The Crazy-Eyed Hurricane
Part IElizabeth is separated from the others. She is no longer driven by morals, or passion, or love of the wrong man, she is driven by fear, and hate, and a deepening despair that grows with every beat in the rhythm of her flight. When the Pearl ran aground, and there was nothing left to do but fight hand to hand she was left on the beach. When she learned that, above all else, the men doing Beckett's work were pursuing her she found nothing to do but run. The beaches became trees, and it was in the belly and tangle of the trees and vines that she lost her cutlass to the men who had followed her. They tied her ankles and her wrists with long, individual pieces of rope, all tied to a very long piece of rope that, when she finally was able to shoot one of them, she did not have time to remove herself.
The belly of the tangle of trees has become a dark forest now, and all she can think to do is run. Fear drives her, and pushes her forward despite the lost strength and weakening will to continue. The blood down the front of her shirt, and staining her trousers is not hers, and carries a deep stench of death, and leaves a trail to be followed. Never looking behind her, she continues to run, and can feel the knots around her ankles and wrists begin to tighten, and chafe. It occurs to her that someone on the end of that long rope has caught her already, and merely waits for the moment she decides that running will not save her.
Elizabeth has been running for what feels like hours, and the constant fear of the rope will not allow her to stop, not even to try and remove it from her ankles and hands. Elizabeth can only run.
The fear turns to horror when she feels resistance about her ankles, and knows she has but seconds before she comes to the ground, hard. Her wrists are jerked far back behind her, and she stumbles over her own feet. Elizabeth lets the rope take her, finally, and hits the ground hard. The rope is taught at her sides, and she lay helplessly to be collected like game after a hunt. There is grit in her mouth, in her eyes, and the smell of the stale blood sickens her, and she gags in the still air. She cannot quite remember when last she cried, and does not wish to do so now, in front of her captors. She is no longer a little girl, she tells herself, and closes her eyes hard. That all came to an end the day she made the choice to kill a man.
And so she will not cry now, but she will wait. She waits in silence, and cannot decided whether or not she is too afraid to at least feel the relief of her cooling legs, exhausted and spent on the floor of the jungle. She has been running, and fighting for so long now. Perhaps letting go will be less painful, even if it is in the darkness of surrender. When she hears the footsteps of another---not a posse of men, but a single rhythm of step---she begins to think of Will. She wonders where he is now, and if he would hear her cries for help. She wonders if Jack would come to save her, or simply stand over her in a distant pity, knowing exactly what it is to face death, because she once inflicted the same sad, desperate horror upon him. She wonders if they even survived the battle with Beckett's men.
In her own darkness she can feel hands, strong and quiet and dangerous, coming under her tired body. She is lifted off of the ground with not so much as a grunt from the stranger, and her head lolls limply to fall against his chest. He, too, smells of blood and smoke. Elizabeth does not open her eyes, and she does not wish to see her huntsman, but does not immediately feel as though he wishes to harm her. His touch is not gentle, but it is not cruel. It is simply deliberate.
"Who are you," she murmurs, and is able to lift her head only so slightly to try and see the face of the man who holds her life in his hands. He does not reply, and nor does he need to. Through the shadow of his long dark brown hair that is loosely pulled back from his face, and the scruff of an unshaven chin she recognizes him. He is nothing of the man she knew. He is nothing of the man who loved her. Even in the night she can see empty eyes that react to nothing, a blank expression. He is simply not the same person, and Elizabeth forgets her strict resistance against the tears she knew would come. They are silent, but she knows that he can hear her. She had thought the Commodore to be dead after the quarrel on the island, and as the hours pass, and he ignores her tears, she is convinced she was right. James Norrington is dead. His death was a lonely one, brought on by madness, or jealousy, or a broken heart at the open end of a bottle.