Atop the battlements at night the world is reduced to simple components: dark waters and starry skies and two young naval officers caught up in an unusual uneasy silence.
And then, one speaks. "You don't believe those stories, do you?" he murmurs, "The ones that Gibbs was telling tonight?"
"Of Davy Jones? The Flying Dutchman?" says his companion.
Gilette nods. "You know I don't typically put any store in tall tales, but there's something that rings true with this. It's discomforting."
"Oh," he breathes. "Well, there's something true at the base of every legend. If you're asking if I believe that Davy Jones sails the seven seas collecting the souls of perished sailors – of course not, that's ludicrous. But if you ask if I believe that love can unmake a man…" and he sighs, trails off into silence once more, collects his thoughts. "Sometimes it's impossible," he adds, in a voice barely more than a whisper. "Sometimes all you love is what you can't have. Not the sea. Not a woman. Someone something else." He's said too much; he turns away from the other, stares resolutely out at the blackness of the sea.
Gilette feels his breath catch in his lungs and it takes a moment before he can speak. "James," he finally breathes, reaching out with one trembling hand. But he doesn't quite dare to touch. The only response is silence.