Of Weddings And Wine

Disclaimer: I do not own Jack Sparrow, Will Turner, or any other Pirates of the Caribbean characters used or mentioned in this story. I claim ownership only of Aletté Malycho, Morgan Land, Meryl Volleys, and the few other characters of my own creation.

Author's Note: This is the sequel to "The Rain Cant Hurt Me Now." Like many of my stories, it can stand alone. But if you're a big W/E fan, know that Elizabeth remarried after her and Will had a bit of a falling-out. Will met Aletté, who was in line for the throne but abdicated to become simply a courtier, and they eventually fell in love. Will returned home for a few months (under Aletté's advice) with Elizabeth to be with his son (now one year old, named Jack, or Jacky.) If this has confused you then you should read the latter mentioned story to understand it. But if you already have (or will- it's pretty short!) then just know that this is meant as a more light-hearted story. It's Will/OC, and the plot is really just an undertone to the intended humour.

Chapter One:

Aletté Malycho stood upon her sprawling stone terrace amongst the waxy green trailing terracotta plants, eyes fixed on the sea, a cool mist of rain hanging in a dense fog around her.

It had been five months, and still no word. Aletté did not go a day without wondering. What was hindering him? What was taking so long? The winds were in his favour- every day a good gust to sail on, and no gales to speak of just yet. So, indeed, was his transport- sailing under the command of the finest pirate captain, on the fastest ship in the Caribbean. He had promised to return in three months. Now, five months later, there was still no sign of him.

She wondered what had happened. Had they been attacked? Had they capsized? Was he even alive? Perhaps Elizabeth was keeping him, making him stay longer than he had expected… and perhaps, she thought with a sinking heart, he wasn't coming back. Perhaps he had lied to her about everything…

No.

Not Will. Never Will. Not he who had so many times saved her life, not he. Not he who seemed to have never told a lie in all his days, oh no. Not he, not he, not he…

But perhaps.

It was an unfavourable trait to the wretched young girl, this mistrust of men. Unfavourable, perhaps, but not unjustified. At fourteen, a mere three days after the death of her mother, she was cornered by her sinister landlord and asked for the rent money. Aletté sought out her mother's inheritance. There was none. This, the sad dependence of our human society on money, pushed Aletté into something more horrible than she had ever dreamed. She was forced into selling herself.

It is a long tale of how she eventually dragged her sorry self out of this rut of sin and debauchery and came upon one William Turner, and the reader will thus be spared the tedious details of our heroine's past. But it was her days of mistreatment by what seemed like every man on this earth that was now ebbing on her mind, causing her to entertain ideas she would otherwise have shunned .

Her crumbling stone terrace in the tiny county Sierrbo, in Spain, overlooked the bay and port that Will would be sailing into. But the docks in Sierrbo were empty, save for a few lonely fishing boats, and Will was not by her side. He was taking too long...

The autumn breeze tousled Aletté's straight blonde hair and she turned to go back inside, slipping silently through the crushed velvet curtain that divided her apartments from her gardens and grounds. On that same terrace only five months ago Will had stood there, promising her he would return. And he hadn't.

A cruel November draft found it's way through one of her crumbling windows and snaked it's way around her slender, shivering form. She pulled open the doors of a bulky mahogany wardrobe and began to sort through her clothing for something warmer. She came upon a fur-lined kirtle, but the voluptuous curves it had been fitted for were not a trait of hers- no, by Spanish standards Aletté was quite homely- her hair was thin, poker-straight and fair, her eyes were a cool, icy shade of turquoise, unlike the warm brown eyes favoured by her court, and she was subject to an undesirable wiry figure that made her shoulder-blades literally feel like blades. In Britain this would have been quite charming- in Spain it was an accursed set of traits.

Aletté finally gave up and shrugged herself into an off-pink damask gown with a triple-layer of material that managed to banish her chills. She plunked down onto her dark, intricately-carved four-poster bed and sighed, blowing a puff of air up through pursed lips, sending her unruly hair fluttering about her eyelashes.

It had been her own choice not to have servants in her apartments, save for a few of the younger maids who came every so often to sweep the floor. Aletté had always found herself feeling horribly uncomfortable in their presence. This could partially be attributed to her gossiping dressmaker, whom, on more than one occasion, Aletté had overheard blabbing about how "small and frail" their newest courtier was, and wondering why on earth Will was marrying a girl whose "hips couldn't bear children even if the gods so decreed it."

Aletté chose to stay in her apartments as much as she could, only coming out for ceremonies and state dinners. King Rico would visit her occasionally, entertaining her with his somewhat senile rambles, but that was the extent of Aletté's human contact, unless one counts her few drab courtly lessons a viable form of socializing. And while she was busy fulfilling the role of royal recluse, her time was spent losing chess games with her mathematics tutor, stepping on her dance teacher's toes, and failing to drop to one knee with the appropriate grace for her dear impatient etiquette teacher. Apart from this, she would lie on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, sending flickering lights skittering across it with the reflections from her ring.

The latter mentioned activity was what she chose to occupy herself with at the time when this reader had just entered this tale. But dear, poor Aletté, who hardly ever got her way, (and had become accustomed to it) was not left to her own devices, but instead was rudely interrupted by a winded-looking girl-page who dashed into her room with little grace, ignoring the methods of "proper respect" which Aletté chose to ignore, but which her tutor though to be the backbone of the monarchy.

"Queen- um, Lady Malycho," The girl stammered, remembering just in time to use Aletté's proper title. Rumours that flew around the court about Aletté's lineage often misconstrued her title from simply 'Lady' to 'Queen.' Aletté was getting used to it. "There's a visitor waiting for you in your parlour. Shall I call him in, or will you receive him out there?"

Aletté yawned. "Tell him to address his concerns at the state dinner tomorrow night."

"But m'lady," The girl protested in a thick Spanish drawl, "he's traveled a great distance just to see you."

This perked Aletté's interest. "How great a distance?"

"Says he's come from down near Port Royal- that's all the way in the Caribbean, that is."

Aletté sprung up from her bed and raced to her closet, calling out, "You, girl, what's your name?"

The maid gulped nervously. "Ella."

"Ella, do me a favour, would you, dear soul?" The girl nodded. "Set out some cakes or tea or pastries- hell, just set out anything we have! And be a dear to kindle the fire in the hearth!" The serving maid turned to go. "Oh, and Ella? Do see to it that our guest is informed that I will receive him in the parlour shortly, will you?"

Aletté raced to her closet and shuffled through it, trying to find a gown more presentable than the rosy one she was currently robed in. Pink was, without a doubt, one of Aletté's worst colours. Her features tended to suit more blues and greens. She finally found a baby blue sateen dress with corseted sides and a plunging neckline. It had white sheer drape at the neck, and was very light and airy. It was a summer gown, but Aletté couldn't find anything else that fitted her figure that wasn't red or purple. She began to struggle into the gown, then immediately came to the realization that one needed a dresser in order to fit a corset properly. For a moment she considered calling Ella, but then thought the better of it; the serving maid was probably in the hall now, waiting on Will. And as Aletté had learned, it was horrible Etiquette to call a servant away from your guests.

She eventually gave up and re-dressed in her pink damask kirtle, grimacing at her pale appearance in the mirror. Her hair was stringy and undesirable, and the rosy gown made her eyes, which were usually quite breathtaking, seem tacky and undesirable. Part of her wanted to stay and toil further over her appearance, but she really just wanted to see Will, and she knew in her heart that he wouldn't care whether or not her eyes clashed with her gown. But she still wished everything could be perfect.

The doors to the parlour were made of wood with inlaid gold and silver. It was the metalworking on them that had fascinated Will, and he had whittled away his few minute's wait by studying the technique which was used to fashion them. But it had not yet occurred to his artisan soul that perhaps standing behind a door is not the most strategic of places to station oneself if one plans on keeping his nose intact. It was thus that Aletté, who burst through the door in a flurry of excitement, accidentally caused her fiancé a fair bit of pain.

Pain, you must understand, of more than just the heartache of lovers long-separated.

The door came in contact with Will's nose with a great crash, and the latter fell backwards, landing on his back with a decidedly painful thump. He winced in discomfort and squinted through slightly pain-impaired vision. Aletté crouched overtop of him, cooing apologetically.

"Oh Will, I'm so sorry, I didn't know- I mean, I thought you were- oh let me get that!" She pulled a handkerchief out from the folds of her kirtle and tried to stop the blood that now spouted from his nose. He cried out in pain as her hand touched it, being bloodied, though not broken. "Oh, I'm sorry!" Aletté recoiled. She had just made it worse. "Here." She held out the handkerchief.

He took it wordlessly and brought it up to his nose, gingerly placing it on the source of the blood. "Thank you." He managed to mumble, tilting his head back to stop the flow.

Aletté glanced around. "Ella?" The girl came bustling out of the pantry, carrying a tray laden with jam tarts and tea. "Oh, Ella, be an angel and fetch me one of those fluffy towels from the bathing room, would you?" She turned back to Will. "Oh dear, Will, I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to-"

"Fine, it's fine." He struggled to his feet, still tilting his head back. Aletté hovered over him apologetically. She handed him the towel that Ella had just brought and took, while biting back the urge to gag, the completely soaked, once-white handkerchief she had just given him. Will stumbled to sit himself down on the couch, the blood flow beginning to subside.

"So, um..." Aletté tried nervously, "how was the voyage?"

"It was fine." Will said through the towel. "No storms."

"Anything interesting happen back home?"

"Uh-huh." He removed the towel gingerly, handing it to a concerned-looking Ella. The flow appeared to have stopped, though he kept his head tilted back for good measure. "Elizabeth had her wedding to that Jacobs man."

Aletté nodded agreeably, not wanting to raise the question of his lateness until he was fully recovered. "And Morgan?"

"She's coming along." He said, slowly bringing his head down again. "She's not due until December, though. Jack's thrilled. He's sure it'll be a boy."

"And baby Jacky?"

"Not a baby anymore." Will began to relax, confidant that his nose had adequately recovered. "He can skiff now- not by himself, but he knows how to steer. He likes Jacobs a lot." there was a note of bitterness in his voice. "Elizabeth had me stay an extra two months so that I could be there for her wedding. She said it was a special day for our son and that I should be present." He paused. Aletté appeared to be hearing this news for the first time. "I sent you a letter explaining it."

"I guess it was delayed." Aletté said.

"You didn't worry did you?"

"Not at all." She lied.

Their chatter was interrupted by Ella bringing the jam tarts and tea. These were joyfully receive by Will, who had eaten nothing but table water and biscuits for a month straight. Aletté watched in silence as he devoured them, then reached for the pot which held her lemon tea.

"Oh here, let me." She sprung up and grabbed the pot, pouring him a cup. When she went to hand it to him, however, their arms struck and the scalding liquid was dumped unintentionally over Will's chest. He winced.

"Oh no, Will..." Aletté stammered. This was not going well at all- she'd barely been with him ten minutes and already he'd been injured twice on her account. "Here, I'll-"

"No!" Will held up his hand to stop her from trying to help him. "No, no, that's fine, I'll manage by myself."

Aletté sat back down quietly. She turned her eyes to the marble floor. "I'm really not doing this on purpose, you know." She mumbled, trying to hide the colour that was rising in her cheeks.

"I'm fine." Will assured her, smiling. He stood up and made his way over to her, holding out his hand to her. "Come here."

She took it, and rose up to stand next to him. He took the stride necessary to bridge the distance between them, longing more than ever for her sweet kiss. His foot snagged on the leg of the coffee table, sending Will plummeting forward onto Aletté. They ended up sprawled out over the sofa, legs tangled, bodies slightly bruised.

The door to the parlour opened and Jack entered, raising his eyebrows at the sight of the pair in such a suggestive position on Aletté's red velvet sofa. He smiled. "Maybe I should just come back."

Will and Aletté both scrambled to their feet indignantly. "It's not what you think." Aletté assured him, rubbing her now-bruised back tenderly.

Jack let a suggestive smile slip across his lips, but he quickly changed his subject, though this new one was of little improvement. "My dear, luv, you're skinny as ever. No baby yet?"

Will and Aletté both frowned, the latter mentioned turning her confused eyes to an equally confused Will. "What's he talking about?"

"No baby?" Jack made his way into the room happily. "That's interesting." He swept Aletté a bow with more royal flourishes and ornamentations than even Aletté's etiquette tutor could manage. "You're highness."

Aletté laughed. "God's love, Jack, where did you learn to do that?" He shrugged. "Well, come on, tell me you brought Morgan with you this time!"

He shook his head. "No, luv, my apologies. She's eight months in. Thought I'd best not risk killing me unborn son."

"So sure it's a son?" Aletté asked.

"Aye."

Will, seemingly recovered from being smacked in the nose, drenched with scalding tea, and shoved headfirst onto a bulky sofa, smiled for the first time since Jack had entered. He turned to his beloved. "What's this I hear about a state dinner tomorrow night?"

Aletté laughed. "Oh, you wouldn't like those things- nasty, boring affairs, really. I'd rather sit through an hour's conversation with Jack." She giggled. "Honestly, though. No fun at all. Why don't you just stay here in my apartments?"

"Nonsense!" Will laughed. "Come on, lets go to the party- I'm sure it cant be bad as all that!"

"But Will-"

"Come on." He begged. "Please?"

"Well..."

"Puh-leez?" He pulled his big brown puppy-dog eyed stare at her and her heart melted.

She sighed. "Fine. But you're not going to like it."

He smiled, picked her up by the waist and spun her around. It was a bad idea. Will's foot snagged on one of the legs of the sofa and he stumbled backwards, Aletté falling to the ground beside him. He sat up, rubbing his neck, then turned his attention to Aletté, who was nursing a bruised ankle.

"Ouch!" She moaned. "Oh Will, my ankle!" He scooped her up in his arms, placing one arm behind her shoulders, the other under the back of her legs. He laid her down upon the chaise and examined her ankle closely. "Is it bad?" She asked fearfully.

"No." Will said, not looking up, entranced by the slimness and perfect proportion of her leg. "No, it looks fine... it looks perfect to me." He glanced up at her, and she giggled.

From the corner of the room, Jack rolled his dark eyes impatiently. "Any more of this bloody love drivel and I'll good as disgorge me breakfast." He grumbled.

"Oh get out of here if you're going to be that way." Aletté snapped, waving her hands to shoo him away. Jack swept her another bow, and was gone, leaving the room without so much as a word of goodbye.

Aletté and Will were together. Alone.

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