A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Julie-Rae, just because I love her so much.
A/N 2: Did I mention I love you guys? I think I did. 143 reviews? Drinks all around!
A/N 3: Because ff.net is such a pain, it won't italicize anything for me. So, I still decided to post. Pretend names of ships and inner monologue should be italicized. Thanks much!
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Pirates of the Caribbean: The Wind's Eye
Revelations
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An avalanche…how bloody brilliant, commodore, how bloody brilliant. Make those rocks to fall on us. Try to wipe us out. Oh, but in all respects, commodore, we ain't that easy to kill.
Yet his nonchalant sense of amusement quickly turned into frustration. The surrounding blackness made him feel worthless, hapless. He was silently drifting, not restricted in the least, aimlessly floating in a never-ending circle of nothingness. He knew what was coming, and he knew that it wouldn't be good. He had failed the gods, and they would not accept it lightly.
He needed Turner's blood…the last line of Turner's blood. Meaning William Turner Junior. The curse had it in for Bootstrap, for keeping the gold away for so long. The gods would only settle for his last remaining bloodline to suffer the consequences. Slit Turner's throat, undo the curse, kill everyone else, take Jack Sparrow, and everybody's eternally happy.
Jack Sparrow…
He cursed to himself in the foreboding darkness. That bastard had taken a way everything he had worked so hard to attain. He would be satisfied seeing that good-for-nothing piece of slime rot in hell for all eternity.
But the curse had offered him something better.
No doubt, Jack Sparrow was a good pirate…probably one of the best. His blood boiling in his veins, Barbossa remembered how many times that man had outsmarted him. Well, no fool had ever called Jack dimwitted, if one thing be sure. For behind all of that drunken swaggering, hidden beneath his intriguing strangeness, was an intelligence that very few pirates could claim to own.
To punish Jack, to claim his meaningless life with his own hands, had been a fantasy of his for a while. He had spent many a quiet night contemplating the most humiliating death for Sparrow. Hanging was too swift. Drowning guaranteed nothing. Marooning apparently was not effective. How to wipe him off, then?
The Gods. The Gods could help him.
He smiled. The gods had an uncanny ability to affect whomever had come in contact with the gold. Considering Jack and Will had submitted their blood willingly to the chest of gold before, the gods had some control over them.
But then why had Turner been able to reject the curse before he could take his blood?
Because we only have partial control. And because he's not the last of the bloodline.
The voice shocked him, but the familiarity of it calmed him a bit. The gods had talked to him before, in a collective tone of clarity that chilled him to the bone. Gathering his thoughts and letting the statement absorb into his drifting brain, he responded.
Not the last of the bloodline?
No.
How can that be? Turner has a sibling?
He will have a child.
A child…That wench Elizabeth was pregnant! He should have known it, should have noticed it. So that was why the curse couldn't hold Will under total control; he wasn't the last of the Turner bloodline. It is only the last of the Turners that the gods can claim for their own.
What do I do? he asked with a trace of trepidation, awaiting the worst. A resonating pause filled the void around him for a few minutes before the reply came.
You will do nothing to Turner's wife or child.
Nothing?
Absolutely nothing.
Then how will the curse be broken?
That is none of your concern.
It bloody well is! His frustration grew beyond his ability to control it, swelling within him like a growing tidal wave. I is still under the curse! And while I can't enjoy the bawdy lusts of life, it will remain under me concern until it is broken!
Your mission is another one.
Hearing the slight annoyance in the voice, he calmed himself. To be out of favor with the gods was a dangerous path to take. Aye, another mission. What be it?
There is another coin that must be retrieved.
Another? Barbossa racked his mind for that possibility until the answer dawned on him: Norrington had been holding the gold coin before he created the avalanche.
No, he wasn't. That was a decoy.
What?
He had taken a regular shilling from the rum-runner's sack of coins. It was to lure you away from the others.
Damn him to hell, Barbossa raged. Without the full set of coins, the curse could not be shattered. But how in the name of the high seas had another coin been taken?
The darkness grew somewhat lighter, and he quickly silenced himself, now fearful to endure the gods' wrath. The void swirled around him like a silent whirlpool, slowly sucking him downwards into the balmy depths of dimness. He tried to resist it, and he could feel the gods mocking him, laughing at him.
The coin belongs to another. It is your job to find him.
Who! he pleaded, struggling against the drowning sensation. Who! Tell me who has the coin!
The gods laughed at him again, taking their time with the answer. Panic started to rise up in his chest as it became harder to breathe…the nothingness flickered in front of his eyes, growing lighter, darker, lighter darker…he couldn't see…he couldn't feel…he could only hear the gods contemptuous chuckles, their merciless taunts…
Please! Tell me who!
The choking sensation prevented him from saying any more. He was sure the gods were going to kill him, to damn him to the innermost circle of hell, to leave him to suffer there for his inability to stop the curse. He pictured himself wallowing in misery, surrounded by nothing for all eternity. Hopelessness overtook his desperate spirit, his usual calm acceptance refusing to come. His life ended now, in defeat, in mock contempt of the gods, in complete dishonor…
He would never break the curse. He would never feel the breath of life tickle his soul. He would never see Jack Sparrow under his command, never see Turner break under his rule. He would never be able to kill Bootstrap, never be able to take revenge against Gibbs for taking Sparrow's side once more…
He would never do anything he had been dreaming so long to do…
Until, out of his slowly seeping consciousness, the gods spoke once more. A name, a beautiful name that would be his redemption, his last chance at life…a name that he would remember until his dying day.
Joshua Smithe. Joshua Smithe has the last token.
~*~
"Come on, come on, hop to it."
Actually, watching his pirate crew get dressed up in knickers and the like made Kidd want to laugh. He saw them stumbling all over the room, trying desperately to dress themselves, grumbling and swearing about the "damned rags" they had to don to disembark The Adventure Galley.
"Blasted things. Don't give no room for my privates to breathe," grumbled McAdams, adjusting himself in his knickers.
"Since when do those privates of yourn need ter breathe?" retorted a voice from the back of the cabin. Raucous laughter filled the chamber, and Kidd couldn't help but chuckle himself as he buttoned his overcoat. He studied himself in the cracked mirror before him, eyeing his proper clothing, his clean hair, his presumptuous gaze. He looked like he had before he turned pirate, arrogant and filthy rich, caring about no one except for himself.
Sighing slightly and turning away from the mirror, he studied his crew, who were beginning to look more and more like gentlemen. He tried to hold back a guffaw of delight as he studied their disgusted faces, but he failed. The crew eyed him viciously, muttering curses under their breath. How they hated to look like "respectable landlubbers"; they despised nothing more than the rich and pompous.
"Alright men, are we ready to depart?"
"Aye, McAdams, are those privates still a-breathin'?"
The crew laughed, and Kidd smiled. "Well, if his privates are still breathing, then I'd say we're all ready to disembark. Remember: do not go near the governor's house. It will probably be heavily guarded, so leave that to me. Wander the streets, pretend to be gentlemen, but don't get in trouble. If any of you decide to get mischievous and get thrown in the jail, I will leave you there. Understood?"
"Aye," came the collective answer.
"Marvelous. Proceed, then."
Out they filed, one by one, down the landing plank and on to the sandy shore. Kidd didn't dare port his ship at the docks; he had made an infamous name for himself, everyone knew that. His girl, the Galley, would be recognized by any average Joe lurking about Port Royal. Thus, they had decided to port their ship on the farther side of Port Royal, on a deserted beach, perhaps twenty meters from shore. They would be trudging through water knee-deep, and would then put on their "royal" shoes once they reached land.
"Shoes. Go on, then, put on your shoes," Kidd instructed as they now stood upon the white, sandy shore. He hid a smile beneath the growing darkness of the night as his men grumbled once more. "I know they're uncomfortable, but you can't very well go around barefoot in your nice attire now, can you?"
The men put on their shoes, and, after they had all successfully gotten them on, headed up towards the town of Port Royal. In the darkness, Kidd grew nervous, hoping that he would be able to find his way around the busy port city. He walked northwards, through winding streets, past the meat market, around the blacksmith shop, and left of the jail. He knew that his men had spread out and were no longer following him; a group of civilized-looking men who had randomly showed up in the middle of the night would be enough to make anyone question their whereabouts. Thus, as the town plunged into darkness, the only footsteps Kidd could now hear were his own.
Squinting against the shadows, he noticed a large white house standing alone directly to his right. He eyed it warily, noting that there were two guards standing watch outside of the lofty, intricately crafted iron gates. He noticed there was only one candle lit in the entire household; a room stood illuminated eerily in the upper left of the house. The rest of the windows remained black and uninhabited.
Clearing his throat and straightening his overcoat, Kidd headed towards the gates, trying his best not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. It had been years since he had to try and pass for a gentleman, and he was hoping that his tanned, rough skin did not give away his true occupation. He held his chin high and set his gaze upon the two armed guards, who seemed to be eyeing him curiously for some time.
"Excuse me, is this Governor Swann's household?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as dignified as possible.
"Yes, sir, this is his abode."
"Splendid. Please tell him that his nephew has arrived."
The guards looked at each other suspiciously. "We weren't informed of any visitors, sir."
"Is that so? Well, I'm surprised. Usually the governor is on top of things. Shall you perhaps call on him to verify my visit?"
The guard on the right smirked. "So you have spoken with Governor Swann recently, then, sir?"
"Ay-, yes, I have." Blast it, he thought, clenching his teeth. I almost said 'aye'.
Now, both of the guards were smirking. "That is very interesting sir," the man on the right continued, "considering the governor has been in England for a while, now."
Damn.
Kidd recovered himself and smiled. "Has he, now? That's very interesting. Perhaps my courtier had made a mistake. Could it have been my dear cousin Elizabeth sending me letters?"
The guards remained silent, until one of them cleared his throat and spoke. "I think it's best you should leave, sir."
Kidd pompous smile faltered, but did not entirely fade. "Good sirs, do you honestly think that I would come all this way to see my uncle had he not invited me?"
The guard did not answer. "I think it best you leave," he repeated.
Brilliant, Kidd, brilliant. Now what?
"I think – "
"William?"
Kidd shut his mouth and adjusted his gaze to a slender figure now approaching the gates. He couldn't see her face, but he knew it could be no one else. "Elizabeth."
"William!" she stepped into the moonlight, and Kidd smiled. Well, she had grown into a lovely young lady, hadn't she? Looked exactly like her mother. But he noticed the usual delighted twinkle in her eyes was gone, and her face seemed to be in distress. Although she was smiling, he noticed dark circles under her eyes. He frowned inwardly.
"Gentlemen, please let him in."
The guards looked begrudgingly as they opened the iron gates for Kidd. He nodded his head as he walked through them, opening his arms wide. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, but then flung herself at him, squeezing him tight. He had missed her company; they had been wonderful childhood friends. It was good to see her again, even if the circumstances weren't what they should have been.
"Please, come inside," she said, and Kidd allowed her to lead him forward, through the beautifully inlaid oak doors, and into the monstrous foyer. He could barely prevent his mouth from dropping slightly, noting the marble staircase and beautifully crafted chandelier hanging above his head. His eyes swept from the picture windows to the silk drapes, from the freshly polished floor to the expensively hanged wallpaper.
"Estrella, please make some tea," Elizabeth said to his left, and he saw a maid curtsey and turn from the room, but not before eyeing him curiously.
"Come sit in the waiting room, would you?" she offered, gesturing towards a magnificently upholstered room to his left. Kidd looked at her critically for a moment, before responding.
"You don't have to be so formal with me, Lis."
She blushed as she looked at the floor. "Was I?"
"Aye, you were."
Dammit.
Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and they narrowed curiously. "What did you say?"
"Nothing."
Elizabeth placed her hands on her hips. "That was hardly nothing, Mr. William Swann. That sounded like 'aye'."
Mr. William Swann. I haven't heard that name for years…
"Actually, it was."
Strangely, she laughed, her voice echoing against the marble floors. "Don't tell me you've turned pirate on me too, William."
Perhaps it was his dumbstruck face. It could have been the awkward silence that ensued after her words. Or, maybe it was his tanned skin, his rough hands, and his uncomfortable stature in his overly-fancy attire. Whatever it was, he saw Elizabeth's face drop immediately. She stared at him a few minutes, dumbfounded, seemingly unable to comprehend the fact that her once-gentlemanly cousin was now a pirate.
"You're a pirate," she said softly.
"Well, no, you see, I'm an illegitimate sailor," he tried to protest.
"You know very well that you're a pirate!" she shrieked. Kidd looked around uneasily, hoping there was no one in earshot. "How could you have turned pirate? I thought you were out hunting them, not becoming one of them!"
"Lest you forget, Lis, you're married to one," Kidd found himself retorting, trying to get her to calm down. Wrong tactic.
He saw her cheeks flush and her fists clench. "Who I am married to is of none of your concern, William. If you have come here to criticize my marriage you can best take yourself and leave." She gestured to the door.
"That is not why I came here," he said, looking at her hard. "Your husband is in trouble…Will, his name is? I've come here to help, Lis. I've missed you, and I've come here to help."
She saw tears form in her eyes, and felt immediately ashamed of his temper. He knew defiance ran in the Swann family, but he should have known that this was a delicate situation. "Oh, William."
He enveloped her in a hug, and she began to cry. He knew that the situation must be worse than he had predicted; anything to make Lis cry was a dire situation indeed. He held her, wishing that she would stop; he was sorely interested in hearing how she had managed to get herself mixed up with a pirate indeed. Her racking sobs eventually died down into soft whimpers, and he led her to a couch in the waiting room, helping her to sit down.
She thanked him, obviously embarrassed for her outburst. He smiled as he remembered how prideful his cousin was, and decided it would be best not to interrogate her too harshly.
"What…how did you turn…what was the word, illegitimate?" she asked, eyeing him jokingly as she wiped her cheeks.
Kidd laughed. "That's a long story, and a fairly boring one, actually."
"I haven't heard of infamous William Swann, terrorizing the seven seas. You must be a lousy pirate."
He paused, eyeing her gently before responding. "Aye, but have you heard of William Kidd?"
Elizabeth gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "No…William Kidd?"
He nodded, smirking. "The one and only, love."
She laughed. "You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
She snorted; an unladylike habit of hers that Kidd remembered from his childhood. "Doubt you've heard of him."
"Try me."
She rolled her eyes. "Jack Sparrow."
"Jack Sparrow?" His eyebrows raised in surprise.
"You've heard of him?"
He wanted to tell her that he had spent the better part of his legitimate career hunting him, but decided that this wasn't the time for that. "I've heard him mentioned."
"Make sure you don't tell him that."
In the following silence, Estrella brought in tea with lemon, pouring both of them a cup and curtsying herself out of the room, glancing back to study him before closing the bifolding doors behind her. Elizabeth sipped her tea, but Kidd ignored his cup, instead focusing on his cousin's face. "In order for me to help you, Lis, I need to know what happened."
She paused and set her teacup down. She looked out of the window into the starry night as if she were wondering where to begin. Abruptly, she asked, "Have you heard of The Black Pearl?"
Kidd's eyes widened in surprise. "Of course. What pirate hasn't? But how did you know of it?"
Elizabeth sighed, and turned towards him, her face serious. "I know more about it than you think."
~*~
"How is he?"
Ingrid urged him back onto the stretcher. " 'ell be fine, boy. Don' ye worry 'bout Sparrow."
"They whipped him?"
"Aye," he heard Dolan comment in the adjacent cell. "Whipped him like an animal."
"Ratherford?"
He heard Dolan give a grunt of consent.
Bastard…
"But how is he?"
" 'ell be fine, boy. Just mind yerself." Ingrid helped him to turn on his side, and began to pat his gaping wounds with a wet cloth. He cringed, but refused to utter any protest. Suddenly, his mind burst. "What about Elizabeth?" he blurted.
"She's back at her own house, reckon," Dolan responded. "She's fine. Ratherford wouldn't lay a finger on 'er…not on the governor's daughter."
True, Will thought. Very true. Yet somehow, that thought wasn't soothing enough.
As he listened to the soft trickle of water towards the far side of the jail, a rusty door was opened, and he heard voices walk down the stairs toward his cell. He heard his cell being opened and, as Ingrid gave protest, he felt himself being heaved up none too gently. He groaned, his back wounds opening wider as they grabbed him by his arms and tried to steady him. His knees gave way and his stance faltered, yet he felt himself being heaved up once more, with total regard to his ill condition. Will weakly raised his head to see Ratherford standing before him, his piercing gaze studying Will up and down.
"How does he fare?" he heard Ratherford ask to a stout, plump man with spectacles on. The man ordered Will to be turned around, and he soon felt the stout man poke at his wounds. Will let out a hissing noice, as to avoid screaming in pain. He could feel his stubby fingers harshly study his wounds, prodding and squeezing them.
"He's fit enough to be interrogated, commodore," he heard the physician comment.
"Good. Take him to The Hole."
Will was dragged from the jail, and he could hear Ingrid, Dolan, and Gibbs protest. He tried to support himself on his own legs, but was too weak to. Thus, he let the soldiers drag him, his arms swung over their shoulders, his back exposed to the elements. It burned as if it were on fire, but he refused to let Ratherford see him in pain. Thus, he let his head hang limply until he found himself being placed in an uncomfortable, wooden chair. A door closed behind him, and Will lifted his head up to study his surroundings.
He was in a small room, perhaps eight feet by ten feet. All that was in there was two wooden chairs, facing each other across a small, wooden table with one candle burning on it. There were no windows. The only other man in there with Will was Ratherford.
"Now, Mr. Turner, we will begin the interrogation process."
Will did not answer, but his heart began to pound in his chest.
"Why did you kill the commodore?"
He looked up and stared straight into those cold, blue eyes. "I didn't kill him."
Ratherford's fist went flying into Will's jaw, and he reeled from the blow, nearly falling entirely off of his chair. He felt warm blood rush into his mouth as he struggled to right himself. Ratherford sneered.
"Let us try that again, Mr. Turner. Why did you kill Commodore Norrington?"
"I didn't."
A punch to his temple made Will gasp in pain. His vision became blurred as his head throbbed harshly. He could feel blood trickle down his temple, and knew that it was the commodore's gold ring that had punctured the skin.
"Why did you kill Commodore Norrington?"
"I didn't."
A punch to the back sent Will's nerves into a frenzy. He gasped for air, but felt his lungs collapse out of pure pain. He toppled off of the chair and groaned, kneeling on the floor, his back to Ratherford. His head spun, his jaw ached, and his back began to ooze with pus and blood once more. A cold, night wind rustled in and teased him, sending shivers up his unclothed torso. He breathed heavily and wondered why his throat refused to admit air.
He heard Ratherford's polished, new leather boots track themselves across the floor until they rested directly below Will's face. "Why did you kill him?"
Will didn't have the strength to answer.
His silence warranted his face a kick from the commodore, and Will went flying backwards, smacking the back of his head on the chair as he smashed onto the ground, face up. He screamed, the pain now unbearable. Every inch of his body pleaded for mercy, but Will knew he would get none. He tried to breathe, but freshly produced blood flowed down his throat, and he gurgled, spitting it away. He heard Ratherford laugh ruefully.
Then, he heard a gun being cocked.
Will opened his eyes and stared into the barrel of a rifle, being held directly over his forehead by the commodore. He wore a disgustedly happy smile upon his face, and Will felt a hatred like he had never known rise up in his belly.
"Now, one last time, Mr. Turner," he said patiently as Will stared into the barrel of the gun. "Why did you kill Commodore Norrington?"
~*~
See you next chapter.