It had been nearly a full day since the Dauntless was claimed by the ocean, which was a result of Norrington's own stubborn pride. There was no sign of any of his crew members, and for hours James paced the beach on which he had washed up hoping for any sign of life that some of them survived. All that he found were pieces of painted wood and what appeared to be the door to his cabin.

When the realization hit James that he was probably one of the only survivors of the hurricane, he felt an enormous wave of guilt wash over him.

I had condemned all of those men to death, he inwardly cried as he sat along the beach and stared off towards the ocean, knowing that his men died out there. I sacrificed them for one pirate that I allowed to get the better of me.

James knew what was now required of him, not just as a Commodore of the Royal Navy, but as a human being. He had to admit defeat; he owed that to his late crew and also to the man that believed in him enough to name him Commodore.

Wandering along the beach for what seemed to be hours, also still sore from being jostled by the ocean, James came to a small town, which happened to have several ships docked in the harbor. A small harbor meant there was bound to be a postmaster's office.

Before the Dauntless had sank, James knew that he was somewhere near Tripoli, where exactly he was now was a complete mystery since he was unsure how far he had been carried before finally washing ashore.

This town was not nearly as large as James was used to in Port Royal, the buildings were not nearly as nice as back home. Some of the poorer areas of this town, especially on the edge of town, the home had thatched roofs.

While looking for a postmaster's office James was amazed by the different languages he heard, though having no knowledge of what was being said. However, as he passed through what appeared to be the main marketplace he noticed that people were stopping and watching him pass by. He knew he stood out quite a bit from the locals, but his attire was also something to turn heads.

James noted his appearance as he passed by a storefront and saw his reflection in the window, his blue coat stained and stiff from the salt of the ocean and small rips in his waistcoat along with his shirt. The tight curls of his powdered wig seemed much looser and the ribbon in his hair frayed at the ends.

There was no way he would be able to pass inspection with his uniform in its current state, then again he wouldn't need to worry about that for much longer.

Letting out a heavy sigh, James finally found the small postmaster's office and entered it. The office itself was tiny and poorly lit; the only real source of light was the large window in the front of the office. A long counter ran along the width of the room, and small cubby boxes for the post hung against the wall.

A short, older gentleman walked out from a back room dressed in fine clothing, and James discerned that this man was clearly well off in this town. The addition of the postmaster made James feel that the room was far too small for more than two people to move around easily.

"Can I help you, sir?" the postmaster asked, carefully eyeing James. It wasn't every day that he had a man walk in his office wearing the uniform of an officer of the British Royal Navy.

"I need to send a letter to Port Royal," James said pressing his lips together, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. "I will be requiring paper and a quill as well, if you don't mind."

The postmaster began rummaging through several drawers under the counter; it took several attempts to find what James had requested. "It will take some time to have it delivered, sir."

"I understand, I'm just concerned that it makes it there."

"Of course." The postmaster set several sheets of paper down in front of James along with a quill, which James accepted with an appreciative bow of his head.

James tried to steady his shaking hands as he attempted to write out his letter of resignation to Governor Swann, he couldn't figure out whether his hands were trembling from what he had to write or whether he was still in shock. It didn't really matter now; it wasn't going to get any better anytime soon, for he was giving up the life that he knew.

James explained in his letter what had happened with the hurricane and how he felt undeserving of the title of Commodore, and after rereading his words several times, he was at least satisfied with his explanation.

He sealed the letter and handed it to the postmaster. "I'll also need this sent along with it," James added, removing his sword, which had miraculously managed to stay with him throughout the hurricane. "I'll no longer be in need of it."

The postmaster could tell see how hard it was for James to hand over his sword, his lips turned downward in a deep frown as he ran his fingers along the gold filigree in the handle."It's a beautiful sword," the older gentleman complimented, his eyes glistening excitedly as he accepted the sword. "How can you part with something so beautiful?"

Taking a deep breath, James had to force all his emotions deep down, he couldn't afford his feelings to get the best of him. "You can let it go if you find yourself unworthy to be touched by its beauty."

A deafening silence fell over the tiny postmaster's office and without another word James turned and walked out of the office, the fresh air was refreshing compared to the staleness of the postmaster's office.

With his life as a member of the Royal Navy behind him, James began wandering around town, it was no surprise that he found his way down to the harbor; the sea beckoned James to it like they were connected.

"Might as well try to make myself useful," he muttered quietly to himself, shaking his head, realizing he would still need to find a way to support himself financially, as well as pass the rest of his life.

So stumbling from ship to ship, not that there were all that many docked in this small town, speaking to captains hoping someone would be in need of his services.

However, soon news of the Dauntless's sinking would be known by everyone, and James would be the one they all blamed. He would have the blood of those who were claimed by the sea on his hands, and not to mention it made the third time Sparrow slipped through his fingers. James was sure to be a wanted man with a heavy price on his head.

"Do you have a name?" one captain asked, noting James's uniform carefully.

"Smith," he lied quickly, knowing better than to use his real name. "James Smith."

"Welcome aboard the Lisburne Trader, Mister Smith." The captain hoped he hadn't made a foolish mistake that would lead to problems with the Royal Navy; after all he already had his hands full of tax issues with the East India Trading Company.

Grateful for the job, James gave a quick smile and bow of the head before making his way up the gangplank with the rest of the crew, anxious to start busying himself with work. If he could keep busy maybe it would occupy his mind just enough.

But later that night, James again found himself bolting up from a dead sleep like he had the night before, grasping his chest and panting in an effort to inhale as much air into his lungs. His chest felt like a tight knot had formed and continued tightening around every muscle in his body ached.

"Shut it!" a voice yelled from somewhere in the darkness, clearly annoyed at James's nightmare.

Running a hand through his tangled, sweat drenched hair James quietly muttered an apology under his breath, knowing that whoever yelled wouldn't hear it or even care if he said anything or not. Luckily, James was also on the bottom hammock so he swung his legs over the edge, burying his face in his hands.

"You look like you could use some." Confused, James looked up and saw a young man he had seen earlier on deck standing in front of him, a bottle of a dirty brown liquid in hand, clearly offering it contents to James.

"I beg your pardon?" James asked, taken aback by this stranger's random act of kindness.

"You look like you could use a drink of rum, especially after all that moaning and groaning."

"Rum?" James questioned him, lifting an eyebrow.

Thrusting the bottle into James's hands, the young man gave him a quick nod. "It'll help, trust me," he assured James before taking a seat on the hammock besides James's.

James hesitated for a second; he had always considered rum to be a vile drink, the drink of choice among pirates. When he pressed the bottle to his lips and allowed the liquid to run down his throat, James couldn't help but cringe at how it burned as it went down.

After the initial burn of the rum subsided, James was surprised how much it seemed to help. Some of the jagged edges of his heart softened, the intense guilt of what he had done to his crew, and many friends, didn't seem as strong.

Perhaps if I can't forget the memories, James thought to himself. I'll be able to make them disappear for a while.

"Helps, don't it?" the man asked curiously, a small smile tugging at the corner of him lips.

Taking another long drink from the bottle, James let out a heavy sigh. "So it would seem."

…

The waves crashed along the beach, and Alex barely had moved from where she had washed up on the shore of Port Royal yesterday. Her eyes fixed on the horizon as the sun slowly crept up over the ocean, the sky painted in different shades of orange and red.

She spent so much time yesterday watching the East India Trading Company take control of her ship, her mind conjuring up images of what might be happening on board, each shot fired in the distance caused her to jump a little.

But now there was little she could do. Alex knew she couldn't just walk up to Fort Charles and break her crew out of the jail; she wasn't even sure how much of her crew was still alive. Also, she couldn't stop thinking about Aaron and the promise she'd made.

He had wanted to make sure she survived, that she would continue on.

If she tried anything she would have thrown everything that he had done and risked to the wind. Alex also realized that if she stayed on this beach any longer someone would come across her, leading to speculation as to why a woman was washed up on the beach following the capture of a notorious pirate ship.

Slowly, Alex got up off of the ground, brushing the sand off of her breeches she glanced around to get a better feeling for her surroundings. There was a small stone pathway that led up to town, Alex threw her sword and her captain's hat bitterly into the brush that was starting to overtake the path leaving herself armed with a small knife safely tucked into a deep pocket of her coat.

The narrow dirt streets of Port Royal were quickly filling with merchants maneuvering their carts around people and the small wooden stands selling fruit and other miscellaneous goods. Shop keepers were busy opening their stores for business by shaking out dusty floor mats and unlatching the woo0den shutters that protected their windows from thieves.

There was a low, rumbling in the pit of Alex's stomach, so as she passed by one of the street vendors she grabbed a piece of fruit from one of the counters, along with a small velvet pouch of coins that its owner was not keeping a closer eye on, a gutsy move considering at the same time a small group of about four members of the British Royal Navy made their way down the street, no doubted making their way to the fort. Their uniforms neat and wrinkle free, not a hair was out of place.

Alex was quickly scanning the signs on every building she passed, not one of them was what she was looking for. All of the inns she passed seemed far too nice for what she needed, and that was a place to hide.

There was no way she would want to risk being recognized by anyone, granted many of the people that would be able to identify her were in no physical condition to do so.

It wasn't until she was on the edge of town that Alex came upon a small inn that the unsuspecting traveler would have walked by without a second glance, the perfect place as far as Alex was concerned. All she needed was a place to lay low for a while before jumping ship for Tortuga.

"Excuse me," Alex called out as she walked in the empty inn, she could hear people shuffling around in other rooms, but she decided against going and looking for whoever was here. "Is anyone here?"

No one answered; instead there was a loud crash from an adjoining room. Alarmed, Alex decided to investigate.

There in a tiny, poorly lit kitchen an older woman was kneeling on the ground surrounded by broken dishes. Alex knelt down and began picking up broken pieces of China off the floor and placed them in a white linen towel on the counter.

"Are you alright?" Alex asked the older woman.

The older woman looked up at Alex through thick glasses, silver curls falling over her face. "Do you have a name, dear?" she asked, kindly.

"Yes." Alex shook her head. "Are you alright, though?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she laughed, throwing some pieces of china in a large bowl on a counter. "What can I do for you, dear?"

Getting up off the ground, Alex followed the woman's lead and discarded her own collection of china in the bowl. "I'm trying to find a place to stay until I can find passage out of Port Royal, though I don't have much with me."

"Well, I think we can help with your lodging. If I may be so bold, you do appear that you've seen a fair bit of action lately."

Alex squirmed under this woman's scrutiny. "That's true, my ship was attacked not far off the coast and next thing I knew I was lying up on the beach," the lie easily slipped off Alex's tongue. "Which would also mean I have very little as far as payment goes."

The older woman waved her hand carelessly in front of her. "That's fine, you can help me here. As you've seen I'm not as able bodied as I used to be."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Unlike her brother, Alex prided herself in her ability to easily slip in and out of society when needed. Jack would often tease Alex about how she should have been a fine woman in society rather than end up a pirate; sadly Alex had to agree with him.

"Don't call me ma'am, makes me feel old. Please call me Angie or Miss Thatcher, I respond to either one." Angie's big blue eyes shined brighter as she stared at Alex. "Now, what do you go by?"

Another lie easily fell out of Alex's mouth. "Alexandra," she began, "Alexandra Smith."

A/N:

Thanks for everyone that has reviewed and given this story a chance! That goes double for my fantastic beta Amani Ishikawa, author of the story Mirror, Mirror.

Sorry this chapter has taken so long to get done and posted, hopefully I haven't lost anyone because of the wait. Clearly we both have James and Alex hiding from what they truly are, granted James seems to be taking the sinking of Dauntless incredibly hard and Alex isn't doing as bad, that's not going to be the case. She will be showing the effects of her losing her crew soon, and taking it out on two individuals soon enough. Please drop me a message.