FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
25—The Compass
DISCLAIMER: Jack'n'Lizzie etc. do not belong to me. I make no money from the writing of this fan-fiction.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys! They really mean a lot to me. And thank you all so much for your kind words about Sophie. As it turns out, the cancer has spread to her lungs, spleen and a few other areas. The surgery she was scheduled to have would not prolong her life and would entail the removal of five (yes, five!) ribs, so we decided to spare her the pain. Her vet believes she has anywhere from a few days to a month, at most, left with us. She says she's not in pain, just tired.
I wanted to get another chapter up before the holidays, so consider this a Christmas present from me to all of you. Sorry if it's a little short, and sorry again for the lack of Jack'n'Lizzie, but I need to get some other stuff in Port Royale out of the way before continuing. Thanks again for the reviews (!), I cannot emphasize how they make me smile! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday.
Port Royale's one and only prison was a stark contrast to the island itself. Where Port Royale was sunny and bright, the prison was cold and damp, dark in most places, as the outside sunshine had difficulty spreading its warmth through the small windows. The welcoming coziness Rosalind had reveled in at Will's flat seemed so unattainable and far away. Even with him sitting beside her, she hardly felt safe. The group of five or so men in the cell next to theirs wouldn't dream of giving her any trouble with Will there, but they still made her feel uncomfortable. The dingy cell was the farthest she had ever been from her spacious room back in England.
England. As much as she tried, it was difficult not to let her mind wonder back to her home country. She wondered if her parents knew where she was, if they thought about her often, if they missed her. She tried not to, but she missed them… terribly.
Escape seemed impossible. Upon first being thrust into the cell, Will fled to the doors, examined the door hinges and then muttered something about how the architecture had changed.
She would be more content to starve then eat the food that had been offered to them by the soldiers that guarded the prison. The seat beneath her was hard and unforgiving. She had not slept in the two days since she'd been there. She shifted uncomfortably, her eyelids heavy, a yawn fighting to break free from somewhere in the back of her throat.
"Here," a gentle, masculine voice whispered to her. She looked up to see Will smiling down at her. He leaned back against the wall, extending his arm outwards. She smiled weakly back at him before leaning into his side, allowing her head to rest against the crook between his arm and shoulder. It was finally safe enough to close her eyes.
Sleep was just beginning to claim her when the jingle of keys sounded outside the cell. She'd been too exhausted to hear their footsteps approaching on the stone walkway. Her eyes shot open to see two soldiers, both taller and more muscular than Will, opening the heavy iron cell door. One entered the cell, approaching them, while the other stood guard at the door.
"With us, Miss," the taller of the two said, taking a firm grip on her elbow. She was too tired to resist or come up with something witty and sarcastic to snap at him, so she settled for scowling angrily at him instead. Will was quick to his feet as the soldier hauled her onto hers.
"Where are you taking her?" Will snapped.
"Lord Beckett's requested her presence. You're to wait here, Turner."
Rosalind looked to Will, watching as his eyes darted between both men.
"It's alright," she said quietly, using her available arm to reach out and touch his hand gently. She wouldn't let him do anything stupid—the wrong move could hasten his walk to the hangman's noose, if that's where they were indeed headed. Her gaze turned steely again as she looked back to the other man. "They won't hurt me."
Will said nothing, but nodded sadly. She could feel his warm eyes on the back of her neck as the guards led her out of the cell. She cast a final glance backwards at him as they led her down the corridor, her eyes fixed on his as he leaned on the cell bars, watching her disappear out of sight.
"Lord Beckett's havin' a personal conversation outside. You're to wait here."
Rosalind stumbled forward into Beckett's office as the soldier roughly released her arm. She looked down at her elbow and rubbed it lightly, wondering if she would bruise there later. She exhaled shallowly before looking up, her eyes scanning her surroundings.
Beckett's office was tastefully decorated, as much as she loathed to admit it, and reminded her very much of her father's den back in England. The wall opposite her was composed mostly of three French doors, an incredible view of the ocean and Port Royale's cliffs lying beyond them. Sure enough, Beckett could be seen outside, speaking with a man she'd not seen before. She scowled inwardly before turning her attention back to the room.
The ceilings of the room were high and framed by many windows, allowing sunlight to come pouring in. She welcomed the warmth of the sun's rays as they kissed her face through the glass. In the center of the room were two ornate couches, facing each other to form a conversation area. She smirked, wondering how many friends Beckett could possibly have to converse with. Just beyond them was a large desk. Two armchairs faced it, while another large, elaborate chair sat behind it. It looked almost like a throne and was, undoubtedly, where Beckett sat. She rolled her eyes.
She turned around and nearly gasped to see an elderly man adding ornate details to a wall map. He had been so quiet that she was previously completely unaware of his presence.
"Good day, sir," she curtseyed, as she'd always been taught, despite her predicament. The old man turned around and smiled at her, nodding briefly, but said nothing. He turned back to his work. She quietly walked up behind him, her curiosity getting the better of her. "May I take a look?" she asked softly. He smiled and nodded again.
The map was incredible, unlike any she had ever seen. Beckett was clearly wealthy enough to afford such a talented artist to paint in his office. The map took up the entire wall and she could only imagine the patience and dedication it took to paint it. She wondered what Beckett would need such a large map for, but spoke nothing of it. She was examining the detail of South Africa when she heard the doors open behind her. She turned around, as irritated an expression on her face as she could muster, as Beckett and a male companion entered from the balcony outside.
"Ah, Miss Avery…" His expression was smug and sarcastic. "So glad you could make it."
"As if I had a choice," she muttered, folding her arms firmly across her chest. "What do you want with me?"
Beckett said nothing, but instead turned to the other man. He handed him a folded piece of parchment. "Mr. Mercer, I'll trust you to deliver this to Weatherby Swann. He'll be most interested in reading it."
"Aye, Lord Beckett," Mercer nodded. He curtly smiled at Rosalind on his way out the door, shutting it behind him as he disappeared from sight.
"It's Governor Swann, still, or have you forgotten?" Rosalind said. "You're too hasty in your attempt to control all of Port Royale."
"Won't you please sit down, Miss Avery?" Beckett asked politely, walking to a small bar area where she watched him pour himself a glass of brandy. She refused him, however, and remained standing. Being a woman, she didn't expect him to offer her anything of an alcoholic nature to drink.
"I'm fine standing, thank you. What was that you're having delivered to Governor Swann?"
"Nothing for you to fret over," Beckett replied. "Can I fetch you some tea then? Water, perhaps?"
"I wouldn't take a beverage from you if I was dying of thirst," she hotly replied.
Beckett smirked. "I was having a copy of Miss Elizabeth Swann's arrest warrant delivered to the good governor," he finally said, after taking a sip of his drink. "I'm sure you understand why such a thing might peak his interest." Beckett crossed the room, making his way towards his desk.
Rosalind said nothing as she felt her chest tighten. Still, she would not let her uneasiness show. "You'll never catch her," she said, smiling. "As long as she's with Jack, you'll never be able to outsmart her."
"Ahh," he said, obviously satisfied. "So she is with Jack Sparrow. Thank you, Miss Avery, for confirming my suspicions."
Rosalind felt her nose burn as her cheeks grew hot. She sucked in several deep breaths. No. She would not cry. Not in front of him. "I never said it was Jack Sparrow," she said in a low, angry voice. I have confirmed nothing."
"Of course." He took another sip of brandy. "Regardless, Miss Swann is not the object of my meeting with you."
"Then what is?" He smiled at her. "Jack, then?"
"Very good, Miss Avery. I do believe you're catching on." He removed his hat and sat it on his desk before rising to his feet and walking over to the map. He said something quietly to the artist before the old man nodded obediently and left the room, leaving his easel and paint brush behind. "I'll come directly to the point, Miss Avery. I'm a patient man, but my patience is nearly gone. Jack Sparrow has something that I want. Something that he keeps in his possession at all time," his back was to her as he spoke. "If you can acquire this object, you're free to go. Your name, as well as Miss Swann's, I assure you, will be pardoned. Jack will be given gainful employment as a privateer, and you may return to England instead of returning to prison."
"And what about Will?" Rosalind asked quickly. "What about him?"
"I'll see what I can do for Mr. Turner," Beckett replied drolly. "But his fate is not in my hands."
Rosalind thought for several minutes. "Why me?" she asked.
"I thought you might ask that," he smirked, turning around to face her. "Because you've known Miss Swann since childhood. She trusts you. And if she trusts you, Jack Sparrow might trust you."
"Captain Jack Sparrow," she corrected.
"Of course," Beckett smiled. "My apologies."
Rosalind thought for several more minutes. "What is it you want?"
"Captain Sparrow's compass," Beckett replied, a little too quickly.
"His compass?" she asked. She smirked at Beckett, crossing her arms again. "It must be a very valuable compass, then. What's so special about it that you're willing to grant freedom to three, possibly four, enemies to the crown?"
"I want his compass," Beckett repeated. "That is all the information you need to know."
"Fine, then," Rosalind said nonchalantly. She finally sat down on one of the couches, crossing her leg and leaning back. "If you're so unwilling to confide in me, then I'm equally as unwilling to do as you wish. Find someone else to do your bidding."
Beckett drew in a deep breath through his nostrils before smiling and continuing. His constant smile was infuriating and she was more than tempted to stand up and slap it off his face.
"Very well then," he said. "I'll have you returned to your cell and I'll see you tomorrow morning at your execution. And don't worry. I'll have you and your Mr. Turner hung simultaneously so neither of you has to see the other suffer."
The room fell quiet. She refused to look at him as the gravity of his words washed over her and, much to her chagrin, she was genuinely terrified. Her choice seemed clear then. She had nothing to lose, yet so much to fight for. She unsteadily rose to her feet, her eyes still avoiding Beckett.
"If you'll agree to Will's freedom…" she trailed off, almost ashamed with herself for agreeing to this man's terms, "…I'd be more than happy to do as you wish."
"Very good, Miss Avery. Splendid," Beckett said. "Upon your arrival, I'll set Mr. Turner free from his prison." He returned to his seat behind his desk. "You're free to go."
That's all for now, folks!
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