It was when she saw her mother's pale, clenched face that Arwen MacBride made her decision.
As she saw it, there hadn't been much choice, really. Her mother had always loved that no-good, abandoning, double-crossing, scum of a pirate. Captain. Captain, she thought, my arse.
She supposed it wasn't really unusual for a Tortuga girl to grow up hating her father. Most of them were far from well-to-do. Many, like Arwen, the unplanned, if not unwanted, daughters of common whores. An overwhelming number, like Arwen, had mothers who had wrongfully trusted a man, and paid for it. Many of them, like Arwen, worked in pubs and got their arses pinched and their persons sworn at on a day-to-day basis. (One has to admit that these girls were better off than the ones on the streets.)
But not many of them were the illegitimate daughter of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.
And that, dear reader, is where our story begins.
****
She was a skinny girl of sixteen, and quite small. Not to mention quick. She stole into the midshipmen's part of the ship unnoticed, and left the same way. Arwen felt a little sorry for the boy whose clothes she had stolen—but not too much. He had money. He could afford something else. Arwen had nothing. Besides, she would have been practically swimming in men's apparel.
Mrs. Price who wore too much rouge and Mrs. Nightwing who wore not enough rouge came from down the street to care for her mother. Arwen said she was going to work her mother's shift, so she wouldn't loose her job, the only thing that kept the family of two (plus sometimes a one-eared cat) truly afloat.
She didn't come back.
*****
It was simple enough. Everyone, even a girl, knew which bar a man ought to go to if he wanted to join up with a crew, or as the case may be find one of his own. Arwen resembled a boy, with her hard-worn hands and harder expression. She was not a particularly pretty thing, which was rather unfortunate. Her mother had been an exceptionally pretty woman, before falling ill. Arwen more took after her father; she had inherited his sharp nose and square jaw. Her only regret was her inability to grow facial hair—it made her look small and vulnerable.
One could not blame Arwen for wishing to be a boy. You might have, too, if you had been born into a world of ships and wenches and not enough to eat.
She marched into the pub with the most manly saunter she could manage—she was rather lucky no one was watching, really. With her exaggerated swinging of her slim shoulders and obnoxious swagger, she looked more than ridiculous. She looked as if she was asking for a fight.
Her cloudy blue orbs scanned the crowd of drunken bastards. He has to be here. He just has to be here. And there he was, grotesque feet propped up on the table, stool teetering precariously towards the floor, nauseating grog in his hand. The sight disgusted Arwen.
"Captain Jack Sparrow?" She had trouble saying this without spitting it out like a bad word. There was silence. "Captain Jack Sparrow?" Louder, this time.
He turned, waveringly. The alcohol had quite overtaken him. Arwen resisted the urge to see if a sharp jab in the chest would tip him over backwards.
"That's me, lad." The captain cradled his jaw in his palm, elbow propped onto the table. He grinned, gold teeth glinting in the dirty light shining in from the window above. "And now that you've found me—"
"I'm looking for passage." Arwen cut him off, nose wrinkling in distaste. "On your ship. The Black Pearl." Her voice was steady, but she was trembling inside. What if he refused?
"And what makes you think," He stopped to recollect his thoughts, slowed by the alcohol. "What makes you think that I—"
"I can pay you." She made a mental note not to make a habit of interrupting him. He didn't seem to like it.
The captain grinned, that signature lip curl visible as he spoke. "Well, lad," He said. "That's much different."
He didn't recognize her. Arwen fought back a smile.
*****
Jack recognized her. It wasn't that she had neglected to bind her breasts properly (however small she was, she had been greatly endowed in certain places) or her plain, but feminine face. It wasn't his nose on her face—in fact, he wouldn't notice this for some time—nor was it that he remembered her from the one time he had met her, as a child in arms.
It was her eyes. They were her mother's eyes. A dark blue. Wide. Thickly lined in dark lashes. The eyes of a very pretty wench from long ago. Almost 20 years ago…or was it less? Alcohol had muddled his memory as well as his senses.
Although the more he stared into him, the more he noticed a difference. Lettice's eyes had been cheerful, sparkling. This girl's eyes were hard. Clouded. Angry. Guarded. Murderous. He shuddered a fraction, in spite of himself. A woman scorned is…well, a woman scorned is a woman scorned.
He wondered what had happened to her.
She was talking. Focus, Jack, old mate. Focus. Wooooooooooooords.
"So you see, I don't really care where I end up, Captain, I just need to leave. You understand. I knew I'd be…" She stopped. Jack figured that whatever she rehearsed was not easy for her to say. "I knew me best bet was with you. On your. Ship. Under. Your protection."
He snorted. "Passage is all you get, lad. I'm offerin' no protection from cannon fire, pirates, or…or…undead monkeys."
"…sir?"
"You know. You shoot 'em and they don't die. Undead. Nasty little buggars. Always after your hat. " He waved his hand, ending it. Something in his drunken heart panged for his old hat, the one lost to the kraken. "'Sides. I haven't seen the gold yet."
She looked uncomfortable, but reached into her boot and pulled out a ragged little sack. She slid it across the table.
"You got a name, lad?"
"John Mayweather." An awfully automatic reply. Jack decided she'd have to work on her acting skills to convince a whole ship.
"A good name. Solid. Reminds me 'o Will Turner. Friend 'o mine. You e'er 'ear 'o him?" His speech was deteriorating. Even weak grog had that effect if you drank enough of it.
"Who hasn't, Captain?"
He laughed a rumbly, drunken sort of laugh, opening the sack to peer inside. A few silver pieces. Normally, he would have demanded more in the odd chance he took on a passenger. He glanced up at her quickly, dark eyes glinting.
There was room for exception here. It—she—could be interesting.
Besides, he was nearly out of grog and rather more in the mood for rum anyway.
"Mr. Mayweather," Jack stood. "Have a seat."