Disclaimer: I think by this point, me not owning anything (except Stella) has sunk in.
A/N: Good times with chapter 9! Sorry it took so long to get out... it's actually been sitting on my computer for the better part of a fortnight, almost done... but as it was, I got a job! A real job, with very strange hours, that left me mostly exhausted and brain-dead. That's why it took me so long to get around to actually finishing it! I'm sorry. :(
Another reason it took so long to write is that AWE buggered something up. Now I have no idea where Stella's going to be during that part of the trilogy. Does she stay out of it? Does she stick her nose in? I don't know. Where are you during AWE, Stella? I still haven't figured that out.
So, 'nother poll-type thing (the other ended up with a mostly-resounding answer of "Sod Canon"). Where do you think Stella is during AWE?
But here it is! Enjoy! (And thank you to The Ladies for reminding me that I really needed to get my arse in gear.)
Chapter 9: Stella Pugnantis
James knew, when the pub went very silent for one brief moment, that Black Stella had entered the building. If he strained his ears, he could just about hear the chiming of the little bells she wore around her neck. He was three-fourths of the way through his first bottle of rum for the evening, and still had enough motor control to snag a chair from the table next to him, figuring that she'd come to speak with him.
He quickly spotted her, weaving through the crowd with her customary grace, making her way to the bar. She was dressed in grey this evening, and wore a heavy bag slung over her shoulder out of which poked several rolled up papers. Once she had secured her drink, she headed straight for his table.
Marvelling at her uncanny ability to find him wherever he was, James placed his hands on the table and stood to welcome her. "Good evening, Miss Bell."
"Good evening, Mr. Norrington," she replied, and James fancied that there was a certain warmth in her tones as she regally sat herself in the chair. "Drinking again?"
"As always," he shrugged, raising the bottle of rum.
"And not even using a vessel any longer—how delightfully uncivilised of you," she drawled, pouring herself a glass of what turned out to be red wine.
"What's in the bag?" James asked, nodding at the satchel she'd swung off her shoulder and placed on the floor.
"Many things," Stella replied vaguely.
He rolled his eyes. "You hardly need play the witch with me, Stella," he said dryly.
"I thought I told you not to call me a witch," she returned, raising her eyebrows and taking a ladylike sip from her glass.
"I thought you might be persuaded to overlook it since I don't mean it in malice," James shrugged. "It really is the simplest term for you."
"You could call me Stella," she suggested, smiling slightly.
"I already do that."
"Yes, but this time you have my permission."
"But it's not the same thing," he insisted. "'Stop playing the Stella'? You are Stella."
"And I am a witch."
"Not all the time. Sometimes you're a witch, sometimes you're a lady with specialised talents," James said, gesturing with his bottle.
This statement caused Stella to set her glass down and turn her full attention onto him. Her black eyes were full and liquid in the flickering light, reflecting both the candles on the table and the surprise in her flushed face. It all made her seem... softer.
Yet her regard—and the ever-present remembrance of what she was actually doing when she looked at him like that—made him nervous. "What?" he demanded gruffly.
"I'm... surprised you see the distinction," Stella replied slowly, still gazing intently at him.
"Surprised enough to tell me plainly what you brought in the bag?"
Laughing as she bent over to retrieve her things, Stella tossed the rolled up parchment onto the tabletop. "I read your stars," she announced, tapping one of the rolls.
"And?"
She unrolled the chart in a swift, sweeping motion, moving it in front of him, and standing to lean over and point at various circles, arrows, and symbols. However, in doing so, she unconsciously gave him an eyeful, straight down her dress. "As you noted a few days back, Denebola is at the centre of your reading right now, and has the most influence. It is in the house..."
Since he wasn't understanding a thing on the chart, his eyes were drawn to the expanse of her pale skin and the slight swell of her breasts. The golden light made the flesh softly luminous, like a pearl in the sun—so different from the powdered and rouged skin of the whores whose wares he usually sampled.
"...and since Venus is moving into Sagittarius and Regulus rising..."
He really had no idea what she was saying. Astrology was not among his oeuvre. But one thing he did know: while he suspected that Stella knew he wasn't paying attention to her charts, if she knew what he was actually paying attention to, she would be quite unhappy.
Removing his eyes from Stella's petite breasts, James sat back and interrupted her recital. "This is all very interesting and incomprehensible, Stella, but what does it mean?"
She sat back down, rolling her eyes and removing her breasts from James' line of sight. "It means, my dear Mr. Norrington, that what I said two days past is correct. Your fortunes are at a low ebb, but they will not remain so... hopefully."
"Hopefully?" James repeated dubiously. "I don't like that addendum."
"Neither do I," Stella agreed, grimacing. "Unfortunately, as it happens, you're in the same position I am."
"Which is?"
"Our fates are joined to that of Jack Sparrow," she replied, wrinkling her pointed nose.
"They're WHAT?"
"I don't much care for it either, you know," she informed him sourly. "But it seems that the rise or fall of your fortunes is dependant on how life treats Jack Sparrow."
James pondered this for a moment. "What happens to my fortunes if I kill him?"
Stella smirked swiftly, then shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe things get worse. Maybe things get better—maybe you're meant to kill him. I honestly cannot tell you. There's only so much I can know about you without knowing about Sparrow in turn."
"And I don't suppose knowing about Sparrow is as easy as just reading his stars?" James asked glumly, already knowing the answer.
"Of course not," Stella sighed, sounding just as gloomy. "I'd need to have him in front of me. Or at least know his birth date, or his star sign..."
"Which you don't."
"No."
"Can you discern when he'll next be here?"
"Not accurately, no."
"How about inaccurately?"
"Within the next year, Jack Sparrow will set foot on Tortuga again."
James pondered this. "You're right, that is inaccurate."
"As I've told you, prescience is not my gift," Stella said, a hint of apology in her voice. "However," she added, brightening, "I can try and tell you where he is right now, and thus we can estimate the time of his next arrive on Tortuga."
"How?"
"Common sense. If Sparrow is anywhere in the Caribbean, you can bet he'll come to Tortuga sooner or later," Stella explained calmly, bending over to take five more rolls of parchment from her bag, along with a little black velvet pouch.
Whisking the star charts off the table, she replaced them with what turned out to be, cumulatively, a map of the world. There was one of Europe, one of the Americas, one of China, another of China plus the Pacific ocean, and the last of Africa.
"This isn't the entire world," James noted.
"It's an approximation," Stella dismissed. "What I haven't maps for, we guess."
"You know, Stella, the more I learn about you and your powers, the more I discover how large a part guessing plays in your calculations," James commented, helping her to roll out the maps and assemble them properly.
"If guessing wasn't a part of it," Stella returned tartly, shifting so that Singapore moved away from the Barbary Coast, "I'd be omniscient. Not even Tia Dalma can get perfectly accurate results every single time. It's an ability, like anything else."
"Who's Tia Dalma?"
"A very dear friend."
As he finished adjusting the maps (they had a vaguely world-like map, although the scale was off inasmuch that Europe was twice the size of Africa and they were missing massive chunks of the Indian and South Pacific), Stella opened the black pouch and tipped the contents out onto the table. A variety of stones spilled out; black stones, white stones, grey stones—all polished to a high sheen.
The four grey stones were placed at the corners of their makeshift map, creating a rectangle even if the papers didn't make that shape on their own. All the other stones were pushed to the side, save for one: a clear crystal hung on a tarnished silver chain.
"What are you doing?" James inquired, watching as Stella picked up the crystal and let it hang from her spindly fingers.
"We are going to scry for Jack Sparrow's current location," she replied, holding her hand over the maps. The crystal dangled down over the surface, swinging calmly.
"We?" he repeated sceptically.
"Give me your hand," she commanded.
James complied, tentatively extending his arm out across the table. Stella grasped it brusquely, and placed it on top of the hand which held the crystal. Her fingers were soft and slight and cool, as always, and James wondered if the strange energy he felt where their skin was touching had anything to do with the magic they were apparently about to perform.
"Now concentrate," she ordered, jerking his attention back to the maps. "Concentrate on Jack Sparrow."
"Should I close my eyes?" he asked as he watched hers flutter closed.
"If you wish. It isn't necessary, though I find it helps me focus."
Giving a jaundiced glance to the buzzing activity around them, James shrugged slightly and closed his eyes. He brought all his memories of Sparrow to mind—the drenched, cocky pirate who'd threatened Elizabeth; the brash, arrogant man who'd stolen The Interceptor right out from under him; the calculating bastard who'd led him to the Isla de Muerte; the smug, loquacious escapee who'd slipped out of his grasp. He remembered the dark, kohl-lined eyes; the tanned skin; the cheeky, self-satisfied smirk; the beaded and dreadlocked dark hair; even his swaggering, swaying gait.
And over all these memories lay the driving need to catch him, banked but still burning, and a smouldering hatred that burned like acid through his heart.
"I'll thank you not to crush my hand, Mr. Norrington." Stella's sharp voice broke through his concentration.
James opened his eyes to discover that, while thinking of Sparrow, his hands had unconsciously clenched into fists—including the one pressed against Stella's. His grip was tight enough that he could feel Stella's birdlike bones grinding together, and her pale face was tight with pain she wasn't otherwise showing.
He immediately let go. "Forgive me."
Stella dropped the crystal and shook out her hand. "Hopefully, with all that emotion poured into the wand, I should be able to locate him without any further contribution," she said, wincing.
"I am sorry," he insisted.
"I know. Quite all right," she demurred, once again closing her eyes and dangling the chain from her fingers and letting it swing over the map.
James just watched. His eyes darted from the swaying crystal, to the rowdy pub around them, to the dark crescent of Stella's eyelashes as they rested against her white cheeks, back to the rowdy pub, back to Stella's lashes, then back to the wand.
The swinging was now centring around the Atlantic, the circle of its pendulous motion growing tighter and tighter. Suddenly, the motion stopped, and the crystal was drawn to a point somewhere off the coast of western Africa like a magnet, where it stood quivering on its point.
Stella opened her eyes and looked down to where the crystal remained, balancing upright and unmoving. "Success," she said, sounding pleased. "That, then, is where Captain Sparrow is at this very moment."
"Where is he going, though? Where is he coming from?" James wondered, peering curiously at the crystal.
"Mark that spot, please," Stella ordered absently. No sooner had James put his finger next to the point of the crystal than Stella whisked it away, tucking it back into the pouch. Then, she gathered the collection of white and black stones into her hands. "Move now, please."
The moment his finger was free of the map's surface, Stella opened her hands and cast the stones out onto the table. They scattered around the point in the Atlantic without any discernable pattern. Still, the brunette peered at them as though there was, murmuring quietly to herself as she touched her fingers to the map's surface.
"He's going north," she eventually announced. "North, along the African coast. He's heading for the Mediterranean... for Turkey. What on earth can he be doing in Turkey?" she wondered, almost to herself.
James scowled fiercely at the map. "Something illegal, most likely," he muttered.
"He's a pirate, James. 'Something illegal' describes his entire life," Stella scoffed, scooping the stones back into her pouch and moving to roll up her maps. But when she caught sight of his face, she paused, one hand hovering over Singapore. "What is it?"
"I almost had him there, you know," James commented, staring fixedly down at the Mediterranean. He tapped a point on the map. "There, off Tripoli. I was within sight of that blasted ship of his—within cannon range, even! I chased them out into the Atlantic, and I nearly had them—I was almost there! Not even your winds could help them, then."
He looked up from the table to find Stella staring fixedly into her lap, apparently ashamed of her own part in Sparrow's escape. He felt vindictively pleased at that, at seeing her actually remorseful for her actions, instead of defensive or defiant or annoyed or angry. But once she felt his gaze on her, she straightened up, hid her emotions, and stared at him quizzically.
"Since you're here, you obviously didn't catch them," Stella remarked, the question hidden in her words. "Has it anything to do with the hurricane I sometimes see in your mind's eye?"
Now it was his turn to look down into his lap. "Yes. It has... everything to do with that hurricane. That hurricane..." he said slowly. "It came upon us as we sailed out after them. I... we were so close to catching them—so close! I didn't want to wait... I knew we'd loose them if I did."
Stella winced. "So you sailed through."
"I didn't know it was a hurricane," he insisted dully. "I truly did not know. I thought it was only a storm. And once we were in, and I realised what we were up against, I tried to turn around. But I couldn't—not that there was anywhere we could've gone. We were too far into the ocean at that point."
"And you lost your ship."
"I lost my ship, my crew, my credibility, and my life," he said unhappily.
"You hardly lost your life, James," Stella snapped. "You may have lost your social position and your career, but you're still alive and drawing breath. Many are unable to say that—including most of your men."
James flinched, and kept his eyes trained on the table. Thus, he only heard when Stella softened. "I know how it feels, to loose everything around you and feel as though you've lost your life. Truly, James, I do," she said gently. "But life is a gift. The mere fact that you're still alive is a gift, and one not granted to everyone. Try to appreciate it?" Then, perhaps knowing that he had no response to that, she changed the subject. "May I ask you a question?"
"Didn't you just?"
She sneered at him. "I wish to ask you another question."
"Fire away," James said dismissively.
"Why did you chase him? What was so all-fired important about catching Jack Sparrow that you were willing to go through a hurricane to do it?" Stella asked bluntly.
James smiled bitterly. "You know, I ask myself that question almost every day," he remarked, taking a hearty swig of rum. That nearly emptied the bottle, and he set it down with a clunk. "If you want to hear the entire tale of woe, I'll need more rum," he announced.
The rum was swiftly procured, and soon enough he had his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle as he prepared to tell a story he wished he'd never known to a woman he didn't much like in a place he heartily desired to leave.
He took a deep breath. Then he let it out. He took another, then exhaled. Inhale, exhale. This process was repeated several times.
"Are you going to actually speak one of these days?" Stella inquired acidly.
"I'm trying to find the beginning," he snapped back.
"Perhaps when you first laid eyes on our intrepid captain?"
"No," James immediately denied. "No, not then. I had him, then—I didn't need to chase him. But then there was the debacle with the Black Pearl and Elizabeth's abduction and Sparrow's escape and so... other things took my attention," he said wryly.
"So your consuming desire to capture—or recapture, I should say—Sparrow did not begin with the events revolving around the curse of The Black Pearl," Stella prompted.
"Well, sort of," James frowned, trying to straighten it all out in his increasingly rum-soaked mind.
Stella briefly covered her face with her spidery white hand, before straightening up and regarding him with a bemused smile. "I would ask you about it later, when you're sober, but I suspect I shall never find you so honest as I do now," she remarked wryly. "Why do you need to find and kill Jack Sparrow?"
"Because I need my life back," he replied promptly, and took another drink.
"And how will killing Sparrow get your life back?"
"He's the one that ruined it in the first place!"
"Not that Jack isn't wonderful at ruining things, but how did he ruin your life?"
James sighed, and scratched his beard. "I should shave," he remarked absently.
"Yes, you should, but focus, please. How did Sparrow ruin your life?"
"He escaped. It was the last straw, really, was Sparrow," he explained glumly. "Between the attack on Port Royal, the kidnapping of the governor's daughter, the loss of The Interceptor, and the loss of nearly half my men at the Isla de Muerta, I was on very, very shaky ground with the Royal Navy. When I let Sparrow escape... and couldn't capture him again... and then lost the best ship in the Caribbean... well, they suggested strongly that I resign my commission so they needn't discharge me. I did," James chronicled flatly. He took another large gulp of rum. "If he hadn't escaped... if I hadn't lost The Dauntless chasing him... I probably could've regained my honour, in time. But it was Jack Sparrow who finished my career."
"Is that why you chase him? As a form of punishment, of self-flagellation?" Stella inquired quietly, barely heard over the din of the pub around them.
James snorted. "I think it has more to do with revenge than punishment," he said honestly.
He was surprised when Stella merely nodded, took another sip of her wine, and replied, "Fair enough. I suppose that's a decent reason to bend your energies to his death." He'd been expecting a lecture on wasted potential or a snippy comment of some sort.
I think she gets more likeable the quieter she is, James thought tipsily. He watcher her finish off her glass of wine, then pour another. A becoming pink flush was rising in her sallow cheeks, and her smiles came a mite more readily and were a mite wider than usual. Or perhaps the drunker she is.
They sat together for the next hour-and-a-half. James worked his way steadily through his second bottle of rum; Stella downed three further glasses of wine. She often drew forth his rusty chuckles; he was able to coax forward a caw-like laugh he'd never before heard from her.
Currently, they were chatting about Shakespeare—Macbeth, to be specific, since he'd made a throwaway reference to eye of newt and toe of frog and Stella had informed him that actually it was supposed to be eye of frog and tail of newt.
"You mean it's actually real?"
"Some of it, of course," she replied, apparently surprised that he'd doubted.
"But you mean the Weird Sisters actually exist?" James pressed, words slurring slightly in his enthusiasm.
She shrugged and took another sip of wine, finishing off the fourth glass of the evening. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've never met them myself, and if they were real—real like you and I—they were dead long before Mirela came to the Caribbean."
"What do you mean, real like you and I?" James asked confusedly.
"Real-mortal-human," she replied simply. At his incredulous look, she laughed. "Oh, there's more in this world than just mortal humans and immortal something else's... there's plenty of variants in between. Immortal-human, pretending-to-be-human, human-once, almost-human, cursed, released-from-curse-but-still-lingering... and some things even I don't know about. The world is a much more interesting place than most people ever suppose."
"So I'm beginning to understand," he murmured. "Could you, perhaps—"
He never finished the request; a bottle was thrown in their direction, and he had to dive under the table to avoid being hit.
It was one of those destructive full-pub fights that occasionally broke out. People were shooting and breaking bottles and throwing each other into tables and punching each other for the sheer fun of it. He'd been involved in one of these a few weeks ago... it had ending in being thrown down the well. Needless to say, James wasn't eager to experience the same again, and figured he'd just stay out of this one.
Stella slid out of her seat with an oomph and joined him under the table, black eyes wide as she clutched her bag to her chest. "What on earth is happening?" she demanded.
"Fight," he replied succinctly.
A body was thrown on the top of their table, and it wobbled dangerously as people's boots scuffled on by. Stella's eyes got even wider, and she inched closer. "Thank you, James. I honestly don't know what I'd do without your deductive reasoning capabilities," she said tartly, though the sharpness in her tones was somewhat dulled by the fact that her hand was clenched in the fabric of his jacket.
He rolled his eyes. "It's a brawl, Stella. A bunch of drunken pirates who decide to release tension by beating each other bloody. They'll eventually finish and throw some unfortunate soul down a well or in the pig pen, and everything will be calm again. We just need to stay hidden until it blows over." He paused, glancing down at her huge eyes and parted lips. "Didn't you ever wonder about all the noise that comes out of these places?"
"I had a self-imposed rule to be well at home before the sun went down."
"'Had'? What made you break it?" he inquired, curious.
"A bottle of wine and some intelligent conversation."
"Ah."
Something broke against the table again, and broken glass rained around them. It crunched as it was ground into the floor by the boots of the men who danced around it, throwing punches—James couldn't see them, but he was familiar with the smacking sound of fist hitting flesh. After one particular hit, the table shuddered and something tiny bounced into their sanctuary, eventually finding purchase in the folds of Stella's dress.
"Look, a tooth," said Stella, plucking the object from her skirt and squinting at it in the dim light.
He was about to comment on the essentially disgusting nature of her new acquisition when her black eyes got impossibly huge. A split-second later, her fingers were torn away from his arm as she was unceremoniously yanked out from under the table.
Over the din in the pub, James heard her shriek, and scrambled out after her, overturning the table in his wake. "Stella!"
She was on the floor, and a man with a ratty moustache had hold of her ankle. Her grey skirts had slid farther up on her leg, revealing a skinny calf encased in a worn stocking, and the cretin currently grabbing her was leering at the revealed limb. He was so distracted, as a matter of fact, that he didn't notice two important things: one, that the woman he was ogling was a witch with a habit of castrating men, and two, that James Norrington was about to punch him in the face.
The moustachioed pirate let go of Stella's ankle right quick after James' fist impacted with his jaw. He staggered back, wiping blood from his mouth and dropping Stella's leg before lunging for his attacker. Thankfully, however, before he could even swing a punch, Stella's foot shot out and kicked him sharply in the shin, making him stumble and giving James the opportunity to hit him again.
Which he did.
The pirate staggered back into another knot of fighting, where he quickly became absorbed. Immediate threat dealt with, James quickly leaned down and pulled Stella to her feet, intending to find the exit and get her out of the mêlée.
The door seemed a long way away. James knew they wouldn't make it out unscathed—there were too many people in between them and their portal of deliverance. The largest room in the pub, upon whose cusp they stood, was teeming with activity. Punches, gunshots, broken bottles, overturned mugs... it was chaos.
Stella gasped, digging her nails into his hand and pointing with the other. Her warning was just in time for him to notice a blonde man aiming a swing at his head. Letting go of her hand, James ducked, before jabbing a quick hit to the man's gut, which bent him double. Then, he tried to move further into the room, Stella on his heels, as they edged daintily around another throng. Unfortunately, James and Stella didn't get five feet before they were waylaid by another man. James lashed out; another hit to the face, a jab to the stomach. This one, however, kept coming with a malicious intent in his butcher's blue eyes.
But before the man could get any closer, a bottle flew through the air and descended abruptly onto his head, impacting with a hollow thunk. He went down, and James glanced at Stella to see a kind of prim satisfaction on her face, though her lips were pinched tightly together.
Her satisfaction, however, was short-lived; another set of brawlers was approaching, with swords in hand this time. James didn't need to see Stella's face to know that it had gone chalky white, and he could feel her fragile fingers trembling. He cursed his swordless state and spared a swift moment to long for his lost sword, left back in Port Royal, viciously regretting that he hadn't brought it with him. At the time, he hadn't wanted any reminders of William Turner, and in a strange way, he hadn't wanted to shame the blade further by carrying it deeper into his disgrace. Now, he surely could've used it; how was he supposed to protect the lady without a sword?
James looked down at Stella. Stella looked up at James. They seemed to come to an agreement and, in unison, made an about-face and ran. Dodging and weaving, they eventually sought sanctuary under the stairs, squeezing into a tiny, dark bolt-hole. They were breathing heavily and splattered with beer, rum, ale, and tiny glass shards. Stella fit neatly under his chin, still clasping his hand and trembling. Her hair had come loose from its bindings and fell to her waist, covering his hand and tickling slightly.
Suddenly, James was reminded of a small bird he'd had once—a starling, when he was a child back in England. He had found it in the back garden, with a broken wing. When he'd picked it up to bring it inside to his mother, it had felt as delicate in his hands as Stella felt now; it had trembled in his hold as she trembled now; and its feathers had felt as sleek as the black hair brushing against his fingers.
The starling had healed, eventually, and left the shelter of his hands, though it continued to dwell often in the tree behind his family's townhouse. Sometimes it would come and perch near him when he sat outside; he would study, and the starling would watch and chatter at him occasionally. He'd left it behind, though, when he'd left to become a midshipman, and never seen it again. In a strange, inexplicable way, Stella put him in mind of that starling, and he wanted to protect her because of it.
He looked up, trying to judge how many men there were on the upper level of the pub. The stairs, at least were mostly clear. Then he glanced back out to the main room, which was still a massive jumble of fighting.
"We'll have to go up," he said to Stella, leaning down to put his voice closer to her ear.
"Then let us go," she replied, hitching up her skirts.
James clasped her hand and took a deep breath. He felt Stella squeeze his hand slightly, which he took as an indication that she was ready. As soon as he saw a clear path around to the front of the stairs, he lunged out of the nook, Stella in tow. Before they managed to reach the foot of the stairs, someone dumped a cask of ale over the railing of the balcony. Stella got the worst of it, judging by her indignant screech, and James' coat was drenched in the back.
The impromptu baptism of alcohol didn't slow their progress up the stairs—however, meeting a set of leering, grinning pirates half-way up certainly did. James stopped cold, nearly causing Stella to trip and fall face-first into the stairs. Her grip on his hand became nearly painful when she noticed the men advancing on them. Her other hand flew up, palm facing the impeding men. James winced pre-emptively, already knowing what was coming and feeling sorry for the two soon-to-be eunuchs.
He was, however, quite surprised when, instead castrating the men, a massive gust of wind came from nowhere and blew them nonchalantly over the side of the stairs. There was a vague sound of cracking furniture (or cracking bones), but it was otherwise lost in the din.
Stunned, he looked down at Stella, who raised a brow. "It worked, didn't it?" she demanded.
There was, however, no further time to contemplate the ethics of death by wind, inasmuch as a man was about to be hurled down the stairs. James quickly looped an arm around Stella's waist and dragged her out of harm's way, pressing back against the railing of the stairs as a portly man went rolling down, followed by a rowdy crowd of pirates who tore down after him, picking up the electrocuted men in their wake.
The minute the way was clear, James quickly finished ascending the stairs, Stella rushing along after him. There were, of course, more fights up on the top level, but it was much less dense, leaving plenty of places for people to slip through. Mostly, the pirates on the upper level involved themselves with throwing things down onto the lower floor.
Stella tugged gently on his hand, leading him towards a window overlooking a small lean-to and a palm tree. They danced around a throng of battlers, ducked a flying bottle which shattered on the wall behind them, James had to punch several men who would have impeded their progress, and Stella hit with the bottle those who would have hit James. Finally, they made it to the window.
"We're just going to jump out?" James asked as Stella flicked her wrist and casually blew out the window panes.
Both had to duck as another shot rang out. It hit a casement about ten feet away, shattering the wood. Splinters went flying, pelting their skin with little stings. "Unless you fancy staying here," Stella replied quickly, removing the bag from her shoulder and tossing it out the window.
Another gunshot rang out, this time aimed at the ceiling. James looked down, then quickly looked away as Stella squirmed out the window, baring her legs all the way up to her thighs. Once she was out, James quickly slithered out after her, thanking his lucky stars that no one had noticed them leave.
The lean-to was rickety and rather wobbly and James worried that he was going to put a hole through and get his foot stuck. Stella, with her lighter frame and steps, had already made it to the end and was peering over the edge nervously. The port town of Tortuga was bustling tonight; it seemed that there were several all-pub brawls occurring, even aside from the usual fist-cuffs and anarchy. Every so often pistols would be fired into the air; empty bottles were tossed around and occasionally shattered against a wall; men and women ran merrily (and sometimes not-so-merrily) through the streets, laughing and screaming. The flickering torches and candles cast the town in a palette of yellow light and shadow, and it looked rather like James suspected hell might appear.
Without saying anything, he sat on the edge of the roof and lowered himself over, keeping a grip on the edge. That diminished the distance between his feet and the ground to something manageable. His legs wobbled upon landing, and he stumbled back and sat unceremoniously in a puddle of mud. He quickly regained his feet, however, since a large, rowdy mob was beginning to spill out of the tavern and into the streets, and he didn't want to get in their way.
Gesturing to Stella, he opened his arms and braced himself. The woman carefully launched herself off the roof, and James managed to catch her, though he staggered back upon impact and nearly fell into the puddle again. Once he'd found his footing, he set Stella on her feet. Her knees nearly buckled, and she clung to his arms, which automatically went around her thin waist to steady her.
A window shattered outwards behind them as a man was thrown through it—the fight was spilling out of the pub. Green eyes met black in the dim light of a Tortuga evening. Stella picked up her skirts and dashed off in a slightly swerving path. James followed, wobbling in a different set of arcs, but basically in the same line.
Stella led him through the trees, shoving leaves and branches out of her way. Sometimes she remembered to wait for her companion; other times James was hit in the chest by palm fronds. He could still see the glow of the lanterns and hear the sound of shouting and gunshots, but it seemed that Stella was leading them around the town and towards her graveyard home.
What a night.
Then, with a surprised yelp, he saw Stella trip and fall face-forward into something that went "splat". Unfortunately, at this point, James was so close behind her that he tripped over the same root, and fell face-forward onto her.
"Get off!" Stella gasped.
James rolled away, head spinning, right into the mud which Stella had landed in. At least, he thought optimistically, landing on the witch had spared the front of his body from the full brunt of the mud.
He watched as Stella pulled her arms free from the thick sludge and used them to lever herself out of the mire. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, feeling that if he did, Stella would loose her temper and do something very unpleasant to him.
Her front was absolutely caked in mud—face, hair, dress... everything. She looked vaguely like some swamp monster come to eat his soul as she pulled herself out of the puddle and took a few steps back onto the dry path. James stood up and joined her, futilely trying to wipe the mud off his hands.
They stood on the path in the weak moonlight. Stella looked down at herself. Her front was covered in mud—James couldn't even discern the original colour of her dress anymore—from top to toes. On her back, she was drenched in ale, splinters, and glass fragments. She didn't look a thing like a lady—in fact, she barely looked human at this point. It was funny, but James didn't want to laugh, since he had a feeling Stella wouldn't find it quite so amusing.
Stella looked up at him—he could just about see the glitter of her black eyes through the mud. Then she looked back down at herself. Then she looked back up, and lifted a hand to scrape a handful of mud off her face... which she then threw directly at his chest.
It went "splat".
James scowled and opened his mouth to protest when Stella surprised him yet again: she simply threw back her head and started laughing. It was a full-bodied cackle, the laugh that reminded him of crows, abandoned and slightly hysterical. She bent nearly double, clutching her mud-covered stomach.
And suddenly the absurdity of the situation hit him as well, and James started laughing himself. It was all so insane—he'd been involved in a tavern brawl with a lady-witch, they were both covered in drink and mud, and now they were standing in the jungle, slightly drunk, laughing at each other.
Eventually the hilarity wound down, and Stella straightened up, still wiping muck off her face. "What a night," she gasped, unconsciously echoing James' earlier thoughts. "I can confidently say that this is the first time anything of the sort has ever happened to me."
"I wouldn't make it a habit," James chuckled. "You look terrible, Stella."
"You don't look much better yourself," she retorted, though with much less acid than her usual ripostes. She sounded... almost teasing. Fond. Amused. "I daresay we are both in desperate need of baths." She flapped her sodden skirts once, before giving it up as a bad job and shaking her mucky head.
"I daresay you're right," James sighed, realising that there was no hope of a bath until morning, at least.
Stella's voice broke into his thoughts. "Well, come on, then," she insisted, planting her hands on her hips and tapping her foot impatiently.
James rolled his eyes, offering his arm as she apparently expected. They were, after all, both so dirty that a little more muck wouldn't hurt. He didn't realise until the next morning, when he was bathed and rested and demanding that Stella give back his wig, that it was the most fun he'd had in months. Even when involved in an argument about the state of his wig (which eventually ended with Stella agreeing to clean, mend, and re-powder it in return for the performance of several household chores that she wasn't strong enough to carry out herself), James found it impossible to forget the laughter in moonlight.
Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Stella Bell had strangely, inexplicably, and irrevocably become a friend. And when she would roll her eyes at him, make pert comments, yet still bring him water as he made a game attempt to fix her roof, James had a feeling that she was aware of it too.
A/N part deux: Isn't that nice? They've sort of become friends. Don't forget to review and tell me about stuff, 'kay?