A/N: I spent a lot of time finding songs that I could hurt my own feelings with while I wrote this chapter, and I found it in "Day Is Gone" by Noah Gundersen & The Forest Rangers from a very, uh, fitting episode of Sons of Anarchy.
And, finally, looking at my outline vs how many words it's actually taking me to tackle certain chapters, we may exceed my original 90 chapter estimate. Who could've seen that coming? A few people have expressed a want for me to drag it out a wee bit before the ending too, and I'm more than happy to do that considering I really don't want this to end and I'm thrilled you guys are in the same boat (or pirate ship, heuheuhuh), so I'm happy to turn the chapters that could be two chapters into such rather than going with my original plan of fewer, but way longer, chapters. It won't make a drastic change, we're still talking 100 chapters at most, and I doubt it'll get that high, but we'll see. We know by now that I'm terrible at estimating this shit.
After seeing what he had, James could not swim. He had no desire to do so - his chest felt like it was caving in on itself, and he'd only been able to tread water for so long as it was out of some hope to see that Theodora was well after all. A movement, a retaliation, a reaction to his name as he screamed it up at the balcony. Something. Anything. As it was, the only movement on the balcony was from Hattie, rushing to her side.
One of Elizabeth's men dragged him towards the ship - no small feat, given how they were in the water - until James had to comply or drown them both. It took another two of them to force him to climb up the ship, forming a circle at either side and below him, herding him upwards. When he finally tumbled down onto the deck of the Empress, he made no move to stand. Through the rail, he could still just see the stern of the Dutchman, and the long red plait that dangled through one of the gaps in the balcony's fence. She had not risen.
The sob that tore its way up through James' throat was rough and ragged, his teeth gritted in a snarl against it. Because reacting would make it real.
Elizabeth's hand dropping down onto his shoulder provided him with something else to react to.
"What did you do?" he demanded, rising to his feet with a speed and agility that surprised even himself as he rounded on her "What have you done? Have you any idea what…"
It wasn't too outrageously long ago that he would never had been able to fathom speaking to her like this. Back then, he might have been moved by the tears that slipped down her face as she stared at him in mute horror. Much had changed since then. His wife had been murdered in front of him, for one.
Elizabeth's dark eyes were wide and filled with tears, staring at him in sheer horror.
"I'm sorry, James, I'm so sorry - I didn't think, I…I panicked, and I had to do something - and she said…and I thought…when I heard it would have worked on Jack, it was the only thing that came to mind…and she made me swear I'd force you to come with us if she didn't…"
"Why?"
If she'd appeared distraught beforehand, she was utterly stricken now, frowning up at him as she hesitated.
"Tell me," he demanded.
"Because you were going to die," her voice was barely even a whisper.
Now it was James' turn to stare, his shoulders dropping as he tried to make sense of her words. Elizabeth jumped at her chance to speak, despite how her voice trembled as she did so, seeing that he was too stricken to interrupt her.
"Theo said that if you didn't leave the Dutchman tonight, you'd die. I think…I think she had one of her visions, she must have, and I couldn't let that happen because if anything happened to you, she'd have been…"
"What? Upset?" he choked on his laugh, shaking his head "Yes. And instead, thanks to your actions, not only did she just die saving my life, he did so all while believing me to be in love with you. I fail to see how that's an improvement."
"I panicked…" she said weakly "It was the only thing I could think of, I…"
"And now my wife is dead."
His voice cracked then. Saying the words renewed the ache in his chest - like the inside of his ribcage was being scraped clean with a blade, and the guilt on Elizabeth's face did not help. Nothing would ever help.
"Captain," one of Elizabeth's new men came up behind her, no doubt seeking a heading.
James stared at him as Elizabeth faltered and then finally turned around. The world was just…pressing on. Still standing. As if Theodora was still here. His self control was wavering, his emotions bubbling up more than they already had, the shock wearing off as reality set in. As she didn't climb up over the ship's rail, soaked and smiling sheepishly like she always did when one of her mad plans were carried out. Instead, there was just an excess of terrible empty space where she should have been. And she was not.
He didn't know where he was going as he went below deck. How could he? He did not know this ship, and every so often he would pass a corridor rendered useless by the fight earlier in the night. Crew members gave him strange looks as he passed them, but he paid them no mind. His self control hung by a thread, and that thread was fast fraying.
It was only when he ducked into a cabin and kicked the door shut behind him with an almighty bang that James finally allowed himself to give in. He wept. He wept more fiercely than he could ever recall weeping, great shuddering cries that found him sitting on the floor. He didn't know which was worse - closing his eyes and seeing nothing but her face, or opening them and knowing he would never see it again. All right, that was no contest. But both brought about a pain he'd never known the likes of before.
It couldn't be real. This could not be real. It was some terrible nightmare that he'd soon awaken from in a cold sweat, and she would be there, sleeping soundly huddled against him, murmuring in her sleep. Then he would kiss her brow and remain awake, for fear that this nightmare would return - and if she awoke, he would not speak of it. For this was much too terrible to speak of, much less live.
But then he opened his eyes and it was not so, and he wept all the harder, squeezing his left hand into a fist just to feel the ring dig painfully into his skin. It didn't help. But what could? What could possibly make a difference here? It didn't make sense.
Although that wasn't strictly true, was it? It did make sense. It made far too much sense. When he'd ascertained that she was setting out to save him from some sort of harm, he'd assumed an injury. Loss of limb at worst, perhaps, for such a thing was not uncommon at sea. He had not pressed the matter - not because he feared the answer (although he didn't relish the thought of it, he feared what she might do to prevent it all the more…and rightly so, as it had turned out), but because he had promised her he would not ask. It was a difficult promise to abide by, but the way she paled and tensed whenever the topic of the future and the things she could not yet tell him arose was motivation enough to steer clear of it.
She had enough on her shoulders without him dredging it up during moments of peace, and he had trusted her to involve him were it anything so…so fatal.
"I cannot imagine I would savour the prospect of a return to piracy. Was I happy about it?"
"No," she'd answered softly "It wasn't very tempting for you."
"What did I do afterwards?"
"It's not shown."
It was not shown, because it did not happen. Had she not existed, he would have died before he returned to a life of wretchery in Tortuga. He would have saved Elizabeth, and he'd have met an end befitting any soldier. He might've been furious with Theodora, had he not been so heartbroken. It was a good thing that his pistol had been submerged beyond use when she'd sent him overboard, for he knew not what his grief might drive him to do otherwise - and what would become of her sacrifice, then?
All this time. When they'd fallen for one another, when they'd planned together, when they'd married. She'd known. She'd carried that burden, and she'd carried it alone. What he hated most was that he could see why she had not told him - for he would have stopped her. If he could go back now and redo it, he would do everything in his power to keep her away. He'd have locked her in their house at Port Royal before departing, and taken his chances out here alone. If he perished as fated, he'd at least do so knowing that she was alive.
But she was not. She's gone. His mind kept repeating it to him, over and over until the sobs that wracked him strained his muscles and the few that weren't so harsh that they were completely silent sounded hoarse and pained even to his own ear - more strained gasps for air than cries. It was wrong. No matter how much his mind stabbed at him with the fact, he could not accept it. The bed in the corner was topped with a red blanket that resembled the colour of her hair much too closely for comfort, and through his blurred vision he kept on thinking it was her. It made no sense, but it made more sense than her being gone. And it was absurd - for he was a soldier. He knew loss. But he'd never known loss like this.
Rising shakily to his feet, he tore the cover from the bed and kicked it beneath it, shadowed from sight so it could no longer plague him. And that was how he found the bottle that had been stashed beneath.
Taking it up, he uncorked it with his teeth and then returned to his place on the floor, his legs sprawled before him. He regained his breath through sheer will power just long enough so that he might take a gulp from the bottle. It tasted awful, but he barely noticed - for that only meant that it was strong. Good.
Gulping down as much as he could without choking or vomiting, he discarded the bottle when it was empty and then he gritted his teeth against the sobs that still had not abated before digging his hand into the pocket of his coat. His fingers curled around the painfully familiar chain, but he couldn't muster so much as a sigh of relief upon discovering that the necklace hadn't been lost to the sea. What did it change?
The heart-shaped pendant glinted at him from the middle of his palm, and he took a deep, shuddering breath in. And then the image of when he'd last seen her sprang forth to the forefront of his mind - the shock and disbelief on her face that gave way to a soul destroying hollow look, bereft of anything other than an exhausted sort of resignation. And then she'd cried. As she kissed him. Their final kiss. The sort of thing that should have come forty, even fifty years from now, when they were both old and grey with lives fully lived beneath their belts, away from all of this. They were supposed to have time. So much more time.
He prayed that whatever was in that bottle would kick in soon, and that it would knock him out for a long while. And he prayed that he'd find some sort of strength when he next opened his eyes - even if he would only use it to murder the senior of the William Turners with his bare hands. Then Beckett. Jones too, if need be. After that? After that he did not care what would happen. He would never get what he'd truly wished for now.
Everything was hazy.
Theo would rise to a state of half-consciousness, only to have no idea where she was. She was just lucid enough to know that she was confused, but not so much that she might un-confuse herself. Sometimes she'd try to rise out of bed, certain that today was the day that they'd have to help Elizabeth escape - that she had to prepare to save James - but then the thought would make her chest ache even more than it usually would, and her limbs wouldn't comply with her brain's call to action, anyway. Other times, she'd hear the crashing of waves and the calling of men and think that she was still on the Pearl. But no, that couldn't be right. That…that was a while ago, wasn't it? Or was she still in Tortuga?
She didn't know. She simply did not know. She couldn't puzzle it out.
But there was pain. Christ, the pain. That was a constant - that was unmistakable, and that was impossible to ignore. It rolled over her in waves, growing sharper whenever she was moved - and when she was moved. When that happened, it brought her closer to consciousness. The first time it happened, it was because of her corset being tugged at, sending sharp, white hot streaks of pain through her abdomen every time. Why was she wearing a corset in bed? Had she forgotten to take it off? Still, her body wouldn't communicate to allow her to open her eyes and look.
"Stop it! I'll do it!" a woman's voice - Hattie?
Her ears still worked, at least, even if the voices sounded garbled and echoed.
"Well be quick about it, then, girl," the low growl of a man replied.
Then she was being jostled again, albeit more gently, and when she did manage to shake her head and moan in pain, the motion paused and a hand smoothed over her brow.
"Hurry, I said!"
More jostling. On and on, until she was certain that if there was any more of it, she'd be sure to vomit - and she couldn't roll over to stop herself from choking on it if she did. Finally though, it stopped - and suddenly she could breathe. She hadn't even realised how her breathing had been restricted until it no longer was. But full, deep breaths only worsened the pain.
"Waste of good whalebone, that is," the man's voice commented lightly.
"It appears that it hindered the serrated edge of the blade, sir, and prevented it from slicing too deeply. It very likely saved her life," a second male voice spoke for the first time - this one younger than the other and painfully posh.
It reminded her of James. Where was he? What was going on?
"Maybe not a waste after all, then. Once we've clearance from Lord Beckett, we can go about finding out what it really is that she knows - by whatever means necessary."
"You can't - she's with child," Hattie's voice spoke up, barely above a whisper as fingers interlaced with hers.
What? No she wasn't. Who were they talking about, then? What was going on? She managed an exhale that was sharper than the rest, but not a noise - not so much as a grunt. The hand in hers tightened its grip.
"Was, I'd wager. Can't imagine it survived that."
Either they all stopped talking then, or the unconsciousness won the battle.
A/N: So, in all of my googling surrounding survivable stab wounds (which definitely has me on some sort of government list now) the one place that kept coming up was, so long as it's shallow enough, the lower quadrants of the abdomen - basically, just below the belly-button, because that's where you've got the most chance of the knife going in without immediately slicing into vital shit. However all of those answers were with men in mind (go figure), and things get distinctly more complicated for women, because we have a whole bunch of added reproductive organs around that region. If this information is incorrect, it means that the Reddit strangers have failed me and I do apologise.
What that means for Theo, we will find out. That being said, Hattie pretty much saved her life by harping on about the corset, which really impeded the trajectory of the knife. And, as some of you have pointed out, infection is a major concern in these times, especially on a ship like the Dutchman.
Oh, and the alcohol James finds is a traditional Chinese liquor called baijiu - from what I can find online, it's significantly stronger than vodka, and who can say what sort of effects it might have. (Do we see me hinting? Do we? Coolcoolcool).