-Bloodlust: Touching the Dark -

12 months ADC

Year one into condemnation. Had it truly been only, yet already, an entire year…?

The only sign of a ship on the water was the bulbous light from a lantern, its rays caught in the swirling mists that had rolled in on the sunset tide. There wasn't a worse situation to be in, lost in fog and surrounded by the dark of the night. Especially in the waters of the Caribbean where ghosts were rumored to walk. However, with a destination of Kingston, they had no choice. And so the light of the lantern bobbed waywardly on, a lone light in the dark.

That light was all they needed.

The boom of the cannon was close, so very close that the shower from the broadside hit its target with complete accuracy. Jarred from their hammocks, the men aboard the wayward vessel awoke to the tearing and splintering of wood and the screams of the crew that were maimed by eight-pound flying balls of lead. Some even perished in their sleep.

It didn't take the eyes of an eagle to see the disorganized figures now running about on the injured ship. Not with his own ship being so close. Unbidden, a vampiric smile lifted his weather-beaten features as he looked down upon the panicking victims. He chuckled, hearing their startled cries as a black ship loomed wraithlike and frightening on their starboard side. Another boom of the cannons rocked the black ship slightly, lighting up the night around them. The air coming off the shot sent the fog whirling and opened up a rift in the endless mist. Moonlight, pure and silver, cast down. His voice broke harshly through the boom of cannons. "Prepare to board, ye bloomin' cockroaches!" And then, seeming to come from every direction…laughter, manic and malevolent. The sailors only caught a fleeting glimpse of their fate as it came swinging at them in the form of the walking dead, the moonlight playing on their bones and rot-riddled flesh, making their eyes glow.

No, they would never truly find out what hit them that night. The only man left alive was found three days later, still pale and staring from shock, blood from a head wound still sticky on his brow. And the only thing audible he kept saying? Black ship, black sails, ghosts…

--

The coin rolled across his knuckles, fingers deftly navigating it now in the opposite direction. It was a strange thing that such an object, small as it was, caused so much trouble and cause to worry. Wouldn't the scholars be thrilled; size really didn't matter. Hector Barbossa snorted lightly, now placing the coin in the center of his palm. The leering skull smelted onto the surface grinned up at him, laughing at him, taunting him. Hooded eyes taking on a light of annoyance, he pushed his chair back a little to prop his boots up on the table. Maps left by Jack Sparrow over a year ago shuffled slightly under his heels, protesting the rough treatment. The heave-and-pitch of the Pearl beneath him titled the cabin back and forth gently, a pencil rolling across the maps to be lost in the folds of parchment.

A rogue shudder sent a tingle up his spine, the laughter of Cortés ringing in his ears. The conquistador haunted his dreams after the initial discovery: scenes of terrible bloodshed around pyramids of gold, a feathered serpent casting a burning gaze on that wretched chest, silver-chested soldiers taking mercilessly the lives of the dark-skinned Aztecs, his scarlet stained hands clutching handfuls of gold and silver. And always, Barbossa was in the center, forced to watch and forced to learn the lesson laid before him in the disturbing images.

The slam of his hand on the table snapped him back into the real world. He was not surprised that the impact was something he couldn't feel but he could never quite steel himself for it. Even after a year, he still felt the hunger, experienced the thirst and the lust. And yet nothing when cold steel rent his flesh or a bullet entered his chest. A dead heart to feel heartbreak at not being able to live. It was all so…contradictory.

Only a year…he let his eyes close in frustration. The coin in his hand was number one hundred forty-one. An almost sobbing laugh escaped him. That left only seven hundred and forty-one to go. Ha. Opening his eyes, he knew this wasn't like him to be agonizing over something. He'd never felt this unfamiliar feeling before. Was it fear? No. Every pirate, no matter how black-hearted, felt fear. Was it sadness? No. He knew that as well, possibly more so than what people expected. Was it…helplessness? No. A hundred, a thousand times no. Barbossa swore that he would never feel such blasphemy. He'd wrought fate with his own hands since the day he left Cheapside, London and hadn't stopped since. He was never helpless.

A long-nailed hand reached up to stroke his chin, the other lifting up off the coin. Loss of humanity. That was it. He'd lost his humanity. But, it seemed such a trivial thing before the curse. Why care now? Had he taken it for granted? For the first question, Barbossa figured he didn't care. That was impossible as the curse had robbed him of a heart to care with. For the second question…maybe he had. Mortality led to humanity led to vulnerability led to weakness. That was how he summed it up. So, in a sense, he had taken it for granted. And now he had eternity to mourn for it if they didn't reclaim all those pieces of gold.

The laughter rang in his ears. "Greed." The word rolled off his tongue so well it was fairly amazing that it was a sin. But, in spite of those who refused to believe in God, it was a sin. And a punishable sin at that. Barbossa curled a lip, pushing the coin away from him.

This curse wouldn't defeat him. He'd show Cortés. He'd show them all. Hector Barbossa Haywood was not about to give up. There were advantages to this curse that a weaker, self-pitying man would not see.

A pulse. The laughter ceased in reverence and was replaced by a dull, muffled ringing punctuated every so often by a heart-beat like noise. The gold was calling.

--

The fog rolled in at about 1 A.M. The sleepy port on St. Vincent was dead to the meteorological anomaly, resting peacefully. And on the fog came the ghost ship. The Black Pearl. Not a word was spoken among the crew. They all went to their assigned stations, the routine practically embedded into their minds. Long boats were lowered into the fog-blanketed water. The cannons were pointed towards the fort and the bo'sun issued the fire order.

In the stern of the lead long boat as it headed towards shore, Barbossa cast a trained eye over the sleeping port. His vampiric smile, one of crooked yellow teeth, lifted his features once more. The cracking report of the guns was beginning to rouse the residents and local law enforcement. He looked over his shoulder at the crew rowing behind him. "Take what ye can, give nothin' back. If ain't broke, break it. If ain't yours, take it. And if anyone gets in the way…?" He let his voice rise slightly as if in question and lifted a hand with a flourish to cup his ear. The unanimous war cry of the crew rolled back at him.

Barbossa had to hand it to the redcoats; already they were storming the beach, flint locks raised and aimed. They were much more efficient than the last port they sacked. The crisp orders of a marine lieutenant rang out immediately followed by the crack of the rifles. Barbossa actually watched as at least three bullets lodged into his chest, gut, and leg respectively. The smell of gunpowder floated on the air and he breathed it in with his monster's smile. It was too bad there wasn't a good moon out tonight or it would have been a lot more enjoyable to see the terror on these over-confident pups' faces as they beheld the moonlit transformation.

The rise onto the beach passed into a blur as the crew rushed around him like a wave. Barbossa felt he rather missed the cool, spiky feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins. The first bullet he shot caught a poor fellow between the eyes. His other pistol took out the lieutenant. Upon drawing his sword, he could feel that Cortés rising in him and bloodlust pulling his lips back in a feral snarl. Before, he'd always try to quell this feeling in order to stay in control. But now, as the thought of gold had tempted him, now the thought of power tempted him, made him stretch a hand out to the darkness.

It welcomed him with a smile of velvet fangs and open arms.


-Old Acquaintances-

3 ¾ years ADC

The small port town of Standish was a port in its infancy on the western coast of Jamaica, decidedly insignificant in comparison to the bustling Port Royal that was steadily overtaking the entire island. In spite of its smallness, however, it was quite successful in its own meek little way, quarterly pulling in hardly a fourth of what Port Royal did but pulling in more than enough for the town itself. It had its docks, various cleanly run taverns, carpenter, blacksmith, mayor, etc. But of the mainly sole proprietorships in Standish, it was in fact the surgeon and a local pub that were the most well known. Coincidentally and not to mention conveniently, they were located right across the street from each other. The surgeon was known under the name Kristofer P. Tawny but everyone just called him Doc Kipper. The pub was called The Flute N' Rum and its owner went by the name Abraham Meyer. There wasn't a soul in Standish that didn't know of the two. With their business coinciding together, the largest percentage of Standish's income passed through their hands. And that was what made them obvious targets.

"Is that all?"

"Aye." The informant opened a hand and given a spare farthing for his troubles.

"Is that all?" the young man queried again. Suddenly, he was hauled off his feet and found a knife perilously close to his jugular. One of the shadowy figures in the alley detached itself and came forward around the larger one holding the lad by the front of his shirt.

"Keep flappin' yer jaw n' that won't be all I'll order this man t' give ye."

"Really?"

"Don't test me, boy. Take yer farthin' n' get." The large shadow dropped the lad back to his feet and the kid took off, clutching his meager tithe. The two figures watched him disappear down the alley and around the corner of a building before one of them spoke. "Ye think he'd lie?"

The large shadow shook its head. "No, sah. He may 'av been stupid but he weren't lyin'."

"He better hope he weren't," the first growled, sending a pointed look in the direction the boy took and then turning on one heel to head in the opposite direction towards another street. The large shadow followed. As they withdrew from the depths of the alley, light played on their once hidden features. The larger shadow was a burly beast of a man of African descent, the markings of his home tribe still around his eyes and in various patterns on his bare chest. The other was somewhat smaller than the slave-turned-pirate but he was no less intimidating. From his garb, he too fit the pirate bill; feathered hat, long overcoat, folded-over boots, scarred visage, saber, and pistol. He walked with a slight limp in his left leg.

This was a captain and his bo'sun, the first known as Barbossa and the second known as Isaak. The two talked as they made their way to the street, not even looking at each other as they did. "So it seems we must be targetin' dis surgeon and pub."

"Aye, if that scamp didn' jus' take us fer a pair o' fools," Barbossa replied, pausing as they stepped out of the alley and looking both ways. The cobblestone streets of Standish were only bothered with moderate traffic at best and it wasn't uncommon to see lone persons making their way down an empty street. Barbossa and Isaak didn't even register a glance from an old woman knocking dirt from a rug not two feet away.

"What if de gold isn't dere?"

"Then we take the treasury n' from there, the mayor's. I'll scout out these two meself. Get back to the ship n' tell the crew we're to attack as soon as we have th' cover o' darkness."

"Aye, aye, sah." And with that, Isaak took a right and headed down the sloping street to the docks. Barbossa looked after him and could easily pick out the Black Pearl sitting like a beast in repose amongst various merchant ships, some smaller and some larger. Sniffing lightly, Barbossa proceeded to take a left and make for the upper part of the town where Tawny and Meyer were supposed to have their businesses.

As a pirate, one could expect that Barbossa wasn't quite used to trekking up hills. He wasn't. The slope leveled out just as the sign of The Flute N' Rum came into view. Slightly winded, he looked at each of them in turn. The buildings seemed to be like any other regular building, the surgeon's on the left and the pub on the right. They shouldn't be too difficult to break into. Most of the crew would be looting the rest of the town just in case there were any other pieces of Aztec gold about. They'd only felt one precursory pulse but, had there been more than one coin dropped in the water, they would never know unless they searched.

It was very likely that Tawny and Meyer were in cahoots with one another and put their businesses across from each other on purpose. People who happened to receive an injury in The Flute N' Rum could just stagger across the street to the surgeon's. It was just good business. Barbossa inhaled deeply and let his senses stray. Ah, faintly, there it was. The familiar throbbing in his ears, the siren's call of the gold. He nodded to himself with a smirk. It was here.

--

Unbeknownst to Barbossa, there was a face watching him from the upper story of the surgeon's office. The young apprentice of Tawny himself drew away from the window with a perplexed expression. "Someone having fits in the street again, Robert?"

The young man turned to the speaker. Behind a small roll top desk sat the one and only Kris Tawny a.k.a. Doc Kipper. The surgeon had dark hair streaked with grey and brown eyes that seemed to laugh behind the pair of spectacles balanced on his nose. He did not look up from his task of writing out accounting notes. "Nay," Robert replied. "There's an odd looking fellow down there. I think he may be lost." He hardly seemed concerned. The apprentice then turned his gaze on the newsletter in his able hands and meandered over to a cushy chair resting next to Tawny's desk.

The doctor's eyes glanced up only briefly to rest on the paper. He made a noise of near-disgust. "Those pirates struck St. Vincent again? Those bloody dogs are taking piracy a bit too far, me thinks."

Robert sighed in agreement. "There's a rumor running about that they're cursed. And for real, too. I heard that they turn into ghosts or immortal corpses or something morbid like that."

"Bah." Tawny dashed the tip of his quill into the inkwell and continued writing. "Hallucinations. They tend to strike when one is under stress and, believe you me; one is rather stressed when being set upon by pirates."

"To be sure," Robert replied, turning the paper over to read the back. Tawny reached for a small bag sitting on one of the shelves of the desk; the week'f profit. Humming a jaunty, Scottish-sounding tune, he undid the drawstring and dumped the contents into a neat pile just to the right of his papers. The coins made a merry jingling sound as they struck each other. It brought a thoughtful smile to Tawny's face, remembering a time when he didn't used to go by the name Kris Tawny. Almost excitedly, he began separating the money into farthings, pounds, etc. to count them out. However, one piece made him pause. Brow furrowing, he picked it up to let light from the window play off its golden surface. Larger in diameter than any of the other coins, it didn't even have a coat of arms on it. There was a face smelted into it but it was no royal profile. It was a skull.

--

The summer heat slacked off as the day progressed and the sea breeze swept away the oppressive heat and humidity. Clouds had begun to gather in the early afternoon and the infant night's skies were largely choked with storm clouds. As common during the hot months, many of the days were closed with thunder or rain storms. Even now as the sun turned the sky a vibrant mix of scarlet, orange, and gold, the cooling sea breeze had the scent of rain upon it. Barbossa could feel it in his shoulder; a storm tonight was imminent.

The Black Pearl shifted positions as night fell over Standish, her broadside now able to fire at any position in the town. The light of day gone, the silhouette of the Pearl was gradually lost in the dark. The eerie fog spread a thin sheet of mist over the waters of the harbor as if lessened in respect to the gathering storm. Barbossa, standing at the top of the stairs to the quarterdeck, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could hear it. At first a soft, erratic patter of drops across the water and then into a dull, steady roar. The drops broke the surface of the mist but did not eradicate it. A baritone rumble of thunder snarled across the skies. "Isaak!" The bo'sun looked up from the main deck. "Let 'em know we're here!" Louder even than the thunder, the snap-boom of the cannons cut through the rain. The flashes of light at the barrels were the only indicators that a ship was even there.

Like a chain reaction, lights were coming on in Standish, the local militia aroused by the firing. Barbossa was down the stairs in a flash. "Landin' party, to me!" The long boats were lowered into the water and the cannons kept up their barrage, now turning a few guns upon the ships close by. A fire was breaking out on shore just as the howling landing party with Barbossa at the head touched their boats into the sand. The captain directed small groups of men to different places and then, with a group of about a dozen other pirates, headed towards the top of the hill for Tawny and Meyer.

There was a man waiting for them there. He seemed to take up at least a third of the narrow street himself. He wasn't fat; just huge. The man was aiming a large gun, an oversized blunderbuss, from his hip. "Have at ya, ye mangy, lily-livered dogs!" came the man's bellowing voice. Before Barbossa could wonder why a pub owner had a pirate's weapon, the man fired. He managed to duck most of the first shot but several of the pellets went right through his hat to strike the pirate behind him. By now, the man had tossed away his blunderbuss and was raising a sword and charging at Barbossa. It was an intimidating sight and the rain and thunder weren't helping.

Pushing any sort of human fear out of his mind, Barbossa ducked under the first swing, tripped the man and sent him over his back. Belying his large size, the man was back on his feet in an instant and fighting the pirates that came yelling up to meet him. Two of them weaved around the battle and Barbossa waved them to the pub. "If ye find it, bring it t' me!" Filled with his purpose, Barbossa then made for the surgeon's. There were no lights on in the building; the man was probably asleep or something. The lock broke with barely a kick and Barbossa stepped in, dripping wet and pistol raised. But, before he could even look around, a shot to his right nearly deafened him and sent a ball of lead into his side. Instinct threw his arm around and made his finger squeeze the trigger at the unidentified person who shot him.

The person ducked just as the pistol went off and shot a mirror hanging on the wall. The tinkle of glass faced off with the metallic clash of swords. Barbossa found himself parrying swift and calculated blows. This wasn't right. The boy had said that the only people occupying the building were the surgeon and his apprentice. No guards. And if this wasn't a guard of some sort, then who was it?

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room, immediately followed by a gargantuan clap of thunder. For a brief moment, Barbossa got a glimpse of his opponent. The determined visage of an older fellow with grey streaked hair was visible and then gone in the dark that followed the light. According to the boy's description, this was the surgeon! The lightning quick blows and parries went on for several minutes as they moved around the room. When the surgeon tripped backwards against the stairs, Barbossa brought down his blade only to have it stopped just before cleaving the surgeon in two. Another flash of lightning revealed the surgeon's snarling face, his own blade keeping Barbossa's from striking the killing blow. For a tense moment, it seemed as if the surgeon's grasp would slip but slowly, he managed to inch Barbossa's sword away from him.

The surgeon's foot flashed out to catch him on the knee. With a snarl, Barbossa felt his leg buckle and he toppled forward, just barely managing to avoid impaling himself of the other's sword even though it wouldn't have mattered. Before he could regain his footing, the surgeon was surging up the stairs. Barbossa scrambled after him, a fire in his eyes. They met again at the top of the stairs, blows and parries like silver blurs they moved so fast. Where had this man learned to fight? Barbossa asked himself. He was too good for a surgeon, too good for a civilian. And these moves, they mirrored his own almost perfectly. It was then he realized that he'd seen this man fight before, had fought against him before. But who was it?

It was on pure coincidence that they executed the same move, a powerful slash from left to right, at the exact same time. The blades met head on and rebounded violently with as much force, if not more. Another streak of lightning lit up the room and for a split second, their eyes met. Both seemed to register some sort of familiarity but by then, the mind was much farther ahead than the eye. The surgeon's blade pierced Barbossa's gut a millisecond before Barbossa's pierced his. Their eyes locked again and Barbossa knew who he just stabbed. "Kipper!" he exclaimed, barely managing to catch the man before he fell.

"Taught ye well…didn't I?" Kipp Toolles said through clenched teeth as Barbossa lowered him to the floor to prop him up against a wall. "For all yer skill, ye still can't stab to kill rightly. Barely hit any sort of vitals."

"I s'ppose that's the only reason yer alive then, ain't it?" Barbossa replied, not sure if he meant it jokingly or seriously. It was unsettling to find Kipper here. "What are ye doin' here, Kipp? Last I seen ye, ye were a pirate."

Kipper laughed but winced afterwards. "I could ask…the same o' you. Last I knew, you were dead."

"Ah, right. The storm." Absently, Barbossa's hand went to his shoulder. His former crewmate had aged and frankly, it disturbed him. It had been a long time since Barbossa thought about age. If he remembered correctly, he was somewhere near forty. That was even more unsettling. "If yer here, then Abraham Meyer is…"

"Aye. Captain Meyer, owner of the Flute N' Rum." Kipper was silent a moment, his eyes closed in pain. He surprised Barbossa by suddenly seizing his forearm in a vice-like grip. "Hector, it's a shame this is the last time we'll meet."

"What? No, ye said yerself I hadn't hit anythin' vital."

Kipper smiled grimly, a bead of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Never mind about me. Look, Teller wanted to give ye somethin'. Ye were too young at the time to receive it when he died." He gestured weakly to the room down the hall. "There. In that…roll-top desk. Top right drawer."

"Kipp-"

"Go!" Barbossa got to his feet and hastily jogged to the room. His prideful nature kept reminding him that Kipper was ordering him about like a cabin boy but he quickly gave pride a slap in the face and told it to shut up. The desk was to the left as he entered the room Robert had been observing from earlier that day. He rounded the desk but the sight of the apprentice hiding behind it made him stop.

"Don't hurt me!" he whimpered, hiding his head under his arms. Barbossa rolled his eyes and merely hauled the lad out of the way, tossing him roughly on the floor. He easily spotted the top right drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a little wooden box. Without thinking, he grabbed the thing and turned to leave. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled once more, the light glinting suddenly off gold. Barbossa halted, gaze snapping to the surface of the desk. There, sitting on top of a stack of papers covered in Kipper's neat, looping handwriting, was the piece of Aztec gold. Like a man dying of thirst grabbing for water, Barbossa snatched the coin from the papers and whirled out of the room.

Kipper was in the process of sitting up a little more, gasping in pain. Barbossa kneeled next to him and held up the box. "Open…it." He did so. Inside, there was nothing more than a little wooden sphere.

"What the…?" Barbossa picked up the sphere with his index finger and thumb, a confused expression on his face. "What is it?" Kipper gestured to the underside of the sphere with trembling fingers.

"Wooden eye." Barbossa turned it over to find a faux pupil and iris carved and painted into the wood. "Also known as one of the pieces of eight."

"What!" Barbossa was almost floored. In his hand was one of the pieces of eight, the calling card of a Pirate Lord. There nine other Pirate Lords, each in command of their own sea.

"Aye…That one…was handed down to Teller…when the original lord died. He wanted…to give it to you."

"Why?"

Kipper grinned weakly. "Who knows? Ben never…talked of it much. Just made me…keep it for ya when ya came into yer own."

Firmly shaking his head, Barbossa placed the eye back in the box. "I can't take this."

"You must!" Kipper seized his arm again. "There's no one else. Teller named only you …and the Code establishes that …it goes only to the one named." Here, the former pirate shook his head. "No one else."

Barbossa opened his mouth to speak when Robert's voice interrupted him. The apprentice was standing at the end of the hallway. "You're that captain! The cursed captain of the Black Pearl!" he cried, pointing wildly. He was confused at first but when Kipper too looked closer at him, he pawed slightly at him. The sword was still sticking out of him.

"It's real," Kipper hissed, eyes wide in amazement. Barbossa heaved a weary sigh. He gained more swords that way, getting one whenever an opponent ran him through and lost it between ribs or something. With a roll of his eyes, he nonchalantly pulled it out and set it on the floor.

"Aye." Kipper took a breath to speak but his eyelids fluttered sporadically. His other hand snagged Barbossa by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Barbossa could hear the breath rattling in his lungs. Timidly, Robert came closer, his expression on of concern for his master.

"The Cuh…Caspian Sea. Yer lord of it now." Kipper's voice was strained and Barbossa had to stretch to understand him over the pouring of the rain. He pulled a quizzical face.

"The Caspian Sea? I've never even 'eard of it."

"Neither did Teller," Kipper replied with a weak smile. "Ye'll take care of it…" The surgeon's voice faded to a hiss. Barbossa actually watched the light go out of his eyes. The grip on his shirt and forearm loosened and Kipper's hands fell to his sides. Kipp P. Toolles was dead.

"Kipp…" Gingerly, Barbossa removed Kipper's glasses and closed his eyes. Beside him, Robert made a gulping noise. He could see the apprentice trying to keep his composure but losing fast. Inwardly, he felt like he could do the same but tears were only a memory. In spite of this, he actually felt…partly human. A small part of him almost reached out to touch it. Immediately, he felt the dark-induced side of him repell this thought with a mental snarl as if it burned him. With only a curl of the lip, Barbossa stood, pulled his sword from Kipper's body, and left.

--

Outside, his crewmembers were having a hard time trying to deal with the large man. By then, the two that had gone into the pub had come back out, unsuccessful in their search. Barbossa didn't even break his stride as he stepped out into the rain and into the melee. The pirates backed away as soon as he did. Their opponent fixed a furious gaze on Barbossa and swung his sword like an axe at his head. Ducking easily under the wild swing, Barbossa seized the large man by the front of his shirt and somehow managed to shake him roughly. "Meyer, enough!"

The use of his name pulled Meyer, former captain of the Kracken, out of his berserker-like rage. Breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the smaller man before him, mainly the hat he wore. "Barbossa?" he asked breathlessly. Up close, Barbossa could see how Meyer had aged as well.

"Aye," he said with a rueful expression. "Go back to yer pub. We 'ave no quarrel with ye." His eyes ablaze even in the dark, he released Meyer with a shove. "Get back to the ship, the lot of ye," he snapped, turning his gaze upon the pirates. They moved without hesitation, scrambling back down the hill towards the harbor.

"So it's you then." Barbossa glanced back to Meyer. He couldn't tell if the man was happy or not to see him.

"If ye mean tha' Hell hound what's been in the papers often of late, then, aye. It's me." His tone a cross of dry sarcasm and smugness.

"Ye never lose yer tongue, do ye?"

"Only if ye say so." Their eyes met through the rain, both their expressions unreadable. Meyer seemed to understand what happened after Barbossa was washed overboard even if he didn't say anything. Finally, Barbossa felt his eyebrows turn up slightly.

"Kipper's dead. Don't ask by whose hand." Meyer's broad shoulders fell slightly at this, his gaze almost pitying. "I didn't know."

"He gave it to ya?"

"The piece of eight? Aye."

Meyer nodded, one corner of mouth turning up in an impromptu smile. "Ye got what ye wanted, Barbossa. Yer name feared, a crew of yer own, and now…yer a lord." Barbossa wouldn't dare disagree with him. A smirk of his own creased his features. And he would never forget the sight of his former captain bowing to him in the rain, an ultimate triumph in light of all the death.


-Helena-

7 ½ years ADC

A strange, thick fog blanketed the predawn waters. Unnatural, it sent shivers up one's spine and hung just as oppressively over the spirit as it did the sea. A lone ship ventured boldly through this fog. And from afar, it was an all too familiar scene. It had to have been the hundredth time in the past seven years they'd come upon a target that was alone in open water. Somewhere on that ship, a brig-sloop that seemed to be more a show of wealth than a ship, was an Aztec medallion. "Douse th' lamps," a lilting, commanding voice ordered. Like a wind had passed over the oil lanterns hanging in various places, the lights went out and left the captain and crew of the Black Pearl in a hazy darkness. They followed the other ship like a silent, stalking shadow, the hiss of the waves against the keel barely a whisper on the thick air. A waning half moon, barely visible over the mists, shone thinly on the water in preparation for the sun come up in her blazing glory over the horizon. In the case of a sailor, dark foggy waters in the wee hours of the morning were waters difficult to navigate. But, in the case of the crew of the Black Pearl, the weak light was a like a blessing.

Barbossa held his hand out before him, marveling at the light playing on his digits. It gave his hand an almost surreal quality; not quite transformed but not exactly solid flesh and blood either, bones visible at certain angles and not at others. But what was most settling was the fact that that damnable beast wouldn't try to take him over this morning. No, Barbossa was firmly in control over whatever inner demons had settled in with the curse. However, this wasn't stopping him from being the reputed cut-throat monster people told legends about. Without warning, Jack the monkey dropped down from the rigging onto Barbossa's shoulder. The pale moonlight toyed with his fur, giving him an almost see-through appearance and reflecting in his large eyes. Barbossa let a hand drift up to scratch him under the chin. "Isaak." He barely had to speak before the dark, imposing presence of the bo'sun was behind him. "Bring me Webster."

"Aye, sah." In the past, they often used traditional tactics on their prey; hit and run or surprise attacks. But, having been at sea for so long was forcing them to come up with more creative ideas. More often than not, Barbossa even went on with a boarding or raiding part just to have something to do. This morning was Friday and on Fridays, one of the crew members got to choose how to dispose of their target.

The crew had gathered on deck and was anxiously waiting to find out who got to choose this time. They groaned in disappointment when Isaak wordlessly pulled Webster out from the ranks. Webster was rather insane. His beady eyes, so light a blue they were almost white, were always darting around as if expecting something to lunge at him. Dirty blonde dreadlocks hid most of his forehead and eyebrows, only adding to his half-there expression. The man was twitching excitedly when Isaak brought him up onto the quarterdeck to Barbossa, who threw an arm roughly over the little man's shoulders. Jack made a noise of disgust and hopped down to the deck to make for a railing to perch on. He wasn't very fond of Webster. "Ye don't like them, d'ye?" Barbossa asked Webster, an empty smile pulling at his lips. The pirate shook his head vigorously. "Good. Now, how are we t' seize this ship?"

Webster blanked out for a second as he took the time to register the question. Gradually, he came slowly back to life, giving off the impression he was going to explode. Barbossa leaned away from him a little, not quite sure how this was going to turn out. Webster really must have been thinking about it. The crazy pirate inhaled sharply through his nose and emitted an amazingly loud, "BOOM!" The entire ship seemed to jump in surprise. Webster was in the process of repeating but Barbossa hastily clapped a hand over his mouth before he could do so. His gaze flashed out to the other ship, looking for any sign they were altering course, any sign that they'd heard the outburst. He didn't breathe for a full thirty seconds. Their target was unaware.

"Fool half-wit," Barbossa hissed, releasing Webster. The man pouted indignantly at the rough treatment but was promptly ignored. As monosyllabic as Webster was, it often wasn't difficult to figure out what it was he wanted. The 'boom' indicated some sort of explosion. Barbossa was positive it had nothing to do with the cannons. They almost always used the cannons. And from previous experiences, he knew that Webster was a bit of a pyromaniac. "Ready a boardin' party!" Barbossa ordered.

--

The gold writing on the stern of the sloop read Kingfisher and a British flag fluttered limply in the breeze. It was clearly the ship of an aristocrat from the gold molding that covered a large percentage of the vessel. A thing almost entirely for show with a sparse armament of barely sixteen guns. Barbossa almost felt bad for swooping down upon her like a bird of prey. Almost. With the fogs of the curse hiding them, the appearance of the Black Pearl suddenly next to them certainly surprised the few men up on deck on the Kingfisher. Barbossa chuckled with a grin and fondly patted the railing he stood next to. Under him, the Pearl executed these unseen approaches like it was an art form. If ever asked if he regretted marooning Jack Sparrow and taking her for himself, Barbossa would answer quite readily: Never.

But the appearance of the Pearl was not nearly as frightening as the show the pirates put on. Yelling and howling like demons, they swung over onto the Kingfisher with barely any warning. The weak moonlight also gave them the appearance of being partly translucent and that was disturbing by all accounts. Barbossa watched them flood across the deck, taking out the various sailors that were awake and moving about. He paid particular attention to Webster, Twigg, and Koehler, who dodged down into the holds for the powder magazine. "Beware return fire," he called out, remembering that, while the Kingfisher wasn't exactly a man-of-war, she did have some cannons. Isaak's brassy voice sent several pirates down to the gun deck to pop open a few cannon ports. But, if things went right, they would overwhelm the other crew and keep them from running out the guns.

Idly, Barbossa pulled his pistol from his belt to check the powder. Putting it on half cock, he meandered down from the quarterdeck to find a rope to swing over on. He hadn't gotten the chance to shoot something in a while so, why not join in at his leisure? "You goin', captain?" Isaak queried from somewhere behind him.

"Aye. Keep things in order 'till I return," Barbossa replied without turning, seizing a rope as it swung lazily back to the Pearl.

"Aye, sah."

Pulling twice on the rope to make sure it was secure, Barbossa stepped up on to the railing and, gripping the rope tightly, he stepped off. For a brief second, he seemed to plummet a few feet and then, as the rope stretched to its length and bottomed out, he floated back up level with the Kingfisher's deck. As if he was stepping off a carriage, Barbossa alighted upon the foreign deck almost elegantly. Stepping onto the deck of the Kingfisher was like stepping into a different country. Barbossa balanced experimentally on the balls of his feet. The movement of the unfamiliar deck was amazingly unlike the Pearl. The wood even felt different. Trying to keep from pulling a face, he cast a look around.

All around him, people's lives were being snuffed out. Well, at least those that tried to stand in their way. Still seeming as if he was taking a walk in the park, Barbossa let his mind wander. Now…were I a cursed piece of Aztec gold, where would I hide? Something prompted him to walk towards cabin. It was logical to assume the captain kept some sort of coffer and wouldn't pass up something as valuable as a piece of Aztec gold. Nothing happened for quite a long moment. So much so, the man who tried to behead him actually would have gone unnoticed if they silly fool hadn't been bellowing some sort of medieval war cry.

Barbossa ducked just as the silver flash of a blade flew by overhead, clipping off the end of one the feathers on his hat. It was the ultimate insult. He caught the bit that had been rudely chopped off as it floated to the deck and spun around with a snarl to see who had the audacity to do such a thing, his own sword now drawn. "En guard, pirate," challenged the offender. Before him stood a man that should have never been carrying any sort of weapon. The man was almost a half foot shorter than Barbossa and was garbed in the immaculate wardrobe of an English aristocrat. Everything he wore screamed high society, even down to the last hand-melted coat button. As it were, the sword was very out of place on his person. He wouldn't even be a challenge.

"I take it yer the proprietor of this 'ere ship?" Barbossa said, clearly not impressed by the man's bravado.

"Yes; Lord Nathaniel Hawkins," the man replied readily with a cocky smirk. "And I plan to get rid of any who try to loot her." The blade of his sword flicked up to hover under Barbossa's chin. "Especially pirates."

Barbossa found himself laughing. This snob was far too overconfident. Hawkins should have been sipping tea at some party in England, not aboard a ship in the Caribbean. Still laughing, he whipped up his sword to bat away the others, the metallic snarl of the blades sheering off one another quite audible even with all the noise around them. "Then be prepared t' die fer 'er," the pirate declared.

Had Barbossa been a different pirate, Hawkins would have had a much better chance of defeating him. But as Barbossa had assumed, it only took him maybe thirty seconds to get the man with his back to the cabin window and disarm him. Barbossa smiled almost apologetically before cackling and punching his sword through Hawkins's chest. The sword tip collided with the glass of the window and Barbossa could feel the glass give a little. He jerked his sword back out and Hawkins fell lifeless to the deck with a soft moan. "Silly fool," Barbossa said with a sigh, wiping his bloody blade on the dead man's jacket. He moved as if to turn away from the cabin when he noticed something in the window; a face. The face belonged to a young girl. The girl's expression was one of horror as she beheld the blood on the window and the dead man before it. And then, almost as soon as the face had appeared, it was gone. Barbossa inhaled sharply. Around the girl's neck was the gold!

He flew over to the cabin door and, finding it locked, promptly shot the handle off and kicked in the door. Inside it was dark as if nobody was in there. Not even a candle was lit; but, as he glanced at one of them, Barbossa could see blue smoke swirling from the recently extinguished wick. And there was a throbbing in his ears that he knew was from being in close proximity of the gold. Returning his sword to its place at his hip, he moved slowly forward, his boots making no sound on the plush rug and his eyes roving over every shadow. Nothing. At least, not until he began rounding the large oak desk near the back of the cabin.

How he managed to hear the girl gasp softly apart from the noise going on out on deck he would never know. In one fluid movement, he whipped out his pistol, cocked it, bent at the knees, and pulled the girl out from under the desk by one arm. A pair of flashing blue eyes met his, both daring and afraid. "Release me, scum!" she blurted out, slapping him. Unfortunately for her, the blow would not be felt and its sting lost on Barbossa. But, her audacity somewhat insulted him.

"From where I'm standin', yer not in a position t' be makin' such orders," he said in a low voice, jamming the muzzle of the pistol under her chin. His other hand released its vice-like grip on her arm and lifted the medallion from her neck.

"You killed him," she growled through clenched teeth.

"That lordly fellow outside? Aye, I did. Ye have somethin' t' say 'bout it?"

"Bastard," she spat. Barbossa resisted the urge to backhand her. Hi ugly sneer matched her own as he leaned closer to her, not quite caring that a girl knew such language.

"Missy, yer lucky I have such a merciful nature." With a jerk, the chain on the medallion broke and Barbossa swiftly transferred it to a pocket.

"Too bad I don't." The cool tip of a blade traced its way up his neck to stop just under his jaw. The voice was level, determined, and…feminine? Without moving the gun off the girl, Barbossa glanced coolly over his shoulder. It was a woman. A strangely familiar woman. However, Barbossa played it off. After all, he didn't really have to fear much as far as dying went.

"And who might you be, m'lady?" he queried, smiling unpleasantly.

"Exactly that," she countered smoothly. "Who's asking?" Barbossa opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the girl. Without warning, she punched him swiftly in the gut, snatched the pistol from his hand, and whirled around to stand beside the woman. While the curse wouldn't let them die, it certainly allowed one's breath to be knocked out. Barbossa fell back against the desk for support, doubled over slightly. That had been unexpected, he admitted inwardly. Looking up, he found himself out-numbered and mostly disarmed, a sword at his neck and a pistol aimed between his eyes. He wasn't sure how immortals got over being shot in the face but he wasn't about to draw his sword and find out. There weren't many obvious similarities but he had a feeling that they were mother and daughter.

"Clever," he said with a slight wheeze, turning to face them. The older woman was smirking but, as he turned to face her, the smirk faded as her eyes alighted on his neck. Barbossa knew what it was she stared at; an amulet shaped somewhat like a Celtic knot. However, he didn't know why.

"Where did you get that?" the woman whispered, now meeting his hooded gaze with a strange mix of hope and despair. Barbossa narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her for a moment. Yes, she was definitely familiar; the porcelain features, brown auburn hair, her eyes a mixture of hazel and gold. The same face, though fifteen years younger, and a name came to mind but he was afraid to say it.

"What business is it of yers?"

The sword blade lowered slightly. Her expression was fearful. "Because I gave it to my first love."

Barbossa knew his disbelief was as plain as day on his face but his mind had gone completely blank. Vaguely, he could see confusion on the girl's face as she glanced quizzically at her mother. He and the woman stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, each lost in the familiarity of the other's eyes. It was she who broke the silence, her mouth opening and closing several times before she spoke. "He…H-Hector?"

"Elaine. Elaine McCawber." Just saying the name brought to mind only a day's worth of memories, for that was how long they'd known each other before he left her. That had been almost sixteen years ago. His hand strayed absently to the amulet around his neck. Barbossa's mind whirled, assaulted by just about every thought possible in that moment. He heard himself asking what she was doing here, called to mind the last time they had met, and many other things but there was one thought that rang out the loudest. If Elaine was really this girl's mother then …who was the father?

"You know him!" the girl cried incredulously and not with a little bit of horror. Elaine didn't answer immediately and neither she nor Barbossa could have anticipated what happened next. The girl shot him with his own pistol. For a split second, Barbossa fancied he saw the bullet fly from the barrel before it struck him directly over his left eye. The impact knocked him to the ground and for a few panicked moments, all he saw were stars and the color red. Gradually though, his sight came back and he found himself lying facedown on the cabin floor. A few inches away from his face was the bullet, mushroomed out and sitting a small puddle of blood on the rug next to him. Now he longer had to imagine what immortals felt when shot in the head. Trying to uncross his eyes, Barbossa gingerly rose up on his hands and knees. Still alive. Behind him, he heard Elaine and the girl gasp.

"It's not possible," Elaine hissed. The girl was silent.

"Believe it. Yer lookin' at a cursed pirate," Barbossa said ruefully, using the desk to get to his feet. The girl was staring at him, obviously in shock, the pistol trembling in her hands. He leveled his gaze at her and almost simultaneously, the gun fell from her grasp to the floor. She followed suit and fell in a dead faint.

"Oh Hector…" The sword slipped from her fingers. Elaine was at a loss for words, her expression a mixture of pity and concern.

"Now I can say I been shot in the head n' lived," Barbossa muttered, wiping the blood from his forehead nonchalantly away. As customary with the curse, wounds inflicted sealed up almost as soon as they were given. Surprising him, Elaine rushed forward and seized him in an embrace. Unable to feel, Barbossa could only stand there and take what was given.

But the memories would not be ignored. Unbidden, they rose before him, ghosts of the past. Closing his eyes, he could see the port town with a name long forgotten. He could almost smell the salty air. In the harbor was the Kracken during her glory days. And on the salty breeze came the enthralling scent of honeysuckle perfume. It has been said that if there was anything Barbossa could ever find beauty in, it would have to be a ship. That didn't used to be true. The smiling dark-haired girl in the market place had spelled a certain doom for the pirate Barbossa but, in a sense, set free the man Hector Haywood. It had been a day and night of firsts for the both of them. And though he felt nothing now, Barbossa could remember well the feeling of love at first sight. It was a pale substitute. Almost timidly, he returned the embrace.

"I was so afraid, so certain that you were dead," Elaine said softly, her eyes on the floor. "I remember seeing the Kracken about a year after you left and you weren't on it. I feared the worst and Kipper confirmed it for me. They said you'd been lost to a storm. I couldn't forget you."

"I had been but some otherworldly power wanted me alive and washed me ashore," he replied. He didn't want to admit to not being as faithful in thinking of her as she had of him. As he spoke, Barbossa let his gaze drift to the fallen figure of the girl. Memory was making him fearful again. She seemed to be around fifteen, the same amount of time… "Who is she?" he asked. Elaine looked up at and turned in his arms to look at the girl.

"My daughter. Helena."

"By that Hawkins?" Elaine winced, not failing to notice the tinge of scorn in his voice.

"One could say I sort of used him. When I met him, I'd been working as a house maid. Before I knew it, he asked me to marry him. It was out of necessity. Helena was four and I couldn't support her on my own." She shot him a short, wary glance. "No, she's no daughter of Nathaniel Hawkins." A pause. "She's yours."

Barbossa was tight-lipped for a moment, his eyes narrowing unfathomably for barely a second. "Aye," he said somewhat flatly. "I can see who she takes after. No child o' that stuck up weevil would've stood up t' me like that." As of the moment, Barbossa wasn't sure what he was thinking. It was more like a mix of everything and nothing at the same time.

"You should come back to England with us, Hector. We could be a family." Those words were the figurative bucket of cold water to the drunkard. The sound of the battle still going on outside, the mental prodding from the medallion, the sight of men dying all brought Barbossa back down to Earth. It had to have been only a few minutes yet the entire scene felt like it took eternity. Had Webster and the other two – "Elaine, ye need t' get off this ship." He released her and gently pulled her arms from around him.

"What?"

"The Kingfisher is minutes from bein' blown t' smithereens. Me crew's plannin' on setting a fuse to the powder magazine."

"But all the sailors! What about them?" Her expression went from caring to horrified. She gestured to the door. "You can't-"

"By the powers, I sure as the tide can." The sharp tone of his voice made her jump. Barbossa seized her shoulders firmly. "Elaine…it's best ye give up on me. I'm a pirate and a cursed monster. I can't love. I can't feel. I can't afford to. Blast it all, I can't even eat. As long I have this duty," he pulled the gold from his pocket and held it up so she could see it, "I can't go with you." Letting go of her shoulders, Barbossa strode swiftly over to the large windows in the back of the cabin and threw them open. He then retrieved his pistol from the floor and patted Helena on the cheek to bring her around. "C'mon, girl, snap out of it."

"Hector, I don't understand." Elaine was there beside him.

"There's no time t' explain," he replied, hauling his slowly reviving daughter to her feet. "Can ye swim?" This he demanded of Helena.

"Wha-? Swim? Yes, I can." She didn't seem to truly realize that this was the same man she shot a few minutes ago.

"Good." Without warning, Barbossa picked her up, turned to the window, and promptly tossed her out. This gave her little time to react and she hit the ocean with a splash only a second after being thrown out. It may have been rough treatment but Barbossa wasn't concerned. "Elaine." He held out his hand to her. For a long moment, she stared at him, her eyes and face unreadable. She finally placed her hand in his but before she would allow him to pull her over to the window, she pulled him to her first.

"Promise me." Her voice was slightly strained, caught between anger and emotion. "Promise you'll find me again."

"Ye know I can't make any promises."

"Just do it. I'll wait for you."

"For how long?"

"However long it takes."

She planted a quick but fervent kiss on his lips before jumping out of the window after Helena. With the smell of honeysuckle still in his nose and the gold clutched in one hand, Barbossa didn't wait for the splash. He pivoted on one heel and made for the door. At about the time he reached the frame, Twigg and Koehler appeared there as well. "Is it ready?" Barbossa demanded. He showed absolutely no sign of what went on in the cabin.

"Sir, yer head…"

"It's fine. Is it ready?"

"The fuse is lit, cap'n." Impromptu, Webster popped up between them.

"'Alf a minute!" he shrieked before zipping away again.

"Then it's done. We got what we came fer." Barbossa flashed the coin and parted the two at the door, stepping on deck. "All hands, fall back or it's Davy Jones' locker fer ye!" Finishing off opponents if they had them, the pirates scurried back to the Black Pearl, leaving the sailors of the Kingfisher somewhat bewildered. As he jogged for a rope to swing across, Barbossa noticed the absence of long boat on deck. "Where are their long boats?" he asked aloud.

"We sent 'em over th' side. These blokes won't be needin' where they be headed," Twigg declared, seizing a rope as well.

"Very well." This time, Barbossa had to jump a little to get a good swing going. The deck of the Kingfisher was about a foot shorter than the Pearl. Isaak was shouting orders and pirates were scrambling for the rigging and releasing the sails. Finished with her prey, the Black Pearl turned away from the Kingfisher and made off with a southerly wind in her sails. Barbossa took the stairs two at a time to get to the quarterdeck in time to get a good look at the scene before it erupted. He managed to keep his expression flat when he saw no figures moving the water. At a chain length away, the scurrying crew paused to watch. Webster was excitedly counting down the seconds.

By now, the crew of the Kingfisher had become aware of the bomb about to explode and was hastily abandoning ship by diving over the sides. They wouldn't move fast enough. A crack like thunder split the air for a moment followed almost instantaneously by the splitting of timber and the roar of flames. The pirates threw out a cheer as the last bits of flaming canvas and debris smacked into the water, their dark deed done. Barbossa's brow furrowed as he looked over the water and he couldn't help but wonder if they made it. "Sah."

Isaak appeared beside him and pointed. "Wot of dat?" His breath catching in his throat, Barbossa followed the bo'sun's arm to spy the silhouette of an occupied long boat making its way furiously from the wreckage.

"Leave 'em. It'd be a waste o' powder." Barbossa let out the breath he'd been holding and turned a renewed smirk upon Isaak. "Let 'em spread the word." Let them live, he added finally to himself. The wraith of the moon had finally descended, giving way to the first rays of daylight as the golden sun broke over the horizon and cast the first rays of the day over the mist.

--

AN: Well, as it turns out, four drabbles turned into five and now I think I have the count at six with the sixth still in the works. Well, you know, one listens to different music during a writer's block and one gets different inspiration and ideas. Incredibly sorry for the horrible length, even worse than the last. For this little batch, I felt I needed to bring in Barbossa's truly dark side. They didn't call him 'the man so evil, Hell itself spat him back out' for nothing. Some sort of explanation was needed since finding out he was also a Pirate Lord, which was amazing. Just having the Bootstrap irony wasn't enough, I'm afraid, though I disliked killing poor Kipper. It was just how the story wrote itself. And on the final one, one never sees anything other than Will and Elizabeth offspring or Jack offspring fics. I also thought it'd be interesting if Barbossa did have a love once.

The port town of Standish does not exist, obviously. I came up with it for the sole purpose of 'Old Acquaintances.' I'm not sure I like the somber tone of this group but it does serve as a reminder that Barbossa's cursed years weren't all fun and looting.

Next Chapter: The Cursed Years come to a close with the discovery that the crew of the Black Pearl weren't the only pirates ever to suffer the curse of the Isle de Muerta.