Fate
by Luvvycat
Author's Note: This little one-shot (actually, one chapter and an epilogue) is related to my series of stories that began with "Rum and Persuasion" and might actually be regarded as the fourth in that particular series. Recall the silver sparrow ring Jack left for Elizabeth after their night together in "Rum and Persuasion"? This is the tale of how that ring originally came to be in Jack's possession ...
This one is a bit tamer than the rest of my stories (i.e., some suggestiveness, but no real smut), but I hope you enjoy it regardless.
As ever, POTC belongs solely to Disney, and (to my everlasting regret) not to me. :-(
Hope you enjoy, and please feel free to read and review ...
'Ta...!
-- Cat
The London docks—situated along either side of the River Thames, in that stretch of waterway below London Bridge known as the Pool of London—were alive with activity, even at this early hour, with the sun barely up, crammed with people and carts, ne'er-do-wells and doxies, vendors and merchants of every sort hawking their wares to whosoever might have the interest as well as appropriate coinage to purchase such.
Young Elizabeth Swann sat beside her father—the newly-appointed Royal Governor of Jamaica—as their carriage clattered over the rough roads leading down to the piers. Looking out the carriage window, it occurred to her that she had never seen so many ships in one place before, in such a variety of types and sizes. A dazzling array of vessels that captured her eye as well as her fancy, as she had long been in love with the idea of going to sea. Indeed, her maiden breast was filled with boundless excitement, for this was to be her very first ocean voyage.
The carriage at last drew to a stop, and the liveried coachman alit from his perch to open the door for them. Her father stepped out first, resplendent in his fine, deep russet frock coat with gold trim, sable velvet tricorne hat adorned with gold feathers, and long curly brown wig, fashionable silver-headed walking stick clenched in his right hand. He turned and offered her his left hand to assist her in descending from the coach. A cart containing all of their worldly possessions under a draped shroud of canvas—at least, all those possessions that they cared to take with them to their new home—drew up behind their carriage.
"Mind your skirts, now, Elizabeth," Weatherby Swann admonished as she stepped down onto the rutted, muddy ground, and she daintily raised her skirts to prevent the hem from dragging in the muck. The frock—a pale, honey-hued brocade that nearly matched the colour of her hair, intricately embroidered with a pattern of pastel leaves and flowers, cut in a fashion befitting a girl whose figure was transitioning from shapeless child to willowy young lady—was brand new, purchased by her father as part of the wardrobe for this trip. However, her velvet cloak, being a few years old, was in no danger of smirching, as she had grown taller since its purchase, and its hem now hung several inches above the ground.
Elizabeth trailed after her father as he strode onto the rough boards of the docks, her head swivelling this way and that as she tried to take in all she could of the sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling port. There was so much to see, and to experience, that her senses were quite overwhelmed by it all!
They traversed a goodly portion of dock until they approached one of the largest and most magnificent ships Elizabeth had ever seen. Her lamps and gilded fittings glittered in the early morning sun, and men in neat sailor's garb or trim naval uniforms swarmed her decks and scurried up and down her gangplanks. The name H.M.S. Dauntless was inscribed in gold paint across her stern.
Elizabeth felt a little ball of anticipation curl in her belly. As much as she disliked leaving London, and the home she had known for most of her twelve years of life, she was also excited about embarking on this new adventure, this journey to a new home on an island in the Caribbean Sea, a strange and exotic land called Jamaica.
As her father went to arrange the transfer of their possessions from cart to ship, with a warning to his daughter not to stray too far, Elizabeth turned to watch the activity on the docks, her bright eyes flitting from new sight to new sight with childish wonder and delight.
Over there, two longshoremen were trying to coax a donkey—hitched to a cart laden with barrels and crates—down the pier to a waiting ship, but the obstinate beast was being less than cooperative. She laughed as the donkey sat and refused to budge, eliciting from the two men a string of harsh-sounding words that Elizabeth, being a refined young lady, had never heard before, and the meaning of which she didn't quite understand.
And over there, a fine coach was disgorging some very well-to-do family, dressed in what appeared to be their Sunday best: A fine, plump woman in a quite ornate bonnet, with a swaddled babe in arms, and a portly gentleman in a vivid, peacock-blue velvet frock-coat alit first, and Elizabeth watched as one … two … three … four … five … six … seven … eight … good Lord, nine children of varying ages ranging from about two to fourteen descended from the vehicle. She wondered how the coach, albeit admittedly a very large one, had the capacity to hold so many!
A wistful feeling came over her. As an only child of a widowed father, it was unlikely she would ever have any brothers or sisters, though she had often longed for the company of siblings. Though she loved her father dearly, she would have given just about anything to have had the companionship of children near to her own age. Her isolation and loneliness occasionally drove her to do things not fitting for a well-bred child of a high-ranking member of the King's court, and her father had frequently had to take her to task for some bit of mischief or another that she had perpetrated out of boredom, frustration, or simply her natural-born high-spiritedness (something, he told her time and again, in exasperation, that she must have inherited from her mother's side of the family, for she certainly didn't get it from him!).
As her eyes swept the docks again, her attention was drawn to a somewhat gaudily-dressed man leaning insolently against the side of a storage shed, arms crossed, his keen dark eyes watching the activity on the docks, even as she had been doing. With his long black hair, moustache and close-cropped beard, bright red bandanna under a leather tricorne hat, and tall boots, as well as the sword resting at his hip and pistol stuck into his belt, he was the very image of one of her storybook pirates, and that immediately captured her imagination as well as her curiosity ...
Elizabeth was suddenly distracted by a row taking place a little farther down the docks. A well-dressed man of apparent means was busily, and quite noisily, berating a much smaller man, who appeared to be his servant. There was an overturned barrel on the ground, which was now seeping dark red wine like a spreading bloodstain upon the boards. Elizabeth surmised that the servant had had the misfortune to drop the barrel, and it had split open …
The unfortunate little man was cowering on his knees on the wet, grimy planks of the dock, covering his head protectively as the taller man raised his walking stick, with every apparent intent of beating the poor man senseless …
Elizabeth's eyes widened as she emitted a horrified gasp, and fear for the hapless servant flooded her ...
Before the cane could fall, however, the dark-haired man from the shed had leapt forward, and grabbed hold of the stick, arresting its descent. The rich man turned on him, fury written across his face, but the "pirate" (as she thought of him) leaned forward and uttered a string of words in the man's ear, sweeping his arm around in a gesture that took in the entire dock. She couldn't hear exactly what he said, except for a few random snatches of words: "stupid, mate", "witnesses", and "constable."
This seemed to mollify the man somewhat, for he lowered his cane, and merely made an angry gesture and barked at his manservant, who nodded abject thanks and scampered quickly away. The dark-haired man made a deep bow to the rich man, doffing his tricorne hat respectfully with one hand, whilst the other swept furtively under the voluminous folds of his frock-coat …
As the rich man walked away, the dark-haired man straightened, and brought his concealed hand out from under his coat. Hefting a small but rather bulky leather pouch in his hand—good Lord, Elizabeth thought, had he just stolen the man's purse?—he dropped it quickly into his coat pocket, then turned in her direction.
Elizabeth's mouth was already open to call out Thief! but the word died in her throat when the dark eyes rose and met hers across the docks. There was a breathless moment when his black-ringed eyes widened as he realised he had been caught out, then a glint of gold as he flashed a quick, saucy smile, then put an elegant ring-adorned finger to his pursed lips (Shhh!) and winked at her …
Then he was gone, vanished into the crowds milling along the dock.
Elizabeth closed her mouth with a snap. Oh well, she thought. She supposed that any man cruel enough to beat his servant over a relatively minor accident deserved to have his purse stolen.
* * * * *
Jack Sparrow lounged idly against the side of a storage shed, his eyes sweeping the docks, taking in the rush of activity with watchful eyes.
In the two years since he had lost the Black Pearl to his mutinous first mate, Hector Barbossa, Jack had wandered from place to place, seeking any mention, tracking any possible lead as to where the Pearl might have gone after she and her crew laid claim to the treasure at Isla de Muerta. Outside of a rash of tales told of the Pearl's crew engaging in spending sprees of truly Dionysian proportions in the months following Jack's abandonment, she and her crew seemed to have all but disappeared from the usual pirate haunts over the past year or so.
His travels had now taken him to London, in search of his old mate, Bootstrap Bill Turner. Alas, all he had been able to learn was that ol' Bootstrap had never come home from the sea, and, further bad news, his long-suffering wife had passed barely a month prior to Jack's arrival. There was a son, nigh on thirteen years of age now, but no one seemed to know what happened to him, after his mum died. He had simply vanished, shortly after the funeral. The rumour was he had most likely hopped a ship and gone in search of his missing father.
Now, Jack was seeking to arrange passage back to the Caribbean. He had no desire to stay in London any longer than necessary. He knew how the local authorities dealt with pirates, and he had no intention of ending his days on Execution Dock.
Inquiries at the local taverns typically frequented by ships' crews and dock workers afforded him a few possible options in terms of ships heading back to the brilliant blue waters of the Caribbean. He had spent a convivial evening drinking rum with a deckhand from the H.M.S. Dauntless, one Joshamee Gibbs—a man who sported the most impressive pair of mutton-chop whiskers Jack had ever seen and, if possible, was even fonder of his rum than was Jack himself—who had offered to gain him passage on the Dauntless. But once Jack found out that the vessel belonged to the Royal Navy, he had declined, regretfully but most emphatically ...
"T'won't do, mate," Jack had told Gibbs.
"Why not?" the man had questioned. "Ye seem a likeable enough fella. I could always say yer me cousin, or some such, and get ye a place on the crew ..."
Jack didn't know what it was about the man that earned his confidence—only some gut instinct that he could be trusted. Darting a furtive look around the tavern to make sure he was not seen, Jack edged up the right sleeve of his coat and shirt ...
Gibbs had sucked in his breath at the sight of the branded "P" on Jack's arm. "May the good Lord strike me blind! Yer a pirate?" he hissed, in a whisper.
"Guilty, as charged," Jack admitted. "T'would be temptin' the very fates to put meself in the midst of a swarm of His Majesty's marines, when all it would take was a little glimpse of this to have me swingin' from a noose ..."
"Ye got that right, I reckon. And our First Mate, Lieutenant Norrington, has a right stick up his arse about pirates. Considers it his God-given duty to rid the seas of 'em. He'd have you danglin' from a yardarm faster 'n a whore lifts 'er skirts."
After a quite companionable night of drinking, during which the gregarious and quite loquacious Gibbs had charmed and entertained him with story after story, each more engaging and fantastic than the previous, Jack had left Gibbs with the offer that, should he and the Royal Navy ever part company, and Jack gain command of a ship again, he would be happy to have Gibbs serve as First Mate on his crew ...
Gibbs had been taken aback. "Me ... be a pirate?" he marvelled.
"Why not?" Jack had countered. "All things considered, compared to Naval life, it has a lot to recommend it. Likely the same amount of work, but the benefits are superior! A quite equitable share of all the swag we take, no tight-arsed military sorts to contend with on a daily basis, and all the rum you can pour down your gullet ... as rations and ship's duties allow, of course!"
Jack's reverie was interrupted by the sound of a heavy wooden crash upon the boards, followed by a voice raised in anger ...
Not twenty feet in front of him, some well-dressed toff was raising his walking stick over a smaller man crouched wretchedly on the wet planks, an overturned barrel bleeding dark wine in a spreading pool between what were apparently master and servant. The look of unrestrained fury in the taller man's eyes spurred Jack into unthinking action ....
He leapt forward, and before he knew what he was doing, he lay a restraining hand on the walking stick, preventing its downward progress. The thwarted attacker turned toward Jack, his rage redirected to the person who had had the effrontery to keep him from disciplining his servant as he saw fit.
"Now, don't be stupid, mate," Jack said, in a calm and persuasive voice. "He may be your man, but I don't think you want to be beatin' him in front of so many witnesses." Indeed, all eyes on the dock had turned to watch the confrontation. "Unless you want to be explainin' your actions to the local constable ..."
Jack felt the tension against his arm ease as the man relented, and he saw the fury in the man's face leach away, tempered and dampened by reason.
Glancing down, he also saw a rather fat purse dangling at the man's waist, like a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked ...
As the man turned, lowering the cane and dismissing his servant with a curt, "Go on ... get on with your work. And be more careful next time!" Jack turned his body to shield his actions from view, slipped his knife from his belt and, quick as can be, with practised ease, sliced through the leather cord and felt the pouch drop into his waiting palm. Sliding the knife quickly back into his belt as the man turned back in his direction, Jack swept his hat from his head with his free hand, murmuring, "Good day to you, sir. Glad to be of service," as he dropped into a low, deferential bow, surreptitiously hiding his other hand, with its ill-gotten prize, under the pleated skirts of his frock-coat.
Once the man was gone, and the onlookers turned away, Jack drew his hand out from under his coat, weighing the bulging purse in his hand. It felt like there was more than enough here to pay, not only for another night's food and lodgings in a quality establishment, but also for first-rate passage back to the Caribbean on any ship of his choosing ...
Smiling to himself, he turned and raised his eyes ...
Which were met, across the dock, by the wide dark eyes of a young girl, staring at him, pink cupid's-bow mouth agape with surprise.
Bugger! By the look on the girl's startled face, he knew that she had seen him lift the purse!
As he watched, she drew a breath, as though preparing to raise a cry. He flashed her a quick, nervous grin, then raised a finger to his lips. Please, please, don't say anything, dearie! he thought in a panic, practically feeling the iron hands of authority gripping his arms, the cold hard embrace of shackles encircling his wrists, and the phantom brush of the noose around his neck, as he desperately willed her to be silent. He threw her a wink ...
He had just a moment to register the look of astonishment on her sweet face, before he spun away and lost himself in the tide of people crowding the docks. His heart pounding in his chest, he listened for the expected cry, but, gratifyingly, it never came ...
* * * * *
Elizabeth's steps took her further along the dock, with a mind to follow the congenial cutpurse, but he had disappeared, as if by magic. As her eyes scanned the various booths and vendors lining the fringes of the docks, she noticed a large enclosed wagon, painted in gaudy colours with the words Madame Anya - Herbal Remedies - Fortunes Told emblazoned across its side. Standing off to one side, out of harness, was the sorriest, most swaybacked excuse for a horse she had ever seen, happily munching on a stray clump of muddy grass.
As she drew nearer, she saw that a set of steps had been lowered from the back door of the wagon, and upon those steps sat a woman, dark of hair and of complexion, lips rouged a deep red, eyes lined with kohl like some ancient Egyptian queen, dressed as she had never seen a woman dressed before. Her clothing and appearance reminded her vaguely of the pirate-man she had just seen on the docks.
The wide, full skirts spread out around her were rainbow-hued, her bodice a wine-coloured satin shot with brilliant threads of gold, cinched so tightly that it emphasised the almost absurd narrowness of her waist, and caused her round, full breasts to practically spill out of its top. She had a bandanna tied around her dark, tangled hair, large gold hoops piercing both earlobes, and an odd assortment of chains and strings of multicoloured beads dangling from her long neck. When she moved, the many bracelets she wore around either wrist tinkled like the peal of little silver bells. Her feet were bare, and Elizabeth noticed that she had bracelets around her ankles as well.
After a moment, the woman noticed Elizabeth staring at her. When she spoke, her voice was deep and rich like smoky velvet, and thick with a foreign accent Elizabeth had never heard before, full of rolling 'R's. "Has nobody ever told you that it is rude to stare, child?" she asked, her full lips curving in sardonic amusement.
Elizabeth politely dropped her eyes. "I'm sorry," she replied, in an awed voice. "But are you … are you a Gypsy?"
The woman smiled crookedly, displaying straight but slightly yellowed teeth. "That is what outsiders call us. But we prefer the name Romani or Rom …"
Elizabeth's manners finally kicked in, and she curtsied slightly, and said, "I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am. My name is Elizabeth Swann."
The woman's coal-black eyes reflected humour as Elizabeth rose from her curtsy. "I am Anya," she said. "What brings you here, child?"
"My father and I are travelling to Jamaica, in the Caribbean. He's been appointed Governor …"
"Governor, eh?" the Rom woman said in a sing-song voice, her dark eyes lighting up. "Your family must be rich and powerful, then."
"I—I suppose we are," Elizabeth responded, uncertainly. She had never really been overly aware of class or status before, but Elizabeth knew that, compared to others of their acquaintance, the Swanns were better off than most. "At least, my father is. I wouldn't really call myself rich, or powerful."
Anya nodded, with a crook of one dark eyebrow. "And what brings you to me, little Elizabeth? Perhaps you would like to have your fortune told, eh?"
Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Can you do that?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "I mean … can you tell me my future?"
Anya's painted lips spread in a slow smile. "I can … if you truly want to know it."
Elizabeth grinned eagerly. "Yes, please!" Then her face fell. "Oh! But I cannot pay you. I haven't any money …"
Anya smiled mysteriously. "No matter. I like you, Miss Elizabeth Swann. You are a very polite girl, and one such as I am not accustomed to people affording me such courtesy." She stood and gestured to the door behind her. "Please, come into my humble parlour …" She entered, and Elizabeth followed her into the wagon.
The inside of the wagon was dark and redolent with the smell of incense and spices. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she could see strings of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and shelves containing bottles of various shapes and sizes lining one wall. At the back of the large wagon was a curtain made up of long strings of beads, and at the centre of the room was a small table, draped in a colourful fringed shawl, with a rickety chair on either side. As Anya passed through the curtain into the alcove beyond, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a bed strewn with brightly-coloured pillows.
"What would you prefer, my dear … tea leaves, tarot, crystal ball, or shall I read your palm?" She sat down at the table, and waved Elizabeth to the other chair, opposite her.
"I—I don't know," Elizabeth stammered, confused by the array of choices. "Which would you recommend?" She sat down, arranging her skirts primly around her, and folding her hands demurely in her lap.
"That depends on what you would like to know, child." The Gypsy lit several candles, dispelling the shadowed gloom of the windowless wagon.
"I–" Elizabeth blushed slightly. There had been strange ideas that had come lately to her mind, fanciful notions that she would never have entertained a few short years ago, but now that she was approaching thirteen, and on her way to becoming a young woman, had come to dominate her thoughts … "Will I find true love?" she practically whispered the words, her blush deepening.
Anya's swarthy face broke into a knowing grin. "Ah. I should have guessed! The young girls … they always want to know about love." She held out her hand. "Come. It will be the palm, then—the left, since that is closest to your heart …"
Elizabeth tentatively held out her hand, and the Rom woman took it, cupping it palm-up in one of hers, the fingers of her other hand moving, long gypsy-dark shadows silhouetted against English-pale skin, to lightly trace the various lines and swells of Elizabeth's palm. "A delicate hand ... a virgin hand," Anya spoke softly, and Elizabeth blushed again, both at her words and at the sensation of the other woman's fingers brushing tantalisingly across the surface of her hand. The incense seemed to become stronger, filling her head, causing it to spin.
The dark finger touched Elizabeth's wrist, then ran up her palm, skirting the swell at the base of her thumb, then moving up to just below her index finger. "Your life line is strong, but broken at times. That means you will live a vigorous life and have many adventures, though not all at once, and there will be periods of traumatic change during your life, indicated by the breaks. Though here ..." Anya traced the first third of the line, "the line is yet shallow, indicating that presently, in your youth, others tend to control you; but here ..." she moved to the centre of the line, past the first break, "as you enter into your adult years, the line deepens, and you are now in control ..."
Her touch swept across her palm, just below the fleshy mounds at the base of her fingers. "Your heart line is well-defined and unbroken, child. That means you will find your true love, and your passion for him will be deep and strong." She traced another, shorter line just below her index finger, parallel to her heart line. "Here, traversing the mount of Mercury, is your love, or marriage, line. There is but a single line, which indicates one marriage. But ..." Anya frowned, "See here, where this sharp line crosses and breaks the line? There is a broken engagement, and here ... this feathering leading to a second branch, means there will be an affaire—a long and enduring one, it appears—in addition and concurrent to the marriage. And the fact that the line branches into two means your heart will ultimately be divided between two men."
Elizabeth was listening, raptly. "But who will my true love be? Can you tell?"
"Not from your palm, child, which only reveals things about you. For the rest, I will need to consult the crystal." She removed a velvet cloth from something in the centre of the table, and revealed an orb of clear glass, about the size of a small cannonball. The candle flames were reflected in its glossy surface, and seemed to dance, in inverted tongues, in the heart of the clear glass globe. Anya passed her hands over the crystal, closed her eyes and chanted a few unintelligible words in a foreign tongue, then opened her dark eyes to peer into its depths.
"The man you were born to love ... I see him rising out of the sea. He is surrounded by water, this creature of smoke and flame and passion, and he holds your life in his hands, and you his. He is all darkness—his hair, his eyes, and I see a dark flag fluttering behind him … a black flag with a white skull …"
Elizabeth's eyes grew large. "A pirate?" she whispered.
Anya nodded her head. "Ye-sss," she hissed, "A pirate. He will steal your heart, a treasure more precious to him than silver or gold. And you will gladly offer him that jewel beyond price, which a woman can give only once, and forever. And you will find paradise in his strong arms."
Elizabeth felt a small thrill go through her diminutive body. Though she didn't understand the meaning of all of Anya's cryptic words, one thing stood out sharply, bringing a radiant smile to her face. A pirate! Her true love was going to be a pirate! How wonderful! How perfect!
"But the path to love will not be easy. Though his love for you burns strong, at heart, he feels unworthy of the love you carry for him. There will be hardship, and sorrow, and betrayal, and great loss, before you are reunited and can consummate your love." Elizabeth was not sure what consummate meant, but got the impression it was something to be greatly desired.
"Who is this person? The one I am meant to be with?" Elizabeth pressed, her shining eyes as big as saucers in her pale, unlined face. "Is there a name? A place? When will I meet him?"
Anya shook her head, her eyes rising, to meet Elizabeth's, almost pityingly. "The glass has gone dark. Alas, it has no further answers."
"Elizabeth!" a voice called somewhere out on the docks, and Elizabeth started, guiltily. "Oh! It's my father! I have to go!"
"Wait!" Anya said, rising from her chair, and went back through the beaded curtain. "The glass has shown me one last thing. I have something that will help you to know your true love, when you find him …"
"Please, hurry!" Elizabeth jumped to her feet, turning toward the door. "I really have to go! My father will be angry, if he finds me here ..."
Then she heard the curtain swish again, and Anya was back, holding something out to her, something that glinted metallically in the candlelight. "Here. Take this, and keep it with you always. It will lead you to your true love …"
"Thank you!" Elizabeth took it, hurriedly, and bolted out the door. As she bustled down the steps, she reached to slip the object into the pocket of her dress. She didn't notice, however, when it missed her pocket, and fell into the mud ...
Luckily, her father was still facing in the opposite direction, and didn't see her come out of the Gypsy's wagon. When she judged she was a safe distance from the wagon, so he wouldn't be able to tell that was the direction from whence she came, she called out, "Father! Here I am!"
Weatherby Swann spun around with panicked eyes, which melted with relief as they alit on his errant daughter. "Elizabeth! Thank God!" She ran to him, and he swept her into his arms. "We're getting ready to sail, and I didn't know where you had gotten to! I was afraid …" He choked off as he encompassed her in a vigorous embrace, so crushingly hard she could barely breathe ...
Once he released her, he rose and started waving in the general direction of the Dauntless. "Lieutenant! I've found her!"
They were shortly joined by a tall young man in naval officer's attire, deep blue coat adorned with cream-coloured trim and gold braid and rows of gleaming brass buttons, his dark brown hair—which was, actually, a wig—drawn back in a neat queue. "Ah! So there she is!" he said in a low, mellifluous upper-class voice. "You've caused your father no little concern, young lady!" He gave a deferential smile to Governor Swann. "I'll inform my men that the search has been called off, and our elusive quarry found."
"Elizabeth, this is Lieutenant Norrington. He's First Mate of the Dauntless, and we'll be sailing with him to Port Royal."
Elizabeth flushed slightly, embarrassed at having put so many people out on her account. "I'm sorry, Father. I thought I saw a pirate, so I followed him …" she only half-fibbed.
He shook his head. "This obsession you have with pirates, Elizabeth. It'll yet be the death of you—or me ... mark my words!"
At the mention of pirates, Norrington's eyes sharpened, and he added, his voice becoming firm, "Your father is quite right, miss. A port is nowhere for a young girl to go wandering off alone. There are any number of ruffians, thieves, gypsies, and other blackguards who would have no compunction about doing harm to a young lady, regardless of her age, or station."
Her father dropped to one knee and embraced her again, then took her cape-draped shoulders in a firm, almost painful grip, shaking her slightly. "Promise me you won't go running off again!"
"I won't, Father."
"Good. Now, let's get on board. It's time for us to head out on our journey, my girl." He rose and took her hand, leading her toward the Dauntless, as James Norrington followed, ready to take them to their new home over the sea …
* * * * *
Outside the Gypsy's wagon, a booted toe nudged the shiny little object half-buried in the mud.
Captain Jack Sparrow crouched down, his grimy fingers getting a shade filthier as he dug the trinket out of the dirt. Wiping it on his dark breeches, he held it before his eyes.
It was a filigreed ring of chased silver, engraved with the image of a bird—possibly a sparrow, if he was not mistaken—in flight.
"Oh!" he said, then looked after the girl who appeared to have dropped it—the same girl who had failed to raise the cry against him, earlier. For the briefest moment he entertained the idea of going after her, and returning the bauble to her. But when he saw the officious old bird who was, apparently, her father, and the man in blue naval officer's uniform standing beside him, he thought better of it. No use risking his own neck and freedom because some little chit of a rich girl was careless with her valuables …
"Oh, well … finders keepers, I always say!" he said to himself, and slipped the ring onto one of his as-yet bare fingers. He held his hand out, and watched the rising sun glint off the little image of the sparrow. He smiled to himself. Quite nice, indeed! As if it were meant for me ...
He heard the door to the wagon open, and glanced up to see a very beautiful and buxom woman framed in its doorway, looking down at him, smiling most charmingly with a definite come-hither look in her dark, kohl-enhanced eyes.
"Care to have your fortune told?" she asked him, in a sultry siren's voice, her heavy exotic accent teasing his ears most alluringly.
His rolling, hip-swaying gait took him to the bottom of the steps, and he grinned up at her as his sable eyes swept over her amply-endowed figure. "Sorry, luv. These days I'm takin' life as it comes, no definite plans, no thought for the future. However …" he climbed the steps, and took her hand, raising it to his lips, palm-up, and placed a kiss in its centre, his tongue darting out to lightly and wetly trace her lifeline as his smouldering dark eyes remained riveted on hers. He watched as her eyes closed, sensually, her rouged lips parting ever so slightly at the feel of his mouth against her palm, "I reckon I can predict where you and I will be, and what we'll be doin', five minutes from now …" He slipped one arm around her waist, pulling her against him, his cheek brushing hers with a deliberate and calculated intimacy as he leaned to whisper something into her ear, his moustache tickling as his hot breath stirred the stray tendrils of hair at her temple.
She laughed throatily, provocatively, as she drew him into the wagon, and shut the door behind them …
* * * * *
Elizabeth leaned against the rail of the Dauntless, still stinging from the triple rebuke she had just received ... first, from Mister Gibbs, the deckhand, for singing her pirate song ... then from Lieutenant Norrington regarding her desire to meet a pirate ... and, finally, from her father, for her childish obsession with pirates.
I still think it would be exciting to meet a pirate! she thought, sulkily, gazing off into the curtain of fog that swathed the Dauntless and the sea around her in its gauzy grey folds.
She looked down as something caught her eye ... a lady's parasol, inverted and bobbing on the surface of the water. What a peculiar thing, to find floating here, in the middle of nowhere, reflected Elizabeth as, with a tiny smile, her eyes followed the parasol's progress as the ship drew abreast of it, the waves stirred up by her hull splashing up and over its brim ...
And then something else floated into her line of vision, just out of the corner of her eye, and she turned her head to the left to see what it was ... a piece of planking, upon which was sprawled the figure of a young boy about Elizabeth's age ...
Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned to cry out, "Look! A boy! There's a boy in the water!"
Drawn by her cry, Lieutenant Norrington and her father rushed the rail, peering down into the sea.
"Man overboard!" Norrington called out, spurring his men to action to rescue the boy. "Man the rope! Fetch a hook—haul him aboard!"
Before long, they had the boy out of the water, and laid out on the deck of the Dauntless. Elizabeth sidled closer, trying to get a look at the boy between the crewmembers that surrounded him. She caught a glimpse of him, lying so still against the dark boards of the deck. Please, don't let him be dead ... she thought to herself.
Norrington was bending over him, looking for signs of life. "He's still breathing!" he said, and Elizabeth let out her own held breath in a sigh of relief.
Then Gibbs' voice came to them, cutting through the silence, his tone bespeaking horror and awe. "Mary, Mother of God ... !"
They all turned, and followed Gibbs' gaze out to sea ...
To see the burning wreckage of a ship, flame and smoke rising from the remains of her blasted hull. A tattered British flag floated in the water, not far away. Debris and bodies littered the sea all around the Dauntless.
A hush descended upon the crew, and several sailors crossed themselves, their lips moving in silent prayer for the souls of the ship's dead crew and passengers.
There are more words exchanged, but Elizabeth is oblivious to it all, the voices fading into an incomprehensible buzz in her ears as she looks out with huge, horrified eyes at the grisly sight off the Dauntless' port side. A word, spoken by Mister Gibbs, breaks through her consciousness ... "Pirates ..." Then, there is nothing more, until something brushes against her shoulder, and it's her father, and she's now staring down at the boy lying on the deck ... his face unnaturally pale below the sodden shock of dark hair plastered across his forehead ...
"Elizabeth," her father was saying, gently but firmly, "I want you to accompany the boy. He'll be in your charge." His face softened. "Take care of him?"
Elizabeth nodded her acquiescence, gravely, watching as they carried the boy and lay him down atop a raised skylight in the centre of the main deck. Once alone with her charge, Elizabeth moved forward, standing over him. Staring down at him, it finally strikes her that he is quite handsome, even half-drowned and dishevelled as he is.
She reached forth with one pallid hand, gently brushing the hair from his forehead ...
And the boy's eyes snapped open with a pained gasp, as his right hand lashed out and grabbed her wrist, eliciting a startled gasp from her as well. His eyes ... dark, brown, she noted ... fixed on her with a wild look of panic. And she hears the Gypsy's voice in her head, "He is all darkness ... his hair ... his eyes ... "
Her eyes widened. Is this him, then? He, of whom the Gypsy spoke?
My true love?
"It's okay." She took the boy's hand in hers, and held it. "My name's Elizabeth Swann," she said, in a calm voice.
The boy gazed at her in momentary confusion, still gasping for breath, then replied, clearly and distinctly, "W—Will Turner."
Elizabeth smiled gently at him, as she said, soothingly, "I'm watching over you, Will."
This seemed to put him at ease, and he closed his eyes and fell back to the deck, slipping again into unconsciousness.
A glint of gold at his open collar caught Elizabeth's eye, and she reached her finger behind the chain, pulling it, and what it held, free of his shirt.
It was a medallion or coin, made of gold that gleamed brightly even in the dim sunlight that barely penetrated the smoke and haze surrounding them.
As she flipped the pendant over, she saw an embossed skull grinning up at her. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at Will with wide eyes and whispered, "You're a pirate!"
Lieutenant Norrington's voice came from behind her, startling her. "Has he said anything?" She gasped and spun round, the chain breaking free from Will's neck as she hid the medallion behind her back.
"His name is William Turner," she replied as her heart beat wildly in her small chest. "That's all I found out."
Norrington turned to his men, "Take him below." Several blue-coated soldiers wearing white wigs stepped forward to carry out his orders, gathering up the unconscious boy and taking him belowdecks.
Once alone on the Dauntless' stern, she examined the coin again ... at the grinning skull gazing back at her. She held it up against the backdrop of sea fog. There was a flicker of movement beyond the coin, and she refocused her eyes to see a dark silhouette appear in the centre of the fogbank. As she watched, a ship emerged ... a black ship with tattered black sails, slipping silently from its grey shroud of fog like a ghost. At the top of her mizzenmast fluttered a flag ... a black flag sporting a white skull and crossed swords.
Elizabeth's eyes widened. It was a pirate ship! Even as she watched, the black ship turned and vanished again into the thick fog ...
She thought again of the Gypsy's words ... her love would be a pirate ... and here was a pirate ship! And he had worn a pirate medallion round his neck!
She suddenly remembered that the Rom woman had given her something ... something she said would help her know her true love when she found him. What had it been? She had slipped it into her pocket without ever looking at it ...
She dipped her hand into her dress pocket ...
... but found nothing! Whatever the Gypsy had given her, wasn't there!
Had she lost it? Had it fallen out of her pocket in her cabin, when she took her dress off for the night? She'd have to search for it ... see if she could find it.
But, deep down, she knew this must be the man—well, the boy who would become the man—the Gypsy spoke about. The one she was destined to be with. It could be no other! He so perfectly fit the description she gave ... Except he had not saved her life, she had saved him ... but one tiny error could be forgiven, she supposed ... if all the rest was right.
She slipped the medallion in her pocket. No-one else must know about it ... know that the boy they pulled from the water was a pirate. She would hide the medallion, keep it safe, even as she resolved to keep the boy safe. She thought of what Lieutenant Norrington had said ... that all pirates deserved to be hanged. She didn't want that happening to this boy ... not to this Will Turner.
Because he was the one she was going to marry, when she grew up.
He was her true love. And she wouldn't let anything happen to him.
Not now. Not ever ...