A/N This is a blanket disclaimer for the entire story. Everything written here that you recognize as being from the Pirates of the Caribbean Trilogy (although this story occurs after Curse of the Black Pearl) belongs to Disney. Any songs or other borrowed informations will be cited at the end of the chapter in which they appear. Again, this disclaimer is applied to the whole story. Only original characters and plot line belong to me.

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What if you were in as much pain as I was? If you had needed me as much as I then needed you? What sort of lives would we have led, sort of people could we have become? If you had turned around, just once, and seen the tears filling my eyes, tears that have never been cried again.

Would it have made a difference if I had told you the truth: that I couldn't imagine a life without you? I suppose we'll never know. But what if we could? What if I could turn back the time, relive those moments. Would I do things differently, or would I still be too afraid? But too many years have gone by, and our souls are too many thousands of ages older. And, at this point, I guess the things that were never said never really mattered.

Life in Tortuga has always been somewhat, well, entirely, chaotic, but at least it's a familiar sort of chaos. Anything out of the ordinary spreads quickly, at least in the circles I move in. Which are a little out of the ordinary themselves, to tell the truth.

Out of all the women making a living in this disgusting port, there are very few of us who can make a claim to some other career besides that of prostitute or barmaid. Almost all of those would be jeered at by stiff intellectuals - including my own profession. Words like black magic, fortune telling, and curses are hobbies and idle interests for high society women with nothing more than a few children and some servants to occupy their time; to me, they're the food on my table and the clothes on my back.

I can recall a time when I, too, was enthralled by the forbidden subjects, bribing slaves to show me what voodoo they knew, anything that my parents had forbidden. Later, the very things I had hidden from the world would become my specialties and my only claim to an independent life.

My life is usually fairly quiet and, for the most part, routine. The apartment where I base my business is above a small shop where a "witch" runs her small potions trade. When I first moved in, I assured myself that the poor woman was completely harmless. A practicing witch too close by could cause difficulties for us both, and I had, and still have, no desire to incur the wrath of a truly powerful one upon my own person. My job makes you careful of things like that.

I could spend months at a time on one client, one case, never leaving my rooms except to buy food to sustain myself for the next week or so. My work is ninety-seven percent research, one percent talent, one percent determination, and one percent luck. Actually, one could say that the talent could fall under luck as well, because how one really develops any sort of talent in my field is a mystery.

There is, however, the occasional odd case where my presence is required on the scene, sometimes in a preventive manner, usually because the issue is of a more delicate nature and needs immediate attention.

I was awoken at the unthinkable hour of three in the afternoon on a Sunday by the old hag downstairs, for just such a request. A man, a captain, had been enquiring all over town as to where he could find someone in my line of work - but not just anyone. No, he wanted the best and was willing to pay whatever price it might require. The general consensus, it seemed, had pointed to me.

A girl can't resist that sort of flattery lightly, so I hauled myself out of bed (cursing the hangover I happened to be nursing), pulled on some clothes, and headed to the pub where I usually conduct my business transactions. With the sensitivity of my work, and the usual nuttiness of my clientele, I do my best to keep all my customers in the dark as to my personal life, and they are usually happy to oblige. A person does not often proclaim to the world that he is in need of services such as mine, not if he wants to make a living. Especially if he happens to be a sailor.

The first thing I noticed upon entering "my pub" was the unusual flurry of the bargirls. Normally, they would be exhausted from their night jobs; a barmaid's salary was scarcely enough to get by and prostitution was a popular substitute. Today, however, it seemed like the clock had jumped forward to night and they were ready to perform.

I, too soon, found the reason for their excitement.

Turning to one of the older girls, Gabriella, I asked what could be so exciting on a Sunday afternoon, knowing that Saturday was one of their busiest nights. The answer floored me. The infamous Jack Sparrow was sitting in the back, drinking rum, and behaving in a halfway civilized manner. No wonder they were shocked.

Of course, I had heard of Captain Sparrow; there are very few people in Tortuga who haven't. However, I had never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, nor any desire of doing so until I met him in hell. But his presence was too much of a coincidence to be overlooked. Not many people can pay what I demand, and word of that gets around. To meet me, the money has to be assured, and potential customers are aware of that. Honestly, they're afraid to do otherwise.

Following that train of thought, it was reasonable to suspect that the Captain could very likely be my next customer, so I felt it necessary to join him at his table and ask him ever so politely to buy me a drink.

I couldn't know, at the moment, how much I was going to need that drink.

At every first meeting, sometimes for all, I wear a large cloak that conceals my face from view. Until I have checked out a client, I remain anonymous to him, using only the code name that I have been known by for the past ten years and shielding my image in shadow.

Therefore, it was I who got the first shock, upon seeing the man sitting before me. A man I hadn't seen since I was fifteen, when he left me in the Caribbean and never looked back.

Clearing my throat softly, I said, "Captain Sparrow, I think you had better buy me a drink."

Dark eyes, burned into my memory, squinted to see into the darkness of my hood, somehow meeting my own.

"You're Aradia?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You could say that," I murmured, holding his eyes with my own, wondering what I should do. After a moment that seemed to take forever, I made up my mind and lowered my hood.

I had never seen those eyes looked so astonished.

"Arabella?"

"Jackson."

Grimacing a little, I added, "I think now might be a good time for that drink, Captain."

"Torn" - Natalie Imbruglia

I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm, he came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry
Well you couldn't be that man I adored
You don't seem to know, don't seem to care what your heart is for
But I don't know him anymore
There's nothing where he used to lie
My conversation has run dry
That's what's going on, nothings fine I'm torn
So I guess the fortune tellers right
Should have seen just what was there and not some holy light
To crawl beneath my veins and now
I don't care, I have no luck, I don't miss it all that much
There's just so many things that I cant touch, I'm torn

I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed into something real
I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel
I'm cold and I'm ashamed bound and broken on the floor
You're a little late, I'm already torn