Oh, I think we can afford to give him one day's headstart.
May 1717
"You're mad James," Gillette said as he finished off the rest of his brandy. Gesturing for more, he raised his glass in salute. Sitting across from the Commodore on the opposite side of the dark wooden desk in Norrington's richly decorated yet cozy study, he appeared completely sober. The only thing giving him away was that his gentle, rolling Belfast accent proved far more evident than usual.
"Quite so, Andrew," Norrington replied, refilling the Lieutenant's glass. "Reginald?" Norrington gestured to Groves with the bottle of brandy. He shrugged at Groves' refusal, the lieutenant already half-asleep in the other comfortable leather chair sitting in front of the desk. The day's rather unusual events had apparently taken their toll. "After all, there's never been a prisoner escape from the gallows," Norrington continued. "Then again, we could have blindly gone after Sparrow right then and there. With nary an idea of where to start, what ports he stops in, his usual routes or even who comprises his crew. I'm sure the mission to hunt him down would prove a vast success," he breezily retorted.
"Well," Gillette sighed, "I suppose you're right."
"Suppose?" Norrington raised an eyebrow, at which Gillette simply smirked.
"Indeed," Groves finally yawned, "At least we've a plan now. The prisoners back at the fort seemed quite ready to turn on Sparrow as soon the promise of indentured servitude in the colonies was offered. I suppose that beats the noose for them."
"And so we kill two birds with one stone," Gillette replied.
"To the birds then," Groves chanted as he drunkenly raised his glass, "And the stones to kill them."
"To birds," Gillette repeated.
"Forget the birds," Norrington chuckled, "To apprehending renegade pirates!" he declared.
"May we capture him fast, for I do not wish to be parted from my wife for long, eh?" Groves suggestively slurred, waggling an eyebrow.
"May Sparrow dance his final jig upon the noose!" Gillette snorted, "All for the sake of Groves' dear Charlotte, of course. And may she soon come with child upon her husband's return!" he chuckled.
"Aye," Groves toasted, "And most especially, to the Sea Wolf!"
"The Sea Wolf?" Norrington repeated with an arched, if highly incredulous brow.
"Aye. For that, according to Charlotte, is what they call you back in town now. And you know my darling always has the newest and best gossip," he all but giggled, the brandy making it way to his head.
"I think I rather prefer the 'Scourge of Piracy,'" Gillette mused.
"Well, it looks as though you've been upgraded, James," Groves snorted, "For not only did you save Miss Swann, but you had a hand in killing Bloody Barbossa. Not to mention, the initial capture of Sparrow. So hence, 'The Sea Wolf.'"
"I see," Norrington steadily replied, eyes wide with surprise. "'The Sea Wolf' eh? Hmm…I think it sounds rather dashing, no?" Groves adamantly nodded as Gillette gave a sarcastic grin, shaking his head in disagreement. "Well," Norrington continued, "To The Sea Wolf then. I serve the people after all, so let them call me what they like." They toasted the thought, the conversation quickly turning to other matters. Within some time, the two men took leave of their commander. After all, it was off to an early bed to contend with their departure upon the Dauntless at dawn, in hot pursuit of Sparrow.
Left alone in the front hallway after they'd taken their leave, the silence of his empty home suddenly bore down on Norrington like never before.
And 'tis times like these I wish a companion with which to share my house, he mused as he climbed the stairs. Running his fingers along the dark wood of the banister, he sighed. Well, one woman actually…but what is done is done. Entering his quarters, he rung the servants' bell. Soon his valet, the ever attentive Thompson, took away his naval uniform. It would go into the trunk that had been packed for the voyage. No doubt it would be a quick pursuit. After all no pirate had ever proven able to outrun Commodore James Bennet Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy in the Caribbean. Or rather The Sea Wolf, now.
After Norrington fell into bed, he reached over to his nightstand to put out the candles. Hand brushing something hard and metallic, he picked it up, examining it in the dim light of the moon pouring through the window. It was a gold locket, though quite a ways larger. A miniature portrait of sorts. With a snort, he popped it open. Gaze dancing along the fine features of the girl demurely staring back him from inside it, he couldn't bite back a sigh. A slight grin upon her pink lips, light brown hair curled in perfect ringlets, painted brown eyes alight as though with some private joke, she taunted him even from here. Not so different from your likeness are you, Lizzie? he snorted. The portrait remained silent of course, though he swore her smirk widen.
"Enough!" he declared out loud. Placing the miniature in the drawer of the nightstand, he slammed it shut, though not before letting out an irritated sigh. Blowing out the last candle, he rolled over in an attempt to get some sleep.
What is done is done, he repeated to himself, The fight is over, you've given in and there's no turning back. Sea Wolf or not.
Funny how he'd almost convinced himself such was true.
Three bells rung out across the deck, signaling the start of new day. However, the sun had yet to breech the horizon, the sky fading to light blue as the stars disappeared from sight. The old sailor leaned against the rails along the starboard, grinning to himself at the familiar sound. He may be a pirate, but Gibbs still had some of the navy left in him. He'd convinced Jack to fix the stolen bell to the bow some time ago. "Least we've the right to know what time of day it be," he declared. Jack only rolled his eyes in reply, though he gave his permission with a lazy wave of his hand before stumbling away.
"Perhaps we may keep sailin' on, Jack?" Gibbs called out to the quickly disappearing darkness, thoughts returning to the present.
"Captain Jack," the pirate retorted behind him before taking a long swig of rum. "Besides, matey, this pack a dogs needs a bit of a lie-in. Been sailin' hard to outrun Jaime."
"Jaime?"
"The right honorable Commodore James Bennet Norrington, 'course," Jack smirked before leaning haphazardly against the rigging. Giving Gibbs a hard once over, he shrugged before taking another long swig of rum. "Rest up, Gibbs. Marty'll be takin' over the watch in a bit."
"Still should have someone at the helm. Gotta keep goin-"
"Eh, we'll be right as rain," Jack replied, "Away with you," he waved. Gibbs shrugged, touching his brow in goodbye before ambling below decks.
"He's right, Jack," a smoky voice called from the shadows, curling around his ears like the slow, hazy morning mist. Jack grinned as the figure sidled up beside him, quickly relieving him of the bottle of rum.
"My dear Maria-"
"Anamaria."
"My angel of the sea-"
"Stop with that foolishness, Jack," she snorted, though a grin tugged at her lips. Taking a swig of the rum, her expression suddenly darkened. "We be finding ourselves sittin' ducks if we don't move."
"And what's your rush, my murderous little mermaid?" Jack rasped, eyebrow raised as she leaned against the railing opposite him. She was dressed in her usual mishmash of pirate attire, her clothes haphazardly fitted as though swiped from various sources. And while she was currently unarmed, hair loose, down and devoid of her usual dark bandana, her stance was poised. Full of a sort of dangerous grace, she was wound tight, ready to spring to action at a second's notice. Dodgy as any of his crew.
"You still be owing me a ship," she flatly said, though her eyes glittered with dangerous intent.
"And you'll be getting it, love," he casually retorted, eyes wide with caution.
"When?"
"Soon."
"When, Jack?"
"Capta-"
"When, Captain Sparrow?" She was closer now, almost nose-to-nose with him. Arms crossed and head cocked to the side, her mouth curled into a rather attractive though feral smirk.
Setting down the rum on a barrel, he swayed his hand over his heart. Sweeping off his hat, he gave her a low bow before his kohl-rimmed eyes meet hers again. "I swear on my very heart-"
"As black as it be," she spat.
"Come now, it's still got some life in it," he chuckled, only to swiftly fall silent as her expression hardened. "That I," he speedily continued his oath, "Captain Jack Sparrow, will fetch my dear Anamaria the finest ship the Caribbean has ever seen."
"Thought the Pearl be the finest ship of these seas?" she snapped with an arched brow.
"Well then…the, ehrm, second finest ship of Caribbean," Jack continued, eyes darting back and forth as though searching for a quick path of escape.
"Seems I had one before you went and had it blown right up," she hissed. "The Interceptor it be called?"
"Aye, it was," Jack smiled though he quickly backed up to the rigging. Gaze still darting between her and the ropes, he suddenly saw she now gripped a dagger in her hand. Wherever she'd pulled that from. No matter, as it wasn't pointed at his throat. Yet.
"Now you know I never forget no promises," she hissed, finger pointing into his chest, narrowed dark eyes staring up at him with unbending malice.
"Mind's like a steel trap, yours is, love," he uncomfortably chuckled.
"So," she snorted, "I be expecting a ship when we get to wherever we go. Not a boat, a ship. You catchin' my drift, Captain?"
"Of course, my little hellion of the deep," he shrugged. Gold-laced smile wide and open, he threw his hands up in surrender. Gaze travelling to her weapon still clutched in her hand to her side, his smile widened.
"Good," she swiftly declared, tucking away her dagger. "Now that we on the level, I'm headin' back to the helm," she nodded. "Better to keep moving. That blooy Commodore got a hard look 'bout him, from what I remember. We need to keep in the wind."
"Whatever you say, Anamaria," he bowed again.
"Captain Sparrow," she saluted, spinning on her heel and casually taking up her position behind the wheel.
"Women," Jack muttered, though a grin flashed across his tanned face. Ambling down to his quarters, he fell into bed. And within minutes, he was asleep, bottle of rum clutched to his side, hat over his face and boots still upon his feet.
As he stood in front of the house, the drizzle of light rain starting to soak through his clothes, he'd contemplated more than once simply spinning on his heel and leaving. That was until the gates swung open and the early morning servants departed. No doubt to run errands in Port Royal's markets, the sped past him without glancing up. Easily ducking into the gate unnoticed, he slowly made his way up the carriage drive. Pausing before briskly knocking on the great oak doors on the wide, white veranda, he waited for an answer.
"Yes sir?" the housekeeper said upon opening the door. The old woman gave him a once over, eyes flashing momentarily at his rather simple clothes. Dressed in a simply cut but expensive dark silk dress, white hair curled underneath her lace cap, she stiffened as recognition dawned on her. "You!" she hissed under her breath.
"Would you please inform the Commodore that Mr. Turner is here to see him?" Will began, dark eyes flashing at her increasingly unyielding demeanor, "I have-"
"I am afraid the master of the house is preparing for his early morning departure," she cut him off.
"It's simply that-"
"He is not expecting visitors," she retorted, all but snapping at him.
"I have a package for him," he nodded down at the small, dark wooden box balanced in his hands.
"I may deliver it to him," she sniffed, reaching out to take it until he deftly backed away, snatching it from her grasp.
"Madame-"
"Mr. Turner!" she snapped, crossing her arms, eyes narrowing, "As I have said before, the Commodore is not expecting any visitors. He is preparing to set out from the port this morning. More specifically, in pursuit of the rather notorious pirate, Jack Sparrow-"
"Captain," he muttered under his breath. However, his mouth snapped shut at her irate expression.
"I'm sure you have heard of this pirate?" she essentially growled, arching an eyebrow as he slowly nodded. "Now, I may deliver your package. But beyond that, sir," she swallowed in disgust, "I offer you no more."
"Odd," he blithely replied, clutching to box to himself and biting his lip in increasing annoyance, "I would have thought one so distinguished as the Commodore would have hired better trained staff."
"Mr. Turner!" she all but yelled, completely taken aback.
"Mrs…whoever you are!" he mocked with a dismissive wave of his hand, "There is no need to lose your composure," he suddenly smiled, though his dark eyes remained hard. "I simply wish to deliver a package to Commodore Norrington. Now if you'll excuse me-" He feinted left only to go right and quickly step around her into the front hallway. "Kindly inform the Commodore I await his audience," he serenely said, passing her his card.
"I shall do no such thing!" she snarled, crossing her arms again.
"Then I shall wait here until someone else does," he smirked, moving to stand next to a chair in the wide entranceway.
"I'll have you thrown out, you…you common criminal!" she screeched.
"There is no need for that, Mrs. Huntington," a calm voice floated down from the stairway, causing both to snap their heads upwards. "Mr. Turner," the Commodore continued, coming down the stairs. Dressed in full naval regalia, including his overcoat, his hat tucked under one arm and white gloves in hand, he was the very picture of the power and dignity that was His Majesty's Royal Navy. "I shall meet in you the front parlor, straightway. Mrs. Huntington? You may go, thank you." Looking as though she was about to yell something else, she glared at Will before silently spinning on her heel and disappearing through the back of house. "I'm afraid my time is limited, Mr. Turner," Norrington continued, "So please, make this brief."
"Of course," Will swallowed, "And please, sir, you may call me 'Will' considering-"
"That we are virtual strangers? No, I would not think of so casual an address," Norrington icily retorted, gesturing towards the parlor. "Follow me please, Mr. Turner." The younger man was taken aback, though he said nothing, mouth set into a hard line as he did as instructed.
"So?" Norrington suddenly said, quickly coming to a stop. Standing in front of the card table near the center of the sparsely decorated parlor, he did not offer Will a seat.
"I thought that you would like to have to have the accompanying dagger to the rapier presented to you upon your promotion some weeks back," Will quietly replied, sliding open the top of the box. Lying in the black velvet lining it was an exquisite silver dagger. The blade thin and long, the hilt of the weapon was exactly as the hilt of Norrington's new sword, deep blue with winding gold filigree.
"As you may see," Will continued, nervously shoving back loose stands of his dark hair behind his ears, "It is balanced in the same fashion as your sword." Removing the blade from the box, he balanced the point between the hilt and blade on one finger. Quickly flipping it into the air and deftly catching it, he easily balanced it on his other hand, illustrating the further elegance of the superb weapon. "They belong together," he nodded at the sword tucked into Norrington's belt. "I worked through the night to complete it, assuming you may require it for your…trip."
Norrington remained silent, fixing the younger man with an inscrutable stare. Will held his gaze until the Commodore relaxed ever so slightly, though his expression remained steeled. Suddenly taking the blade from the blacksmith's hands, he silently examined the weapon. After a while, he carefully placed it back in the box sitting on the table between them.
"Thank you, Mr. Turner," he tightly said after some time. "Like the sword, it is an excellent weapon. You prove…an able tradesmen. Is there anything else?"
"Erhm…Just-" Blast it! he thought to himself. "Well, thank you…sir."
"For?" Norrington raised an eyebrow, expression still stony.
"Miss Eliz-"
"No need to thank me, Mr. Turner," Norrington tersely replied, cutting him off, "It was the honorable action to take, after all."
"Of course. I would expect no less," Will replied quietly with a nod.
"No one does, so it would seem," Norrington muttered. "I apologize Mr. Turner," he continued more loudly, gesturing towards to door, "But I must take my leave of you. It's imperative I make my way to the docks," Will glanced at him in confusion until the realization suddenly hit him. Swallowing hard, he scrambled towards the door, Norrington in pursuit. "I am afraid Mrs. Huntington is indisposed at the moment," he gestured towards the back of the house as he let Will out.
"I will take the utmost care with her," Will blurted out. Norrington stiffened, the color draining from his face. "I swear it," he continued, "Sir-"
"I wish you both happiness," Norrington snapped. "Good day," he resolutely finished. With that, he closed the door, giving a silent prayer of thanks that the ordeal was finally over. Now, he'd nothing but the sea to comfort him for the next few days, his original mistress beckoning him back to her grasp like the finest of wines seducing the local drunk.
The mirror was dirty, cracks starting to form around the edges. With but few candles lit in the tiny, wood-paneled room, it looked even more dilapidated. Then again, it wasn't as though she'd find herself using it for much longer. Running her hands through her boyishly short, dark, slightly curly locks, she couldn't help but bite her lip in frustration. While it'd only been a week since she'd arrived in Port Royal, the bright, harsh Caribbean sun was already beginning turning streaks of her hair a dirty brown. She worried for its effects on her pale, already freckled skin. But such thoughts were trivial. After all, she wasn't back at home in drawing room of Beldrake Castle. Finishing up a bit of embroidery, reading a book or attempting to win a round chess or cards proved far from her mind.
Beldrake. The Rutland ancestral home, she'd loved the great estate in Redmile, England. They'd said the original parts of the castle were built back in the time of the Norman Conqueror, other parts added during old Queen Bess' reign. Overall, it may have been a somewhat crumbling structure, ripe for refurbishment. Yet she loved the drafty, moldering thing. Not to mention the extensive grounds. Spending her days traipsing around the estate for hours on end gave her a sense of calm that she hadn't found since she was forced to leave.
It had only been her home for a few years since her father had died. Her mother passed away at her birth as she brought her into the world. Yet she'd grown to love it as though she'd lived there her entire life. Lord Thomas Rutland, the Marquess of Granby, and his wife, Lady Frances, had taken her in. Lord Rutland, her father's cousin via their shared grandfather, had proven ever so kind to her. As both Lord and Lady Rutland were without legitimate children, they spoiled her fiercely, glad of her young company. Even, George, her uncle's only child and illegitimate son, had nothing but benevolent words for her. Tinged with his usual quiet affection and cheekiness, she looked forward to his visits. In fact, she wished them more frequent. Unfortunately, such was impossible due to his newly bought commission as a dragoon in freshly formed King's Own Regiment of Horse, in honor of the new King George.
A shame it all had all gone to pot and she was on the run now. Lord Rutland was dead in the War of Succession in Flanders. His wife, Lady Rutland, was on the continent with his solicitor, forced bring back his body and secure the older version of the will he took with him. All as to not to be turned out of the great estate by the supposed new will. Frankly, most thought the new one to be a forgery. But Lady Rutland was forced to find proof of it. And with George stationed somewhere in India, there was no way anyone could get to him to aid in setting things right.
That bastard, cousin Ambrose. A distant cousin to Lord Rutland via his grandmother's questionable line, no one had really heard of him until Lord Rutland's death. Yet he'd shown up to Beldrake with Lord Rutland's death announcement in hand. Along with that new will that left everything to him. As the supposedly closest male relative (for George, Lord Rutland's son from a liaison previous to his marriage, could not inherit the estate itself due to his illegitimacy), he stood to inherit the entire estate.
However, he didn't know of Lord Rutland's first cousin on his father's side. A Major General Edward Vernon, stationed in with the army in Boston in the colonies, he proved the true closest male heir. But Edward hadn't answered Lord Rutland's letters to him in almost a year. Was he dead? No one knew. But even with the new will, he was still closest male relative. More likely also to preserve the excess earnings of the estate. outside of its general upkeep and a healthy pension to Lady Rutland, those earning would go to George, along with a rather handsome initial lump sum.
As for her, well, she stood to inherit a lump sum of some 12,000 guineas. Including her father's saved pension from the navy, the total sum would be 14,000 guineas. At least according to the old will. Additionally, if somehow both Edward Vernon and Ambrose Vernon were to die, any firstborn future son of hers would inherit the estate. And if there were to be no sons, then her first born grandson would inherit and so on.
But that was all in the past now. Turned out of Beldrake with a small allowance and what she'd be able to scrape together from the last of Lord Rutland's faithful servants, she escaped to Port Royal via London. The entire journey to Port Royal took two and a half months so far. It'd hardened her, turning her into a creature of survival. A sort of opportunistic ragamuffin she'd never dreamed off becoming in her halcyon days back at Beldrake. Such a life of luxury and ease at the old castle proved but a hazy memory now. 'Twas all replaced by the capriciousness and pitiless prospects the outside world has to offer. No wonder her relations shielded her from such things.
Her only hope was Dr. Arthur McCarnelly of London.
The doctor had served with her father for many years when both were in the navy. For while her father had the genteel blood of the landed gentry back in England (he was the son of a duke, after all), he wasn't a firstborn son. So into the navy he went, serving along with doctor. Both had gained winnings enough from capturing Spanish and French frigates to comfortably retire. They'd remained friends afterwards, despite the doctor's lack of social standing. And last she'd heard after her father's death, the good doctor lived in London. So she went to London, finding out that he was on his way to Port Royal aboard HMS Triumph in order to return to his commission upon the HMS Dauntless.
From London, she booked passage on a small sloop also on its way to Caribbean island. Though by herself, she remained relatively unharmed, the captain's wife keeping a hard eye on her. While the woman proved rather unimaginative and dour, she did guarantee her a safe passage. So she made it to Port Royal, only to quickly realize this seedy place teemed with all sorts of characters. Dangerous ones. On top of that, the Triumph was delayed. Forced to find a room somewhere until it arrived, despite her dwindling coinage, she'd checked into the inn under the auspices of a lady's maid awaiting her mistress. The innkeep gave her nary a glance, save when she's smacked the crowns on the desk. Muttered something about the last door on the left, and continued balancing his ledger. As a result, she'd been here four days. Yesterday she found out the Triumph was on her way, scheduled to dock by mid-morning.
Now, the doctor was the only one she could trust. Hopefully out of deference to her father, he would help lead her to this Major General Edward Vernon. The laws required Edward Vernon would have to contest the will and take ownership of the property within five years of Lord Rutland's death. Thankfully, even if the Doctor proved unwilling to help, she would still be on her way to the colonies. The stop in Port Royal was barely out of the way.
So here she stood in front of the mirror. One last inventory before tomorrow. For now she looked as though a boy; narrow chest wrapped with muslin, layers of seamen's clothes, loose and hanging, face smudged with dirt, she fit the part to a tee. Especially when she tied back her freshly cut short hair with a rough bit of string. She didn't want it all to go this far. But it was the only way. Traveling the high seas required it, for a woman on a boat would otherwise prove disastrous. This way, with no need of women's clothing, at least she would be able sell her clothes for a pretty penny. And it would be far more easy for her to become accustomed to her new pseudonym; Christian Granner.
It had a nice ring to it.
With a heavy sigh, she blew out the candles. She had rest for tomorrow, for she it was imperative she travel to the docks to track down the ever elusive Doctor Arthur McCarnelly.
True, he'd lived his life expecting death around every corner. It proved a sort of occupational hazard, after all. However, he'd never expected it to hurt this much. A searing pain in his chest after the pistol went off, bitter cold, then smothering darkness. Inexplicably, he'd awoken in this rickety longboat. Sailing nowhere in the twilight along a vast black ocean shrouded in an ungodly mist, he was surrounded by hundreds of others in the same sort of boats. The other people proved intact for the most part. Though some, not so much. Quite a few contained such grievous bodily injury, it made his stomach turn. Made the hole in his chest a mere scratch in comparison.
But now, after traveling for some days, months, years, or even centuries for all he knew, he was use to such sights. How long he'd traveled on this endless River Styx, he'd no clue. Time, at least when measured in human elements, apparently stopped here.
Leave it be to Providence to not even provide a mate with a paddle! he snapped to himself. No reason to talk aloud in this limbo; few people in this company of endless boats responded to him. They were apparently far too wrapped up in their own grief to notice anything. Only the children among them seemed able to see him, the perceptive little brats.
He'd tried paddling forward with his hands at first, as he'd quickly found out paddling backwards from wherever he came proved impossible. But the more the paddled, the less he moved forward. So much for that plan. Then he tried to leap overboard. Morbid curiosity and all that. But the invisible force linking him to the boat prevented him even that. He then assumed he was in hell. But that thought quickly dissipated as soon as it entered his mind. The sense of waiting for something to take him out of this netherworld immediately hit him. So there went the whole Hell theory.
As though Charon, the bloody ferryman, be fallin' down on the job! he spat. So much for deference to your masters, you bloody git, whoever ye be! After a while, he just waited, letting his boat drift along within this eerie long parade.
Suddenly it dawned on him; he helped take her freedom not so long ago, eh? So what was to stop him from promising to return it? It was what she desired the most, much like he coveted escape from this endless purgatory.
"Ya be a cunning one, Barbossa!" her shadowy voice echoed around him. The air suddenly thick with inexplicable dampness, he quickly noticed a crab now sitting on the seat in front of him. Its black eyes stared at him unblinkingly, claws snapping with promised malice. "But why'd I'd bother with de likes of you?" she cackled.
"'Cause ye be wanting ye freedom," he whispered into the air with a malicious grin. "And I be the one to give it to ya."
"Liar!"
"Devil woman!"
"Oh, how ya pirate heart love and hate me so," she sighed.
If Barbossa were less fearless, he'd have cried out in horrified dismay at the whispering black smoke in front of him. It steadily thickened, swiftly materializing into the shape of the wildly beautiful goodness. Appearing in the human form she was currently bound to, she gave him a feral smile. Indigo blue dyed teeth gleaming in the faint twilight, unnaturally black eyes flitted over him in mild appraisal. Two more crabs appeared, clacking at her feet as she rearranged her strange assembly of dressings. Demurely crossing her legs beneath the dress, she perched herself upon the seat opposite him, a queen upon a lost throne.
"I'd a never thought ya be the first of the pirate Lords killed," she smirked, giving him a once over.
"Sparr-"
"I know of it," she snapped with a dismissive wave of her hand, "For dear Jack be up to his old tricks again," she cackled. "But time's runnin' low for that one."
"Especially when I get me life back," Barbossa snarled only to stay his words as she reached out, hand caressing his face. Speechless, he looked away as she grinned. Hands once again demurely folded in her lap, she shook her head in disagreement.
"Nay, ya no claim to him, as his life ain't to be taken by you. No time for ya to do it," she retorted with an enigmatic smile. "So what be the price of me freedom, Hector?"
"My life for yours renewed, wench," the old pirate cackled. "I unbind ye. Ye shed this rather attractive form," he replied, giving her an appreciative once over as she preened, "And you're restored to ya previous majesty. For that daunting task, I ask only for me poor life. Surely, you have it in ye heart to grant such to the likes of me, a simple villain?"
"My heart died long ago, Barbossa!" she hissed, bristling. As the crabs at her feet clacked their claws ominously, skittering back and forth in a frenzied dance, the air about her suddenly fell heavy and sharp with rage. Abruptly tinged by an odd sense of melancholy, it swiftly shifted back to its wretched fury, only to slide yet again to a sort of detached suspicion. "And how ya be proposing on gettin' the other eight pieces?" she breathed. Leaning forward, her words tingled against his ear, "Ya ain't even got ya own piece anymore."
"The one that carries it be true," Barbossa sniffed with annoyance. "So what be ye verdict? Your freedom for mine, Tia Dalma?"
As bright eyes bored into his, he was inexplicably struck with a sudden unease that dangled on the cold precipice of fear. He prayed, for maybe the first time in his life, that such dread remained hidden from her.
"It is a deal, me thieving one," she silkily replied, smile wide and dangerous. Before he could react, she leaned over, lips roughly claiming his...
...Gasping for air, he was wrenched to consciousness, every nerve in his body twisting and jerking in frenzied pain. Limbs spasming, the memories of his previous life flooded back to his brain within the blink of an eye. Then came that hideous pain again. Dear God, the searing pain. It utterly destroyed him. Eyes wide, mouth gurgling with a burst of his first breath in months, he lifted his hand into view. If he could, he'd scream at the sight of it. But the shock strangled him; his hand was a mess of rotting flesh, moldering skin attached to bone by bloody tendons and ligaments. Clawing at his face, he shuddered as he felt bone poking through muscle. He tried to speak. Nut his teeth only clacked together in absence of a tongue or lips. Reaching down, his hand brushed past rotting clothes and into his ribcage. Bony fingers grazing his delicate, beating heart, he recoiled in horror as her wicked laugh rung out about him
"Now, it be some time since ya died. So the body don't stay fresh," she slithered, standing over were he lay on the cot in her ramshackle cottage. "It just be takin' some of me best potions to mend ya whole again," she gestured around at the dirty jars littering the room, filled with various festering concoctions. "Forgive me, but me guest room ain't exactly the most hospitable. Meantime," she cackled, "Welcome home, Captain Barbossa."
A/N: Beldrake castle is based on the real life Belvoir Castle. It's a stately old home in the county of Leicestershire in England. Originally a Norman castle, it was acquired by the real 9th earl John Manners, who was created Duke of Rutland and Marquess of Granby by Queen Anne in 1703. I just borrowed the name and place. Google it for more info and pictures of the rather beautiful estate grounds.
