A/N: I'm sorry for the delay with this! This chapter was always going to be a bit late because I needed a moment to steel myself for this shit, but then I was absolutely decimated by everybody's favourite virus and I wasn't physically capable of writing more than a paragraph a day thanks to the fucking brain fog that took over for almost a week. All in all it sucked, but I'm getting over it now, and here we are!

I really tried to minimise the amount of head hopping in the battle chapters, and when I did so I did it in a way that made sense (there were diagrams and fully fledged plans written out, so I could cut out the parts that just added to the chaos with no pay off), but there was always going to have to be a bit of it, considering how epic this whole battle is, how many characters are involved in it, and the sheer amount of shit that happens.

ANYWAY, I have a semi-sequel type thing up already - it's not a proper sequel, it's more a collection of one-shots and smaller scale storylines surrounding James and Theodora. All I have up so far are flufftober fills (including a modern AU chapter), but once this story is done I'll add more to it, and I'll be happy to take requests in terms of what you guys want to see more of around them. It's called Sainted by the Storm (named after the Powerwolf song, which I also highly recommend as listening for the battle in these chapters), please go check it out if you're not ready to have seen the last of these two once this story is done!

Hector Barbossa, Jack Sparrow, and Bootstrap Bill Turner all stood together atop the quarterdeck of the Black Pearl for the first time in a lifetime, all with matching solemn frowns on their faces. The only slight exception was Bootstrap, whose frown had a shade more forlorn guilt to it than that of the others, his mind straying to the lass in the hospital cabin, run through by his own blade. It had made so much sense at the time. Hadn't it? In his mind, fogged by paranoia and the draw of the Dutchman. And while now, with that fog lifted, he could still see how he might've still been suspicious if he'd had his wits about him, he would not have been so crazed by the accusations floating around in his mind to stab a woman. He hoped not, at least.

"We've need of a plan," Barbossa said, eyeing the storm that was fast descending upon them.

It was a matter of minutes, if not moments, before the fight began in earnest - before one of the ships made their move.

"Following your plans hasn't worked out well for me in the past," Bootstrap noted grimly.

"Nor has defying them, Mr Turner, so ye'd best be keeping that in mind."

He couldn't much argue with that, could he?

"Young Master William will be able to get himself out of the brig," Jack said "Dora managed it herself well enough not so long ago, and 'alf the things she does is because she's seen that another was supposed to."

"Maybe once he would have, but the captain was incensed after her escape," Bootstrap shook his head grimly "I convinced him it was witchcraft and played the role of informant well, but he still tightened measures in the brig regardless. If William's to be freed, he'll need help."

"Ye have your plan of action, then, but what of ours?" Barbossa asked.

"We have one. Fight. Win," Jack said - unusually solemn as he gazed out across the enemy fleet.

"Aye, a fine plan that might have been once, but your witch saw to it that it's no use to us now."

"Just one of 'em," Jack shrugged, unbothered "That can't have been the only outcome that'd see us winning this thing. We're just…about to discover another one."

"And what makes you so sure of that?"

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," his teeth glinted gold as he grinned "And we have the Pearl."

"And they have the Dutchman - the only ship that could ever feasibly take her on."

"Hector, mate, if you don't lighten up I'll start to think you're working for them, sent to lower morale."

"Tell me then, Jack, what is it you propose we do," Barbossa said.

"Way I see it, we can sit 'ere and waste the minutes we have before this thing begins, dredging up plans of action. Plans, no less, that'll go straight overboard the second one of them deviates from what we expect them to do. So what's the use? We get the key, we stab the 'eart, we win against Jones, and then we take on Beckett. Simple enough - once it's all step by step."

Barbossa scoffed. It appeared his dire mood was being felt all about the deck, too, the grumbles and murmurs spreading across the deck until it spurred on an exclamation from their King down on the main deck.

"You will listen to me," she called above the griping "Listen!"

Bootstrap turned his attention from both of his former captains towards the woman who was surely his future daughter-by-law as she began to rally them all together - to remind them of who they were. His son had chosen well.

Elizabeth was delivering a rousing speech to all aboard outside on the deck, and James was doing everything within his power to tune it out.

"I would offer you a drink for the pain - or some manner of ghastly pipe that I'm sure someone has stashed away around here - but…"

"It wouldn't be a good idea to go into this off me tits," Theodora mumbled.

"Quite. How do you feel?"

"Like I've been stabbed and burned."

"Theodora," he snapped.

Her affinity for joking, endearing as it usually was, had no place here. Not with him, not now. He needed an honest answer from her, not an attempt at bravado so she could pretend she did not feel the fear pressing down upon them all.

"Like shite, James, I feel…" her tone had a shade of snappishness to it, but it faded quickly until her voice sounded thin and strained "I feel like shite. I'm scared, I…I don't know what happens from here. None of it."

Too keenly aware of all she had just been through to take her brief show of temper anything close to personally, and feeling a shade guilty for his own exhaustion-driven moment of impatience with her, James smiled sadly and shifted from the chair and onto the bed instead, so that he sat by her hips.

"It appears you've finally joined the rest of us," he murmured.

"I thought I'd be happy about it - now I just wish I knew something. Anything."

"You will be happy for it. Tomorrow. There is not a man alive who might stand on the edge of a battle without a wish that he might know how it is to end."

He'd known for a long time the type of toll that her knowledge took on her. He'd seen it for himself. After last night, he finally knew just how heavy that weight had been - and how much easier she might rest without such visions plaguing her every waking moment. But he also knew of the security blanket they might offer, and how vulnerable anybody would be left feeling after having this kind of knowledge to rely on for so long.

"What I offer you now is the reassurance of my own knowledge," he said, leaning in until they were almost nose to nose "Beckett and Mercer will die this day, and we will come out of the other side, together and well."

Promises of these likes were things he ordinarily would refuse to offer - to anybody. Any soldier with half a brain would always say that there were no guarantees of survival, and promises to the contrary were as good as lies. But this was a vow, and he did not take vows lightly. Not any of them.

It was difficult to say whether Theodora believed him or not - the furrow in her brow suggested not, but it could just as easily suggest the pain she doubtlessly still battled. However, she closed her eyes, and then she nodded. If she did not naturally believe him, then at least she still endeavoured to do so. Made a conscious choice to do so. After the last twenty-four hours, it warmed him to see.

Moving with the utmost slowness so that his intention was clear and she could draw back if she wished, James leaned in until their noses brushed. Her reyes remained closed, but she lifted her good hand, fingertips finding his jaw and tracing up the side of it, behind his ear, and finally into his hair. James' heart soard - she believed him. Truly believed him. Had she not, had she doubted his word or his feelings, had she simply conceded to pretend that she believed him for the sake of avoiding conflict when she was already weary and pained, she would not allow such intimacy, she would never encourage it. Nor would she return it.

Instead, she lay here now doing both, and he could have wept for joy as the hand in his hair gently pulled him closer until he did as she bade and closed the gap that remained between them, eyes falling shut as his lips slotted over her own. He almost did weep then, too, for not an hour or two prior he'd been sure he would never kiss her again.

The realisation that what he'd grappled with over the last twelve hours or so had not been so different from what she'd likely grappled with over the last twelve months. The fear, the despondency, the uncertainty. How had she functioned? Gotten up in the morning, dressed, eaten, carried out conversations? He could hardly say that he had done so with anything resembling grace.

No resentment, no hurt over being left in the dark as to the details of his own supposed fate, could match even an hour of what he'd just experienced, much a year or more of it. So he simply kissed her - like he'd wished he could a handful of hours ago, like it was the last time he'd ever be able to, regardless of the fact that he would do everything in his power to see that it would not be so.

When he pulled back, he gently took the hand that had tangled itself in his hair, drawing it out and pressing a kiss to it. But the fear he'd managed to quell in her returned to her features when he stood, straightening and beginning to prepare for what lay ahead - schooling his hair into the ribbon at the nape of his neck so it wouldn't impede him, straightening his sword belt, and removing his coat not only to improve his range of motion, but so that there'd be no mistaking exactly which side he was on when the battle began.

"What are you doing?" She asked quietly.

"I may have failed to protect you from what has already happened, but I will not with what lies ahead," he said "I daren't move you, even if you could withstand it I fear we haven't the time, and this cabin is hardly concealed from the eye. I also believe they may send men to look for you."

It was one of the few cabins, along with that of Sparrow's, that was actually above deck. Were it below, they could have gotten away with barricading the door and hoping to escape notice, and even then it would not have been likely. But here? Here they were bound to receive a visitor or two.

With any luck, Mercer himself would come. James dearly hoped so. A battle mightn't prove the proper setting in providing him with the time he needed for everything he wished to do to that man, but he would certainly do his best with what he could get. And there was a brig. Perhaps he could incapacitate him long enough to store him there for later - after which, once this was all over, he would take his time doing everything to Mercer that Mercer had done to Theodora. And more.

"I told Mercer that Jones would kill him," she admitted softly, lips thinned between sentences as though still annoyed at herself for the knowledge she gave away "He'll avoid him once the battle starts. I can't see him staying on the Dutchman."

James nodded. Good. Then there was Beckett. Beckett would get his, too, even if his hand was not the one that had dealt the blow. The blow would not have come at all were it not for Beckett's orders, and so he was just as responsible. There would be a crowd clamouring for his head, and James was unsure as to whether he'd be able to place himself at the forefront of it - his place would remain by Theodora - but he wished that fate might convene in such a way that would allow his hand to deal the killing blow.

His thoughts of bloodlust were interrupted when he noted the muted panic on Theodora's face as she watched him.

"I cannot linger here when it begins," he said.

Already he felt the ship lurching beneath them - a testament to the storm raging outside, considering a ship this size often felt stationary to those aboard, save for when on truly rocky seas. These were the rockiest of waters.

"You can't go out there - not into the battle. I swear to god if this is another matter of honour-" she began, but he interrupted her.

"I must protect you. I will be right outside the door," he said "This room is not fit for the swinging of blades, I might just as easily harm you as I would defend you."

"I don't have any weapons," she said "They took them from me."

A year or more ago, James might have insisted that she did not need a weapon. He was no longer that naive.

"Here," taking his pistol from his belt, he pressed it into her hands "Do you know how to shoot it?"

He realised with a grimace as he did so, somewhat belatedly, realised she would have to wield it with her injured hand lest her aim be compromised as it would be if she tried to aim with her left hand. Sweat still rolled off of her in droves as he helped her pull herself up into a sitting position. She may have ceased bleeding, but her pain remained. It likely would for some time, even if time was not a luxury they currently could boast. She was not well, but she was forcing herself to be. That was a running theme with his wife.

"I can manage it," she said - and seemed to mean that in more ways than one, probably in answer to the concern he felt on his face "But I don't know how to reload."

There was no time to teach her. Already he could hear orders being shouted out across the ship to ready the cannons, and he was certain it wasn't his imagination when he caught wisps of monstrous, growling voices rumbling just beneath the lashing of the waves and the picking up of the wind and rain outside. Battle was upon them.

"Then I suggest you make your shot count, should it come to it."

And he would have to see to it that it did not. Theodora took the suggestion bravely, swallowing visibly as she inspected the pistol and then adjusted her grip on it, her finger resting just below the trigger. It bolstered his hope. If she knew not to put her finger on the trigger unless she meant to shoot, she knew enough to get by with it. At least until he divested a foe of a smaller blade to give to her.

The drastic darkening of the day met his notice then - the light outside having gone from dull and grey to almost that of evening, the rain lashing against the window.

"Leave the door open," she breathed, her voice ragged with how she had to raise it to be heard.

Resting her back against the wall the bed was pushed against, James watched as pushed her hair back from her face with her good hand, and made a visible effort to steel herself for what was to come.

"Absolutely not," he shook his head.

"If you don't, I'll get up and stand by the door with you," she threatened - and he did not dare call her bluff.

Heaving a sigh, he shook his head. An argument was yet another thing they didn't have time for, and he had no wish for her to further injure herself by attacking the door if he dared shut it anyway. Drawing his sword, he steadied himself as the ship lurched dangerously below their feet and finally nodded his assent, jaw clenched. It was almost worth it when she sighed her relief. She obviously knew him well enough to know how he wished to argue.

Hesitating, James debated his next move - not wanting to alarm her by having it be construed as a goodbye. But she wasn't a fool. She knew what they faced now just as he did, if not more so. Ducking down to sit on the bed momentarily, he leaned in and kissed her once more, keeping close afterwards to speak - with all of the feeling and sincerity that he had within him.

"I love you, Theodora."

"I love you too," she said.

As if to act as a purposeful reminder that the time for heartfelt confessions was well and truly over, a cry from outside sounded.

"Prepare to be boarded!"

James stood and took up his position by the door. Behind him, he was certain he heard the gun cock through the din.

Will Turner was pacing in the brig of the Dutchman when the action began. The state of the ship left little secret about the fact that it had began - he could glimpse the maelstrom outside through the gaping cracks and rotted boards in the side of the ship, and the roars of those on either side was hardly drowned out by the fury being quite literally rained down upon them by the gods. Or, well, one goddess in particular, he would guess.

And yet, despite all of that, there was little he could do about it. His decision to break Jack out of the jail at Fort Charles - the decision that felt like it had started all of this, in some strange way - sprang to the forefront of his mind almost as soon as his jailors had left him in the brig. The initial excitement that the memory brought forth, though, was dampened when he paused to look about him. There was nothing he might use to offer the right kind of leverage. There was a patch on the wall that was just slightly less rotted than all the rest - lighter, and somewhat cleaner, suggesting a bench may once have been there, but no longer.

A following inspection of the hinges that kept the cell door shut provided no luck, either. They might once have been the exact sort of half-barrel hinges that would allow him to lift it free if only he'd been provided with the right tools, but the metal on them now had been soldered almost beyond recognition. He should have known - the crewman who accompanied him down here had some difficulty even opening and closing the cell door, but he'd hoped it was due to rust. It appeared Theodora's escape had Jones tightening security measures. Perhaps even his father himself had done it, having seen how she'd escaped last time by Theodora's own admission.

Will pushed the matter of the Irishwoman out of his mind. There would be a time to concern himself with her, but that time was not now. Especially not when Elizabeth was in danger out there, and he was locked down here.

Chest heaving after a few failed attempts at doing battle with the cell door, and then the bars, he turned his focus to the walls of the ship. It was not ideal. The ship roiled and swayed constantly as it was - even if he could pry enough of the boards away with his bare hands to slip out, he did not trust that he would do anything other than fall into the waters outside and drown. And his sword was on the other side of those bloody bars, too. But if his options were to remain sitting here and merely hoping things above would work out well, or taking his chances with that very perilous climb outside, he knew what he had to do.

His hands were bloodied and scraped, and he'd barely succeeded in getting one of the clapboards to just slightly give way, when the footfall of boots sounded in the brig and a voice barked at him.

"William!"

Soaked through, with a slash to his cheek that steadily bled crimson against his pale face, his father stood at the entrance to the brig, wielding a thick metal mallet in one hand and his sword in the other. Not needing to be told so, Will stood back as his father took the mallet to the section of the cell door that house the lock, bashing it harshly two, three, four times until it was bent beyond recognition and the door swung open freely.

"I'm guessing there wasn't a spare key," he commented, taking up his sword as his father discarded the mallet.

"It's not that key we're concerned with," he replied grimly "Cap'n Jones no longer has it, we know that much, but if it's with Beckett himself-"

"Mercer," Will disagreed with a shake of his head "They need the key and the chest on the Dutchman, lest they need to make good on their threat to shoot the heart. It's too much of an empty threat if they can't do it at any given time. Whatever Theodora told them, there's no changing that."

"We need to get to Mercer, then," his father nodded "I wager we'll have Jones himself as competition on that score."

"It doesn't matter. We'll get there first."

"But who'll stab it? Surely you don't still mean to…"

Will did not respond, but the look on his face must have spoken for itself for his father sighed in relief. He did mean to stab the heart - once. And he still would have, if it were required of him. But it was no longer required of him, and the motivation he may once have had to shoulder that particular burden no longer pressed down upon him. But somebody would. Jack, likely. Or some of the other hundreds gathered here who would find little qualm with sailing the seas for all eternity. And without the key it mattered not.

If Will thought that he'd have to wait until they were above deck to join the battle, he'd be sorely mistaken. Countless guns lined multiple levels of the Dutchman, and it took countless men in turn to man them - many who viewed his father's freedom as a personal affront. Soon it became no mystery how his father already bled upon finding him, the true question instead being how he'd managed to reach him so uninjured.

They worked seamlessly together as a team, practically having to work back-to-back and move sideways towards the next set of stairs upwards so that they could both avoid receiving a blade, flail, or even a set of claws and teeth to the back. The only lucky they had was that the guns needed to be manned, pulling them away from forming any sort of consistent targeted attack, and the constantly uneven footing robbed any onslaught of anything that might resemble grace. Or efficiency.

It was a miracle when they emerged above deck free of serious injury, albeit breathless -and with no ability to catch their breath. That breathlessness was aided by the fact that there was little air to be found even out in the open, the rain and the waves and the storm all lashing down upon them so relentlessly that they might as well have been underwater. As the next attack came - this time from a British soldier stationed upon this godforsaken ship - Will deflected it easily, disarming the man and sending him sprawling down onto the deck.

He was followed by another, and then one of Jones' crew, but the man Will was looking for - the one supposedly in charge of this mess thanks to Beckett's orders - was nowhere in sight, nowhere to be found in the fray. It crossed his mind for a moment to worry for Elizabeth, but he shoved that down, too. He'd taught her well, and she could hold her own. He had to trust that she would be well, at least for now - at least until they got their hands on that damned key. But where was it? Where was Mercer?

A/N: Original plan was to have this be one gargantuan chapter, but it's already so late and it's already pretty long, so the plan changed. Next one should be up far more quickly than this one was! Remember to check out Sainted by the Storm if you need a James/Theodora fluff fix during this B)

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