Disclaimer: If I owned it, I'd be making blockbusters not fanfic, right? Right.

Chapter 1: The Burgundy

There were men in the water, swimming desperately for land, and Will Turner felt ill. He had seen far, far worse before, more times than anyone should be able to see such things and live, but still. He'd seen ships burning and ships lying on the waves in splinters and men not swimming among the wreckage. Ships dragged without a trace below the surface by tentacles straight out of Revelations – he'd seen that too. Far too often, he'd actually caused the devastation, simply by being a hunted man on another man's vessel. But still. Tonight, the shore was near enough that the strong swimmers would certainly make it. It was nothing in comparison to before nor would it be, undoubtedly, to after. But Will had never before forced a man to the rail at the point of his sword and ordered him to leave all he owned to stronger people who believed they had a right and leap into the sea. Precisely speaking, he still hadn't. His fellow couldn't swim and had fallen to his knees gesticulating and pleading in frantic French. But Will had never before been party to such a thing.

There was a considerable portion of the French crew still on deck, in fact, huddled and cringing but shouting for all they were worth, and their eyes as they darted from sea to Mr. Gibbs were wild with panic. Gibbs looked more than anything like he was sorry this job had fallen to him, but also quite like the damnable wailing might soon overcome his last reluctance to toss them all over the side. "They want the longboat, Mr. Gibbs," called Elizabeth, climbing from the main hatch onto deck.

"Well, I know that, missy. You c'n tell them we need it ourselves or not, either way it changes nothing."

"Or they want to be taken onto the crew."

The roll of Gibbs's eyes was something mighty in itself. "Ye're a thick lot o' gobs, if ye think ye'll be joinin' this crew not able to take an order in plain English and feared o' the very water 'at bears us. That kind o' sorry thing might pass on some ships, but not on The P…" He cut off abruptly and cast a pained glance at Elizabeth.

"The Burgundy, Mr. Gibbs."

"Aye, The Burgundy."

"There are a fair few empty casks down below and more that can be drained if need be."

Gibbs cracked a tired, relieved smile at that. "Drained, eh? Ye're a perpetu'l danger to good rum, lass."

"Not rum at all."

He nodded. "'S all right, then. Down t' the hold, wit' ye. Fetch th' empties and what else is needed an' toss 'em over wit' these sorry excuses fer seamen." He barked the last to a knot of Tia Dalma's people, who were standing well-armed and impassive, looking on at the scene. Disturbing really. But they moved off readily enough, able to take an order in plain English.

"Can you swim, Mr. Gibbs?"

"Not a bit of it, lassie. A good sailor 'n' pirate ought never t' be findin' himself in the brine."

She smiled – a rather hard smile, but 'hard' had been the word for Elizabeth these past few days. Will found a little place bored out of the solid horror and illness inside him to hold yet a new shade of his admiration for Elizabeth. Even shaken and grieving – well, they were all grieving; he didn't blame her – as she so obviously was, she was magnificent. Goodness amidst all of…this…care for those poor, vanquished men, and such resourcefulness. Will wished he were a poet. She…granted life with a face set in stone. Except for that smile. He found another little hollow of non-despair for a touch of unfocused gratitude. It had been a cynical touch of humor, but it was a world of improvement over that first night, when they'd all been reeling but the rest had been able to sleep.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

They'd been exhausted when they'd arrived, cold and sorrowful as Tia Dalma had said, and near quaking from the strain of running for so damn long. But they couldn't have slept. The thing to do, the only thing, had been to hunker down, nurse wounds, and hold the solemnest of wakes for a man who'd surprised them all in the end. Then Tia Dalma had spoken, extracted promises, and played her great reveal. And faced with an emotion that by the morning might turn to hope but felt at that first instant only like shock, they'd found it all finally, completely too much. Just as soon as good reasons for wakefulness had appeared – explanations needing to be begged or wrangled from the witch, plans needing laying and courses charting, and someone, no, everyone needing to keep a close eye on Barbossa – they'd sagged in their chairs and begun nodding into their cups, and wakefulness was impossible. Their hostess had thrown open a cupboard of rough blankets and foreign tapestries and told them to bed down as they would.

Stretched between two of the softer offerings and halfway to unconsciousness, Will had made the mistake of reaching over to Elizabeth and taking her hand. He'd meant it to be a comforting clasp, but her grip had borne down and locked, and the pain had jolted him out of sleep. She'd been completely unmoving, and a whisper of light filtering in from the vigil candles of the mourners in the swamp had glinted in her eyes, letting him see they were open, but narrowed, staring – glaring – into the gloom. If she'd even been aware of it, perhaps she'd gotten some comfort from crushing his hand.

"Elizabeth?" A tiny, nigh invisible shake of her heard and somehow her grip had tightened. She'd been as rigid and unassailable then as she'd been in the longboat, announcing Jack's sacrifice with that stubborn, imperious dignity that always made him fear, even as her almost-husband, to call her Elizabeth, always made 'Miss,' at the least, or perhaps 'Highness' seem better and safer.

His hand had been caught, and he'd ended up sleeping in some pain.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

Gibbs watched her move off – stalk off, really – down the deck. She paused for a moment beside young Will and ran a hand down his sleeve almost absently. The boy offered her a weak smile and turned his gaze to the water. "Terrible, isn't it?"

"Could be worse," she returned, her eyes picking over the rigging, before she continued on her way. A fine woman, that. Practically not a woman at all, what with her being steady on the decks and actually useful.

The first casks were arriving now from below, and the Frenchies were still wailing. "Heave, lads!" Gibbs called out and seized a blubbering prisoner. He quite relished tossing him over and the lovely splash that followed now that he knew he wasn't truly condemning the man to death. He sent the next nearest captive after his crewmate; Pintel and Ragetti joined in, chucking Frenchman with glee; and Tia's silent followers tossed floats to the fallen.

A minute later Gibbs stood at the rail, a long sigh of relief meeting the sea air. A little flotilla of men clinging awkwardly to makeshift floats paddled along a swath of moonlight toward shore. Thank the powers that was over. He'd been an honest seaman before turning to more…opportunistic sailing, and it was one thing pirating under Captain Jack and another, he'd always known but was coming now to really know, pirating under Captain Barbossa. With the one men might lose their lives in battle or a plan gone awry or by falling behind; with the other men might be killed in cold blood. Gibbs was quite glad Barbossa hadn't seen him dithering over tipping The Burgundy's original crew into the drink.

All – or at least one thing – was well, though, the Captain had been off with the witch inspecting the new vessel. There the pair of them were now, standing at the helm, Barbossa with one hand on the wheel – Captain Barbossa, and as touchy as Captain Sparrow if any forgot – heads together and voices not carrying an inch. The rest of the deck was fairly clear. There was Elizabeth, still stalking about. There was young Will, being shortly told by Claude or Dembe or one of that lot that his assistance was not required in stowing Lady Tia's precious cargo of dried bits and braided grasses in one of the aft cabins. And there was Cotton, waving an arm at his parrot, which clearly considered the topsail yard a better perch at the moment. But otherwise…some would be below decks, but they were running with a short crew just now. Wouldn't hurt to take on considerable extra hands when they provisioned for this voyage to…wherever they were going. Well. There was a stout deck beneath his feet now, and thank…thank the sea herself, they could be done with all this beginning business. He marched up the steps to the bridge deck and joined the pair at the wheel.

"Begging yer pardon, Cap'n, Ma'am. But as the vessel's now ours, where we be takin' her?"

Barbossa looked him up and down as a shark might look a sardine side to side. "Can't say as I rightly…"

"We do not know," the witch lady's voice sung through the Captain's growl.

Gibbs gritted his teeth. She had a fine air of mystery about her, but mystery would get you so far on open water and no farther. Still, courtesy, when dealing with the mad and the dead. "I know you say so, ma'am, (should he be addressing the captain; he didn't know) but we've a dishonestly gotten vessel beneath our soles now, an' she can't just be sittin' here. We're not needin' a last port o' call, but if ye've so much as a compass bearin'…"

"It has been how many days? Seven? No? Only five. And did I not say seven? If those days have not passed then I cannot tell you where we sail."

"Captain?"

"Orders at this time are t' listen t' the lady." Barbossa tipped his head toward Tia Dalma and smirked with great relish at Gibbs.

"You sailed under Jack wid'out a heading for how long? Can you not sail for him for a time wid' as little?" Barbossa's face did something downright twisty – clearly, watching the witch play merry hell with his first mate's sanity was less entertaining when she invoked his murderer's (if the boy and Miss Swann could be believed) name. Still, the captain made no move to stop her speaking – something to remember… Gibbs addressed himself to Tia Dalma.

"An' if we'd had a heading sooner, mayhap we wouldn't be makin' this voyage now at all!"

"You cannot have what does not yet exist." He could read, though he didn't care to. He'd seen a book once in a peddler's stall, Folk Wisdom & Neat Sayings. He'd bet Tia Dalma owned it. Had memorized it. If she hadn't bloody written it. Bloody woman. If she had to be aboard, she sure as hell shouldn't be orchestratin' th' entire voyage.

"Look here, ye damned woman! A headin's not no little fancy! We're needin' to take on crew an' lay in provisions!"

"Then take us where we may do these thing, Mistah Gibbs." She smiled beatifically with her black teeth. As infuriating as she'd been the past five days. Not a jot better than that first morning when their so-called conference must have shamed whatever hell Jack was in now.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

They'd rolled out of their blankets that morning bleary and bewildered, and the witch had served them stewed fruit and fresh coffee that she'd offered to spice up for any who so desired. "No rum," the lass had grated out. She'd looked bloody awful – puffy-eyed and brittle and white beneath the color the sun was beginning to sear into her skin. For all it looked to be a mad woman speaking, Gibbs had nodded sadly and traded mugs with Cotton. The man could be as drunk as he liked and the bird would answer as cleverly.

"P'rhaps after we've chatted a bit."

"Don'ja trust me, Joshamee Gibbs?" the witch had crowed with unexpected delight. "Jack trusted me."

Everyone in the room had looked at her incredulously, even the ones who didn't know what 'incredulously' meant. Then Elizabeth's gaze had shifted to Barbossa. "Even if so, Jack trusted where he oughtn't have sometimes."

"It seems to me, that when we're talkin' 'bout raisin' the dead, I either want t' be so drunk th' idea don't scare me witless, or sober enough t' think about it real careful."

"You would not take back the vow you swore last night?"

"Can't recollect as I swore a vow. Said I'd do it. But a man can't do a thing, not knowin' what it is or findin' it's not what he thought, so I want to hear from you, your proposal as it were."

"We all would," the boy put in.

"Well, den. Let's chat about it."

Only it hadn't been a chat. It had started out to be a conference, all of them crowded around the little rough-hewn table. But the more the witch had flashed her smug, knowing smile around, the more it had become an interrogation, and Tia had met every question with an answer that answered nothing. Once the first person – Will, it had been – had shoved back his chair to take a turn pacing furiously around the hut, they'd never made it back to the table all at once. They'd ended up stomping about, swatting at the low-hanging herbs and oddments, bristling at one another from shadowy corners and snapping accusations from between banks of candles. A bellowed oath interrupted them every time someone forgot to duck that damned dangling green flask of…something. And through it all Tia Dalma had kept her seat, eased back as comfy as a queen at her court or a lady at the theatre. He still wasn't sure what that day had accomplished.

"What do we do?" they'd asked. Actually, Will had glowered and growled, "The first thing we want to know is what he's doing here!" with a finger quivering at Barbossa. But Tia had been so implacable with her, "We come to dat later," that they'd asked, "What do we do?" and she'd replied, "It is very simple. Firs' we will need a ship."

"O' course, a ship. An' then?"

"Den you will take me where I mus' go."

"Ye're comin' along?"

"Why would I not?"

"Women on board…it's a bad business. Bad luck."

"Is she not comin'?"

"Miss Elizabeth? O' course. Oh."

"I speak to the spirits dat can return you your captain. 'Less you's plannin' t' fetch 'im back wid 'luck,' Mistah Gibbs – but I t'ink you will need sorcery."

A sigh and an accusing glance at his rum-less coffee. That had been Elizabeth's idea. Women were bad luck. "So, ye're comin'. Where to are we goin'?"

"I don' know."

"Ye don't know?"

"I will."

Will had jumped into the fray then. "How can you tell us we'll get him back, when you don't know what to do?"

"What to do is not a t'ing at all. You ask where we go, and I tell you, we go where Jack goes."

"Where's that, then?"

"Can we know before he arrives?"

"He's dead!" Gibbs had spluttered.

"But you, a sailor, mus' know dere is no arrival widout the journey. You cannot imagine it be different for the dead?"

"He's jus' goin' to some…afterlife."

"World's End, you said," Will put in, in his shrewdest voice. "Where's that?"

"World's End is at life's end. Everywhere."

"So we don't have to go anywhere at all!" Ragetti had exclaimed, very pleased with himself.

"Oh, no, we's got t' put in at the right port. And the land o' the dead is like the land o' the living. Many ports."

Gibbs had opened his mouth, but he didn't get to make his next argument.

"How long?" Elizabeth had peered at the witch with narrow eyes and narrow pressed-together lips. It was the way she'd been squinting at everyone since she'd climbed out of her blankets that morning.

"One week from the day he died."

"That seems rather arbitrary."

"It is the way of spirits."

And that, unfortunately, had settled that, for who among them could challenge Tia Dalma on the ways of spirits? They'd moved on to discussing what best to do as they waited for their heading. The answer – Tia's answer, of course, had been to get on with commandeering the ship.

"Don't even know if we'll need a ship not, knowin' where we're bound," Gibbs had muttered. "Could be a mule train to bloody Acapulco we'll be needin'!"

"Then we'll sail to Vera Cruz and their bloody mules," Barbossa'd growled. The man liked any excuse to growl, and that day he'd seemed to decide backing up the witch was a grand excuse.

"Fine, fine. We'll get ye a ship."

"But not just any ship."

"Well, a ship suited t' the voyage would be best, but we don' know…"

"No. A fortunate ship would be best."

"A fortu…! Bloody hell, woman!"

"For good luck, Mistah Gibbs."

"An' how'll we know a fortunate ship when she passes?"

"I will tell you."

They'd won a single point the whole day, and it hadn't been when they'd demanded to know how Barbossa could possibly be there, or why they should trust him to help rescue Jack, or why Tia Dalma was willing to leave her queen's domain on the river to travel – somewhere, possibly into hell itself. It had been when Gibbs had pointed out that they didn't have the numbers to handle a real ship, and Tia had no more than shrugged.

"We can have all we need from the village here."

"No."

"An' why not?"

"Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, but we'll not be outnumbered on our own ship by men what we know's got powerful allegiance t' you an' we don't know what loyalty t' him."

"So den ya don't trust me. Mistah Gibbs, I'm grieved."

Elizabeth had broken in then with one of her flinty interjections. "I'm afraid you sacrificed the better part of our trust when you produced certain allies."

"You'll need more dan you got to take a ship."

They'd agreed on equal numbers and no more. It was how they'd come to have those seven rather spooky chaps who spoke to no one but each other in the party. There'd been much more talk. Much more shouting than he cared to remember. Everyone had taken his turn to say what the man before him had already said only louder and with more profanity, and nothing more got done.

When it had finally all simmered down, they'd had nothing to do for three days but sit and stew together in the swamp. Tia Dalma had sent a pair of her followers to the mouth of the river with a spyglass to keep watch over the trade route to the Windward Passage that swept past her patch of coast. Several times one of the men came running back through the jungle to describe a passing ship, and each time the witch declared the craft unsuitable.

Gibbs had drunk and pored over the surprising number of nautical charts Tia turned up for him, startling out of his perusal and crossing himself every time one of the islanders stole through the room softly enough to suggest a spirit passing. Barbossa'd made an ostentatious display of unconcern, with his feet always on the table as he slice bits of fruit to share with Jack the monkey. Pintel and Ragetti had played guess what's in the jars, while Elizabeth sat about scowling as though hope disagreed with her and she planned to personally throttle it until it looked a bit more like certainty.Will had hovered around her, all anxiety and concern, and the way his hands slowed and paused and pulled away before touching her made it look a bit as if he were channeling Jack's twitchiness. Except that Jack had always gone ahead with the touching.

The single useful thing to come out of those days was that they'd stopped outright jumping at Barbossa's presence. Scowling and glowering were still on full force, though.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

Elizabeth watched Gibbs turn and take his leave of the captain and Tia Dalma. Even from here she could see him deflating around a prodigious sigh. She waited, but no order came to change their tack by so much as trimming a stays'l. They'd be holding their course then. Predictable.

Barbossa rocked on his heels and swept out an arm, grinning at his companion. The man was entirely too delighted. There was reason to be pleased, of course. They'd gotten a ship that was much more than she'd expected Tia's 'fortune' to bring them. The moment they had the vessel under their sure control, she'd set off to look her over. She was a soundly built, unpretentious brigantine, the kind of ship that would go where they needed and not attract undue attention while there. The massive merchant's holds were a bit excessive, really, but between that deep draft and her gaff-rigged main, Burgundy would sail closer to the wind than any ship Elizabeth had yet been aboard. Besides, in the open ocean and not knowing where they were bound – hell, maybe even around the Horn – they'd not likely regret the extra stability.

And the ship was shockingly well armed. In these waters, the French navy was practically a fantasy. Apparently, King Louis's reasoning held that the bouconiers sailing out of Tortuga could be relied upon, more or less, to keep the English and Spanish in check and could be trusted, somewhat, to leave their own country's ships in peace. And the merchants had fallen back on the shaky strategy of trying to look as much like pirates themselves as they could manage. There were more guns than Gibbs was likely to take on hands to man, not that any opposition they met would need to know their crew situation.

Elizabeth was rather pleased herself, really. If she'd thought it was for the ship – and she hadn't hated him – she might not have grudged Barbossa his good humor. But she knew better. It was impossible to follow someone really stealthily around a ship, but she'd made sure her inspection crossed paths with his and Tia's a couple of times. So she knew he was chortling and muttering merrily to that damned monkey of his over the wine. It seemed The Burgundy had been named for the province that produced her cargo, and the holds of the vessel were positively stuffed with casks and casks and barrels of wine. Not a bad thing, Elizabeth had reasoned. Sell it off to the first handy fence, the empty space would hold what provisions they'd take on and the price it fetched could be used to hire an actual crew to which the term able-bodied might actually apply. But down in the cargo hold, conscientiously not following the man, she'd heard him chuckle, "Oh, this'll make for a pleasant journey, a' right."

Eyes on the helm, Elizabeth sneered and imagined she could do something really nasty just by looking at him. Vanish his liver, maybe. Evil, pretentious pirate. Putting on airs like he was lord of some bloody manor. Wine. Stood the heat half as well, and a fraction of the drunk you got from rum for the same space…oh, God. Damn you, Jack Sparrow – or, er, rather confound you. You were right about me, but not this. I don't care if you do always seem to know what I'm thinking, you are not permitted to do my thinking for me.

She was a governor's daughter; she liked fine wine. Knew it better than any foul monster of a pirate captain, too. Still, she wished she could have figured a way to get Gibbs to throw it all overboard, just to spite that bastard.

God, she was being petty. If she was going to fume at Barbossa, she ought to think about that, how he'd seemed to consider leaving Gibbs to drown the prisoners as some small compensation for their easy, dull, nigh bloodless capture of the ship. So sorry, you swine, just now we really can't afford any thrillingly gruesome battles for your pleasure. It had been a sneak attack and uncannily successful. A good sign for them – apparently there was something to Tia's mysticism after all.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

The lookout had come running out of the jungle bringing news of the fourth ship in three days. Tia had heard his report, closed her eyes, slanting her head as if to catch some faint sound, and hummed. Then she'd smiled – or smiled more, as the woman never seemed to stop.

They'd all waited for dark on the coast that night, and before the rising of the moon, they'd been beckoned aboard the tiny fishing skiffs Tia's villagers used and rowed out to intercept their quarry. Elizabeth had glanced at Will, sharing her boat, but he hadn't met her eyes – he'd been staring at that knife he'd gotten on The Dutchman, turning it round and round in his hand. Will had been making finer knives since he was fifteen – when there was time she would ask him why that one was so important.

They'd come up astern of the ship, and the rough wake had nearly been more than their little boats could withstand, so they'd thrown their lines and taken hold quick as they could. The oarsmen had turned and sped back to land, leaving them dangling off the side of an enemy ship with one chance at victory and none at escape. Then it'd been hand over hand up the ropes, and once they'd slithered over the gunwales everything had been easy.

For all the ship's fearsome armaments, her crew had been simple tradesmen. Not a clue what to do when the enemy was actually on their ship. Their watch was sparse, and they'd been sloppy enough not to spot the boarding party in the first place. Pintel and Barbossa had run two men through, clapping hands over their mouths to muffle the screams. Will, thankfully, had been too occupied to notice, as he clunked another man over the head with the butt of his pistol. Or had he really not noticed? She doubted he could simply ignore it if he'd seen, but she was not thinking about it rather hard herself. It had been impossible to see what the extraordinarily tall islander with the ring through his nose had done to the fourth watchman, but the man had gone down silently. They'd taken the main deck without any alarm sounded.

Then down to the crew deck, where the rest of the Frenchmen had swung in their hammocks. Weapons all neatly stowed for the night – no pistols tucked about their person, blades out of reach. Simple sailors. They'd ranged themselves between the hammocks, fourteen pirates against nearly fifty merchant seamen, but the merchants were sleeping and each pirate had two hands and two pistols. They'd been able to cover more than half of them with barrels against their throats before shouting the order to wake. The men had been too groggy and terrified to resist, and when, as they marched them to the hatch ladders, one had tried to dive for a weapon, well. Marty might not be much with a sword, but he was a crack shot. That had kept the rest of them quiet until they'd gotten above decks. A few more had tried to fight, or bolt, or had simply panicked then, but whatever they'd been doing, they'd done it badly, and they'd ended up unarmed, pressed against the rail at the unfriendly end of a gun or blade.

Barbossa had killed the captain, of course, while they'd been below, had probably made a big gloating production of it. Still, a ship captured with only four men dead, none of them theirs – she was glad it had not gone worse. And best, now it was done.

- SSSSSSSSSSS -

"I don't think it is The Burgundy. I think it's Le Burgundy, seein' as 'ow she's a French ship."

"But she ain't a French ship now 'at we've got her, is she? She's a pirate ship."

"But pirates c'n speak any language they wants, like."

"An' English pirates like what we are wants to speak English! 'Cause we can."

"Still ye can't change a ship's name. 'S bad luck."

"'S not changin', it's bloody translatin'!"

"Whad'ya think 'trans-' means…"

Elizabeth shook her head and let her lips quirk the tiniest bit. It was a pity they'd wandered out of earshot. Pintel and Ragetti may have kidnapped her and threatened her life once upon a time, but there was none could surpass them for diverting mindless drivel on all the high seas. The half-silence of wind, water, and ship wasn't bad either, though, and the land breeze off Hispaniola stirred the sticky Caribbean night without chilling it. The stern deck was a rather perfect place to be just then, as peaceful as if it hadn't hosted a single battle that night. Elizabeth unclasped her arms from around her knees and rolled her shoulders. Closed her eyes, leaned back on her hands, and turned her face to the wind. The fall of footsteps mingled with the night sounds, then Will dropped down beside her.

"Fine night. You'd never know…" His words trailed off, and he stared at the water.

She opened her eyes, and there was another slight, tired quirk of her lips. "Yes. And no."

"You seem…better."

"Did you hear Pintel and Ragetti on your way up here?"

"Apparently, you can call a ship whatever you like, but it's not really renamed unless you paint it."

"An argument of substance."

"That's not quite what I meant."

"I'm fi-…Well. It feels like I can breathe again."

Will nodded solemnly as if he'd hoped for a more reassuring reply and scooted to sit behind her. He touched her shoulder lightly, and she brushed her hair aside. He began to knead her neck and shoulders, and there was something to be said for smith's strength.

"Mmm, thank you. It's just…we've done as much as we can, for now. We're not even properly begun, since we still don't know what we're beginning. But we have a ship now, and we're on the water. We're ready – as soon as Tia tells us where, we're ready to come about any which way."

"Save upwind."

"We can beat upwind."

"Elizabeth…we'll get him back."

"Yes." The word was steel, and it lashed out with a cutting edge. Will flinched, his hands tightening on Elizabeth's shoulders. She hissed sharply.

"Elizabeth, I'm sorry!" He jerked his hands away from her to rub them nervously on his thighs.

"I…I think you fixed something in this shoulder actually." She stretched her sword arm experimentally and gave him a reassuring nod.

Will's hands knotted themselves together in his lap. Elizabeth shook her head and shifted back to sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder they stared at the water.

"So it seems Mr. Gibbs has set us a course," she softly broke the silence.

"Temporarily. Crew and provisions – where could we be headed?"

"Running west along this coast? Where indeed?" Her head tilted at a thinking angle. "I suppose even if it is the first place anyone would look, we'll be least conspicuous in Tortuga. And in this ship we'll look like just a few more boucaniers."

"You and your French."

"Tia Dalma's people speak it," she replied. "You noticed how none of them offered to translate tonight?"

Will blinked at that, then simply groaned. She leaned against him lightly, and he returned the weight. When he glanced down at her, this time it was the moonlight glinting in her eyes.

A/N: So there it is, Chapter One. If anyone would like to tell me what they thought, I'd find reviews absolutely delightful. In particular it'd be great if someone could mention whether I'm writing the accents too thick to be readable, but all feed back, happy or otherwise, is welcome.

Hope you enjoyed! Fair winds.