There is nothing you may do, James."

"But Elizabeth-!"

"My fate is what it has come to be," she serenely replies as she rearranges herself on the hard wooden stool. Kicking at the dirty straw that litters the squalid prison cell, she fixes him with a distant expression as he stands on the opposite side of the bars.

"Surely Mr. Turner-" he swallows.

"Will is dead," she murmurs, "I've told you thing a million times, my dear; my fiancé has cut out his heart and gone away. And soon I shall join him," she sighs, closing her eyes for a bit. "Is there something so wrong with wishing to be with my beloved?" she smirks.

"But I love you and have always adored you! You should have been my wife!" he snarls, rattling the iron bars of her prison. Only, she does not look at him with alarm or even disgust at his outburst. Only pity. "Lizzie," he groans, resting his forehead on the bars, "Please-"

"Give this to my father," she sniffs, cutting him off and withdrawing a letter from the pocket of the odd costume she wears. It is made of black silks, the long coat and wide black sash brocaded with the patterns of the east. Her shirt and pants are of black silk as well, the leather boots embroidered at the oddly upturned toes. Even the black hat upon her head is like that of some barbarian eastern pirate. Dark eyes rimmed with kohl, she looks as though some terrible pirate queen. Except she is here in prison. Set to hang at dawn tomorrow.

"James," she sadly smiles rising from her chair and coming to the bars. She passes him the letter, her fingers lingering on his hand for a bit too long. "It is all your fault." And suddenly her lips are upon his. The taste of her is bitter and salty, her scent sickeningly sweet, like cheap scented oils-

Inexplicably, he now stands in the courtyard of the fort, watching with increasing horror as she is lead to the gallows. She does not say a word, though her head is held high. The crimes are read, though he can barely hear them. Except for the last one.

Piracy.

He does not know why he doesn't attempt any rescue effort as the hooded executioner places the noose around her slim, elegant neck. Her dark eyes meet his. And suddenly a vicious smile flashes across her face at his appalled expression.

"At least I've lived a life with love," he thinks he hears her whisper, though her lips do not move. "At least I have with no regrets. What empty sort of life have you lived, James? What cowardly existence have you doomed yourself to? What tedious cog are you in this great machine that serves the King? I am glad I never picked you. I would rather have a life of despicable criminality than you. Better to have the long drop and short stop at the end of it all, eh?"

The throttle of the drums grows, speeding up in their macabre march of death. And then they stop.

The trapdoor gives way, the snap of her neck echoing across the silent expanse of the gathered crowd.

Wrenching his head way from the vile sight, he throws up the contents of his breakfast, watching with distant dismay as it splatters to cobblestones at his feet. Breath coming in short spurts, he stumbles back, grasping at the wall to prevent his collapse. Suddenly, he starts at the feel of someone gripping his hand.

"Sorry it had to go like this, Jaime," Sparrow sadly smiles, kohl-rim eyes wide and wet as he shrugs, crossing his arms, "But I had to sacrifice 'em all to get away. World can be cruel sometimes, eh?" he nods, the beads in his hair catching the glimmering light of the bright morning sun.

Letting out a guttural growl, Norrington grabs the pirate by the throat, his other hand going to holster. Feeling the icy, comfortable grip of his dagger, he yanks it out of its sheath and plunges it into Sparrow's chest with a snarl. Only Jack laughs as the morbid red stain of blood explodes across the expanse of his filthy white shirt. As the Commodore unhands him, he glances with horror at the ugly space where his dagger, the same dagger he'd commissioned from Will, remains lodged in between the pirate's ribs.

"Of all the bloody gits in the world," Sparrow snorts even as he begins coughing up blood, collapsing back against the stone wall, "I knew you would be the one kill me," he sputters, "Just like you've killed dear Lizzie…"

Norrington gripped the blanket as his eyes snapped open. Breath coming so quickly it threatened to overwhelm him with panic, he clutched at his hands, closing his eyes and beginning to count. He didn't stop for some time, this nightmare apparently taking more of a toll than initially thought. Finally able to stop his hands from shaking, he remained in bed, staring at the rafters of the ceiling. But it was to no avail.

"Hell on the horizon," he snorted, quickly leaping out of bed. Tossing on a shirt over his breeches, he slipped into his waistcoat. Checking the time on his pocket watch, he sighed; only a few hours until four bells or six in the morning. Glancing over to his liquor cabinet, he contemplated it for moment. No, I really should not. But upon closing his eyes, he recoiled, seeing her jerking body swinging from the noose-

Heading upstairs to the top deck for some fresh air, he tried to ignore the comfortable feeling of the flask in his hand.

"Madame, Sir Ambrose Vernon…"

"My dear Fanny!" the man bellows, rushing into the hall past Kingsley, the butler. Raising an eyebrow, Kingsley simply nods, lip curled in derision as the man tosses his overcoat and tricorne to him. Did he not know the hall boy should have taken it, not he, the master butler? Then again, Ambrose never contained anything in the way of subtleties. Which is why he was rarely allowed into the house. Or so she had heard. But for some reason Lady Frances Rutland choose to attend to him this afternoon.

"Sir Ambrose," Lady Frances replies icily, hazel eyes flashing. Swiftly pushing back a streak of grey hair behind her ear, she barely gives him a curtsey of greeting. "My husband's cousin," she nods to her, she following suit with her own curtsey.

"Fascinating creature," Ambrose, snorts, though he takes her hand, bringing it to his lips in greeting. "Indeed," he declares. While she does not know this man, something in his air and manner immediately causes her to withdraw, an irritated expression flashing across her usually inscrutable face.

"Sir," she nods in reply, biting back her derision.

"I'm sure you have some lessons to attend to, my love," Lady Rutland continues, voice still distant, round figure unnaturally stiff. "Go upstairs to the study and call on Alice, your governess."

Swiftly moving to the stairs, she does as she's bid, dark blue eyes giving Ambrose another once over. She decides she does not like the man. Judging by Lady Rutland's rigid shoulders and the look of pure murder she throws his way, Lady Rutland does not care for him either, to say the least.

"They will be heading to the dining room most likely, miss," she hears Elaine, one of the housemaids, murmurs as she passes her on the balcony above the entranceway. "No doubt the best place to listen will be the eastern drawing room," the maid continues as she balances a basket full of sheets ready for washing. With a smile of thanks, she makes her way to the room through the back ways of the house.

Soon, she finds sitting in the chair by the door proves the best listening spot. Book in hand to uphold the illusion of distraction, she hears them clearly. Their conversation on the other side of the wall is rather boring though; talk of the weather, the latest news from London and so on. Until they began discussing the War of Succession. She knows Lord Rutland has been in Flanders for the last few months. His letters, while long have proven few and far between. Apparently, he is stationed quite close on the front lines.

Suddenly there comes a scream, followed by the rush of what sounds like silks and a loud thud upon the floor. Without thinking she runs to the doors, flinging them open to find him standing over Lady Rutland, who's collapsed. Head snapping in her direction, he smirks a bit, eyes taking her in before gesturing at the floor. Ignoring him, she scrambles to her Ladyship's side. Snapping open her fan with an efficient flick of her wrist, she begins fanning her Ladyship's unnaturally pale face and feeling her pulse, which faintly beats.

"What did you do?" she snaps at him, even as she pats other woman's face in an effort to wake her. No response comes. He shrugs, moving away as a few more servants rush into the room, alerted by the scream no doubt.

"She has fainted, take her to her room," she declares, quickly ordering the servants to undress their mistress and put in her nightclothes. Both their dinners are to be sent to their mistress' room as well. Shoving past him, she makes to head up the stairs until she yelps in annoyance, a tight grip around her arm.

"Be careful with how you treat guests," he hisses into her ear, breath close, fingers dancing along her sleeve. "Fortune sometimes dictates that we find ourselves at the mercy of others we have wronged."

"Of what do you speak?" she snorts, trying to pull away from him, her eyes following the servants as they carry Lady Frances up the stairs.

"A letter," he sighs, expression falling as he draws it out of his pocket, passing it to her, "For I fear I am the bearer of bad news." His unnaturally rapid change in demeanor to a contrite messenger startles her as he drops her arm. Tucking the letter into her skirts, she calls on Victor, one of the footmen.

"Please ensure Sir Ambrose is placed in the Blue Room. They are the best guest quarters. I'm afraid dinner is cancelled tonight, Sir Ambrose. I may have it brought to your room-"

"That will do, my dear."

"You may call me Miss Vernon," she flatly replies. "Now if you'll excuse, I must attend to-"

"Fanny? Please, my dear, do," he grins with an exaggerated bow. Narrowing her eyes at him, she turns on her heel, running upstairs.

Within the half-hour, Fanny awoke but did not take her meal, much to everyone's dismay. Her Ladyship simply sits there, eyes dimmed with tears, mouth half-open though she remains silent. Propped up her bed, her round form is slumped over as she stares at the wall in front of her. Eyes barely moving and not responding to anything, a servant is sent for the doctor down in the village.

"She's suffered a large shock," Doctor Phelps says, checking her pulse against his pocket watch from where he sits next to Lady Frances, who remains in bed.

"That much is obvious," she retorts, aggravation more the result of the situation rather than outright exasperation with him. "And?"

"I may only recommend that you attempt to feed her and keep her occupied to bring her out it. However, if she doesn't eat-"

"She'll waste away," she sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples in an attempt to relieve a suddenly oncoming headache.

"Do you know what caused such a reaction?" the doctor continues, packing up his gear into his worn leather bag. She helplessly shrugs in response, to which he doesn't reply. Soon, he is gone, leaving them both alone. There is nothing to do but attempt to get the Lady Rutland to eat. And pray she recovers. Suddenly remembering, her hand brushes the letter she's tucked into the pocket of her skirts…

Christian awoke with a start, panicking at the tightness of her throat only to quickly realize the blankets of her cot had become entangled around her. Closing her eyes, she attempted to calm herself down. But she immediately found it impossible fall asleep again, the nightmare still imprinted on her mind.

"Bloody hell," she swallowed, quickly getting up and changing into her day clothes. It had become a weekly ritual, her disturbing dreams. The usual remedy was a breath of fresh air top deck, at the stern and preferably out of the watch's way. Getting out of bed, she snuck from behind the Oriental screen separating her space from Henry's in their quarters. He was still asleep, as per usual, for he never awoke as she left on these turns about the top deck. Grabbing a tattered book from the shelf next to the door, she headed upstairs.

"Not wandering at your usual spot along the bow?" she declared into the darkness behind her. Norrington froze, his steps barely creaking along the deck. Then slowly moving from the shadows, he quietly came to stop behind where she sat, cross-legged on some storage crates at the stern of the Dauntless.

"How were you able to hear me?" he asked aloud, despite himself.

"Observation," she shrugged. "A lot of time spent alone and one becomes use to the silence. Your movements broke said silence," she fleetingly grinned, glancing upwards at the starry sky where the moon illuminated the freshly swabbed decks.

"I see," he tartly replied, his surprise dutifully repressed. "Do you always skulk about the decks past curfew, Mr. Granner?" he intoned, causing her shoulders to stiffen.

"I apologize, Commodore, as I did not realize it proved so late," she breathed, inwardly cursing at being so stupid as to attract attention.

It was not as though she disliked him per say. It was more the Commodore reminded her of the young men she would so often dance with in Town during the season; handsome (she wasn't blind after all) and dignified, but awkwardly stiff. The sorts of dispassionate, staid, tedious men for whom there were no wholes.

These were the men who were accustomed to only two types of women in their lives; their prospective wives and the women they "entertained" while in Town. The former, somewhat like herself but far richer, were the empty society girls. Raised to do nothing but titter behind their fans and bear a future progeny for whatever young lord they proved able to entrap into a marriage that season, she'd always found them exceptionally insipid. The latter sorts of women were their complete opposites, courtesans. Witty, astoundingly beautiful creatures who contained enough education and bawdy humor to keep their clients' gifts of jewelry and a household in town going whilst away from said wives, she admittedly found them utterly fascinating. But it was all laughter and fun until their clients grew tired of them and moved on the next pretty, young strumpet.

Frankly, Christian fell into neither category. That was until her apparent inheritance of 14,000 guineas made her a society girl. But raised with the freedom and relentless pursuit of education the ever-doting Lord and Lady Rutland showered upon her, she feared marriage would trap her as the long-suffering wife of some gentrified, buttoned-up, big wig.

James Norrington reminded her far too much of those sorts of men. And so she was cautious around the Commodore and those like him.

And why am I musing on the sort of a marriage prospect the he would prove anyway?

"The curfew is intended for those of the crew," he repeated, bringing her out of her thoughts, "And since you are Dr. McCarnelly's assistant, you are not crew. I suggest you stay those paranoid thoughts currently floating around in your head…drink?" he all but ordered, even as a fine silver flask appeared in front of her nose. She also noticed that he took a seat next to her.

"No…yes," she replied, taking it from him as an image of her dream suddenly flashed in front of her eyes. Setting aside any sense of embarrassment, she drank directly from the flask. Sputtering, she coughed up more of the gin than swallowed down. "Ugh," she choked in distaste as he arched a brow at her reaction. It was not cruel though. Amused? she distantly thought. "Celebrating another loss to Sparrow?" she croaked with irritation, her throat still burning.

"You forget yourself, Mr. Granner," Norrington intoned, voice suddenly dull.

"Forgive me," she nodded, eyes wide her own words, voice low and regretful. "Just making another observation." she glanced back at him, "I meant no insult."

"I see," he sharply retorted, taking the flask back from her and taking a long swig. Glancing over, she was surprised to fine he remained in just his shirt and waistcoat. And though he had on his hat, he was wigless, dark hair loosely tied back. So much better without the wig, she mused. And so they are green, she thought as well, glancing at his eyes, emerald reflected in the cloudless moonlight.

Silly girl, stop it!

"Hmm?" she repeated, his words drawing her out of her thoughts.

"You were asking me a question, as I thought myself clever to sneak around you in your usual skulking about."

"I simply asked that it was odd you were not wandering along the bow, as is your usual route," she quietly replied, shifting so that she sat with her legs dangling off the crate. He gave her a sideways glance as he took another sip of gin. "Especially with the loss of Sparrow this morning."

"You're quite the inquisitive young man, Mr. Granner-"

"Forgive that I asked," she said, moving to get up until he grabbed her by the wrist. Startled at his grip, she looked back, equally startled by the distant expression of desperation in his eyes.

"I did not say I wouldn't answer the question," he began, quickly unhanding her as he gave a surprised, if fleeting grin. He looks almost a different person, when he smiles. Should do it more often. "Catching Sparrow is my duty," he distantly continued, bringing her thoughts back to the present. "I simply take it seriously. And when completing my duty doesn't occur-"

"You wander along the decks," she finished.

"Only because of what I dream," he sighed as she gave him an inquisitive expression. "That, if then I had waked after a long sleep, will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming, the clouds, me thought, would open and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked I cried to dream again-"

"The Tempest," she intoned.

"Except I do wake and do not cry to dream again," he snorted.

"As do I," she whispered. "We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep, unfortunately."

"So says Prospero of said Tempest," he replied with an arched brow. "And such is why you wander along the stern almost nightly," he grimly grinned as she let out a sharp exhalation of surprise that he knew of her nocturnal activities. "This is my ship, Mr. Granner," he proudly said, squaring his shoulders. "I know everything that occurs on her, even if I don't choose directly comment on it." She stiffened, sliding away from him and hoping, nay praying he knew nothing of her secret.

"Your family must be proud of you," she quietly said, swallowing down the strangled tone of her voice, "Considering this your ship and you are so young."

"Aye," he smiled, this time it going to his eyes for attractive effect as she immediately noticed. Shaking her head to rid herself of the observation, she shrugged and signaled for him to continue. "My father especially," he declared, taking another sip, "As an admiral, he was rather delighted I chose this path of my own accord."

"So you are of a military family?"

"Yes. My grandshire was a lieutenant to King Charles II. Helped him escape to France after the revolution. At the Restoration, my grandshire was showered with a the king's friendship, a title, gifts and a rather healthy grant of land in England for his services. Built the estate I grew up on from his military service. And so here I am now, at sea."

"I see," she nodded, surprised this free flow of information.

"You are not crew, and so I am not technically your superior. Hence this little discussion between us is between relative equals," he sniffed, answering her silent surprise. "And I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that it shall not be shared with anyone else," he quickly muttered.

"I ere on the side of discretion for my own reasons, sir."

"Spoken like a true gentlemen," he mused aloud. "In fact your manners are surprisingly gentleman-like, Mr. Granner, right down to your reading habits," he grinned, that odd fleeting expression catching her off guard once again as he glanced down at her book. She froze at his declaration, the warning bells going off in her head. He's not stupid…he can observe just as you can…"And what are you reading?" he asked, reaching out and taking the book from her hands before she could properly react.

"The Fairie Queen," she defensively retorted.

"Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place," he reeled off in subdued, almost melodic tones before quickly passing the book back to her. "I once dreamed I would find a woman that I may worship so," he distantly continued. "Quite florid reading for a simple surgeons' assistant. You are quite educated for being a mere street urchin," he said more loudly, taking another drink as he stared at her. She blanched at his observation, breathing a sigh of relief when four bells rings out.

"I must go," she flatly replied, leaping down from the crates. "I need my sleep," she quickly added, taking the book with her.

"So soon?" he frowned.

"Yes," she all but stammered. "Good night, Commodore...sir."

"Mr. Granner," he said, touching his hat in goodbye. As she scampered off below decks, he was left to think on the rather oddly astute nature of his surgeon's supposedly simple assistant. Especially on the nagging in his gut that something was quite amiss with that one.