Chapter 2

Captain Barbossa slept like the dead. He didn't remember even dreaming the night before. He slept almost until dusk of the next night, blissfully uninterrupted. Even he had to concede- sometimes one just needed a good rest ashore.

When he rose, he groaned, limbs stiff from a lack of movement for twenty-three hours. He realized that somewhere along the line of his slumber, his sea legs had faded into the background; the physical illusion of roiling earth beneath his feet was gone. Stretching with a growling moan, he shook himself about a bit. His hand flew to the top of his head, suddenly. There was a distinct weight missing. Where was his hat? He didn't remember taking it off. Making a face, Barbossa looked around. It wasn't on the cot. It wasn't beside the cot. It wasn't under the cot. It was nowhere to be seen.

On the alert, the captain grabbed his pistol. Typically he liked to engage in swordplay with his foes, but he was still only half-awake and just not in the mood. He loaded a shot from the ammunition he kept on him at all times, and stalked out of the room. Someone had the audacity to steal from him? Well, he was going to have to buy them a drink before he taught them a lesson.

So it was to his great surprise that he nearly walked straight into another person who had, apparently, been gearing up to enter his room. He looked down his nose. Huge, frightened gray eyes stared back at him, and thin lips trembled beneath those.

Just a woman. He sighed. He was about to shove past her, until he noticed something.

Said woman was holding his hat.

"Wench, what are ye doin' with me hat?!" He roared, taking a step forward and snatching it back from her. She let it pass from her hands, and once the initial fright wore off of almost walking into the broad chest of a fearsome pirate wielding a loaded flintlock pistol, she relaxed a bit. She was quite used to this.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Captain. But I noticed, when ye got here, that t'was rather tattered, so I took it upon meself to fix it up a bit. I intended to return it before ye awoke." She inclined her head in apology.

Slightly taken aback, Barbossa blinked and looked at the object he held. Indeed, it had returned in far better condition than it had left in. The frayed edges were patched, and the ruined feathers, nearly bare from such harrowing speeds and throwback winds, had been painstakingly replaced. All in all, the hat looked like it was brand new. Barbossa supposed that extended its lifetime, as he had a certain fondness for said accessory, but at the same time, it had lost some of its allure. The apparent seamstress seemed to read his thoughts.

"T'will regain that salty charm before ye know it, Captain." She turned on her heel to leave, but he caught her by the shoulder and whirled her around, looming over her.

"Thankin' ye kindly, miss, but don't ever be raidin' the rooms of a sleeping pirate again. There are foul things in store for ye if ye do." He menaced.

She nodded, the crushing hand on her shoulder loosening suddenly, and she took the opportunity to disappear down the thin-walled hall. He watched her go, a thought rolling around in his mind. Her story didn't seem to hold up by any means. Of course, she had repaired his hat- that was a given. But there wasn't a soul on Tortuga with that much selflessness to spare. No man, woman, or child could say they had done more than one saintly deed for anyone, even family, in their lives. At least, not when it didn't involve some sort of compensation. From what he could see, there had been none for her. So what, then, was the storm-eyed seamstress's motive for her benevolent act?

Against his own intuition screaming at him to forget about it, he was intrigued. Barbossa turned back towards his room with a shrug, to inspect his shore stash of gold and other personal effects that he had possessed the night before.

The Horse's Mouth was one of the larger inns on Tortuga, and as such, had its own tavern in the main room. This was where the captain found himself that evening, pleasantly alone with his thoughts and his ale. A lantern flickered above him, where it hung from a cross beam, as he took the time to scan a map for the subject of his next ocean excursion. He wasn't concerned about anyone else getting any ideas. There were perhaps three other sailors in the tavern besides him, all playing cards on the other side of the room, and anyway, it was just a simple, regular map of the charted islands. It wasn't as though he was in possession of a magical instrument or mystics chart (well, he was- he had several, in fact- but they weren't with him at the time, and weren't in the forefront of his mind).

He lacked a compass and sextant at that moment, as the map had been an afterthought- something he always trusted to pass the time when without favorable company- and so settled to tracing possible routes and locations with his fingers, idly committing the ones that seemed most likely to heart. It was during this time that he caught someone's eye, and abruptly found another tankard of alcohol in front of him, vaguely aware that he had already drained his previous one. He glanced up in surprise.

"I trust the hat be treatin' ye well, Captain?" The same seamstress from before- who, apparently, wasn't a seamstress by trade at all- smiled at him. Internally, he raised a brow, but his face was passive. Was he being stalked? Well, if he was, it wasn't an unpleasant experience. Barbossa let a slow smirk settle on his face.

"Aye, that it is, miss. She sits true and proud atop my head. As the ale does, though a bit lower." He leaned back and took a long drink from the fresh tankard to illustrate his point, the feathers of his hat dancing in the small breeze the motion made. She nodded in satisfaction.

"'S good, isn't it?"

"What?"

"The ale." It was an odd bit of small conversation. His shoulders rose and fell with his disaffection.

"All drink is good, miss, when you've been at sea for so long." He replied, trying to be done with her. However, such a simple statement caused a reaction he did not intend.

In the soft glow of the lantern, he watched the woman's eyes light up at the mention of the sea. He knew that look well, from both male and female. Knew it in his own reflection, in fact. It was the call, as unheeded as hers was. It was always bittersweet when someone who longed for the waves was chained to the shore, but he supposed it was for the better. The fewer women on board ships, the better (though he could personally say he had no superstitious fear of them taking to the ocean, as it was).

The woman had been drying a tankard with a rag, but upon hearing this, she set it down on the rough wooden table and pulled out a chair, settling herself across from him. Propping her head on one hand, she looked at him dreamily. Barbossa had a brief moment of raised hackles, having had enough obnoxious whores follow him around for one stay on Tortuga.

"Do ye not drink at sea, Captain?" Her words were filled with wonder. His defenses dropped as his intrigue came rushing back. Here was a tavern wench whom he knew nothing about, who repaired his hat and gave him alcohol of her own free will, with murky motives, indeed. She was drawn to the sea, but sat stagnant on shore. And he felt no urge to have her. Out of his comfortable solitude he came, and Barbossa discovered he had put himself in the mood for story-telling. She was, at least, willing to listen. And maybe even to believe. Many could not even do him that much of a service anymore. Then again, he strangely didn't blame them. If he hadn't lived his stories, he wouldn't have believed them, either.

"I do, miss, but I cannot be drunk. 'S the rule of many a captain since Bartholomew." He wasn't inclined to mention that he kept alcohol on him- or, rather, under him- at all times, those days. He didn't miss the sudden harshness that entered her eyes at his words, but her expression remained one of interest.

"What's it like, Captain, to be a pirate?" The other hand came up beneath her chin, and she leaned forward, intent.

Barbossa could not restrain the bellow of laughter at this question, evoking a confused frown from his company. He laughed so hard tears almost came to his eyes. She made a face, top lip pulling up into a defensive snarl as her eyes glittered harshly from under a heavy brow.

"What's so funny?" Wiping at his eyes with his thumb, Barbossa grinned, leaning back and waving her question away from the air.

"Miss, might ye be havin' a name?" She looked deflated, doubting she would actually receive an answer to her earnest interrogation.

"Perhaps. Why does it matter?" A typical Tortugan cover.

"Because anyone who asks that question at such an age has no grasp on the concept of life itself." He looked down at his map and made another mental note. She did not leave, however. The sound of a card deck behind shuffled behind them reached his ears.

"Or, and begging your pardon again, Captain, did ye ever stop to consider the notion that some people are bound to their Fate before they have a chance to seek it for themselves?"

This stopped him cold. He looked up, laughter forgotten, and leaned forward, matching her angle. Critical blue eyes now studied his companion. Her gaze did not waver under his scrutiny. Fascinating.

She was of a strong build for a woman, possessing broad shoulders showed off by her simple shirt. No sailing man who had seen the ladies of exotic shores would venture to call her beautiful- pretty, maybe, but in a vague sort of way. Quite a shame, for her, if she was a woman of moral repute. Tortuga was one of those places where even temporary marriages occurred only among the physically blessed. She had a long, thin face, a bumpy nose, and thin-set lips. Still, he supposed she would have enough male company, seeing as her feminine attributes were nothing to scoff at. His eyes were dragged back up to her face, however, as he still-strangely- felt no desire for sexual companionship. There was something there, though, that he found quite refreshing in a member of the fairer sex. It was probably the reason why he didn't feel the need to shoo her off so he could be by himself. It reminded him of Elizabeth, in a way. Curiosity, one that would probably lead to her ruin, lurked beneath the surface of darkly fringed eyes. A thirst for seawater had already come to his attention. And some manner of intelligence, strange for a barkeep, was also in there somewhere, beneath the mop of dark wheat-colored hair that was caught up in a messy bun. Finally, he spoke again, this time, with seriousness.

"Aye, 'tis true, miss. And just how did ye come into possession of such a sentiment?" She cleared her throat with no sense of delicacy.

"It came to me on the wind one day, Captain."

So she was cryptic, too. He was warming up to a night of tale-telling quickly. Before he could reply, she bowed her head.

"Margerie."

"Eh?"

"My name is Margerie, Captain."

It would be his luck. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn't a puppet in someone's greater design, rather than a free man.

"Aye. A good name to be havin', miss. Strong. French name. Means 'pearl.'" He drawled dryly, more ale sliding over his lips.

"So…being a pirate?" He squinted at her. Obviously she was not meant to be on a ship. So why, then, was she so fascinated? Regardless, he had nothing but time to spare at that moment, and began to think of how to describe it.

"Being a pirate…is like being the lover of a mistress with a strange countenance. We be bound to the sea, by the forces of nature and humanity and what-have-you. She calls us, and we are made to listen. Our ships may pass from one man to the next, but she is always, and has always been more home than anywhere on land. We take what we can, and we give nothin' back. She can be a harsh mistress, treatin' us much the same as a worthless old dog, but she can also be our savior in a time of great desperation. Tis a deck of cards that she has personally seen to be stacked, and we must take our hand and play it wisely."

By the end of his speech, Margerie was wide-eyed with marvel. Wordless, for a moment, he watched her fingers begin, too, to trace pieces of the map between them, though she likely could not even read it.

"Please, Captain, iffin' it suits ye, please, tell me more." He found he could not deny such a request from the wench, and settled in.

So, for hours, he regaled her with stories of his adventures. From being revived by Calypso after death, to crossing back over to Davy Jones' Locker, he spoke, and she listened, moving only to oblige the tavern-wide requests for more rum and ale. Each time she returned to her seat, Margerie would have more questions. They covered the spectrum from broad to technical- did sailors really rely on the stars to guide them? How hard was it to obtain sea legs on one's first time out? How often was bilge water pumped on a regular basis? And so forth. He was impressed. He could count the number of women who could sit across from him and engage in intelligent conversation on one hand, and it secretly delighted him every time he stumbled across another. Captain Barbossa tended to have some kind of natural knack for crossing paths with the most unusual women on earth. And he liked it.

Finally, as the wicks in the lanterns began to burn out, he finished, yawning. He was still tired, and could use a bit more sleep. It was then that he realized he hadn't eaten in a day and a half.

"Would it be troublin' you, miss, to find an old pirate some food, and another round of ale?" She shook her head and stood to fetch his desires. That was when his eyes landed on something curious. He grabbed her wrist, suddenly, making her jump.

"Where did ye get this?" He asked, eyes fluttering between the object of his curiosity and her face. He could see her expression, which had remained one of soft openness, turn cold as she snatched her hand back.

"It has belonged to me for me entire life, Captain. Now I'll get yer food, and then I best be off to bed." She practically growled, protectively covering the ring on her right fourth finger with her other palm. He sat back, and watched her disappear into another room.

Apparently, his ability to become entangled with unusual women was alive and well.

Interesting indeed.