made as a commanding officer, and if one was lucky, he got to come out the other side with his integrity intact.

‘I killed my first man at the tender age of thirteen.’

The statement seems to echo in the dark room, and he sees Elizabeth face him in his peripheral. ‘A French boarder came over the gunwale during a skirmish. He cut down one of the other midshipman right in front of me. Poor boy was frozen in fear...didn’t even have his weapon raised. But he was cut down all the same.’

‘Then he came for me. I was better prepared. Had been trained with a sword since I was eight. There was a struggle...and I slit his throat. Watched him bleed out on the deck.’

The memory is a strong one, though the emotional sting of it has long since been dulled. James can still taste the tang of blood and salt in the air, can still smell the gunpowder and fear.

‘I don’t even remember the rest of the battle. All I can remember is the look in his eye as he died. The pitiable terror there. He couldn’t have been much more than sixteen himself. So far from home, his family. I was all he had in that final moment. And I didn’t know his name. Had never even heard him speak.’

‘But. He would have killed me, given the chance. I know that. Knew it then. He would have opened me up, navel to chin, just like the other boy. We were enemies, never comrades. It was as uncomplicated a relationship as any two people can share. That should have made it simple.’

Now he turns and meets Elizabeth’s gaze. It isn’t a perfect parallel, but he hopes she can recognize his intent.

‘It didn’t though. I saw those same eyes in my dreams for years. I killed him in self defense, and he haunted me nonetheless.’

Her brow has creased, but the tears have ceased; her lips are parted slightly as she studies him, waits for him to finish. James can’t summon a memory of the last time he’s spoken for so long uninterrupted, but he forges on, keen to make his point.

‘It should be a profound thing, taking another man’s life. Especially the first time. It should resonate. Linger. Even if you did do the right thing.’

A slow nod. She understands. ‘Does it get easier?’

‘For some.’

‘For you?’

‘I wish I could tell you no.’

‘But you can’t.’ A conclusion, not a question.

James sighs. ‘I made a living of it, Elizabeth. What do you think that says about me?’

There is another pause before she closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms about his middle and pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder. ‘That you must have some terrible nightmares.’

---

After that night, Elizabeth asks James to join her every other, apologetically explaining that she’s had difficulty sleeping of late, and his nearness had kept her awful dreams at bay. The request warms him to the core. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly grow accustomed to her wanting him. In any sense of the term. He should say no; despite the general atmosphere of camaraderie aboard The Retribution, James knows full well they aren’t actually among friends. Discretion is not only wise, it’s necessary.

But Elizabeth makes the point that it will be easier for them to watch each other's backs if they’re in the same room, and he can’t fault her logic. Eventually, he relents, but lays out terms that their activities must be restricted to only slumber. She is displeased by this caveat, but agrees when he reiterates how much more danger they’re in now than when they were aboard The Pearl. She doesn’t seem completely convinced, but she is, at the very least, humoring him. It will do.

There is another reason why James is feeling so conscientious of tact, though he does not share it with Elizabeth.

Will.

While he is glad to have Turner’s company again, having missed him more than he’d realized, James is still very much aware of the complex nature of their relationship with one another and with Elizabeth. Will looks at her like she’s hung all the stars in the sky, glows for her in way he does for no one else. As far as James knows, there has been no further declarations of feeling on Turner’s part, and Elizabeth has remarked off-handedly that he still keeps a distance between them…

But James remembers when the situation was reversed, recalls how he had chosen self-exile over seeing Elizabeth happy with another man. No doubt they are very different from one another, Will having a much more forgiving and obliging nature, while James has never been one to suffer with a smile. This makes him all the more determined to spare Will as much misery as possible.

And if this complication isn’t enough, James is also struggling to process his anger with himself over what happened with Fitzpatrick. What a fucking cock up that was. His distraction in his anger at Elizabeth had made him careless, narrowed his perception to a pinpoint. His very first impression had been correct, Fitz wasn’t a boy at all. But he’d been all too willing to buy into the act, leading a wolf into their midst without so much as a backward glance.

Beckett’s own actions begin to make sense as well: the needling, the manipulation, the fact that he didn’t raise the alarm after Elizabeth absconded with the letters of Marque. It was all because he knew James would go after her, knew it would be as simple as having him followed in turn. By a spy who’d felt assured enough in his charade to bloody introduce himself.

What unequivocal and unmitigated horseshit.

Even in this timeline, where he has been doing his damnedest to see things turn out differently, the worst of it still ends up the same. James places guards outside The King’s House; Elizabeth is still kidnapped by the pirates. James avoids taking Sparrow into custody; The Interceptor is still commandeered with Turner’s help. James makes sure Elizabeth is in no way implicated in Sparrow’s escape from Fort Charles; she runs off to sea all the same. James doesn’t betray them all to Beckett...and someone else does it in his place.

Why? Why is it he can save lives on a patrol by knowing where the enemy will be, can be successful enough in exploiting past experiences to be known as a bloody clairvoyant, can even foster new and profound relationships, but there seem to be certain events over which he has no influence whatsoever? Is it fate? Is it destiny? Is it God?

Whatever the reason, it hardly matters anymore. James is now in a place he’s never been, surrounded by people he’s never met, on a mission he suspects never happened before. After all, he remembers how enamored Elizabeth had been with Jack the first time around. He certainly can’t imagine she’d have killed him then.

---

Elizabeth works hard in the months they are at sea, can feel herself getting stronger. Faster. She’s still inexperienced in comparison to those around her, but the progress has made her feel useful, capable even. She continues to learn to sail and engage in combat, sparring with James, and eventually, some of the others as well. Even Barbossa offers to give her a few pointers, which surprises her more than she lets on.

He stops her one day and says, ‘Twas nothing personal, ya understand. What happened before.'

Elizabeth scoffs to hide her bewilderment at the apparent olive branch. ‘I understand that it behooves us to work together while our goal remains the same. That, until we rescue Jack, it is in both of our best interests to let bygones be bygones.’

He nods, opens his mouth to respond, but she holds up a finger to silence him. ‘However. I have not, and will not forget your villainy. And I fully expect that as soon as our ambitions no longer align…’ She lets the assertion hang for a moment before continuing.

‘I assure you, Captain. I will offer you the same courtesy, when that day arrives. For it is, as you say, ‘nothing personal.’’

Barbossa’s brows are drawn in a grim line as he sizes her up, and she perhaps stands a little taller under his scrutiny. After a tense minute that seems to stretch indefinitely, the pirate breaks into a grin that turns into genuine laughter. Elizabeth doesn’t join in.

‘Yer a bold lass, I’ll give ya that. I might even be startin’ to like ya. There may be the makings of a pirate in ya yet.’

Though he likely meant it as a compliment, it feels more like an accusation. She’s acutely uncomfortable with being told such by yet another man she calls Captain. But she can’t deny it anymore. Not with any honesty.

---

‘What are you doing?’

Elizabeth’s eyes snap down to where James is sitting up in bed, an amused tilt to his lips as he takes in her form draped in his battered green frock coat, the one he’d brought with him from Port Royal. She doesn’t have a witty comeback prepared, having thought he was still asleep, and merely shrugs.

‘It looked so lonely hanging on the chair.’

James arches a brow, the smile climbing into his eyes. ‘Did it?’

She ignores the heat blooming on her cheeks by way of rifling through his pockets absentmindedly. ‘Yes. And I’ll thank you not to tease me about it.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

She levels him with a glare, just as her fingers brush something soft tucked away in the breast pocket. She pulls it out, turns it over in her hands, and when James sees what she’s got, he goes still. The folded bit of cloth turns out to be familiar: the needlepoint she’d sent him from England back when she was thirteen years old. She traces the clumsy blue border, as startled as she is touched that he’s kept it all these years.

A brown stain now adorns one of the corners. Blood. She sucks in a soft gasp.

‘That happened when you were taken,’ he says by way of explanation, and she looks up at him, the favor caught in her hands, clasped over her heart. His expression is almost contrite as she approaches, reaching out to cup his cheek, before leaning down to kiss his forehead.

Someday, she swears to herself. Someday I’ll make him a replacement.

---

During their journey, Elizabeth has several opportunities to interact with Tia Dalma. The witch has a strange way of speaking, and an even stranger way of dressing, but Elizabeth isn’t spooked by her in the way much of the crew seems to be. Being the only other woman on board, she had naturally gravitated toward Tia for company. They’ve had several conversations which could almost be commonplace, if it weren’t for Elizabeth’s unshakable inkling that the sorceress knows more than she’s letting on.

Tia Dalma had been a friend to Jack. A lover. If she knew what Elizabeth had done...would she confront her? Would she seek revenge?

But if Elizabeth is troubled by Tia Dalma, James is even more so. He’s always slipping out of rooms when she enters or purposefully walking on the opposite side of the deck whenever she deems to come topside.

‘There’s something about her I find...monumentally unsettling,’ he confides at Elizabeth’s prodding, and she smirks.

‘Is it the magic?’

James frowns. ‘That is...part of it, yes.’

Elizabeth recognizes this whole thing must be quite an adjustment for him. James had been living a life full of adventure and danger long before anything like ghosts or curses or sea monsters or sorcery entered in. It’s been fairly easy for her to take such impossibilities as they come since everything that’s occurred outside of Port Royal has always felt like a dream anyway. And in dreams, anything can happen.

All things considered, she supposes he’s taking it pretty well.

‘I see,’ she smiles as she threads her fingers through his. ‘Well, I’m glad to have you here with me. Even if you do find it ‘monumentally unsettling.’’

‘There’s no place I’d rather be than at your side.’

‘Even when I’m surrounded by pirates and witches?’ she teases.

James lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

‘Especially when you’re surrounded by pirates and witches.’

---

James spends so much of this voyage just watching Elizabeth. She’s taken to braiding her hair down her back in long queue so that it is out of her way, but little flyaways always seem to be clinging to her forehead, and she tries in vain to keep them tucked behind her ears. The sun has brought forth freckles on her skin, an endearing reminder of her in her youth. They bridge her nose, run up her forearms. She seems indifferent to them, but James is absolutely charmed by their appearance. He wants to kiss each and every one, so full of love, he can barely eat.

He tells her this one night while he is laying with his head in her lap staring up into her down-turned face, her sun-bleached hair falling around them like a curtain. She pauses in the Spanish lullaby she’d been crooning while running her fingertips across his brow.

Her brown eyes bore intensely into his own when she speaks. ‘It was never like this in Port Royal, James. It never would have been.’

She’s right. And he knows it.

---

They are only about a week and a half from their destination when Will finally broaches the subject of Sparrow’s betrayal. He and James had been watching the sunrise from the fo’c’sle, when out of nowhere he says, ‘I don’t think Jack knew how to love. Or be loved.’

James isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t, and Will continues, eyes scanning the horizon.

‘All he knew how to do was run. And lie. Which is just another form of running.’ He meets James’ gaze and adopts a wan smile. ‘I’m not even angry anymore. In a way...I suppose I pity him.’

‘He didn’t even deserve that,’ James mutters, failing to keep the derision from his tone. ‘Or, rather, you deserved better from someone who would call you friend.’

Now Will’s smile turns sincere, softening his eyes. ‘Yes. As it turns out, he was a poor substitute for you. I...missed you, James.’

‘And I, you. No one else I know seems to comprehend the concept of companionable silence in the way you do.’

Will laughs, and James reaches into his pocket to pull out the book he’s stowed there. He passes it to Will, who hesitates briefly before accepting it. When he’d left Port Royal, James hadn’t brought much with him. But something had made it impossible for him to leave the worn copy of Robinson Crusoe behind, churning beneath his breastbone at the very prospect. So he had taken it with him.

He watches as Will begins to idly flip through the pages, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

‘I made sure to wander with her.’

Turner nods, emotion shining in his eyes. ‘I’m glad.’

A weighty hush settles between them for some time. James sees Will picking at his fingers out of the corner of his vision, knows this means he’s thinking about something that’s troubling him. Eventually, he breaks the silence.

‘What did you mean before? About the cost being too great?’

Ah. James had wondered when this would come up. He heaves a sigh before telling the truth about the curse of The Dutchman. Fortunately, Will doesn’t ask how he came by this knowledge, in fact, he doesn’t say much of anything. He remains quiet for several more minutes before responding. ‘I can think of worse fates.’

James blinks, his brows lowering in concern. ‘Forever is a very long time, Will.’

‘Still. You’re a practical man, James. Jones out of the picture and his replacement as an ally? Would that not be useful?’

‘Surely...’ James begins carefully, worried by this line of questioning. ‘Surely you want more out of your life than to merely be useful.’

Will’s jaw ticks as he seems to really mull that over. Then he nods once, as if he’s reached some sort of resolution before turning his gaze back to the sea.

He does not bring up the topic again.

---

They stop in Manila before continuing on to Singapore. Elizabeth is thrilled by the prospect of going ashore, rushing back and forth along the gunwale to get a better view of the harbor. The crew is entertained by her excitement; MacMurray even grants her use of his spyglass so she may get a closer look. They won’t be lingering long, just time enough to put on more provisions, half a day at most. But Elizabeth drags Will and James with her into the town, eager to see as much of it as she can before they leave. They share amused looks behind her back every time some new thing captures her interest.

To James, it almost feels as if they are a family.

A dangerous thought, for the future is distressingly unsure. The plan is shaky, at best, and there is too much room for things to go terribly wrong. James doesn’t care for it one bit. But he’s not in charge. So he’ll follow orders and do his best to make sure both Will and Elizabeth survive.

And maybe, this time, he will as well.

---

Chapter Text

Upon returning to The Retribution, it becomes immediately clear something is wrong. MacMurray and Barbossa are shut away in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the crew works in tense silence, casting off promptly after Elizabeth, Will, and James are rushed aboard. The three eye each other for a moment, puzzling over the change, before Elizabeth makes a beeline across the deck for Mr. Gibbs.

‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she orders as the man reseals the flask she’d interrupted him taking a long pull out of.

‘News,’ he grimaces, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘And not the good kind.’

When is it ever? James thinks archly. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to elaborate.’

‘Beckett’s gone mad, he has. These past months we’ve been sailing, he’s been taking over the seas. Word is, he’s been hunting pirates. Executing men, women, and children by the hundreds.’

Elizabeth’s brows knit in disgust. ‘Children? Why?’ She looks at James, her lips pulled down in a scowl. ‘Is he really capable of doing such a thing?’

James knows that he is. More than knows, in fact. Once upon a time, he’d been complicit in Beckett’s systematic genocide, woken up every morning to button on the uniform declaring himself the willing lapdog of that megalomaniac. As Admiral, James had never presided over the public lynchings in person, instead, it was his job to capture as many pirates as possible and bring them in for interrogation. He had been present for a number of those, however, and the memory turns his stomach. As does the recollection of how much whiskey he’d had to drink in order to chase away the demons long enough to fall asleep at night. On the nights he did sleep, anyway.

‘Aye,’ Gibbs avers, thankfully drawing Elizabeth’s attention once more. ‘Now he has Jones on his side, ‘tis not a soul on the ocean who is safe from his wrath.’

Wrath? That’s not right. It had never been about anger or hatred for Beckett. Just business. A means to an end.

‘Jones?’ This from Will, who James had forgotten was standing at his side. ‘Why would Jones help Beckett?’

‘The heart.’ James mutters. He can feel their eyes stabbing at him but keeps his own settled on the deck. ‘Fitz brought him Jones' heart.’

‘There must be something we can do.’ None of the men reply, so Elizabeth raises her voice, taking a step forward. ‘Gibbs! What did Barbossa say?’

She merely receives sputtering in response and rolls her eyes before pushing past and heading toward the Captain’s cabin. James is right on her heels when she bursts through the door, demanding answers. And, though Barbossa is irked by the intrusion, she gets them.

The song has been sung. The Pirate Lords must convene, uniting the nine pieces of eight. Their rescue of Jack is even more pertinent now, since he failed to name a successor before his death. Once he is returned, the Brethren can decide on a course of action.

Both Elizabeth and Will seem to take all this in stride, but James falters at the very first, when Barbossa holds up a ringing coin as justification for his severity. While he is familiar with the rumors of Shipwreck Cove and the existence of a sort of piratical hierarchy recognized among some...the song? The pieces of eight? Is that supposed to mean something to any of them?

As he looks around the room, James is forced to admit, once again, how truly out of his depth he is. He is not fond of the feeling. Not at all.

---

From the start, the plan in Singapore begins to unravel. The port is crawling with EITC troops no doubt looking for the same man they are: Sao Feng, scourge of the South China Sea. As such, MacMurray decides, for the safety of his own men, to take his leave. The crew of The Pearl are given a lifeboat, well-wishes, and the promise that they will meet again at the Cove.

Things only get worse from there.

Ultimately, they somehow convince the notoriously ruthless Captain Feng to aid their cause, but only after a prolonged altercation that leaves his bathhouse, and a good deal of the docks, in flaming shambles. They flee the pursuing EITC on their borrowed ship with a borrowed crew and borrowed charts.

And the charts...well, they don’t make any sense whatsoever. But neither does sailing over the literal edge of the Earth. The only reason James knows he isn’t dreaming when The Black Pearl comes drifting across the endless white dunes of the beach they washed up on is because his own mind could never conjure something so ridiculous.

There is bickering. Bargaining. They all climb aboard the inexplicably intact Pearl and forge on, sailing past a legion of lost souls waiting to be ferried to the afterlife, and then only return to the real world by capsizing the ship, flipping the sun itself from dusk to dawn. James watches the water-logged crew wring out their clothing feeling twenty years older than when they’d set out.

And, somehow, they’re back in the Caribbean. Naturally. Why should things like time and distance have any bearing on purgatory? They’re really more like guidelines, anyway.

What James wouldn’t give to be in a good, old-fashioned naval battle with the French. He’d choose that over this incomprehensible horseshit any day of the week.

Everyone on board is bone-deep tired, and thirsty besides, so Sparrow has them put in for fresh water at a small isle not far from where they’d reemerged. James and Will lead the shore party and come back to discover Sao Feng has arrived...along with Beckett’s flagship, The Endeavor. The bloody bastard must have betrayed them.

More the fool he, for Beckett wastes no time betraying him in return. Jack is taken aboard The Endeavor by armed EITC guards while Will and James are held at gunpoint by Feng’s crew. He can’t hear what’s being said from so far away, but Barbossa seems to be trying to convince Feng to renege on his deal with Beckett and join them in their fight. However, Feng has terms, terms Elizabeth takes umbrage with, making to unsheathe her sword.

When she is set upon by the crew, James springs to action.

---

‘Very well. But I want her.’

‘What? No!’

Barbossa takes Sao Feng’s offered hand. ‘Agreed.’

Elizabeth wheels on him. ‘No! Not agreed! I will not be bartered like chattel!’

A shrug. ‘Sorry, Lass. ‘Tis nothing personal.’

‘Like hell, it isn’t!’ Elizabeth goes for her blade, only to be accosted on all sides by a dozen groping hands. ‘Get off me! You can’t do this!’ She spits, bites, tries to wrest herself free, her fingers becoming claws.

A shot suddenly rings out, and she cranes her neck to see a struggle has also erupted at the bow of the ship. Will has been tackled to the ground, his nose bloodied and his arms held painfully behind his back. But James. James is fighting. Killing. Trying to reach her. He’s also woefully outnumbered. And surrounded.

‘Enough!’ Sao Feng steps forward, his dao glinting in the sunlight as he yanks it from his belt ‘This ends now.’

‘Wait!’ Elizabeth screams. ‘Wait! Please don’t kill him!’

The crew has overpowered James now, sheer numbers on their side. He’s being restrained from behind, much like she is, a dagger to his throat.

Feng considers her for a moment, a vile gleam in his eye, before breaking into a sinister grin that is all stained teeth and devilish humor. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘I’ll go with you.’ All movement seems to cease at her words; she can feel James’ eyes boring into the side of her head but refuses to acknowledge him. ‘Spare his life, and I’ll come quietly. I’ll do whatever you want.’

A shrewd expression settles onto the pirate’s face. ‘Do I have your word?’

‘No. Elizabeth, don’t-’

Now she does look at James, sees the blood smeared across his cheek, dripping down his neck where the steel is digging in. His green eyes are wide, pleading. He would rather die than let her be taken. Elizabeth lets her own eyes fall shut, draws a deep breath, and then...

‘You have it.’

‘No! Eliza-’ The Captain nods, and the pirate holding the knife delivers a blow to James’ stomach so hard, he collapses to the deck. Elizabeth winces as Feng grabs hold of her jaw, fingers harsh enough to bruise.

‘You will come quietly. You will do as your told. And to make sure you keep your end of the bargain...’ he snaps and two of his men begin tying James up as he sags between them. Feng leans in so close his foul breath fans out across her lips. ‘If you so much as whimper, I will slit his throat myself.’

---

Candles flicker from every surface. The heady scent of smoldering incense pervades the air. Elizabeth shivers as her bare skin is scrubbed clean by two dour handmaidens, their eyes cast perpetually downward. They are achingly gentle as they bathe and then clothe her, but she doesn’t resist. There is no question in her mind Sao Feng will be as good as his word.

Both she and James had been dragged aboard The Empress, she to the Captain’s cabin, and he to the hold. He had fought them to the last, resisting up until being smashed over the head and knocked unconscious. Elizabeth had tried her damnedest not to react, but she had felt the impact in her gut, twisting her up like a corkscrew. He will hate her for this, she suspects. For surrendering. But he will be alive to do so.

That’s all that matters, she reminds herself once again, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. A slim, warm hand covers hers, and Elizabeth’s eyes flick open to find one of the handmaidens watching her. She doesn’t say anything, but the candlelight illuminates her sad, dark gaze, revealing an understanding. They know what she is about to endure. And if the dark welts peeking out from under her collar are any indication, they know from experience.

Elizabeth gives the girl’s hand a squeeze, and it is returned. Then bootsteps echo on the staircase and the contact is broken.

Feng is no less menacing for removing his armor. In fact, without that extra layer between them, Elizabeth finds herself even more anxious. He says something in Chinese, and the handmaidens bow before fleeing the room, leaving Elizabeth feeling cold and devastatingly alone. Please...please don’t go…

He circles her slowly, like a bird of prey, surveying at a distance. Says he intends to free her. Then he calls her Calypso. ‘Not a name that you fancy, I imagine, out of the many that you have. But it is what we call you.’

‘We?’ Elizabeth’s mind is reeling. She’d heard mention of this. Stories. A goddess trapped in human form. Does Feng believe that to be her? If he does, it could give her some leverage. She decides to play along.

Sao Feng elaborates when she presses, telling her of the first brethren court and a binding ritual to give them control of the sea. He would have opposed them, he alleges, for she should be nothing less than who she is. All the while he continues to close on her as she tries in vain to come up with some semblance of a plan for escape.

‘Pretty speech from a captor,’ she counters, voice dripping with derision. ‘But words whispered through prison bars lose their charm.’

He chuckles, and the sound turns her blood to ice. ‘You have a quick tongue. Perhaps you think me cruel. But I do intend to free you. And in exchange, I would ask for your gifts.’

The way he lingers on the word more than illustrates his meaning. Disgust and terror threaten to clog her throat. ‘And if I refuse?’

Feng is on her in a flurry of black silk and bared teeth, slamming her against the wall so hard she loses her bearings. ‘You are in no position to refuse,’ he snarls and begins wrestling her toward the bed, sneering lips pressed to her neck as she struggles in his grip. Feng bears her down, his nails raking up her thigh, inching toward the hem of her shirt.

Then there is a sudden explosion, and the ship pitches to the side. Feng is thrown off balance just enough for Elizabeth to get a leg up between them, and she kicks for all she’s worth, sending him tumbling back off the bed and onto the floor.

She scrambles to her feet and bolts toward the stairs, but Feng is up too, heading her off halfway. Elizabeth spins on her heel and dashes away, toppling a brazier full of hot coals in her wake. Then she snatches a bottle from one of the tables, shatters it, and brandishes it at her attacker.

‘Try it,’ she dares with a punctuating jab as he skids to a stop just out of reach. ‘I’ll cut your heart out and eat it.’

Feng seems amused by that. He opens his mouth to retort and is ripped off his feet by a second explosion that blows open the hull, spraying splinters of wood and glass everywhere.

---

James is roused from his abject misery by an explosion rocking the ship. He clambers to his feet, stealing himself against the dizziness brought on by the movement, a lingering symptom of the thorough beating he’d taken less than an hour ago. He tongues his split lip as he strains to hear what’s going on outside of his prison. Shouting. The pound of running feet overhead. The Empress is under attack.

It’s The Dutchman, he realizes with a start. Beckett will have sent Jones after them. Again.

A second blast echoes through the gloom, the bulkheads groaning all around him, and James renews his previously abandoned task of trying to work free of the shackles chaining him to the wall. It is a fool’s errand, he knows, but with nothing else to do but sink back into stupefied despondency, the effort is its own goal.

Thumping. Someone is tearing down the ladder at full tilt. ‘James! James, where are you?!’

His heart leaps into his throat at the sound of her voice. ‘Elizabeth! I’m here!’

She spies him in the shadows and rushes over. ‘Oh God, James, you’re hurt!’ Her hand goes to his bruised cheek, and he notes the dark blood splattered across the front of her robe.

‘And you? Elizabeth...I’m sorry I couldn’t...are you…’ He can’t bring himself to actually say it, coward that he is, but she shakes her head.

‘That’s enough of that, James. I’m fine.’ Relief floods through him like opium as her gaze locks onto his in the darkness. ‘Sao Feng is dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes.’ She begins rifling through a set of keys he hadn’t noticed clasped in her hand before. ‘Shrapnel from the blast. The Dutchman is on our heels.’

Elizabeth tries one, then two before finding the correct key, and the shackles clatter to the floor. As soon as he is free, James throws his arms around her. She clings to him just as desperately, albeit briefly. ‘We don’t have much time.’ She pulls away, determination in her dark eyes. ‘Feng made me Captain, James. He abdicated Lordship to me with his dying breath.’

James frowns. She’d been Captain last time as well. Was this how that had happened?

She mistakes his deliberation for disapproval. ‘We’re losing ground. Jones will be upon us any minute. You have to hide.’

Like hell he does. But she gives no room for argument, lifting a hand to silence him.

‘I’ve already been seen on deck. They’ll know I’m here. But not you. When they take us, and they will take us, James, you have to come for us. Do you understand?’

James notes the iron in her tone. This is an order. He nods, mystified and fortified in equal measure by her resolve under fire.

‘Good.’ And she kisses him, fingers threading into his hair as her lips slant over his. When they come apart, she takes a shaky breath, the only betrayal of her fear. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, James Norrington. Don’t let me down.’

Then she is gone, back up the stairs to join her men in the impending fight.

---

Once topside, Elizabeth weaves through the pandemonium on deck, dodging the panicking crew until she reaches Tai Huang, Feng’s first mate. And now hers, she supposes. ‘We can’t outrun them!’ She shouts over the boom of The Flying Dutchman’s front canons.

Huang rounds on her, snarling, ‘And what would you have us do, gwáilóu? Surrender?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She unsheathes the jian she’d pilfered from Feng’s quarters in one swift motion, tossing the scabbard aside. ‘But pretty soon there’ll be nothing left to the ship at all. We must stand and fight!’

‘I don’t take orders from you,’ he hisses into her face, and Elizabeth holds up the bauble Feng had pressed into her hand as he died.

‘Yes. You do.’

Huang spits before narrowing his malice-filled eyes at her. ‘I will never call you Captain,’ he sneers through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth leans into his space, meeting his vitriol with her own. ‘Tell the men. We stand. And fight.’

There is a charged moment in which she thinks he’ll defy her out of spite, but after a long string of what she suspects to be emphatic Chinese curses, Huang begins hollering commands at the crew.

The skirmish is short and bloody. Once The Dutchman comes alongside them, a phalanx of EITC riflemen let loose a volley across the deck of The Empress. Elizabeth dives behind the gunwale, bullets narrowly missing her as they whiz past. Then the hooks are thrown, and her ship is boarded.

But she does not go quietly. Oh no. Elizabeth springs up and lays into the first soldier to hit the deck, slashing him across the belly with an unholy shriek, then she whirls around to discover one of Jones’ crew has her unwilling first mate pinned down, wailing on him as Huang barely manages to parry the blows from where he’s crumpled against the stairs. She sprints over and stabs through the fishman from behind, effectively distracting the abomination long enough for Huang to take off its head. The putrid body falls into a heap at her feet.

Elizabeth gives Tai Huang a hand up, which he actually accepts, though his expression is no less sour than before. And then they both head back into the melee.

Five minutes later, the battle is over. The remaining members of The Empress’ crew have been surrounded at bayonet point, Elizabeth among them. She keeps her nerves hidden beneath a cool veneer of haughty calm, expecting Jones to come forward at any moment. But it is a different figure that appears through the parting soldiers.

‘Why, Miss Swann. What a pleasant surprise.’

‘A pity I can’t say the same.’

Fitz smirks at her gibe, taking a few measured steps closer as his gaze quickly rakes over her. His worn disguise has been traded in for a pristine EITC uniform, the epaulets declaring his rank. Captain. ‘Whoring it up on a different ship now, I see. What does good old James have to say about that?’

‘James is dead,’ she snaps without hesitation. ‘In Singapore. And you keep his name out of your mouth, you bloody bastard.’

His head tilts to the side, amusement sparking in his eyes. ‘So coarse. You know, I never really did understand what he saw in you.’ He chuckles and makes a gesture at the gape of her torn neckline. ‘Well, beyond the obvious, of course. Shame about his untimely demise. One of the hazards of a life of piracy, as he well knew, I’m sure. But enough fond reminiscing. I would speak with whoever is in command of this junk.’

‘I am.’

Fitz straightens, arching a dark brow. ‘You? Captain?’ A snort.

‘It’s true.’ This from Tai Huang, who has been standing silently to her left. Elizabeth suspects it to be an attempt to save his own skin, but she simply nods, adding, ‘There. You see? Now, do you actually have plans for us or do you intend to talk us all to death?’

One of the fishmen behind him snickers, and all mirth drops from Fitz’s face. Without preamble, he reels back and punches her in the gut. Hard. Elizabeth doubles over, lights dancing in front of her eyes, her knees threatening to give out beneath her.

‘Take this foul-mouthed bitch and the rest of the vermin to the brig. Beckett wants as many alive for questioning as possible.’ He glowers down his nose at Elizabeth as she gasps for air, her view of him clouded by the tears of pain gathering unshed in her eyes. ‘But if even one gives you any trouble? Kill them all.’

---

Previous knowledge of the layout and workings of The Dutchman proves to be more useful than James could have expected. After reluctantly hiding while The Empress was taken, and subsequently searched, he lies in wait for an opportune time to sneak aboard and attempt a rescue. He knows it will be trickier this time, given he isn’t the ranking officer in charge, but, at the very least, he has the advantage of being an unknown influence. Hopefully, that will be enough.

Climbing across the exposed line The Dutchman is using to tow its prize is nerve-wracking, but otherwise simple, and James lingers out of sight until the watch is changed, squeezing through one of the gunports and into the belly of the ship. He is ill-suited for reconnaissance, being rather tall and broad of shoulder, but manages it successfully, if not gracefully. He is just beginning to think perhaps this is feasible after all, when he trips over a buckled shoe in the darkness and nearly goes sprawling.

‘Oi!’ The owner of said shoe huffs as they scrabble clumsily to their feet from where they were seated between two canons, clearly intent on remaining unmolested. ‘Watch where you-’

He stares at James, eyes wide. James stares at him just the same.

‘Commodore?’ Disbelief is etched into the shadowed lines of Harry Toombs’ face, and also something verging on horror. He takes a halting step toward James, hand extended as if to test for a corporeal form, though he doesn’t come close enough to actually make contact. ‘But you’re dead.’

There are dark circles under the Lieutenant’s eyes, and his cheeks are gaunt, giving him a ghoulish aspect in the gloom of the hold. In fact, Toombs appears to have been rode hard and put away wet, the rumpled EITC uniform completing the effect. James notes the still open flask clutched in his trembling fist.

‘No,’ he responds gently, trying to appear as benign as possible so the Lieutenant doesn’t think to call for help. ‘Not dead.’

Toombs swallows. ‘Are you sure? With the things I’ve seen these past months…’

James carefully closes the distance between them, taking hold of his friend’s hand with one of his own, and then placing the other on his shoulder, as much to steady as to reassure. ‘See? Not a ghost.’

The Lieutenant processes that for a moment before a genuine smile of relief lights his face. ‘Not a ghost,’ he repeats as he shakes James’ hand. ‘It’s damned good to see you, sir. Beckett told us you were killed...that you...left and…’ His eyes drift down, seemingly to mark James’ appearance for the first time. Then he begins backing away.

‘You’re with them,’ he accuses at barely above a whisper.

James lets his arms drop to his sides. ‘No. I’m with her.’

A scoff. ‘Then it’s true, isn’t it? That you deserted. The others, they thought Beckett had you murdered but…’ His eyes narrow. ‘You betrayed us.’

The words sting. As do their veracity. James doesn’t have it in him to deny the charge. ‘Yes.’

‘God.’ Toombs looks as though he’s going to be sick. ‘I trusted you. Believed in you. We all did! We were friends, James! You and me and Andrew and Theo-’ James tries to approach, for Toombs is working himself up, getting louder with each word. It won’t be long before someone hears. But the Lieutenant sees his movement, and his hand flies to the hilt of his sword.

‘Don’t- don’t come any closer!’

James doesn’t. Instead, he murmurs, ‘You’re right. What I did was selfish. And for selfish reasons. I offer no excuses. And no apology can undo it. But, Toombs- Harry...look around you. Where you are. What you’ve been ordered to do.’ He nods to the flask. ‘What it’s done to you in return.’

Uncertainty passes over Toombs’ face, and James takes it as a good sign. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture, leaves them suspended as he forges on. ‘You’re a good man. I know that. And more importantly, you know that. But you also know that Beckett’s greed will never be sated. He’s a monster. Employing monsters. To do monstrous things. This isn’t justice. It’s genocide.’

The Lieutenant’s shoulders are starting to slump, his expression of anger mutating to sorrow. ‘I never meant...it wasn't supposed to be like this. So much death.’ His blue-grey eyes are haunted by grief and regret. It is like gazing into a mirror. ‘I just want to go home.’

‘Help me, and you can come with us.’

Incredulity laces into Toombs’ retort. ‘What? And turn pirate?’

James merely shakes his head in answer. ‘And live.’

---

Toombs is able bluff his way into getting ahold of the keys from the fishman bosun. He returns below and runs interference while James makes his way to the brig. As soon as he comes into view, Elizabeth is at the bars, a triumphant grin splitting her features. ‘I told you he’d come for us,’ she proclaims over her shoulder to the men gathering behind her. She turns back to him, a gleam in her eye. ‘I never doubted it for a second.’

Once freed, the crew sneaks out the way James came in, sidling along the bulkhead to the stern balcony behind the navigation room. Then they begin climbing back down the rope to The Empress. James and Elizabeth bring up the rear. It is too familiar by half.

Out of the corner of his eye, James catches movement beyond the glass. Someone is inside, has gotten past Toombs. James draws his sword as one of the doors swings open.

‘Well, well. It seems word of your death was somewhat exaggerated.’ Fitz has a pistol up, trained directly on Elizabeth. ‘Drop the weapon, Norrington. Now.’

He does.

Keeping them under guard, Fitz leans out to survey the last of The Empress’ crew as they shimmy down the line toward their ship. ‘Interesting plan,’ he muses, dark eyes glinting like the cold light of distant stars. ‘I’m almost sorry to interrupt. But I’m afraid I can’t let you leave. Any of you.’

Elizabeth makes a sudden movement in his peripheral, and James extends an arm in front of her as Fitz cocks the hammer of his gun.

‘That’ll be enough of that, Miss Swann. It would behoove you to learn to accept defeat.’

She spits at him. ‘Nasty little shits like you always get their comeuppance.’

Fitz’s brows fly up. ‘Lord, but you are a boorish chit. I can honestly say I will derive a great deal of pleasure from cutting out that vulgar tongue of yours.’ Then the brows lower, a self-satisfied smirk curling his lips. ‘Know this, after we’re done here, I will hunt down your crew once again and hang every single one of them from their own yardarm. Captain, indeed.’

‘And you,’ he turns his gaze to James, who is fairly humming with black hatred. ‘The prodigal son. The fallen hero. The traitor. It’ll be a court-martial for you. Public embarrassment as the people you once protected convene to watch you mount the gibbet. And all for this…’ He gestures vaguely toward Elizabeth with the barrel of his pistol. ‘Whore.’

James bristles, but bites his tongue. At least one thing hadn’t been an act: Fitz loves the sound of his own voice. And the longer he talks, the greater chance they have someone else will stumble upon them. If it had just been him, James would have attacked the villain regardless, but with Elizabeth the crosshairs, he can’t risk it. So he stews, helpless and furious as Fitz continues to monologue.

Suddenly, there is a flash of blue and gold in the doorway behind Fitz. Toombs steps out onto the balcony, takes a half second to read the situation, and then goes for his sword.

Fitz fires, and Toombs jerks back, his elbow shattering the pane behind him.

And James is on Fitz in an instant, whipping the dagger from his belt and burying it in the cur’s throat. Blood sprays out around the edge of the blade, and James wrenches it back out, watching Fitz collapse to his knees, eyes impossibly wide as his fingers form claws at his neck. His mouth opens as though he means to offer some final, parting insult, but only red tinted saliva bubbles out. Then he falls to his side, drowning, dying, until…

Arthur Fitzpatrick goes still, dead in a pool of his own blood.

The alarm is being raised, and Elizabeth is declaring that they ‘need to leave, now!’ James is at Toombs’ side, goes to help him up from where he’s slumped against the glass, but the Lieutenant shakes his head, opening his coat to reveal the wound in his chest.

‘Go,’ he wheezes. ‘I’ll cover you.’

It’s backwards. All wrong. James is supposed to be the one who dies here. He’s the one who is martyred so that the others may live. And now both of the Toombs brothers will have died in this timeline following his orders. It’s too much to bear.

Elizabeth is shouting now, tugging at James’ arm, commanding him to retreat. Toombs hits an unsteady brace. ‘It was an honor, sir.’ Then he turns and hobbles through the doors to face the oncoming soldiers making their way through the navigation room.

James is half in a daze as Elizabeth manhandles him to the line, demanding he climb up first. He refuses, and time being of the essence, she relents. But, ultimately, he follows, just as she’d asked him to a lifetime ago.

The Dutchman’s crew is on the balcony now, brandishing their weapons. A volley of gunfire echoes out, and white-hot pain explodes in James’ abdomen. He loses his grip on the rope, barely cognizant of plummeting some distance before plunging into the sea.

Water fills his mouth and nose, but he cannot move his legs. Everything hurts. His lungs burn. And something is pulling at him, dragging him toward the surface.

Elizabeth. They crest the waves, and she is screeching, pleading. ‘James, you have to help me! You have to swim!’

But he can’t. His limbs are lead. His head is filled with sand. Her voice is starting to sound very far away indeed.

‘James, please! You have to fight! Don’t leave me!’

Never, he thinks. And then he does.

---

Silence. All struggling, all pain has abruptly ceased. James’ eyes flick open, and he squints into the blackness beyond. He’s lying down, twisted up in a damp blanket, the salt of his own sweat on his tongue. Slowly, he sits up, his brow creased in confusion. The room around him is quiet, still, dark and humid as a womb.

And familiar. Familiar above all else.

As his vision adjusts, the details begin to swim into focus: the carved footboard, the chest of drawers…

...the captain’s uniform hung next to the door.

He is out of bed in seconds, intense dread flooding his system as he throws open the drapes. Port Royal lays spread out before him, morning light dusting the rooftops. Someone is hammering in the courtyard below. Abigail hums softly in the hallway.

James sinks into the chair, shock and despair battling for dominance beneath his breastbone. He is gasping for breath, tears of impotent fury gathering in his eyes. No. It can’t be happening again. He’s come so far. He’s made such progress! No!

A wave of incredulous rage washes over him, and James lurches to his feet, striding to the looking glass across the room. His reflection glares back, unwrinkled, unmarked. James yanks the mirror from the wall and smashes it to the floor, shards flying every which way

Then he falls to his knees.

He can’t do it. Not again. Not knowing that somewhere, in some other timeline, Elizabeth is begging his corpse to stay with her.

As James begins to weep in earnest, he can almost hear her crying out his name.

---

Chapter Text

Elizabeth watches in horror as James’ hold slips, and he hurtles limply toward the black sea below. Without hesitation, she dives in after him, hitting the water hard enough she bites her cheek, tastes the tang of iron on her tongue. It takes seconds, eons, to locate him in the crushing darkness, but she manages to catch hold of his upper arm. Then she swims for all she is worth.

Breaking the surface, Elizabeth gasps for air, adjusts her grip, and tries to maneuver the both of them toward The Empress. But James is heavy, made unwieldy in his soaked clothing. She pulls, kicks, snatches at the waves but can’t seem to make any progress. Fear is clouding her her vision as effectively as the seawater. If they don’t get there soon, the crew will leave. They’ll be left to drown.

‘James, you have to help me! You have to swim!’

He’s dragging her under, holding her back. It’s so unlike him to give up, so unlike him to be a burden. Panic is rising in her throat like bile. ‘James, please! You have to fight! Don’t leave me!’ She’s shrieking now, her desperate voice foreign to her own ears as she flounders, barely keeping her own head above water.

Then a figure slides into view, arm outstretched, hand closing on her shoulder. He has a line clutched in his fist, motions for her to grab hold, and wraps his free limb around James. Tai Huang. Her first mate has come for her. Relief cascades down her face in the form of tears.

She only permits it because she knows the sea will wash them away.

---

They are towed in, and, as soon as her boots hit the deck, Elizabeth gives the order to head for Shipwreck Cove, a superfluous action, given that the majority of the crew is already immersed in getting The Empress as far from The Flying Dutchman as possible. The distance between the two ships is yawning as James is tugged over the gunwale by a slew of straining hands, the sounds of battle drifting across the steadily increasing expanse. Infighting. A perfect distraction.

But Elizabeth hardly notices these details. James is losing too much blood, leaving a trail of crimson along the deck as she helps wrangle his leaden form below to the captain’s cabin. She is calling for a medic, a healer, anything, beating back her persistent hysteria by seizing upon the role of command. Debris is swept aside, and James is laid out on a large table. Her fingers fly to his neck to check for a pulse. It’s there, but is distressingly weak, fluttering beneath her touch like an injured butterfly.

A short, haggard-looking man she doesn’t recognize appears across from her, mumbling in Chinese. Tai Huang translates. A healer, or the closest approximation they have left aboard the ship. The man uses a knife to cut open James’ shirt, gently parting the blood-soaked edges to reveal a ghastly wound in his abdomen. Elizabeth’s stomach instantly sours, but then she feels a small hand thread into her own and glances down to see the handmaiden from earlier standing next to her, eyes closed against the grisly scene before them. The simple gesture grounds her.

More Chinese. The healer is shaking his head. It’s bad. A gut wound. James will die. Slow and in agony. That is, if he doesn’t bleed out first.

No. I won’t allow it. ‘Is there any possibility of survival? Someone at the Cove who could help?’

Tai Huang grimaces as he interprets for the healer, whose response takes on a tone of exasperation, as though he’s speaking to a child. Chances of that are slim, at best. And it would be more merciful to let him die of blood loss.

Elizabeth’s eyes narrow, and she leans toward him menacingly, steel lacing into her voice. ‘You are to do everything in your power to save him, do you understand? He has to live.’

Silence prevails for a long moment, and when Huang goes to repeat her words, the healer waves him off, gaze drilling into Elizabeth’s. He begins barking instructions, shooing the others out of the room while the handmaiden hurries away to sift through the wreckage of the cabin. Bandages are found, along with various bottles and tinctures. Elizabeth is told to get out of the way and let him work, though this is inferred from context clues as her translator has returned topside.

When her attempts to help are resolutely rebuffed, she eventually joins him.

---

‘You came back for us. Why?’

She has sidled up next to Tai Huang on the quarterdeck, surveying the bustling crew. They have left The Dutchman in their wake, now just a speck on the dark horizon. Dawn is threatening to break, painting the edges of the clouds lavender.

He doesn’t make eye-contact. Doesn’t answer. Just crosses his arms over his chest, brows pulled low in a tight frown. ‘The wind is not with us. He will die before we even see the Cove.’

A test. He’s needling her for a reaction. Elizabeth studies him in her peripheral, playing idly with the hilt of a dagger she’d taken from Sao Feng’s possessions. Hers now, by right. As well as the ship. But it’s not that simple, she knows. This crew has no affection for her, is more likely to kill than to follow her. She cannot afford to show any weakness.

Emotion is clogging her throat, moistening her eyes, but she grits her teeth against it, adopting a veneer of superior control. It’s very similar to the mask she would don for society events, except instead of a polite smile, she has schooled her features into stern neutrality. ‘We shall see, Mr. Huang. But as long as Jones has our scent, none of us are safe. Stay the course for the Cove. I’ve a meeting to attend.’

With that, she descends the stairs to the main deck, shoulders back, chin held high. Her robes are torn and bloody, her hair is a tangled pile on her head, but she paces purposefully past her crew with an air of authority, inspecting their work, gauging their reaction to her. She doesn’t sense as much animosity from them as before. Perhaps her part in their rescue from The Dutchman has earned her some semblance of respect.

After climbing the steps to the fo’c’sle, she approaches the foremost railing as if in a trance, stares at the water disappearing under the bow, pink with reflected dawn light. A numbness has settled in her extremities; her limbs are cumbersome with exhaustion and grief. She curses herself for it internally. James isn’t dead. Not yet. And if she has anything to say about it, he won’t be bartering with Charon for passage any time soon.

Please, she prays to any god who might be listening. Please, don’t take him from me. I need him. I love him. And I haven’t gotten the chance to tell him that nearly enough. Spare him, please. Let him live. A tear slides out of the corner of her eye, and she rubs it away with the heel of her hand.

They just have to make it to the Cove. Something inside her knows that if they can just make it to the Cove…

Give us wings.

The cool headwind that had been lifting the stray tendrils of hair from her face immediately ceases. Elizabeth blinks, her confusion turning to disbelief as the brief lull becomes an intense gale, buffeting her from behind. She whirls around and watches the sails go from slack to taut with a resounding snap. Sounds of alarm and surprise drift up from the crew as The Empress lurches forward at double her previous speed.

Tai Huang has raced down to the main deck to help secure the lines under the force of the new tailwind, and Elizabeth jogs over to join him. She points up at the foreign rigging and demands, ‘Show me how.’

He does. And they fly.

---

It doesn’t make any sense, and there is no logical explanation, but as Elizabeth assists her crew in keeping the splintered remnants of The Empress together as it clips toward Shipwreck Cove at an unprecedented pace, she finds herself completely unable to work up the wherewithal to care. The strength of the wind is putting a great deal of strain on the masts, but they make every effort to see she holds fast, the men not seeming to mind Elizabeth’s extra hands in the slightest.

Huang, who has lost his hat to the maelstrom, his dark, stringy hair whipping about his head as he calls to her over the din, says that, at this rate, they should arrive before dark. He, too, appears to be forgoing questions regarding their rather abrupt good fortune, bizarre as it is. Instead, he instructs Elizabeth on the sailing of her ship by example, sparing her very few words beyond terse correction here and there, but double-checking to make sure she’s picking it up nonetheless.

Even if he does make quite the show of being put out by her inexperience, she is grateful for the distraction. It keeps her from losing herself to despair on James’ behalf.

Though she is nearly mad with urgency to be at his side, Elizabeth knows such eagerness would read as weakness to her crew. She must be as close to indifferent as possible, must place the needs of the many above her own. And, besides, it’s not as if there is anything she can do to help him in his current condition. No, the best course she can take is to remain on deck, be seen among her men, toiling with them.

At least for a short while longer.

---

Hours have passed. Elizabeth is exhausted, body and soul. Her men have begun taking breaks in shifts, conserving energy as the gale shows no sign of abating anytime soon, and it is now her own turn. She nearly stumbles down the stairs to her cabin, fatigue making her legs uncooperative. As her eyes adjust to the dim room, she can smell incense burning. That, and the sickly sweet stench of looming death it was likely lit to cover up.

The healer is gone, his administrations long since concluded, but the handmaiden is still in attendance, alone this time, as her fellow serving girl had been killed when they were taken by The Dutchman. Her slight form is bent over James’ as she dabs moisture from his brow, visage gentle, sympathetic, even. She doesn’t raise her eyes when Elizabeth approaches, merely shifting aside so she may take over.

James’ wound has been thoroughly bandaged, though blood has started to soak through, staining the cloth scarlet. He lies atop the table in only his breeches and boots, his ruined shirt in a heap below, along with his other effects. His flesh has been sponged clean, a courtesy she expects was shown by her female companion, but...he looks frightful. Pale as bone and scalding with fever. As she mops the sweat from his temples, Elizabeth is distressed by the way he shivers beneath her touch, put in mind of the illness that took her mother not long after she’d lost the baby. How frail she’d been, with lips white as snow and skin like old parchment.

It is unbearable, seeing him like this. Her rock, her protector, struggling to draw breath. He cannot die. I will not let him.

The handmaiden stirs beside her, and Elizabeth follows the movement. She is gesturing further into the cabin, urging that direction with emphatic nods of her head. Though she is loathe to part from James’ side, Elizabeth trails her to an ornate chest wedged against the wall. The girl opens it, revealing a swath of black fabric artfully embroidered in gold. She then reaches to pull off Elizabeth’s stained silk robes, but her attempt is shrugged away.

‘You are very kind, but I can manage on my own.’

The handmaiden only stares at her in response, and, too tired to object further, Elizabeth relents, allowing herself to be undressed and redressed once more. But this time, she is clad in something more like armor, leather scales covering the breast and thighs. She scrutinizes her reflection in a broken mirror once fully trussed in the outfit, feeling fierce and fraudulent at the same time.

As her companion meekly backs away, Elizabeth can bear the silence no longer. ‘What is your name?’ She receives a blank look in return and tries a different tack. ‘I’m Elizabeth,’ she enunciates while pointing at herself. ‘Elizabeth. And that,’ she gestures toward the table. ‘That’s James. Elizabeth. James.’ Then she motions toward the girl an open palm. ‘And you are?’

She must understand, because she lays a hand over her chest and, for the first time since they’ve met, speaks in a smooth, soft voice. ‘Meiying.’ She points and recites haltingly, ‘Elizabet. Jamusa. Meiying.’

Elizabeth nods and takes the girl’s slim hand in her own. ‘Meiying. Thank you. For everything.’ She recalls a phrase she’d heard and hopes her pronunciation isn’t too poor. ‘...Xièxiè.’

Meiying gives her fingers an affirming squeeze, the ghost of a smile turning up the corners of her thin lips. ‘Bú kè qì.’

---

Not long after that, Elizabeth sends Meiying away, leaving her alone with James. It is only then that she allows her rigorously suppressed tears to fall unchecked, forging down her cheeks to drip off her chin.

‘I can’t do this without you, James. I won’t. You have to keep fighting.’

He is dreaming, eyes darting behind fluttering eyelids. A nightmare, she guesses, from the lines carved between his brows. She hopes that, somehow, he can hear her through the fog of oblivion.

‘Fight, James. Survive. That’s an order.’

She grips his twitching hand in her own, presses an earnest kiss to his knuckles.

‘Your Captain commands it.’

---

The moment Shipwreck Island is visible on the horizon, Elizabeth has James covered and brought topside on a makeshift stretcher. The closer they get, the more certain she is that time is suddenly of the essence. Even more than before. When The Empress finally slips through the cavernous entrance to the sheltered cove, she lifts her spyglass to scan the city, sweeping her magnified gaze over the multitude of re-purposed ships’ hulls and bustling, crooked avenues, before zeroing in on a dark figure standing motionless at the edge of the wharf. Tia Dalma. And behind her, two men. Will. And Jack. An abrupt, and mutinous, wave of hope has her heart trying to climb out through her throat.

As soon as The Empress speeds up to dock, the steadfast tailwind all but ceases, and they coast to a stop at the witch’s feet. Orders are shouted. A gangplank is lowered. Will is immediately up over the gunwale and at James’ side, Sparrow in tow. Jack briefly takes in the scene, expression inscrutable, before intoning seriously, ‘My place. We’ll take him there.’

Will agrees, and they lift the litter together as the crew watches solemnly from a distance. Elizabeth follows down to the pier just in time to see Tia Dalma lay a hand over James’ forehead, her black eyes falling closed for only a moment before flicking back open.

‘We must hurry,’ she murmurs thickly. ‘Him almost too deep for me to reach.’

As the men begin carrying him off, Elizabeth turns back toward her ship, finding Tai Huang standing at the end of the gangplank, arms crossed as they so often are, visage stern. She swallows, but meets his sharp gaze gamely. Huang jerks his chin in the direction of her retreating friends.

‘Go. I will see to the men.’

She nods once before stating, ‘I will be back.’

‘And we will be here.’

---

Jack’s ‘place’ is not far from the docks, though it is several stories up, and it takes the procession very little time to have James inside and laid out on the bed. Elizabeth notes, in passing, that the rooms are much neater than she might have expected, but is distracted forthwith by Tia Dalma motioning the three of them back and then lighting a single black candle, placing it on the small table nearby.

‘This is old magic,’ she cautions, without looking up, uncorking a vial she has pulled from her belt. ‘Dark. Dangerous.’ Her gaze snaps up and locks on to Elizabeth’s own. ‘And draining’

‘All the more reason for us to stay out of your way, then,’ jokes Jack, though there is very little humor in it. He’s frightened, Elizabeth realizes. Perhaps that should unsettle her more than it does.

‘Whatever you must do,’ she agrees, and feels Will’s reassuring fingers close over her shoulder in a show of support. ‘Just, please…’

Tia Dalma nods. ‘So be it.’

She turns to James and tips the bottle, spilling out a measure of white powder which she then rubs between her hands, forming a cloud of dust that seems to stay afloat around them. She starts mumbling some sort of incantation in a language Elizabeth does not recognize, not Spanish or French Creole. Not even Latin. Something altogether more spartan and austere.

The careful bandage binding James’ wound is sliced away with the flash of a silver knife that disappears just as quickly as it emerged, and Tia Dalma splays one of her umber palms across the savaged flesh, a hiss bubbling out between her teeth upon contact. The heavy shadows of the room grow longer, the flame on the candle grows dim. All light, all air, all sound seems to be drawn out, stretching toward the axis of the witch’s hands, where they overlap on James’ skin.

Elizabeth can feel what little energy she’s still clung to from her last influx of adrenaline being steadily siphoned away, causing her extremities to tingle, her knees to shake. She reaches up to take Will’s fingers in her own and finds them trembling, glances over to see he’s pale as a sheet and that Jack has braced himself on the back of a chair. Neither of them look at her, frozen in place.

A slight breeze has formed despite their being indoors. Their silhouettes dance across the floorboards and walls. Tia Dalma begins to lift her hands, her foreign murmuring slowly rising in pitch and volume. A dark, almost viscous, vapor follows, curling around her extended fingers, flowing up and out. Beneath it, the wound is gone, the unmarred flesh glowing. As is a separate patch just above James’ heart.

With a shout, the witch abruptly closes her hands into fists and casts the smoky mass at the ceiling. It scatters across the beams before dissipating into nothing...just as James draws a deep, gasping breath.

Tia Dalma slumps to the side, and Will goes to catch her as Elizabeth rushes to James. His face is already losing it’s pallor, no longer hot to the touch.

‘Him need to rest,’ the witch warns quietly, before pushing Will away and exiting onto the balcony alone, staggering just a bit.

Elizabeth doesn’t realize she’s been crying until Jack glides into view and offers up a handkerchief. She accepts, more than a little surprised at how clean it is, but saying nothing on the matter. Instead, she asks, ‘Why did you help us?’

Sparrow shrugs, affecting a tired, if genuine, smile, seemingly amused by her frankness. ‘Suppose I got a soft spot for them what spare me life. Especially three times over. That, and dear William insisted.’ He rolls his eyes toward Will.

‘But...how-’

‘Tia came to me,’ Will answers with a worried peek in the witch’s direction. ‘Told me James was dying. Said we needed to follow her. I don’t know how she knew.’

Jack clears his throat. ‘In other news, there’s been a slight delay on the convening of the Brethren Court as not all of the Pirate Lords have yet arrived.’ His eyes drift down to the bauble hanging round her neck, and his smile broadens. ‘Though I suppose we’re one closer now. Mind me asking what happened to the honorable Sao Feng?’

Elizabeth grimaces. ‘Sao Feng is dead.’

‘I take it he made you an offer you deigned to refuse?’

She glares at him by way of explanation, and Sparrow backs off. ‘Well, whatever the circumstances, what’s done is done. I imagine you’ll be wanting to take some time after all this excitement. Feel free to stay here.’ The pirate is already making his way toward the door, but stops and retraces his steps to pull several bottles of rum out of a cabinet.

It is a suspiciously generous overture, particularly from someone she’d killed, and she tells him so. Jack merely laughs. ‘Yes, well, you’re not the first to try, regardless of your level of success, and you certainly won’t be the last. I’ll be staying on The Pearl anyway, so don’t worry yourself on my account. Now.’ He has crossed back to Will, dumping the bottles in his arms. ‘Time for us to go, lad. You can come back and moon over the previously doomed in the morning.’

Will colors and frowns, but elects not to argue, at least not now. His expression softens when he turns it on Elizabeth. ‘Send word if you need me.’

‘I will.’

And then they are gone.

---

‘I wanted to thank you. For what you did for James.’

Elizabeth has joined Tia Dalma on the balcony, a cunningly recycled portion of a galleon’s quarterdeck from which one has a rather magnificent view of the harbor. Stars wink in the distance over the rim of the half submerged dormant volcano in which the city stands.

Silence reigns for several minutes before she cannot hold back her questions another instant. ‘How did you know?’

Tia smiles almost wistfully. ‘Your plea came to me on the wind.’

The prayer. The answering gale that filled their sails. Elizabeth shoves back off the railing and faces her. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? Calypso?’

The witch raises a dark brow and eyes her appraisingly before eventually replying, with a degree of finality, ‘Once.’

The admission hits Elizabeth like an arrow to the chest. How long has this woman, this goddess, been trapped in her own flesh? It is a prison more restricting, more sinister, than any she has ever known. To be stripped of her power, her agency, her sense of self...and for what? The jealousy of men and their petty designs on her domain? It is enough to make Elizabeth’s blood boil.

‘It’s not right. I won’t abide it. You’ve helped me, and now it’s my turn. I know how to free you. I know how to undo Jones’ work.’

Tia blinks, her lips falling slightly open. ‘Jones? No...him weren’t…’

‘You- you mean you didn’t know? No one ever told you?’ Elizabeth feels a fresh wave of outrage as old hurt and anger blazes in the witch’s gaze. ‘Those cowardly, spineless-’ She checks her outburst, knowing it serves no real purpose and simply states, ‘You deserve better.’

There is a heated pause as a darkness settles over Tia Dalma’s features. Her nostrils flare, her eyes glint like obsidian. Her teeth are bared as she hisses, ‘Yes.’ It is spoken exceedingly softly, hardly above a whisper, but there is unmasked fury in her tone.

‘And I shall give it to you.’ Elizabeth places a hand over her heart, resolving to correct this wrong no matter the opposition. ‘You will be free once more. This I swear. Even if I have to see to it myself.’

---

James is seated in the maroon wingback chair. The untouched teacup is clutched in his fingers. The Governor is talking at him about trade, the weather. Footsteps come pounding up the walkway outside. The door bursts open.

But the light is brighter this time, too bright for him to see her. James squints his eyes, has to avert his gaze entirely. A heavily accented voice is whispering in his ear from very far away: come back….come back...

Then it turns to Elizabeth’s voice. ‘Come back to me, James.’

Always, he thinks. And then he does.

---

James wakes slowly, the world solidifying back into place around him like the gradual reveal of the shallows made by the receding tide. He can smell the salt tang of the sea, can feel the caress of fresh air across his skin, can hear the creaking of bulkheads. His eyes open, adjusting to the mid-morning light flooding in through the open doors to his left.

Though he takes time to inspect the setting, James moves as little as possible, completely unfamiliar with his surroundings. It is a large room, the walls comprised of rough wooden paneling covered in all manner of decoration, from African tribal masks to Chinese watercolors to charts of the Mediterranean. There is not an overabundance of furniture, but neither is it sparsely appointed, and all that is present seems to have been similarly collected from across the globe.

While he still has no idea where he is, awash in the cheerful glow of slanting sun beams, James is positive he is no longer in Port Royal.

Never has he been more grateful for that.

He sits up, the intricately woven blanket that had been draped over him pooling in his lap. He’s shirtless, much cleaner than he last remembers. Someone has bathed him? In the middle of being quite uncomfortable with that idea, a memory flashes into his mind. Pain. Falling. Water filling his nose. Someone dragging him toward the surface. I was shot.

But a glance downward tells him differently. A more thorough inspection reveals no entry or exit wounds, but there is a spattering of dried blood on the linens beneath him. He barely has time to consider the implications of that before he hears a door opening and closing somewhere nearby, followed by boots coming up a flight of stairs. James levels his sharp gaze at the solitary archway across the chamber, apprehension flickering behind his ribs.

A figure crests the staircase, humming softly around the pile of parcels in her arms. When she sees him, Elizabeth stills. Then a joyful grin splits her achingly beautiful features.

‘James!’

She promptly drops her burdens to the floor and flies toward him, gracefully vaulting the heavy footboard and tackling him back against the mattress, eliciting a surprised grunt in response.

‘You’re finally awake!’ She enthuses amid peppering his face with chaste kisses. ‘How are you feeling? Well? Oh, I’m so glad you’re back!’

James wonders what that means. He attempts to rasp out a reply, but finds his throat remarkably dry. Elizabeth’s eyes light up with understanding, and she scurries back to her abandoned packages before returning to sit on the edge of the bed, passing him a canteen. Water has never tasted so good.

While he greedily empties the flask, Elizabeth inquires again, calmer this time, ‘How do you feel, James?’

‘Rested,’ he says after he’s finished. ‘Like I’ve slept for eons.’ Which is unsettling. How long was he actually gone? Did he truly restart, or was it all a dream?

Elizabeth clearly thinks this a jest, smiling as she takes the canteen back from him and sets it on a nearby table. ‘Only two days. Give or take a few hours. But I was hesitant to wake you. You looked so peaceful and Calypso-’ She stops herself, something weighty clouding her eyes.

James is troubled by it’s sudden appearance. ‘Elizabeth,’ he asks, while not at all sure he wants to know the answer, ‘What happened?’

She swallows, a frown bowing her lips. ‘You almost died, James. And it was nothing shy of a miracle that you did not.’

At his expression of confusion, Elizabeth goes on to explain. The gunshot. The healer. An answer to prayer. Will and Jack waiting on the docks. Dark magic. He is internally aghast at the whole affair, shaken by the witch’s involvement and full of questions he cannot, and likely never will, ask.

After concluding her account, Elizabeth reaches out and runs her fingers over his chest, gently nudging his mother’s ring with her pinky, her gaze drifting away from his. ‘I was terrified, James. I thought you’d given up. The way you lingered on The Dutchman...it was like…’ Her liquid brown eyes pin him then, sending a shiver down his spine. ‘It was like you intended to stay behind.’

If left to his own devices, he very well may have. But, as he knows this will only upset her further, James opts not to say as much, settling upon silence instead.

‘I couldn’t bear it, the thought that you would sacrifice your life so needlessly. Leaving me alone. Surrounded by strangers and enemies, without a soul I could trust.’

He hadn’t considered his reluctance, his instinct to repeat the past, would affect her so. That his provisional inaction would hurt her.

‘You should have listened to me. You should have come away when I told you to. Then, you wouldn’t have been…and I...’

James takes her idle hand in his, thumb stroking over her knuckles. ‘You’re right. And I’m sorry. I should have listened.’

Elizabeth blinks, gaze fading from sullen to mildly surprised. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to agree.

Eager to chase the sadness from her countenance, James adopts a lightly teasing tone. ‘You are the Captain now, after all.

This has the desired effect; mirth flares in her eyes before she smirks. ‘Yes. And you’d do well to remember it, sailor. Pull another stunt like that, and I’ll see you severely punished.’

Maybe it’s the sudden heat in her gaze, or maybe the cant of her plush lips, but James finds the playful ultimatum to be startlingly arousing. Before he can curb himself, he goads, ‘Is that a threat? Or a promise?’

She takes a moment to study him, eyes narrowed, before throwing a leg over him, straddling his thighs as she pushes him back toward the pillows with a hand planted firmly against his sternum. ‘Why not both?’

And then her mouth is on his, as deliberate a show of force as it is affection. James feels dizzy as her tongue sweeps in and tangles with his own, barely contains a groan of frustration when she takes his bottom lip between her teeth and slowly pulls away.

Her hand has trailed down to the place his wound used to be. ‘At least it won’t scar,’ she murmurs into the thick air between them.

James chuckles, more to alleviate the tension building inside him than out of humor. She really does choose the strangest topics to bring up when they are in the most precarious of positions. One of the many things he loves about her, to be sure. ‘I’ll find a way to live with it. There are plenty of others.’

‘You know,’ she muses with a smile, ‘I’ve accrued a few of my own over the years.’

He’d only known about the one across her palm and tells her as much. Elizabeth’s response is to whisk herself away to wrest off her boots, dropping them to the floorboards with a resounding clunk. Then she is back, rolling the leg of her trousers up until she reveals a faint mark on her shin.

‘This is from a nasty fall I took while climbing the trellis at my cousin’s house in England. My dress got caught on a nail. It caused quite the hullabaloo. And here,’ she points at a healed burn on her left wrist. ‘This happened during my first, and only, attempt at pie-making. The resulting fire had me permanently banned from the kitchen by the cook.’

James has a witty retort for her exaggerated pout but is cut short as she untucks her shirt and tugs down the waistband of her breeches, exposing a discolored patch of flesh at the top of her hip. He tries very hard not to notice the hint of dark curls also poking out.

‘But this one was the worst. I was carrying my favorite tea service down the stairs, an attempt to be helpful, and tripped over my skirts, tumbling the rest of the way, literally ass over tea kettle. I landed squarely in the middle of the shards. There was blood everywhere! It effectively ruined the offending gown, which I thought a very suitable punishment for its crime.’

‘Honestly!’ James laughs, ‘I can’t believe this is my first time hearing about this. Surely, you must have been fairly bursting to share such a story.’

Elizabeth laughs too, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she shakes her head. ‘Of course not! It was far too embarrassing! By that time I was trying so hard to impress you with how grown I was. Such clumsiness would have set me back months!’

‘Impress me?’ It is such an altogether peculiar notion, that she should care so much for his opinion of her. ‘How long ago was this?’

She waves a hand flippantly. ‘Oh, I was around sixteen at the time. Still all knees and elbows.’

Hardly. She’d been devastatingly lovely even at that age, but James deems it unwise to disagree.

‘I always thought very highly of you, you know. I used to stare out my window at night wondering if you thought of me. Used to daydream about what it would be like to be held in your arms.’ She lets go of the waistband with a flourish and grins impishly. ‘Though that all seems so saintly now, in comparison.’

And she is kissing him again, a smirk forming against his lips when she grabs hold of his wandering hands and places them over his head. ‘Let’s see how good you are at following orders, shall we? You are to leave these here, understand?’

James bites back a smile. A game, is it? Very well. He nods his assent.

But keeping his end of the bargain proves more difficult than expected. She is caressing him, exploring with bold fingers. Soon, she begins tasting as well, running her tongue along his collarbone, pausing to suck at his pulse point. James has never been on the receiving end of this before; either he’s been the one to take his time with her, or everything is a whirlwind of pleasure and unexpected nakedness. Elizabeth isn’t usually so patient. Or thorough.

He really starts to struggle when she leans back and shucks her linen shirt, her expanse of flawless skin glowing in the sunlight. She flips her hair over a shoulder and catches her lip between her teeth as she slowly massages her own breasts, maintaining smoldering eye-contact all the while.

His fingers itch to replace her own. Surely, he can’t be expected to merely watch? But she must be able to infer his inner dialogue, for she leans over him, pebbled nipples grazing his chest, and whispers silkily in his ear, ‘Stay.’

Then she draws away. Far away. And goes for the fastenings of his trousers. James hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until her intrepid hand closes around him, giving a swift pump that leaves him gasping.

‘All this for me?’ She giggles huskily. ‘James, I’m flattered.’

He might have made a sarcastic reply, but all thought instantly ceases when she climbs back up him, trapping his cock between them, and his hands fly down to touch her, entirely on impulse. It was unintentional disobedience, but Elizabeth tuts, returning the mutinous appendages back to their erstwhile positions. ‘James.’ There is a firmness in her tone despite the soft curve of her lips. ‘I am not going to warn you again.’

Before he has time to be utterly scandalized by the bolt of lust the reprimand shoots through him, she is stroking him, twisting gently at the tip in a way that has him thrusting up into her hand, to his shame. He can’t help it, can’t stop the cascade of embarrassing little noises tumbling from his lips. But if he is in agony, exquisite though it may be, Elizabeth is thoroughly enjoying herself, eyes shining with something very like pride.

It’s too much. Too much and not enough. He finds his own ragged voice pleading with her. ‘Please, Elizabeth...I want…’

‘What do you want, James?’

God, she can’t keep saying his name like that, or he will never be able to hear it again while keeping a straight face. ‘I want to touch you. Please, let me touch you.’

A throaty chuckle. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ve behaved yourself enough for that.’ He drops his head back with a particularly pitiful sigh, but then she pauses in her ministrations, expression suddenly thoughtful. ‘However...perhaps there’s something else I can offer you. A compromise.’

He isn’t comforted by the way she says it, not in the least, and stares with nearly bulging eyes as she lifts and drops hot, open mouth kisses down his stomach. He should stop her. Should say something, anything, but all his higher faculties seem to have fled, leaving him to falter wordlessly. He is half panic, half eagerness when she looks up through the curtain of her hair and gives a devilish smirk.

Then her mouth is around him, and Christ, the slide of her velvety lips is going to kill him. One hand is propped against his hip as the other grips the base of him while she bobs up and down; he is straining to obey her, fingers fisting in the sheet, and literally whimpers when she pulls off him with an unmistakable pop.

‘What’s the matter, James?’ She grins. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

---

James is spread out before her like a pagan sacrifice, cheeks and chest flushed rather becomingly. She has done this to him, reduced him to a stuttering mess. And it is glorious. Elizabeth goes back to her task, regarding him through her lashes as he pants and trembles with the exertion of holding back. Well, that simply won’t do. She sucks hard, hollowing her cheeks as she hums around him, tastes salt on on her tongue.

‘Eliza-’ A gasp. ‘Elizabeth, I’m...you-’

She ignores him, doubling her efforts until he spills down her throat, swallowing every drop and making sure he sees her licking her lips. The startled ecstasy in his emerald green eyes only serves to embolden her. ‘There now. Wasn’t that worth a little submission?’

This earns her a satiated chuckle. ‘I hesitate to ask where you learned such a thing,’ he quips breathlessly, without a whit of accusation. She loves him for it.

‘I had some very knowledgeable friends growing up.’ God bless Rebecca Scott.

Elizabeth notices his fingers twitching and gives her permission for him to move again, if he should like. He drags her up for a long, probing kiss, and she wonders in passing if he can taste himself on her tongue the way she had that first night. But then she loses herself in the ardor of his lips.

When they eventually part for the necessity of air, Elizabeth rises, making her way to a mahogany sideboard. James utters a half-hearted objection, but she shushes him. ‘I’m not going far, Darling. Just need a drink.’ She pours a generous measure of Jack’s rather superb brandy before adding teasingly, ‘Unless, you’ve somewhere to be?’

He makes a face, and she laughs. ‘Then, in that case.’ She drains the glass and then fills it once more, passing it to him when she returns to his side. James watches her over the rim as he takes a sip, gaze intensifying when she strips her breeches. Once bare, she lifts his free hand and guides it to her soaking center, practically purring as his fingers flex against her.

‘See how much I want you, James? What you do to me?’

Determination sparks in his eyes, and he purposefully sets the now empty glass aside with a dull clink. He takes hold of her wrist and leads her back onto the bed, shimmying downward until she is straddling his face. This is a new position, but Elizabeth is already supremely intrigued. She braces herself against the headboard as his large hands curl around her thighs, steadily drawing her down until his mouth meets her swollen folds.

It is eminently agreeable, very much like when he’s done this before, but the rather novel vantage point makes it feel as though she is still the one in control. Elizabeth appreciates this quite a bit. She grinds against his lips, gasping when he suckles her. James slips a finger inside, filling her, stretching her, and one of her hands flits down to thread through his hair. Moments later, she is moaning his name, shaking into a million euphoric pieces.

Elizabeth goes a bit boneless, sitting back on his chest. He smiles up at her from between her knees, and it is exquisite. Like he is a child on Christmas morning. Like she is the most divine creature to ever breathe. It is an addicting feeling, to be so worshiped.

---

Now that she’s caught her breath, James grabs hold of her and flips the both of them over, Elizabeth squealing with laughter all the while at being so manhandled. He’s found that, in certain circumstances, she enjoys being tossed around. As his fingers rake up the ladder of her rib cage, he is overtaken, once again, but the profound marvel that she is his. Despite everything, she is his.

After he is finally sheathed inside her, she encourages him to roughness, and he is more than happy to oblige. ‘Fuck me, James,’ she croons into his ear. ‘Fuck me like you mean it.’

He does. And once she has spent, and he goes to pull out, she clamps her thighs around him, pulls his hair, and commands, ‘No. Inside me.’

Who is he to disobey?

---

Chapter Text

‘I picked up some supplies in town,’ Elizabeth divulges as she tugs on her breeches one tantalizing leg at a time. James tries very hard to focus on the words she’s saying, and replies with an ever-so-articulate, ‘Hm,’ which earns a knowing grin in return. She grabs up her discarded linen shirt and crosses the room, tossing the garment over the back of a wooden chair before scooping up the parcels she’d so unceremoniously dumped after spotting him awake.

‘Clothes,’ she clarifies. ‘I figured you would be reluctant to borrow anything of Jack’s.’

It’s true, and he has the sense to be grateful...but the marks he’s left over her clavicle are extraordinarily distracting.

She must take his silence for hesitation, for she heaves a beleaguered sigh and approaches to press the bundle to his bare chest. ‘Try them at the very least, won’t you? I’m fairly certain they’re your size.’

And she’s right; they are. Once he is duly covered, she gives him an appraising, and rather salacious, once-over. He notes the glitter of silver clutched in her hand and nods toward it. ‘What have you there?’

‘Oh, this?’ She opens her fist to unveil a straight razor, a sheepish smile pulling at her lips. ‘I had thought you might want a shave.’

James considers the offer, he truly does. He’s never had facial hair so long, at least not in this timeline, and he imagines he must appear quite the rogue. Not a look he usually sports, but, if nothing else, he’ll blend right in. ‘I’m afraid I’ve grown rather attached,’ he says as he strokes his chin. ‘Someone once told me it suits me.’

Her eyes twinkle as she sets the implement aside. ‘Very well. But I do believe a trim is in order.’

He could have handled said trim himself, but Elizabeth tacitly insists, sitting him in a chair and working her way around him, scissors in hand. Where she got them, he doesn’t think to ask, far too entranced by the way she is humming a piece she used to play for him on the pianoforte as a girl.

When she finishes that task and begins brushing out his hair, James becomes markedly uncomfortable, not at all accustomed to being so demonstrably cared for. He doesn’t have the heart to stop her, though, the play at domesticity bringing to mind all the misguided little fantasies he’d once entertained about what their life would be like together in Port Royal. He can’t help but feel guilty about them now, in retrospect. How important they had become to him. So important, he’d nearly lost her all over again.

He isn’t permitted to linger in such a maudlin state for long, however. Elizabeth has his chin caught between her thumb and forefinger, surveying her work with an expectant expression as she turns his head back and forth. James pivots in his seat to track her movement when she leaves his side and returns with a final offering: a forest green frock coat with golden buttons and trim.

‘Since yours was ruined,’ she elaborates, suddenly uncharacteristically demure.

James stands, narrowly managing to swallow down a refusal to accept such a fine gift. Instead, he asks, ‘You bought this here? In Shipwreck Cove?’

‘No,’ she answers mysteriously. ‘I didn’t have to buy it at all.’

He might have questioned her further on the matter, but after casting a wink his way, she sets to finishing getting dressed herself. He shrugs dubiously into the garment, but its pleasant weight on his shoulders and the excellence of the fit assuages any objections he might have regarding its unknown method of procurement. As does Elizabeth’s affectionate observation that it matches his eyes perfectly. The heat the compliment brings to his cheeks is downright ridiculous. Like he’s some sort of timid boy. He bears it with all the dignity he can muster, which is to say, none at all.

But Elizabeth doesn’t notice his struggle, or maybe she does and is merely choosing not to draw attention to it. Either way, as she buttons on her waistcoat, fingers flying through the motions with practiced ease for someone who’d only recently taken to wearing men’s clothing, she relays her intent to take him down to meet Will.

‘He’s been here with me, as often as not. I’ve no doubt he’ll be absolutely thrilled to see you up and about. Lord knows we could use another ally for what’s to come.’

The phrasing is worrisome, but Elizabeth continues animatedly, practically bubbling over as she details her activities while he was ‘gone.’ Will plays a key role in just about everything she recounts, eyes bright with a fond smile James attempts not to find dismaying. The spark of jealousy startles him, and he resolutely smothers it as he follows her down the staircase and out into the street. It’s only been two days, after all.

The trouble is, James knows very well how much can change in a mere two days.

Elizabeth takes his hand as she leads him down the steep, narrow avenue zig-zagging its way between towering spires built of all manner of cannibalized sailing vessel. Eventually, the barely more than shoulder width path spills into a much larger thoroughfare of cobbled stone where people are bustling about in every direction. And not just the usual freebooter drawn to mind when one pictures a citadel populated by pirates. No...there are women washing clothing in a great fountain, barefoot children chasing a hoop across the way. There are stalls and shops displaying a myriad of goods, from utilitarian to exotic, and all colors and creeds of man seem to be represented among their clientele.

It is so diverse. So full of vibrancy and life. And it is nothing like James had imagined. His surprise, verging perilously on awe, must show on his face, for Elizabeth stops and gives his hand a playful squeeze, triumph shining in her burnished eyes.

‘They’ve a Turkish bakery around the corner. And if you head up the way another block or two, there’s a library. I think even you’d be impressed by how many of the books are in Greek.’

Something behind him catches her gaze, and she breaks away to greet a grizzled salt with skin the color of walnuts and a mouthful of copper teeth. She clasps the man’s hand in a hearty way that speaks of great familiarity, and, as he watches the interaction unfold, James is struck, once again, by how much seems to have changed in his absence.

‘Tom Wise, you old dog! I trust you’re feeling better after last night’s dip?’

‘Oh, aye, Captain Swann,’ he grins. ‘Thank ye kindly for yer concern.’

They laugh, almost in perfect harmony, at whatever jest it is they’ve shared, and James is irked by how much he wishes to be in on it as well.

‘Tom’ then appears to notice James for the first time, and the mirth in his eyes all but vanishes, only to return when he once again addresses Elizabeth. ‘But I see I’ve interrupted. I’ll let ye be on yer way.’

Goodbyes are exchanged, and, beaming, Elizabeth takes hold of James’ arm. She begins ushering him down the boulevard, chin up, smile broad, practically strutting as men and women alike hail her as she passes. ‘Word travels fast,’ she imparts furtively, tapping the bauble hanging upon her chest, the one inherited from Sao Feng. ‘I fear I’m something of a celebrity now. Will and I have been trying to use that to our advantage: mingling, politicking, making allies. But more on that later.’

After his less than cordial reception by the illustrious Tom Wise, James has become acutely aware of the scrutinous eyes raking over his shoulders and back. Some even go so far as to glare at him outright; one man with a peg leg and long wiry hair even spits while boldly holding his gaze, though not at him. The intent is understood, regardless, and James feels a chill despite the humidity of the afternoon.

But with every slight he receives, Elizabeth grips his arm all the tighter, firing her own withering glares right back. For the most part, this seems to daunt, or at least, placate, his critics, but all disillusions James had about ‘blending in’ are thoroughly dashed to pieces.

‘Like I said, word travels fast.’

He glances down, reads the determination on her face. The forced poise. Here in this foreign place, Elizabeth fits right in. It’s almost as though, somehow, she belongs here. He, however, very obviously does not. And it is also very obvious that her ownership of him is what’s keeping his ill-wishers at bay. While some small part of him is amused by her protection, the overwhelming truth is...the knowledge of his identity can only be a hindrance to her. And perhaps even a danger.

---

‘Captain Swann!’

‘Robert! Always a pleasure to see you!’

They’re outside their destination now, a two story tavern ironically called The Old familiar, when who should approach but Robert MacMurray. A stolen glance reveals several members of his crew carousing nearby, and as Elizabeth shakes the Captain’s hand, every warning bell in James’ mind is clanging at attention.

‘And ye’ve got someone in tow today I see.’

MacMurray’s grin is almost feral in its intensity. The easy humor is gone from his eyes, replaced with something sharp and frigid. ‘We meet again, James the excellent sailor.’

While the man’s stance is open and casual, James can feel the tension crackling in the air and yearns for the reassuring weight of his sword belt. MacMurray doesn’t threaten or attempt to incite the crowd; he merely leans forward, a hint of menace dripping from his words.

‘To think I had ye right under me nose fer nigh three months, swabbing the deck of The Retribution like a common jack. I still can’t decide if yer a traitor, or a fool.’

Why can’t I be both?

Elizabeth quite literally steps in, placing herself between them with an aura of command. ‘Whatever he is, he’s with me.’

There is a beat of silence until MacMurray takes up his signature smile once more. ‘As ye say, Lass.’

When they enter the tavern, James doesn’t miss the wink the Scot throws him from behind her back.

‘Ignore him,’ Elizabeth huffs once they’re out of earshot. ‘You’re one of us now.’

James doesn’t know what to make of that.

Us.

---

The Old Familiar is comprised of large, single-paned windows, all open and unshuttered to let the sea breeze in. James and Elizabeth climb the worn steps to the second story, sidling past a number of patrons in varying states of inebriation, and emerge onto a large balcony dotted with round tables over which a stretch of white canvas has been slung to create shade. It snaps like a sail whenever a stiff wind blows through, conjuring up a good deal of nostalgia for...simpler times. The balcony itself juts out over the sparkling azure waters of the Cove, allowing for an uninterrupted view of the harbor. Picturesque...if it weren’t for all the pirates.

In the far corner, a figure rises from his seat against the railing and beckons them over. Though James is not unhappy to see Will, neither is he particularly cheerful. But then Turner has brought enough cheer for them both, taking James’ hand in a grip that is just a tad too tight and lasts just a tad too long.

‘Damned good to see you, James.’

‘An opinion that seems to be the minority around these parts,’ James responds wryly, and Will’s smile freezes on his face.

He casts a glance at Elizabeth before carefully replying, ‘Yes...I’m afraid that couldn’t be helped. Word-’

‘Word travels fast. So I’ve heard.’ Perhaps there is more annoyance in his tone than the situation warrants. Perhaps he clips his words more forcefully than necessary. If Turner had taken umbrage, had confronted him for his prickliness, James would have been more than pleased to dig in, but, as it stands, he does not. Instead, Will adopts an expression of such sympathetic understanding, James can hardly bear it, for the pettiness of his own irritation is thrown into even sharper relief. As is the accompanying guilt.

As if to drive the sentiment home, Turner happily presents James with his short sword, freshly sharpened and cleaned and attached to a new leather belt of superior craftsmanship. He explains he’d meant to send it back with Elizabeth, but considers it good fortune to be able to return it in person. ‘You may very well be needing it soon.’

On the heels of this gravely delivered statement, lunch is served: some sort of spicy meat stew James hardly tastes in his famished haste. He’s always been a fast eater, a trait picked up by necessity in the field, but upon realizing he’s nearly licked his bowl before his companions have taken their first few bites, his ears burn with embarrassment.

But Elizabeth and Will hardly seem to care, too busy recounting their machinations over the past few days between mouthfuls, talking over one another in their eagerness, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing at shared jokes. While they are relating the events for his benefit, James still can’t help but feel that he is rather superfluous in all this. An afterthought tacked on to the end of their plans.

And even more unsettling than this is the casual intimacy they exhibit right before his eyes, as though her fingers brushing the hair from Turner’s cheek is commonplace, as though his foot propped on the rung beneath her chair is tradition.

‘Our best bet for survival is to fight,’ Elizabeth is saying when James’ attention drifts back to the conversation. ‘But pirates are cautious by nature, not usually the type to stand and present if there are other options. The overwhelming majority will want to hole up for a siege.’

That gives James pause. ‘Siege?’

‘Beckett,’ Will clarifies. ‘Somehow he’s found us. His Armada is on its way.’

‘Yes, and we ought to meet him. Show our teeth instead of our tail.’

Will nods in agreement with Elizabeth’s assertion, but James is mightily perturbed by it. As she comments that Jack is also on their side, though not openly as the politics of the Cove are a fickle thing, the urge to say what’s on his mind becomes too much to stymie.

‘The EITC fleet is a force to be reckoned with. Siege or no, they will wipe out any resistance these disorganized brigands bring to bear. The smartest thing to do would be to leave them to their fate. This isn’t our fight.’

Will goes completely still, widened eyes sliding slowly toward Elizabeth, who has very pointedly dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clatter. She folds her hands upon the table, brows drawing into a tight-lipped frown as she leans forward.

‘Isn’t our fight?’ Her question is laced with quiet fury. With disgust. So intense James’ fingers start to tingle. ‘I am well aware of your opinions on pirates and piracy in general, but you’ve walked the streets of this place. To paint them all with the same brush is unworthy. To condemn them, a singular act of inhumanity.’

‘They are condemned either way, Elizabeth. Lingering would only add our names to the casualty list.’

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. Elizabeth stiffens, rolling her jaw, defiance smoldering in her eyes. ‘That may be the case. But if so, it is for a just cause. A cause that is bigger than us. Because it’s not even about us. It’s about what the Cove represents. It’s about tyranny unchecked. It’s about finally finding a place where I’m free to be who I am and love who I choose. Free to reach and dream and achieve.’ She gets more worked up with each syllable, nearly spitting in her vehemence.

‘To run would be worse than cowardice. It would be to turn my back on everything I believe! So I can not. I will not. This is absolutely my fight!’ Having made her point, Elizabeth lets it stand, her breath coming in ferocious gusts through her nose, nostrils flaring, as she spears him with her challenging gaze.

Her conviction, while moving, does not better their chances of survival. But James senses the undercurrent of hurt in her voice. He has disappointed her in this. Offended her. And all rather carelessly in his own fog of displeasure over her new attachment to Will. He’d let his acrimony show, a transgression he’d sworn off some time ago in a dark corner of The Pearl’s hold. The revelation shames him, and he nearly bows his head with it.

‘If it is your fight...then it is also mine. I had not intended to sound so harsh. I must ask your forgiveness.’

Elizabeth’s eyes immediately soften, and the clenched fist on the table reaches out to cover his. Her tone is much less severe when she replies, ‘You never have to ask.’ She sighs, expression gentle. ‘And I should not take for granted your loyalty. I cannot expect you to feel the same way I do about this place, though I would hope you at least understand why. Even so...I would not presume to lead you to what might be your death, all our deaths, if it were not your choice as well.’

He has already told her his choice. He will follow. Wherever she leads. Is she trying to convince him not to? Surely-

‘I am going to stay. I am going to fight. And, while I have a clear preference on the matter...I would understand if you could not.’

She’s...she’s releasing him. James is reeling, nauseous due to the way the floor is pitching beneath him. Does she...does she truly believe he could leave her behind? Is that what she wants?

‘This is where your heart truly lies, then?’ The words tumble past his lips before he can check them, all the terrible emotion carrying over from a time he’d asked her the same question before. And her response is the same as it was then.

‘It is.’

A numbness starts to gather in his limbs, weighing in his gut like a heavy stone. ‘Then I shall do my part to preserve it.’ It being this new life she has chosen, filled with people and experiences he doesn’t recognize, isn’t a part of. If she is resolved to do this, then he will be at her side...whether he belongs there or not.

Elizabeth nods, as though that settles things, and breaks into a tentative, if sincere, smile. ‘Well, then. I could use a drink. Yes?’ She turns to Will. ‘Couldn’t you?’ He nods emphatically, and she pulls her hand away from James’, quickly rising. When he instinctively goes to stand as well, she waves him back down, though there is amusement in her eyes. ‘The bar is just downstairs. I shan’t be long.’ And she is gone.

After a few moments of deafening silence, Will lets out the breath he appears to have been holding since the argument began. He begins neatly stacking the dirty dishes, lip caught between his teeth as he very obviously tries to think of what to say. James wishes he wouldn’t say anything. There’s a limit to his ability to remain calm in the face of disappointment, and damn, if he isn’t barreling toward it at maximum velocity.

But Will is set on ‘cheering him up,’ it seems, finishing his task and sitting back in his chair with a smile one might call pitying if they were feeling uncharitable. Which James is.

‘All this has become a bit of a crusade for Elizabeth. I wouldn’t take it too personally. You’re not the first person she’s ‘set straight’ over the affair.’

No doubt the comment was meant to reassure him, but it resolutely does not. As if the conversation could have been any more personal. Resentment rises in the back of James’ throat like bile.

‘We are very glad to have you back,’ Will continues obliviously, ‘It will be nice to have someone on our side we can actually trust. If our efforts have taught us anything, it’s that true allies are in short supply among thieves.’ His lips twitch with a self-deprecating mien, signifying an attempt at humor, but James is far too agitated by his repeated use of ‘we’ and ‘our’ to respond in kind.

‘She’s become so capable, you know? I mean, she always was, it’s just, now? A captain? A Lord? Elizabeth has surpassed every expectation, faced every opposition, and come out of it...a marvel.’ Turner is practically radiating as he sings her praises, open adoration in his doe eyes as his gaze slips into the middle distance. ‘I always knew she had potential. Even as children. There’s this fire inside her that inspires people. Makes them want to follow her. Gives them hope….’ He shakes off whatever reverie he’s fallen victim to and adds quietly, ‘Like you do.’

James can’t think of a single cordial thing to say in reply, so he says nothing. But he is now more sure than ever that Will is still enamored with Elizabeth. And of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be?

When she arrives back at the table not even a minute later, breathless and excited, Elizabeth tells them she’s received news. The last of the Pirate Lords has arrived. They will convene at sundown. She and Will share a keen look of zeal borne of relief that their wait is over, they will finally get to plead their case.

And James thinks he’s going to be sick.

---

After a brief stop at Jack’s lodgings to change into something more befitting a Lord of the Brethren Court, Elizabeth declares that she must go down to her ship and collect her first mate. James grimaces at the mention of the unpleasant Chinese pirate, recollecting how large a part he’d played in the beating James had received for his unwillingness to come quietly, but he holds his tongue. When he makes to join her, however, Elizabeth stops him.

‘As much as I would like to show off my ship, I don’t think it wise for you to come with me. You had better stay here.’

He protests, but her reasoning is sound. The crew of The Empress now knows exactly who it was they plucked, bleeding, from the sea. She’d been able to smooth their discontent for the most part with the generous application of both diplomacy and intimidation, but the situation is still precarious. What’s more, the pirates per capita on the docks is much higher. In town, Elizabeth is confident in her ability to extinguish any threats, but even so, it would be folly to test her reach so close to the meeting of the Brethren.

Comprehending the volatile nature of the Cove’s politics does not make him any more pleased to remain behind. And when Will volunteers to stay with him, James nearly scoffs, not at all amenable to the idea, given his current inner turmoil. But Elizabeth rebuffs this too, reminding Will that Jack will need him so he may as well follow her down.

Once they depart, James takes his brooding to the balcony, where he glares down at the masses milling in the street with very little love his heart. Fighting Beckett’s armada is suicide. And for what? These people? The ramshackle pile of detritus upon which they hock their stolen wares? There was a time not so long ago when, if any of these marauders had met him at sea, he would have put them to the sword. With the sanctioned blessing of King George, no less. Look at him now: cowering in a tower, waiting for Elizabeth to collect him, like some kind of fucking fairy tale damsel. And furthermore...

Back when Turner had first admitted his love for Elizabeth, James had been overcome by the awful feeling that the changes he’d made were selfish. That he’d stolen Will’s happiness to make his own. That thought has made a seditious return...along with the inkling there is more to it. So many of his attempts at revision hadn’t stuck. They seemed to have been undone, corrected by...fate?

Is this...is it another one of those inevitabilities? Two lovers destined to find each other in spite of all odds? In spite of him?

James fears he’s never truly been the protagonist of his own story. He fears…

‘I really am fortune’s fool.’

‘We are all fools in love.’

James’ head whips around when a husky, accented voice answers his own and discovers the witch, Tia Dalma, Calypso, whoever she is, standing in the doorway. Despite his startled surprise, he schools his features into careful neutrality. His instinct to flee is insistent, fluttering like a caged bird beneath his ribs, but, for the first time, James engages her.

‘True enough,’ he agrees mildly, and turns back toward the view, focusing on the distant sea. He feels, rather than sees, the sorceress approach, leaning on the rail next to him. She doesn’t speak again, however, and after several minutes of quiet observation, James says, without looking at her, ‘Thank you. For saving me.’

He hears the smile in her response. ‘You are welcome, James Norrington. But I did not save you. Only acted as the line that pulled you back.’

‘From what?’ He does and does not want to know, is equally afraid of and desperate for answers.

Dark eyes glint in his peripheral, reflecting the sinking arc of the sun. ‘From a new start.’

James gapes at her then, blood turning to ice in his veins. ‘Then it was real,’ he utters at just above a whisper.

The witch nods once. ‘You were almost too deep to reach. It helped you wanted to stay.’

‘Do you know what happened to me?’ He’s not talking about The Dutchman anymore. He’s talking about all of it. From the very beginning.

‘Yes,’ she says, almost sadly, ‘But the ‘what’ you already know. It is the ‘why’ and ‘who’ you ask of me now. And these things? I cannot say. Only that it is very powerful magic. And it has left its mark. One visible to those who know to see it.’ She lifts two outstretched fingers and points at his heart. Unlike last time, the invisible scar does not burn under her scrutiny.

‘Am I cursed?’ After his dream not being a dream at all, it is difficult to see it any other way. Death is now am incomparably terrifying prospect. To loop forever...it fills him with despair.

But the witch’s tone is virtually glib when she counters, ‘Cursed...blessed...‘tis not about these things. Only what you make of it. For it was a dying wish what set it in motion.’

A dying wish? What the devil does that mean?

‘A promise yet to be made.’

That addendum sparks a semblance of familiarity within him, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is that’s lurking in the far reaches of his mind. ‘And...once I make this promise...what then? Will I be free?’

‘Freedom is, again, what you make it. And I did not say it was you who needs to promise.’

Redemption. That had been his last thought before he died. That it felt like the promise of redemption. But what could that possibly mean?

She interrupts his inward scrambling to add, ‘‘Tis a heavy burden to bear alone. Especially when you are not.’ And with that, the witch turns from him and heads back inside, leaving James in a cloud of perplexity and frustration over her meaning. He is no closer to understanding than before. Perhaps farther.

But he doesn’t have long to perseverate on his malcontent before Will returns to fetch him, apologizing for Elizabeth by saying she couldn’t get away, and he’d been sent in her stead. This only serves to rankle James further, and the usual fantasy of fighting his way out until someone finally fells him no longer holds the ability to pacify.

For to die, would be a fresh kind of hell.

---

‘As he who issued summons, I convene this, The Fourth Brethren Court.’

Barbossa calls the assembly to order shortly after Elizabeth and her escort, consisting of her First Mate, Tai Haung, and James...whatever he is, arrives. Her ascension to Lordship must be common knowledge, for none of those gathered questions the absence of Sao Feng.

Though he is still very much disconcerted by his conversation with the witch, as well as the other cumulative aggravations of the day, James determines to ignore the mire of his emotions for the time being. It would not do to compromise Elizabeth’s cause after all the hard work she’s put in to see it championed. Fortunately, years of service as the commanding officer during high-stress situations has given him ample occasion to practice such compartmentalization. He might even go so far as to say it’s something he excels in.

The ‘Pieces of Eight’ are collected, or more accurately, nine bits of arbitrary rubbish, and, as the basket passes, Sparrow reluctantly drops in his own. Elizabeth, having been the first to give hers up, has been tracking the movement of said basket with sharp eyes, and when Barbossa sets it on the table before him, James notices her fingers tightening around the hilt of the dagger she’s strapped to her belt.

After a quick nod to Will, she launches into her prepared speech...and is laughed into irate silence after a mere three sentences.

‘Shipwreck Cove is a fortress!’

‘Si! A well supplied fortress!’

‘There is no need to fight if they cannot get to us!’

The other Lords interject over one another, seeming thoroughly amused by the notion they should fight back, all while Elizabeth seethes darkly beside him. Then, the jocular mood turns when a voice says, ‘And this, from a ‘Captain’ who would bring a known pirate hunter, a sworn enemy to everything that we are, into our midst!’

There is a chorus of ‘aye!’ and ‘hear, hear!’ as the others express their very vocal agreement, specifically the one James recognizes as Capitaine Chevalle, the penniless Frenchman of the Mediterranean. No love lost for officers of His Majesty’s Royal Navy there, that’s for damn sure. As he looks around the table, James also identifies Gentleman Jocard, an ex-slave who plagues the North Atlantic, Captain Ammand the Corsair, ally to the Ottoman Turks, and the infamous Spanish Privateer, Eduardo Villanueva. But the only one of them James has come into even cursory contact with is Sumbhajee Angria, Terror of the Arabian Sea. James had actually been in several skirmishes with ships flying Angria’s colors during his time off the coast of India. Though, that was some years ago now.

Elizabeth’s mien grows more and more murderous with each insult thrown his direction, and as he catches Will trying to subtly calm her from several feet away, James thinks this was exactly the impugning Lords’ objective. An effort to discredit her argument by way of eliciting a ‘hysterical’ reaction. They’re in for a disappointment. Elizabeth is more tenacious than they can imagine.

Sparrow interrupts, however, before she can spit the, unlikely diplomatic, rebuttal she was very conspicuously gearing up for.

‘Each person here has tried to kill everyone else around this table at least once.’ He meaningfully rolls his eyes toward Barbossa. ‘Some twice.’ He raises a brow back at Elizabeth. ‘Some with a greater degree of success than others.’ Then he overdramatically gestures to one of Ammand’s entourage and laughs. ‘Hell, you tried to kill me yesterday!’ The corsair shrugs and laughter ripples around the room as Jack continues. ‘If killing pirates disqualifies a person from being in attendance here, then I would posit this should be an empty room.’

He’s really turning on the charm, James notes with no small amount of suspicion.

‘Jamie here has a past, sure. But all of us do. And let’s be realistic, shall we? We’re going to need all the help we can get.’

This seems to mollify the other Lords enough that they at least drop the subject, but the volunteered protection of him on Sparrow’s part is...troubling. James isn’t sure he wants it, definitely doesn’t understand it, and certainly doesn’t trust it. But then...he supposes perhaps it isn’t even about him. Perhaps this is simply another layer to the labyrinthine politics of the Cove and nothing more.

A lull in the mayhem ensues, and Barbossa takes the opportunity to present a third option: release Calypso and wield her as a weapon against their enemies. He is immediately shouted down by his peers, but Elizabeth remains silent at James’ side, the corners of her lips twitching into a brief scowl. He can see the cogs of her mind grinding at full speed, even as her eyes are turned from him to survey the pandemonium around them. She’s plotting something. What, he doesn’t know, and he wonders bitterly if Will does. But a glance Turner’s way gives him the sardonic pleasure of discerning the boy is just as in the weeds as he. There’s that at least.

Then Sparrow launches into some rambling dialogue on cuttlefish, tottering about in his way, nonplussed gazes following him as he meanders around his point. Which ends up being: ‘I’ll agree with, and I cannot believe the words are coming out of me mouth, Captain Swann. We must fight.’

Heated bickering resumes. Barbossa points out that as per the code, an act of war can only be declared by the Pirate King. And none has been elected for an age, as every Lord only ever votes for themself. James hardly finds this surprising.

But an election is held nonetheless. And Jack Sparrow, liar, knave, and general pain in the ass that he is, casts the final vote for...Elizabeth Swann, breaking the tie and effectively crowning her King of a castle under siege. Captain of a sinking ship. She initially wears an aghast expression to match James’ own, but quickly dispels it in favor of smug nobility.

And even though he is half dread over what lies in store, James has to admit that, somehow, it suits her. The title, the prestige, the power...it...it fits. Like this was how it was supposed to be.

When the others quiet at Sparrow’s insinuation they mean to break the code, Mistress Ching, The Blind Lord of the Pacific, rises to face her new monarch. ‘Very well. What say you, Captain Swann, King of the Brethren Court?’

Elizabeth doesn’t so much as flinch. Shoulders back, head high, she proclaims with the authority of God himself, ‘Prepare every vessel that floats. At dawn, we are at war.’

---

Her first act as King of the Brethren Court is to declare war. Her second is to snatch the basket from in front of Barbossa and quit the room without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ yanking her sword from the wooden globe as she strides past. Outbursts of surprise, confusion, and even outrage are shouted behind her, and Elizabeth announces, ‘Feel free to follow if you wish, but I’ve a promise to keep.’

And they do follow, almost everyone, trailing her in a chaotic procession as she makes her way toward the docks. Though she is determined not to falter in her resolve, she risks a glance over her shoulder and is edified to find both James and Will hot on her heels. She has told neither one of them of her current plans, having only just hammered down the details herself, and their presence regardless gives her the shot of courage she needs to banish the treacherous anxiety from her gut.

Jack is keeping pace on her left, full of questions and suggestions she steadfastly disregards, and Barbossa is to her right, keen eyes boring into the side of her face ever more harshly as they near her destination.

She veers off the cobbled road and begins descending the rough, wooden staircase down to the beach, where, in the distance, a figure idles alone in the surf. A wispy fog has started to gather in the low places of the Cove, swirling around Tia Dalma’s ankles as she wades out of the water and drops her skirts. Jack is instantly back at Elizabeth’s side.

‘Now, hang on just a minute. I thought we’d all agreed this was a monumentally stupid idea.’

‘I never agreed,’ she states simply and turns to Barbossa. ‘My timing might be different, but this was your intention, was it not? Will you assist me?’

Her erstwhile enemy seems to really take the measure of her then, narrowed eyes searching hers while the rest of the assembly catches up, pouring onto the beach with a cacophony of objections. She wheels on them, visage fierce. ‘I am your King! If you find fault with my actions, I, frankly, do not care. You are welcome to help, but failing that, you will stand aside. This injustice has gone unanswered for too long!’

The crowd quiets. Elizabeth’s impassioned gaze rakes over her subjects to a man. None step forward to challenge her again, though there is more than one with naked hostility their eyes. Barbossa moves in her peripheral, and she turns back to him. His hand is outstretched toward Tia Dalma.

‘If this be yer orders, then I am yer servant, my liege.’

Though there is no sarcasm in his tone, Elizabeth still senses she must be wary of his sudden obedience. Jack makes one last attempt at dissuading her, a silent hand on her shoulder, but she shakes him off. She has to do this.

In his last moments, Sao Feng had told her some of what the ceremony would entail. She relies on Barbossa to fill in the gaps. The Pieces of Eight are burned, and the witch leans in to breathe deep the fumes. An incantation must be spoken next, like a lover, Barbossa clarifies, and Elizabeth’s eyes flit to where James is standing some range away, arms crossed over his chest, intently watching in his solemn way. She thinks of how his touch lights a fire beneath her flesh, of the joy that flares within her at the mere sound of his voice. A lover.

She knows exactly what that means.

Elizabeth reaches out and takes Tia Dalma’s hands in her own, finding them cool as the morning tide. She traces the woman’s knuckles with her thumbs, leaning in until their foreheads meet. Her eyes fall closed as her nose gently nudges Tia’s. ‘Calypso,’ she murmurs, some profound and nameless feeling blooming in her chest. ‘I release you from your mortal bonds.’

The witch gasps softly, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around Elizabeth’s. Her eyes flick open, full of dawning recognition. Calypso is remembering who she is. After a few moments her placid gaze falls from Elizabeth and focuses on those behind her, going hard and cold as prison bars.

‘I understand your wrath, but these are not the same men who wronged you so long ago,’ Elizabeth intercedes, never releasing the goddess’ hands. ‘I ask for your mercy, that you spare them your righteous fury. Give us a chance to atone.’

Calypso looks back at her and a slight, somewhat playful, smile forms on her lips. ‘Only because you command them.’ There is a new quality to her once familiar voice; it resounds, almost echoes, as if she were speaking from the mouth of a great cave. Her smile widens. ‘You will make a fine King.’

And then Calypso begins to change. Her eyes glow, fading to the color of sea foam. Her skin becomes luminescent, sparkling like sunlight reflected off the shallows. Her hair starts to float as though she were underwater, taking on the aspect of a living creature itself. It is a graceful transformation. Beautiful. And Elizabeth is in awe.

No more words are exchanged with the goddess, but she does offer a tranquil nod farewell, first to Elizabeth, then to Will, and lastly, to Jack. Then she turns and saunters into the sea, pacing slowly out until she disappears beneath the waves.

Jack fairly materializes at Elizabeth’s elbow. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

She sighs. ‘Not at all.’

He hums in return. ‘I suppose a grateful goddess is more useful than a vengeful one.’

‘She’s been used for far too long. By far too many. No more. And certainly not by me.’

And, even if he disagrees, the look Jack gives her then could be interpreted as admiration. ‘Fair enough, your nibs.’

---

Chapter Text

As per her orders, all seaworthy vessels, all hands able to swing a sword, are gathered in the sheltered waters of the cove, ready to set sail for what may very well be their last stand as free men. Elizabeth grants command of The Empress to Tai Huang in her absence, instead taking charge of The Black Pearl as the flagship of her ragtag fleet of buccaneers. Neither Jack nor Barbossa resist her decision, and she chooses to believe it is because they respect her authority on the matter.

Not long after they weigh anchor and set sail for Beckett’s armada, Will approaches her on the quarterdeck. He’s kept his distance since her rather precipitous actions on the beach, and she is somewhat worried he’s upset she hadn’t let him know of her plans. She is no less worried when he asks to speak with her in private, hands wringing, tumult in his eyes. She leaves Barbossa at the helm and leads Will into the navigation room, trying very hard not to appear as nervous as she feels.

Even once they are alone, Will continues to fidget quietly, pacing the floorboards as he focuses on everything but her. Elizabeth can hardly bear the suspense, for it is undeniable he has something serious on his mind and is unsure how to begin. But the reality is that they don’t have the time for hesitation, so she steps into his path, hands flying out to grip his shoulders, startling him enough his eyes finally meet hers. The fear she glimpses in their depths is distressing in its severity.

‘Will,’ she searches his gaze, voice as comforting as she can manage in her unease. ‘What is it?’

He draws a shaky breath. ‘Elizabeth...I’m afraid...’ He trails off.

They have a great deal to be afraid of, but all are things they’ve spoken of before. This, whatever it is that has him in such a state, it is an unknown. Elizabeth reaches back into her mind, wraps her hands around a memory from what feels like so much more than just over a year ago, recalls the words he had once spoken to her with so much conviction.

‘Be afraid, Will. But be brave, too. Fear is the important first step to finding courage.’

Something in his manner shifts, his russet eyes shining wistfully. ‘My mother used to say that. It was the last thing she told me before she passed.’ He gingerly takes her hands from his shoulders, enfolding them in his own. ‘You remind me so much of her sometimes.’ He pauses and then adds mildly, ‘She’d have liked you.’

Elizabeth doesn’t know what to say. He’s so rarely spoken of his mother, and usually only when he was feeling particularly melancholy.

‘I want you to know,’ he says, a thread of resolve in his tone, ‘From the moment I met you, I knew you were bound for the extraordinary. There are very few people in my life whom I have admired as I have you, cared for as much as I have you. Perhaps none. You have become important to me in a way I could never have imagined, could never have deserved.’

And as she stands there across from him, painted with orange light from the swaying lamps overhead, Elizabeth thinks she understands. What she and Will share, this profound thing that’s grown between them, it transcends the pithy notion of infatuation. They are family now, in a way that means infinitely more because it was established free of blood ties. She is suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to spend the rest of her life supporting him, knowing him. She wants to experience all the joy and sorrow the universe deems to throw their way together. She loves him.

...oh, God. She loves him.

Unaware of her floundering epiphany, Will continues, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘It has been beyond tremendous, getting to experience your growth first hand. Fighting at your side. There was a time when that was what I wanted most in this world.’

‘But...not anymore?’

He releases his hold on her and turns slightly away, half his face drifting into shadow. ‘After my mother died, I was all alone. Those were...dark days. I was lost. But,’ He regards her with a frightfully earnest gaze. ‘Then you came into my life and brought with you...light. The same light you still possess today, a light that burns so brightly it chases away the darkness in men’s hearts. Your kindness, your determination to see the good in everyone and in every situation...it’s inspiring. You inspire me, Elizabeth. You always have. You make me believe I can be a better man. The kind of man who fights for what he values most.’

Now he looks down, a twinge of his previous apprehension reappearing as a small tremor in his voice. ‘And now I must. I made a promise, Elizabeth. My father...I have to save him.’

He wants to be the one to end Jones. Relief floods through her. Is that all? He is more than welcome to deliver the final blow, if that’s his request. ‘Of course, Will. I understand.’

But Will’s brows knit at her words, his head canting to the side. ‘Do you? There is a price. Whoever kills Jones must take his place and ferry the dead in his stead.’

What? That’s monstrous! A shiver skates down her spine. ‘For how long?’

‘...forever.’

‘And...is that what you want?’

Will sighs and begins pacing again. ‘No…yes...I want to free my father from his curse. I want to have a life with him. We’ve had so much time stolen from us. But it’s more than that. I don’t foresee our side surviving the upcoming battle without some kind of edge. Having the Captain of The Dutchman on your side might just be enough to even the playing field.’

He’s taken on a persuasive tone, pleading his case to her: his friend, his confidant, his King. But the prospect of losing him to a curse himself churns her stomach. Elizabeth knows he’s right about their odds, knows she should be more objective...but…

‘Two birds with one stone, is it?’ She offers a wan attempt at a smile. ‘Well, I can admire the practicality of it, I suppose. You’ve clearly given this a great deal of consideration.’

‘I have.’

‘And...you’re not really asking for my permission, are you?’

‘...no. I am not.’

Elizabeth bites her lip in an effort to hold back the furious objections bubbling up inside her. This is his choice. His father. His future. And even though she is loathe to give him up, it is now her turn to support him.

‘Then I cannot give it. But, if this is truly your intent, then I will assist in any way that I am able.’

Will stops pacing, his back to the door, voice full of raw appreciation. ‘Thank you. I have but one more request.’

She approaches him slowly, a heaviness in her extremities. Grief, she recognizes, and steels herself against it. ‘Anything.’

‘Please don’t tell James. He wouldn’t...he wouldn’t understand.’

‘Very well,’ she concedes, though the idea of keeping it from James leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘I won’t. Not until after.’

This concession is acceptable it seems, for Will nods, and after a brief moment where they stare into each other’s eyes, she closes the distance between them and enfolds him in an ardent, crushing embrace. He returns it with equal fervor, clutching, clinging, just as she is. Tears are sliding down her cheeks unbidden, staining his shirt. She doesn’t want to let go. Doesn’t want him to leave.

‘My life,’ she murmurs as gentle fingers stroke through her hair. ‘Has been enriched for having you in it. I love you, Will Turner. And I’m sorry I never told you before.’

She feels him press a kiss to her forehead, can hear the smile in his reply.

‘And I love you, Elizabeth. Always.’

---

James is watching when Will finally approaches Elizabeth on the quarterdeck of The Pearl. He watches as they sequester themselves in the navigation room. Watches as she shuts the door behind them. He’s spoken to neither of them since the events on the beach, in fact, he hasn’t spoken a word to anyone, too wary of what he might say. Now, with that final barricade of wood and glass separating them from him, he wonders if he’s made a mistake in this, made it all the easier for them to simply write him out of their plans. It is ungracious of him to think it, he knows, but he can feel his life turning to ash in his hands, slipping through his fingers to scatter in the ocean breeze.

As if summoned by his misery, Jack Sparrow saunters over, the same lopsided smile on his face he’s been wearing since his King released the sea goddess, Calypso. James hadn’t been as surprised by this as everyone else, given Elizabeth’s behavior leading up to the act, but even so. He could never have been entirely prepared for the spectacle. Even with his cumulative contact with the supernatural.

‘Strange times, eh Jamie?’ Jack quips blithely. ‘Well nigh unheard of, the Brethren Court agreeing on anything, much less going to war.’ His brows lower as he purses his lips in thought. ‘I, uh, don’t suppose you’ve any eerily detailed advice for the upcoming battle?’

‘No,’ James sighs. ‘I do not.’

‘Ah, well. Thought I’d ask.’ Sparrow’s grin makes a reappearance as he leans casually back on the gunwale. ‘Seems Lizzie has stepped into her role rather easily. Gotten quite good at ordering us all around.’

James bristles at that, but observes no reproach in the pirate’s manner, only amused esteem. Perhaps his praise is sincere. That would certainly be a change of pace. Sincerity from Jack Sparrow.

A silence falls between them which Sparrow doesn’t rush to fill, and it gives James time to truly ponder what he’s just said. He remembers a thirteen year old Elizabeth audaciously instructing him on the rules of cribbage, which he had pretended not to know as she was so intent on teaching him herself. He recalls the spark in her eye at fifteen when she discovered she only had to ask, and he would pluck a book from the top shelf or uncork a bottle of spirits or rebuckle a shoe for her. After they began courting, she had delighted in making him blush, made a game of fraying his already threadbare control.

And later still, she had made a servant of him in other ways, bidding him to worship at the altar of her body, gladly taking his ceded control in a way that he had never considered desirable before, but for her, for her...

She led, and he followed. Has that not been how it always was? Being crowned only made her authority official.

‘She always was good at it,’ he affirms wistfully. ‘Only difference is now she has a title to go with.’

Sparrow hums in response. ‘I shall defer to your greater knowledge on the subject. You do know her better than anyone, after all.’ A pause, followed by a flash of gold teeth. ‘Well, almost anyone.’

James looks at him then, follows the pirate’s gesture toward his private cabin. The nostalgic pensiveness he’d been lulled into immediately fades.

‘Ever since your rather unsanctimonious seizure from the jaws of death, those two have been thick as thieves. Always plotting something together. I think it’s done the lad good.’ He sniffs before adding facetiously, ‘Still can’t decide which of you he’s more enamoured with.’

And there it is: the confirmation James has been dreading. Naturally, Jack couldn’t merely come out and say as much, he had to muddy the waters in his usual way. The last bit though...

‘Say what you mean, Sparrow.’

Jack heaves an exaggerated sigh before pushing off the gunwale, arms crossing over his chest. He holds James’ sharp gaze for a time before, in a show of uncharacteristic lucidity, stating, ‘There’s enough heartbreak and cruelty in the world to go around, mate. Of all of us, I’d say that boy deserves to be with someone who actually loves him back.’

---

James has never been one to listen at keyholes, but now he lingers in the shadows outside the door to the navigation room, pulled there by some invisible force...and the certainty in Sparrow’s tone. He should knock. Face them both. Have done with this, once and for all. But as he attempts to work up the nerve to do so, a flurry of movement inside stays him. The blown glass of the window melts the colors within like the fog of dreams, but now that they are nearer, James can hear what is being said, though it is spoken quietly.

‘I have one more request.’ Turner.

‘Anything.’ There is emotion in Elizabeth’s voice, and James leans closer utterly in spite of himself.

‘Please don’t tell James. He wouldn’t understand.’

‘Very well. I won’t. Not until after.’

After. After. After. The word reverberates in his mind like echoes off the walls of a yawning pit. The world spins around him as the two figures meld together to form one: a prolonged embrace which ends with Elizabeth’s muffled voice saying, ‘I love you, Will Turner. And I’m sorry I never told you before.’

Ears ringing, vision blurring, heart shredding itself beneath his ribs, James fades back into the darkness. And he waits.

---

Minutes later, or perhaps hours, time has lost all meaning, Will exits the cabin and passes without notice. James takes the opportunity to slip through door and pulls it closed silently behind him. He doesn’t believe he means for this to be a confrontation, but in truth, his feelings are too muddled to parse out his own intentions. He’s too raw. Too exposed. Like the salt-bleached bones hanging from the gibbets in Port Royal’s harbor.

Elizabeth must sense his presence, for she turns from the chart table, unshed tears brimming in her liquid eyes. She takes a few steps toward him, and, before he can stop himself, James speaks.

‘So. You do love him.’

Her advance ceases. Something tugs at the corner of her lips, lips he can still taste if he closes his eyes. He watches as her sorrow transforms to disbelief. ‘What did you just say?’

James doesn’t repeat himself, too preoccupied with the monumental task of holding his body upright. When he fails to react to her question whatsoever, Elizabeth’s brows lower.

‘How...how…’ A myriad of emotions flash over her features. Incredulity. Pain. Grief. Rage. Her gaze rakes over him again and again, as though she is trying to discern his meaning from his stance alone. Finally, she draws a deep breath and says, fury lacing her tone, ‘Yes, James. I love Will.’

‘I grew up with him. He was my first real friend. For a time, my only friend. He was the closest thing I ever had to a brother. Surely, you of all people can appreciate that. So, yes! I care about him deeply! I want him to be happy! I want to be a part of his life! I do love him! More than I can put into words.’

As she speaks, Elizabeth is closing on him in her ire, voice rising in volume and pitch. She looks like she’s going to strike him. James almost wishes she would, if only so he could feel anything other than numb.

‘But I also love you. As I have no other. So much that you have more power to destroy me than anyone else in this world! And I wish I knew why it was so hard for you to believe that. I wish I knew what I did to hurt you so badly you’re convinced I’ll one day leave.’

Her tears have returned, streaking down her cheeks in her anger. She is right in front of him now, eyes ferociously piercing his.

‘Because I have spent this past year agonizing over it, desperate to understand. But I don’t! And I’m so tired, James. I’m so tired of trying to prove myself to you. Nothing I do or say seems to be enough,’ she fumes, fists clenched between them. ‘Never mind that, since we met, you’ve become the most important person in my life. Never mind that I’ve spent all that time actively pursuing a relationship with you. Never mind that you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to share my bed with!’

James is sinking, knee deep in the black floorboards. A glance down proves this to be false, but even so. Agonizing, she said. Desperate. He remembers their argument on the deck of The Pearl: ‘All my life, I have tried to be someone worthy of your affection. Someone deserving of your love. But, as it turns out, I could never be good enough.’ He had dismissed it as theatrics and then promptly forgotten entirely. But she was hurting, wounded by his caution...his fear of past events repeating.

Elizabeth’s voice begins to take on a weary aspect as she continues. ‘I am done pretending like this doesn’t matter to me anymore. Like it’s something that was fixed by an apology and scads of toe-curling sex. We could all die today, and I have to know. I need to know. What did I do to lose your trust so completely?’

Her chest is heaving, her visage beseeching. James is frozen beneath the weight of her torment, torment he has caused. Something in his mind shifts into place, a key sliding into its lock. He cannot explain his reasons without delving into his previous life, the implausible and the real have become too entwined.

But, even if she doesn’t believe him, even if she despises him for it, Elizabeth deserves to know the truth. After all this time...he can no longer lie to her. Not anymore.

The decision to finally come clean renders him light-headed. Nevertheless, he states evenly, ‘You didn’t do anything.’

Her brows knit further. ‘Bullshit.’

James scrubs his face with his hands, shakes his head. ‘How could you ever believe me?’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t even know where to start.’

This response disarms her somewhat, though that was not his goal. She steers him toward the pair of wooden chairs by the large central table. ‘The beginning is as good a place as any, wouldn’t you say?’

The beginning.

The beginning was also the end.

‘I died. Took a blade through the heart. This is the second time I’ve lived my life, Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth sinks into one of the chairs and listens intently as he recites his past like memorized text, hardly moving, countenance unreadable. Once he begins, James finds his story tumbling from his lips seemingly of its own accord, eager to be told. And, even though he is terrified of what it might change, it is almost a relief to finally purge himself of his impossible secrets.

‘We knew each other before, though not nearly so well. In some ways, things were very much the same. I met both you and your father on the crossing from England. You spent the entire trip getting underfoot...that is, until you discovered the boy in the water. After disembarking I rarely saw you, and even if I did, I hardly took notice. I was more focused on my career than anything else, had no time for such frivolities as meaningful companionship and abiding emotional attachments.’

‘The Governor still took an interest in me, however. Though, for the life of me I have yet to comprehend why. Eager for a match, I suppose. After your debut that became evident, as did your rather singular charms. The more time I spent in your presence, the more I witnessed your spirit, your whimsy, your fearless determination to be nothing less than yourself. I was intrigued. And then I was enchanted. And then...hopelessly, helplessly in love.’

‘But you were above my station. If I had any hope of making you a proper offer, changes had to be made. I spent the following years working tirelessly, climbing the ranks, determined to forge myself into a man who could deserve you. And once I thought I had...I courted your father. That was my first mistake. By the time I made my intentions known, you’d already given your heart to someone else. A blacksmith’s apprentice.’

‘My second mistake was believing that, in time, I could change your mind. I thought if we could just be married, if I could only secure your attentions, I would have all the time in the world to show you the depth of my admiration. Perhaps it might even have happened that way...but…’

‘You plunged from the parapet. A dead faint in the middle of my lackluster proposal. Jack Sparrow plucked you from the sea, and I had him arrested for his trouble. The Black Pearl ransacked Port Royal. You were taken, and Turner followed, breaking Sparrow out of his cell and commandeering The Interceptor. That much was uncannily similar. But when I followed your signal, found you and Sparrow on that spit of sand, things were different.’

‘Your sole fixation was with saving Will. You made a bargain, accepted my proposal in exchange for his rescue. I suspected as much at the time, that your agreement was merely a means to an end...but I’d hoped. I’d hoped your word was unconditionally given. You assured me it was. And I believed you. I believed you because the alternative was too painful to bear.’

‘I believed you all the way up until Jack Sparrow’s hanging, when Will, pardoned and free, had stepped between Jack and the hangman’s noose. And then you, the only woman I had ever loved...you stepped between Will and me. And it became undeniable where your heart truly lie.’

‘Sparrow escaped. I let him go: one day’s head start. And then...I let you go. Or at least, that’s what I meant to do. But, though I released you from your promise, I, myself, was to be bound to you regardless. Haunted ever after. Hollow.’

‘Capturing Sparrow became an obsession. For months I pursued him, and for months, he eluded my grasp. There was a storm off of Tripoli, one I thought had him cornered. But the lunatic sailed right into it. And I, consumed with the belief that I had nothing to come home to and no reason to go on if I didn’t catch him, I followed.’

‘The Black Pearl vanished unscathed. But The Dauntless? She was destroyed. Six hundred men were counted as casualties. Six hundred men died for my hubris. I resigned my post before the imminent court martial and disappeared into the underbelly of Tortuga, lying in wait, intent to make that number six hundred and two. And I would have. When Sparrow finally showed his face I picked a fight I couldn’t win. Oddly enough, it was you who saved me. In the form of a bottle broken over my head.’

‘Even in my disgrace, even soaked in layers of rum and filth and bitterness, I still…’ I was still yours.

‘You joined Jack in his convoluted quest to save Will, and I followed. Beckett came, you see. Brokered a deal with Turner that time. Still ended up the same. Sparrow traded him to Jones. But there was no Fitz before. No one to feed Beckett information. On Isla Cruces, it was I who stole the heart of Davy Jones. I tucked it and the letters of Marque into the pocket of my ruined uniform, felt the cursed thing beat over my own as I repaid your mercy with betrayal.’

‘Through Beckett I reclaimed my status, my honor, my life...it was only later that I realized the cost was my humanity.’

‘The next time I saw you, I was Admiral, had been charged with command of The Dutchman. You were captain of The Empress then too. And I was so happy to see you, so deliriously relieved and beyond ready to return you to your father. But you. You spat at my feet. Told me he was dead. Beckett had him killed. And in my naivety, I had let it happen.’

‘And, once again, it was you who forced me to choose a side.’

‘And, once again, it was yours.’

‘I helped you and your crew escape, but we were discovered. There was no time. I stayed behind so that you could flee. But, before you did...you asked me to come with you. It...you’d never...it was the first time…’

James’ voice breaks, his throat too thick for the words to come. His eyes, which had been staring unfocused into the middle distance, drop to the hands fisted in his lap. Even after all this time, it still feels so fresh. Like an old injury that never healed right.

‘And then...I woke up. I was in my old quarters, surrounded by my old things. I was seven years younger and...I was alive. It didn’t make any sense, but, after determining it wasn’t a dream, I decided to try again. To do things differently. Better. To atone.’

‘I went to see your father. He was alive too. And so glad to see me. Even though I had as good as killed him in my first life. And...then you burst in, young and bright and vibrant as any summer day.’

For the first time since he’s begun, he looks at Elizabeth. She has leaned forward in her chair, fingers steepled before her lips. Just when he thinks can bear the intensity of her scrutiny no longer, she speaks. ‘I remember. Estrella and I were having a footrace. You came to supper the next day.’ Her hands lower as her visage softens dramatically. ‘You found me sketching in my favorite tree.’

‘That night, it was the first time I saw you actually smile. It’s when I first started to fall for you.’ Her almost dreamy expression flickers as her eyes lock onto his. ‘Did you know?’

‘No. If all this has taught me anything, it’s that I knew precious little.’

‘But you knew about the pirates.’

James sighs. ‘I knew they came. But I didn’t know why or what their connection was to you or Will. No one ever bothered to tell me. And after six years without so much as a hint of their existence, I suppose I’d figured I had managed to avert the incident somehow. Which, in hindsight, was foolishly optimistic.’

‘You didn’t arrest Jack because you were trying to stop it from happening.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you let Will help him escape afterward so you wouldn’t have to chase him again.’

‘...yes.’ That was not the only reason. He was also very keen to avoid a repetition of the humiliating dissolution of their engagement. But James opts to keep this lack of confidence to himself.

‘My God,’ Elizabeth muses, rising from her chair. ‘As impossible as it is...everything makes so much more sense now. Your anger. Your caution.’

‘She broke your heart. She lied to you. Used you. And then spurned you publicly. For Will. That’s why the letters made you so upset. That’s why you always expected me to leave.’ She shakes her head, leaning back against the heavy wooden table, palms braced on either side. ‘I thought I’d done something wrong, that you didn’t trust me because I hurt you in some way. But it was never me, was it? It was her.’

‘But not just her. It was Will. And Jack. And six hundred dead and Beckett and my father…’ Her brows lower as she declares softly, ‘You’ve been carrying the weight of things that never happened, lives that were never lost.’

Now it is James’ turn to quit his seat. She doesn’t understand. ‘But they were. Perhaps not in this timeline, but I am still responsible-’

‘No.’ She interrupts forcefully, and his teeth click shut as she pushes off the table and closes the meager distance between them. Then, once she is right in front of him, fervently gazing up into his face, she says it again, much gentler this time. ‘No.’

‘This other life, this other Elizabeth, has been holding you hostage, James. And you’ve let her. Even though I’ve been right here all along, actually loving you back. What you have suffered, whether directly at her hands or by a loosely connected chain of events, is inexcusable. That you were so desolate you planned your own death is intolerable. And that-’

She bites back her next word and blinks. ‘I was right before, wasn’t I? You were planning on staying behind on The Dutchman, weren’t you?’

He doesn’t answer, too shamed by the truth. Which is an answer unto itself.

‘James,’ Elizabeth chides dejectedly. ‘Do you know what that would have done to me?’ Her dark eyes glitter in the lamplight; her full lips dip into a frown. ‘Maybe she was able to live with you sacrificing yourself, but I could not. And I cannot abide how you’re seemingly so very avid to throw yourself upon a sword on my behalf.’

She reaches out and takes his hands in her own, her grip almost tight enough to be punishing. ‘It’s true that I don’t want a life in the gilded cage of Port Royal, trussed up in dresses and societal constraints, but I do want a life with you. That requires you to be alive to live it. So promise me, James. From this day forth, no more living for me. Start living for us.’

Despite the conviction in her voice, Elizabeth is trembling ever so slightly. She is afraid, James realizes, made vulnerable by her request. Time seems to slow as she waits for his response, and he burns every detail of the moment into his memory forever, from the depth of the shadows pooled in the corners of the room to the scent of stale rum in the air to the rhythmic creak of The Black Pearl’s bulkheads.

‘I promise.’

‘Good. Then I shall make one in return.’ Elizabeth releases his hands and goes up on tip-toe, nimble fingers slipping beneath the neckline of his shirt as he puzzles out her intent. There is a subtle shifting, then a flash of gold as she draws the chain he’d all but forgotten was there up and over his head. His mother’s ring dangles between them for all of a second before she drapes it around her own neck, the bejeweled symbol resting upon her breast, caught betwixt her thumb and forefinger. James hardly breathes until her eyes find his once more, his heart pounding in his ears like a frantic drumbeat.

‘I can’t give you the life you were building. Status and rank and a home and a family to fill it with...but I can offer you this: the solemn and unshakable promise that my heart is forever and always yours. No matter what has happened or will happen. I am yours, James. As you are mine.’

Mine. In spite of everything he’s told her, in spite of all the wrongs he’s committed against her, Elizabeth still wants him. She still-

‘I love you, you complicated, stubborn, infuriating man. And, if it’s what you need to mend that battered heart of yours, I will tell you so every minute of every day for the rest of my life.’

Warm fingertips caress his cheek, a fond smile playing across her lips. All this time, James has been so focused on striving to be what she needs, it had never crossed his mind that she might wish to return the sentiment. But here she is, his love, his life, his Elizabeth, finally seeing the whole of him and...she is offering to share the weight of his burdens. Even the ones left over from his previous life.

How can he ever let her? How can he ever thank her?

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he mumbles, heart so full he thinks it may burst. ‘Every hour should suffice.’

Elizabeth’s eyes go wide before she lets out a sharp bark of laughter. And then she is kissing him, sighing contentedly into his mouth as he wraps his arms around her svelte form. Her lips slant over his again and again, generously communicating the magnitude of her relief. This goes on for some time until she pulls away and, grinning radiantly, adoringly ruffles his hair.

‘So. What do we do now?’

What, indeed? ‘Your instincts are better than mine,’ James grumbles dryly. ‘But I’ve no idea what happened after I died, if that’s what you’re asking.

‘So you’re telling me you’re not a clairvoyant after all?’ She teases, visage fetchingly puckish.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint. But, no. I don’t know if you became King or faced the EITC. I don’t know what happened to you or Will or...Jack.’

‘And that makes sense now, too,’ Elizabeth smirks. ‘-why you always hated him so much and yet continued to save him.’

She is in jest, but it still feels like an accusation. James dislikes how accurate the statement is, clearing his throat awkwardly before, in an effort to distract, divulging, ‘You fancied him before.’

‘...what? Jack?’

‘Oh yes. Quite smitten.’

Elizabeth’s nose wrinkles in distaste. ‘Are you sure?’

He nods, biting back a smile, and she scoffs. ‘Why, there’s no accounting for taste at all!’

James laughs, feeling jubilantly triumphant. ‘It does me good to hear you say that.’

They stand there in blissful silence for several minutes, folded in each other’s arms, merely soaking in their mutual presence. Eventually, Elizabeth says, ‘If we survive the battle today, I’m going to think of more questions, you realize? I’m sure many of them will not have easy answers.’

‘No doubt,’ James replies, fingers stroking reassuringly through her golden tresses. ‘But I want you to ask them all the same. I don’t want to hide anymore. Not from you.’

She leans back to regard him with sanguine, chestnut eyes framed in long, dark lashes. ‘I love you, Elizabeth. With all that I am. With all that I’ve ever been. With all that I will be. And even death cannot stop me, for I would follow you across time itself. For all eternity.’

Elizabeth’s plush lips curl into a smile that is as much amusement as it is delight. ‘Then kiss me, my beloved. And, together, we shall go meet destiny.’

---

When the EITC armada emerges from the dense wall of fog, a horrified hush settles over The King’s makeshift army. Hundreds of ships. Thousands of guns. Even the most uneducated deck hand is running the math in his head and coming up with the futility of their resistance.

But Elizabeth Swann, King of the Brethren Court, Lord of all pirates, climbs up onto the gunwale of her flagship, her hair whipping in the rising winds, her voice booming as she addresses her subjects.

What shall we die for?

‘Gentlemen! Hoist the colors!’

Courage returning, a battle cry erupts from the amassed pirate fleet...but another sound begins to drift through the mist. From behind them. Above them. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Like the beating of great wings. All eyes turn to the heavy clouds which, without warning, part in a sudden swirl and a monstrous albatross comes diving toward the snapping sails below. It spreads its colossal wings at the last moment and swoops just above The Pearl, the tips of its ivory feathers just touching the point of the main mast. It gives an ear splitting cry and then plunges into the sea, gliding under the water away from them...and toward the enemy.

The Flying Dutchman is nearly within range when a massive bulwark of water surges upward behind it, effectively cutting off the rest of the armada for an immeasurable distance in either direction. The King breaks into a ferocious grin. It’s ever so good to have friends in high places.

‘Fire all!’

Hooks are thrown. Boarding parties from each side. A deluge of frigid rain mixes with the gore soiling the decks of both ships, rendering the boards treacherously slippery. James has no capacity to note much more than whatever personal skirmish he is engaged in at any given time, trusting his allies to their own skill. It is only when the first jagged bolt of lightning cleaves the sky that he takes a split second to search for them. And there, across the yawning distance between the two ships, Will locks eyes with him from the quarterdeck of The Dutchman. In one hand he holds a glinting steel dagger aloft, and in the other, the beating heart of Davy Jones.

It is like time freezes, like everyone else has faded into the ether. All there is, is Will, a look of stricken apology on his face. I’m sorry, James, he mouths, and then the dagger descends.

Jones dies. The Dutchman is swallowed up by the roiling sea, disappearing beneath the waves and taking with her James’ most cherished friend. He doesn’t even register when his sword slips from his hand and clatters to the deck.

With the demise of Davy Jones, the liquid barrier holding the EITC at bay swiftly drops, sending out a large swell that pitches every ship about like a child’s toy in the bath. The Endeavor is advancing at speed, but just before it’s close enough for the riflemen to be of use, The Flying Dutchman explodes out of the water, her new captain saluting from the bowsprit. It is just the edge they need. Beckett’s flagship is flanked, blasted into kindling by crossfire, and the rest of his armada begins to break up as the pirate fleet ruptures their ranks. Many flee. Many are taken. Few stay to heed the final orders their fallen despot.

White feathers flash in the first rays of sun peeking through the clouds as Calypso alights on the foredeck of The Dutchman where she transforms back into her familiar, more human appearance. She addresses the new ferryman briefly, and he nods in understanding. Finished, she smiles broadly and lifts a hand to The Pirate King, who returns the gesture emphatically, and then sprouts wings takes off, gone much the way she had arrived: with thousands of onlooking eyes marveling after her.

---

‘This isn’t goodbye. I won’t say goodbye.’

Will Turner stands before The Pirate King as she addresses him, having crossed from The Dutchman to say his farewells. Though there is still fighting to be had, his patron has bid him to begin his grim work, and the ferryman must take his leave.

Of the barrage of unbelievable events he has witnessed these past months, James finds this to be the most surreal: having to give Will up. Again. And this time, if not for eternity, than at least to it.

Elizabeth steps forward and takes both of Turner’s hands in her own. ‘You come back and visit, Will Turner. As often as you are able, do you hear me? You shall always be welcome and...we can figure something out. A series of buckets? Or perhaps a house on stilts? It’s technically not land.’

Will smiles, a bittersweet flash of teeth, and she adds, ‘I am friends with your boss, after all. Maybe she would be willing to compromise on the terms of your arrangement. Seeing as you were...grandfathered in.’

Now he laughs, and pulls Elizabeth into his arms. She scrubs at her tears with the heel of her hand as he moves on to consult Jack.

‘Well, William,’ Sparrow drawls. ‘You’re a right proper captain now. Got yourself a ship, a crew...a dad…’ His eyes drift to where Bootstrap is waiting at the gunwale, and he nods ever so slightly. ‘All’s you need is a nice, big hat. Real flashy. With feathers.’

‘I’ll work on that,’ Will quips facetiously. Then his brows lower, expression growing serious. ‘I know you don’t need me to tell you, but...take care of yourself, Jack. And...try not to create too much collateral damage.’

Sparrow smirks. ‘What? And put you out of your new job? What kind of friend would that make me?’

They shake hands. And then...then it is James’ turn.

The mirth in Turner’s warm eyes dissipates, leaving behind a careful trepidation. His back is straight and his shoulders are square, but in his face, James can see the faintest echo of the timid boy from the smithy. How far he has come. How far they have both have. And to think it all started with the spontaneous decision to offer fencing instruction.

It is peculiar the things James notices in this moment, the thoughts that pop in and out of his mind. He notes the fraying edge of Will’s shirtsleeve, the dull shine of the buttons on his coat. He remembers finding makeshift bookmarks tucked away in the volumes the boy used to borrow from him: things like bits of parchment or shreds of cloth. He never creased the pages, was always so delicate with James’ things. Almost reverent, in his way. Care and devotion, that was Will Turner in a nutshell. Just add a helping of bravery and a dash of dry wit.

He deserves better. He deserves the world.

Would that James could give it to him.

‘I know this isn’t what you wanted...’ Will starts, defaulting to contrition, but James cannot abide it. ‘I made a decision. The first one I’ve ever really made for myself, and I understand-’

‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Turner.’

Will bites his lip, flinches like he expects a reprimand. But it doesn’t come. Instead, James crosses the space between them and places his hands on Will’s shoulders.

‘I am tremendously proud of the man you’ve become.’

Russet eyes well up with tears, and as Turner blinks, they trail down his cheeks. ‘Thank you,’ he chokes out at just above a whisper. ‘Thank you for believing in me.’

‘And thank you, Will. For giving me someone to believe in.’

Their embrace is a desperate, grasping thing, all unspoken emotion and masked affection. How can James allow this? How can he endure it?

‘I’ll come back,’ Will murmurs, and James’ grip on him unconsciously tightens. ‘No matter what, James. I will come back...I promise.’

And, with those words, something inside James is shifting, shattering, exploding into a thousand tiny shards that ricochet off his rib cage. He feels the invisible scar over his heart burning, searing, until...it stops. He feels suddenly light, like an onerous weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

James is free. And he is weeping with it.

He sniffs as he finally draws away, a reassuring smile on his lips, a kind of buoyancy in his lungs. ‘I’ll hold you to that. The King has commanded it, after all.’

Will laughs, glistening eyes crinkling at the corners as he wipes his nose with the back of his wrist. ‘Of course. We mustn’t disobey the King.’

James has read that ‘parting is such sweet sorrow.’ He used to believe that to be melodramatic, a bardic turn of phrase belonging to young lovers and tragic heroes. But now, as he watches his friend, his brother, disembark from The Black Pearl for the last time, he appreciates the poetry of it.

The last words Will Turner says before sailing off to face his destiny are a declaration to all as he waves from the helm of his ship.

‘Keep a weather eye on the horizon!’

---

A flash of green, and The Flying Dutchman’s silhouette disappears from the horizon. Elizabeth slowly turns and heads toward the starboard bow. There, she surveys the ongoing skirmishes her fleet is waging against the remaining pockets of EITC resistance. Jack says something about prizes to be had, asks if she’d like to join the fight. But she declines. Let them have their fun, she’s had enough excitement for one day.

James approaches and stops at her side, surveying the elegant lines of her profile, the contented cant of her brows, the fine spattering of blood bridging her nose. When she notices him studying her, she meets his gaze and slips her hand into his, fingers threading together.

‘So. What next, Your Grace?’ He asks as playfully as he can manage.

She chuckles. ‘I was thinking a hot bath. And then, perhaps a long nap.’

‘That sounds divine. And after that?’

Elizabeth fights a smile and loses. ‘What do you suggest, James?’

He thinks for a moment before replying, ‘Well, we could always harry the French. That doesn’t really count as piracy, does it?’

Her eyes glitter almost victoriously. ‘We? Decided you’re one of us now, have you?’ She gestures to the ragtag crew of The Black Pearl, to Barbossa, to Jack Sparrow. ‘Are you sure you mean that?’

James lifts her salt-stained hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. ‘I do not make a habit of saying things I do not mean.’

---

Chapter Text

Three years have passed since that fateful day you made history. Things are different now. You’ve commandeered your own ship, The Artemis, named for the archer goddess of lore. A fitting title, I think. A huntress. A leader. You always did have such a talent for metaphor, Elizabeth.

You’re eager to get back from this latest excursion, patrolling your waters with a restless yet watchful eye. Will has sent word he is coming to visit soon, and you always make sure to have all the lights out to beckon him home.

The ferryman’s missive lies open on your chart room table next to the most recent letter your father has sent from England, which has been folded and refolded countless times since its receipt. You miss him, I know. So do I. But we will see him again soon, of that I have no doubt.

He’s proud of you, Elizabeth. Of his daughter who became a King.

The Cove is flourishing under your reign. And you are flourishing as well, more vibrant and alive than ever before. The responsibility becomes you...almost as much as the graceful way in which you bear it.

You turn to me now, your First Mate, not the title I had once coveted - husband - but so much more meaningful for the journey, and say we are to make a heading for home. You mean Shipwreck Cove, the cozy spire of weathered wood where we spend our shore leave draped over one another in various states of undress. But to me, home is where you are, Elizabeth. No matter where that might be.

The lookout in the crow’s nest spies a ship on the horizon. An EITC merchant, fat and slow and ripe for the plucking. You practically lick your lips as the crew awaits your orders.

‘It would seem there’s one more prize to be had before our return. Step to it, gentlemen!’

The men obey as you look on fondly. I know how much they mean to you, Elizabeth. Your subjects. Your children. Each and every one of them a part of the sprawling family you have chosen for yourself.

You extend a hand to me, palm open toward the fathomless blue sky, such perfect joy in your gaze. Such love.

How much better my life is because of you. How much richer. How much...more.

‘Come with me, James,’ you invite with a smile. And my heart swells beneath my ribs because, after all this time, you still ask.

And, after all this time…

I do.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me.

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