Title: Of the Sea
Rating: PG-13
Chapter Title: 11. Memory
Summary: Matthew's memory returns. Jack attempts to comfort a disturbed (massive understatement) Miriam.
Timeline: Wednesday, May 25, 1675
Author: Cicatrix (Marin K.)

Matthew opened his eyes slowly, to find himself propped up in an alien bed. He recognized the room as the Captain's cabin. How had he gotten there? Pain was shooting up his arm, but for the moment he ignored it, searching his memory. The raid, he thought. He could vaguely recall cannon-fire, and the clash of swords, pistols, smoke. He remembered a sudden, sharp pain in his back and shoulder, and a swift, dizzying sensation... then darkness, and nothing more.

Someone nearby coughed.

"Jack," Matthew said. He was in an armchair near the bed, obviously dragged from the other side of the room. He was holding a glass of rum, and he peered curiously at the figure in his bed.

"Matthew," Jack responded, turning his gaze back to the glass in his hand, gently swirling its contents. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright, I guess."

"That's good." The other's man's tone was nonchalant, as if he truly didn't care whether or not Matthew was alright. Neither said anything for several minutes, and the silence was tense, almost nervous. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"Matthew," Jack drawled, turning the name over on his tongue, as if considering it, "what's your name?"

Matthew looked down, trying to avert his gaze from the piercing stare of his captain. He noticed then that his shirt was not buttoned, or truly on at all, instead draped over his shoulders. The curves of a woman's breasts were made obvious by its open front. He swallowed hard. Jack's hand caught his chin, and he found himself looking into dark, kohl-lined eyes.

Jack couldn't explain the feeling that seethed within him. He'd grown to like the curious young man who'd mysteriously appeared out of the ocean, grown to respect, even trust, him. To have that trust betrayed--he gritted his teeth. Anger would not get the better of him.

"Well?" he pressed.

Matthew met his gaze evenly, and drew himself up proudly, squared his shoulders. "Technically? It's Miriam Sharp."

"I see."

"Is that all?"

"No. The doctor gave me a message, he said I should pass it on to you. He said it is unhealthy for a woman in your condition to bind yourself such as you had been doing. It may harm the child."

He stared at him, eyes growing wide with shock. "A woman in my condition... may harm the... child?" he echoed, staring at the alien man who sat next to him. He searched his eyes for the spark he knew would swiftly be followed by a grin, but instead was met by a gaze that somehow managed to be both cold and smoldering. Jack glared at him, and Matthew felt his skin crawl. He knew what the other was thinking: here is a wanton strumpet who got herself pregnant, a loose woman, a common wench, worth nothing but the price one paid for an hour of her time and the pleasures she gave in those moments. She wanted to explain away his condemning glares, his accusations. Pregnant? It wasn't possible, it didn't happen, it was a dream.

Jack stared at her, saw the look in her eyes which screamed for pity, for an explanation, for something or anything. Her eyes darted wildly, staring at him and then at the wall behind his head, flickering from floor to ceiling, as if the answer could be found in the woodwork of the room. A thousand words were stumbling out of her mouth, but she spoke more to herself than to him. "No," she mumbled through lips which barely parted, "it was a dream. It never happened. It couldn't have happened."

She stared at her hands, at the bruises on her wrist that were once so vivid, shocking in their cruel shades of blue and purple; now they were faded yellow, giving her skin an almost greenish tint. She pressed her callused hand to her throat, feeling the marks that she remembered there, and prodded breasts whose wounds Jack had never seen. For a second, her eyes again met his, and he saw in them terror beyond anything he had known. Yet her gaze pierced his flesh, seemed centered on some invisible point immediately behind him.

He could not hear her screams, did not see the hands which groped cruelly at her flesh. To him, the axe that tore at her gut was invisible, as were the leering faces and wicked grins that devoured her heart. The sword that twisted in her stomach was not there. He did not smell the stench of blood, sweat and semen, rotting fish and cheap beer, the disgusting odor of sex, pain and death. But in her eyes, it became glaringly obvious, in the painful expression of shock and repulsion which was writ upon her face; he could read the word she could not speak.

Jack stood, and slowly he sat down on the bed beside the girl--the woman, truly--who could not see anything but the demons that ravaged her. Carefully, he reached an arm out, gently pulled her towards him. It was awkward. Jack was devilishly charming, but hysterical, sobbing rape victims were not his forte. He doubted that she wanted to be comforted in the ways he best knew. She was, however, dough in his hands, her small frame falling easily against his. He held her, as tenderly as he could, but felt her flinch beneath his touch, her body torn between the moment and the horrific memory.

Matthew was confused. He was being held down, restrained--he could not move or breathe. He struggled, tried to lash out at the force that contained him. There was no space, no place to move, no way to disentangle himself from his assailant, and his body would not respond to his commands. His arm seemed frozen in place, the other useless. And he was crying. Why was he crying?

"Calm down, Matt," a voice said gently, so distant it could barely be heard, "stop fighting me. I'm not trying to hurt you."

Miriam stopped. Her head was spinning. She felt crushed against this other body, trapped by arms meant to comfort. She wanted nothing more than to push him away, he was smothering her. Jack didn't want to hurt her, but she kept fighting him. He held her against his chest, praying silently that she would come to her senses and see that he was trying to help her.

Her breath was ragged and desperate. She gasped for air, but somehow the oxygen seemed a poisonous fume to her lungs. She was suffocating on the scent of salt and rum, a thick and masculine odor of musk and spice, both strikingly familiar and enticingly exotic. It was not the same fishy, putrid stench as before, it was not accompanied by the same frenzied, groping hands and the tearing, aching pain of--

No, this was different, and it stirred in her some feeling of comfort, of safety, and she did not know why, nor did she know why she was so desperate to resist it. The world, in that instant, spiraled into focus. She felt the arms that encircled her, and did not fear them. She recognized the hand that was pressed against her back, and did not flinch away from it. Jack's voice at last reached her through the haze, and it begged her not to fight, to believe him as he told her he would not hurt her. She did believe him.

She gave herself up at last, buried herself in the safety he offered her. She breathed him in, abandoned herself to bitter tears and regret. Jack pressed his lips to her hair; he didn't know why, he was just trying to offer some comfort or solace to ease her pain, some assurance that she was not entirely alone. She shivered, wanting to wrap her weakened body in his skin, as if it might hide her from the memories. She might have liked to dash herself to pieces against him, the same way a ship was dashed to pieces against cliffs in a storm, or crumble to dust beneath his fingers, for both seemed to her deaths which would satisfy the agony that gnawed at her very bones.

It had been too long, eight years, since a man had seen and touched her as a woman. She did not remember the emotions it evoked in her heart, or the heat of the desires that both sickened and intrigued her. How can I feel safe in this man's arms? she asked herself, How can I want him to hold me? Why am I not disgusted or afraid? What is this ache I feel? Desire? Lust? How can I want that, of all things, or any of this?

In her mind, she screamed for her release, but she begged him not to let her go. She was disoriented, her heart filled with fear and need and revulsion. She wanted to rationalize what she felt, but she was too exhausted. All she was capable of doing was crying, though parts of her cursed her weakness. Despite whatever conflicts raged within her, he held her still, clutched her to him as if she would fall and shatter into a thousand fragments of glass if he freed her.

Neither knew how long they remained there, neither cared. Silently, Jack was praying for the door to be locked. There was no way to explain away how Matthew had become 'Miriam', and for himself, he didn't want to be seen as the gentle, comforting type. But pity for this creature had moved him, and every part of him had screamed that he could not leave her to grieve alone as she had been doing. He had offered what he could: a chest to cry into. She had, after a time, accepted it. The front of his shirt was soaked, and still her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. Will she never stop crying? he wondered, but decided it was a stupid to question. She's got the right.

When she was too tired to cry anymore, when all her tears were spent and her eyes were dry and red-rimmed, she released him. She did not push him away, because she had not the strength, but her arm fell to her side and she leaned into him and said nothing. She sat motionless in his arms, and when he felt assured that she was calm, he let her go.

Her skin, normally so tan, was as white as a sheet and her eyes were electric blue and puffy, red veins shooting through them like lightning. Her lower lip trembled threateningly. Jack Sparrow had never seen a woman who looked so exhausted, so defeated. He felt the desire to seize her again, to hold her and assure her that she would be alright, but knew such actions would be unappreciated.

"Jack," she said weakly, her voice distant and hoarse. It scratched pathetically on his eardrums. He shook his head to silence her, and gently pressed her down into the bed. When she submitted and laid down, he put the covers over her, tucking them neatly around her. "I'm not weak," she informed him, but her tone indicated the opposite.

"Of course you aren't," he said generously, a slight smile on his lips. Physically, she was a wreck, and emotionally, the same. But Jack Sparrow had never met a woman before who had survived in the face of what this one had endured. She had not cried herself to death, and so he knew she would live. He didn't know what else to say to her, so he just pressed his palm to her forehead. She was burning up, but the fever would cleanse her.

"Don't do that," she told him irritably.

"Matthew," he admonished, and he thought he saw her smile faintly at that name. Even if this woman wasn't really exactly what he'd thought, she was still Matthew, wasn't she? She could not be such a great actor that she could entirely pretend... Some of Matthew was in her, or some of her in Matthew, or something. He clung to that hope, because he needed to believe that he could rebuild the same trust. He didn't know it, but she held to the same hopes. "Go to sleep," he whispered, and she closed her eyes. Only moments later, her shallow breath slowed and deepened, and her taunt muscles went lax.

Jack stood, and he locked the door. Lucky, he told himself, and then placed himself in front of his desk. Blankly, he looked at the wall. Now what do I do with her?

Author's note: Poor Matthew. I don't know what else to say, except "poor Miriam". I'm really tired though, so I'm going to post this and go to sleep. I'll reply to the reviews on chapter nine later, maybe. I'm so tired now. If I don't get around to it, know that I love you for reviewing, and everyone else who's reviewed: I love you too. Goodnight.

Review Responses:

DaydreamBeliever14: More's on the way! I'm very glad you enjoyed the new chapters! It's so cool to have dedicated readers like you and everyone else who's been reviewing. Thank you so much for your feedback!

Reese Sparrow: I know. I feel sorry for him/her too. I almost feel guilty for writing the story this way with her so messed up.

pingpong5: Yes, but who says everybody else had to know? grin The reactions of everyone else may come much later. Thank you for your review! I'm glad you enjoy the story.