This is the beginning of an epic; fourth part.

Still own nothing.

Very little romance in this chapter. And by very little, I mean almost none.

Sorry, loves.

He pushed through the leaves behind her, ducking the larger, twisting branches. The path was quite overgrown. But it didn't surprise him. Tia wasn't exactly the tidy sort of woman. Mosquitos were buzzing incessantly in his ears; he swatted at them, though they came right back. He could feel bugs crawling over the bare, damp skin of his chest. He could hear the strange, jarring calls of exotic birds as they fluttered overhead in an explosion of jewel-bright feathers. He could taste the salt and mud of the far-off river heavy in the thick air. This was a place he knew; this was a place he recognized. This was the first island in a long time he'd been happy to wash up on.

The dark shape of Tia's multi-tiered river house was soon looming over them, surrounded by the murky, scum-covered swampy water Jack had waded through so many times before.

He glanced quickly at Elizabeth, bending stiffly at the waist and making a sweeping gesture towards the ladder with his arm.

"M'lady," he slurred, winking wryly. He could play the gentleman. Occasionally.

Elizabeth felt a smile creep across her face as Jack bent into a mocking bow and offered her first rights to climb the rotting, moss-covered ladder. She mounted it quickly, dreading the snapping noises she heard. But the ladder, thankfully, remained intact. His boots thudded heavily on the warped wooden boards as he joined Elizabeth on the outer deck. If it could be called a deck. Really, it was an extention of the floorboards inside, enough for a few people to stand on.

She didn't knock. Planting her foot on the hand-carved, oaken door and her hands on either side of the doorframe, she pushed in. Hard. And it yielded the reactions she'd hoped: every head in the room snapped towards her. Every depressed, defeated gaze.

"I found something washed up on the beach," she said, matter-of-factly. That small smile remained fixed on her face as she stepped aside, tucking herself against the wall. And there he was, framed by moonlight, planted firmly in the carved out doorway. He looked a mess; he was soaked to the bone, hatless, and the thick black kohl around his eyes was smudged and running terribly. But he seemed so majestic, so valiant. She felt a shiver shoot down her spine.

The uproar was deafening. Table and chairs were overturned in his crew's scramble to embrace him. Their Captain. She felt the morose mood that had been choking the room lift. Gone, like fog in the sunlight. Sheer shock was an understatement.

There were only five of them left. Five of his crew. Not counting Elizabeth, of course. Or William. Jack counted five. Five. Gibbs. He smiled. Pintel and Ragetti. He fell into a seat, pulling a tankard of rum towards his chest. Cotton and Marty. He cast his eyes in a circle; the crowd of faces were turned towards him, so expectant. And who was he to let them down?

"I suppose you want to know all about Captain Jack Sparrow's heroic defeat of the horrible beastie what took down the Pearl?" Cheers enveloped him, raucous with delight. Pushed him onwards. "But first, rum." He took a long drink from the mug, wiping the once-white sleeve of his hopelessly stained shirt across his mouth. The warm, spiced drink filled his throat; the fumes filled his nostrils. Bloody delicious. Chairs screeched and thudded across the floor as his men pulled themselves around him. Around the table. Around the drinks.

"There I was," he began dramatically, his eyes widened for effect. "Alone on the deck of the Pearl, staring the beastie in the face." He gulped down some rum. "Since I was," he paused. "Magnanimous enough to elect to stay behind," he cast a quick glance at Elizabeth, smirking only slightly. She was the only one who knew. She and he.

And he wanted to know her. Badly. The flickering lamp-light made her eyes sparkle. Beautiful. He swallowed and forced himself to continue.

"It was all up to me." Another swig of rum. "And I knew what I had to do. See I let him swallow me. Whole. And I was in the belly of the beastie. There were all manor of things down there. Met a man named Fredrick. Very fond of rocks. Quite a boring fellow, really. Shot him after the third day. And I waited. Waited until he got hungry again. Knew he was attacking a boat when he started rocking something aweful. Then I got what I'd been waiting for: he swallowed a long ladder. Rope. Clearly something what previously led to a crow's nest." Another swallow of rum. "So I tied it to a rock. There were hundreds. Fredrick, you know. Roped it around his...you know that thing in your throat?" He opened his mouth wide to demonstrate. "And pulled myself up. So there I was, halfway up the ladder, when I saw it. His thump thump. I swung back and forth until I was close enough. And I sliced it in half. I climbed out of his mouth just as he started to sink." He paused for dramatic effect. "To Davy Jones' Locker." He let his mouth curl upwards in a smug grin and crossed his arms over his chest, silent.

They would never know what had really happened. He certainly wouldn't tell them. They would never know that he had fallen into the water, flailing about so much that his sword had been thrust into the Kraken's chest. Into it's heart. It had been pure luck. But then again, his entire life seemed to be pure luck, to be honest. They would never know. They didn't need to.

Elizabeth kept her lips sealed on the edge of her empty tankard as Jack began the tale of triumph. They were watching him eagerly, hanging on to each and every word.

She listened to his story that was, in all likelihood, being woven as he spoke. Her gasp was heard in the chorus. Her breath was held with the crew. And when he mentioned his electing to stay behind she nearly choked. She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to silence herself before anyone could notice. Her eyes met his. They were shining, reminding her. Reminding her that he didn't hate her. That she shouldn't keep hating herself for what she'd done. She swallowed hard.

Before she knew it, he was finished. She was slouched against her high-backed wooden chair at this point. She could feel the oppresive heat of the night pressing down on her; her shoulders slumped forwards slightly, eyelids half-closed. She hadn't noticed until now, in all the excitement of Captain Jack's triumphant return, but she was exhausted.

The noise rose slightly as the chatter began, seven men fighting to be heard over each other. But one look at the crew told her: they were clearly as tired as Elizabeth, run ragged with worry and excitement.

Where were they going to sleep? They had no ship. Nowhere to stay. She pushed her chair back and stood.

"Well, Captain," she spoke softly, taking the few steps towards Jack. She touched his arm lightly, feeling the nerves in her fingers as if they were electrified. "What do you suggest we do now?"

To her surprise, the chatter stopped.

"Aye," Gibbs chimed in, his face slightly red from the alcohol. "The crew is tired, Captain." A chorus of agreement quickly followed. "We figure it's only a matter of convincing her to let us stay."

Then it hit him. Jack hadn't seen her. Tia Dalma. And that meant one thing. She was upstairs.

Concocting something vile.