She wished her heart would just stop. Every time the damn thing beat, another wave of pain enveloped her, drowned her, destroyed her all over again. Even the bottle of rum in her hand couldn't numb it, no matter how much of the stuff she poured into her stomach. She stared bleakly out over the marsh. Still the candles burned in the darkness. Still they mourned. In the house behind her, the crew were all dealing with Jack's death in their own strange, pirate ways. She had purposefully isolated herself, out here on the small alcove. Flickering candlelight spilled out of the open doorway, along with conversations she didn't care enough to listen to.

She glanced over her shoulder. Barbossa's loud, slurred voice drifted out to her. She suppressed a shudder and lifted the bottle to her mouth again. As the warm, sharp liquid slithered down her throat, her thoughts turned to the former captain of the Black Pearl. Hatred stirred deep within her, like a sleeping dragon curled in her belly. The memories of her confinement with the undead crew flickered angrily at the edges of her mind. She could still feel the rough edge of the blade against her hand as he spilled her blood over the gold Aztec coins.

But there was more to it. Her fury had another strange level of depth to it, one she steadfastly refused to look full in the face. –Why not? You might as well just admit it now,–a wry voice in her head sighed. It had a point. As hard as she'd tried to dance around it, she didn't really have much of a choice any more. She'd quite effectively destroyed her own engagement, what with kissing Jack and all. Even if she hadn't told Will yet, even if she hadn't even dared whisper it outside the confines of her heart, it was now apparent: she was in love with Captain Jack Sparrow. She'd thrown away her whole life for her pirate captain. He was the one who had captured her heart. Who had given her nothing and yet everything. Who was now…

Dead. Damn. Should've thought that one through.

Her head was starting to ache. She gazed aimlessly at the bottle in her hand. The rum was probably the root of the headache. –Ah, well.– She took another swig of that oh-so-lovely drink. She was beginning to understand why Jack had thrown such a fit when she'd burned it, that day on the island. A chuckle escaped her lips. She could still see him, waving his hands around furiously, demanding to know why the rum was gone. It was moments like that when she fell in love with him all over again. He was unpredictable, wild, completely insane.

A loud shout pierced the drunken fog she'd finally fallen into. It was Will. He was angry, and hurt; she knew his voice well enough to read his emotions through it. She winced. She'd never wanted to hurt him. If she could have, she would have willed away all his love for her, would have made him forget her and leave her to steep in her own pain. –You should have left him long ago. You've always been in love with Jack, ever since that day you were marooned,–the wry voice pointed out. She scowled at it. True. But he was so safe, so comfortable. It was easy to be with him, because she knew she always had his love. She could do no wrong in his eyes. She'd never had to fight for his love; he'd given it freely and eagerly. There was a security in his smile she'd never been able to find in Jack's. He'd go to the ends of the earth to make her happy…in fact, if Tía Dalma was right, that was exactly what he was going to do. What kind of man would sail to Death and back, just to save the man his fiancé loved more than him?

More rum. Yes. That was what was needed. She drained the bottle, glaring at it miserably. Now not only did her life suck, but the rum was gone, too. Lovely. Boots clunked on the floor behind her. She didn't bother to turn around. It was either Will, trying once again to comfort her through his own pain, or Barbossa, probably to laugh at her. She had no interest in seeing either.

"Now what're you doing out here alone, Miss Swann?" Barbossa. Damn.

"Being alone. Can you just leave me that way?" she snapped.

He laughed, and she suddenly became aware of muffled yells that were all too familiar. Frowning, she turned. Through the open door she could see Will, pinned under Gibbs's knees and gagged. His dark eyes flashed angrily as he struggled with every ounce of strength he possessed. –It's official. This entire crew is nuts,–the wry voice said, sounding rather resolved to the fact.

"Care to explain what's going on, Captain?" she snarled at Barbossa.

"To retrieve that which is lost, something must be given in return," he said mysteriously.

She scowled at him. She wasn't in the mood to decipher his words. "I don't understand."

"It's only fair, Miss Swann. You were, after all, the one who sent him there. You should be the one to bring him back," he continued, making as much sense as ever.

"Who? Jack?" She eyed him warily. His grimy yellow grin was eerily hungry. It scared her. "What do I have to do?"

"Die."

Too late, she saw the sword in his hand. She barely had time to gasp, much less scream. She felt her skin split, felt the cold metal bury itself deep in her body. Oddly enough, there was no pain. Or perhaps there was so much, her mind just shut itself down. Either way, she was grateful.

She wished her heart would just stop. Every time the damn thing beat, another wave of blood pushed itself out of her body, betraying its maker and fleeing out to the freedom of the wooden boards she lay on. Even the bottle of rum in her hand couldn't numb it, no matter how much of the stuff she'd poured into her stomach. She stared bleakly up into the cloudy sky. Still the candles burned in the darkness. Still they mourned.