The first thing one noticed was the smell of incense burning—sweet, heady, intoxicating smoke. There was something decidedly intoxicating about the whole place—outside it was dark, the exotic sounds of the bayou still audible within Tia Dalma's home. Inside, there was the hissing of snakes and the snoring of rum-induced sleepers. The room was dimly lit by lanterns and candles, and there was quite an otherworldly element to it.
Will Turner sat slumped over a table in the witch's shack, his knife—his father's knife—lying forgotten on its scarred surface. Too many times to count, he had plunged the blade into the wood, absentmindedly, listlessly. It was something to do, something to keep him occupied on something other than his shattered heart and broken body. His unseeing gaze still fixed on something in front of him, he reached for a mug of rum and took a swig. Exhaustion filled his bones. Oh, Lord, he wanted to get roaring drunk, so drunk that it would all simply go away.
Whenever he closed his eyes, it all came rushing back, flooding him with memory and sensation to the point where he wanted to scream. He felt the shock of reuniting with a father he'd long thought dead, then being torn apart again by forces far stronger than he could control. He felt the searing pain of the lashes on his back as the whip had ripped apart his flesh—a whip held in his father's hands. He felt all the little bruises and cuts, the gash in his thigh, the throbbing bump on his head—every injury he'd accumulated in those weeks since leaving Port Royal to save Elizabeth. Elizabeth… His breath felt strangled in his throat. Playing over and over again in his mind was the sight of her locked in a passionate kiss with Jack. She had never kissed him like that, with such ferocity, such lust. She had said she wanted to marry him more than anything, said she loved him, said she would wait for him. Had it all been a lie? Had she simply changed her mind? Had Jack seduced her? Why, why, why?
A tear slipped from his cheek into his mug with a tiny plop. He quickly drained the rest of the drink. Just make it stop… Please, God, make it stop. It was too much. Too much, all in too short a time. Frustrated, Will stood abruptly, looking around the cluttered room. Everyone there was fast asleep; he had no idea what time it was, but he imagined it must be the small hours of the morning. He leaned against a wall, closing his eyes. His head ached terribly.
Angry. He was so angry. At first he had been numb with shock. Then came that heartrending agony that still burrowed deep inside him. Pain was something he had always accepted; it was part of one's journey. If pain was the price he had to pay to achieve a goal, then so be it. With saving Elizabeth, loving her, providing for her, there had always been hope, care, a future he was fighting for. Now, all he had left was pain. Exhaustion. Burning. Aching. Dejection. Betrayal. Heartbreak. And anger. Now he felt that. How could she? But then he remembered how much he loved her, still, and that anger could not remain within him. "Your happiness, not mine," he murmured, his head bowed.
He stepped forward and stumbled, colliding with a smaller, softer body. He muttered a quick "Forgive me" and looked down to see Tia Dalma. There was always that teasing, mysterious gleam in her glittering black eyes; it taunted him and aroused his curiosity at the same time. "And how do you come to be awake so late when all your comrades be lying in de night's embrace, William Turner?" her voice purred, her hand coming to rest on his sleeve.
It took him a moment to find his voice. "I could not sleep," he said simply.
Her brown lips curved into a smile. "Indeed not, my William. Can it be dat dare be someting dat occupies your mind so you cannot rest?" Her hand trailed further up his arm.
"Is there anything you don't know?" he asked, his voice raspy. She was strange, he thought, and unlike anyone he'd ever known before. One wondered if she was even of this world.
The twinkle in her eye flashed dangerously, too much so for his comfort. She was close to him, her head tilted up toward his. Her lips curled so he could see the tips of her teeth. "Dare be some tings I do not know, but dey be few. Now, dis"—and she slipped a hand beneath his tattered shirt, gliding over his warm skin to rest over his heart—"I know more den a ting or two about. It hurt, don't it?" Her eyes, like a bird's, peered up at him in sympathy.
His jaw clenched momentarily and then relaxed. What was the use of hiding anything from her? "Yes. It hurts."
Her hand over his heart turned into a caress, brushing over his nipple, which elicited from him a gasp and a soft moan. "Tell me," she murmured. "Tell me how it hurt."
Peculiar how fast his breathing was becoming. "I saw her. With Jack." His eyes squeezed shut. "Kissing him. She loves him; I know it. His death, his sacrifice—it's destroying her. When… when I saw, the pain was almost physical…" He swallowed hard. He still could not speak this aloud. There were no words for it.
"Tings be not always as dey seem, dear heart," she hummed, leaning in closer yet. "Dare be answers and remedies for all, even dis."
Their breaths were mingling together. Will's lips were slightly parted, his chest heaving. He recalled her words of days earlier—invitations, temptations. "You want to know me?" she had cooed, playful, glittering, dangerous. He had wanted her then, hadn't acknowledged it, hadn't understood it. "What...service...may I do you?" she had purred, her fingers trailing lightly across his chin, his cheek, and he had stared up at her, entranced. "What vexes all men?" He had asked the answer to the riddle of oceans, and, smiling that tigress' smile of hers, she had replied, "What indeed?", her hand coming to rest atop his. He hadn't recoiled.
When Tia Dalma closed the gap between them, her lips soft and full and wet, it didn't feel right, but it felt damn good, like something he needed, something he craved. Blood rushed in his veins, setting him aflame. Then, growling low in his throat, he grabbed her, pulling her roughly against him, kissing her fiercely, his lips bruising, his hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. He didn't care anymore, didn't care what he was doing or whom it might hurt. It was as if a volcano had erupted within him, long dormant but now blazing, ready to destroy anything in its path.
He started pulling at clothing, tugging down her stiff bodice to expose her dusky breasts. His lips trailed down her neck, kissing, biting, until he reached the soft peaks, egged on by all the delightful sounds she was making. When he reached for her skirts, she took his hand and led him hurriedly down a damp corridor to what must be her own private chamber. Once the door was shut and bolted, he had her up against the wall, her skirts bunched around her waist.
He had saved himself for Elizabeth. Ever since he could remember, even when he'd never believed he had a snowball's chance in hell of ever winning her affection, for some subconscious reason, he'd saved himself for her. But now, he was just too tired, too drunk, too hurt. To hell with it. He would take what little pleasure he found in the midst of the nightmare he seemed to be living. And a terrible, bitter, childish part of him, buried deep within the recesses of his broken heart, almost wanted Elizabeth to catch them, to feel his pain, to know his agony. It would only be fair. But he banished the thought.
Tia Dalma was both tender and wild, guiding him when he needed it, touching him where it mattered, speaking words of encouragement and ecstasy. It was so much better, so much more wonderful, than he had ever dreamed it would be. For a moment in time he could almost forget; he could focus on this instead of his pain—the festering scars on his back, the empty ache in his chest. And when he reached that celebrated moment of intensity, for just that moment, it all went away—the pain, the exhaustion, the heartbreak. It was over all too soon, and Will sank to his knees on the wooden planks, Tia Dalma still straddling him. He leaned into her, his head resting against her shoulder as his breathing slowly returned to normal.
Once the bliss of this sacred act, now sullied like everything else in his life, faded, so did the fragments of peace he had frantically snatched at. What he was left with was an overwhelming sense of guilt. To be betrayed was to have one's heart torn from one's chest, but to betray… That required one to have no heart at all. So how could he have done this? Because Elizabeth did it first, a petulant voice within him whispered. Because you owe her nothing now. But the other part of him—the stronger, noble part—told himself to snap out of it. Try though he might to trample his heart, break it beyond repair so he could never feel anything again, it was useless.
He loved Elizabeth. He could not stop loving her, even if it killed him. That was why he would join Tia Dalma, Barbossa, and the rest of the crew on the journey to world's end. He would find Jack, bring him back, so Elizabeth could be happy. Then he would claim the Black Pearl by any trickery necessary so he could save his father from the clutches of Davy Jones. Elizabeth could have her pirate, and he, Will, would have the fastest ship in the Caribbean. Heaven only knew what would happen after that. But oh, God, it hurt. He could distract himself any way he knew how, plan any escapade he wished, and the pain just didn't go away.
He didn't realize he was weeping until he heard Tia Dalma murmur, "Hush, dear heart. Tings will be alright." Her tawny hands stroked his hair, his back (careful to avoid the lacerations there), soothingly. "Darkness don't last forever." He hoped she was right; she always seemed to be. He just didn't see how she could be in this instance.
As he knelt there, in the arms of an exotic enchantress, the scents of incense and candle wax making him lightheaded, words came over him like a dream—or a premonition: "And after which betrayal did you cut out your heart, I wonder?"