Same old same old... sorry about any spelling errors (there were a number of grammatical ones in the last chapter that made me cringe upon re-reading). I have no beta for this story, so any niggling mistakes are my own. Apologies!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from POTC, I do however own Abigail, her ship, her crew, a pirate named Eddie and a fat man named Freddie. I wish I owned Cutler, but alas, life is full of disappointments.
21. Revenge
It looked like any other patch of water. A few waves ruffled the otherwise smooth surface, lapping casually against the hull of the Pennywise. Abigail could have almost relaxed in the languid heat of the afternoon sun, if it had not been for her underlying sense of paranoia. She did not trust Angelica, but nor did she think the pirate captain would hand over her position to William Turner. Turner had morphed from lovable blacksmith to ruthless unlikeable captain within a matter of months, and it was likely that Angelica would be just as deterred by him as Abigail was.
What concerned her was the finality of what she was to do.
Once the bottle was opened and dropped into the soft waves, what then? Would expand and shatter, allowing the reborn Endeavour to join her sister ship after so many months of imprisonment? Or would it merely sink to the bottom, never to return, never to tempt Cutler back to its polished decks?
Such contemplations were useless. To pirates, blood was almost as valuable as gold, so for Angelica to hand over a warm vial of her own life-source, well that gave some credence to her suggestion.
"Captain," Peterson interjected, his beard shaved, his ragged uniform cleaned and pressed. "It is almost time."
The tenseness in the air was palpable, and Abigail's hands felt like lead weights as she extracted the shimmering bottle from a sack at her belt. The water within the glass reflected that around them. It was as if the Endeavouranticipated its freedom as much as the assembled crew of the Pennywise.
"No pain, no gain," Abigail stammered under her breath, handing the bottle to Peterson who cradled it lovingly. The vial of Angelica's blood was extracted from Abigail's pocket, its contents still eerily warm. With a muffled pop, the cork rose, it's brown hue stained with red. Dropping it to the deck, Abigail gestured for the return of the ship.
With shaking precision, she dropped the first drop on the wax coated closure of the Endeavour's prison. The wax hissed and melted, an ancient wooden cork sliding from the glass as though coated with whale oil. A second drop was delivered to the still waters within the glass, the artificial sea turning a delicate shade of pink.
Her heart hammered in her chest, an irregular tattoo that drove her near insane with panic. The rails of the Pennywise, though only a few feet from her position seemed to be miles away. Slowly, steadily she made her way to the expanse of ocean, trying not to rock the treasure clasped within her hands. Arms extended, her fingers loosened, reading to drop the vessel into the sea...
CRACK!
The shout of gunshot barely registered as the boat fell further toward its watery birth place. Abigail allowed herself a small smile, before all sensation returned. There was blood on her chest.
CRACK!
The second imbedded below her collar bone. Shouts erupted from the deck of the Pennywise, men unsheathing swords and pistols alike. A tiny long boat rocked on the surface, its mottled surface making it recognisable as one from the Dutchman. Seated within was a tall pirate with dreadlocks spun from gold.
Hishairissobeautiful, Abigail pondered, her eyes glazing, the blood falling thicker from her wounds. More gunshots ensued, the man with the golden hair soon falling in a mass of blood, hair and bone. A rumbling emerged from the water below. Was it the Endeavour regrowing? Whatwasit?
Abigail fell to the deck. The sky above shone the same periwinkle blue as Cutler's eyes, the sun twinkling mischievously.
He would live... Cutler would live.
oOo
The Dutchman emerged from the ocean's depths, just as the Endeavour was bloating. It was truly a remarkable sight. One minute it was as tiny as a bath toy, then the size of a long boat. Within a matter of seconds it stood proudly beside the Pennywise, his departed crew regaining consciousness as though emerging from a good night's sleep.
Abigailwon! Glee enveloped him. If it had not been for the leg irons wrapped about his ankles, he would have danced for joy.
"Cappen! Cappen! Edd's bin kill'd!" A fat pirate named Freddie jumped toward Turner, rumbling the decks as he went.
Killed?HowcouldEddiebekilled? Cutler thought on this for a moment, but the thought turned his stomach. The only way a member of Turner's crew could be killed was through irreversible mutilation.
Turner's stony expression did not alter. "So be it."
"Why was Eddie even here?" Cutler hated the fact he felt remorse for the pirate, but Eddie's death took him a little by surprise.
"He was doing his duty," Turner replied, his voice flat.
"His duty?" Hemusthavefailed, Cutler pondered. TheEndeavourisback.Iamfree! As though to signify this freedom, the leg-irons around his ankles turned to sea-weed, slipping away. Without thinking, the short lord sprinted across the Dutchman'sdeck, grabbing a rigging rope and swinging onto the deck of the Endeavour.
"Lord Beckett, was goin' on?" a Lieutenant inquired groggily.
"Later," Cutler snapped, swinging now onto the deck of the Pennywise. The crew was going wild, swinging the cannons toward the Dutchman, firing shots at Turner's crew. A large group were huddled about a fallen figure on the deck.
"No... oh God no."
Cutler could not see it, but who else could it be? Why else would Turner be so pleased with what appeared to be a failure?
"Move aside!" he roared to the assembled crew. A few were shocked by his presence, but they split none the less. A sob threatened at Cutler's throat as his eyes grazed the still figure of Abigail Rochester. In dead, she looked far more at ease than ever she had in life. Her eyes were open, dark brown orbs staring straight into the blue sky. Apart from the bloody gunshot wounds she looked perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Huddling against her body, Cutler allowed the tears to flow, dampening her obsidian curls. "Abigail, my love. I am so sorry."
oOo
"It is done. Finally, it is done."
Turner's lips curled into a smile. Those that were there on this day would always swear that this was the occasion where Turner gained his first tentacle. Within a matter of decades he would sport a beard of them as eerily magnificent as that worn by Davy Jones. Pirates and navy alike would fear to speak his name, and his crew would once again revert to sea-life clad monstrosities.
He would allow Beckett a time to mourn, a generosity that the little lordie had not given to him. Then, he would wait. He knew Beckett would come for him eventually.
He was not disappointed.
The fury etching every line of Beckett's face was palpable. His lips were quivering; the glint in his icy blue eyes enough to drive all mortal men into a panic.
"Why?"
One word, one syllable, yet in the grief stricken voice of Lord Cutler Beckett it meant so much. The inflection of his voice brought Turner great joy.
"You must have expected this, Beckett."
"WHY?"
"I could not simply let the wench continue to kill pirates."
"You have not answered my question. You could have imprisoned her, like you did me. You did not have to have her killed."
"There you are wrong. I did not care about your freedom or your ship, I just wanted you to feel what I did."
Beckett's face contorted with confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Revenge, Beckett. You stole Elizabeth, so I stole Abigail."
"What?"
"She is pregnant, Beckett, but as Davy Jones' heir I am incapable of fathering a child." William found his insides churning with hatred. "I asked her who he was, and she told me about what you did to her at Port Royal."
"So what, the bastard is mine. That does not mean I stole Elizabeth from you," sneered Beckett, his fingers clutched now around the handle of his miniature pistol.
"But you did. You were her first. You are the father of her child. How can I possibly compete with that?"
"So you're telling me that Abigail died because you were feeling a little jealous! If you were not already dead, Turner, I would kill you again! Only this time, I would make you beg for death!"
"Do. Not. Trivialise. This. Beckett." Turner's words emerged in a venomous stream, eyes narrowed. "Our business is done, you may return to your ship. I never want to see your face again."