Chapter Twenty-Three

James collapsed.

Agony tore through him so mercilessly that it elicited a long, undulating scream that smothered Elizabeth's cries. He rolled onto his left side, ashes grinding into the wounds of his abdomen as he drew up his right knee as close as he could manage. He panted and pushed the heel of his hand down onto the torn flesh with all his might, pinning the other side of it to the ground in the hopes that the compression might stem not only the blood but the blinding pain.

Feet from him, Elizabeth was in a tearful frenzy, trying to push the rocks away from her as if they were no more than bedclothes, trying to twist enough or bend just the right way to reach him.

The rain bit at the exposed muscle his hand didn't cover. Blood rinsed to the floorboards; thin rivulets unable to escape the barrage of the rain became a diluted channel along the line of his body, stinging the lacerations Mercer had inflicted. A wave of nausea threatened to crest, but the onslaught of pain was too great.

James pressed his forehead into the floor and gritted his teeth, determined to trap the animalistic scream behind them.

Beckett stumbled to his feet, swiping up the long, iron shaft of a candelabra in defense. An airborne rock struck it, and his head shot up to Elizabeth, vibrations ringing up his arm. Another lobbied stone sailed into the chasm behind him. He glanced between her and James – one trapped and the other gravely wounded. He made a conscious effort to close his mouth and control is erratic breathing with several great exhales through the nose, fortified at the prospect of vengeance.

He lazily sidestepped a third projectile as he studied Norrington's determination to get back up, opting to snuff it out with a stiff kick to his soft, bloody stomach. He feigned a pout at the strained croak the Commodore emitted, ultimately sliding his eyes into Elizabeth's condescendingly.

"Now see what you've done, Miss Swann."

Elizabeth gawked at his effrontery, and it only seemed to renew his resolve. He used the scrap iron rod as if it were a walking cane, circling past Norrington. Her lip trembled when she looked at James, despairing at the truth of Beckett's words; she had done this to him. James was lying on the ground, writhing in misery because she had involved him in her reckless pursuit of justice.

Face contorting, she grabbed up the nearest rock to hurl at Beckett, but he caught her wrist and dropped to one knee before her, obscuring her view of Norrington. Beckett leaned in to be heard over the thunder, face aglow in the firelight.

"I asked that little black pearl 'what could possibly go wrong?'" he said conversationally, working the rock out of her stubborn grasp. "And there you were," – he looked over his shoulder at Norrington inclusively – "wreathed in fire, just as you are now."

There was a hint of admiration, of contrition in his smile before his gaze grew detached. He let the iron rod drop out of reach, and Elizabeth sucked in a breath as he retrieved the Yoruba blade from his coat. With a flick of the wrist, it was tidily tucked against the underside of her jaw. He molded her chin to the hooked end of the blade, pulling her closer at the insistence of its tip.

"I tried, Elizabeth. I tried to spare you this," he lamented softly. "And again this distasteful deed falls to me."

A small blow from a rock bounced off Beckett's back. He held Elizabeth's gaze as they listened to Norrington struggling for another, desperate and weak. A second rock fell to the ground short of Beckett despite the tremendous grunt. He relished in the tear that spilled from her eye.

So engrossed he was in that tear that he allowed a sword to be slipped under his chin and all traces of humor erased.

Elizabeth relished in the bob of his Adam's apple.

Beckett lowered the blade from her and penetrated her with a vicious glare.

"That's a bit close for a shave, don't you think?"

Jack scraped the edge of his sword up Beckett's throat.

"No."

Beckett snarled, wincing when Jack smacked his chin with the flat of his sword twice with an "up, up." Halfway to standing, Jack seized him roughly by the coat, dragging him away from Elizabeth with such ferocity that the tips of his boots were trying to catch the floor. The force of being thrown into the wall mural knocked the air out of him, and he landed in an awkward tangle against some of the rubble and broken furniture near South America.

Righting himself, he tasted the blood of his split lip again, peering past Jack's leg to watch Elizabeth stretch in futility for the quieting Commodore. The pressure of the steel on his throat redirected his attention.

Jack was heavily shadowed with the sweltering abundance of the light source behind him, but Beckett still searched for the entry wound of his shot, fully trying to understand how Jack was so able-bodied. Even as his eyes adjusted, he could not discern any damage to Jack's person. He did not see a red stain or detect the metallic scent of fresh blood, and Jack did not in the least seem hindered by recent trauma.

Beckett glowered. "Immortal at last."

"No," Jack asserted, his voice strangely deep and unwavering. He needled the tip of his blade against Beckett's pulse. "Swords don't misfire, mate."

Beckett remained entirely still.

There was a flinch in his brow. His eyes glazed over.

The round had never left the barrel.

Beckett veiled his outrage and fear expertly, and when he finally looked away from Jack, he felt the sword lift from his skin, watching as it drew back –

"Don't."

Jack stayed his hand. He raised an eyebrow at Beckett, and they both looked over at the office door.

Margaret swept over in two strides, gently pushing her hand into Jack and extending her arm. She slipped into the space she created and tried not to incinerate from the fury kindling in Jack's eye.

Beckett's heart faltered a moment. Her soaked skirts brushed over his legs, heavy and plain, and he was breathless at their presence. He followed their taper to her waist, watching her square her shoulders.

Jack was less receptive to her interference.

"Move."

Margaret mouthed wordlessly at his callousness. She blinked, shook her head, and shielded Beckett when Jack tried to step around her.

"No."

Her left hand hovered inches from Beckett's face. The water droplets that fell from her fingertips startled him when they hit his skin. Just beyond the asylum of that hand, he witnessed the other attempting to restrain Jack's sword hand.

"Don't kill him," Margaret said, reinforcing her hold on Jack when he tried to shake her off. "Do what you must for your pound of flesh," – Beckett's eyes widened – "but don't- don't kill him."

Then, swallowing her pride, "Please."

Jack didn't even look at her; his dark eyes were boring straight into Beckett, so silent and severe that Beckett hardly recognized him. Beckett was suddenly so aware of how vulnerable he looked – hidden behind a woman's skirts, chest heaving – that the effort he put into reasserting his compose made the corner of Jack's mouth twitch faintly.

"Please."

Beckett's eyes ran from Margaret's dripping fingertips up to the back of her head, inspecting every crease and curve. He felt the smallest inkling of wrongdoing wrench in his gut, and he had foolishly let Jack Sparrow see it. Beckett's eyes shot over to Jack, needing some kind of indication as to what was going to happen next, when Jack turned and walked toward the fireplace.

Margaret maintained her stance in front of Beckett, trying to decipher Jack's actions.

"I don't need you to beg for my life."

"You were clearly doing so well on your own."

Beckett smirked weakly.

Then, she spun around to him, crouching, and he drew in an audible breath as she undid his cravat, ripping it from his neck. When she went to get up without further acknowledgement, Beckett furrowed his brow and grabbed her arm, insistent on capturing her eyes with the questions he couldn't voice, on gauging her motives. He found her lips set in a neutral line, and she fixed him with a cruel glare that rivaled him on his best day. Finally, it melted into one of pity as she pushed to her feet.

As he let her arm slip out of his grasp, their fingertips curled together in a silent, succinct exchange of tenderness. Beckett swallowed, lowering his hand as she ran to Norrington and tied his cravat above the Commodore's knee.

Jack returned then, lying a cast iron rod in a nearby pile of fire. Beckett stared at the rod long and hard as Jack leaned over him, took the neck of his clothing in one hand, and sliced through them down to the chest. Beckett's body erupted in a cold sweat, pores prickling as he was flooded with adrenaline. He was actively pressing himself into the wall when Jack raised his sword and impaled his left hand, pinning it to the ground.

"Christ!"

Jack tore the shirt open more, ignoring the broken staccato of Beckett's screams.

"You're going to want to hold still."

Beckett stared at the blood emerging from beneath his hand, trying to mentally prepare himself for what was coming. Shamefully, part of him wanted the shield of Margaret's skirts again until he remembered that this fate was her doing in the first place.

He took several deep breaths as Jack retrieved the rod from the rogue fire, all but forgetting his skewered hand when faced with the blistering orange glow of the reversed "P".

In the abating storm, Jack played deputy nurse to Margaret while she tended to Norrington's injuries. James was unconscious by the time she was washing the debris out of the two stab wounds; his knee was as stable as it was going to be until they got him out. Jack extended her the base of the shattered decanter that somehow preserved a dribble of brandy, and she dabbed the punctured skin with the dark liquor.

After the rain stopped, The Royal Marines and crew of the Black Pearl found their way into the remnants of the office, regarding each other with mutual distrust as Jack and Margaret assigned them cooperative tasks. Getting Norrington to the surgery and Beckett to the hold were top priority, followed by putting out fires and clearing debris. It wasn't more than an hour before Mullroy and Pintel were moving the last offending boulder from Elizabeth's hip.

Elbows raw and neck burning, Elizabeth let out a great sigh, looking down at her freed lower half. Her skirt was crushed in a bunch between her legs, and she hesitantly pitched her knees. Feeling the flex of each muscle, bruises and scrapes sang out from her skin. She groaned as Barbossa helped her to stand; a harsh, throbbing pain blossomed across her lower back.

"Elizabeth!"

She narrowed her eyes and looked up, mystified at the sight of her father hurrying through the office door. His teal overcoat was drenched and dirty, to say nothing of his wig. Despite these cosmetic shortcomings, he appeared unharmed and in good health. She welcomed the wave of relief with a tired smile.

Swann stopped short of her, seeing Barbossa over her shoulder. This man had kidnapped his daughter, ripped him from a carriage hours ago, and hidden him away for his safety. He couldn't speak to the nature of their relationship, but he gave him a tight-lipped smile and a courteous nod as Barbossa passed Elizabeth into his arms.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Swann huffed, supporting her as she reacquainted her legs with the weight of her frame. "Am I alright?" he chuckled. "Dear girl, I have seen some things in my time, but I fear not so many as you."

Elizabeth tried standing taller, but she was still too stiff. Her father helped her to sit on a flat rock on the edge of a debris pile, surprising her as he threw his coat out from under him and sat with her. She bent her brow as he turned toward her, words evidently heavy in his mouth.

"Elizabeth, we should talk about this," he said, meeting her guarded eyes with paternal understanding. "There is a story that I need to hear."

Elizabeth's lip wrinkled, and he took her hand. "I know you will only tell me a fraction of it, and I know, of that, there will be half-truths.

"But I should like to hear the parts I can use to help."

The judge had spent the last five days anticipating quite the show for Jack Sparrow's trial, thus he was surprised to be met with a sparse gallery as he took the bench. Granted, the explosion at Fort Charles drew many in its aftermath, but he had hoped the King might still attend. Hearing that His Majesty opted not to come to the trial deflated him, and the whole affair now grated on his nerves.

As the judge was seating himself, wondering where both Lord Beckett and Jack Sparrow were, the doors of the courthouse banged open, startling the members of the gallery. Jack sauntered in, waving at the judge.

"Sorry I'm late, your honor. Just had to get the prisoner subdued and presentable."

The judge narrowed his eyes. Gibbs, Barbossa, and Marty led Lord Beckett into the room now churning with bewilderment. Beckett was the same sooty, soggy, bloody mess they had carried from the fort – wigless, manacled, and branded. His left hand was heavily bandaged, his gait was rigid, and, save for a miniscule glint of derision, his eyes were rife with resignation. But even heavy with exhaustion, Beckett did not hang his head or stare into space; he was present just enough to be remorseless.

Barbossa and Gibbs discarded him into the chair with such force that he shut his eyes, stifling a groan. As the pain passed, he wet his lips and opened his eyes, slowly sitting straight. Jack folded down the left flap of Beckett's ripped shirt to proudly display the brand, the air lending to its wicked sting.

Belatedly, Governor Swann entered as the judge demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"

"This trial is for a pirate, is it not?" Jack issued grandly to the charred flesh on Beckett's chest.

"Mr. Sparrow, this is a murder trial."

"Yes. A pirate on trial for murder," Jack said. "And I've brought you the murderer." When the gallery reacted, Jack amended, "Or, well, this is murderer's handler, if you like."

The judge huffed. "You must be joking! Governor Swann, this is most uncouth," he appealed. "This is Mr. Sparrow's trial!"

"Well said, your honor. It is his trial," Swann said.

The judge closed his mouth at the challenge in the Governor's eyes and chose to sit back in his chair obediently. Governor Swann nodded to Jack.

"Captain, you have the floor."

Jack shouted over his shoulder, "Could we be a little quicker with that murderer?"

"Coming, cap'n!"

Jack studied the rings on his fingers as he continued. "Your honor, do you know Commodore Norrington?"

"Of course. A very honorable man."

Pintel and Ragetti finally came in, bringing forth a battered and bruised Mercer. Beckett eyed him carefully as Jack straightened the front of his coat.

"It may trouble you then to learn that the Commodore, in an effort to preserve and protect, was stabbed by this man," – Jack pointed to Mercer coming down the aisle – "and shot by this one," he said, motioning to Beckett.

"But somewhere between being stabbed and shot, Commodore Norrington had the wherewithal to detain this culpable filth," Jack said of Mercer. "Like his intended, the Commodore discovered that, at the behest of his long-time employer, it was Mr. Mercer's hand that killed William Turner."

In the gallery's upheaval, the judge stared at Governor Swann, stunned that the grim line of his mouth corroborated the claim. The judge's eyes bounced between Beckett, Mercer, Jack, and the Governor before vacantly picking up his gavel to quiet the room.

"And as Cutler Beckett's faithful minion of fifteen years thereabouts," Jack continued, "he knows a lot."

"'A lot'?" the judge asked.

Jack smiled wryly. "Your honor, in the last week, Lord Beckett has orchestrated the murder of a blacksmith, framed me for it, planned to blow up the Commodore and Governor's daughter on their wedding day, and, when he got impatient, resorted to poisoning them.

"Imagine what Ian Mercer could tell you about the last fifteen years."

The judge swallowed, openly staring at Beckett in an attempt to fathom the man's corruption. Jack stepped forward, drawing the judge's eye back to him.

"He has agreed to tell all for leniency."

'Tell all', indeed, Beckett thought. He paid Mercer too well for his discretion.

But when Mercer intentionally averted his eyes, Beckett slowly realized that Mercer wasn't bluffing.

"Mr. Ian Mercer," the judge said, "is it true that you can speak to the crimes of which Lord Beckett is accused?"

"Yes, your honor."

Beckett glared at the clerk, daring him to utter another word.

"Would you be willing to do so before the court today?"

"Yes, your honor."

Bloody hell.