Disclaimer: Bloody Saint Mary! Disclaimer! I thought I'd never see you again!

A/N: Action sequences want my soul, I swear. And fluff wants to eat my brains with a runcible spoon. Anyhoo… enjoy.

It was the bloodiest tempest Squirrel had ever known. The rain fell like a sheet of frozen iron, and the wind beat at her like fists, trying to knock her from her perch. But she hung on, determined. The men below her hauled and heaved and shouted, washed by the storm and thrown by the ship; Squirrel kept silent, trying to hear the orders below over the screams and bellows of the thunder, the hissing of the waves and the rain. She had to move carefully in this storm - every time the ship moved, it took the masts and spars and rigging elsewhere. What might have been a safe place to stand one moment was nothing but thin air the next.

I'm glad I'm sober, Squirrel thought, fighting with another slippery biting length of rope. Sam was right - I'd have been killed by now: washed overboard and drowned. Squirrel shivered, and not just from the temperature of the rain. She glanced down over the spar, and looked down to where Sam hauled on the fore-sheet ropes with Will and Gibbs.

A strike of lightning tore up the night, causing the sea to fizzle and boil where it had punched the waves. Squirrel shook herself, wiping her hair and the rain from her face, refusing to be distracted. She crawled over the length of the spar she sat on, slowly, making her way towards the mast. Rising shakily to her feet, she peered about the white-rained darkness, one hand resting against the mast for balance. She cast her eyes about, peering through the storm for loose lines, trying to hear the orders from below.

"Mainyard sheet!" Someone shouted, and Squirrel lifted her eyes. The mainsail was turning, loose in its moorings. A line had slipped from the tackle… in more than one place. If the sail turned any more, it would rip the mast clean off the ship. With the mainmast gone, the Diana would founder, turn, and be lost. In addition to being taken off-course, the mast would most likely act as an anchor, and drag the ship under, or, at the very least, tear her in half.

The Cape was an unforgiving bitch of a passage.

Squirrel waited for the ship to lurch again, then leapt out into space. When the ship bucked back with the next wave, the mainsail spar swung out towards her. Squirrel reached out, caught the middle of it, pulled herself onto it with an 'oof!', and scrabbled to pull herself up onto the wildly-swinging spar. She had no time to gasp for breath - time was of the utmost importance here.

A thin bedraggled figure was climbing up the ratlines towards her - Squirrel almost didn't recognise Ragetti. But, given the circumstances, they both probably looked like drowned rats.

"You get the larboard!" She shouted at him. Ragetti nodded, and immediately climbed to the starboard: in the opposite direction. Squirrel sighed shortly, then climbed to port end of the mainsail-spar.

The sail billowed below them, blowing inside out. The ship groaned, coming to a standstill in the water, and the stern lifted high above the prow. The Diana's figurehead vanished beneath the churning waves. Barbossa shouted and bellowed orders. The crew scrambled across the deck, washed by every wave and buffeted by every fist of wind. The prow lifted up out of the water, the ship buoyed by the waves. Squirrel hauled at the ropes, tightening the sail's moorings so that they - at the very least - were secure, before hooking her legs around the spar and swinging upside down in the rain.

The sea was sky and the sky was the sea, and everything churned into confusion. Someone below her shouted, probably in alarm. But Squirrel didn't heed them. Her necklace fell upwards and hit her in the chin, and her hair hung down towards the deck; Squirrel herself hung tight, watching the wildly spinning tackle and judging when it would next swing towards her.

Lightning split the sky and blew apart the sea with an explosion of sound and spray and light. The bright after-image rendered Squirrel practically blind. Judging only by what she knew, she lunged and reached out. Her fingers grabbed hold of the tackle, and clawed in, holding it tight. She heaved herself upright, and grabbed hold of the loose rope.

"Mainyard sheet!" She screamed, her high voice carrying over the storm.

Cotton, Pintel and Will stood below her, and caught the rope she dropped down to them. Squirrel threw the tackle back into space as they heaved at the rope. The spar turned on the mast, slowly, and gradually the sail returned to its proper place. The ship still groaned, though, as she was tossed and thrown by the horrendous thunderstorm. Squirrel wiped her hair from her face and looked for Ragetti. The one-eyed pirate was handling himself fine - he'd caught his tackle too, and was using his own weight to haul the rope down towards the deck. He was shouting for assistance as he swung loose in the rigging, and Elizabeth and Sam ran to him to bring him down safely, then the three of them set to work on securing the line.

A sudden gust of wind knocked Squirrel from her perch, and she cried out. She locked her legs around the spar out of instinct. She heard someone shout her name, but didn't know who. Gritting her teeth, she fought with the bucking spar and pulled herself back upright. She clung to the spar between her legs, and shook with the adrenaline in her veins. The ship below her continued to buck and roll and twist and dive through the waves, bucking enough to tear itself apart. The sea was nothing but mountains as far as the eye could see; lightning continued to strike ominously close to the ship, as though darts thrown by Zeus himself; the rain continued to sheet down like a hail of arrows. Cascades of sea-foam leapt up around the ship as the Diana, tiny in the vastness of the open sea, ploughed her way ever eastwards.

CRACK.

A bolt of lightning hit the foremast, the thunder seeming to come at exactly the same time that the light did. Squirrel tried to blink away the after-image of the bolt, but remained almost blind, her vision obscured by the white light. She could feel her hair rising, and the air was humming, and there was the smell of charred wood and hot metal. It was far too dangerous to be up here. This bolt of lightning had missed the mainmast - this time. Squirrel knew it was far too risky to remain here for much longer. She clambered down, out of the highest reaches of the mast, and scrambled through the rigging as Barbossa shouted over the tempest's roar.

Panting and taking a brief respite, Squirrel quickly made a count of the crew. They hadn't lost anyone yet, it seemed. But where was Tia Dalma? Peering through the rain and the fans of sea-foam, Squirrel searched for the dark-skinned sibyl.

She was standing at the prow, hands clawed into the rails, staring woodenly out to sea. Despite the ship's constant motion and the rain's harshness, Tia did not move. She stood, braced at the prow behind the figurehead, staring eastward. Squirrel felt a shiver go through her, and felt the same uneasiness she had felt the day she'd seen Tia pushing her open palms at the distant horizon.

"Who are you?" Squirrel whispered, staring down through the rigging at the woman.

The wind came once more in force. Even the hurricane off Tripoli had not been so brutal, surely! But then, they'd had a different ship, then, one designed for speed. The Diana was a caravel built for lugging goods from port to port. The Black Pearl was by far the superior ship in every way.

Squirrel felt slightly sick, all of a sudden. Could this ship even make it around the Cape? Or would they all die out here? Perched in the rigging of a ship that was tossed and flicked over every wave in the middle of the night and in the worst storm she'd ever known, Squirrel thought the situation seemed hopeless.

Lightning struck the sea again, and in the flash of light she spied Will. He stood braced firm in the middle of the deck, bellowing and throwing his arm to point at a distant rope. The crew scurried to obey him. Before the light died, Will craned his head back, and saw Squirrel watching him from the ropes.

His smile gave Squirrel courage.

The crew railed and fought for hours against the fury of the storm. Lines and stays slipped time and time again; waves near washed the crew overboard many, many times; everyone was exhausted. Throats were raw, eyes stung from the salt, muscles groaned from strain and hands bled from the ropes. Held at bay for weeks, the storms seemed to be exacting revenge against the ship that had avoided them for so long.

But the revenge would be short-lived: the clouds were slowly bleeding themselves dry.

"Land ho!" Someone bellowed, and the crew mustered a cheer. Squirrel lifted her head and squinted through the rain, tucking the wet ropes of her hair behind her ears. Was that the edge of Cape Horn off the port bow? She couldn't tell from here. She needed to get higher. Her only thought was on the possibility of escaping the storm, not on the storm itself. Once she reached the crow's nest, and felt the air humming around her, Squirrel remembered.

CRACK.

She leapt out of the way, just in time. The bolt had hit - and melted - the metal cap on the mast's pinnacle. Squirrel would have shared the punishment had she not jumped clear. She caught a wayward rope, and swung around to the mast. She leant against it, panting, trying to get her breath back. She was shivering, and the air around her continued to hum with a strange tension.

She heard Sam clearly from down below: "Bloody hell!"

At first, she thought something was wrong. Had she been hit? Squirrel dizzily checked herself. Aside from a strange tingling sensation at the back of her neck, she was alright. She put up a hand to scratch away the strange itch, and found herself staring. Her hand was glowing. Surprised, she jerked her hand away from her face, and the glow faded from her fingers. Yet the light remained. Slowly, so as not to fall from her perch, Squirrel turned on one foot to look behind her.

St Elmo's fire wreathed the mast, flickering in a strange voluminous cloud. It hummed and crackled, ebbing in its brightness as the storm raged on. Gingerly, Squirrel reached out to brush her hand through the light. The hairs on her arms rose up as a tongue of flame licked her. Curiously, though, Squirrel felt nothing but a strange tingling. There was no heat or pain to this fire. The flames shifted, moving, and enclosed Squirrel completely in a strange blue-green glow. The humming grew louder as the light passed over her.

In a moment, she impulsively stood and leant as far forward as she could, lifting her arms wide. The green-blue glow followed her, opening behind her like a cape, or a pair of wings. The heatless fire lingered on her for a moment, then slowly faded away into darkness as its blessing was expended. Squirrel dropped her arms and started to breathe again, awed by what had just occurred. St Elmo's fire.

"Bloody hell." Squirrel turned her head, and found Sam hanging from the rigging nearby. He was grinning and so was she, both of them wide-eyed and awed. "That was… amazin'," he breathed. "What did it feel like?"

Squirrel shrugged, unable to find the words. She looked down, and caught sight of several members of the crew staring up at her, distracted from their duties for a moment. Gibbs' awestruck face was one of them.

"We're not out of the storm yet, Sam," Squirrel looked back to the Irishman.

"Aye," Sam agreed, admiration and awe still sparkling in his eyes, "Still a way t' go yet." Lightning tore the sea, and the waves rolled high as mountains. The cold rain on Squirrel's face reminded her of where she was.

"Of course." She leapt up into the rigging and scrambled to the next loose stay.

Half a day later, when the Diana rounded the Cape, it occurred to Squirrel that she had never been so glad to see the sun in her life.

Barbossa ordered every man to go below and rest. He himself would take first watch, and keep the ship on-course. No-one argued with him - everyone was too damn exhausted. Cape Horn had drained every bit of energy from every crew member. Everyone just wanted to sleep.

But Squirrel tossed and turned, unable to find rest.

St Elmo's fire had wreathed the rigging - and Squirrel herself - during the storm. As Gibbs had murmured when the crew went below, "That's a sure sign of good luck, it is." The crew had all murmured agreement, and Squirrel knew that somehow she'd gained some manner of respect in their eyes, even the ones who thought women aboard bad luck.

But what good was luck where they were going?

Squirrel rolled over and faced the wall. She could hear the snores and mutterings of the crew behind her; she could hear Elizabeth's faint breathing in the bunk opposite. She could hear the ship's timbers groaning as the Diana sailed through much calmer waters. She could hear… Squirrel sighed and rolled over. Sleep was not coming.

"This is the cost, then?" Squirrel murmured, staring out with tired eyes. "Insomnia?" She'd been drinking herself to sleep for too long that proper rest was denied her. She sighed again. She wasn't about to break her promise to Barbossa. So, she'd just have to find another way to get to sleep.

Perhaps the stars would help.

Squirrel crossed softly through the sleeping crew, and climbed out onto the deck. The night was clear and bright, and the southern stars shone brightly. The wind lifted Squirrel's hair, and she smiled, already feeling more at ease. She sat down on the edge of the stairs, and closed her eyes.

"A stór mo chroí," someone sang, his voice slow and gentle, "When the evening's mist over mountain and sea is falling… won't you turn away from the throng, and maybe you'll hear me calling."

Squirrel looked about the deck, but could see no-one. It seemed that the singer did not wish to be seen. Curiosity almost got the better of her, but Squirrel remained where she was, listening to the beautiful of the singer's voice. The song was so heartbreakingly-sad, and beautiful.

"For the sound of a voice that is surely missed, for somebody's quick returning. A ruin, a ruin, oh, won't you come back soon, to the one who will always love you." There was a sigh, and then silence for a moment. "A stór mo chroí," he sang, his voice a mere whisper, "When you're far away…"

Squirrel slowly stood up. Sam - turning around the mast from where he'd been leaning - lifted his head, eyes wide with alarm. "Squirrel! Miss Grey!" He seemed at a loss as what to say; he looked caught-out, almost, as though what he'd sung was not meant to have been heard. "I…"

Squirrel felt - and almost shared - his embarrassment. "Master Flynn…" She bit her lip. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, I'm sorry."

"S'alright." Sam shifted where he stood.

There was an awkward pause.

"You have a wonderful voice," Squirrel said. "I know I've said contrary many times, but…"

"Thankyeh." He mustered a feeble smile. "Yeh didn't find the song too… depressin'?"

"No. It was beautiful." She tilted her head, trying to find something to say to ease this strange - and sudden - tension. "What does 'a stór mo chroí' mean?"

"Eeeh." Sam looked away, and scratched the back of his neck. "Nothin' important." He was embarrassed for a reason - a reason which was slowly becoming apparent to Squirrel.

"Is it… Irish?" She murmured, feeling colour tinge her face.

"Gaelic, aye." Sam looked sidelong at her, then faced her. "What are yeh doin' up at this time o' night anyways, Squirrel? Cap'n ordered yeh all t' get yeh rest."

"I couldn't sleep," she murmured, unable to take her eyes from Sam's. "I thought I'd get some air."

"Ah." He couldn't take his eyes from her either. "Any way I ken help?"

Squirrel smiled, faintly. "I don't think so."

"Ah." He shrugged, his smile strengthening but his embarrassment remaining. "Ah, well."

"Sam…" Squirrel took a breath, and discarded the question she was going to ask, in the favour of: "You said you asked the crew about me. About why I didn't want to sing."

Sam smiled faded slightly, as though he'd offended her. "Aye. I did."

"What else did you ask?"

The Irishman tilted his head. "I don't follow…"

"About the previous captain."

Sam's smile was gone now, nothing but a memory. "They wouldn't tell me his neeme. They told me he died, and that yeh loved him." He looked down. "That's all."

Squirrel sighed. "It's not that simple."

Sam's head snapped up. "Eh?"

"He's not dead." Squirrel's gut clenched, and some inner voice was telling her that she was a fool, that this was not a game she should be playing. But a larger part of her knew that this was the only compromise she could make with the Irishman. He deserved at least a grain of the truth.

"He's not?" Sam looked almost crestfallen. "Oh."

"If he was dead," Squirrel said slowly, "It wouldn't be this complicated." She closed her eyes and sighed. "But he isn't. So it is."

"I see." Sam scratched the back of his neck again. "So…" He looked up at her, almost pleading. "Do yeh still love him, then?"

"I…" Squirrel closed her eyes, then opened them again. "That's where it's complicated. I don't know, Sheem. I really don't know."

Sam smiled at her, but there was a sadness in his eyes. "Well," he said, sounding a little more sure of himself, "Maybe, once we reach Calcutta, yeh'll…"

"We're not going to Calcutta." The words were through her lips before she could stop them.

Sam frowned. "What?" He considered this a moment. "Well, where are yeh headed?"

Squirrel considered a moment. What kind of a destination was 'the ends of the earth'? And what questions would that prompt? 'How do you intend to get there?' Squirrel could almost imagine her own answer: 'Oh, we thought we'd just sail around in circles until we all go mad'. She could not sound so flippant, not now; not when Sam was looking at her so earnestly.

"Singapore." Squirrel said, slowly. "We're headed for Singapore."

"Ah." Sam's eyes darkened in understanding. "So that's where your man is, is he?" He sighed and looked out over the water. After a moment, he looked back to Squirrel. "Then I'm comin' wit' yeh."

Squirrel stared. "What? Why?"

"I'm comin' wit' yeh." Sam shrugged, smiling faintly. "I knoo the rest o' the lads are gettin' off in Calcutta, but I think I'll tag along fer a bit longer. An' as fer why…" His eyes went fathomless. "Yeh heard me sing. Why d'yeh think?"

Squirrel opened her mouth to rebut him, but she couldn't find the words. There was such an intensity and such a plea in Sam's eyes. She knew he could not - would not - be dissuaded.

He had the same look in his eyes that Squirrel had seen in her own, back when she'd been freed from Tortuga.

"You'll have to talk to Barbossa," Squirrel said eventually, giving in. "You'll have to ask him."

"O' course." Sam nodded. "But will yeh back me?"

Squirrel smiled, and half-turned away to look out over the water. "If I have to."

"Oh, well, don't goo feelin' all obligated, now." Sam laughed, and the tension between the two of them was erased. But it lingered, vestigial. There was no erasing this. No changing how - and what - the Irishman felt about her. "Seein' as how yeh think my voice a little more melodious now," Sam grinned, pushing his hair back out of his face, "I suppose yeh don't mind the fiddle either?"

Squirrel did not smile back. "Not tonight, paddy."

Sam sobered. "'Course."

Squirrel paused, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not tonight, but some other night. Sometime soon…" she smiled. "Play me something sweet, and sad, and something I've never heard before." She smiled, faintly. "I'd be happy to dance for you then."

Sam smiled, and hope sprung up anew in his eyes. "O' course, Miss Grey. I'd be honoured." He made a small bow. "G'night."

"Goodnight." Squirrel turned and went below, feeling Sam's eyes on her back every lingering step she took. She found her breath catching in her throat, and felt her gut rolling but - oddly - it didn't bother her. It just made her feel… confused.

As soon as she was below, Tia came out of the shadows and walked in step with Squirrel. The swamp woman held a flagon in each hand.

"Few men e'er see deh storm-lights," Tia murmured, "Let alone dance in them." She tilted her head at Squirrel. "Dat is deh firs' time yeh get your wings back, I t'ink, aye?"

Squirrel sighed. "Can't we ever have a normal conversation? Do you always have to be warning me about something I'm doing wrong?"

Tia shook her head, looking amused. "Dat weren't somet'in' like dat dis time, Miss Greeh. Dis time, is a compliment."

"Oh." Squirrel smiled foolishly. "My mistake."

Tia laughed, then peered curiously into Squirrel's eyes. "Can you fin' words to describe how deh flames felt?"

Squirrel thought back to the green-blue tongues of St Elmo's fire, smiled, and shook her head. "No. It was… incredible. But indescribable."

Tia smiled, as though that were the answer she'd expected. Then she paused, titling her head thoughtfully. "I were worried about you before, Miss Greeh. You were hurtin' yerself so badly." She smiled. "Wha's deh first t'ing yeh do when a snake bite you? You suck out deh poison."

Squirrel sighed. "That's what I've been doing. Or trying to do."

"How is drinkin' another kind of poison gon' cure yeh, Miss Greeh?" Tia tilted her head.

Ah. Squirrel's lips quirked. So that's what we're talking about, are we?

After a moment, Tia held out one of the flagons she held. "'Ere," she said. "Drink dis."

Squirrel shook her head. "I promised Barbossa…"

"Is tea." Tia proffered the flagon again. "It won' break your promise."

Squirrel relented, and took it. "What's it for?"

Tia's eyes were fathomless, even more so in the shadows and lantern-light. "To 'elp wid deh dreams."

"To help," Squirrel asked, eyebrow raised and smiling, "Or to hinder?"

Tia held up her own flagon in salute. "Bot'."

Squirrel smiled, and lifted her flagon. "Then here's to pirates."

Tia's eyes darkened. "To deh men dat steal our hearts." She drank from her flagon, but Squirrel did not move. Tia frowned, and took the flagon from her lips, waiting.

Squirrel stared off into the distance, remembering, then met Tia's eyes and smiled faintly. "Even though they don't deserve them," she whispered, and drank.

A/N: Insert usual plea for reviews here.