An update! Which you know is something rare from me if you've stuck with me this far. And just in time for the holidays... though I'm afraid this won't make much of a cheerful present. Angst angst angst. I'm not particularly fond of this chapter; it was very hard to write. But I hope you enjoy... if you can enjoy the depressing, horrific events in this chapter. Be sure to check out my poll; I have a few endings in mind for this story, and I need opinions. I have a soft spot for sad endings- but not everyone does. I think I could do a happy ending; definitely a bittersweet one. Tell me what you think. If my fic hasn't scared you away after this chapter.
At first Will was dazed, stunned by what had just happened. A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a thing; how could fate be so cruel as to bring these men down upon him and Elizabeth, just when they had found each other again? It seemed too nightmarish to be real, so at first he could do nothing but stare as if in a dream, arms still held limply around the woman he thought he had lost forever.
But when the soldiers surrounded the cell, and when they reached in to yank Elizabeth from his grasp, something clicked in Will's head. Suddenly all he could see was fire, and their talon-like fingers digging into his bony arms were like tongues of flame. He drove his elbow back into the one behind him, tried to twist out of their grip with a sudden ferocity that quickly reminded the soldiers of exactly who they were dealing with. Weak and starving as he was, Will still had the muscles and skill to fight, gained from all his years of hard labour and battle, and even without a sword and against such a hopeless cause, the glint in his eyes was still terrifying.
A crack of a whip, blood on his face, a fist in his belly- these merely slowed him down. But when Elizabeth cried out his name, her eyes panic-stricken and pleading- only then did Will stop struggling. He would fight against these men, he would let them hurt him- but he couldn't bear to see her in pain out of his doing. And standing still, thinking for a moment, he realized that it would be foolish to struggle, no matter how much he wanted to strike back; he didn't know how much strength he would need later. He silently thanked Elizabeth in his mind for putting an end to his rash actions.
They were roughly marched off down the corridors, shouts and jeers echoing all around them; Spelford led the procession, talking calmly to the lieutenant next to him, hands folded and eyebrows raised, as if he were enjoying the events. Will hardly noticed him; all he could see was Elizabeth. It'll be okay, I won't let them hurt you, he said over and over to her with his eyes- but he didn't believe it.
Elizabeth gazed back at him; behind her fear, she seemed almost apologetic, as if this was all her fault.
Will tried to smile at her, shaking his head back and forth. Her fault? She shouldn't even be here in this place; she deserved the sea and the sun, what Jack could give her. She shouldn't be here being dragged alongside him, deeper into the heart of this loathsome fortress, heading closer and closer to her demise. If only she were like the bird of her name, taking flight whenever she pleased... she shouldn't have to face this. It was because of him. Whatever they had in store for them, Will would be prepared to take it for her.
There wasn't much time left; there had never been enough time. Everything Will wished he could say to her, he tried to show in his face, in his eyes. I'm sorry, he thought, willing his mind to connect to hers. I'm so sorry, Elizabeth. I was a fool to leave you; I was a fool to abandon our love. It was my fault, Elizabeth. I'm sorry,
I love you.
She continued to stare back at him, a sad smile upon her lips- as if she had heard every word.
They were now in a courtyard- a place Will knew all too well. He had bled here, crumbled here, fallen upon the cold grey stones. Tall, clumsy arches opened the corridors out to the expanse of space, and despite how open the courtyard was in comparison to the rest of the cramped prison, it still seemed dark and suffocating, the few sallow torches only enhancing the feeling of foreboding.
Elizabeth and Will were marched side by side to the centre of the place, soldiers locking them in on all sides. Will could feel his body protesting at the awkward angle his arms were at behind his back, but he barely noticed; all he was conscious of was Elizabeth's quick, shaky breathing beside him, and Lord Spelford striding up to meet them.
"Good evening, Captain Turner," said Spelford in his cool voice, bowing his head, as if to mock Will and his title. "Such a delight to have you visit us here again; we can't seem to keep you away, can we? To be honest, I didn't expect to see you alive again; I fully expecting your last flogging to be enough to subdue you permanently. But alas, I have underestimated you... or perhaps I have underestimated the fervor of your loved ones." He stepped towards Elizabeth now.
"Ah, our little Elias Barlow..." Spelford said softly. "Perhaps you're wondering why all this is happening, poor child. Why you and dear Captain Turner are standing here before us. Why your sneaking accomplice is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you had hoped that he escaped? Ah, no, my dear, you would be mistaken there... for we caught the lad days ago. It took a little coaxing, but soon he was able to tell us that there was another in my fortress, hiding among my very men, helping the miserable thieves imprisoned here. I'm afraid that you made poor judgement, my dear, when you chose that man as your partner... he seemed quite eager to sell you and your cause out, screaming and pleading for his life in a most distasteful manner; his own worthless skin meant more to him than the lives of his friends, it seemed..."
Elizabeth's eyes flashed with anger, but Will could also detect the bewilderment and hurt in her expression, as if this information had caught her terribly off-guard. Will knew quite well the feeling of having someone you trusted turning on you...
"He's dead now," Spelford continued. "I killed him after he gave us information about his accomplice, which, of course, is young Master Barlow here... oh, forgive me, Miss Barlow." In one swift motion he swept the tricorne hat off Elizabeth's head, revealing to everyone the feminine face under its shadow. His long fingers then came up to rest softly upon her cheek; Will could see Elizabeth shudder, revolted. "One does not meet many women the likes of you, my dear. And such a pretty face... so full of fire... Captain Turner is a lucky man indeed."
Some of the soldiers chortled, and Will felt a swoop of fury in his stomach. He could lie and say that he didn't know Elizabeth at all, that she had no connection to him, to let her go... but it would be pointless. Spelford had seen them together in his cell... he had seen the way they looked at each other. He could torment them as much as he pleased. Here was a man who knew how to cut- and cut deep.
"Mercer, do you happen to know the true name of this fine young lady?" asked Spelford, not taking his eyes off Elizabeth.
The man standing off to one side stepped forward, his grizzled face arrogant- Mercer, Beckett's most trusted accomplice, now working for a new master. His beady-eyed squint was directed at Elizabeth now, and he seemed delighted to be facing her again after all this time, especially with the odds balanced so highly in his favour.
"I certainly do know her, my lord," drawled Mercer. "This is Elizabeth Swann."
Awed mumbles suddenly rippled down the queue of soldiers. Elizabeth Swann- daughter of the late governor of Jamaica, formerly a lady of high class- now a renowned pirate and killer, rumoured by some to be the fabled Pirate King of the Brethren Court, Lord of the South China Sea, and a partner to Jack Sparrow. Will couldn't help but smile at their surprise, that a woman could be capable of so much. He'd always known about the fire that burned within Elizabeth; the thought of her escapades sometimes amazed him, but never shocked him as it had others.
"Elizabeth Swann..." murmured Spelford. "What an honour it is to meet you at last. I've heard a lot about you, my dear- a lot of stories which, I daresay, leave me perplexed. I've also heard that you and Captain Turner were acquainted with each other at some point in the past... rather well acquainted, so it is said..."
Mercer smirked. "They were at one time due to be married, my lord, but the blessed event never occured... an act of my former master's doing, I might add."
Elizabeth glared at him in hatred; Spelford noticed.
"Ah, my boys, I feel we have a love story here... unfortunately, I never had much time for love stories. And it's odd; here we have Turner and Swann, when all the tales I've heard always tell of the names Sparrow and Swann..."
Will couldn't help it; his heart had still not healed regarding this matter. It was one mystery, one horrible, aching truth that he could never come to terms with, no matter how many times he told himself as such. He bowed his head, a painful twisting in his chest as more loud guffaws from the soldiers echoed around the courtyard. Elizabeth stood rigid next to him, an indescribable emotion burning in her face.
"And yet she still means something to you." Will raised his head as he realized that Spelford's soft voice was now directed at him. "That much I can see."
Will looked Lord Spelford deep in the eyes, jaw set, as if he were challenging him. If only he could; if only things were fair, and he were free to fight this man with everything he had...
Spelford merely smiled, like Will had said something amusing. He flapped his hand lazily in the air, carelessly telling the men to draw Will back. Still smirking, he paced towards Elizabeth again, and to Will it was as if he were stalking, preparing for the spring.
No! Not her! He seethed in his mind, limbs tightening. Get back!
Ever so casually, Spelford tipped his head to Will, a look of soft contentment on his face, before speaking to Elizabeth again.
"Captain Turner has already experienced a bit of torture at our hands. I don't think it would be fair if we couldn't demonstrate a little to you as well, my dear."
Not her! Please, not her...
Hobson, the burly man behind Elizabeth, now tightened his hold on her, eyes gleaming as he brought his mouth closer to her neck, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Elizabeth struggled angrily, teeth gritted; her rage and disgust seemed to come off her like heat. "I would be glad to carry out the punishment, my lord," the man purred lewdly, making no mistake as to what his intent was.
A spasm of rage shook Will, a twinge of fear following. He knew better than anyone how strong Elizabeth was... but could her spirit hold for something like this?
But Spelford rolled his eyes at Hobson like he had said something childish. "Must things always be so vulgar with you, Hobson? A dangerous spitfire walks into our mist, and your only thought is to slake your lust? Disappointing, disappointing... I had different ideas in mind.
"You see, gentlemen... if she is willing to look like a man... then surely she must be willing to die like one."
The explosion inside Will was no longer hot; ice now ran along his spine, cutting off all his hope for Elizabeth to escape from this ordeal alive. He looked at her fearfully; suddenly she seemed so small to him, so fragile... she was like a songbird any of these men could crush with their bare hands.
Mercer fondled the whip in his hands, stroking it as if it were a beloved pet. With a nod from Spelford, Elizabeth was hoisted up under both arms by a pair of soldiers and dragged to one of the pillars surrounding the area. Roughly the soldiers pressed her against the stone, forcing her neck into an awkward angle as they tied her hands around it. Through it all, she made not a sound, not a single whimper of fear, and though his fury, Will felt a glow of pride for his brave lady.
Spelford twitched a finger towards Will. "Bring him closer; I wouldn't want him to miss this." The soldiers obliged.
"Pain is a fascinating area of study, gentlemen. It fells men, it brings them to heel. Some might call it the threshold between life and death- you either want it one way or another, anything to get out of that horrific state of pain. Of course, it is physical torture of which most think of... but as of late, I have drawn more attention to pain's emotional aspects..." Spelford stepped back, away from the tangle of soldiers. Gesturing to Mercer, he said, "Do as you must."
Mercer grinned, uncoiling his whip. "Free her of her garments," he said to the soldiers holding Elizabeth to the pillar. Roughly they stripped her jacket off her, throwing the effects she had stowed underneath it to the side; her waistcoat followed in the same matter, until all she had covering her upper body was a thin white shirt. The arch of her back was trembling; in her tense poise for what was ahead, she was uncertain as to what would happen next. With nervous glances, the solders looked at Mercer.
"The shirt too," he said sneeringly. Just as Elizabeth cried out in furious protest, the garment was ripped away from her spine, torn to hang limply from her arms. Will gritted his teeth in anger and fear; there had been many an occasion where he had imagined her bare skin, but never in a situation such as this. He could see her pressing her face to the stone pillar, her hunched shoulders betraying the rage and shame she felt at having to submit to such a degrading act. Her golden back, marred in a few places from old battle scars, was exposed to the surrounding soldiers, and to Mercer's whip.
Mercer tightened his grip on this thick black coil now, twisting it to unravel the tangles. He looked at Spelford, waiting for the command. With a curt nod from the lord, it was given.
A swoosh of air, a crack; Will's heart faltered and thundered. The whip sliced across Elizabeth's back with a deafening slap that echoed across the courtyard.
"No!" Will's shout clamored with the whip's resonation. Blood dripped down Elizabeth's back, and a dark, icy tempest clashed within him; he struggled against the men holding him, vainly trying to break away from them.
A stinging pain burned on his cheek scarcely a second later, the action so quick he barely had time to register it. Suddenly Mercer's face loomed into his own, eyes gleaming maliciously. "Silence, Turner, or I might just increase the strength of my blows upon her." He stepped back to Elizabeth and brought the whip down on her again; her whole body visibly tensed from the pain. With awkwardness she turned her head to the side, but the previous fire in her countenance was gone now; the only one she seemed to see was Will, and it was to him that the softness in her eyes was directed. Her message was completely clear to Will: Don't worry. I'll be fine.
Deep down Will knew she wouldn't be; he knew they would break her, claw at her until she lay still on the ground. But as they gazed at each other in that split second, the only response he could give to her was the love he felt for her, his admiration of how brave she was, his encouragement to strengthen her. That moment lasted an eternity, and it sent hope soaring through them both, glowing in their wounded souls.
But a cruel smack of the whip scattered their connection; Elizabeth's eyes squeezed tightly as a new gash brightened on her skin, and that cold fear was thrust back into Will's heart. The weight in his chest became like a stone; he was hardly aware of it beating as he watched Elizabeth shudder from yet another blow.
Again, again, again... it seemed like Will would never be jaded to seeing that viper-like coil slash through the air, tearing into Elizabeth over and over, like it was injecting her with venom. She was getting weaker; now and again she emitted a soft moan as the whip dug into previous cuts. Bloody welts covered her back like a spiderweb; scarlet droplets dotted the floor and stained the white scraps of her shirt as Mercer brought the whip sailing through the air.
It seemed Mercer was relentless. After twenty strikes he paused to rest his arm, flexing it theatrically; after a few moments he was right back at it again, striking Elizabeth with vicious precision and strength.
... 28... 29... 30... Each attack of the whip took an eternity, yet at the same time so quick and brutal that Elizabeth hardly had the chance to cry out in pain. A soundless roar of indescribable fury pounded throughout every ounce of Will's being; he never stopped trying to break free of the men holding him, always fighting against their steel-like arms to get to Elizabeth and shield her from the black fire of Mercer's weapon. The laces of scars on his own back still burned deep, but he cared nothing for his own pain and weariness; he only wanted to be in Elizabeth's place now, adding all her agony to his own, keeping her safe and strong.
To some, Will might seem a violent man. He'd trained in the sword, he'd killed more men than he wished to count- unavoidable downsides in a pathless life like his own. There was almost a nonchalant manner to the way he fought, thrusting blades into as many men as he could reach; and after all, there had been that significant factor in that quite a few of his adversaries had been unable to die- he was not afraid to hurt them. When Barbossa's cursed pirates attacked Port Royal so long ago, he had sprung to the town's defense without hesitation, throwing hatchets and tearing them out of bodies with reckless abandon. Fighting the doomed sailors of the Flying Dutchman had been much the same; he had fought side by side with former allies, cutting through the throng of barnacles and seaweed, barely having to think about the actions. But that had been different; Will had not seen them as men, but as monsters. He had been able to hurt them if he kept his mind away from the fact that they had once been mortal. If he kept his mind on what the beasts had done to his loved ones, then he could press on. But he did not necessarily like killing; it was a skill he had acquired, and one he played well, but it was not enjoyable to him. In his mind, he saw those who bled at the end of his blade as having deserved it. But harming innocents... killing for the sake of killing... those were completely different situations entirely, of which he would have no part in.
But seeing Elizabeth cry out... the crimson blood blossoming like the petals of a rose from the thorn-like whip... Mercer's stiff satisfaction... the soldiers' hungry approval... and over in the corner, Spelford watching with amusement, arms crossed comfortably... and he himself only being able stand there helplessly, watching the whole sadistic, sickening ordeal... an inferno blazed inside Will the likes of which he had never felt before. It singed at his heart, burned away at his carefully guarded soul. It could barely be contained within him; any second it seemed it would ignite the entire courtyard, destroying everyone there who dared to harm Elizabeth. He wanted them to burn, shriek, cringe in fear... he wanted to tear at them, crush them as they had done to him, and were doing to her now. He wanted to kill them... an awful desire that shook him to his very core, enthralling and horrifying him at the same time. An infallibly noble part of him kept this raging hell in check, but even Will's golden spirit trembled in the face of this new hatred and fury.
Spelford's eyes were on Will now, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a self-satisfied smirk. The lord seemed to be able to see his torment; he took pleasure in it. Will glared back at him, gritting his teeth in a barely suppressed snarl. Spelford's gloved fingers traced the handle of the blade at his side, with a slow and deliberate idleness. A mocking taunt. A challenge. The whip hit Elizabeth again, her resounding cry piercing the moment.
The inferno erupted; the words enflamed Will's throat as he spat them out at Spelford. "You bastard! Why don't you have a go at me, then?! Let her go! Do what you will with me. She deserves none of this! Torture me instead! Kill me!" His head buzzed; he was hardly aware of what he was saying, only that he wanted Elizabeth to be saved. "Take me, you bastard!"
Spelford didn't answer, didn't even blink; the serene smile remained on his face.
It was then Will understood. This was his torture: to watch the woman he loved, the woman he had abandoned, be hurt, most likely killed, right in front of his eyes. To know that it was because of him. To have her back in his arms for a moment, only to be snatched away forever. But this pain was not only from this horrific spectacle in front of him; all his crushed dreams, all his old anger and sadness, all the pangs that his broken heart had struggled with since his parting with Elizabeth was part of the torrent inside him. All his confused, mangled feelings were being brought to light now, emotions that he had fought for so long to hide away. With a few well-placed blows, Spelford was bringing those walls crashing down; he was destroying him from the inside out. Will's crazed, distraught protests only proved to Spelford the agony he was going through, that his plot was going exactly as it was supposed to. Such simple, cruel cleverness!
With violent force, Will twisted himself out of the guard's arms before they could do anything, and hurled himself at Spelford, all comprehensible thought vanishing from his mind. But he could not even touch the lord; the soldiers had thrown themselves on top of him and seized him before he could even attempt to get his hands around that lace-covered throat. Mercer turned away from Elizabeth and brought his whip down repeatedly on Will, attacking every part of him that could be reached. Old cuts that Elizabeth had so carefully cared for opened again, and this time Will could feel sharp flashes of pain. His muscles stiffened, and he closed his eyes tightly in a vain attempt to block out the physical and emotional torment. The slashes of the whip blurred together; he could not tell if the flogging lasted for a minute or an hour. Mercer kept at it until Spelford spoke softly. "Stop." It managed to be both a suggestion and a command at the same time.
Will's breaths came in gasps; his arms trembled in the soldier's clutches. Wildly he turned his head to face Elizabeth again, to see her looking back at him fearfully. Blood plastered her hair to her cheeks; she was leaning her head against the pillar, too exhausted to keep it upright. Her eyes were tired and ghostlike; she knew now what was at stake. She knew now that they both would die. Neither of them could even hope to muster up a smile of encouragement.
Will's strength suddenly left him in a rush, and he finally eased his muscles in utter weariness. His head drooped down, the tangled curls of hair falling into his face. All was lost now. He had failed to save Elizabeth. She would die... and he could do nothing.
Spelford strode over to Will and patted his slumped shoulder as if thanking a comrade. "Good man." Will could not even glance at him; he hardly stiffened under the touch of the gloved hand.
Submission. Defeat. Fallen. Whatever it could be called, Will had lost. His pride, his honour, his life, his hope, his heart... gone. Elizabeth, gone. He had no sense of anything; he was nothing more than a charred soul. Burned-out to nothingness. That fiery anger had brought him down, leaving nothing but an ashen ghost of a man. A boy.
Elizabeth was beaten again... her cries were little more than moans... yet somehow they were deafening, echoing throughout Will's empty spirit. His heart didn't just break in two; it crumbled, was hacked away at bit by treacherous bit, the scattered, dull remains nothing but shadowed stone, numb and unbearably heavy. To have it be torn from his chest would have been a less torturous ordeal.
Another slash, another... and this time there was no sound from Elizabeth; she sagged against the pillar, her legs giving out from under her. Her body seemed to shatter. With two more relentless cracks of the whip, her eyes closed and her head lolled to the side in the lilt of unconsciousness. Will felt as though his senses had been brought feebly back, freezing. His wrung-out mind swept up whispers of thought... no... fallen... dead... Elizabeth...
The next events passed by in a nightmarish haze; Will felt as though he himself were in a state of uncomprehending unconsciousness. Spelford raised a hand... Elizabeth was untied from the pillar, and she collapsed to the bloodstained floor like a torn rag doll... Will was suddenly floating towards her without willing himself to... he was kneeling beside her destroyed figure, instinct drawing his hands to her... the cruel iron arms grabbed him and dragged him away... he was being carried though the dark corridors like it was a current... he was flung inside his cell, the bone-jarring landing stirring his senses only slightly... and Spelford was smirking at him.
"I would have killed you myself, lad... but personally, I feel this is a much better option. Why have you die when you can experience your beloved's death firsthand? Why not have you try to save her as she saved you, only to have you fail? Why not have her fade away in your very arms?"
Elizabeth was practically tossed into the cell, right into his arms. Her body, so fragile and battered in his hands, was both scorching hot and terribly, ghostly cold. Will pressed her close to him, staring into her stone-like face, hardly noticing Spelford staring at him or the clank of the cell door closing. All he was aware of was the broken body in his hands, the scarlet blood soaking her skin, her heart fluttering like a bird under his touch. He willed with all the tormenting faith he had left for it to keep beating.
Shaking, he pressed a hand lightly to her cheek, almost afraid to touch her. Hardly opening his mouth, he tried to speak to her, the words half-dead on his tongue. "Elizabeth." A dull throbbing resonated in his mind; no words could come up other than the ones that were springing from his throat. "Elizabeth, please. No, Elizabeth..."
She was pale, so pale, except for the viciously red blood smearing her skin. With fumbling fingers, Will made an attempt to wrap the remains of her shirt around her thin, mangled figure. His eyes locked on her face, and suddenly tears that never fell were pulsing from them, scoring down his cheeks and mixing with the blood on Elizabeth's face. He pressed her close to him, holding her limp body to his own, gritting his teeth to stop the sob from ripping out of him. Rocking her back and forth with a slow, agonized tilt, he buried his crumpled face into the crook of her neck, drenching her with his tears.
No matter how many times the course of life had shoved him to the ground, Will had cried only rarely. Now the tears kept coming, despite his natural instinct to fight them. Elizabeth was withering away in his hands; their positions as rescuer and prisoner had been so cruelly flipped, though the wounds were carved into Will's back as well. What did he care? How could he feel anything that wasn't this once brave, spirited woman in his arms, crushed and dying?
The barriers that had held them back for so long had been swept away as if by a breeze; the blows of the whip had brought every last defense down. Will kissed her lips with an almost savage fervor, his crazed desperateness singeing her cold, flickering being. A kiss to wake the princess. But he had stopped believing in that kind of magic long ago.
Why not have you try to save her as she saved you, only to have you fail? Why not have her fade away in your very arms?
Will had no grip on time- it could have been hours or days, but he held Elizabeth to him all the while, afraid to hold too tight, afraid to let go. Words were spouting out of him unbidden, names he had formerly only used in his mind: "My darling... my angel... my friend..." Please. Please.
Her blood had started to dry on his hands when at last her eyelids fluttered; it seemed to take her too much strength to keep them open. Her lips moved, but no sound came out; she tried again, emitting only a shallow, painful sigh. Finally, she managed to murmur, in a voice so faint and hoarse that it was hard for Will to make out what she was saying. "Will... Jack..."
Will swallowed, clutching her close. "It's Will. I'm here."
Elizabeth's eyes opened so slightly, gazing at him; a look of pleading tugged at her features. Once more, she spoke. "Will." Ever so feebly, she raised a shaking hand to his face. "Will... don't... leave me... again."
Just how his mangled heart found the way to break yet again, Will didn't know. With tears frozen to his cheeks, he weakly shook his head back and forth, never drawing his eyes away from Elizabeth. "No, I'm not leaving you."
Her fingers brushed his jaw, grazed his lips. Her eyes were tethered to his for the briefest moment, hope shining in them, before she fell away in his arms once more.
The night faded into the grayest of mornings, and Will held Elizabeth the entire time. Over and over, a solemn oath was repeated in his mind, the message never losing its meaning. Occasionally it was whispered aloud as he watched her wither away before his eyes, in his very grasp. As Elizabeth started to fade away, Will kept to his one last promise, what he failed to do last time and had never forgiven himself for:
"I'm not leaving you."
Well... there it is.
