Wake up, Elizabeth shouted to herself, tightening her closed eyes only to open them to the table set up in the cabin of the Black Pearl, half-eaten meats and breads scattered between the puddles of spilled wine and askew silverware. Squatting down to the floor, she leaned her head back against the Baroque leg, with more curves and intricate lines than any of her china dolls at home. To think pirates like Barbossa had such finery. It could make one forget the fact they were unfeeling, walking corpses…temporarily.
"Captain's given you his quarters for the night, poppet," the one with the stringy hair scratching at his shoulders because it feared the top of his head said, flinging open the door. In a split second, the ghostly pallor of his skull faded away to be replaced by blemished, ruddy flesh. He tossed her a wet rag, steam still escaping from it. "Can't see why he'd be botherin' to have ye wipe yer face, seein' as it's gonna be real still once we get to Isla de Muerta."
"Be a better trip than last time, I'd wager," the taller one said from outside the door, the moonlight still exposing his curse.
Before she could roll up the rag and smack either of them with it, they slammed the door shut, leaving her in the massive cabin. Elizabeth burrowed her face into the rag, the rest of her body shivering. She could feel the spray of salt and grain carried by the wind leave her face, just like she had left Port Royal, possibly for good.
Barbossa certainly kept a neat cabin, she thought, crossing to the desk behind the table, closer to the rectangular panels of glass to large to call portholes. How did they expect her to sleep in a place like this? Slipping into the chair, she draped her elbows across the arms and crossed her legs. You there, the hideous one, she fantasized addressing the one that called her poppet. Fetch me my slippers and then turn yourself in to Commodore Norrington. You don't like my orders? One mustn't argue with the captain of the ship. She would then draw a sword from a man's belt and let the blade wobble to and fro right in front of the man's thick throat. Maybe once they reached the island an opportunity would present itself.
Kicking her feet, Elizabeth's foot hit a hard surface. A series of thuds forced her to leap out of the chair. She fell to her hands and knees and crept under the desk. Someone had fashioned a shelf under here. She grabbed onto it and jerked it. One of the nails was probably loose.
The covers of the books had scratches on the leather, binding yellowed pages, but she recognized the titles. Shakespeare. Ovid. There were a couple written in a language she thought at first to be Spanish, but a second glimpse told her Italian. True enough Barbossa possessed a wider vocabulary than she thought, but imagining him curling up into the bed to her left revisiting A Midsummer Night's Dream or As You Like It was a little too much to bear.
One of the books was smaller, yet thicker than the others. Elizabeth opened it to find handwritten script extending from margin to margin to maximize space. This was a captain's log with enough entries to fill a year.
The handwritten script extended from margin to margin to save space. Skimming through all the numbers, the knots, the degrees, a sentence caught her eye. Barbossa knows A. gold. Should stall Jones. Jones? Who was Jones? Her eyes darted from left to right, up and down, not able to read fast enough. She turned to the next page.
Misters Pintel and Ragetti act more and more like blathering whelps yipping at Barbossa's heels. A smile broke through the tears and trauma on her face. It was a grand description. Bill and I caught them whispering, bloody sots. They clam up when I walk by, which is often since neither seems to understand the concept that a ship can't sail herself, though if one could, it would be this one.
Elizabeth held her breath, marveling at how she could be held in such suspense when she already knew the ending of this captain's story. Well, this particular story, anyway. She turned to one of the more recent entries, if ten years ago could be considered recent.
A. gold found at last! That's one problem out of the way. Barbossa…poor sod that I am, I need to get rid of him but can't even turn him in to Beckett. The men speak and sing less and less. I had hoped leading them to the gold, for I was the one that led them to it and not Barbossa, would quell it all but it seems I'm meant to be fortune's fool. The best course of action I can conjure is to chart a voyage back to Spain and leave him. Always leave them where you found them. Works well with whores but I never dreamed it would apply to Barbossa. Bugger. Always someone at the door.
She turned the page. Nothing. She turned to the next one. Nothing. Her fingers danced over every blank page, inspecting each one just to make sure the words wouldn't materialize like a spell book. Oh, Captain, she sighed. Are we to both be victims to the same man?
She placed the fallen texts back on the makeshift shelf and clutched the log to her. Curling her legs under her, she rested her back against the side of the desk and opened the log to the beginning. Bolder, larger handwriting greeted her. A few of the entries were illegible, accompanied by a splotch or two of what Elizabeth guessed was not water. Smiling once again, she read the daily drabbles, each one almost religiously a page long. There were gaps, though, weeks in between the dates as if the captain preferred to forget entirely about what had happened in that time.
The laughter outside the cabin died down, but she pushed it out of her ears and out of her mind. On a regular ship, they might be breaking up the night into shifts, scheduling a few helmsmen with two or three patrolmen, but why would a cursed crew need to sleep? Well, sleep just wouldn't visit the Black Pearl at all tonight, she decided, her eyes falling upon an entry detailing a sacking of a merchant ship. And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil.
More Shakespeare, she sighed. Oh, Captain, "an honest tale speeds best being plainly told." You see, I can quote Richard the Third as well. But do continue. I didn't mean to interrupt.
A/N: Hi, everybody! This is going to be a three-parter, and I hope you'll stay long enough to see why I've decided to rate this one M for Mature. There are so many triangles going on in POTC, one of them being Jack and Barbossa's rivalry for the Pearl, and I'm fascinated by the fact that in the first movie, it's a villains' ship, an adversary that they need to fight and in the next two movies, we see the Pearl for what she really is, a ship that represents freedom with everyone vying for her. I also wanted to experiment with how Elizabeth changes throughout the movies and how the other characters change their perception of her. Please review! Part 2 will be up soon.