A/N: As we continue further into this tale, I'd like to take a minute and thank my readers. Namely, I'd like to thank Bean and Vampirerex1 for their continued support and review. You two are the best. Thank you both with all my heart.

Disclaimer: Still don't own Pirates. Darn.

Chapter 14: Liberation

Mirrors, in Lena's experience, were used for a variety of things. Mostly, they were for simple décor and never really utilized to their full potential. The Master had possessed only a few small ones, mainly for allowing his concubines and servants to inspect themselves before he came for them. As a child, she'd hated mirrors for that very reason. Mirrors had reflected her features—those of a small, weary child, exhausted and yet existing day to day with nothing more than the rage she'd kept bottled up inside for so long—and then always they had just as clearly showed the Master, approaching her from behind with dark promises in his every step.

But…she wasn't really a child anymore. Perhaps she was not yet a woman, not having just passed her sixteenth year—has it really been three years?—but nevertheless she wasn't a child. Physically, she no longer possessed her childish features but had instead blossomed into the early stages of womanhood—something she was thankful hadn't yet been noticed by the others. Yet there was one remnant of her youth that could be seen…some aspect of her reflection that still declared her a child bound and confined to her past. Memories were one matter; they could be suppressed, even if never fully erased from the mind, but this was different. But she couldn't put a proper name to it.

She'd hoped examining her reflection—casting a critical eye over herself for an extended period of time—would solve the mystery. Alas, no ground-breaking conclusions had been reached, and she was left sitting on her knees with nothing but frustration. This was ridiculous; she should be able to look at herself and know what exactly was wrong with the reflection she saw! What was wrong with her?

A low growl slipped past gritted teeth, and she fisted both hands in her hair. A deliberate tug on the curls only served to aggravate her headache.

"Keep that up, lass, and ye won't be havin' much hair left." Clanker noted, and she turned to find him leaning against the doorway looking mildly amused. She only lifted a brow and sighed.

"Where are you off to?" she asked quietly.

"Above," he gestured idly, "Now that the rain's gone, it be a lovely day…care to join me?"

"No, thank you," she said immediately; presently, the thought of venturing on the upper deck could only lead to one particular interaction that she didn't want to have…not after last night, "I…I'd like to be alone."

He paused, then added, "Ye know, lass…it always be hard the first time, but eventually it'll just come to ye. Natural, ye know?"

Lena's scowl deepened, hidden from his sight by the turning of her head. Taking her silence for what it was, he moved away with heavy footsteps and left her in silence once again, and she was better for it. For much of the day, she had not been approached by any of the others, and whether it was from apprehensive avoidance or simple uncertainty, she neither knew nor cared.

She was glad to be left alone…wasn't she?

Another sigh, and she shook her head. If she'd really wanted to be left alone, she would have never allowed Maccus anywhere near her last night. And she certainly wouldn't have allowed herself to be so pathetic in front of him…to cry in front of him. Tears…

…slicking down her cheeks, pooling in dark shapes around her face where it was pressed tight to thin carpet as a hand held her firmly in place. The pose in itself was humiliating, but the pain that had begun moments ago was far worse, exceeding embarrassment and replacing it with agony as innocence was stolen without care or pause. And she couldn't stop the tears from falling. Cold and heavy, stinging against her cheeks…she hated this. She hated him.

She'd vowed to never once allow tears again since that horrific first night with the Master, to never again allow herself to fall victim to shame and grief and other such weaknesses. She'd been stronger than that for so long. And then, in a moment of pure emotional brokenness, she had broken her own promise…and in doing so should have humiliated herself.

And yet…her arms curled around her torso, skin still tingling from the feel of Maccus' body clutched against hers, fearing the worst and instead receiving support from his strength when she'd had none to give herself. She had no words, no excuses for why she had clung to him, why she had let herself believe for even a reckless moment he wouldn't retaliate. She only knew it had made perfect sense at the time, and if she were to be honest with herself, he had been the human contact she'd desperately needed, even against her own sense of pride.

He'd even touched her…oh God, he'd touched her! He should have been repulsed by her actions, thrown her away like a weakling child, but he'd touched her hair, accepted her tears as though they were a precious treasure.

And that kiss…her fingertips lightly brushed her brow, wondering still if she had simply imagined it. But his lips were cold and rough, cracked and bloodied and leaving their own unique impression upon her skin. It felt like a brand, set deep into flesh and muscle alike so as to never be erased or forgotten.

A few loose curls fell around her face, and she absently began to brush them away in irritation…and then stopped. Stopped, gathered them in hand, and took a long look.

Her hair…it had always been long and full of curls, lush golden waves the likes of which the other concubines could not accomplish. And the Master had strictly forbidden her to ever cut it. These curls had served him well in private moments, when his long and dirty fingers could seize them in a hold and jerk whichever way he pleased. It had been a source of great amusement for him, to watch her head be tossed and thrown as he desired; once or twice, she recalled him likening her to a tamed horse.

Since her time on the Dutchman had begun, she had done nothing with her hair, the threat of punishment for the slightest tampering and damage to her long mane having been so thoroughly engrained into her every thought. But really…what threat existed here? The other crew held no investment in the state of her hair, or the rest of her for that matter.

"The only thing that's keeping you prisoner is you."

Her heart quivered to recall those words, and the tone in which Maccus had spoken them—quiet, low, but lacking a threat…rather, it had almost been gentle. And he had been right. This was her life now, far away from the Master and his world. She was chained, but only because she hadn't realized that she held the key all along.

Her hand extended to retrieve the blade—the one she'd been trained with, the one she'd come to claim as her own…the one she'd taken her first life with. The blood hadn't been cleaned away, and in the stains off rusted red, she could see a sliver of her reflection in the blade. Uncertain and timid…the look of a child venturing on the brink, a mere step away from embracing her future with eager arms.

But she was no longer a child.

Flint dragged against stone, each stroke bringing a weapon renewed purpose, and yet dealt with an absent mind that no longer needed to pay attention when the task had been well-rehearsed over the years. Sitting in a secluded corner of the lower decks, Maccus idly watched the movement of the flint gliding along his axe while the others were gathered around another game. He'd been invited to join at least three times in two hours, and he wasn't sure that, should another one come, the inviter would keep his head.

His chest tingled still, eagerly recalling the sensation of a warm body pressed to his with the feel of silken curls against his skin…it seemed absurd that he should be so amazed by these things. It had been years, almost so long that his body had grown unaccustomed to the feel of a woman, but it was not the first time female flesh had been against his own. Yet there had been something different about Lena. There had been no sultry invitation, no prelude to the dance of physical pleasures. She had thrown herself against him, clutched at him and refused to break away. Emotion had clouded better judgment, and he'd be a liar if he tried to pretend he hadn't been as much victim to it as she.

She'd been so vulnerable…surely she was appalled to even consider herself in the state she'd been in last night; it was no wonder she'd been avoiding him. Not as much as a shared glance; he hadn't even glimpsed her all day. There had been some whispers about her seclusion in some far corner of the ship, and though he'd entertained the thought of seeking her out, no such action had been taken. She clearly wanted to be alone, and for reasons he couldn't entirely explain, he wasn't inclined to threaten whatever tentative threads held the memory of last night together.

There was a shuffling of movement to his left, and he knew the game had reached an end. The defeated arose with low grumbles, and he could see Koleniko kneeling with an expectant look on his face as he called out for another challenger. For a moment it was silent, and then another voice broke through, accepting the offer. Maccus knew that voice, but until he set eyes upon her…he dared not believe it.

Lena made a slow but steady path through the crewmen who stood awed at the sight before them. From his corner, Maccus felt a sudden catch in his throat, subconsciously dragging a long gaze over the length of her body. The tattered and worn dress that she'd worn for so long, the last remnant of her childhood, was gone. In its place was a gathering of feminine garments—he should have been questioning where they'd come from; as it were, he could have cared less—assembled into a new look. The creamy color of a woman's laced bodice set well against her pale skin, matched with a dark red cloth tied at her hips and falling with a tattered hem which left her legs exposed just above the knee. The fabric sported a few slits, granting better movement of the legs without care for modesty.

But even with this new appearance, the greatest surprise remained in the state of her hair. No longer a mane of wild and unchecked curls, it now lay light against her skull with strands falling about her face and throat. There was no rhyme or reason to its style; rather, it looked as though she had simply taken a blade and begun slicing recklessly until satisfied. She looked older, surpassing what he estimated to be her actual age…and she was even more radiant for it.

"Ye dare play yer hand, girl?" Koleniko commented with a dry and scrutinizing sweep of her appearance; his gaze was just as unimpressed as his tone, "Ye'll be needing more than new clothes to win at this game."

"Perhaps they will bring me luck." She answered softly, kneeling on the deck across from him. There was a brief pause before Clanker stepped forward, presenting his barnacle-encrusted cup and die to her. She offered a silent nod of thanks, carefully examining the die in her hand before adding, "But if you think it's beneath you to play me…you're welcome to walk away."

His scowl deepened, "It'll be a pleasure to teach ye a lesson, girl." Koleniko growled, seizing his own cup and tossing the die into its depths. With a firm thrust of the hand, he slammed it to the deck, eyes fixated on her, "I wager fifteen years against yer pretty face."

Lena paused once more, and to those who watched it appeared a sign of hesitation, of uncertainty…a suggestion that she feared the possibility of serving additional years aboard the ship. But she gave a slow nod and, after briefly shuffling the die within the cup, imitated Koleniko's earlier motion, though lacking his deliberate viciousness. Swallowing slowly, she lifted the rim slightly and spoke, "Three threes."

Her voice was soft, timid, and Maccus frowned slightly at such behavior. He was the only one she was allowed to be so submissive towards. Her moments of weakness, of uncertainty…those were his and his alone. No one else had claim to them.

Setting his axe and flint aside, the first mate stood and silently approached the crowd to observe more closely. The calls were traded back and forth, Koleniko confident and casting a dismissive eye over her hesitancy. Higher and higher each claim, and soon it was a matter of who would be the first to declare the other a liar. So far, not even Koleniko had been willing, or at least hadn't cared enough to call Lena out on anything, but the demeaning look in his eye as he watched her reaffirmed Maccus' suspicion: he was simply waiting for her to hang herself in front of the others. It was a technique many used with those unfamiliar with the risks of playing this game; confidence or a simple lack of knowledge often became their downfall, and the humiliation was often punishment enough.

And then…the moment arrived. Casting a nervous downward glance, Lena bit down on her lower lip for an anxious moment and abruptly whispered, "Five sixes."

A rumble of laughter broke out among the others, a sound which clearly announced their incredulous amusement. Five sixes—not even the captain himself could have such luck! Clearly, she had grown reckless, and nearly every crewman looked upon her as though a scrap of fresh meat about to be devoured. Her moment of defeat had surely arrived at last.

"Yer desperate, girl," Koleniko hissed, triumphant as he lifted his cup to reveal his die and set it aside, "and yer a liar."

Her eyes fell downcast, despairing for a long moment as she set the back of her hand to her cup and pushed it over and exposed her die to match with his. A shocked breath suffocated the crowd as wide eyes looked disbelieving upon the die set before both players: five sixes, the impossible revealed, for all to see.

"Yes, I am." Lena spoke suddenly, and her head lifted with a calm expression and fiery gleam in golden eyes. The meek and fearful child was gone as though it had never existed, and in its place was a woman, triumphant and taking no small pleasure in the stunned look upon her opponent's face. "For five years, I convinced grown men that there was nothing more a little girl wanted than them—right then, right there. I made them feel as though they ruled the land and seas with but the look on my face and tone of my voice."

Her smile grew as she stood, "I am indeed a liar, Koleniko," she added, "and if I do say so myself…I'm a damned good one."

The night was warmer than those recently past, with a soft ocean breeze carrying the scent of salty waters on its idle drift along the waves and up to the Dutchman's deck to tease Lena's loose strands against her cheeks. Her neck was left delightfully bare without a heavy mane to cover it, and she released a soft sound of pleasure as cool air brushed in Nature's caress.

"Well played," Maccus said calmly, and she turned to find him approaching where she sat upon the bow, "I do believe he's still in shock. They all are."

"Perhaps it will buy me some peace and quiet for a few days more," she noted, tucking her knees close to her chest. She was smiling at him, and the soft look in her eyes told him she didn't disapprove of his company. If anything, she looked pleased that he'd chosen to seek her out.

"Perhaps," he nodded slowly as he stood beside her. Just beyond, the waves were lapping against each other with sea gulls dancing above them on the wind. The last sliver of sunset stretched out in a fading shimmer of golden light, and he found himself likening its radiant color to her eyes.

"Last night," she said, catching his attention—though somehow, she knew it hadn't been anywhere else, "was the first time I've cried in years. And few have ever seen me cry before…" a momentary pause, and then she released a slow breath, "I was exposed last night in ways I've never been before in my life."

Maccus felt the unease of impending rejection tighten his chest. Forcing back any betraying emotion from his voice, he answered, "You needn't fear humiliation. I know how to keep a secret. And…you don't need to worry about anything like that happening again. I should have let you be…you have the right to be angry." He added in a reluctant whisper.

"Yes, perhaps I do," Lena answered, turning so that her legs stretched out along the rail, and he vaguely noted that perhaps she'd grown taller, "But I'm not."

He dared to meet her eye, and though her expression was far more serious than he'd ever seen before, it proved her words true, lacking anger or frustration. Her eyes were clear and bright, steady even under the scrutiny of his gaze, seeking a crack in her confidence and reassured stance and finding none. It didn't seem possible that such a transformation could have occurred within such a brief period of time, but the proof was before him.

"I could have spent the last years bitter and angry, existing on rage and nothing else," she murmured, "but you haven't let me. Your reasons are your own, but it doesn't change the fact that I am here without the burden of my past to chain me down. You were right: life here doesn't have to be ugly or painful. In fact…" she paused, and he waited in anticipation while her eyes traced over his face, studying every aspect of mutated and tortured features with something that looked very much like admiration in her gaze, "I've seen it can be quite…beautiful."

He watched, mesmerized, as she extended a hand to his, the one distorted into clawed digits, and dragged a feather-light caress over what now served as his knuckles. His body burned at the contact, and a shiver teased along his spine. Last night, he'd taken a touch without her consent. In some perverse way, he felt he'd invoked the right as first mate to do as he pleased with her—with all of them, for that matter—even with such a mundane gesture as a hand to her head and a kiss to her brow. Never had he expected to have such contact returned. It felt as though a blessing that he did not deserve.

He had to convince himself he didn't want it. He didn't want her kindness, her compassion and her happiness. If she was no longer content to keep her heart locked away, he needed to remind himself he neither deserved nor desired to see it, any of it. He didn't.

"What you did…" she breathed, her eyes slowly finding his with a catch in her tone that strongly indicated tears, only this time he wondered if they were of grief or something else, "you touched me. You looked at my tears as though they were precious treasures…as though they were beautiful."

They were, he allowed the thought but never permitted it to take flight from his tongue. Restraint…he had to demonstrate control when it would have been so easy to indulge urges that had assaulted him the previous night. To touch her neck, feel her hair between his fingers…

"For that," she continued, mercifully interrupting his thoughts, "I am grateful. And now that the chains of the past have been cut…there is only the future to be lived." With a graceful movement, she slid from the rail to stand before him calm and poised but with a respect in her eyes that shone brighter than any previous emotion. For all that he'd demanded her fear in the past, he couldn't find himself capable of caring that she did not and perhaps never would fear him. But to be respected…

"You will continue to teach me, won't you?" she asked, but he heard no uncertainty in the question, only a confidence that he would in fact do so, "I have a promise to keep…to be nothing less than what you, the captain, and this crew would have me be. I cannot do it without you."

Privately, he doubted the accuracy of such a statement. Worse yet, to hear proof in her voice that she wanted him to continue teaching her meant she not only respected him, but trusted him. Trust meant emotion, and he didn't want emotion. He didn't.

After a moment's pause, he released a careful breath and met her eye. "I believe it may be time for you to branch out." Maccus spoke quietly, each word carefully chosen so as to betray nothing, "The rest of the crew has much to teach you, each in their own way. You would do well to learn from them. There is only so much I can teach you." He paused, just briefly, and then added, "You should not rely on me to be your teacher forever."

He couldn't read her expression; it was hardly crestfallen or devastated, but neither was it wholly accepting of his words. She held polite neutrality in her expression, but her eyes…he could be very mistaken, but he almost thought there was a passing hint of disappointment to be seen.

In the next minute, she had blinked, and whatever was there disappeared with the motion. Her gaze was steady, the walls already being rebuilt around her heart, and the nod she gave next showed only respect and obedience. Whatever emotions she'd revealed a moment earlier were gone, hidden behind cool composure. "As you wish." Lena murmured.

And then she was gone, slipping away with ease into the shadows with all the grace and stealth of the ocean waters. He watched her for a long minute after, reimagining her shadow in its graceful details before turning back to the fading horizon.

He wasn't disappointed. He really wasn't.

A/N: For any who have seen the deleted scenes from "Dead Man's Chest," you'll recognize Lena's final wager in the game. I'm giving credit for that to the original writers for the movie, along with a sheer bewilderment as to why they cut the scene in question. It was an awesome one. But alas, we can't fit everything we want into the final product, can we?