Disclaimer: Disney owns all, except my original characters. Title inspired by Biffy Clyro - 'Bubbles'.
Teuta could not discern her feelings. She was pleased her mother was free, but then that would mean she might never see her again. She was also glad James – it felt informal, yet natural to use his first name – had not realised her internal pain when she spoke; she did not want to disclose her personal troubles to him. In time. Or sooner. The sea – her mother - had told her many things that morning on the sandy shores of the Pantano's mouth. She felt engulfed, drowned; couldn't process it all. Teuta heaved a breath. It had been a very long time since she had felt the desire to be hugged by her mother. Instability had arisen in her and, as a child, a comforting hug would have washed it all away. But not now.
I shouldn't lie.
Teuta had stopped distracting herself with crustacean exo-skeletons when James had left the room in search of a comb. There was no need to avoid him or his chartreuse stare any more. She could hear him next door, prising out the tangled sections of his brunette locks. She had been thinking about him on-and-off recently, beyond the matriarchal fashion she had had previously when tending to his wounds. She thought about how she might miss him when he left; for he surely would leave. He was fit to return to Port Royal now; go back to his life.
A light cough came from behind her, as James re-entered. Teuta cocked her head, momentarily forgetting her worries, as she eyed up the handsome face before her. How different he looked, clean shaven and hair un-matted. His brunette tresses fell down to his shoulders, still shiny and damp. His jaw was defined, a more obvious attribute now that it was not peppered with stubble. His eyes were incandescent, no doubt because he felt more like himself after his ablutions. Dis William Turn-ah must 'ave been somet'in' of a god for Elizabeth to choose 'im. Then she reminded herself that it was not always dependent on the looks. But if it were judged purely on outward appearance, James would never have remained a single man for so long.
'What is that song you always hum?' he asked, apparently unaware of her wandering eyes.
Teuta was caught off guard; she hadn't even realised what she was doing. Nowadays she began to hum subconsciously and couldn't record when or where she did it. 'Somet'in' I learn as a child.' She smiled unconvincingly.
''Tis a dulcet tune,' he spoke with a thoughtfully distant gaze, as he was trying to recall the song. Maybe she would share it with him one day.
'It 'elps me t'ink.' She still was thinking – how much worse it would feel to not tell the whole truth. She did not want him to come to despise her, call her a liar. She let out a mournful sigh and pushed herself from her seat. 'James…' His name sounded perfect out loud and yet she was about to break his trust in her forever. 'I mus' tell ye dis now, an' pray ye don't come t' resent me.'
James passed her a look of concern, but his brow was also furrowed in confusion. Teuta willed herself not to keep up her pretences, despite how it might destroy whatever relationship there was between them.
'Der is sumt'in' more t' Davy Jones.'
'What?' He moved towards her, causing Teuta's breathing to quicken. She already felt the oncoming storm of his dark emotions and would have gladly run outside and submerged herself in the depths of the Pantano. Teuta sucked her bottom lip in to lick it.
''Im 'ave a child.' Her voice was steady, but her mouth was parted and quivering, like a child on the verge of tears. Green eyes narrowed and bored down on her. ''Im ave me.'
James wasn't quite sure what to think or say. He couldn't mentally articulate anything, let alone verbally voice his opinion. How could that be? That this creature was the daughter of that tyrant? Impossible!
'Am…' his words failed him, but he forced his voice to be heard, 'Am I to assume that your mother is the woman Jones carved his heart out for?' Teuta nodded, with a sympathetic gaze. She had no right to pity him.
Because of her mother. Jones had become what he was, because of her mother. Jones' heart. That damned heart had brought about James' downfall.
Now it all made sense; her father being a sailor, but always absent. All this time, she had concealed her true self, while his life had been open to her magical powers like a book. At that moment, he could feel nothing but betrayal. It was as if Fate wished his woes with Elizabeth to be conjured up again, in the form of this native. Why had he dared to trust her?
'I swear everyt'in' else I 'ave said be true.' Her attempt at assuring him was lost. He should have learnt by now not to drop his emotional barriers, even by a fraction and especially in the presence of a woman. It always ended in tragedy for him. Always.
'And why should I believe you?' he hissed coldly, staring down the length of his nose at her. 'You are a liar. No better than Jones himself!' Her resolution to remain civil snapped at the heart-wrenching insult. She moved closer to fight her corner, wetting her lips and warning him of her oncoming outburst.
'I never judge ye, Admiral,' she snapped, her whole face darkened by her anger, her whole body trembling as she threatened to hit him. James felt a minute shiver of worry pass through his spine at the unsettling shade of stormy charcoal her eyes appeared to have become. 'I know 'ow ye 'and over de 'art to Beckett an' sail for 'im - de man who try t' control de Devil 'imself! Ye betray everyt'in' an' everyone for yer precious commission! An' even den, I raise ye from de dead, 'cause I know ye an 'onourable man 'spite yer faults. Ye would scorn me widout good reason? Do not vex me, James Norrington! Ye know not what I am capable of!'
Her menacing words shook him, enough to force him to return a physical void between them. Teuta unclenched her fists and, luckily for James, kept her arms by her sides, rather than deal a blow to his face, like a catty woman might have done. Her rattled form stilled and her ferocious eyes calmed. Rather than release her pent up frustration on him, she rushed from the shack, scattering objects and slamming the door in her wake.
James suddenly found himself at a loss; duplicity was being replaced with guilt and rationality. Coherent thought gradually reinstated itself in his mind and the mistake he had just made dawned on him. He could not recall the last time he had been so vile to someone, except Sparrow of course. Teuta may have been the surviving remnant of Davy Jones, but that did not automatically make her her father's daughter. You fool, James. You blasted fool.
He did not follow her; that would not help the situation. James used the time to contemplate what he might say. Apologize, yes; not for his own upset, but certainly for his uncouth behaviour towards Teuta. In no way did he want to make an enemy of this woman – she was wonderfully unpredictable – and he would – if he did not lose his tongue- try to tell her such.
Should I trace her steps or await her return?
He knew that if he were to attempt the former, he would most likely lose his way, as he knew nothing of the surrounding forest and river beyond the boundaries of the shack. Then again, this wasn't his home; it felt awkward – inappropriate - to be here when Teuta was not. Norrington settled on braving the unknown; the fresh air would do him good, rather than the steamy, constricting atmosphere of the shack. He walked towards the front door, avoiding the scattered detritus the witch had left, not daring to touch any of it in case she saw it as a further excuse to verbally attack him – or worse.
James expected that some of the villagers may have gathered outside to eavesdrop on the row, after all, there were shacks only a few metres away, but when he heaved open the door there was no one watching. It's as if no one else inhabits this place. A ghost town. Although, thank heavens I don't have to explain myself to any neighbours. He strode on to the porch, his lungs heaving as he filled them with the damp air of the forest. How serene the outside world was in comparison to the riled nature of his host, and himself for that matter. James took the small journey down to the jetty and stood by the water's edge.
As he stared at his reflection in the mirror of the river's surface, his mind wandered back to the outside world. It was a peculiar thing; being alive when everyone else believed him dead. Even more peculiar that he could only thank one person for his current predicament, and he had just pushed that same person away. Or so he thought.
James looked up and down river, surveying for any signs of life, which might point him in the right direction. It was then, with his keen sight, that he spotted the familiar form of the witch. She was sat on the bank, her toes just tickling the cold water and her hand skittering over the shallows, like it had done when close to his wound. She either had not noticed him or did not want to notice him, with the former being the less likely. He pursued her anyway; this time he could safely say it was not for an idealistic love affair, but for an unalloyed reconciliation.
He left his boots on the jetty – they were hardy leather and the last thing he wanted was to drown them in water – and set off along the muddy, yet stable, edge of the Pantano. The closer he became, the more he noticed that she was completely unresponsive, except for faint breathing as her chest rose and fell. Her eyes were closed, her head resting on her knees which were drawn up to her chin. She was sleeping, and if not that daydreaming. A full blown argument occurred mere hours ago and she has managed to doze off?
It was impossible to be unobtrusive when stirring someone from their sleep, but against his better judgement James made his presence known by quietly clearing his throat. In a style reminiscent of his regimental days, he clasped his hands behind his back and waited patiently. Teuta twisted her head in his direction, with a wave of tumbling dreadlocks, revealing the smooth arch of her right shoulder and neck; brown, glowing skin, so close he could almost touch it. She passed him a dazed look, but showed no remnants of animosity in her dark pools. Her expression appeared dispassionate, although irritation was pinching the edge of her lips tightly together.
James felt the same palpable tension as he had that fateful day he proposed to Elizabeth; but this time he knew he would not stumble over his words, like a school boy out of his depth in the realms of relationships.
'I have come to offer a hand of apology,' he began with steadfast conviction. 'My conduct was completely inappropriate,' he paused, 'you were right and I am very sorry.'
Teuta's lips relaxed and turned upwards, in a rather humorous smile. She withdrew her hand from the water and wiped it on the hem of her skirts. 'Yer forgiven,' her eyes showed the deeper meaning her voice did not convey. She didn't need to voice her own apology; not for him. For her to accept his was enough to raise his spirits, even by a fraction. He was sympathetic, understanding even, of her circumstances. Davy Jones could hardly be called an exemplary father, but Teuta had still lost him and would need time to mourn his passing.
'Enough of dis,' she said gently, patting the space beside her. 'Come, sit. An' tell me of dis Elizabet' Turn-ah.'
