The wind hummed in the rigging, straining the sails and whipping about the lone figure that stood stoically at the tiller of the Black Pearl. The storm would break soon; any fool could see that. But Gibbs was a fool who was out to save the life of another fool, and in order to do that, he needed to sail through the tempest, not around. Time was not currently his friend.
In the quickening dark, he could barely make out the dark speck growing in the distance. He spun the tiller and the Pearl listed sharply to the left; if he was right, and that was DeMuerta, then they were approaching it from the wrong angle. They would need to sail around to any of the other coves than the one Jack had undoubtedly gone to; Gibbs thanked all the gods he had ever heard mention of for the island's strange shape. It curved in and out all along its exterior, offering many possible ports for sheltering. The reason one of them was so used above the others was because of its access to the tunnels that led into the interior of the island, and thus the treasure. A ship that sailed into one of the others by accident would find it inhospitable, but no different from any other forsaken isle. Thus, it was safe, for the most part, from discovery.
Unfortunately, it was also a deathtrap for the unwary captain; if the ship wasn't dashed to pieces on the low rocks that humped near to the surface of the water or holed by the reefs, there was a good chance that it would not survive being rammed into the remains of all the other ships that hadn't made it. However, Gibbs was not unwary, and was far more experienced with such matters, having sailed with Jack on many a fine occasion.
The young lad, Quinn, suddenly appeared by his side, shouting to make himself heard above the wind.
"Mr. Barlowe wants to know if we're going to make it on time, Sir!"
Gibbs nodded sharply, a smile beginning to grow on his weathered face.
"Tell him...yes."
And as Quinn staggered off, as the wind howled, as the deck pitched beneath their feet...the first raindrops fell.
The water turned icy as Will swam into the mouth of the stream that flowed from the heart of the island, and he shuddered in his sodden clothing, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The cold seemed to clear his head somewhat, but a fuzzy mist still persisted in surrounding his thoughts. Anything felt like a valid possibility, and nothing was impossible; it couldn't be a good feeling, but he also couldn't shake it off. He was quite positive, however, that he was no longer drunk, shame flooding him as he realized that he had been. But, even if he were sober for the most part, the effects of the rum were definitely not completely gone. His limbs burned from exhaustion and his eyes stung in the salty water, but he continued to swim doggedly inward. Soon, it became shallow enough to stand, and then to wade, and he began making his way into the heavy darkness of the cave's tunnels.
He would have given anything for so much as a single sputtering candle to ease the unbroken black; he was already soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and hungry, and the prospect of wandering the dark caves for hours certainly did not appeal to him. He had no choice, however, forced to trust only to memory to guide him to the heart of DeMuerta.
At that moment, Jack and Ryenne were also navigating through DeMuerta, though their conditions were somewhat more comfortable. Nestled in the sternmost end of a narrow rowboat, Jack was carefully examining the wound on Ryenne's thigh, calloused fingers gently prodding the bloodied skin. He let out a low whistle.
"It's deep. What'd you do to it?"
Her voice was quiet, strained. "A piece of glass down in the brig; when the ship pitched, Will and I..." She trailed off, throwing a wary glance at the two men crouched at the bow. Neither Quinn nor Tyrus appeared to have heard, intent on guiding the little boat through the rough, narrow streambeds. The soft light from their lantern flickered coldly over the black surface of the water, casting shadows on the tunnel walls. From the corner of her eye, Ryenne could see the occasional glimmer of gold beneath those glassy ripples, but made no move to mention it. Hopeless thoughts swirled through her mind, plots and plans evaporating and making her feel like an empty shell. How are we ever going to be able to get out of this?
Gasping as Jack's searching fingers prodded a tender spot on her leg, her attention snapped back to him, and she jerked away slightly, a low growl escaping her throat.
"Ouch! Be careful, there!"
Quinn glanced curiously at them over his shoulder for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes, and turned back to the task at hand. Ryenne's eyes carefully followed his moments, but Jack, who hadn't noticed, remained locked on her injury, his face grave.
"It's very deep," he said solemnly.
"Yes, you said that before," she replied snappishly, suddenly feeling extremely irritated. Why wasn't he telling her anything useful? "I'm sure I'll survive."
"I'm surprised you could still walk; you've lost a lot of blood." She frowned at him, but he continued undaunted. "It needs to be bandaged."
"In case you haven't noticed, I don't actually carry a supply of healing tools around with me."
"Well, considering the trouble you consistently get yourself into, maybe you should," he grumbled, warming easily to her agitated, impatient mood. His hand moved as if to tear away a piece of his sleeve. "Give me a moment, and I'll just--"
"Don't." She caught his wrist, shrugging off his coat easily and proffering her own coat sleeve. "Use mine."
He looked skeptical. "I'd rather just--"
"Look, it's my own bloody fault I got hurt in the first place. I won't have you sacrificing your clothing to bandage my cuts." She held out her arm, the white cotton sleeve hanging from it in a baggy sort of way. "Now, just take what you need."
"It's my fault the ship lurched the way it did."
"But it's my fault we're here in the first place." She grimaced at his hesitance. "You know, I'm losing more blood for every second you waste."
Jack shook his head disapprovingly, but a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. He reached for her sleeve, dagger suddenly appearing in hand. Ryenne's eyebrow's furrowed in confusion; how had he managed to keep that away from Quinn? But, whatever the reason, it didn't matter right now.
Holding the fabric taut, Jack sliced a strip off of her sleeve, bracing himself with a hand on her shoulder as the boat rocked. Ryenne felt a chill go through her at his touch, which she stubbornly tried to ignore. But a cool breeze rushed suddenly through the tunnel, and she shivered, almost cutting herself on the blade of his knife. He sheathed it quickly, laying his coat across her shoulders and tugging it firmly around her. She smiled gratefully, feeling slightly awkward. From the look on his face, he was feeling the same.
"Er...there you go," he mumbled, patting her arm and busying himself with bandaging her wound. Ryenne vaguely wondered if kissing him would be a bad idea...
Kissing him? She must have lost more blood than she'd thought. But then again...
But then again no. If there was ever to be any kissing of while she had been held captive in her own dreams and memories. And now there it was, calling to her in a way that could not be ignored. The image of a bed with tousled white sheets flashed before her mind's eye, the vision of her...and Jack. She leaned towards him, eyes fluttering closed, and...
"Get up here, Sparrow!" Quinn shouted, glaring over his shoulder at them. Ryenne's moment of...whatever it was...shattered, and she pulled back, unable to stop her cheeks from coloring in embarrassment.
Jack twitched, blinking, and she realized that he'd been leaning in, too; their faces had been mere inches apart. He also flushed slightly, eyes sliding past her to glare at Quinn, and he stood slowly, easing his way up to the bow. Tyrus eyed her suspiciously, fingering the blade of his knife longingly, and she frowned, pulling Jack's coat tighter around herself. There was a small sense of safety in being with Jack again, but there was no relieving the small pang of fear and discomfort that having Tyrus' eyes upon her caused; there never would be.
"What is it?" Jack asked irritably, peering into the darkness ahead. "We haven't reached the split yet."
Quinn's voice was dangerously soft. "Keep your hands off of her, Sparrow."
Jack eyebrows furrowed, and he sat back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest. "What do you--"
"I mean it. If I see--or hear--of anything, I will personally kill the both of you."
Ryenne had to bite her lip until it almost bled to keep from saying anything. Obviously the threat hadn't been meant for her to hear, but...What authority did Quinn assume he had over them, now? Jack had fulfilled the bargain, they were on his island...
This was, of course, overlooking the fact that Quinn had fifty armed men at his bidding, and they only had Will.
Where is Will? She thought curiously, looking around as though expecting him to pop suddenly out of a shadowy corner and start a charge. After all, he had been quite drunk the last time she had seen him; who knew how fast he had burned off the effects of his liquor.
The sound of Jack's voice drew her eyes from the shadows and back to the men huddled at the bow.
"What're you playing at?"
She couldn't predict who would throw the first punch (or bring out the first knife), but she realized that it would soon come to blows, and if Jack fought...he would die. One man could not fight off fifty at one time, no matter how good with weapons he was. Not giving herself time to hesitate, she leaned forward and caught Jack's arm, pulling him back away from Quinn, whose eyes glittered maliciously.
"I don't care if she is your little pet, Sparrow; I won't have that here--"
"And I won't have her used for sport!" Jack spat, throwing a pointed glare in Tyrus' direction. "You can tell your...crew to keep their bloody hands off her!"
Ryenne's face colored in embarrassment. "Jack! I can handle myself--"
"No, you can't," he snapped, twisting the fabric he had cut from her sleeve (and never finished bandaging her cut with) in his hands. Her stomach gave a jolt of indignant anger, and she opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "Hold still so I can bandage this up."
He grabbed her leg roughly--more so than he'd intended, she thought--and she had to choke back a gasp of pain as he began to wind the cloth around her wound hastily. Forcing herself to look only at the floor of the boat, she kept perfectly still and silent; she could feel Quinn's black eyes piercing her like a dagger. His sudden interest in her was very unnerving, and while it scared her, at the same time it infuriated her. He hadn't cared when Tyrus had laid hands on her, had raped her. Now he was suddenly concerned about Jack touching her? Why?
And Jack. He had made no move to deny Quinn's implications regarding himself and her. What did he think she had meant when she said she owed him? What did it all mean? And why did all of it seem to be happening so suddenly?
Looking down at him as he finished bandaging her leg, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment; there was no fluttering in her stomach, no pounding of her heart. Only a simmering, building anger in her chest.
He thought she was helpless.
He must have spotted the expression on her face, because his eyebrows furrowed even deeper.
"What is it, Ryenne, love?"
"Don't call me that," she replied coldly, slouching away from him. He looked hurt, but made no move towards her.
"Whatever you say."
Things were not going well for Will. Granted, this could only be expected, seeing how he was wandering all alone in a pitch-black maze of tunnels, but even so, he was distinctly beginning to feel that fate was conspiring against him.
It should not have been taking him this long to reach the central cavern he remembered so well from his previous adventure with Jack. It had only taken them about fifteen minutes by boat, then; he had expected it to be longer swimming and by foot, but he had begun to feel as if he had been wading for an hour, an impression amplified by the unyielding darkness around him.
Sensing that he was rounding a sharp curve, he began to trail his fingers along the wall, following the course of rock and water. Suddenly, his right foot slipped into a small hole under the surface and he tripped, splashing loudly and cursing so fluently that he was momentarily and profoundly glad that Elizabeth was not there to hear him.
Getting to his feet, he gingerly tested his ankle; thankfully, it was not twisted very badly, and he was able to put his weight on it without much pain. Leaning against the cool, damp rock, he paused and took a few deep, calming breaths to ease the frustration building inside him. Why wasn't he there yet? He let his head fall back against the hard stone, trying to picture the course of the tunnels in his mind. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the rum, or the cold, or his recent deprivation of sleep and food, but...he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember it at all. Sighing in defeat, he was about to close his eyes and rest for a while, when he suddenly heard a sound quite different from plunk of water droplets falling from the ceiling and the lapping of the shallow stream against the tunnel walls.
The sound of voices.
The sound of voices echoing behind him in the tunnel, accompanied by the splash of oars methodically entering and exiting the water.
It was still a little ways off--sound carried easily, here--but was steadily drawing closer, and unless he wanted to give up any chance he might still have to help Carolynn and Jack, he had to find someplace to hide. Fast.
Not stopping to think and barely even bothering to favor his right leg, Will set off again down the tunnel at twice the pace he had been going. He couldn't help that he was being loud; hopefully, his very existence remained a secret to Carolynn's captors, and they would not know who or what they were coming perilously close to discovering.
About forty feet from where he had paused, he realized that the tunnel split into two branches, one leading to the left and the other the right. And suddenly, with a jolt, he remembered this place, remembered it so clearly it was as if it had scarce been a week since he'd been there. There still remained one problem, though: which had Jack chosen? Which led to the fabled treasure of DeMuerta?
He stood still, deep in thought, doubt plaguing what little he now did remember. And the longer he stood there, the more convinced he became that it had been the right hand tunnel. It had to have been; going to the left just felt innately wrong.
And he was rapidly running out of time.
So, throwing caution and consideration to both the winds of chance and his fragmented memory, Will started into the gloom of the right hand tunnel just as the boat carrying Ryenne, Jack, Quinn, and Tyrus rounded the bend.
Jack was feeling a number of things at the moment, irritation currently being the most common denominator. He was irritated with Ryenne, yes; the girl was having another of her odd, random mood swings, apparently, and was refusing to speak to him. He was irritated with the whole situation they were in, and especially the perpetrators of said situation (their captors). But primarily, he was irritated with himself for allowing all of it to happen in the first place. After all, wasn't he Captain Jack Sparrow, Scourge and Infamous Scallywag of the Seven Seas?
Apparently not, or at least, not anymore. He was a failure, an abject wretch of a man who had been embarrassingly outsmarted and was currently being pushed very near to his breaking point.
And not only that, but he was a failure and abject wretch who also happened to be in love with the other wretch who wasn't speaking to him and most likely felt nothing for him even remotely along the lines of love, if the way she kept shooting quick glares in his direction was any indicator.
He wondered what would happen when his temper finally snapped.
As he sat mulling over this, Ryenne suddenly grabbed his arm. All traces of her anger had disappeared, replaced by a wild sort of hope that shone in her eyes and stained her cheeks with pink.
"Listen!" She whispered, quietly enough so that Quinn and Tyrus could not hear her. Startled, he did--and heard the distinct sound of splashing ahead of them in the tunnel. Within the small sphere of the light the lanterns produced, there was nothing visible, but...
"Will?" He asked quietly, and she nodded.
"It must be. Jack, we have to do something--they can't see him! Isn't there a fork in the tunnel somewhere ahead?"
"Yes..." He said slowly. "It should be coming up any minute, now."
She glanced ahead, then turned back to him, chewing her lip.
"Where does the other one lead?"
Jack's memory of the island's underground network of tunnels was keen, and he answered promptly.
"The left leads to the cavern, and the right links up with another tunnel that ends in one of the outside coves."
In the bow of the boat, Quinn had been listening to the splashing as it echoed off of the walls. Eyes dark, he turned to Jack.
"Sparrow! What is that?"
"I've not the faintest idea," Jack lied glibly, keeping his face smooth. Quinn looked suspicious, but merely barked an order for Tyrus, who had taken over all of the rowing, to speed up as they turned the corner. The pale glow from the torches illuminated the scene before them: the tunnel wider, the ceiling higher, and ahead...the fork, twin mouths of darkness that seemed like they would swallow forever whoever entered.
And no Will, who had presumably already entered the tunnel.
Ryenne was anxiously trying to peer into the left hand branch, her hand still gripping Jack's arm almost painfully.
"Which way?" Quinn asked.
"Tell him the wrong one," Ryenne breathed quietly. "Jack, you have to."
He hesitated long enough for Quinn's eyes to narrow, but with good reason. Studying the line of ripples in the water as they had rounded the bend, Jack had seen that they were issuing from the right tunnel mouth.
Will, if it had been him, had gone down the wrong tunnel.
"Don't even think of lying to me, Sparrow..."
But there was no need for him to.
"Left," he pronounced clearly, and Ryenne drew quickly away from him as if he had turned into some kind of viper. He gazed at her helplessly, willing her to understand.
I'll explain later, he mouthed, but she shook her head slowly and he saw her lips form the word traitor.
Teeth clenched, he growled low in his throat and covered his face with his hands. Did she really trust him so little? How could she honestly believe that he would betray Will, who was practically a brother to him, so easily? And furthermore, when he was the one all their hopes were resting upon? Why couldn't she see that he had done what did for a reason?
It made no sense.
But then again, not a whole lot made sense recently.
Fighting the urge to throttle Ryenne and her stupid habit of leaping to incorrect conclusions, Jack sat back and waited for them to reach the cavern.
Gibbs stood by the railing of the Pearl, scanning the rocky cliffs in front of him for some sign of the exit of the sister tunnel leading out of the interior cavern, the second and only other one on the outside of the island. The men were all making the ship ready for port, even if there wasn't much of one here: the sails had been furled to protect them from the winds that howled through the craigs, and the anchor had been sunk, with a few ropes having been thrown out to two crewmembers standing on the narrow shore so that they could be tied off and the Pearl made completely secure.
The rain was lashing down thick and heavy, and visibility was beyond poor; they had been lucky in their timing, or else it was very possible that they never would have made it into the narrow entrance of the cove in one piece.
Peering and squinting, Gibbs finally spotted the telltale shadow of a cleft in the rock that belied the presence of the tunnel. He was about to call the two men on shore back to the ship so they could begin to decide what the plan of action would be, when suddenly a figure appeared in the cave mouth, stumbling out into the rain and blinking confusedly as he noticed the presence of the Black Pearl.
The man was nearly unrecognizable; he didn't look like he had shaved, slept, or eaten in nearly a week. However, this didn't stop Gibbs from shouting at the men on shore, a burly Scot and smaller Englishman, to help him as the man suddenly collapsed onto a jutting outcrop of seaweed-covererd rock.
And as they carried him on board, he opened his eyes weakly and attempted to stand, looking thankfully at Gibbs as he helped him upright.
"Hullo, Gibbs," he said, voice raspy.
It was Will.
In the quickening dark, he could barely make out the dark speck growing in the distance. He spun the tiller and the Pearl listed sharply to the left; if he was right, and that was DeMuerta, then they were approaching it from the wrong angle. They would need to sail around to any of the other coves than the one Jack had undoubtedly gone to; Gibbs thanked all the gods he had ever heard mention of for the island's strange shape. It curved in and out all along its exterior, offering many possible ports for sheltering. The reason one of them was so used above the others was because of its access to the tunnels that led into the interior of the island, and thus the treasure. A ship that sailed into one of the others by accident would find it inhospitable, but no different from any other forsaken isle. Thus, it was safe, for the most part, from discovery.
Unfortunately, it was also a deathtrap for the unwary captain; if the ship wasn't dashed to pieces on the low rocks that humped near to the surface of the water or holed by the reefs, there was a good chance that it would not survive being rammed into the remains of all the other ships that hadn't made it. However, Gibbs was not unwary, and was far more experienced with such matters, having sailed with Jack on many a fine occasion.
The young lad, Quinn, suddenly appeared by his side, shouting to make himself heard above the wind.
"Mr. Barlowe wants to know if we're going to make it on time, Sir!"
Gibbs nodded sharply, a smile beginning to grow on his weathered face.
"Tell him...yes."
And as Quinn staggered off, as the wind howled, as the deck pitched beneath their feet...the first raindrops fell.
The water turned icy as Will swam into the mouth of the stream that flowed from the heart of the island, and he shuddered in his sodden clothing, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The cold seemed to clear his head somewhat, but a fuzzy mist still persisted in surrounding his thoughts. Anything felt like a valid possibility, and nothing was impossible; it couldn't be a good feeling, but he also couldn't shake it off. He was quite positive, however, that he was no longer drunk, shame flooding him as he realized that he had been. But, even if he were sober for the most part, the effects of the rum were definitely not completely gone. His limbs burned from exhaustion and his eyes stung in the salty water, but he continued to swim doggedly inward. Soon, it became shallow enough to stand, and then to wade, and he began making his way into the heavy darkness of the cave's tunnels.
He would have given anything for so much as a single sputtering candle to ease the unbroken black; he was already soaked to the bone, freezing cold, and hungry, and the prospect of wandering the dark caves for hours certainly did not appeal to him. He had no choice, however, forced to trust only to memory to guide him to the heart of DeMuerta.
At that moment, Jack and Ryenne were also navigating through DeMuerta, though their conditions were somewhat more comfortable. Nestled in the sternmost end of a narrow rowboat, Jack was carefully examining the wound on Ryenne's thigh, calloused fingers gently prodding the bloodied skin. He let out a low whistle.
"It's deep. What'd you do to it?"
Her voice was quiet, strained. "A piece of glass down in the brig; when the ship pitched, Will and I..." She trailed off, throwing a wary glance at the two men crouched at the bow. Neither Quinn nor Tyrus appeared to have heard, intent on guiding the little boat through the rough, narrow streambeds. The soft light from their lantern flickered coldly over the black surface of the water, casting shadows on the tunnel walls. From the corner of her eye, Ryenne could see the occasional glimmer of gold beneath those glassy ripples, but made no move to mention it. Hopeless thoughts swirled through her mind, plots and plans evaporating and making her feel like an empty shell. How are we ever going to be able to get out of this?
Gasping as Jack's searching fingers prodded a tender spot on her leg, her attention snapped back to him, and she jerked away slightly, a low growl escaping her throat.
"Ouch! Be careful, there!"
Quinn glanced curiously at them over his shoulder for a brief moment, then rolled his eyes, and turned back to the task at hand. Ryenne's eyes carefully followed his moments, but Jack, who hadn't noticed, remained locked on her injury, his face grave.
"It's very deep," he said solemnly.
"Yes, you said that before," she replied snappishly, suddenly feeling extremely irritated. Why wasn't he telling her anything useful? "I'm sure I'll survive."
"I'm surprised you could still walk; you've lost a lot of blood." She frowned at him, but he continued undaunted. "It needs to be bandaged."
"In case you haven't noticed, I don't actually carry a supply of healing tools around with me."
"Well, considering the trouble you consistently get yourself into, maybe you should," he grumbled, warming easily to her agitated, impatient mood. His hand moved as if to tear away a piece of his sleeve. "Give me a moment, and I'll just--"
"Don't." She caught his wrist, shrugging off his coat easily and proffering her own coat sleeve. "Use mine."
He looked skeptical. "I'd rather just--"
"Look, it's my own bloody fault I got hurt in the first place. I won't have you sacrificing your clothing to bandage my cuts." She held out her arm, the white cotton sleeve hanging from it in a baggy sort of way. "Now, just take what you need."
"It's my fault the ship lurched the way it did."
"But it's my fault we're here in the first place." She grimaced at his hesitance. "You know, I'm losing more blood for every second you waste."
Jack shook his head disapprovingly, but a small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. He reached for her sleeve, dagger suddenly appearing in hand. Ryenne's eyebrow's furrowed in confusion; how had he managed to keep that away from Quinn? But, whatever the reason, it didn't matter right now.
Holding the fabric taut, Jack sliced a strip off of her sleeve, bracing himself with a hand on her shoulder as the boat rocked. Ryenne felt a chill go through her at his touch, which she stubbornly tried to ignore. But a cool breeze rushed suddenly through the tunnel, and she shivered, almost cutting herself on the blade of his knife. He sheathed it quickly, laying his coat across her shoulders and tugging it firmly around her. She smiled gratefully, feeling slightly awkward. From the look on his face, he was feeling the same.
"Er...there you go," he mumbled, patting her arm and busying himself with bandaging her wound. Ryenne vaguely wondered if kissing him would be a bad idea...
Kissing him? She must have lost more blood than she'd thought. But then again...
But then again no. If there was ever to be any kissing of while she had been held captive in her own dreams and memories. And now there it was, calling to her in a way that could not be ignored. The image of a bed with tousled white sheets flashed before her mind's eye, the vision of her...and Jack. She leaned towards him, eyes fluttering closed, and...
"Get up here, Sparrow!" Quinn shouted, glaring over his shoulder at them. Ryenne's moment of...whatever it was...shattered, and she pulled back, unable to stop her cheeks from coloring in embarrassment.
Jack twitched, blinking, and she realized that he'd been leaning in, too; their faces had been mere inches apart. He also flushed slightly, eyes sliding past her to glare at Quinn, and he stood slowly, easing his way up to the bow. Tyrus eyed her suspiciously, fingering the blade of his knife longingly, and she frowned, pulling Jack's coat tighter around herself. There was a small sense of safety in being with Jack again, but there was no relieving the small pang of fear and discomfort that having Tyrus' eyes upon her caused; there never would be.
"What is it?" Jack asked irritably, peering into the darkness ahead. "We haven't reached the split yet."
Quinn's voice was dangerously soft. "Keep your hands off of her, Sparrow."
Jack eyebrows furrowed, and he sat back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest. "What do you--"
"I mean it. If I see--or hear--of anything, I will personally kill the both of you."
Ryenne had to bite her lip until it almost bled to keep from saying anything. Obviously the threat hadn't been meant for her to hear, but...What authority did Quinn assume he had over them, now? Jack had fulfilled the bargain, they were on his island...
This was, of course, overlooking the fact that Quinn had fifty armed men at his bidding, and they only had Will.
Where is Will? She thought curiously, looking around as though expecting him to pop suddenly out of a shadowy corner and start a charge. After all, he had been quite drunk the last time she had seen him; who knew how fast he had burned off the effects of his liquor.
The sound of Jack's voice drew her eyes from the shadows and back to the men huddled at the bow.
"What're you playing at?"
She couldn't predict who would throw the first punch (or bring out the first knife), but she realized that it would soon come to blows, and if Jack fought...he would die. One man could not fight off fifty at one time, no matter how good with weapons he was. Not giving herself time to hesitate, she leaned forward and caught Jack's arm, pulling him back away from Quinn, whose eyes glittered maliciously.
"I don't care if she is your little pet, Sparrow; I won't have that here--"
"And I won't have her used for sport!" Jack spat, throwing a pointed glare in Tyrus' direction. "You can tell your...crew to keep their bloody hands off her!"
Ryenne's face colored in embarrassment. "Jack! I can handle myself--"
"No, you can't," he snapped, twisting the fabric he had cut from her sleeve (and never finished bandaging her cut with) in his hands. Her stomach gave a jolt of indignant anger, and she opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off. "Hold still so I can bandage this up."
He grabbed her leg roughly--more so than he'd intended, she thought--and she had to choke back a gasp of pain as he began to wind the cloth around her wound hastily. Forcing herself to look only at the floor of the boat, she kept perfectly still and silent; she could feel Quinn's black eyes piercing her like a dagger. His sudden interest in her was very unnerving, and while it scared her, at the same time it infuriated her. He hadn't cared when Tyrus had laid hands on her, had raped her. Now he was suddenly concerned about Jack touching her? Why?
And Jack. He had made no move to deny Quinn's implications regarding himself and her. What did he think she had meant when she said she owed him? What did it all mean? And why did all of it seem to be happening so suddenly?
Looking down at him as he finished bandaging her leg, she felt a sharp pang of disappointment; there was no fluttering in her stomach, no pounding of her heart. Only a simmering, building anger in her chest.
He thought she was helpless.
He must have spotted the expression on her face, because his eyebrows furrowed even deeper.
"What is it, Ryenne, love?"
"Don't call me that," she replied coldly, slouching away from him. He looked hurt, but made no move towards her.
"Whatever you say."
Things were not going well for Will. Granted, this could only be expected, seeing how he was wandering all alone in a pitch-black maze of tunnels, but even so, he was distinctly beginning to feel that fate was conspiring against him.
It should not have been taking him this long to reach the central cavern he remembered so well from his previous adventure with Jack. It had only taken them about fifteen minutes by boat, then; he had expected it to be longer swimming and by foot, but he had begun to feel as if he had been wading for an hour, an impression amplified by the unyielding darkness around him.
Sensing that he was rounding a sharp curve, he began to trail his fingers along the wall, following the course of rock and water. Suddenly, his right foot slipped into a small hole under the surface and he tripped, splashing loudly and cursing so fluently that he was momentarily and profoundly glad that Elizabeth was not there to hear him.
Getting to his feet, he gingerly tested his ankle; thankfully, it was not twisted very badly, and he was able to put his weight on it without much pain. Leaning against the cool, damp rock, he paused and took a few deep, calming breaths to ease the frustration building inside him. Why wasn't he there yet? He let his head fall back against the hard stone, trying to picture the course of the tunnels in his mind. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of the rum, or the cold, or his recent deprivation of sleep and food, but...he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember it at all. Sighing in defeat, he was about to close his eyes and rest for a while, when he suddenly heard a sound quite different from plunk of water droplets falling from the ceiling and the lapping of the shallow stream against the tunnel walls.
The sound of voices.
The sound of voices echoing behind him in the tunnel, accompanied by the splash of oars methodically entering and exiting the water.
It was still a little ways off--sound carried easily, here--but was steadily drawing closer, and unless he wanted to give up any chance he might still have to help Carolynn and Jack, he had to find someplace to hide. Fast.
Not stopping to think and barely even bothering to favor his right leg, Will set off again down the tunnel at twice the pace he had been going. He couldn't help that he was being loud; hopefully, his very existence remained a secret to Carolynn's captors, and they would not know who or what they were coming perilously close to discovering.
About forty feet from where he had paused, he realized that the tunnel split into two branches, one leading to the left and the other the right. And suddenly, with a jolt, he remembered this place, remembered it so clearly it was as if it had scarce been a week since he'd been there. There still remained one problem, though: which had Jack chosen? Which led to the fabled treasure of DeMuerta?
He stood still, deep in thought, doubt plaguing what little he now did remember. And the longer he stood there, the more convinced he became that it had been the right hand tunnel. It had to have been; going to the left just felt innately wrong.
And he was rapidly running out of time.
So, throwing caution and consideration to both the winds of chance and his fragmented memory, Will started into the gloom of the right hand tunnel just as the boat carrying Ryenne, Jack, Quinn, and Tyrus rounded the bend.
Jack was feeling a number of things at the moment, irritation currently being the most common denominator. He was irritated with Ryenne, yes; the girl was having another of her odd, random mood swings, apparently, and was refusing to speak to him. He was irritated with the whole situation they were in, and especially the perpetrators of said situation (their captors). But primarily, he was irritated with himself for allowing all of it to happen in the first place. After all, wasn't he Captain Jack Sparrow, Scourge and Infamous Scallywag of the Seven Seas?
Apparently not, or at least, not anymore. He was a failure, an abject wretch of a man who had been embarrassingly outsmarted and was currently being pushed very near to his breaking point.
And not only that, but he was a failure and abject wretch who also happened to be in love with the other wretch who wasn't speaking to him and most likely felt nothing for him even remotely along the lines of love, if the way she kept shooting quick glares in his direction was any indicator.
He wondered what would happen when his temper finally snapped.
As he sat mulling over this, Ryenne suddenly grabbed his arm. All traces of her anger had disappeared, replaced by a wild sort of hope that shone in her eyes and stained her cheeks with pink.
"Listen!" She whispered, quietly enough so that Quinn and Tyrus could not hear her. Startled, he did--and heard the distinct sound of splashing ahead of them in the tunnel. Within the small sphere of the light the lanterns produced, there was nothing visible, but...
"Will?" He asked quietly, and she nodded.
"It must be. Jack, we have to do something--they can't see him! Isn't there a fork in the tunnel somewhere ahead?"
"Yes..." He said slowly. "It should be coming up any minute, now."
She glanced ahead, then turned back to him, chewing her lip.
"Where does the other one lead?"
Jack's memory of the island's underground network of tunnels was keen, and he answered promptly.
"The left leads to the cavern, and the right links up with another tunnel that ends in one of the outside coves."
In the bow of the boat, Quinn had been listening to the splashing as it echoed off of the walls. Eyes dark, he turned to Jack.
"Sparrow! What is that?"
"I've not the faintest idea," Jack lied glibly, keeping his face smooth. Quinn looked suspicious, but merely barked an order for Tyrus, who had taken over all of the rowing, to speed up as they turned the corner. The pale glow from the torches illuminated the scene before them: the tunnel wider, the ceiling higher, and ahead...the fork, twin mouths of darkness that seemed like they would swallow forever whoever entered.
And no Will, who had presumably already entered the tunnel.
Ryenne was anxiously trying to peer into the left hand branch, her hand still gripping Jack's arm almost painfully.
"Which way?" Quinn asked.
"Tell him the wrong one," Ryenne breathed quietly. "Jack, you have to."
He hesitated long enough for Quinn's eyes to narrow, but with good reason. Studying the line of ripples in the water as they had rounded the bend, Jack had seen that they were issuing from the right tunnel mouth.
Will, if it had been him, had gone down the wrong tunnel.
"Don't even think of lying to me, Sparrow..."
But there was no need for him to.
"Left," he pronounced clearly, and Ryenne drew quickly away from him as if he had turned into some kind of viper. He gazed at her helplessly, willing her to understand.
I'll explain later, he mouthed, but she shook her head slowly and he saw her lips form the word traitor.
Teeth clenched, he growled low in his throat and covered his face with his hands. Did she really trust him so little? How could she honestly believe that he would betray Will, who was practically a brother to him, so easily? And furthermore, when he was the one all their hopes were resting upon? Why couldn't she see that he had done what did for a reason?
It made no sense.
But then again, not a whole lot made sense recently.
Fighting the urge to throttle Ryenne and her stupid habit of leaping to incorrect conclusions, Jack sat back and waited for them to reach the cavern.
Gibbs stood by the railing of the Pearl, scanning the rocky cliffs in front of him for some sign of the exit of the sister tunnel leading out of the interior cavern, the second and only other one on the outside of the island. The men were all making the ship ready for port, even if there wasn't much of one here: the sails had been furled to protect them from the winds that howled through the craigs, and the anchor had been sunk, with a few ropes having been thrown out to two crewmembers standing on the narrow shore so that they could be tied off and the Pearl made completely secure.
The rain was lashing down thick and heavy, and visibility was beyond poor; they had been lucky in their timing, or else it was very possible that they never would have made it into the narrow entrance of the cove in one piece.
Peering and squinting, Gibbs finally spotted the telltale shadow of a cleft in the rock that belied the presence of the tunnel. He was about to call the two men on shore back to the ship so they could begin to decide what the plan of action would be, when suddenly a figure appeared in the cave mouth, stumbling out into the rain and blinking confusedly as he noticed the presence of the Black Pearl.
The man was nearly unrecognizable; he didn't look like he had shaved, slept, or eaten in nearly a week. However, this didn't stop Gibbs from shouting at the men on shore, a burly Scot and smaller Englishman, to help him as the man suddenly collapsed onto a jutting outcrop of seaweed-covererd rock.
And as they carried him on board, he opened his eyes weakly and attempted to stand, looking thankfully at Gibbs as he helped him upright.
"Hullo, Gibbs," he said, voice raspy.
It was Will.