Disclaimer: As usual, here is the place where I state that I don't own anything except Stella. None of this is mine, yadda yadda...

A/N: Well, I'm back! I know it's been a long while, but at first it was England, and it was all new, and I had to go everywhere and see everything and meet new people and sample the local ciders (Addlestone's is the best. I will miss it so very much when I return to the states). And then classes really started in earnest... and if you've ever partaken in the Oxford educational system, you know how time-consuming and bloody difficult it can be. So yes, that's why it's taken me so long to get this posted.

But here is chapter number five, which has been thus far the hardest thing for me to write. Seriously, this thing kicked my arse. It's gone through four versions, all written in tiny snatches of time between papers and Latin translations and trips to the Bodleian and day trips to London.

The next couple of chapters are basically just conversational interludes between ex-Commodore James Norrington and Miss Stella Bell, in which they feel each other out (read: snark at each other a lot). Rest assured, however, that I am driving towards another event. It'll just take a while to occur.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy it. I included extra British, since this sucker was written entirely in England. (Not really.)

Chapter 5: Stella Sagittarum

It didn't take long for James to discover that Jack Sparrow wasn't in town, and this discovery left him at something of loose ends. He didn't really have much of a plan besides "kill Jack Sparrow", and without a Jack Sparrow around to kill... he spent a lot of time in taverns.

He supposed it wasn't as bad as it could've been. Oh, it was certainly bad. The room he'd rented was small, smelled like sweat and vomit, had walls as thin as paper, and a lumpy mattress. He frequently drank a little too much and ended up passed out in places to which he didn't quite remember walking. His savings were nearly exhausted, and he'd soon have to start selling bits of gold off his coat.

On the other hand, he hadn't been assaulted since that first night, and he was developing a tolerance and a taste for rum.

James supposed a man could get used to anything.

Usually he started his heavy drinking when the sun set, and that November evening was no different. The ex-commodore departed from the docks, where he spent his days watching for black sails, to a tavern he hadn't patronised the night before. He ordered a bottle of rum, and sequestered himself in a corner as he prepared to descend into a liquor-induced stupor.

However, before he could get much beyond his first mug, a familiar feeling scampered up his spine.

Norrington heaved a sigh, and buried his unshaven face in his hands. Then he straightened and beckoned the bar wench to bring him another mug. He wasn't going to be alone for much longer, and might as well prepare himself to be hospitable. And sure enough, not two moments after the wench had brought him the second vessel did a visage that was becoming all too familiar appear.

As expected, a pair of black eyes immediately sought his countenance out from a position near the doorway, and James met and held them steadily. Without dropping his gaze, he carefully poured a small serving of rum into the second tankard and set it vigorously across from where he sat, before gesturing gregariously to the extra chairs around the table. The invitation was obvious.

A moment passed. The sensation of fingernails dragging along his skin returned, which James took to mean he was being measured. He didn't look away, but kept staring evenly at the woman in the doorway.

Finally, Miss Bell seemed to deem his invitation acceptable, glided gracefully through the rowdy pirates like a shark through the water, eyes focussed on him all the while. In a rum-induced fit of whimsy, James wondered idly if her teeth would be pointed should she happen to actually smile.

"You've been watching me for the past fortnight," he accused without preamble as soon as the woman had seated herself in a flurry of black cloak and chiming bells.

"Just checking to see how you fare. After all, it wouldn't do for me to take you under my protection and then fail to protect you," Miss Bell replied snidely.

"As you can see, Miss Bell, I am quite all right. Your protection has been quite protective," he returned, giving the woman a sarcastic bow as best he could while seated.

He had tried to be angry about the fact that he was, essentially, cowering behind the skirts of a woman. However, her influence with the inhabitants of the island was a little too beneficial for him to muster up anything more than faint vexation, and for the most part he was grateful that Miss Bell's intercession enabled him to be left, for the most part, alone.

"And the sight warms the very depths of my heart," she drawled, rolling her black eyes. "Why the invitation, Mr. Norrington?"

"No reason," Norrington shrugged carelessly, taking another swig of rum. "I felt as long as you were making such an effort to follow me around, the least I could do was entertain you for a time." He took another slug. "Jack Sparrow isn't on the island."

"I know."

"Did you know when I first mentioned wanting to go after Sparrow?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Would it have changed anything?"

James didn't bother to dignify that with a response—not the least because she was right—and silence descended on the little table.

The two of them made an interesting tableau, seated so gracefully with perfect posture when all around them raged chaos. They looked like a distorted reflection of some aristocratic function, faded with time and pasted into the wrong background. Despite being dirty and worn, the gentleman's clothing was of a superior cut and quality. Despite being faded with age, the lady's gown had once been fashionable and well-made. They were clearly trying to hold onto whatever remnants of upper-class elegance were left to them, and such sophistication was sorely out of place in The Mermaid's Purse.

"I must say, you aren't very entertaining," Miss Bell eventually remarked, after another ten minutes passed without a word from either.

"Drink your rum. I'll become hilarious after about three more glasses," he quipped tartly, downing another swallow himself. Miss Bell looked dubiously at the glass in front of her, then back up to the him, raising her brows sceptically. "Admittedly, it isn't much of a lady's drink—then again, you're not much of a lady, are you?" James remarked casually, replying to the unspoken retort.

Miss Bell's black eyes flashed murder for one brief moment, but her features smoothed out into a sweetly quizzical smile that would have looked at home on the countenance of any society lady... were it not for the unmasked malice lurking in the shadows of her face. Her companion saw none of this, focussed as he was on the contents of the bottle before him.

"Unlike your erstwhile fiancé—what was her name... Elizabeth?" she inquired in return, her crow's voice laced with poisoned honey.

James started violently—her name was something he honestly was not expecting to hear—and jerked his head up. "How did you hear of her?" he ground out through clenched teeth.

A new smile was making an appearance on Miss Bell's pale face, and this one looked decidedly predatory due to the flash of teeth between her thin lips. "The whores chatter like birds after the rain, Mr. Norrington. I daresay half the port knows how you refer constantly to your... pleasurable company... by the same name: Elizabeth," she purred.

"How do you know she was my fiancée?" he demanded harshly, slamming the tankard down.

Miss Bell tossed her dark hair saucily. The action would have been deemed flirtatious, were it anyone else. "I didn't," she replied sweetly. "But your actions have confirmed it beyond a doubt."

"Just because I love her does not necessarily mean she's my fiancée," James said coldly, trying to regain control of the situation.

"Ha," scoffed the witch. "Aside from the fact that you just told me she was, you are not that sort of man, Mr. Norrington."

"And how, pray tell, do you have any idea about what sort of man I am, Miss Bell?"

The shark's smile morphed into her usual eerie smirk, and the cold sensation of fingers on his spine returned as her black, black eyes bored relentlessly into his.

James suddenly realised why her smiles were always so disconcerting: they never reached her eyes. No matter how her lips curled, her eyes remained untouched—always watching, and measuring, and knowing. They were blank and empty and utterly without compassion; so unlike the soft, sparkling brown eyes of they woman they had just been discussing.

"I know, Mr. Norrington," Miss Bell replied simply. "I know, because I can see every nook and cranny of your starched and tarnished soul. One of my talents," she added airily. "I'm quite good at seeing into people—motivations, virtues, vices, flaws, habits, likes, dislikes... there's not a thing about you that I can't see. Hence, I know you've only loved one woman in your stuffy, static little life. Since you certainly wouldn't lower yourself to fall in love with some common trollop, Elizabeth must be a higher class lady. And because she's one of the upper-class—and because you're such a prim-and-proper man—of course you'd propose to her. But," she sighed dramatically, "just because you propose, doesn't mean she'll accept. Did she accept you, former-Commodore?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Miss Bell," James snapped stiffly, trying to hold onto his dignity as her words struck him like darts.

Miss Bell just smiled. "Since you refer to her as your fiancée, she must have accepted your suit," she continued thoughtfully, wilfully ignoring the clear indication that he did not want to discuss this. "However, she is clearly not your fiancée now. What happened, Mr. Norrington? She leave you at the altar? Run off with Jack Sparrow? Is that why you pursue him so fervently—he stole your intended?"

"No. Elizabeth's rejection had nothing to do with Jack Sparrow," James snapped, before realising two things: one, that he was talking about it despite his resolution not to, and two, that he couldn't be entirely sure that Elizabeth's rejection had nothing to do with Jack Sparrow. He had seemed to have catalysed said rejection.

"Ah, so she did reject you!" Miss Bell crowed triumphantly.

"Brava, Miss Bell," James drawled acidly, "for arriving at a conclusion that everyone else is already aware of."

"It's entirely possible that she died," the woman shot back venomously. "Perhaps it would have been better if she had."

A strange red cloud filled his vision, and it took a moment for him to realise it was rage. James gathered his thoughts together and shoved them down into a box girded with steel. At that point he realised he was clenching his jaw so tightly his muscles were cramping, and that he was clutching the rum bottle so fiercely his knuckles were white.

He took a deep breath in. "Dead or alive, Elizabeth is twice the woman you'll ever be," he said levelly, with just a hint of a snarl.

"At least I keep my word," Miss Bell returned, just as level.

"And how much worth does the word of a witch carry?" he sneered scornfully.

Instead of blushing and looking properly ashamed, as James hoped she would, Miss Bell merely smiled poisonously. "More than your Elizabeth's, I daresay. I've never jilted a fiancé."

"She didn't jilt me—I released her from her promise," James replied hollowly.

"Now, I wonder what on earth could have inspired you to do that?" the witch said in false sweetness, widening her black eyes and adopting a mocking façade of curiosity. "The fact that she loved someone else?" Her eyes narrowed cunningly. "A handsome young lad named William Turner, perhaps?"

By now, James no longer questioned how the sharp-tongued harpy acquired her information. He assumed it was some mystical trickery that she'd wax unintelligible about if questioned, and instead turned his attention ending this conversation as soon as humanly possible. He felt like his heart was being dragged over rocks and shoved through a meat-grinder with all the painful memories Miss Bell's cruel words were dredging up.

"The circumstances are inconsequential," he said coldly, mustering his strength for another defence. "I released her, and our relations remained amiable."

"Because you still love her," Miss Bell supplied scornfully, hitting the name of the emotion with a particular venom. "And because of that love you've ruined your life. Congratulations, Mr. Norrington."

"Loving Elizabeth had nothing to do with it. I ruined my life all on my own," James replied sardonically.

Miss Bell smiled. "Liar."

"What?" James barked.

"Liar," she repeated, over-enunciating the word and narrowing her eyes as she cocked her head to the side and regarded him in a curiously birdlike way. The prickly feeling returned, and James knew she was looking at him with something beyond her physical eyes. "Loving Elizabeth had everything to do with it, even if you won't acknowledge it." The prickles increased. "In fact, there's quite a lot you won't acknowledge—not the least about the nature of your erstwhile fiancée," she added snidely, sitting back in her chair.

James felt the rage bubbling up again, and clenched his hands tightly around the tankard of rum as he reined in his temper. "Thank you for that undoubtedly impertinent assessment of me and mine, Miss Bell," he said frostily. "Nevertheless, despite your sentiments about a woman you've never before met, Elizabeth Sw—Miss Elizabeth is a fine woman, and I won't have you impugning her honour. I'll thank you to stop insulting her, before I have to rethink my policy against striking women."

"You're defending the honour of a woman who cares nothing for you, to the point of compromising your own moral code—how absolutely darling," the witch cooed disdainfully. "My, it must be pleasant to have a champion—what a pity Miss Elizabeth doesn't appreciate what she has," she sighed. "Poor ladies such as myself are forced to defend their own honour in the best ways they can." James was favoured with a tight, curt smile and a significant eyebrow raise, before Miss Bell's voice hardened noticeably. "And I should warn you that if you persist in impugning my honour, I'll do more than impugn your Elizabeth's. I'm a hair's breadth away from hexing you."

"I thought you needed me," James sneered.

"I need you alive," Miss Bell returned, baring her teeth in that grim parody of a shark's smile. "That doesn't mean I can't curse you in a variety of painful and non-lethal ways."

"Do you always curse the people who question your virtue?" he inquired scornfully.

"Usually, no. I merely look to see what would hurt them most to hear and then speak it aloud. You have proved yourself surprisingly resistant to that approach, so now I find myself forced to switch tactics."

Miss Bell's blunt reply caught him by surprise, and James just blinked blankly at her for a moment or two. He could scarcely believe that such relentless verbal malice was the consequence for a couple off-hand remarks he scarcely recalled making. Mustering his thoughts together, James could only voice the dominant impression in his mind: "You're a cruel woman, Black Stella."

"My cruelty was no greater than your own," Black Stella snapped back.

"I hardly think—"

"I very much dislike hearing my virtue and reputation questioned, Mr. Norrington, nor am I partial to being called a witch to my face," she interrupted sharply. "It was hardly polite of you to do so, sir. I fear the company you keep is having a detrimental effect on your once-quite-gentlemanly manners. At this rate, I daresay you won't be much better than the rest of these pirates by the next fortnight."

James flinched. "Touché, Miss Bell." He took another swig of rum. "You really do have a most terrible talent for saying that which causes the most pain."

"I've had many years to perfect it."

"Why?" he demanded. "What kind of woman are you, that you would take the time to perfect such a malicious skill?"

"I told you, Mr. Norrington: life is hard for women without men," she replied icily. "It's a sad truth, but that makes it no less difficult for women on their own. We had no one, and I had to learn to protect myself as best I could. I cannot wield a sword or a pistol, I have no father, no uncles, no brothers, and I'll be damned before I become anyone's whore. That leaves me hexes and words. I am so very sorry that my methods do not meet with your approval," she sneered scornfully.

James was surprised, and a little taken aback. It appeared that Miss Bell was actually angry. It was the first real emotion he'd seen unabashedly displayed on her face. There was no façade now; her black eyes were burning, and her pale face had twisted into a snarl, and two spots of red sat high on her flushed cheeks. And if he'd ever doubted her somewhat uncanny connection to the winds, he didn't now—even above the din in the tavern he could hear the wind whistling through the streets.

Perversely, he felt glad for it. After feeling her darts make purchase in his battered heart all evening, he was glad at least one of his shots had found its mark into her thin, bony little chest. "Don't like being judged, I see," he remarked lightly, pouring another mug of rum.

"By the likes of you? Hardly," Miss Bell snarled.

"Why so touchy?" he taunted.

"Tell me about Elizabeth," she shot back. James winced. Miss Bell nodded. "You see, Mr. Norrington," she commented quietly, barely audible above the din, "we all have gaps in our armour."

He pondered for a few moments. "Why show me?" he asked after taking another swig straight from the bottle. "Why show me this 'gap in your armour'?"

Miss Bell shrugged her thin white shoulders. "Thought I'd even the playing field," she replied nonchalantly. "Otherwise it isn't any fun."

"I'd hardly call it even," James snorted. "You seem to hold all the cards."

"I do hold all the cards," Miss Bell replied smugly.

James felt his hand twitch with the urge to slap that conceited little smirk right off her pointed face. However, as had earlier been observed, he was not the sort of man to strike a woman, no matter how vexing she be. So he did the next best thing. "You sound like Jack Sparrow."

That did it. The smirk fell right off her face—but to James' vast surprise, it was replaced by laughter. Miss Bell actually laughed. Her mirth was swift, like the wind through the trees, and tinkled like the tiny bells around her neck, and passed like an afternoon shower. But he had seen her laugh—had seen it, and knew such a thing occurred. "Touché, Commodore."

Then, surprising him again, Miss Bell picked up the untouched tankard of rum in front of her and took a surprisingly hearty swig. Apparently such strong spirits did not agree with her, since her face twisted in disgust and she started coughing the minute the rum went down. "Had to wash my mouth out, if I was beginning to sound like Sparrow," she wheezed in response to his confused expression.

"Rum's the drink for it," James agreed, raising the bottle in toast. He'd long since forsaken the use of a cup.

"Why are you drinking, Mr. Norrington?" Miss Bell inquired after a moment, as though she hadn't pondered it before.

He smiled bitterly, and replied honestly, "To forget."

"Forget what? Elizabeth? Why should you wish to forget her?" Miss Bell queried, sounding sincerely bemused. "You love her."

"And she loves me not. Nor shall I ever see her again. I trust you can comprehend my pain now?" James snapped.

She shrugged. "Comprehend, if not emphasize. Love is, thankfully, one storm I've managed to avoid." Then she laughed again, but this was not a laugh of bells and breezes, but one of bitterness. "After all, it makes idiots out of even the most sensible of people."

"Cheers," James agreed glumly, lifting the bottle.

He paused when Miss Bell's spidery white fingers rested on his as he moved to drink. They were cool and airy—he could barely feel her touch, though he saw her hand right there on his. Lowering the vessel, he raised his eyebrows, trusting that she'd read the wordless query.

"You can't drink it all away, you know," she told him, her black eyes were fixed to his with a quiet intensity.

"They can," he said, gesturing to the other inhabitants of the pub with his free hand.

"You're not like them," Miss Bell replied with curious gentleness. "She's imprinted on your soul, Commodore, and all the rum in the Caribbean can't erase her. Only you can do that. And not like this. All you're doing is destroying yourself slowly."

James was deeply baffled by this turn of events. The crow's voice had softened until it was more like molasses, and the harsh glitter in her black eyes was replaced by something more like candlelight. He opened his mouth to speak, but realised he didn't really know what to say. So he closed it again.

Miss Bell smiled—yet another new smile. This one was rueful and amused, and caused a faint glimmer to dance through the depths of her black eyes. "But you're not ready yet, I see. Nevertheless, please don't drink yourself to death this night. I still have need of you," she reminded him smoothly, removing her hand from his and standing in one swift movement.

Then she curtsied gracefully, skirts and cloak floating around her as she said, "By your leave, Mr. Norrington," before vanishing back into the chaos of the bar and out the door.

The former commodore wasn't sure what to think about all of this—about any of this, actually. So he didn't bother. He muttered something to himself about bloody witches, and drank himself into the oblivion he'd been awaiting all evening.

A/N part deux: Yes, I know I was quite tardy. I'm sorry. But please let me know what you think anyway, especially since I've not seen DMC in months and feel like I'm loosing grip on the characters.