SIX: Cutler-Hunter Dorsey-Beckett

"I suggest we leave as soon as possible!" Beckett declared. Elizabeth sighed. She'd been on the island for about a week now, Beckett for four days, give or take. A week – it felt like it had been decades. Time was going to slowly. The first days without him had gone torturously slowly; time seemed to resume it's normal speed once she got to Port Royale, but she couldn't stay there. The island she was on seemed to have some sort of curse... and time stood still.

"So you're going to go mountaineering a few days after being blown up, drowned and then shot?" Elizabeth put on her best sneer, "My, what a brave young man we have here. Are you that desperate to get away from me?"

"The way I remember it, you, Miss Swann, are the one constantly reminding me that you have a gun and are not afraid to use it. I'm taking that as my cue to leave." Beckett leaned forwards with a grimace, before getting to his feet, somewhat unsteadily. He was still gripping his bloodied shoulder, though his various cuts and grazes caused by the sand seemed to be healing over nicely now.

"Congratulations, you can stand," Elizabeth said, flatly. "I'll go put together some supplies, and you can practice walking, though I don't expect you to grasp it immediately,"

"I'll do my best, O Wise One," Beckett replied.

Beckett and Elizabeth had a class of banter that was all their own.

----------

"I thought you'd broken your foot, or something." Elizabeth suddenly said, as they walked along towards her home. Beckett was still walking with a fairly definite limp, but his boots were on and his foot seemed to have lost all sense of gammy-ness.

"You don't possess much in the way of medical knowledge, do you, Miss Swann?" Beckett asked her, taking his turn at sneering, "I suggest you just leave it be."

"How can you walk so quickly, though?" Elizabeth asked, suspicion easily visible on her face, "Surely bone damage takes more then just a couple of days to heal?"

"It's not healed," Beckett replied, "I just don't squeal like a woman every time I walk on that foot. Discipline... one of the main teachings in the navy. The reason Jack Sparrow didn't last long in the East India Trading Company..." Beckett said the name of the company as if savouring the most delicious meal he had ever eaten.

"Jack worked for the EITC?" Elizabeth asked, wrinkling her nose.

"A long time ago..." Beckett frowned, "Don't you know the story? Then again, I doubt he would have wanted it to get out."

"Tell me," Elizabeth said, in as much of an ordering tone as she could manage, unaware that the topic of conversation had been veered safely away from Beckett's foot 'damage', which was just what he wanted. He gave her an enigmatic smile.

"Some other time," He said.

"Hmmph... fine. By the way, I never want you in my house again. Do you understand me?" She turned to him, fiercely, "Never. In fact, I am putting this rule into place starting right now, so you might as well go back to your tree while I go and pack." Beckett frowned at her, but turned and walked away anyway, without bothering to reply. Elizabeth hurried into the small, tumbledown mill.

Beckett, meanwhile, had staggered back to the place by his tree, where everything he owned at the moment was. This consisted of some candles, some matches, and Elizabeth's donated fruit supply. It was rather meagre. He reached down, and picked up an unripe banana, green and hard as rock. What use was this?

And then a small smile came to his face. He put the banana into a pocket of his jacket, for emergencies only. He also scooped up the matches and candles, to take with him on the journey. He looked upwards towards the darkening sky, and a small frown came to his face. He looked back towards Elizabeth's mill, the door closed. Everything about it telling him to keep the bloody hell out.

So he went towards it.

----------

"How long do you think it'll take to get to the top of the mountain?" Beckett's voice suddenly piped up.

"Get out of my house!" Elizabeth spluttered, and then spun around, throwing the nearest thing to hand towards him with as much force as possible, without really knowing why. Even by her standards, that was a little hot-headed.

"I'm not, technically, in your house," Beckett said indifferently from the doorway, as a box of matches bounced harmlessly off of his chest. "Also, I already have some matches," He added.

"Yes... my matches. My matches that you stole!" Elizabeth hissed, stepping forwards, bending down and scooping the box off of the floor, before adding them to the sack that she was planning on taking for the journey. "I take it you are ready to go?" Elizabeth quickly took a hold of her gun, and Beckett rolled his eyes, as if telling her that he got the point about the gun.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He asked her, instead. "I don't have anything to pack, do I? Speaking of things I don't have, you seem to possess a supply of clothing. I could do with some fresh ones, mine are a bit... frayed."

"There's no way off of the island." Elizabeth growled at him.

"So you say," Beckett said, raising one eyebrow, "But I don't think that you would willingly strand yourself on an island with no civilization or people to speak of with no way back. Why are you here, anyway?" He asked, the question coming to mind. Elizabeth didn't want to go into Will and his new task at that moment in time.

"Some other time," She said, with a smug smile. Let's see how you like having your words thrown back in your face, her expression said.

"Fine, fine," Beckett waved his hands as if it didn't matter, "Let's just get going now. Are you quite done with the packing yet? We're not going to be gone for weeks, you know. No need to bring everything you own," Beckett's expression said something along the lines of, women!

"Yes, ready," Elizabeth snapped, "Now you shut up and follow me. Don't say a word." She stalked towards the door, shoving him as she went past. He staggered, and nearly fell, grabbing a hold of the side of her home, wincing as his foot scraped the ground. Elizabeth took a deep breath, resisting the urge to apologize. She would not give in to it.

Beckett nodded and began walking after her, his head downcast like a sullen schoolboy, one hand still cradling his shoulder. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and continued to walk, but the silence deepened to an uncomfortable level. Elizabeth began to worry a little... why wasn't he saying anything? Why couldn't she think of anything to say? Why was everything sort of... weird?

Suddenly, the worry vanished. In fact, Elizabeth felt a little bit like laughing... she could see now. Beckett was sulking. She turned around, looking at Beckett, who looked back at her blankly for a second, before frowning and looking away towards the side. They wandered across the plains, and soon they'd reached the bottom of the rocky outcrop.

"Time to get cracking, then!" Elizabeth said cheerfully. She'd donned a pair of boots, along with some rough-type clothes, it was still a skirt, but they were like the ones worn by washerwomen and suchlike; made of tough material, and it didn't matter if they ripped or anything. The ground gave away to rock here; hard and unforgiving. Occasionally there was a tuft of grass or even a tree, but otherwise it was bare all the way up. It looked a lot bigger from down here.

Beckett took his hand off of his shoulder, and looked upwards, looking slightly apprehensive, but Elizabeth could see his determination, the way he jutted out his chin, and began climbing up, boots crunching on stones, hands feeling the way up. The base of the outcrop was rocky, steep and possibly dangerous; however, on top of that, Elizabeth could see that it evened out slightly, for a much more leisurely walk up to the top.

Elizabeth began her climb, and wondered what Beckett was thinking.

----------

Why did I even suggest this? Beckett didn't like to be seen by anyone scrambling up the side of a cliff in an ungainly manner. He preferred gliding across a marble floor, oozing magnetism, mystery and money. He also didn't like to be in the presence of one of the few people who he found hard to manipulate, use or charm. But life was tough, and he had to do this.

If there was civilization just over the hill, then of course he would go there. But he wouldn't simply stay there, as promised to Elizabeth. Any town that wants to flourish in the world – and in Beckett's opinion, what else could a town want? – must have contact with mainland America. Which meant a port, which meant ships, which meant a way back. Perhaps not a way back to the champagne-quaffing, chandelier-swinging and diamond-encrusted life he had lived before, but he could work up to that.

He'd get himself a new name. Now what could it be? Cutler was not the most lovely-sounding of all names, even he himself had to admit. He'd always liked Beckett, though. The sharp syllables that could be easily snapped out. He was known more as Beckett then Cutler, anyway. It had always been that way.

A new name. He didn't want it to be too out of the ordinary. Calvin, Samuel, Simon. Connie Hutchinson. Ike, Orval, Hall. Joseph McConnell, Ray Malone. There were so many. Armand, Cedric, Sergio? Sergio was nice. Foreign. What about Hunter? That was a nice name too. Seemed to suit him. Hunter. Preying on innocent victims, sucking them dry. Yes, he'd be called Hunter. As for his last name... Kendall? Sargent? Santos? Paul? Ah, no, Kelley. Hunter Kelley. No, that was far too girly. Kelley. Hunter Carroll? Too merry! Hunter Palmer. That just sounded ugly. Hunter Weaver...? Wrong, that was wrong too.

He was about to begin going through an A to Z of last names, when Elizabeth finally spoke, disturbing his thoughts. He frowned slightly.

"Pardon?" He asked her.

"We're nearly there now," She said. She looked down at him. "It's getting darker, though. I didn't realize the day had gone on so much." Beckett had, of course, realized. But he had decided not to mention it so they could make a start quicker. "Once we get to the top of the steep part, we'll make... camp," Elizabeth pulled a face, as if thinking about how... friendly it sounded.

"Good, good. Yes. Fine." Beckett said, quickly. He noticed Elizabeth smiling slightly, as if about to laugh at him, but she quickly covered it. And then he continued his climb, wondering what sounded right.

Hunter Kelley was still in his mind. Too girly, too girly! Hunter Howard. Hunter Walsh, Goodman, Compton. Hunter Hunter. No! Hunter Bates, Hunter Wise. Lucas, Walters, Schultz, Buchanan. Hunter Burks – Hunter berks. Ah, how about Dorsey! That was rather good. Hunter Dorsey. Oozed class.

Not Hunter Kelley.

----------

Beckett was being quiet. What sort of scheme was he hatching up? What plan was going through his mind? Was her impending demise at the centre of his mind at this very moment? Elizabeth didn't trust Beckett at all; she wouldn't trust him as far as she could throw him. I wonder how far I could throw him? She mused. Quite far, she'd imagine. Perhaps she'd get a chance to find out.

They were nearly at the top of the first rocky jut now...

NB: Heh, here they go. I love writing Elizabeth and Beckett banter, for some reason. It's fun.

Next update contains witty talking, kitty talking, much rum gulping! Completely cracked Cutler coughs up covert casualness! (ack!) (and he's drunk, too...)