Chapter Twelve

Ragetti lifted his head wearily, listening to the faint music drifting down from above. With a sigh, he set a stack of crates on the floor. He had spent several hours organizing them, deciding what they needed for their next voyage – a task that had proven more difficult than expected, considering he hadn't the faintest idea where they were going or how long they would be gone. Stretching, he yawned, then swallowed, wincing at the dryness of his throat. As if in response, his stomach grumbled menacingly. Wistfully, he thought of the Faithful Bride, savoring the very memory of their delicious ale and hot food.

He jumped as he heard someone running up the gangplank, their boots thudding dully on the wood. Suspiciously, he glanced up the dark staircase, then quietly began to ascend. The fifth stair creaked quite loudly, and he grimaced, lifting his foot carefully. Suddenly, his unknown adversary barreled into him, knocking them both down the stairs. He landed flat on his back.

"Blimey, 'Lizabeth," he grunted, realizing who it was. He tried not to acknowledge the fact that her face was a mere inch from his own. "Wha-"

"Come on!" Elizabeth cried, scrambling to her feet. She ran halfway up the stairs, then turned, glaring at him with the impatience of a small child. He leaned up on his elbows, wondering how much she had had to drink. Seeing the expression on his face, she rolled her eyes and hurried back down, grabbing his hand. "Come on!" Stumbling to his feet, Ragetti found himself being dragged up the staircase. As they hurried across the deck, he banged his elbow on the railing and swore under his breath. Elizabeth seemed to be in quite a hurry; she pulled him down the gangplank with more force than he had thought possible of a woman. Then again, she was no ordinary woman.

"Where're we goin'?"he panted, stumbling over a crack in the dock's weathered wood. They were running now. "'Liza-" He grunted as she skidded to a halt next to a, momentum ramming him into her. With some alarm, he studied her face as she turned to him, letting go of his hand. A broad grin split her heart-shaped face, and she had a mischievous gleam in her mahogany eyes. Rubbing his wrist, he glanced toward the town and back. "Wha'..." He trailed off, taking another look down the road. A man stood a ways in front of them, though how far exactly, Ragetti could not tell. It was a curse, having one eye – he could never know whether something was one yard or ten from him. However, though the man's face was immersed in shadow, he recognized him immediately.

His uncle walked slowly, hesitantly toward him. Ragetti took a step forward as Elizabeth ducked out of the way, disappearing from his field of vision with the grace and subtlety of a drowsy cat. As his uncle stepped into the lantern's light, Ragetti faltered. Pintel's beard, and what was left of his hair, was tinged with steely gray, the bags under his eyes much more pronounced than they had been only a few months before. A year, Ragetti thought suddenly. It's been a year. He opened his mouth to speak, but, although he had envisioned this reunion countless times, no words came. Swallowing, he half raised his arms, and, before he knew what was happening, his uncle had buried him in a back-breaking hug, and both men were laughing and acting like fussy old ladies.

"Wha- how...?"

"'S a long story..."

"But... go on, then, tell!"

"Really long story."

"C'mon, you've not talked to me for a bloody year, I think you can spare enough to say what 'appened!" Torn between frustration and amusement, Ragetti glanced helplessly at Elizabeth, who stifled a laugh.

"A nice drink'd prob'ly loosen my tongue, though, if you get my meanin'," he said pointedly, feeling a sly grin creep onto his face. His uncle rolled his eyes.

"Haven't changed a bit, have you?"

* * * *

Elizabeth walked a bit ahead of the other two, not far enough to lose them in the crowd, but not close enough to listen to their excited whispers. The essence of their conversation was none of her business. However, as she carefully stepped around a man spread limply in the dirt with a bottle in his grip, she couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. Suddenly, she wasn't the focus of Ragetti's attention; suddenly she was second-best. Don't think like that, she reprimanded herself sternly. He cares about you just as much as he did a few hours ago. Not paying attention to her surroundings, she ambled distractedly into the Faithful Bride.

Nothing about the inn had changed in the several minutes she had been absent. Men laughed and sang, ate and drank, made wagers and started the occasional brawl. Naval officers and pirates alike seemed quite drunk. Buxom waitresses flirted and were occasionally led into more remote areas of the inn so that men could have their way with them. For this reason, Elizabeth was more than content with her slight figure and uncomely attire; most men would not attempt to seduce one who they thought was another man.

Someone coughed from behind her and she stepped hurriedly out of the doorway, cursing herself for not paying attention. She had grown used to the lazy, care-free lifestyle she had led for the past year on the island. My island, she though suddenly. It's my island. How could it not be? After all, only she and Ragetti had lived there. Countless excursions had revealed no signs of civilization; no fires had blanketed the stars with smoke apart from her own. Mine.

"...even listenin' t' me?" Elizabeth started and focused on Ragetti, who had apparently been talking to her. Annoyance shining in his bright blue eye, he repeated,

"I said, look over there." He nodded toward a far corner of the inn. Stepping to the side to see past a group of chattering women, Elizabeth looked where he had indicated. "'s all our old crew, from the Pearl." With a sense of dreamy nostalgia, she gazed upon her friends of old.

Joshamee Gibbs was furthest from her, droplets of alcohol visible in his graying sideburns even from this distance. He started laughing heartily, presumably at a joke told by Marty, who had his back to Elizabeth but was easily recognized by his diminutive height. Next to him stood Cotton, grinning dumbly while his associates shook with mirth. His parrot, perched on his shoulder, flapped its wings and squawked indignantly as Gibbs choked on his drink, spraying everyone in the vicinity with liquor.

Suddenly, a man stepped in front of her, blocking her view. She recognized him immediately, neither by his expensive coat nor the monkey perched on his shoulder, but by the swagger in his step.

"Well, well," the man said smoothly. "If this isn't the most pleasurable surprise, Mrs. Turner."

"Captain Barbossa," Elizabeth acknowledged stiffly. "I trust you've had a nice year." She unintentionally let a hard note creep into her voice. "And it's Swann." Next to her, Ragetti shifted, crossing his arms. Raising his bushy eyebrows, Barbossa said,

"Oho." Out of the corners of her eyes, Elizabeth glanced at her friend. His expression was stony, his eyes narrowed. Barbossa continued, "I knew ye had a tendency to attract the macabre, Mrs. Turner, but I wasn't aware of your ability to raise the dead." He paused thoughtfully, then added, "Without help, that is." Elizabeth stared coolly at him for a moment, but did not speak. Looking perturbed, Barbossa turned to her friend.

"Well, ah, ye're lucky ye turned up here tonight, Master Ragetti. We sail in the morning, and I wager-"

"No." Barbossa blinked indignantly at the interruption.

"Beg pardon?"

"I ain't goin' wit' you." Elizabeth turned to stare at him. Barbossa swallowed almost imperceptibly and said, in a dangerously cool tone,

"May I ask why not?"

"B'cause...'cause..." Ragetti's face contorted as he searched for the right words. "'Cause you're...you're..." He took a breath. "'Cause you left 'er. You jus' left 'er on tha' bloody island for whole bloody year, an' don' you say you was comin' back, cos you weren't. I was on your bloody ship, and you treated me an' everyone else on it like scum on your boot. 'Lizabeth's my captain now. She only 'as been for a week, an' she's already a damn sigh' better than you!" His voice rose to a near shout as he talked, and the inn went quiet with interest. Without lowering his fierce gaze, Ragetti spat on the boots of the bewildered man in front of him. Barbossa examined him for a moment. Then, he pulled out a pistol and aimed it carefully at Ragetti's heart. A waitress gasped from behind him.

"A pretty speech, lad," Barbossa growled, cocking his pistol. He froze, however, as he felt the barrel of another gun pressed firmly against his skull.

"Shoot," Elizabeth said quite calmly, "and I will kill you." She tried to mask her fear and fury with an air of cool confidence.

"You wouldn't," her adversary croaked, though he eyed her trigger finger warily.

"Bet your life?"

A minute passed, then two. The crowd murmured amongst themselves, but fell silent as Elizabeth deliberately cocked her pistol. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement as Pintel shifted uncomfortably. Finally, Barbossa lowered his weapon – Ragetti breathed a faint sigh of relief – and, after a moment, Elizabeth followed suit. His face unreadable, Barbossa regarded the stocky pirate behind her.

"And I suppose ye'll be accompanying him," he said impassively to Pintel, who shrank back but nodded firmly. Licking his lips, Barbossa stared cooly at Elizabeth, then spoke loudly enough for the entire inn to hear.

"Ye'll regret your temper one day, Elizabeth Swann." Without another word, he swept past her and marched out of the door, slamming it behind him.

The inn remained silent for a moment. Then, the musicians picked up their instruments and resumed playing, and the low rumble of voices grew once more. Glancing at Ragetti, Elizabeth tucked her pistol into her belt and muttered,

"C'mon, let's get something to eat."

* * * *

Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Ragetti followed Elizabeth through the inn. Pintel trailed behind him, looking sullen.

"Wha's wrong wit' you?" Ragetti asked quietly, so that Elizabeth wouldn't hear. His uncle glanced up at him.

"Nothin'. Just tired."

Not convinced, Ragetti sat on one of the tall stools next to the bar. Calling for ale, he dropped a coin he had kept in his pocket for over a year onto the counter. In a moment's time, the voluptuous waitress slammed a teeming mug of alcohol in front of him, and, with a haughty expression, strutted away with all the humbleness of a rich merchant's spoiled daughter. He eyed her retreating backside appreciatively, taking a frothy sip of the bitter ale. Next to them, a large man was chortling as his associate gesticulated wildly with his arms.

"Dead serious, I am," the man argued loudly. "Biggest ship I ever seen, and armed to boot. Called the Misère, I heard. Belongs to some French bloke..."

Elizabeth stood suddenly and excused herself, looking distracted.

"You two seem pretty close," Pintel commented cautiously, feigning nonchalance. Ragetti choked on his ale, realizing what his uncle was implying.

"No- no, no, we're no'- I mean, she's grea', um, an' she's my- one o' my bes' friends, bu'...no. 'S just..." He looked over at the subject of their conversation, who had gone over to chat with Gibbs and Marty. "She...she's married. An'...I don' wan'...you know?" His uncle's expression turned to that of sympathy, and Ragetti felt his cheeks start to burn. "No' like tha'. I...she's jus' my friend. Tha's all. Jus' friends." He fell silent.

"...and the only way to get the better of it, I heard, was, you know, the powder magazine, but that'd be suicide!" Both of the men adjacent to them laughed and shuddered into their drinks. After a moment, Elizabeth returned, taking a seat between them with a bottle in her hand. Pintel rose immediately, muttering something about unfinished business, and disappeared into the crowd. Ragetti took a swig of ale, then asked,

"Why'd you say tha'?" She looked at him inquiringly. "I mean, why'd you tell 'im to call you 'Swann' 'stead o' 'Turner'?"

"Oh." She looked rather uncomfortable. "Well, I suppose...I suppose it's because everyone knows Elizabeth Swann as the pirate lord, the one that killed Beckett, the woman who succeeded where other men failed." Pausing for a drink, she shrugged. "I suppose I don't want to have to regain that title."

"Yeah," he said distractedly, glancing around the inn. "Where're we 'eaded after this, any'ow? 'S not like you've go' some pirate king meetin' t' go to or nothin'...righ'?" As he watched, she took a thoughtful swig of alcohol before answering.

"I...I don't know," she answered musingly. "I suppose we'll just...go pirating. Is that all right?" He grinned, then, realizing she was not joking, responded,

"'Course." She smiled gratefully. Taking another look around the inn, he asked, "Where's Mardling?"

"Drunk," she replied simply. Ragetti snorted into his drink, and, sounding almost indignant, she added, "He is!"

"I b'lieve you," he insisted hastily, though not quite honestly. "Now, ah, as far as food, we need rum – lots o' rum – an'..."

In the far corner of the room, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, a man watched carefully. After a while, he stood and left the inn with a quick stride, eager to report back to his master.

End of Chapter Twelve