Authors Note:

Welcome one and all to my little world. This will be my first fanfiction, so don't expect anything grand and glorious. Along with the usual disclaimers and such, I wanted to say a few words about why I am writing this story.

First of all, I want to say how very impressed I am with some of the authors I have encountered in my journey through various genres on this website. My hat is off to you, and I have tried to acknowledge excellence when I found it. I have great respect for all authors who make the effort to put their vision into a format wherein it can be shared with others. Second, I have been a big chicken myself, and have put off my own desires to write out of fear of failure to produce something worthwhile. I'm not getting any younger, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and give it a try. If it turns out to be even half as good as the best I have seen, I will be pretty satisfied.

I am dedicating this to two people who have inspired me along the way:

Firevalkyrie – You know I am a fan. I am dedicating this to you because you are pursuing your dreams, and I believe you will achieve them. When you make your first movie, I expect it to be dedicated to me! LOL (jk!) You ROCK!

Renee – You will probably never read this, because your stories were removed from this site. If by some chance you do see this, please know that 'Redemption' was the best novel I have ever read, and I cried when I realized it was gone. Your exquisite writing left me in awe, and brightened my life at a very difficult time. Yours is a rare talent; thank you for sharing it.

Because I am a perfectionist to the point of being anal about it, I decided to write this entire story before even submitting the first chapter. Then I thought, "Hey! That's stupid, ya big wuss!". It just pains me when I start reading a fic that I enjoy and the author abandons it or goes months between updates. I will try not to do that. If people respond to this and like what they see, I will do the best I can to update at least once a week. I actually have the story completed in outline form, but that doesn't mean anything. I type at the rate of about 25 WPM, and my keyboard hates me. I'm also very picky about EVERYTHING, so patience is appreciated.

Thank you for allowing me to share this story with you. Hopefully it falls into the "doesn't suck" category. Peace.

-Surroundedbyincompetence

I do not own anything except that which has come from my imagination. All 'POTC' characters are being used as fodder for said imagination only, and I am in no way profiting from their use.

PROLOGUE

September 1689

Brenna could feel the damp sand clinging to her aching body and hear the waves breaking against the rocks near the shoreline as she slowly, and with great effort, attempted to force herself into a fully conscious state. She didn't need to open her eyes to the harsh glare of the Caribbean sun to know where she was; the throbbing lump near her temple had not stolen away her memory of the previous night. A stinging gash on her knee also did nothing to distract from the horror she knew awaited her as she finally managed to open her eyes. She did her best to shield them from the blinding, late morning rays and struggled to bring herself to a sitting position. A light breeze cast strands of salt-brittle hair into her line of vision as she tried to focus on her surroundings.

Ah…there he was.

Peter lay motionless about thirty feet from where she herself had spent the night, at the edge of high tide. Neither had had the strength to crawl further inland to seek shelter, and the ocean had lapped at their legs during the twilight hours, leaving their lower bodies partially buried in the sand. 'An omen?' she thought, with a sense of dread, as she worked to release her legs and feet from the mire. Not trusting herself to stand just yet, she crawled on all fours and unsteadily made her way toward him, praying that he was still alive.

Brenna discovered that he had indeed survived the night, but his breath was shallow and labored. She knew he had struggled to remain at the surface as he swam the short distance from where the ship had been anchored, to the narrow crescent of beach where they now found themselves. Peter had been shot, the bullet passing clear through his left arm about four inches south of the shoulder, which made each stroke like a writhing fire in his bones. He had no doubt lost a lot of blood, even before leaving the ship, and the amount of water he must have ingested on the way to shore was surely not helping the situation. While not as critically injured, Brenna had still been dizzy from a blow to her head when Peter, unceremoniously, heaved her over the side of the ship in his haste to separate her from danger. That, combined with the tow of her heavy nightclothes against the current, had made her own journey a perilous one. But Lord knows he had probably saved both of their lives. She dared not think on what fate had befallen those who had not escaped.

Hovering over Peter, she tried to determine how best to move him. "Blast", she muttered, frowning as she inspected the wound that was turning an angry red around the edges, " I had hoped the sea would have cleansed that a bit." She shook him gently. "Peter? I need to get you up from here, see? Now, wake up for me. Wake up."

Failing to sufficiently rouse him, Brenna pulled him up as best she could. She tried to move him toward the shade of the nearby palms while not disturbing his arm too much in the process, but the wet sand clung to him, adding to his weight and making it impossible to drag him more than a few feet. He came fully awake as she lost her traction on the slippery surface and his body broke from her grip to flop back to the ground. Peter's eyes were shut fast against the overwhelming pain, and his breathing was a ragged mix of deep gasps and groaning. Brenna had never felt so helpless.

"Peter…Peter! Listen to me! I have to get you out of the sun, away from the beach. Do you think you can get up? Can you walk a little way if I assist you?"

Peter tried to open his swollen eyes as he nodded feebly, but didn't attempt to speak. It was obvious as he squinted into Brenna's concerned face that he too remembered what had transpired in the wee hours of the morning. He did not say anything as she brought her palm to his cheek. His normally lightly tanned skin was burned a bright red from exposure, but Brenna could feel that a fever had set in as well; a telltale sign of the infection she had feared. She helped him to sit up, then provided him some leverage in order to gain a standing position. He still had not spoken as she wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and braced herself as they stumbled together in the direction of the brush and palm trees that edged the beach.

Leaning him against a trunk for support, Brenna used a palm branch to sweep an area in the shade free of debris. Fallen banana leaves that had not yet turned brittle were laid down as a kind of cushion, and with no little difficulty Peter was lowered down to rest on them. He looked up at her then, his bloodshot eyes too dry to form the tears Brenna knew he would shed if he could. Blindly seeking her hand with his own, he croaked a feeble "I'm sorry", before once again passing out from sheer exhaustion.

"You've nothing to be sorry for, my friend."

The streets of Nassau were teeming with people from every walk and station of life. As a man made his way through the market square near the docks, he marveled at the array of goods he saw displayed in the storefronts and roadside carts. Hawkers called to all who passed by, enticing them to come and have a peak at the treasures they offered from around the world. Silks and brocades; spices and exotic scents; jewelry, gems, bangles and beads of every conceivable color and size; anything anyone could possibly want could be acquired...for a price. There were even people to be bought and sold; not just the slaves, of which there was no short supply, but the pleasure of a woman's company was to be had for a mere schilling. Everywhere he looked there was something to catch the eye and fuel the unquenchable greed of those that frequented a port such as this. Call them what you would: Buccaneers, Privateers, Pirates-they were essentially all the same. A shameless, lusty lot they were, and proud of it!

But all of the finery and endless bustle around him would not distract him from his mission. His crew was busy with the task assigned to them, and he had assured them that soon they would be very rich men, Aye, if they would make all haste to complete their work. He had set out into town with more than enough Sovereigns in his pouch to garner what he needed, and to keep what he was about quiet at that. He knew that a little gold could keep a mouth shut tight, and the last thing he needed was some fool shooting off about black sails and such. He had already made purchase of said sails- not readily found, I assure you- and was now in search of a chap with gifted and steady hands.

He found the place he was seeking, and stepped inside to make the deal.

"You sure you be wantin' what you say you be wantin'?"

"Is that going to be a problem, mate?" the man asked, irritably.

"No sir! Just makin' sure that you be wantin'…well, what you said you be wantin'."

At the artist's acquiescence, the man extended his right forearm, wrist down, and placed it onto the small table set before him.

"Well, let's get on with it then! Time is a'wastin'", the man grinned. "Savvy?" he drawled, injecting a short sound of amusement at what was obviously a private joke.

The artist glanced at his customer once more with a look that spoke both confusion and apprehension. He knew the mark. Everyone knew the mark. What in the heavens had possessed this man to ask for it to be placed on him willingly? And the tattoo! That tattoo! It just didn't seem right.

However, seeing the determined set of his client's mouth, and the maniacal glint in his eyes, the artist leaned over the outstretched arm to begin his work. No more words were exchanged. The gold had spoken.

As late morning crept into afternoon, a bird in flight, passing before a sun at the horizon, took shape on skin. At the nearby hearth, a small branding iron with a 'P' at the end glowed bright red-orange in the fire.