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Chapter Three: The Men in Black

"Black Masks."

Those words echoed in Amy's mind as she watched Tia Dalma coming in and out of that room to get supplies. Shortly after James had fainted in Tortuga, she had poofed the three of them—the third being Fear—back to the bayou. As soon as she had seen Norrington, Tia had set to work tending his injuries. Amy, more paranoid now, after the excursions of the day, furiously saw her attentions as other than what they were.

At last, her own care for his welfare outweighed her assumptions of his murdering the pirates, and she crept into the bedroom to see him. He was conscious, but just barely. A wooden shiver jutted out from between two of his ribs, and something which had been lodged in his shoulder now lay on a table beside him. His shirt and coat, torn and stained, hung over the foot of his bed. His eyes, where they had been staring at the ceiling, rolled to see her, and he turned his head to smile reassuringly at her, albeit weakly. "Did you get him?" he whispered nonchalantly.

She did not move from the door. "Yeah."

He smiled again, triumphantly. "And are you all right?"

"I might be," she grunted, "once I get an explanation."

"It will 'ave to wait," Tia Dalma replied as she came in again. She went to his side and rested a fingertip on top of the shiver. "Brace yaself, Com'dore." And she barely gave him time to before she pulled the wood out of him with a slight, unconcerned smile, bordering on amusement. James let out a strangled gasp, which he tried to suppress with gritted teeth. He blinked away the mist in his eyes from the pain, looking up at her in gratitude. She picked up a coconut chalice and offered it to him. "Drink, an' sleep now." He obeyed, downing the deliciously-scented liquid. Within moments, his eyes blinked shut, and he was fast asleep. The mystic left the rest of the beverage on the table, beside the shiver and that other item. "You canna' be angry wit' him for somet'ing ya da not know him done," she scolded the girl softly as she walked past. "Get some res' now. Ya sleepin' on ya feet."

"Mmh," the lass grunted noncommitally, and continued to lean against the wall with crossed arms long after the mystic had left. She needed to think, and for some reason, it always seems easier to think when a sleeping person is in the room. ...As long as they don't snore loudly and obnoxiously... After several minutes, she approached the unconscious form. How could someone with a past like his sleep so peacefully? Her eyes wandered to the bandages, and she knew that these injuries could not be from either of the men he'd fought. He was much too skilled for that... Wasn't he? She sighed. Maybe I'm just imagining him to be more than he really is.

She turned to the night-stand, and the thing that had been lodged in James' shoulder caught her eye. She gasped at its lethal appearance, and was awed by its foreignness. It was a single, crescent-moon-shaped blade, about six or seven inches in diameter. The outer half was gold in colour, and dull in the middle of the curve for holding, but sharp on the ends to catch in flesh. The inner half was silver and sharpened to a lethal edge the whole curve. Black masks... What could it mean?

—

"When Amy went after Fear, I chose to stay behind to dissuade those two pirates from following us. It took a while, but eventually I was able to wrest the sword away from the one and threaten him. That was when they surrendered. It was at this time that, as I was releasing the pirate, there was a great lurch of the ground, and a sound—oh, such a sound!—shook us to the dust. In the middle of the air, it seemed like a great gaping hole tore open - as though there was a great gash in the sky, a bleeding, swirling wound - except instead of blood, what dropped out of it were a dozen men, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. Nothing was exposed; not their faces, nor even their eyes.

"They came at us like sharks to blood, and we had no chance. They moved so swiftly. Before I could even wind up to attack, my target would be suddenly behind me. I did manage to catch one with my sword, but when it went into him, he disappeared into wisps of smoke as though he were little more than an illusion.

"They had these curving, oddly-shaped swords with which they hacked at us. We could parry some of their attacks, but they moved so swiftly that we could not shield ourselves from injury. They also carried shuriken, which were easier to dodge than their direct attacks, although difficult to anticipate. But along with the throwing-stars, they had what looked like throwing-moons. Those caught in our swords and threw us off-balance. At last, after several minutes, one of the pirates went down. His comrade began to fight all the more fiercely, but then several of them ganged up on him and when next I saw him, he did not move again.

"Of course I was by this time very angry. What had any of us done to deserve the attack? We whom they had never seen before. (Well, at least I think I have not seen them. I do not think I know any person who can move as they can.) I was fighting with all of my strength and skill, but it was not nearly enough. A throwing-moon was in my shoulder, and this distracted me. Before I could react, all of them as one were upon me, and I found myself hefted up and hurled through the air. I landed on the pile of crates, which collapsed under my impact and impaled me with a splintered plank.

"One of the men pushed away one of the crates so that he could see me, and said in a deep voice, 'Where is the Guardian?' I told him I did not know. He put his hand over my open eyes, and I felt a jolt go through me. My entire life flashed before my eyes in an instant. Every memory I could contrive. Every secret. Every lie. Every deed. 'He knows,' he cried to the others who, so I could see, were interrogating the pirates in a similar manner—they were still alive, it seemed. At once the others ceased and looked to him in what I can only fathom was astonishment (being unable to see their expressions). However, he continued in I suppose a dissappointed tone, 'I have checked his mind. He is searching for the remnants of the Shattering. A comrade of his. An enemy. A brother. Not a brother. His mind is strange. However, he has learned somehow that what we had henceforth thought to be a Guardian was not so. There appear to be some sort of restrictions on what a Guardian can and cannot be.'

"'Then there is nothing more for us to do here until we discover what a Guardian really is,' another replied. 'Time is almost up. We must move on.' And with that, he made a scratching motion in the air, and appeared to literally rip open the air with his nails.

"The man who had read my mind turned back to me. 'You must associate with some magic in order to find those pieces. But since you aren't associated with the real Guardian, I shall let you live. For now.' He jumped up and leapt into the tear, and as soon as he was through, it closed with such force as caused more crates to topple over on top of me.

"It was about an hour after this—unless I passed out—that Amy found me."

—

Amy walked into the main room of the shack a few mornings later, and, with a yawned tune and a stretch, attempted to conjure some breakfast. "Whaaaaat?" What had appeared instead seemed to be a red, white and blue bear mascot suit.

"Teddie?" she gasped.

"Where am I? Who're you? This isn't the TV! This is so confusing - it's un-bear-able!"

"Sorry, sorry, I'll put you back, sorry!" she apologized hastily, waving her hand. The creature disappeared. "Jeez, I wanted cold pizza, and all I end up with is a character from Persona 4. Go fig."

James had explained himself the morning after Ames had poofed them to Tia Dalma's. The mystic had explained that the men in black were most likely in line with the people trying to destroy the Realms. She had also assured the lass that both pirates were still alive and would probably survive. "However," she had continued, "dose men will try to interfere wit de gadderin' of Jack's pieces if they tink it will t'reaten deir mission. You must learn to defen' him life."

Amy yawned again and poofed (much more accurately) some leftover pizza from her refrigerator at home, sitting in the window to munch sleepily as she tried to wake up. Normally she was never hungry for breakfast, but recently she had been hungrier in her waking hours. The front door creaked open, and James staggered in, a sword clenched in his left hand, and his bad arm in a sling. He stood in the doorway, attempting to catch his breath. "Dude, James, what are you doing out so early with that sword?"

"I need to train."

"You need to rest," she countered, turning around to face him. He hesitated, regarding her cautiously with an I-feel-your-judgement-but-I'm-not-sure-what-I've-done sort of look—but wasn't she just giving him her do-what-I-say-or-else look? She didn't know. "Why is it so urgent that you need to train, anyway?"

"I was defeated. If it is my job to protect you, and I cannot win against those from whom I should protect you, then what use have I?" He glared at the table. "And if those men are now beginning to attack us, then I need to become stronger, faster, and more alert as soon as possible."

"That's all very well, but if you end up hurting yourself even more when you should be resting, what good will you be then?"

"De girl is right. Listen to her," Tia advised him from the doorway.

James turned to her with a frustrated frown. "Well I can't bloody just sit around until I am well enough!" he snapped, wheeling around to go back outside.

"You wouldn't be just sitting around. You would be getting better," the lass assured snappishly. Jeez, stupid male pride. You wound it even slightly and it's like having a moody teenage girl with bulging muscles and awesome facial hair. "You would be trying your best to heal quickly, so that when you train you can be at the top of your game instead of being hindered by your injuries."

He paused, turning back to consider her seriously, as though he were trying to pick out something different about her. "My game," he repeated, deep in thought. At last, he broke into a smile. "I have an idea."

—

"As dey are, de man'festations you've a'ready caught are many in number and harder ta guard. If ya want to keep dem safe from harm, ya mus' mold dem into single form," Tia Dalma proposed.

Amy stared at her dumbly. "Wecandothat?"

Teacher nodded. "But it wi' not be complete."

"I won't d-do it!" They both looked up to see Fear standing at the foot of the steps. "I w-won't be put into an-nother form."

"Hey, easy now," Amy soothed. "I know things seem scary now. And they're going to keep getting scarier. Do you remember a few days ago when I promised you that I would do whatever it takes to keep you safe? This is how I must keep that promise."

"Can't you keep me safe here?"

She shook her head with a sad smile. "No. Or else I wouldn't agree to doing this. Don't worry, you'll still be there. Trust me." Since Trust had been discovered within Fear, it had been showing itself often, and it showed itself now. "It won't be right away, anyway. I still have to learn how to do it."

"And for dat, you mus' step up ya trainin'," the priestess said.

In the days following, Ames was tested to the best of her abilities and was forced to make them even better. She was even required to better her physical skills so that her magic would travel through her more easily. She was tied by her ankles to the branch of a tree and told to do sit-ups. Eventually, she was even required to untie herself and climb the twenty or so feet down, all without the aid of magic.

At one point in the following days, she stood on a tall stump on the muddy bank with a wooden staff in her hands. The objective was to avoid projectiles without falling off. She jumped and crouched and leaned as nuts, shells, rocks, crabs, branches, mud, and anything else within reach were thrown at her, using the staff sometimes to deflect them, and other times as a counter-balance. "Focus!" James cried, hurling a snail shell in her direction. She heard the air whistling in its cavities—for it was just out of her peripheral vision, and she had not enough time to turn and see it coming—and leaned backward to dodge it, pitching dangerously on her perch and slipping off, but managing to catch the edge. After dangling for a moment or two, attempting to keep her feet from touching the ground, she climbed back up and resumed her position. "She's getting better," he commented to Teacher, standing beside him.

"Yes. But she has long way to go. Even wit' your arm a'sling, you could easily do what she do now."

"How is it that you know my limits before even I do?"

She smiled at him, a hand resting painfully, purposefully, on his injured shoulder. "I can see what odders cannot."

He blinked his acknowledgment, giving her an imploring look so that she might release her grip, and hurled another handful of stones and shells at the girl.

At last, Tia ended the session and called the girl down. "Ahhhhh," the lass sighed as she sank into a wooden chair. "Can't wait to go to sleep. What time is it?"

"Nearly noon," James answered.

"Aah, so early!"

"You will have de chance rest a bit before ya train again t'night. But first," Teacher added, "where is ya sword?"

Ames held out her hand, and her cutlass appeared with a burst of light. "Right here," she announced, sitting up. "Do I need it for something?"

"You must temper it become resistant t' magic."

James' brows rose. "She can do that?"

"If she have confidence in it." The priestess crossed to the opposite side of the table and ducked down out of sight. James and Ames exchanged expressions before the latter looked away.

"Amy—," he began to say, when Tia Dalma rose again, hefting an old chest onto the table.

"What's that?" Amy asked.

"Is my library o' spells an' charms." She undid the lock and dumped them all onto the table.

James picked one up. Its title read: Common Spells for the Everyday Mind Control. His grip tightened on the book as he stared at it in silent shock.

"Where did you get all of these?"

"When ya get paid as I do, chil', ya can get any'ting." She picked up a small, thick book in black and gold, and tossed it to the lass. "Dere is a spell in here can do what needs be done."

"So wait, I need spells and charms to get things done, too?"

"Only fa t'ings you do not fully unnerstand. If you have no song, ya have no medium for magic. Spells take its place."

The girl flipped open the spellbook, skimming over its pages with a calm curiosity. "Which one am I looking for?"

"One fa' protection an' deflection a' magic."

"Well, here's one conveniently under the same title. I'm game."

Teacher nodded sagely and presented the cutlass, holding it so that it lay flat across her palms. "Ya mus' have de olive branch dipped in oil."

The lass conjured both and, dabbing the oil on the blade, she recited the incantation:

"Magic attracts magic, and so it repels, and can damage a fellow or may save his soul.
One's only defense against such a power is magic alone to deflect other magic.
And so I call upon ancient magics to charm this item for protection against direct and indirect magics."

There was a windchiming sound, which may or may not have come from the lass, whose magic was based in music, and the blade glowed gently for a few moments. "Wow, that didn't rhyme at all," the girl commented. "I mean, I guess it doesn't have to, but it always seems cooler. It wasn't meaningful or beautiful or eloquent, either."

"Not all magic is as you espect."

The lass took the proffered sword, her eyes running up and down its length. "So how do we know if it worked?"

"Block a magical attack an' you'll see."

Ames pointed her sword at an imaginary foe. "Then I'll be ready to meet that adve'sary!" she declared in a thicker accent than usual. "Ew, did I just talk like that? Man, my friends already think I'm putting on a fake accent. What'll they think of me if I start talking like that?"

"Hey, wait a minute—I talk like—."

"Get some food an' rest," Tia interrupted. "Ya need ya ene'gy for tonight's trainin'."

"Huh? Okay." She retreated, exhausted, into the next room, sinking into an armchair and curling up in a ball for a nap and setting her cutlass against the table beside her. After several yawns and a few minutes' daydreaming of having cat ears that would perk up when she heard something and sag when she was sad, she fell into a restless slumber. It was unfamiliar—and strangely satisfying—to sleep during the day. Normally, she could not sleep while the sun was out unless she was truly exhausted. Her present unconsciousness speaks for itself.

After a time, unable to further his own training because of his arm, and at a loss for something to do, James crept into the room for a book. It ended up sitting uselessly beside him on the bed as he watched the girl sleep. It was a short while before he saw a pair of brown cat ears poking through her hair. "What—?" He smiled wryly with a snort and approached to examine them. However, it was not long before his attention was drawn to her expression instead.

Her brow was creased and her mouth frowned, and a hand was clenching at her maroon blanket. "Amy?" he whispered, gently moving a strand of hair out of her face. At the touch, she suddenly tensed up and curled into a tighter ball. Bad dream, he understood, and resolved to stay there so that he could comfort her as soon as it woke her.

She seemed to relax after a while, although the frown remained. Finally, she opened her eyes, already wet with tears, and allowed herself to cry, thinking she was alone. She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she saw its owner, she began to gasp, almost as though she were being strangled, again and again and did not stop until he drew her into a hug with her head pressed against his chest. She proceeded to sob uncontrollably, as girls with truly horrific dreams are apt to do.

After some minutes the tears stopped and she struggled away from him, staggering unsteadily for the door. "Amy—." She stopped in her tracks at his voice, and did not turn around to face him. "You–ah–may want to, er, take care of those ears... Not those, pet, the other ones."

She reached up dazedly to feel the new ears before her hand fell numbly to her side and she continued on her way with a shuffle. James stayed where he was, staring at the ground, and listened to the sound of a creaking door, the slosh of water in the basin which was splashed against the lass's face.

She returned after a short while, a completely different person, toweling dry her face, fully recovered from that which plagues all who sleep, spirits lifted, feline ears successfully removed. It was as if nothing had happened.

"What's wrong, pet?" James asked in little more than a mumble, still sitting by the chair and not looking up.

She paused in her drying, bent over sideways. "Nothing. I had a bad dream and you startled me. That's all."

He rose and strode straight into her personal bubble. "But there's more - even before this, isn't there?"

She scoffed, not meeting his eye. "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"Do not lie to me," he retorted severely. "Your cheer toward me is little more than an act, and your courtesies have been as like ice."

"I don't know what you—."

"Who do you think you are fooling?" he bent down so that they were nose to nose, gaze boring into her with a terrible intensity. Her eyes widened, and she took a half-step away. His countenance drooped with realization. "You're afraid of me," he said in such a dejected tone that it about broke your heart, as he retreated to sit mortified on the bed.

"Well yeah. I mean, did you see your face just then? Sca-ry," she attempted to brush everything away.

This brought him no comfort. "Yes, but there is more to this, isn't there?"

"Ha. I couldn't—"

"Please, Amy—I cannot bear to have you look at me that way."

Her cheerful composure dissolved, and there was a long and tense silence. "I don't mean to hurt you, James," she at last said softly, not looking at him.

"You've been like this ever since that day in Tortuga," he said slowly. He shook his head helplessly and looked at the ceiling. "What could have happened to cause such a rift between us? Is it because I would not let you fight?"

"No, no—it isn't anything like that. It's just...when I came back to find you and saw the pirates, I thought they were dead, and I thought—I thought..." She was beginning to tear up, and took a deep breath to calm herself. James took the opportunity to finish her statement.

"You thought I had killed them. But—"

"You didn't. I know that."

"Then what is wrong?"

"Well, it made me realize that—" She suddenly halted, then shook her head. "Nevermind. It's stupid."

"If it is having this sort of effect on us, then it cannot be stupid, love."

"But I—"

"Amy," he silenced her softly, shoulders hunched against his troubles, hands balling into fists in the sheets. "Please."

There was another long silence, so intense that it seemed like either of them was about to burst. Then... "Even just thinking that you would have murdered them made me realize that I wouldn't put it past you to have done it. I mean, that's what your job is, right? You kill anyone who seems like a threat. I mean yeah, I guess your excuse is that you're protecting people and everything, but when you get right down to it, you're little more than a murderer yourself."

This truly hurt him. "We had this discussion not long ago, in the winter when we were helping the homeless. I, in a moment of weakness and self reproach, called myself a murderer, no better than those of whom I was ridding the world." Her shoulders were sagging a fraction with each word, hands balled so tightly into fists that they were shaking. "And you had assured me that I was only following the law."

"Yeah, well I never actually thought about it."

"And this has made you afeard of me?"

"No! It just made me see you in a different light," she replied promptly, finally lifting her gaze to meet his. She padded over to him, crouching before him, and reached for his hands. At first he withdrew, but she grasped his hands anyway, holding them in both of her own. "These hands..." She turned them so that they were palm-up. "These hands have been stained with the blood of countless and nameless men. They have torn the life from the body without hesitation." She rose and cupped his face in her hands, and touched her thumbs over his eyes for a moment before looking into them. "These eyes have burned with rage, and have been the last that men have ever seen. They have glowed red. They have been the gaze of a demon that seeks only to take their lives, whether by the blade or by the hemp." She rested her forehead against his, trying once again not to cry, and put a hand on his chest. "This heart—has been willfully misguided—"

He suddenly took her hand in his. "Please stop. I will not try to justify my actions. All I can say is that I did what I knew was right. That aside," he added, "what exactly was your point, anyway?"

"All I was getting at was that it makes me see you differently. I mean, I can't hold your hand without remembering that, nor look into your eyes, nor consider your heart without suddenly recalling the deaths that you are responsible for." He opened his mouth to say something, but she said it for him. "And I hate myself for it, because saying it out loud, it sounds so stupid, cuz it doesn't change who you are and it doesn't change the James I know. It's just that there's more to you and I don't know how to deal—no, no. You can't change the past. God, I'm such a dramatic teenage idiot."

"Amy—"

"I need cheese," she sniffled, rising and exiting the room, leaving James to stare after her with a confused, relieved smile. Women...

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