DISCLAIMER: I do not and will never own any of the characters or settings appearing in this chapter. They were conceived by Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio, Jay Wolpert and Stuart Beattie and are owned by Disney Enterprises, Inc. Some of the dialogue can be connected to the first film and, hence, is not mine but was inserted into the story to put connections between my story and the film.

Chapter 8
"The Eye of the Storm"

Falling was surreal, in way. For a brief moment, Will felt as if time had slowed to a near stop; the roars of the thunder and blusters of the wind fading away, till complete mute silence was all to be heard.

He couldn't breathe. His lungs had completely frozen– his body entirely stiff and his heart wild with excitement. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he knew with a stab of icy fear to his soul, that he was going to die. Bother what Jack said about impossibility and improbability! To avoid it seemed impossible. The ocean would most likely end up as being his grave, having slowly and cruelly drowned him and claimed his life.

And yet, for all that the precious gift of his life was worth to him, there was another stronger trepidation that dominated his perceptions…and it was for another. In thoughts identical to those when he was caught in Stripes' iron-like clutches, Will's mind once again flew away to the warm, loving embrace of his beloved.

'Elizabeth…'

A sigh caught itself in his chest– a sigh of half-hearted pain and surrender– and he closed his eyes. His mood was unusual. The last time he faced death in the eyes, he had done so with horror and alarm. But during this stint; falling down, down, down toward his gloomy fate; Will felt a strange calm overcome his nerve. And the same thought that he had been frightened of before, he came to acceptance with– in that small space of time. This time he knew almost certainly…he would never see her again. Not in body.

The impact was nothing short of painful. Falling head first, the water's edge slapped and bit Will's raw face viciously and quickly swallowed the rest of his body with glee as he submerged. He was slightly relieved to find that the water was gratifyingly warm, licking at his flesh in an almost soothing manner. Perhaps drowning wouldn't be so bad. He dared to venture and open his tightly shut lids, only to discover that the action did little. The water was terrifyingly dark and fathomless, and he found he was horribly disoriented, the collision having jarred his mind quite a bit.

For a few, fiendishly short seconds, direction could not be determined by him. Whether the void-like depths into which he stared were up, down or at an angle with no name, he did not know nor could he surmise.

A few moments went by in which he was content to simply drift and let the water carry him to where it pleased as he tried to puzzle things out. Slowly, his brain's clockwork began to turn and click properly and as he turned himself right side up, Will suddenly felt appallingly nauseated. Falling in fascination, he hadn't taken a breath before becoming immersed in his ostensible, vast tomb. Deprivation of oxygen was beginning to disorient him again, and to press delayed panic onto his understanding. He needed to get out. He needed air.

Instinctively, he kicked his legs, his face turned upward towards a glimmer of hope of reaching the destination he pursued. But no matter how hard he kicked, his hope seemed to get further and he felt a sickly black and profuse shadow of despair creep into the back of his mind in anattempt to wrap itself around his sanity like a large dark hand coiling long repulsive ebony fingers made to blind and smother. However, he refused to allow it to take hold of him, kicking and stroking with his hands in a personal form of defiance. He may have been certain to die– but he wouldn't pass without fighting.

He surfaced, only just managing to take a gasp of air before he watched with wide eyes as a large wave rose majestically, crested and fell, completely blanketing him underneath itself with such power and speed it seemed an evil attempt to exclusively suffocate and drown. He was abruptly thrust underwater, violently and without mercy. He opened his mouth and soon found himself gagging on and then swallowing the sickly liquid that entirely and overwhelmingly enveloped him. The skin behind his neck grew hot as the never before experienced feeling of claustrophobia seized him. The water was endless, surrounding him in airless weight and pressure with one objective at heart– to kill him. He wouldn't stand for it. He began to strive for the surface for a second time.

A bolt of lightning flashed, he guessed, as the water above himglistened and shone briefly, brightly and bluely. It was almost beautiful in a spellbinding kind of way, making Will half-heartedly wish his situation wasn't so horribly dire, in order that, perhaps, he could simply stop and admire. When illuminated, the water reminded him distinctly of crystalsor ice placed before sunlight or some other celestial luminosity. It seemed like a magical element in some way. However, although beautiful, it seemed so far and unreachable at the same time… so swarthy, discouraging and taunting.

'Like God,' he thought bitterly. 'He commands man to strive to come closer and yet hangs above us where no man can reach Him.…' He almost smirked to himself. His mother would have slapped him for such a thought.

He became aware that his lungs began to burn and feel stretched from want of air, like an acidic fire expanding him from the inside. He kicked harder in a mad attempt to reach the surface to breathe. To have air again. The subtle doubt began to creep away as he came closer– two fathoms from the top, maybe. He began to feel hope and encouragement again. He gave a small, tight-lipped smile, a small chain of bubbles escaping through the tiny crack in his mouth as he did so. He continued to strive.

'My name is Will Turner . My father was Bootstrap Bill Turner. His blood runs in my veins.'

Suddenly, his lungs lurched dangerously lustily as they began to demand to function freely again, and his hope quickly swept away as panic shot through his limbs when he only just managed to stop his inhalation. He looked up in despair and dearth. He had to breathe– his body demanded it– and he was so close to the water's face, to air. But now, ironically, his body– the thing demanding to expire more than any other aspect of his, at the moment– was giving up on him, making it difficult to reach the surface. He began to feel very sick and dizzy, his lungs starting to throb violently. Had he not been underwater, his eyes probably would have been wet with water of their own. He had to make it. He simply had to.…But he couldn't.

'…On my word do as I say or I'll pull this trigger and be lost to Davy Jones' Locker.…'

At first, he became frustrated as the water swirled about him mockingly in boundless murk. Then he became severely discouraged as he looked up in time for another majestic flash of lightning. There was no way he could make it out of this. He would make it to the top only to be thrust down again. He was strong, yes, but not as strong as nature's fury– as God's will. Not strong enough. He was exhausted and only a petty piece of prey being played with by an invincible predator– the way a cat plays with its mouse before devouring the wretched inferior vessel. He couldn't do it.

So he didn't. He gave up and he stopped. It was no use fighting the inevitable. He would die. He began to sink into darkness as the surface reïlluminated with a flash of sky fire. One of the last lights he was sure he would see with his waking eyes.

'Will?'

'Hm?'

'Can I tell you something? A secret?'

'Of course, Elizabeth.'

'When I saw that ship explode– back on our adventure– and I remembered you were on it… that was the moment, possibly, where I was the most frightened in my entire life.'

'… Really?'

'Don't scare me like that again, Will. Take care of yourself…for me.'

'I will.'

'Promise me.'

'I'll promise you…if you promise the same to me.'

'…I promise.…'

Will felt a pang pluck his spirit as a muffled roar of thunder shook through the water's depths. Oh, why did that memory have to hit him now! He had made a promise to Elizabeth.…A promise. He was supposed to take care of himself. It was a covenant, in fact…and he broke it. He felt awful. He had, for sure, done something that Jack would call stupid. Now he was going to die. Elizabeth wouldn't have done something like that. She would have kept her promise. She wouldn't have put herself in harm's way for the sake of courage or whatever else it was that was going through his naïve mind when he did what he did. In his heart he knew she never would. She would've thought and fought for her safety… for him. He didn't, and felt the coarse sting of failure. He should have done more, for her. But he hadn't. He was stupid.

Strange, isn't it? In tales and stories of heroes and gallants, the one never dies, never loses hope. But those are children's tales. Stories that remove the truth about a man and his flaws. The thing people don't see is that no man is perfect. There is no such thing as a Prince Charming that can brave all, have everything and lose nothing. Men are defected, flawed, imperfect. Perhaps even Jack Sparrow could be included. Their strength has limits, their hearts and minds too. And many have been broken, though people don't sing those songs; as they tell of broken hope and the truth of men's lives: they aren't invincible.

'I'm watching over you, Will.…'

He closed his eyes and silently implored his distant bride after a petty forgiveness for his stupidity. For his accursed ambition. He asked for forgiveness for being nothing more than a man. Mortal. Imperfect. He would have done better…had the water not been so deep.

'I'm sorry, Elizabeth.…'

He began to let go.

A hand took Will's. A hand strong and yet soft to touch, gripping his in a clasp that was a lowly succor and yet amazingly true and vice-like. Upwards he looked to try and discover the face of the man who dared to venture and save his life in water so perilous and so deep. His body chilled and stiffened as he did so, for he was astonished to see and find out that it was… no one. Not a soul nor sign one was in sight was apparent– not an arm, a face, a hand. He blinked as lightning flashed and confirmed for sure that what was there was, indeed, nothing. He became afraid. What was this black magic that pulled him of its own will? A demon of the devil? He clamped his eyes firmly shut as he felt himself being hauled through the water, swiftly.

His head broke the surface, and surprise followed swiftly by relief swept over him as the unseen hand released him and he was permitted to gasp mightily, deeply, desperately. He sighed. Never in his life had he felt so grateful for the nipping and stinging sensation that the cold slapped him with. He could breathe. Going from full, smothering lack of air to open spaces of wind was very gratifying. But the change from no air to large gasps of the stuff was a bit much for his body and his head was made to spin as a rush of hot energy coursed through his spine, up, around his head and down the bridge of his nose. He shuttered. Then remembering the manner in which he was spared, he lifted up his hand and looked at it, back and front. Seeing it looked normal, he cast his eyes about the desert of waves and lightning and saw nothing yet again. Perplexity overcame him and his brow furrowed in bemused puzzling. Was he saved by…nothing? Was it some figment of his imagination?

"Men overboard!" a voice rang out, distant and yet clear. But, to his chagrin, Will could not make out the direction of it's origin, the thunder swiftly clapping over the call and covering its tracks. Raindrops spattered in Will's face and pattered on his head as he tread water, thinking carefully about what to do. His drenched hair clung to his temples and cheeks, the very tips dancing about like chocolate seaweed on the waving watery surface that kissed his jaw. Strangely enough, he felt re-invigorated. As if that hand or force or whatever it was not only pulled him up physically but in another manner.

He coughed, his lungs heaving to expel some unintentionally inhaled rain and sea spray accompanying the air.

Ding, ding, ding.

If he had been a dog, his ears would have perked straight up. He could hear the bell of the Predator ringing, and, to his gratification, it was closer. Perhaps by some strange miracle he would make it out of this.

He cast his eyes round about in partial desperation, for he could not spy sail nor shadow of the ship (and a small part of him chided its larger half for hoping, calling him a fool). Lightening flashed overhead and the wind roared. And although it was no longer as frightening, his spirits began to fall again as he heard no further sound. All that he saw was miles of rough and untamed swells; endless, ominous and barren. Thunder rolled and brought him back to thinking on simply how to possibly survive.

His cheeks had gone numb again. His ears began to ring with a sole high and continuous tone from within his head as their tips started biting fiercely, the wind gnawing on their vulnerable edges with its sharp, cold and vicious teeth.

Last time he had been wrecked at sea the ship had been detonated from the powder magazine, giving him the advantage of a large piece of the deck to lay upon. Unfortunately, he had no such blessing now. Perhaps if he.… He paused, dropping the train of thought which he had.

He thought he had heard something once again. Perhaps it was the ship? He listened intently, fully expecting to be disappointed once again and be forced to go back to thinking. But he was not. Above his ears' monotonous peal it seemed to him that he heard a frail and distant voice, carried and batted about by the zephyrs, calling out in despair. He listened carefully as he heard it for a second time. And that was when Will jumped at its familiarity.

'Briggot!'

He was still alive! The thought was nothing if it wasn't encouraging, and Will couldn't help but almost chuckle as he gave a sigh: the old timer certainly had a lot more in him than his bag of bones dared to suggest.

Now, maybe Lady Fortune decided to assist our William now, and maybe, as you have seen before, there was another unseen force at work in his aid; but as luck or phantoms or gods or coincidence, or whatever it may have been would have it, Will was surprised when his treading left hand caught on something of a rough material as he stroked downwards. He did not know what it was, but he did know it was underwater and it was not a living thing. As he continued to tread, his senses heightened, his hand brushed whatever it was for a second time, and he thrust it out and grabbed hold of the unseen object.

He gasped at its touch and brought it to his face to make sure he wasn't imagining things. He wasn't.

'Tie dis 'round yerself.…'

Praises be! The line! Stripes had tied the line around his waist before the fall– the cheeky devil.

'God bless him!' Will could not help but think as he gave it a round score of yanks, discovering upon one of the fifteenth yanks or so that it was, indeed, tied to something at the other end– something big and solid– and Will grinned with an open-mouthed breathy laugh of relief, victory and even a tint of amusement. He'd been looking for the ship for what seemed like minutes in this awful eternity and weather when he had been tethered to it like a dog the whole time! He could have slapped himself for forgetting. Now that was definitely something Jack would label 'stupid.' Silly.…

Briggot cried out again and Will smirked as any fear he once had fully forsook him. He was safe, he could easily make it back to the ship, and he had yards of slack rope beside him.… Why not give Briggot a hand? Yes, that seemed like a thing worth while. Thinking nothing more on it, Will launched himself forward in a hardy swim as he began to search for the old man.

It soon proved to be a task that Will had underestimated in difficulty. The waves were still rampant, picking him up and dropping him several feet, and the rain was still thick as the velvet drapes of a king's castle– the fact that several of the drops had decided that his eyeballs would be a fun target to shoot for wasn't a matter of assistance either. It didn't take long before William realized he'd never be able to visually find Briggot in this tempest– it was impossible if he didn't just happen to run into him. Thankfully, there were other ways.

"Briggot!" he called as loudly as he could, though the wind, the waves and the thunder were greatly overpowering. "Briggot where are you?"

It was remarkable, really. Will almost had time to appreciate it, too. A voice in the air calling back to him, a turn of the head, a flash of lighting and there he was for Will to see: waving a hand in the air occasionally to draw further attention. He shouted something but Will could not decipher what it was. So he simply began to swim towards him.

Briggot, it appeared, was either loath to do likewise or he simply couldn't. He remained where he was, treading water in a manner that suggested he was having a very hard time doing so. Will began to swim faster.

Suddenly, to Will's great astonishment, the line round his waist pulled taught, preventing him from advancing. He became angry as he realized he had swum to its end and could go no farther– Briggot was a meager fifteen feet away. He looked over his shoulder and found that the rope was now a straight line slowly sloping upward and fading into the darkness where he now knew the ship was. It was certain that he could not go any farther. Briggot would have to come to him.

He swiftly turned around in his place amongst the water, his hair whipping wildly about as a large gust of wind decidedly swept him by, smacking him fiercely on the side of the face. He shook the blow off, ignoring its cutting chill and returning his attention to the poor drowning soul before him. He became alarmed as Briggot dipped underneath the watery blanket-like tyrant about him, appearing to swallow a hefty mouthful of sickening seawater as he did so. Urgency became emphasized to Will. Time was running out. He needed to get to Briggot.

Having been swept back a bit, Will swam back out to the end of the rope's length and then he stretched forth his hand in a gesture for Briggot to take it in his own. "Briggot!"

But the grizzled sailor did not see, nor did he look for the origin of the voice– if he heard it at all. He simply stroked and struggled to keep his head above the wild waters about him.

"Briggot!" Will cried out in a repetition, his voice masked over by a wild clap of thunder, to his anger and frustration. He gritted his teeth and let a low growl rumble in his throat before shouting again– this time as loud as he could find himself to muster. "Briggot!"

Triumph, however small! The poor mariner found it within himself to crack open an eye and spot Will with his hand extended, rough and splatted with the water of rain and sea spray. His face appeared as if considering whether the sight was an illusion or not and, if it wasn't, whether the choice would be wise or not. It was as if he was judging Will's trustworthiness in itself and the young blacksmith frowned.

Will felt the line jerk in an unnerving and unnatural manner. His heart skipped a beat and he glanced over his shoulder only to glance back and see Briggot take another quick plunge. They were running out of time.

"Briggot!" Will called again in despair. "Briggot– listen to me! I can't swim any farther. I can get you out of here– " at this, Briggot's attention seemed to perk, "but there isn't much time. I can't reach you and they're reeling me in – I need you to swim to me!"

Another moment in which, with a flash of lightning and a roar of thunder, Briggot took a breathless space of time for thought. In truth, it may have only been a split second. But it felt like minutes were ticking by at a rapid and yet dragged out space of time, and as the rope jerked again with more force, Will became rather angry and impatient. What could there be to consider– to think about? Briggot could take his hand and live or pass the opportunity and drown at sea. What other factor's could there possibly be to come into play?

Apparently, Briggot finally came to the same conclusion. The poor man began to swim for the lad's outstretched hand, stroking one arm over the water in movements surprisingly powerful for a man his age. Fifteen feet became ten feet. And then ten feet five. Excitement coursed through every nerve in the young blacksmith's body and the shine of fear that illuminated Briggot's eyes transformed into a glimmer of hope.

Hand over hand he stroked and the distance swiftly closed. Four feet. Three. Two. One. Lightning flashed and the world slowed about Will as he caught his breath. Briggot's old and grizzled hand shot up out of the water, drizzles of the liquid dripping off of his sodden sleeve, as his hand cut its path through the air and his fingertips made a brushing contact with Will's palm.

Will was jerked back, suddenly and violently; and both men felt ice run into their hearts as Briggot's hand crashed into the water and he began to flounder, frightened and helpless. Their eyes were wide with shock and surprise, and they could only lock gazes as distance was cruelly placed between them.

Will could have cried out rage and frustration. He almost had him! Blast it! The man's hand had touched his! And now he was being pulled away from him, against his will, leaving Briggot to abandonment and certain death. How could this happen!

The man dipped under the water again and Will's heart began to pound with a renewed determination, fired by his anger.

"No! Briggot!" he roared over the thunder, rethrusting out his hand as far as he could force it to go. "Keep swimming! You can make it!"

Somehow, the man heard him and he had the strength and courage to heed. His strokes became wide, wild and strong as he burst with a sudden energy to chase after Will's unwillingly retreating form. And Will refused to let him slow.

"Come on! You can do it!" he shouted in bellows of encouragement. "Keep swimming! It's only a little farther! You can make it!"

The man stroked with a vigor that was reassuring for Will and even inspiring. He swam regardless of the fatigue that Will knew was plaguing his old and worn limbs, with a faith that some boy he hardly knew at all would save him from the perilous face that chased him, nipping at his heels. One hand over the other sprayed and splashed as he fought against the mighty waves that rose and fell, sometimes pushing him closer to the blacksmith and other times pulling him farther away. His eyes were clenched shut, his face contorted in pain and concentration as if it took absolute attention just to make the next stroke, taking it one sweep at a time. He breathed raggedly, spitting and sputtering a mouthful of sea water every so often as he did so. At times it seemed that he began to slow and give up, but a relentless shout from Will would reach his ears and his pace would quicken, returning to his previous vivacity.

Suddenly, with a wooden thump Will felt a sudden fire of relief and further determination sweep through him as his back met with the wood of the ship's solid hull. The men hauling him upward paused for a moment and Will took the time to let a slight smirk creep over his countenance as he turned back towards his frantic friend.

"Come on, Briggot! We're here! Just a few more strokes! You can make it!"

Energy unlike any Will had previously seen in the man burst forth as he became empowered by the encouraging news: they were there. The gap between them closed and with a firm slap Briggot's old and wrinkled hand finally made its way back into Will's young and strong one, and they clasped each other tightly as Will felt the rope about his waist begin to raise him up.

He looked Briggot in the eyes. One pair a dark vortex of chocolate that shown with a relentless sinew of fire, hot and wild; the other cloudy grey but a shining light of their own speaking of relief, gratitude and elation. And they smiled, Briggot trembling slightly from the exertion and giving an exhausted laugh as Will gave a crooked smirk.

"Yes," he whispered, in a soft form of praise. "Yes."

Briggot sighed and let his entire body go lax as his body was raised out of the water as well and Will couldn't help but let out a small laugh. But the laugh was interrupted as, to Will's and Briggot's horror, the old man's slack and slippery-wet fingers slipped from between Will's fast clasp and he fell. Will could only gasp and then shout in alarm as he clawed the air in a mad attempt to recapture the poor old man. But he could do nothing and he watched, helplessly, as Briggot collided with the foamy waves too far below to reach– the final look upon his face one of ultimate shock and equal helplessness before he was swallowed up by the sea.

"There 'e is! We got 'im!"

A cheer rang up from the Predator's crew as Stripes pulled the final string of rope between them and the Turner lad. The large man grabbed the sodden man thrown overboard by the collar with a large and beefy hand, hauling him up over the ship's rail and dropping him on the deck like a half-drowned pup. In one swift movement, Stripes produced a knife and had managed to cut Will's lifeline away before grabbing him heavily by the shoulders and standing him up on his own two feet.

The storm had calmed for a moment, the wind and thunder quieting and the waves less wild. There was a round of applause as members of the crew hooted and slapped Will's back, others simply laughed and clapped and a pair of gents linked arms and began to swing each other about in merriment.

Stripes let out a particular loud guffaw slapping Will particularly hard on the shoulder. "'ow 'bout that! The boy's not even a proper sailor an' he managed ta make t'out alive!"

The roots and applause continued on, but why they were glad Will could not figure out for the life of him. He did not join them in cackle and his mirth at the prospect of survival was less than what it could have been. He wasn't of importance to them. They were no friends of his– he had known them only a day, after all. Nor had he done anything heroic. He hadn't saved his life, the rope had– Stripes had. He could have been unconscious and still have made it out alive. It was no feat worth praising. But, most of all, he did not laugh and feel relief at his own success and safety, for his heart was troubled and he could do nothing but watch, listen and frown as an unsettled discomfort churned in his soul.

'You fool,' he hissed inwardly to himself. 'You stupid, insignificant fool. You couldn't even save yourself without the help of another– what made you think you could go off and save Briggot? Thanks to you, the man was given a false hope for life, only to have it crushed in the end as death took him. You stupid, proud, insignificant fool.'

"'ey, Turner!" Will turned to see the red and cheerful face of the young Charlie approaching him, hopeful and childlike. "Where be Briggot?"

Ice traveled swiftly up his spine followed by a flow of fire as Will tensed with the surprise at the suddenness of the question. Then cold sorrow struck him– pity and guilt. He pursed his lips as he cast his eyes downward towards the ship's deck, avoiding all eyes…especially Charlie's.

His silence spoke loudly, however, and soon all laughing, cheering and other forms of momentary merrymaking faded away as the crew turned to face the downcast lad in their midst. A stubborn jaw set, Will said nothing and looked at no one, a distant rumble of thunder rolling from some aloof place amongst the clouds reaching their upturned and suddenly eager ears.

"Boy?" another prodded silently.

The corner of Will's lip twitched disconcertingly before he raised his eyes, bright with a light much different from any of the other illuminations within them that night: a light of sadness, glowing as keen and as cold as the stars in the heavens. There was no reply to be heard, not even a mutter. And the crew who saw him frowned, for they began to comprehend his muteness and began to murmur amongst themselves with words of a shock and melancholy that matched their aspects as the storm renewed its potency.

Will silently cut through their numbers as voices flew through the air– but he wasn't too far gone to miss what was said:

"Captain!"

"What is it, Church!"

"Black Pearl ho, sir!"

"Where away!"

"One point forward on the starboard beam!"

The sea is a remarkable thing in many ways. She can be in a magnificently good mood for one part of the day and then, suddenly and out of the clear blue she once was, she can became deadly with anger or her mischievous idea of fun. From sunshine and birds singing in the trees, to howling winds and the crash of dangerously large waves upon the shore, her changes can be nothing if not drastic. But sometimes she can be both at once.

Being an experienced man of the sea, Norrington knew this well and was not much surprised when, though his side of the ocean was fairly calm and peaceful, his ship just barely missed the interception of a particularly nasty-looking storm, the Trove skimming across its frontal edge. It was one of the moments that he took the time to smile to himself and actually admire it. There were other men with him that were not of such experience, and found the sight something of an awe of sorts. Such a wonder! So powerful and terrible and yet so beautiful in its own way, black against the midnight blue of the nocturne around them. A mass wall of void-like shadow in the night, with no light of star nor moon but of sky fire as the distant rumble of thunder sped across the water. However, admiring would have to be put aside, as business was still first and foremost.

"That storm is a demon if I ever did see one. We must go around it," Gillette noted off-handedly as he passed the spy-glass in use back to the commodore.

Norrington took the glass and took another peek back at the storm. "What do you think we are doing, Lieutenant– sailing into it?" he stated with a tone that was just as relaxed and cool as the lower officer's remark.

The younger officer's cheeks reddened slightly with embarrassment, causing him to look all the more childish with his young, round face. "Well…" he hadn't even begun when he started to fade away, too flustered to continue. Gillette, although a good man deep down– very deep down– was a rather proud and amour-propre youth, and his haughtiness was something that both helped and hurt him, depending on the situation. When his pride was hurt, it became evident and he grew timid…but, as some would say, alas! it would only be for a short while.

Norrington took no notice of the Lieutenant's flustered state as he squint one eye and brought the spy glass back to magnify his view of the storm's wrath. He smirked smugly, decidedly glad that he wasn't caught up in there. Although, the fusillade would delay their journey to Tortuga by a meager amount of time.

"Perhaps," the slightly-unsure voice of Mr. Murtogg emanated from beside Norrington's left elbow, "Perhaps we should turn back around and do as Mister Sparrow said to do– goin' to St. Lucia an' all?"

It was only a suggestion, and this Norrington knew, not saying anything in return but busying himself with the studying of the tempest beyond. Gillette, however, took great pride in his haughtiness and it swiftly returned as he bent a superior eye down upon his subordinate, the ghost of a smirk on the corners of his mouth.

"What, are you stupid! To take the advice from the likes of sea-rat like Jack Sparrow would not only be foolhardy but chancy in a way that we cannot afford. Isn't that right, Commodore?" he questioned, locking his hands behind his back and rolling once on the balls of his feet as he awaited his approving response. None came, except for the unsettled voice of Mr. Murtogg.

"Captain."

The smug grin slowly slid from Gillette's face. "What?"

Mr. Murtogg shuffled his feet and moistened his lips as his eyes darted back and forth, nervously, between Gillette's face and a patch of nothing right behind his left ear. "It's 'Captain,' now, remember? For the sake of disguise."

Gillette rolled his eyes and smothered his expression with a look of annoyance. "Whatever! Commodore, wasn't I right?" This last part he shot over his shoulder, though with a slightly softer tone. His face slid into perplexity when, again, he did not receive an answer.

"Captain," Murtogg timorously corrected, the same dodgy eyeball movement taking him. He didn't have Mr. Mullroy with him at the time to assist him, you see. He was below, insisting on getting a bit of sleep while there was nothing to do.

"Oh, shut up!" Gillette barked, causing Murtogg to jump slightly, before spinning on heel to face the non-responding Norrington, his sandy-blonde hair gleaming in the moonlight. "Commodore!" He opened his mouth to repeat his question, his brow creased into an angry frown to match his pursed lips, when he stopped and a curious look took hold of his countenance.

The commodore, whilst the argument was taking place and looking through the spyglass, had glimpsed a sight that stroke a rarely touched space of curiosity in his mind and took a fairly good hold of his attention. He peeked over the rim of the glass to assure himself of where he was to look to, before squinting an eye and peeking in again. At first, he thought it a shadow, a trick of the distant storm's lightning dancing in the thick clouds and rain into which he looked. But as he followed the strange shape, seeing that it simply refused to disappear, his eyebrows shot up and his lips parted slightly in surprise. Peeking over the rim of the spyglass once again to clear his vision a bit and confirm his sight was how Gillette spotted him, the taken look upon his face, evidently having not vanished.

"Commodore?"

"Yes, Gillette?" his voice was steady and monotonous, despite the look upon his face that, by now, had begun to slip away as Norrington regained his composure. However, Gillette had known the commodore for too long and too well to not be able to catch the small hiccup in his visage, save the chance that he had been looking away– which he had not.

"What is it, sir?" The young commander made his way beside the commodore again, placing soft, white hands onto the smooth, freshly-painted wood of the ship's rail upon which he leaned his weight.

"What is what, Gillette?" Again his voice was smooth and dull as the commodore peeked through the glass before casting a sidelong glance towards the young lieutenant, a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Gillette couldn't help but smirk as well, though he was slightly disquieted. "What is it that you see?"

The commodore collapsed the spyglass with a snap before pocketing it in the old brown merchant's vest he wore. The smirk he once wore disappeared and his face became collected and stern once again as he did so. Despite his costume; once a commodore, always a commodore and currently, to Gillette he very much looked it. His eyes were cast outward towards the storm as he locked his arms behind his back and squared his shoulders in a proud and sturdy stance, cool and calculating with a furrow to his brow as he began to think. His jaw clenched and released just so as he began to softly grind his teeth back and forth before part his lips and hissing to himself, "The wretch."

"Sir?"

Without turning his eye towards the man beside him in so much as a glance, Norrington spoke, his voice collected and directive as the commander he was, "Order all hands on deck, Lieutenant. Heave to, set the top sails and come about. We're going to have to sail into that mess."

What little eyebrows that were visible upon Gillette's smooth brow shot up on a furrow of gobsmacked surprise. His jaw dropped open and closed several times like a fish out of water before he was finally able to get out any words at all, chasing after the commodore.

"Sir! What do you mean!"

Frustration flashed through Norrington, though he pushed it aside with a snap over the shoulder, "I mean that whether we like it or not, Gillette, we are going to be needed and must be there to give assistance!" His feet pounded against the wood below them as he made his way swiftly for the quarterdeck.

Gillette felt a pang of confusion and stopped for a split second before running to follow the leader again. "Be where, sir?"

What he was expecting cannot be determined, but he was quite stunned by the response he received:

"We'll find out."

The young lieutenant stopped again and stood slightly confounded; shocked for only a moment before rediscovering his composure and marching after his commander with a trace of panic to his normally boastful tone. "What do you mean! How do you know that, sir!"

The Commodore's brow furrowed in the sensation of a troubled mood and his pace slowed to a stop. The light breeze ruffled his thick brown hair and sent waves through the loose tails of his worn disguise-jacket. Gillette could not see it, for James' face was turned away, but the commodore's normally stern and collected expression was furrowed into one of seemingly doubtful speculation, his mouth bent in a thoughtful frown.

Those who knew James knew a man who never passed by a moment to think things through thoroughly. He was never one to act rashly, for such things as hastiness was a thing forever impressed upon him as a thing forever to be avoided. Though must come before actions and actions be subject to thought as they occur, lest situations become dangerous, unpredictable, uncontrollable and even deadly– things that he could not afford. Careful reasoning was the rock for success.… So what was his reasoning for this action?

"Just a feeling of sorts, Lieutenant."

He briskly walked away before Gillette could say anything on the matter, his face flushed with embarrassment and a slight boiling of anger. He grinded his teeth angrily. What he had said was something he had never dreamed he would ever have said, being a naval commander of his status. A feeling? A confounded feeling! What was the matter him! 'Feeling's were not acceptable in the British Royal Navy! They lead to nothing but confusion and trouble! They weren't fact-based. They weren't securely hypothesized. They weren't prompted from a solid form of intelligence. Blast it, they weren't even based on genuine reliable knowledge of any kind! They were unfounded and unwarranted 'what if's that had more chances at going wrong than right. Feelings were stabs in the dark with one's teeth and, more often than not, they hurt more than they helped. He knew that from personal experience.

'Blast it, Turner's having an effect on me.…'

The thought was a bit silly, really. One year ago he had been lightly taunting at the lad for jumping into things before he knew what was going on or what he was going to do. 'Rash,' he had called him. 'Too rash.' …Oddly enough it was his rashness and feelings that spurred him to the unlawful actions of the previous year and led him to Elizabeth far before the commodore. It was luck, the commodore was sure of it. Or perhaps it was fate. But, whatever it was, Norrington knew that it was a one-time thing and wasn't foolish enough to believe that just because it worked out for the young blacksmith didn't mean it would work again for anyone around him in his lifetime.

Luckily, the commodore's guess was based upon just a tiny bit more than a little 'feeling,'

and he gripped on the hope that all would be well like a man clinging to rope one hundred feet above a jagged canyon floor as he pointed out the muddled shape of a familiar ghostly black ship to the helmsman with instructions to follow.

"Commodore!" He groaned inwardly, though just managed to keep himself from actually doing said action. Gillette thudded up onto the quarterdeck, short of breath and rather flushed and piqued with curiosity. As he breathed harshly, he smiled widely and let loose a few 'ha's. "You were just– kidding. Right– sir?"

Had Norrington been a lesser man, he would have replied sardonically. But, despite his new garb he was and always would at least be remembered as a commodore of the Royal Service and so he remained cool and unreadable as he locked strong arms behind a rod-straight back and faced his subordinate with a casual eye.

"You heard what I said, Lieutenant. All hands on deck, heave to, set the top sails and come about– we are, in fact, going in."

The amused grin immediately fell from the younger man's face and was replaced with eyes that went as round and wide as a chicken's eggs. "What? B…but–"

"Don't question, Lieutenant. Just do it," came the dry interruption.

"Yes, Commodore, sir." The young officer shut his mouth and turned to do as he was told.

"Oh, and Gillette?" The lad turned around. "It's 'Captain.'"

Moving towards the heart of the storm, the violence hadn't shown any sign of waxing or waning. Its pace its power remained steady and surprisingly unchanging for hours– hours that felt like the longest of years. The rain poured down relentlessly and unforgivingly to the point it seemed unnatural. The clouds didn't pull away but remained dark as midnight and as heavy as a barrel large enough to hold all the drink in Tortuga without giving any up.

The lightning was wild and wicked; stretching sharp, groping fingers of fire across the sky and flashing pillars of heat and radiance to the unsettled surface of churning water with explosions that seemed to shake the earth herself--to tear the skies and rip the clouds in a torrential path through Heaven. The seas were grey and foaming as she picked up and dropped large hills of water with great swirls and splashes. The little ships daring to brave her wrath couldn't– wouldn't– stand a chance. They were toys, her playthings, and she was the one to decide their fate. None of them could resist her awesome power…not even the Black Pearl.

But Captain Jack Sparrow was never one to back down– not from the sea. He stood, resolute and unmoving save for his rocking with the ship's not-so-subtle sway. Now, concerning certain happenings in his past, some claim– and with utmost surety, mind you– that Jack Sparrow was indeed and very thoroughly mad. Those of them who knew him could state otherwise… though, due to his very distinct and unorthodox behavior, they sometimes had very large and very heavy doubts about their thinking such.

Times when Jack acted 'strangely' came and went as they (or Jack) pleased. Sometimes he'd be 'normal' for days at a time, sometimes he'd be 'daft' for days at a time, sometimes the days would alternate and sometimes his 'moods' would alternate throughout a day. But no one could quite predict where it would be and when it would be… not even when he was sober.

Currently, Jack was highly exhilarated– though that was very easy to tell. The part that wasn't quite so easy to tell was what kind of exhilaration he felt, for there are many different kinds. Was he determined in seriousness? Was he excited and relatively carefree? None could quite tell. For though he grit his teeth as he strove mightily with the ocean, a glint of not quite readable fervor shone in his eyes, a vigorous crease of concentration was cut into his brow, and his jaw was squared in exertion; his lips, every so often, would curve into a smile that only a man on the wings of true freedom of the heart could know. And he'd laugh into the howl of the wind and the roar of the thunder with his eyes twinkling, though never losing their grim focus of his goal– whatever it was.

A sky-breaking CRACK! broke the clouds as an angry digit of white fire barely missed the Pearl's mainmast. The sea howled in fury and the wind raged in wild anger. Some men shrunk, either inwardly, outwardly or both. But Jack's grin, glinting of silver and gold, only broadened as his sturdy arms held fast to his ship's helm.

The Pearl rocked to and from, tossing and battering the poor sailors aboard her with apologetic bumps and jumps that were not of her control. Her ebony sails had been swiftly and soundly reefed and she was holding out fairly well against the storm… but even ships have their limits. And despite the mad smile that spread widely across Jack's face, the daft captain was very much concerned. With each wave that she rode and fought the pirate could feel the groan of his beloved tremor through her bowels to her extremities. Her keel, her hull, her deck, the beautiful helm in his hands which was hers, all shuddered and moaned as any living woman might from too much strain and agony and not enough rest. At those times, he would groan with her, for regardless of the fact that he was a man and she a ship– he of flesh and blood and she of wood and canvas– in heart, they were one. He felt her pain and she his … just like Will and Elizabeth.

Down one swell, up another; the wind pressing naughty zyphers against the ship's breast; the thunder screaming in attempts to shatter her; the Black Pearl heaved and strove and worked for her venture.

'Ohhhh…' she groaned lowly and deeply for her pain and exhaustion was great and her trial difficult beyond anything she had previously known from storms.

"I know, Darlin'" Jack muttered through clenched teeth in reply, the hurt not incomprehensible to him. "Just keep goin'. You can do it– I know you can." He did. He knew everything about her and he had the purest of faith in her. She was strong.

Her groaning fell slightly more silent more silent and happened less frequently. Jack could comfort her. He knew her. But regardless of that, her groans would still rattle out every now and then– for even he could not make her pain completely go away.

Flash!

BOOM!

Hours ticked by mercilessly. The sun rose and began to set, though it was not evident. The darkness was as thick as the clouds about them and the light of day never touched nor changed the obscurity of the night. The storm sang its deadly song and roared on. The wind positively screamed, the thunder blasted and the lightning exploded in bursts bright enough to blind. The sea was insane with movement wild and fierce, tossing the ship about in her grasps the way children toss a little ball back and forth amongst themselves. The rain came down in tremendous sheets of icy needles. And for all her work, the sea was beating all remaining strength from the Black Pearl and her crew. Even Jack was beginning to grow weak, his arms throbbing and his body aching maliciously.

"Jack!" a female voice called through a short space of air; though it sounded as if it were a great distance as the woman's voice was carried off by devilish arms of the squall's gust. The pirate took his eyes from the wild mass before him and frowned at Anamaria as she made her way towards him on the quarterdeck. Her face was grim and her hair wild, but her eyes held a certain calm and collect as the eye of hurricane is despite the disaster that surrounds it in tumultuous swirling turmoil. She opened her mouth and shouted:

"Captain! We have ta turn 'er around!"

Jack pursed lips in a scowl before turning his eyes away, back to the endless waves beyond. A large wave slapped the ship's starboard side and added to the captain's already dripping coat. He spat water from his mouth without moving his eyes, salty sea water drizzling in a steady fall from the corners of his leather tricorn. "No!" was his reply.

Anamaria pursed her own lips to a snarl before pouncing onto the deck and slinking beside her captain with the grace of a wildcat despite the ship's jerks and drops. "The wind is too strong, Captain! She can't take much more of this!"

"An' who're you to tell me 'bout my own ship!" Jack barked back angrily in a shout above the din.

Anamaria fell silent for a moment and frowned with flushing shame and hurt. Jack had never really spoken to her in such a way before. He was always kind despite her harsh way of treatment towards him. It was true that no one knew the Pearl better than Jack, but she couldn't help but argue with him. To go would seem mad. The Black Pearl may have been strong, but she wasn't indestructible.

Jack continued without so much as a glance in her directing as he pulled out his compass and shifted his gaze from it to the waves ahead multiple times, a grin squirming into his lips as he spoke again, "She can hold a bit longer, Ana. We're treadin' on their heels, we're that close! Go check on the lass now, love!" And he paid her no further attention, as if she'd already left his sight. She was dismissed.

She stood there for a moment with a glare meant to severely injure the one who received it. She despised being treated like some landlubber of a woman who was expected to do everything she was told obediently and kiss the feet of her lord. She wasn't like that. He of all people ought to have known.

But in all respects, Jack Sparrow was always one to surprise her and– to her astonishment– he did so now by turning to her with a soft gaze. "Listen, Ana," he leaned close to her ear so he could speak in a softer tone, "I promise we'll turn away if the storm doesn't begin to let up in the next hour. I won't let anythin' 'appen to the crew– you know tha'. But s'for the lass– she needs 'er lad. She loves 'im. An' she's my friend, as is 'e. I don' 'ave many friend like them, Ana. I need to take care o' them."

She stood still yet again, her own gaze softening a bit as she came to understand things. She frowned but not sadly so. It was a frownof softness and the sobriety of comprehension that had taken hold of her, and she felt her anger recess.

Ever since the death of Bootstrap and the incident with Barbossa, Jack hadn't had many true friends. He couldn't. It was too hard, for he didn't feel he could trust anyone again. Nor did he feel he could bear the loss of another loved one. Ana had not been overly fond of Will Turner when she first met him. He mostly isolated himself, refusing to mingle with others of the crew and a constant frown of some sort was pressed upon his brow. Sometimes it was worry. Other times it was anger. And yet other times he seemed depressed or stressed with sadness. He was a strange sort. But after the adventure of the previous year, Ana had noticed a certain change in Jack, even though she had only known him for a year or so by then. He seemed to have found many things that were lost. Parts of his life, parts of himself. He held a certain air of contentment and happiness where he had been a bit empty before. He had his ship back and little bit of himself came back with her, yes. But there was something else about him and she noticed whenever they recalled the names of Elizabeth Swann or especially Will Turner. His eyes would change from burning with the fire that was Jack's zest for life and melt into a steady but pulsing ardor of admiration and even love. And then he'd cast his eyes upon his crew with the same softness in his eyes and smile a smile that was far less open and wild. Because he understood: he had friends again. People he could hold close to his heart. And the thought made him glow.

Barbossa had been cursed by a ban from consumption , pleasure and real life and Jack had escaped it, yes. But in some ways that curse came hand-in-hand with a curse that took hold of Jack. His heart hardened and for the longest time he was empty. For too long he'd beenwith no one to talk to. For too long he'dmasking himself from the rest of the world. For too long his thoughts had been his only companion and trust his forsaken friend. For far, far too long… Jack had been lonely. But not anymore.

"Go take check on 'er, Ana," Jack's voice broke through her reverie, as gently as it could be in the noise among them. "An' tell the men to prepare for battle– jus' a couple o' swells an' we'll be on that bloody Abyss, whether she likes it or not!"

She nodded grimly, hiding her shock. She thought it would take several more hours to catch up with the accursed ship before them. But Jack had his compass and the compass didn't lie. Neither would he. So she stumbled here way down from the quarterdeck and towards the companionway that lead to the Turner girl's cabin.

Ana smirked slightly as she did so. Jack had locked the girl in her cabin as a safety precaution– sailors with years of experience could easily be tossed overboard in a storm of the likes of this one. The girl, one more accustomed to the sturdy steadiness of land than the churning pitch of the sea wouldn't have stood a chance. But she protested. Oh, did she protest! She had been angry as a raging fever cursing Jack and attempting to fight off her 'captors' (Gibbs earning a haft bruise to the temple from that one). She was frightfully angry, for apparently it wasn't the first time Jack had done this to her.

Hopefully she'd behave this time, for as any turned her eyes towards the seas before, she was surprised to see in a flash of lightning the silhouette of a ghostly black galleon framed against the sky and Ana knew that they were in for some trouble. Big trouble.

Will had been angry, though with the current situation he was forced to keep it hidden and push aside for the moment. Foulkes had paid little heed to the news of Briggot's death and what trivial heed he did pay was rather curt and uncaring. His crew took it as a blow, considering it the equivalent to losing a brother in the midst of battle. But Foulkes had brushed it and Will aside with a carefree attitude, saying that it was a terrible shame but that they had more important matters at hand.

'You remember what you must do, don't you Turner?' he had hissed with a cold glare towards Will, who had said nothing in reply. 'Aye, you remember, an' you don' fool me. You can't avoid it, Will. It must be done.'

A great suspicion had arisen in Will during his first meeting with Foulkes. His stories were so wild and unlikely that Will was very inclined to believe he was lying.… But what if he wasn't? Outrageous as his tales were, what if they really were true? Could will risk it? He didn't know. But he doubted, for whenever he demanded more logical reasoning and purpose he was denied it. What was Foulkes trying to hide?

These were the things that were traveling wildly through Will's rampant mind as he sat, perched on the ship's prow, beside the bowsprit, holding firmly to the ship with one hand, and clutching the hilt of a sword in the other. He was armed, as were the men, and the Governor had been locked away in the safety (of a kind) of the captain's quarters. They were going to fight.

At first Will had had trouble spotting the Pearl. But after a few minutes of scanning the waving mass of water before him, he was able to spot her. Riding down one swell and then up another, the black galleon would disappear and reappear as they alternated between the waves' troughs and crests. She was distant, only just maintaining the shape of a ship she was so far and blurred by the rain, mist and darkness about them.

Time passed by unnoticed to Will. Whether hours or minutes or even days had gone by he stopped a given time to think about. It was so dark that he could not tell in the first place. But he also paid little heed to anything but the ship before them.

His stomach churned uncomfortably from nerves far more than sickness and he clutched his sword tighter when the Pearl disappeared from sight and even more uneasiness took hold of him when, several minutes later, rumbles distinctly different from thunder reached his ears: cannon fire. Would the Black Pearl open fire on them?

Though the wind died away, the rain slowed to a patter before stopping altogether and the clouds began to part overhead, revealing a sun just barely peeking over the horizon of another evening; the waves had grown to become ridiculously enormous. Like bluffs and mountains forming and dropping flat. They were so large, in fact, that the topsail schooner seemed a petty row boat in the midst of the deep water. For the Predator could be picked up from underneath by a wave and then ride down the water with a wicked rush– like a run-away cart with no donkey dashing down the side of a steep hill.

Ba-boom. Boom.…

Cannons roared in the distance, the sound so low that it seemed to strike Will at the heart and cause his chest to vibrate from the inside out until they took a short interval of silence. As the ship was brought to the crest of a swell, Will spotted smoke rising above another wave in the distance and he frowned. Who would the Pearl be fighting with? It wasn't Norrington, was it? No, he couldn't have come so soon.

Ba-da-da-BOOM!

Several went off in a chain of shots, their shots ringing behind them in an echo speeding out over the ocean. It was louder this time. They were closer. Will shifted his position to more of a crouch as he thought of this– they may have had the need to fight.

The waves began to calm more, and the ocean began to even out…but not before taking the Predator up one more large swell, giving Will one of the shocks of his life. His jaw fell open and his lips parted in surprise as he saw not one but two Black Pearls, and both their cannons were bursting forth in furious retaliation– at each other.

Author's Notes: Oh! Oh no! More cliffhanging! Sorry, but guess what! The next chapter should be some fun. Fight scenes- er- chapters (I've been on the stage too long!) are way stressful, I hope to make it good.Heh, heh.

This has taken a lot longer to write than I expected becausemy school isdoing a production of"The Scarlet Pimpernel" and I've had to be at practices in the pit that go from right after school to five o'clock (last night it went on to 11 pm)and today I had to choreograph the fencing scene betweenChauvelin and Percy so I ended up staying there for a total of... six and a half hours. Whoo! So there's my excuse. Sorry about that guys- theater people can be very busy...

CrAzY Pigwidgeon- Okay, if last updated held the blade of the guillotine, hopefully this one will do so as well. Man, you a such a great reviewer! Never miss a chapter!

Eledhwen- Gah! (Slaps forehead.) Man, do I feel stupid! I loved the story of Túrin! ... I need to read that... again. Your comments have been wonderful and I'd love it if you continue to contribute. I very much like your work as well.

Nuriel- Yay! A newcomer! I'm glad you think I did Jack well... I thought that I just barely missed the mark, but... whatever! Hope you like what's to come for him and all the characters. Glad you like the cliffhangers... Yeah. And don't be afraid to write. If you feel your story isn't up to snuff then let it sit for while before coming back to it- that usually helps. And practice really does make perfect. AND yes, "Finding Neverland" was fantastic. Glad we agree on that.

Rainyaviel- Yay! Another newcomer! Welcome, welcome, a thousand times: Welcome! And thank you for reviewing! I wish people would do so more often. I'm glad you like my story and hope that this chapter was to your liking and that its cliffhanger also drove you crazy... to a reasonable point. '

Williz- You made me smile again! Luv, if you liked Will getting in the rigging to save Briggot, wait till you see what I've got coming up! ... Whoo, this is going to be fun! Hope that me killing off Briggot doesn't make you angry... I don't know how much people like him, so...

This next chapter is all laid out. I hope that you like it and that this one was monotonous- it was kind of filler and the next ones will kind of be filler too. They're kind of like the scenes with Elizabeth and Barbossa on the Pearl in "Curse of the Black Pearl" or Will talking with Mr. Gibbs on the Interceptor. You learn a lot so the story makes sense before it picks up. But it shouldn't get real slow- next scene- argh! chapter- is an action chapter. The last for a while, in fact. So... yeah.

I've got swords, fencing and all this theater slang running through my head incessantly, so I'm closing this now. Okay? Review! See ya!

Jack E.

OH! P.S!

If you see any mistakes don't be afraid to tell me! I hate typos and have this dire need to fix them so let me know so its possible! (Kindly, mind you. Wink, wink.) Thanks guys, you're great!

Jack E.