Disclaimer: Mine! All mine! In place of the Dark Lord you will have a Dark Queen!
Disclaimer of Disclaimer: Yeah. I ripped that line, too. I own nothing and no one. Except Nichole (don't mess with her), the nameless bartender, and that one nasty guy.
Author's Note: Thank you to all who have read and reviewed. Special thanks this time around to Sarah, Shadow, Damaia, and Becky.
XVI.
Blind
Do you remember the paths where we met?
Long, long ago, long, long ago.
Ah, yes, you told me you'd never forget,
Long, long ago, long ago.
But, by long absence your truth has been tried,
Still to your accents I listen with pride,
Blessed as I was when I sat by your side.
Long, long ago, long ago.
--"Long, Long Ago"
Elizabeth barely hears the shouts and curses that fly her way as she pushes blindly through the crowded, filthy cobblestone streets of Tortuga. Thoughts of her own safety have fled far from her mind, and she only wants to get away, as far away as possible from Jack Sparrow...away from his brutal unconcern, away from that knowing gold-capped smile, and above all away from the storm of conflicting emotions his words have called up in her aching head.
But Tortuga is, after all, an island, and she cannot escape her thoughts.
Oh, Will...
How will she ever face him, now?
Jack is right about one thing. Will would never suspect her of faithlessness. But she will know, she will remember, and it will haunt her, this sin compounded with dishonesty. She momentarily pictures telling him, and shies away from the image of his stunned face, his brown eyes clouded with hurt and disbelief.
No. She cannot tell him.
She finds herself suddenly thinking of their wedding night, and her throat contracts with something very like grief.
She had been so happy. Triumphant, giddy with the thrill of what felt like getting away with something risky and forbidden, hardly daring to believe that it was true. She had loved him ever since she'd knelt beside him on a fogbound ship and whispered "You're a pirate..." And now she had him, for the rest of her life; he was hers in the eyes of God and the law, and under her father's blessing.
She'd leaned out the window of their new home to drink in the night, the stars, the moonlight on the ocean; when she heard the door open behind her she turned to him with a heart so full she'd been afraid that it might burst if she spoke just then.
"What is it, darling?" His wide eyes betrayed his uncertainty, despite the joy that vibrated in his soft voice.
"Am I dreaming?"
He laughed, and she wished he'd come to her, but he remained standing where he was, shifting his weight, looking terribly young and shy. "I hope not," he said. "Though I must admit I was thinking of asking you the same question."
"Well, if this is a dream, then I refuse to wake up..."
He stepped forward hesitantly; she met him halfway, taking his hands in hers, reassuring herself that he was real enough. They'd stared at each other for a long minute. And she'd thought: This is my place. This is where I belong.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, before he kissed her.
Their first time had been tender, both of them a little awkward in their inexperience, but in the pleasure of discovering one another it had hardly mattered. Afterwards, he held her as they lay close, gaze locked with hers, stroking her hair away from her face with infinite gentleness.
"Will?"
"Yes...my wife."
The way he said the word sent a delighted shiver through her. "Our life. How will it be? What will we do? Tell me..."
He kissed the top of her head. "We'll do whatever we want, my love. We'll sail the world, if you wish. And we'll share everything."
"Everything?"
He pulled her nearer to him, smiling. Any hint of doubt had vanished from his face, replaced by the light of love and contentment. "Everything..."
Not anymore, she thinks.
We both have our secrets now, our other lives.
Except, up until the last few days, her only secret had been her dream-life. Will must have been cultivating his other identity for some time now, she supposes, to have whole armies of Spaniards chasing after him.
Her mind slides back to that first night together. How safe Will had made her feel, how he cherished her. Even now he looks at her with that same adoring light in his eyes, as if she is the most lovely thing he's ever seen; after three years, he still worships her. Even now, though he comes home so rarely, she still feels that same wholeness, that security, in the sanctuary of his embrace.
And Jack Sparrow...
Jack makes her feel many things. Cherished and safe are not among them.
He is dangerous, unpredictable, untrustworthy. He seems to find entertainment in infuriating her and unnerving her, and does both with disturbing ease. His presence keeps her constantly off-balance, unsettled by a volatile sensitivity that charges her skin whenever he turns her way, like the rush of adrenaline or alcohol. And in his arms last night she became reckless and wanton; he'd destroyed her carefully-maintained poise, efficiently stripped her of all restraint and reason until she found herself begging him to make that unbridled ecstasy last forever.
Will has never done that to her. Never made her lose control. He's never made her heart pound so unevenly, made her blood burn like that. And she hates Jack for knowing it, for seeing through her so effortlessly.
For being right. Again.
She takes a corner too fast and slams right into a greasy, rat-faced man headed up from the waterfront.
He snarls at her. "Watch yer step, boy--"
"Watch your own," she snaps back, turning away. And immediately regrets her quick tongue when a dirty, sinewy arm wraps itself around her neck. She feels the cold edge of steel at her throat, gagging as her assailant's fetid breath washes across her cheek.
"Pretty little lads such's yerself oughtn't to talk so big, I reckon."
She struggles, then goes immediately still when the knife digs painfully into her skin. The warm tickling sensation running down to her collarbone warns her that the weapon has cut deep enough to draw blood.
"None o' that, now." He jerks her around. "Yer comin' with me...nice an' quiet, if ye please...no yellin'."
"In broad daylight?" she hisses. "You think no one will see you?"
"Believe me, laddie," the man sneers. "Folks look to their own affairs 'ere, an' keep out o' business that ain't theirs. Ain't no 'un gonna notice or care if I slit ye ear to ear an' leave ye layin' in the mud."
"I'm afraid that's not entirely true," says a familiar female voice.
Elizabeth's captor freezes in the act of shoving her roughly back up the street, cursing viciously under his breath.
"Let the boy go," Nichole D'Bouvoire continues, in coolly conversational terms. "Because I can assure you, Georgie, that no one will trouble themselves to stop me if I elect to put a pellet of lead or two into your twisted little brain."
Elizabeth, released abruptly, stumbles forward, her hand going to the shallow cut on her throat. Nichole grabs her arm, steadying her. "You all right?"
"I think so." There isn't too much blood on her fingers when she looks down. "Thank you."
"You're a damn fool, Leslie Swann," Nichole says sharply."Young lads are no safer on these streets than young ladies." She retucks her pistol into her belt, following Georgie's rapid retreat with narrowed eyes. "If you must wander about alone, always be on your guard. There are far too many here willing to prey on the weak and stupid, and they rarely discriminate."
Elizabeth flushes. "I...I guess I wasn't thinking that I'd be in any danger at high noon, Miss D'Bouvoire."
"More like you weren't thinking at all," Nichole suggests. "And it's Captain D'Bouvoire, if you please," she adds, silkily.
"I had other things on my mind," Elizabeth protests. Then, stung by the woman's condescending tone, and irritated by the way her request brings Jack Sparrow unavoidably to mind, she demands, "Why did you help me?"
Nichole's expression becomes grim. "Even the foolish do not deserve to suffer the fate which he intended for you," she says. "And I suspect Captain Sparrow would have had my hide if he found out I'd stood by and watched you get yourself in that kind of trouble..."
Elizabeth realizes she must have let something show in her face at the sound of his name, because Captain D'Bouvoire stops short, peering intently at her.
"Just out of curiosity, where is Jack, anyway?"
"I haven't the faintest idea." Elizabeth shrugs, adopting as much unconcern as she can muster. "I left him back at the Faithful Bride."
"Interesting," Nichole murmurs. "Well, in that case, you may as well come along with me, and I'll find something with which to doctor up that cut."
"No, no," Elizabeth says hurriedly. "I'll be all right."
"After being cut by that man's blade?" The woman gives her a disgusted look. "That'll nearly guarantee you a nice case of blood poisoning. Let's go," she says imperiously, giving Elizabeth a little push toward the harbor. "I have the proper supplies in my ship, and it's just a short way down to the docks."
"You found another ship, then?" Relieved that Nichole has seen fit to drop the subject of Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth allows the female Captain to steer her toward the waterfront.
"It's not much," Nichole says shortly. "But it will suit my purposes."
"Your purposes--?"
"None of your business, Leslie." But from the way Captain D'Bouvoire's face hardens as she regards the sleek corsaire riding at the pier, Elizabeth can guess at her mission.
"You're going after him, aren't you," Elizabeth says. "The Spanish Captain who sank your last ship." She knows by the startled glance Nichole gives her that she is right. "You're going after Morena."
Nichole's smile is cold and brilliant. "Let us go sit in my cabin, shall we?"
Nichole D'Bouvoire has furnished her new quarters on the Gyrfalcon as simply and cheaply as possible. A small linen-sheeted cot stands against one wall, across from a table bearing neatly arranged navigational instruments and rolled-up maps. The only other items in the room are two roughly hewn wooden stools, a carved antique chest in the corner, and a well-used wardrobe that possesses Nichole's only concession to feminine sensibilities in the form of two mirrored doors.
She likes the Spartan feel of it, and tries to avoid remembering the valuables--and the memories--that went down with her Seahawk, forever lost.
She pours herself some rum, and offers the bottle courteously to Sparrow's girl, who shakes her head at it, grimacing; Nichole recorks the flask with a shrug, and straddles a stool, watching her guest set to the task of cleansing the laceration on her neck. The girl's hands only tremble a little, but Nichole notes the bruise-like circles under her eyes, and how her little frown as she faces her own reflection doesn't seem to originate from the physical pain of that cut. She would be quite pretty, Nichole reflects, if a few more pounds were added to fill out the slight figure and the fragile angles of her cheekbones. With her breasts bound as they surely are, her curves are hardly detectable.
"Tell me something," Nichole says. She meets and holds the girl's gaze in the mirror. "What is is your real name, Leslie Swann?"
'Leslie' glances back at her quickly, obviously caught off-guard by the directness of the inquiry. She hesitates, and Nichole waits patiently, sipping her drink.
"Elizabeth," the girl says finally. "My name is Elizabeth Turner...nee Swann."
"Ah," Nichole says. She waits again, and when no more information seems to be forthcoming, adds, "And Jack Sparrow...? Where does he fit in?"
Elizabeth Turner, nee Swann, looks away, busying herself in the process of applying plaster to the angry pink line that now mars her fair skin.
"Ah." Nichole observes the girl's nervous fingers with interest, noticing the lack of callouses, dirt, or redness.
This one's never worked for her living; if that wasn't already apparent in her cultured accent and untanned face, it is made clear by the delicate movements of those unblemished white hands.
"So, Elizabeth Turner," she says softly. "What is it you're running from?" The girl bites her lip; Nichole allows a hard edge to creep into her voice. "Have you been forced into an arranged marriage? Are you bearing an illicit child? Does your husband beat you...or did he leave you for some common strumpet?"
"No." Mrs. Turner sounds tired, desolate, and Nichole finds herself regretting her flippancy. "None of those things. Will Turner loves me...It is I who have wronged him." She has finished dressing her neck, and rises abruptly. "Thank you for your assistance, Captain D'Bouvoire," she says, stiffly polite. "I owe you my life."
Nichole considers her, the proud set of her mouth, the ramrod posture, and unexpectedly remembers another young woman set adrift in a brutal masculine world. A girl who craved, above all else, freedom.
She herself had been much younger, of course; Elizabeth is over twenty, while Nichole had been fifteen when she'd played this game. Dressed like a boy, learned to survive the hard way...She'd been young enough, smart enough, and stubborn enough to adapt.
She sees the anxious, trapped expression hidden in Elizabeth Turner's shadowed eyes, and wonders, as the other woman turns to leave, if this one will have what it takes to survive whatever heartache has brought her here. Following her out of the cabin, she watches the girl walk slowly away from the ship and wander aimlessly down the quay.
Nichole frowns, wavering for a moment. This is none of her concern, after all. The girl is old enough to make her own choices, right or wrong.
Still, when she steps off the Gyrfalcon, her stride is purposeful. She suddenly feels the need to have a little chat with Captain Jack Sparrow.
Nichole catches up with Jack a few hours later, predictably, at a tavern; a particularly dirty and disreputable establishment, in fact, known as the 'Pig and Sickle.'
He appears to her practiced eye to be even more soused than usual. She slides onto the seat next to him; he continues to gaze soulfully into the bottom of his empty cup, and seems thoroughly unaware of her presence. She waves the bartender over, indicating that he should pour Jack another drink and bring her one of the same.
He relinquishes his flagon with great reluctance when the bartender tries to take it from him to refill it, slurring, "Wha' the bloody...oh..." Then he subsides, and his eyes drift haphazardly until they focus, blearily, on Nichole's face.
"Hullo, Red..."
She casts a glance to the smoke-wreathed ceiling. "Hullo, Jack."
"Cap'n Jack." He leers at her, lids at half-mast under all that kohl. "So...so...wha's a bonny lass like you doin' in a place like this--?"
"Jack..." she says, exasperated. "It's Nichole, you great buffoon."
"I knew that," he says immediately, accepting his refilled cup with unrestrained gratitude and sinking about half of it at one go.
She raises an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing?"
"Gettin' drunk." The mug slams down on the bar. "Extraordinarily, superfluously, delightfully intoxicated, that's me, darlin'. Care to join me?"
"Only you would use longer words when you're completely off your gourd."
"I fear 'tis true, me dear, 'tis true." He regards her, his expression whimsical. "I'm curious, love. Ha' you ever known me to not be...completely off my gourd...as it were?"
"Never," she agrees. "But I also haven't seen you like this in a long time, Jack."
He drapes a heavy arm about her shoulders. "Aye, but. But. You haven't seen me...period...in a long time, Nick--" He corrects himself almost smoothly... "Nichole."
"Not that long, Jack Sparrow." She disengages herself from his clumsy half-embrace, studying him critically. "Come to think of it, I have seen you like this once before."
He affects disinterest, banging his cup on top of the bar again in a fruitless attempt to attract the attention of the bartender, who is studiously and unsurprisingly ignoring him. "And when was that, love?" he asks her, in an abstracted way. "Ahoy there! More rum, if you please..." He glowers at his cup. "Ruddy bastard..."
"Right after you lost the Pearl," she says softly.
The glance with which he favors her, though not entirely pleased, is utterly and unmistakeably lucid, reminding her that Jack Sparrow, even in the midst of his worst benders, is never more drunk than precisely as drunk as he chooses to be. "For pity's sake, Captain D'Bouvoire," he growls, "do get to the point. I find your prevarication unbearably tedious."
She pauses deliberately, taking a slow swallow of her rum. "Well...a discerning mind might speculate that you are perhaps worried your Pearl will not return for you this time, Captain Sparrow..." She blithely catches the bartender's furtive glance, and beckons him over with an imperative gesture, watching Jack out of the corner of her eye as the cups are filled.
He drinks, apparently mulling over her words, and thumps his flagon down in order to wag a triumphant, be-ringed finger in front of her nose.
"Ah, love, then a discernin' mind would be wrong, it would! Tha's not it...not it atall..."
"I knew it."
He stares at her in confusion, the wind snatched from his proverbial sails; she allows herself a tiny half-smile.
"It's the girl, isn't it, Jack Sparrow."
"Not a girl," he says petulantly. "Lady." Then he stops; his expression becomes deeply affronted. "I mean...I mean...what girl?"
"Jack; Jack." She shakes her head. "Stop playing the fool, for once, won't you? You know perfectly well who I'm talking about." She fixes him with a stern look. "It's Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth!" He makes an agitated, helpless gesture, and seems about to contradict her, until he sees her face and abandons the effort. "Oh, blast. You've spoken with her, I take it."
"Not at length. But aye, I have."
"What about her, then."
"You bedded her, didn't you?"
"Bedded her!" Again, he contrives to appear mortally offended. "That's the wife of my dearly departed best friend's only son you're speaking of, missy. I'll have you know I don't take kindly to such intimations." Then he sighs. "But aye...aye, Nichole, you have assessed the situation correctly, I'm afraid. Carnal knowledge was had, the forbidden fruit was tasted, although I'll venture to say that no innocence was lost by either party." He looks straight at her, his eyes dark and troubled by some powerful emotion she cannot identify. "Satisfied, darling?"
"And you're ready to leave it at that, Jack?" She sips her drink, searching for the appropriate words. "She's not like the other women you dally with, you know..."
"The devil she's not..." His hands curl at the edge of the bar, frustration and tension clear in every inch of his lean frame. "You don't think I know that? Fool I may be, but I'm not that stupid, D'Bouvoire."
"I know you're not, Jack." She regards him steadily. "But I'll wager she doesn't."
"Aye." The bitterness in his tone surprises Nichole. "She bloody well hates me now, or so she'd have me believe."
"What did you say to her?"
He scowls balefully at her. "I do not appreciate the way you naturally assume that it was something I said."
"What did you do, then?"
He lifts his hands, sighing dramatically. "Nothing she didn't ask of me." He pulls at a dreadlock in a distracted fashion. "I suppose I may have said a thing or two she didn't take kindly to, when she went all saintly on me first thing this morning..."
Nichole thinks of Elizabeth, her stubbornly upright posture and her changing, vulnerable eyes, and puts that together with what she knows of Jack's ways. She shakes her head at him.
"What?"
"I found the lady in question wandering the worst section of the docks this morning." She rises. "She doesn't belong here, Jack Sparrow."
"The lady in question can, and has, looked out for herself quite well in the past," Jack says. "Took on an entire shipful of supernatural mutineers, if I do remember the story rightly, with not much more than a kitchen knife an' those big eyes of hers...I don't see why she should have any trouble with the riff-raff of Tortuga."
"Aye. But all tales aside," Nichole says grimly, "I was just in time to prevent her from being robbed...and probably worse...by a particularly nasty, and all too human, brand of scoundrel."
His eyes widen, and he swears softly under his breath, suddenly on his feet and looking for all intents and purposes, stone-cold sober--by Sparrow standards, at any rate.
"She's all right, my friend," she assures him. "No more than a scratch."
But he's pushed past her, already on his way to the door.
She stares after him thoughtfully, and then turns to pay their tab.
He finds her sitting at the end of the jetty, just as the sun is lowering into the western sea.
Elizabeth recognizes the distinctive cadence of his step behind her, but doesn't turn. He pauses behind her; she hears him let out a long breath. After a moment, his hand falls on her right shoulder, almost hesitantly. Neither speaks.
Finally she stirs, and reaches up a hand to touch his briefly. She feels his fingers tighten on her shoulder, equally briefly.
He says, "The Pearl will be here any day, love. It won't be long..."
She leans her head back, letting herself relax against him; he stiffens fractionally. Then, again with that uncharacteristic hesitation, his other hand comes to rest lightly over her left collarbone.
They remain that way in silence for a long time, unmoving, until the brilliant sky has faded into darkness.
