Disclaimer: They ain't mine. Don't sue me.

Special Thanks: To Sharon for the beta read; to Joan, Wanda, Hereswith, Cap'n Tish, and MissBe for your reviews on the last chapter; and to ErinRua at BPS for explaining how a flintlock pistol actually works. Bless you! Any remaining errors are mine alone.


Chapter XXVIII.
Survivors

Alongside, then, this strange vessel came.
"Cheer up," cried Jane, "we will board the same
we'll run all chances to rise or fall,"
cried this female smuggler,
cried this female smuggler, who never feared a ball.

--"The Female Smuggler"

She from her pillow gently raised
her head, to ask who there might be,
and saw young Sandy shivering stand,
with visage pale, and hollow eyed.

--"Mary's Dream"


Days and nights pass swiftly for the crew of the Black Pearl. The work of a midshipman is hard, as Jack has promised, harder work than Elizabeth has ever done in her life, and she drives herself ruthlessly to accomplish all that is demanded of her, conscious of the Captain's eyes often upon her and determined to disprove Anamaria's doubting looks. When her watch goes below, Elizabeth curls up in her hammock and falls instantly into the deep, dreamless sleep of the sore, blistered, and bone-weary; but it is a wholesome weariness, of body rather than of heart, and besides she does not miss dreaming. Those first few nights, before Anamaria assigned her to a watch, were haunted with visions of flame and smoke and floating bodies. The bodies always wore her husband's face, with eyes that snapped open and stared accusation at her until she woke, gasping, to spend the rest of darkness listening to the rhythmic creaking of the ship, the steady breathing of the living Pearl. One might even exhaust oneself purposely to avoid such phantasms...

It occurs to her after some time, however, that the Black Pearl is dawdling. It's been over a week since Jack announced his intent to sail for the East Indies, and the crew, put to a vote, has given their approbation. But while their course does seem to veer vaguely eastward, the fastest ship in the Caribbean adopts a pace that can only be described as leisurely. Clearly, Jack is in no hurry to leave the Islands behind just yet, and Elizabeth decides that he must be waiting for something. What that something is, she can only surmise, and amuses herself accordingly with this guessing game while engaged in her more tedious tasks: the Captain requires some arcane sign, perhaps, an albatross or a wind that smells of curry, the correct alignment of the stars, Advent, St. Elmo's Fire, Birnam Wood's arrival at Dunsinane—for who can tell with Jack Sparrow? Or perhaps he is waiting for his compass to swing round to find true North. In that case, Elizabeth thinks caustically, as she swabs the quarterdeck for the second time that day, they might meander about in the open sea between Hispaniola and Jamaica until the Pearl falls to pieces under their feet and leaves them all to swim to India.

This mystery does not go long unsolved, after all. One morning Elizabeth awakens to a general hue and cry above; she emerges to find all watches on deck and a great many hands aloft. Even the Pearl seems to have roused herself from lassitude, in full sail and moving at a fine clip that does much more credit to her abilities than her recent tendency to meander. Elizabeth catches sight of Jack at the lee rail, and goes to accost him with a boldness unbefitting of her new station.

"What's going on?" she inquires.

"Have a look." Jack hands her his spyglass and yields his space at the rail, pointing across the starboard bowlines, where a set of neat white sails can be seen floating just under the horizon. "Isn't she a beauty?" His breath is warm on her ear, his hand hovering over her hipbone; it's all she can do to keep the glass steady. "Outward bound and low on the draft. That's a Spanish merchantman, that is, an' her holds fair bursting with swag."

She lowers the spyglass and tries to catch a glimpse of his face instead. "Jack, I'm not at all sure that I like this. You sound like you're planning something."

"Of course I'm plannin' something," Jack says. He is close enough that she can feel his excitement; his body fairly vibrates with tense anticipation. "When am I not? We're going to take her."

"Take her?"

"Aye, take her." His grin is golden, feral. "Well, you said you wanted piratin', love. Here's your chance. Where's that pistol I gave you?"

"It's in my cabin. Why?"

"Get it. You may need it."

Elizabeth turns uncertainly to look at him, but he is dead serious now, his attention fixed on the other vessel, intent as a hawk sighting its prey.

In the quarter-gallery she shares with Ana, a quick search discovers its object hidden like a deadly secret beneath her folded blanket. The weapon lies cold and heavy in Elizabeth's hand, gleaming dully in the gloom of the cabin. She stares at it for a moment before tucking it resolutely in her sash, next to the dagger she's taken to wearing in her waking hours.

Jack gave her the gun only a few days ago. He had beckoned her into the great cabin; she followed him, unsure as to his intent, her heart beating hard in her chest. They had not slept together since that first morning after Navidad, and he had made it clear to her that same morning what that liaison had been to him: Do you really think that just because I've bedded you a time or two, I am now your willing slave? You've a thing or two to learn about pirates, my dear. And men, if it comes to that! The words had pained her more than she'd let him see, and she had pushed him away gently when he tried to kiss her; as if a mere kiss, even one of Jack's, could soften the sting of those words. Still, he often touched her casually when they found themselves together, tossing an arm round her shoulders or brushing his fingers through her hair, teasing her with laughing glances and murmured innuendo that made her color and stumble over her retorts. She knew it was her own choice that kept her out of his bed; she had only to speak, to take that one step closer, and he would be hers, and she trembled at the thought.

This time, in his cabin, he did not touch her; only fixed her with one of his dark, impenetrable looks and then turned away, bending to unlock the sea chest he kept against one wall.

She peered over his shoulder as he rummaged through the chest, watching him cast aside bundles of rich cloth, bits of shine, and a surprising number of battered but well-thumbed books before he happened upon the item he wanted. When he glanced around, she stepped back quickly; he shut the trunk with a decisive motion.

"Did anyone ever tell you, Mrs. Turner," he said pleasantly, "that you are far too curious for your own good?"

"Oh, often," she said, but her gaze was fixed on the thing in his hands. It was a beautiful piece, slim-barreled and graceful, with an ornately carved ivory grip, but undeniably meant for use, not display.

"Don't look so jumpy, love," he said. "I'm not going to use it on you. This is for you to keep." When she did not reach for it, he took her wrist, placing the gun in her palm and closing her fingers over it with his other hand.

Another man would have given her flowers, she thought; but this was Jack, and it seemed strangely appropriate that he would offer such a gift, as dangerous and striking as the man himself. Holding it a little awkwardly, she said, "It's lovely. Thank you."

"It belonged to a lady, once," he said. "Only fitting that it should again."

She examined it dubiously, wondering, as she did so, what had become of its former owner. Better not to ask, perhaps. "Is it loaded?"

"Of course," he said, and frowned at her when she paled. "You've handled one of these before, haven't you?"

"No," she said reluctantly. "Only a musket, once or twice. Never a pistol."

He took it back from her. "Look. This is the hammer here. You draw it back, thus." In one smooth movement, he cocked the pistol, swinging his arm up to aim it at one of the unlit lamps on the wall, mimed pulling the trigger. "Bang." He thumbed the hammer carefully forward again so that it was no longer cocked, and handed it back to her. "Simple, eh?"

She looked down at the gun, back up at him, and laughed. "Oh, indeed, Captain Sparrow. Mere child's play."

"Very well," he said, and grinned. "We'll work on it." And they had; he'd insisted on showing her how to load it, how to take it apart for cleaning and put it properly together again, where to find extra shot and powder in the Pearl's magazine and in his cabin, where he kept his private stores of both.

Now, the unfamiliar shape and weight of the firearm against her side both reassures and unsettles her. Adrenaline quickens her steps as she heads up the companionway and back to the main deck, listening to the shouts and cheering of the crew. Once topside, she has to jump aside as men pound down the steps to the gun decks; when she can, she runs to the side-rail, pulling herself up on the ropes to lean out.

They are almost upon their quarry, and she has turned to run, her sails full and taut before the wind and her crew scrambling like frantic ants. But the Pearl is faster and lighter, unhampered by ballast or extra cargo, and gaining fast. Below her, Elizabeth hears the gun-ports sliding open, Anamaria shouting commands.

"Thrilling, innit?" Jack drawls, materializing beside her. "'Your very first sea-chase."

"Not my first," she says, thinking of another pursuit much like this one. The Interceptor had fled like this other ship is fleeing now, with the Pearl closing in behind her like a black wolf of the sea. But her lot had been thrown in with the pursued, not the pursuer, that time.

"Your first as a Pearl, anyway," he corrects himself. He is standing close beside her, so that his shoulder presses lightly against hers; his glance is clearly meant to be casual, and almost succeeds. "You ready, Lizzie?"

"Yes," she lies.

"Good." His gaze flicks back out to sea. "We may see a bit of a battle today. Not the surrenderin' type, these chappies; they're like as not to fight if brought to bay."

He says it offhandedly, as if they're discussing meeting a friend for tea and gossip, or something equally inconsequential; but she knows him better now, and the twitch of his jaw and an unusual stillness of gesture give him away. "Why, Jack," she says softly. "You can't be—are you nervous?"

"Hush," he says. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, and I am never nervous."

"You are Captain Jack Sparrow, and you are a liar."

"Always get a bit keyed-up before a fight, Lizzie," he says, with a tight smile. "'And all the more so, this time, because there's more to risk."

He slips away from her side before she has a chance to respond to this, even if she knew how. "All right, ye rascals!" he calls. "Ready the chase guns! Gibbs! Get those blasted cullies moving! And lads, aim high and take her masts if you can! No call to save 'em, we've no need of trophies today!"

"Aye, just the swag!" Gibbs calls back with a chuckle, before bellowing out the orders to Ana and her gunners below. The Black Pearls surge into hectic action with a roar. Ana's voice rises above the rest.

"One—two—three—FIRE!"

The boom of the forward cannons deafens Elizabeth momentarily. She leans out again, holding her breath as she waits for the inevitable impact; but their victim's stern presents a meager target, and most of the shot goes wide, although one rips through the gaff-rigging of her mizzen, ripping the ties asunder before splashing into the ocean beyond.

But the Pearl is drawing ever nearer, and Jack's smartly timed orders soon bring her round on an angle, nearly perpendicular to her prey. Elizabeth glances aft, clinging to the lifelines as the ship cants and rolls, and sees Jack at the helm, bringing her round smoothly, laughing as he shouts, "Now!"

It's an admirable maneuver, providing a broad target for the Black Pearl's bow-chasers while presenting the smallest possible target to the other's broadside. And Jack's crew are well-trained. While the Spaniards' first volley splashes into the waves around her persecutor, the Pearl's own onslaught explodes upon them with a vengeance. When the smoke clears, the other has lost her foremast, and a great hole gapes in her gun-deck. Her answering broadside is weak and disorganized, although one ball soars through Pearl's rigging, and a sailor, dislodged from his perch on the mainmast, falls to the deck with a cry.

Now the Black Pearl too must turn, lest she ram herself full-on into her wounded quarry. They are now so close to the other ship that Elizabeth can read the painted name on the hull, just forward of where the hole gapes in her side. She is the Carolina, once a placid and capable lady, now crippled and floundering.

But before Elizabeth can take in any more details, a harsh voice snaps, "Get down, you fool!" and she is grabbed, bodily, from behind; just in time, for a loud popping sound heralds a hail of bullets and grapeshot from the merchantman. Elizabeth, landing hard on the boards, struggles up to face her assailant.

It is Jack, of course, and he is furious. "You made a fine target up there!" he growls. "Do you want to get shot? Is that it?" As he is wont to do in such a mood, he takes her by the shoulders and shakes her. "Do I have to lock you in my cabin, Lizzie? Because be assured I will, if necessary."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "Playing favorites, Captain? I hardly think I was in more danger than they are," and she nods in the direction of the boarding party now making ready to board the Carolina; grapples and ropes fly across the short gap between the two ships, to be followed, with a great shout, by a good number of the Pearls themselves. "I'm just another member of the crew, remember? No special treatment, you said."

"Aye," he says, with exaggerated patience. "But they, my dear Elizabeth, are experienced fighters. You, on the other hand—" he pauses, then adds, low and fierce, "I will not lose you on your first raid, love, merely because you stubbornly refuse to act according to the sense with which I assume you were born. So please, do me a kindness." He releases her, looking down at her somberly for a moment. "Will you at least try to stay out of trouble?"

And before she can answer, before she can even nod, he is gone.


Captain Sparrow has, it turns out, guessed correctly at the quality and spirit of their opponents' resistance; the Carolina's crew does put up a fight, one that boils over from her decks onto the Black Pearl. Gibbs quickly collars Elizabeth and assigns her to an inglorious duty he calls "chop an' drop": armed with a large knife, she patrols the rail on the forward rail, sawing away at any ropes that have enemies at their other ends. Mindful of Jack's admonishment, she tries to keep her head down, but manages to narrowly miss being skewered by a flying grapple; she does, however, earn the satisfaction of dropping her near-murderer into the sea, and smiles grimly when his shout of surprise ends abruptly in a splash.

Then, through the chaos and smoke and press of bodies, she suddenly sights Jack, locked not five yards away from her in a heated contest of blades with the other Captain. He appears to be making a good account of himself, teeth bared, a fierce light glowing in his eyes as he dances out of death's reach. Elizabeth finds herself watching him, fascinated; his fey grace is displayed to full advantage as he dodges and parries a vicious rain of blows. The other man is bigger and perhaps, she admits to herself, a more expert swordsman, but Jack knows how to use his lighter weight to his advantage—and his quick tongue, for he keeps up a steady barrage of taunts and mockery.

"Now I know that's not the best you can do, is it?" he is saying. "Oh, it is! Tsk. I'm beginning to think you're not cut out for this sort of thing. Here's an idea, mate: why don't you chuck it all in, eh?"

"Never," snarls his opponent, and redoubles his efforts.

Jack jumps sideways handily and returns the favor, driving the other man back as many steps as he just earned. "C'mon, my man," he says—a little breathlessly, Elizabeth notices, though they have circled until his back is to her and she cannot see his face. "Lay down your weapon, and I'll convey you to the next port pretty as you please—only in the brig, you understand, but it's quite a nice little brig, really—and you can start a lovely quiet life as a clerk or a grocer or the like. What say you to that?"

But Elizabeth has no opportunity to hear what the Catalina's Captain has to say to that, because a furtive movement in her peripheral vision catches her eye. Another Catalina has gained the deck of the Pearl while her attention was diverted from her task: a slender, sallow-skinned man with a hard, cunning face under his black turban. His keen gaze is fixed on the battle transpiring before him, and Elizabeth thinks she sees him exchange a meaningful glance with his Captain. And then, as the two men lock blades again and hover for a few moments, straining in place, the Moor raises his hand; and she sees the pistol in it, aimed directly at the back of Jack Sparrow's skull.

She doesn't even think; there's no time. She just yanks her own ivory-handled pistol from her sash, aims willy-nilly, flicks the hammer back, and pulls the trigger, just as Jack showed her.

It's a lucky shot at point-blank range; if it wasn't, she thinks later, her first raid with the Pearl might have gone very differently. As it happens, however, the kick of the little gun jerks her arm upward, and the bullet, aimed at the man's chest, strikes its target in the side of the head instead. Elizabeth watches the blood bloom above his ear, his look of ludicrous astonishment before he crumples to the boards of the Pearl. The report echoes in her ears; she barely hears Jack's opponent cry out in dismay, or Jack's triumphant shout as the other man's sword goes spinning out of his grasp to lodge itself, quivering, in the bulkhead. She stands still, staring blankly down at the weapon in her hand.

After seeing their Captain and his first mate go down, the rest of the Catalina's crew surrenders quickly. Jack—having dispatched the captives to the brig and his men to their prize to liberateher cargo—crosses the deck and gently takes the pistol from Elizabeth's suddenly shaking fingers.

"You all right, love?"

"I killed a man," she says. "He's dead. I shot him."

"And a good job you did, or so Gibbs tells me, as he was about to do the same to me."

She turns on him. "You don't understand! I've never killed anyone before. I fought Barbossa's men...but that wasn't the same. They were cursed, and I knew they'd get right back up again. Oh, Jack—"

His face creased with concern, he wraps one arm round her waist; she buries her face in his shoulder. "Breathe, love," he advises her. "Cotton! Marty! Get rid of that body, will you? It's mucking up my nice clean deck. Handsomely now, gents." He guides Elizabeth over to a row of cargo crates and seats her upon one.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, ashamed.

"Don't be." Jack pulls up his own crate, tilts his head, waiting until her eyes meet his. "I do understand, as it happens, and it isn't easy. You're doing a damn sight better than I did the first time, lass."

"You, Jack? That's hard to believe."

"Well, believe it. Lost my breakfast all over the poor corpse, I'm afraid. Bloody disrespectful."

She laughs a little, but her heart isn't in it. "Jack, I don't know that I make a very good pirate."

A short silence. "Well. Never said it would be easy, love."

"I know," she says. "But I didn't think it would be...like that."

"What did you think it was going to be like, then? It isn't always, love. But sometimes it is. And it gets easier."

"Killing people gets easier?"

"Yes," says Jack heavily. "Yes, that too. Easier. But never easy, love. Not for me." He has been looking away out over the sea as he speaks, but now he turns back to her, fixing her with a searching gaze. "I don't let it be, you understand? You have to do it, sometimes, because it's you or them, and you get used to that. They say a man can get used to anything. But you don't let such a thing become easy, become everyday, because then you become Hector Barbossa. Or that bastard Morena."

"I could never get used to it," she says, passionately. "Never!"

"You could," he says. "Anyone could. That's human nature. But it's a choice you make; you always have a choice. Remember that, love. A pirate doesn't have to be a killer. Only a survivor. You have to want to live more than you want the other chap to live, that's all."

Or want your friends to live more. Or your lover...or your Captain. She thinks about this. It makes an odd kind of sense; Jack sense. Still, she shivers, remembering the dead man's fall to the boards, limp, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the blood pooling beneath his head, the wide and empty eyes. "But you have to go looking for fights," she says.

"Aye, in a way. Usually, if one is clever and picks one's targets well, they don't put up much of one. These Spanish sailors were an exception. But we couldn't pass up a prize like that, not if we wanted to provision a voyage to the Indies."

Elizabeth's head comes up. "So that's what you were waiting for!"

"Indeed," Jack says, amused. "How else did you think we would finance the journey? We're pirates, love, not kings and queens. The gold bullion has to come from somewhere." He reaches out casually, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "So what say you, Lizzie? Shall I take you home, now that you have seen the worst of it? It's not too late, you know. And I won't be offended—much," he adds, grinning.

"No," she says slowly, aware to the tips of her toes of his fingers in her hair, smoothing the wayward curls, and then against her cheek, and wondering if he means to kiss her again at last.

But, "Good," is all he says, and drops his hand away. "Shall I tell you about India, then?"

She nods; and he proceeds to tell her of tigers and elephants, maharajahs and henna'd princesses, frenzies of color and noise, scents of flowers and spices, and a thousand heathen gods with enough treasure, cursed and otherwise, to keep the Black Pearl peacefully asea for several lifetimes.


It seems to Will that his ribs take far too long to heal, though Marie assures him that he is improving relatively quickly. After a few weeks he can walk about slowly with only minimal discomfort, and he finds himself pacing the length of the old forge, stopping to tap his knuckles restlessly on the anvil, running his fingers along the aged but sturdy stonework of the wide furnace. Mr. Brown may have been a drunk, but he taught his trade well; and one of the first lessons Will had learned was to always keep his coals banked and ready, even when the work was slow. A good smith never let his forge-fire go out.

The next day sees him stoking a fire in the hearth. The chimney fumes like nothing he's ever seen, great clouds of black sooty smoke rolling out to choke him, and rousing the doves in the loft into a frenzy as they struggle to all escape at once from what must strike them as a raging inferno. Resolutely, he puts the flames out and sets to work on the chimney.

Nichole comes in sometime later that day, newly arrived from one of her short jaunts out to sea, to find a very black and very pleased with himself Will Turner nursing a well-behaved little blaze in the great fireplace.

"I thought I'd find you here," she says. "It's been years since smoke rose from that chimney."

"Believe me, I know," Will says, presenting his soot-caked face as evidence.

"Marie told me you used to be a blacksmith." Nichole gives the bellows an experimental push, and winces at the noise of rusty metal. "Just like Georges." Her voice is light, but something in the way she stares into the fire betrays her.

"Weren't you his apprentice for awhile?"

"I hated it," she says. "And I was no good at it. Not patient enough. I always hammered too hard and shattered the piece." She looks away. "Georges was...he was very kind. But even he knew I would never make a good craftsman, not if I had wanted to."

"Is that why you left?"

"No," she says, and straightens from the fire, face set; and Will can see that he'll hear no more about her past today.

"I thought I might do a little work here," he says, instead of pushing the matter. "While I get my strength back. I haven't made anything in a long time."

"You miss it," she says.

"Yes," he says; and it's his turn to gaze at the dancing flames on the hearth. "When I was first apprenticed, I thought it was like magic. In a way it is, you know. Changing a dull scrap of steel into a shining thing of beauty and use. The application of heat, the right pressure of the hammer, timing it all perfectly, cooling the metal to the right temperature so that it can take shape without becoming brittle. There's an alchemy to it."

"You even sound like Georges," she says, after a moment. "Like a true craftsman, Will. Why did you ever give it up?"

He picks up the heavy tongs, lifts a glowing piece of scrap from the heat of the fire and lays it on the anvil.

"I did what I thought I should do," he says, and brings the hammer down.


He stays. He doesn't know quite why he stays, except that the thought of returning to Port Royal, to his empty, echoing house and to society that was always too good for him, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He knows they must think him dead; and, after all, he prefers that it stay that way. He imagines explaining his loss of ship and wife to the Governor, pictures the pity, grief and disappointment that will cross Wetherby Swann's face, the disgust and righteous anger that will twist James Norrington's lips when he meets Will in the street. There is nothing left for him in that former life, only shame and debt and loneliness.

Nichole doesn't often ask him about it, his life before he came here to Navidad, to Marie's little safe haven for lost souls, and he's learned not to ask about hers. He knows, though, that she is at least aware that he had a wife, because one night when he was still confined to his bed he had woken in a cold sweat, crying out, and she was there. "Elizabeth," he gasped, still half-tangled in the grip of the nightmare, and Nichole had put a cool hand to his forehead.

"You were dreaming. It's all right," she said, and he wondered again how those hands, hands that had killed, could be so kind.

"She's gone," he whispered, and she answered, "I know. I'm sorry. She is your wife, isn't she? Elizabeth?"

"She was," Will said bitterly, turning his face away. She said no more, but he felt her presence at his side, though he did not sleep much more that night for fear that the dream would take hold of him again. For he had dreamed of Elizabeth as a mermaid. Her hair streamed around her like seaweed, and she had smiled at him from beneath the surface of the water. And then the dream had turned to horror when he saw her filmy white eyes, dead, and felt her pale dead arms reach out and drag him down into the depths; her smile was a rictus, a death's head grin. He did not want to dream of her that way; but he could not seem to help himself, and the ugly image would rise again and again from his uneasy mind to catch him unawares while he slept.

He dreamed, too, that Elizabeth was standing on a shore far distant to him, seeming to call to him, and reaching out, but he could not hear her, nor she him; sometimes, then, he would hear another woman's voice close to his ear, and become unsure whether he was awake or sleeping, for the voice that spoke to him seemed to be Nichole's. But he could not remember, on true waking, what she had been telling him.

She has not asked about Elizabeth again, and Will is glad of it. He is not sure what he would tell this keen-eyed, unsentimental woman about his marriage and the failure he made of it, but he knows what she would say about it: that Elizabeth was a weakness in him, his greatest weakness. He fears that she would be right, and feels he could not bear it were she mocking or cruel. So they both keep their silence. Yet when she drops anchor in Navidad harbor and comes to stay for a few days in Marie's house—much more often now than she used to, Marie tells him—she seeks him out in the smithy as soon as she arrives, as if she gains something from the curious half-intimacy between them that consists as much of the things they don't speak of as it does of the words they do exchange.

"I have news," she says abruptly, on one such visit nearly a twelvemonth later. "But I am not sure you will want to hear it."

Will looks up from the hearth, where he is showing Pedro how to temper steel for a blade; the mute boy has taken an interest in metalworking, and Will, finding himself with willing if unofficial apprentice, has been teaching him as he himself relearns the finer points of his former craft. "Why not? Is it bad news?"

Nichole seats herself on an upturned water-barrel, her face carefully blank. "I don't know. As I said. It depends."

"On what?"

She gives him an undecipherable look. "On you."

Will puts down his tools, nodding to Pedro to continue as he's been shown. "You're being very mysterious, Nichole. Maybe you'd better just tell me this news of yours."

She rises abruptly, paces away to examine the swords Will has hung on the wall. Running one finger along the haft of his latest addition, she says, "The Black Pearl has been sighted in the Caribbean again."

"The Black Pearl?" Will chuckled. "So Jack Sparrow had taken off for parts unknown and now he's back. That's not news, Nichole. And why would I not want to hear it?"

"Mon dieu," Nichole murmurs. "Will, I thought you knew! Where did you think she's been all this time? She went with him, you fool! She's been with him all along."

She isn't making any sense. "Knew what? Who is 'she'? With whom?" He crosses the smithy floor to her, places a hand on her shoulder. "Nichole, what are you talking about?"

At his touch, she whirls, wrenching away from him, green eyes blazing. "Elizabeth! Your wife, Will. That is who I am talking about."

"Elizabeth—!" He takes a step back, his mind reeling. "Impossible. She's dead, Nichole. Morena—he said—"

"No," Nichole says quietly. "No, she's not dead. Did Morena tell you that? The man was a liar, Will. He lied to you."

Will staggers, finds the water-drum by blind luck, and sits down on it, hard. Struggling for words, he finally chokes out, "Elizabeth's alive? How—? But she was captured and...and executed!"

Nichole says, voice tight, "Francisco Morena never captured your wife. He never laid a hand on her, never even saw her. If he told you that, it was merely so he would have a hold over you."

"I don't understand," says Will, exasperated. "You're telling me that you knew she was alive all this time? And you never said anything? Why, for God's sake? Did you think that I would even still be here if she was out there, somewhere?" He becomes aware that he is shouting, and controls himself with an effort. "What...in heaven's name...is going on, Nichole?"

"Will—" She passes her hand across her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry, Will. I thought you knew. I swear to you, I thought you knew, but it seemed you never wanted to talk about her, so I never spoke of it."

"I didn't want to talk about her because I thought she was dead," Will growls.

"I thought it might be because she had left you," Nichole says. "Because she ran away to sea with Jack Sparrow. He was your friend, wasn't he?"

"With Jack—! But no. That's ridiculous. Elizabeth would never—"

"Perhaps not," says Nichole. "But still, she is with him. On the Black Pearl. She's part of the legend now—haven't you heard it told? In the taverns? Hurricane Lizzie, they call her. As fierce as any male pirate who ever sailed the Caribbee." She says it in a sing-song cadence, as if quoting a song or a children's story.

"I never go to the tavern," Will admits. "Are you sure it's my Elizabeth, Nichole? That doesn't sound like her at all. Elizabeth would never become a pirate..." But doubt overtakes him, and he falls silent.

"It is her," Nichole says positively. "I know it, because I met them together. In Tortuga, before I ever met you. She spoke of you, Will Turner. Said she had wronged you...I thought that was why I found you in Morena's clutches, seeking death."

"Oh, God." Will sinks his head in his hands. "Elizabeth never wronged me. It was I who wronged her...She ran away to sea as a stowaway on the Lady Swann. And she did so because she asked me to take her with me, and I told her no. When my ship was taken, I thought they'd taken her as well. But she must have escaped somehow, and run into Jack in the town." He raises his head. "I'm glad of it, Nichole. Jack's a good man. He will have looked after her for me."

"It would seem from the stories," Nichole says dryly, "that she now knows how to look after herself."

"When you put it that way—" Will's own laugh surprises him— "she always did." Then he sucks in his breath; a thought has struck him. "She must think I'm dead. Nobody from my old life knows I'm alive. Poor Elizabeth! I should try to get a message to her."

Nichole says, an odd note in her voice, "You can see her in person, if you like."

"I'd have to track down the Black Pearl first," Will says doubtfully.

"No, you wouldn't," Nichole says. "I've already done it. I know where the Pearl makes berth. Jack will have careened her—after a long sea-voyage, she'll need it, and if there is anything he cares for, it's that ship of his." She's watching Will narrowly, as if gauging his reactions. "I can take you to the place. If you wish it."

"You mean that," he says. "You'd do that? You'd take me to her?"

"Yes, Will Turner, I would," says Nichole, and smiles slightly, as if it pains her. "Ask, and it shall be given. Or answer. Yes or no."

"Yes," he says. "Yes, I'd like that, Nichole. Thank you."

She nods, once, sharply. "Very well," she says, still in that same strange tone. "We sail tomorrow at first light. Be ready."

"I will be," he answers; but she is already walking away.


One more chapter to go before it's all told, folks. And if you've read and enjoyed...please review!