A/N: Before we get into this chapter – a very very lovely reader made a cover for this story (I've just been using a Black Sails screencap before now) and sent it to me on Tumblr! Thank you so much to arsolaire on Tumblr, I'm fully speechless over it! Aaaaaaa. Unfortunately, the site isn't letting me upload images at the moment - it just keeps giving me an error message, and I've tried like ten times over the last couple of days - but as soon as it does I'll change it, and until then you can go see it on Tumblr (esta-elavaris) on the page I have dedicated to all of my fics, or on AO3 (where my username is eriathiel) where I'm going to put it in the first chapter for all of the new kids, as well as this one when I upload it for the veterans to see it B) I'm so stoked about this you have no idea haha.
Anyway, turns out the meeting of the Brethren Court is the POTC equivalent to the Council of Elrond (the book version, no less) in terms of difficulty when you try to put it into writing, but here we are! Aaaand finally, a warning. Implied torture. Not much is explicitly shown (and only the aftermath will be shown later) but still. There's no making it not-grim, is there?
When Theo first properly woke up, it was at the press of something cold against her abdomen. Jerking awake and inhaling sharply, she realised two things at once. The first was that the act of breathing was painful. The second was that her right hand was shackled to the bedpost by her head. Then, when she opened her eyes she realised a third thing - one that made the first thing so much worse. Beckett was smirking at her from the doorway.
Chest heaving (and white hot pokers streaking through her middle in response) she struggled to sit up and almost kicked the medic in the head for her trouble. He was fairly young - maybe a couple of years younger than her - and he didn't seem amused by it, but he was saved from doling out any retribution when the pain her movement sent shooting through her had her doubling over as best she could in the bed. Bringing her knees up to her chest, she curled up with her back to Beckett, trying desperately to breathe through the pain.
"Ah, good, you're awake," he greeted sunnily "I had expected some manner of…let's phrase it as good old fashioned Irish trouble-making, shall we? But I confess, the way you went about it did surprise me. You're to be credited for your originality, I suppose."
She was certain that she was going to vomit if he didn't stop talking. Actually, she was certain she was going to vomit either way. Between what glimpses she could manage between deep breaths, she could see that she was still on the Dutchman - as if the smell hadn't already given that away - in the cabin she'd shared with James. The pillow beneath her face still smelled like him, which only made everything worse.
"You see, I expected you to make trouble, potentially even to disappear - perhaps to go running in search of Jack Sparrow, or some other such nonsense. In which case your husband would either foolishly join you, or be left here, deciding where it was his loyalties rested. I'll even admit to being rather curious as to which choice he'd make."
The medic stepped away, and Beckett used that as an opportunity to step into the place he'd vacated, then going further and taking it upon himself to sit down at the foot of the bed, like they were old friends having a gossip at a sleepover.
"Imagine my surprise when I received word from Mercer - that your husband had absconded with Miss Swann, leaving you behind and on death's door. It seemed all of that Irish charm finally ran out. Perhaps it grew tiresome, I can see how that may have been the case."
He didn't need to remind her of any of this. Unlike the last time she'd flirted with consciousness, this time she remembered everything upon waking. Although she was contemplating smacking her head into the bed frame until she could forget - or at least aggravating her wound a bit more, because the pain that gave way to left little space for thought at all, and the way the noise gave way to agonising thoughtlessness was a nice wee break.
"I wonder - did he ever stop loving Miss Swann at all? Were you just a necessary diversion while she gallivanted with Turner? Or did old feelings resurface once you lost your novelty?"
"Shut the fuck up, you pathetic little pillock of a man," she ground out.
It felt good to say. As good as anything could feel right about now, anyway. Right up until he chuckled.
"Mm. Yes. Quite right, it's none of my business. Although in all likelihood, the former Admiral Norrington now considers himself a widower, and is unaware of the impediment that you still pose to his and Elizabeth's happiness. What becomes of that is also none of my business - although it matters not, considering all of them will soon be dead."
"The wound is stable, Lord Beckett, although inflammation and fever may set in if it's not seen to soon."
"No matter, we'll have what we need before then. And the other thing?"
"I…I'm hardly trained in such matters, sir. I've only ever attended male patients…"
"Your best guess, then," Beckett replied impatiently.
The medic sighed, speaking quietly "I could detect no sign of life."
"Hm. Shame. You're dismissed."
Theo listened silently as the medic stepped from the room and the door creaked shut behind him. Beckett remained, and she stayed curled up.
"When your maid told me that you were with child, I wasn't sure how much use the information would be, but I found it interesting. Especially when you insisted on coming with us - I'd thought it must be important, if you were willing to risk it in your condition."
What? Why would Hattie tell him that? Had she made it up to get him off her back? It didn't make any sense. But Beckett clearly thought it was a weapon in his arsenal, and Theo didn't want to disarm him of it and send him searching for something else - something with a sharper edge, no less.
"Well, you've paid the price now, and I have a piece of information that is…if not valuable, then certainly useful to unveil at the suitable moment. Tell me, is it your heritage that makes you value the life of your offspring less than a dog might, or is it the other part of your origins?"
Throughout his nausea-inducing monologue - one that she was fairly certain was at least as much for his benefit as it was for hers, if not more so - Theo only half listened. The thoughts in her mind were much louder, much more terrible, and much more demanding of her energy. Until his last little sentence snagged her attention. Because it almost sounded like…
Forgetting her pain as much as she could, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him. The satisfaction on his face said it all. He knew. He fucking knew.
"You see, I had a very interesting discussion with Jones - once he'd ascertained your fall from grace, and suspected that I may not be as in the know as he'd previously assumed. That was when he made a gift of these."
Something slapped down onto the pillow behind her head, and she didn't need to look to know exactly what it was.
"The enemy of my enemy truly is my friend, it appears."
"You haven't got any friends."
"I've more than you," he replied, unbothered.
Maybe she shouldn't have been acting this way - okay, she definitely should not have been acting this way. Even now her brain was working overtime, as it had done since she'd arrived in this sodding world, to come up with potential cover stories. The first was the most believable, but one she refused to even consider putting forward; that James had been the one to desert, and that she, perfectly loyal to "the good guys", was simply there to try and stop it from happening. That Bootstrap, even if he'd given some kind of eyewitness testimony, had been confused and failed to understand what was truly happening. It was the most believable option, and even that didn't have a ring of truth to it.
The only other thing that she could come up with was that it was some elaborate plan - that James was going undercover on the other side, on a mission that would make the likes of James Bond crap his pants. That was even less believable than the other idea. And, truly, even if she thought Beckett would ever believe another word she said (for it still left the matter of the photographs to still explain, as she'd once again been revealed to be a liar), she didn't have it in her. Not at all.
What packed huge hulking shards of rock salt into the wound was how her brain kept replaying that kiss - that world-ending fucking kiss - in her mind. Even in all of her nightmares, the possibility of that still happening never occurred to her at all. Why did she feel daft because of that? For not foreseeing it? Mostly because she had no reason to foresee it. That…that wasn't James. James was loyal - unerringly so. Vows were the exact sort of thing he took so seriously that even if he was indifferent towards her, he still wouldn't break them by kissing another woman. And she knew that he was not indifferent towards her.
The fact remained, though, that it had happened. Kisses did not happen accidentally - not without some level of intent from at least one party. So either a woman she'd viewed as a friend had kissed her husband, the two of them had kissed each other, or her husband had kissed her friend. She ranked them like that - from most to least likely, and she still hated every single possibility. And the deep, ripping agony that the mental image produced in her chest every single time it popped up in her mind didn't lessen for how many times she'd now seen it.
What if he was curious, though? Only for a moment? Wondering what might have been? If the grass was greener on the other side? The one that held the easier option. The proper option?
Those thoughts, insidious and cloying, were less thoughts at all than they were fears. She knew them for what they were the moment they tried to gnaw on her, and she refused to seriously entertain them. No. Either it had been a momentary fit of madness on both of their parts…or it had been Elizabeth. Both hurt like shit. The first hurt rather more. The wound below her belly button hurt most. And all of it was quickly sapping her will to fight - like her body knew that her goal, the goal throughout the last year and more, was done, and now it didn't need to give her any energy anymore.
It was defeatist. It was pathetic. She knew all of that, and yet she couldn't muster a will to fight. All she could do was curl up here, riding the waves of nauseating pain that shook through her, cold sweat trickling down her face and into her tangled hair. Beckett rose to his feet, his tone business-like as he posed his next question.
"This…place. The one you come from. The future?"
Even as she lay there, intent on giving up, bits and pieces of her dad's hard-earned wisdom drifted through her mind. Keep your answers as close to the truth as possible, divert from that only where necessary. It was advice he'd mentioned once or twice before, and she'd mostly only remembered it because it seemed useful for teenage mischief-related lies. Even then, he'd always managed to sniff them out.
But, although interrogation training was hardly something he'd ever seen fit to train her for, if all the other things he'd taught her were to be called training, there was one other piece that had always stuck out in her mind. Don't give them nothing. If you give nothing, you're useless to them. Then you get a bullet in the head. It had been less direct advice, and more a gripe he'd made about the inaccuracies in some war movie or another - the sort where the main character said nothing but, thanks to plot armour, saw no consequences for that fact.
"But then how'd you know what to tell them?" she'd asked, mostly out of curiosity.
"Ah, that's the trick. You've got to consider what it is you're telling them - and quickly. Give 'em nothing and you die. Give 'em the wrong thing, and your brothers die."
Beckett already knew she was from elsewhere. And he knew she knew more than she'd ever truly let on. She might not have had it in her to fight, but she didn't want to die either. So she'd have to play ball. As best she could.
"Yeah," she breathed "Sort of."
"How far in the future?" he peered down at her like the answer might be written on her forehead.
"Almost three…three hundred years."
"When did you come to be here?"
Talking and breathing at the same time was proving difficult - to the extent that she was almost thankful when he spoke, for it gave her a chance to try to collect herself. Try being the operative word.
"When Ja…When the Interceptor found me adrift. Went to bed at home…woke up - fuck…woke up on a piece of driftwood."
It was like period pain from hell, times a billion, and every breath in or out aggravated it further.
"How?"
"I don't know."
"Hm. And how do you know of all that occurs here, then? A historian in this future, are you?"
It would be easier to answer his questions - and decide whether she should answer them - if he'd be good enough to keep them fairly short.
"There are stories. Famous stories. Everybody knows them."
"Stories of me?"
A bitter, pained smile stretched her chapped lips there as she breathed a laugh - because she knew he wouldn't like the answer "Stories of Jack."
Beckett's lip curled.
"What was your goal? To sabotage me? To bring about my demise?"
"Would…" she sucked in a deep breath and forced out the sentence all in one "Would you like that more or less than if I told you my goal had nothing to do with you at all?"
Oh, he didn't like that at all.
"What was the goal, then?"
Had she fucked up in admitting that there had been a goal? No. No - probably not. He'd have been able to work that out for himself any day of the week. She wouldn't have done all of this without a goal. She wasn't a masochist - she may have doubted that assertion during her time here, but the way she was praying to anything that would listen to make the pain in her abdomen stop spoke for itself.
What could she tell him? The truth? Would it be such a revelation? She loved her husband, she'd be devastated if anything happened to him, and she'd do anything to prevent it. None of that should be news, should it? But could confirmation of it still be a weapon in Beckett's hands?
"Elizabeth," she answered instead "Freeing her from the Dutchman."
"That was what you did all of this for? Miss Swann?" he scoffed "I'd believe that from your husband, but not from you."
Theo forced herself not to react - because it was designed to provoke a reaction.
"No matter, it makes no difference now," he hummed "But what of what comes next?"
She said nothing.
"Who is it that wins in the end? In the version of events that you know of? What happens next? Will I succeed in wiping them out once and for all? The fact that these stories centre around Jack suggests not, doesn't it?"
Fuck.
"The stories are about his life…and how he dies," she murmured "I was hoping to change that, too."
Once again, not technically a lie, either. It just so happened that Jack died one whole movie ago, and she did manage to change it.
"How? How does he die? What do I do? What do I have planned?"
His questions were gaining an edge to them now - not curiosity, nor even desperation, but challenging. He didn't believe her.
"I don't remember."
"Liar."
"I don't! It's been- it's been years since I had a chance to check up on the source material…I don't know…it wasn't you that I was ever focused on, it was James…and I've changed so much just by living here"
"Well, we could remedy that."
"It's already changed. No going back…no remedying."
"Will the Brethren leave their little den of iniquity? Will Turner succeed in coaxing them out from the inside?"
"Yes."
God, she hoped so.
"And what then?"
"I don't know."
"And I do not believe you, Mrs Norrington."
"Then we're at an impasse, aren't we?"
"Are we?" he gave a small smile that would've been almost pleasant had she not known him better than that - and then he took a single step back from the bed and called out "Mr Mercer."
Inhaling sharply, Theo tried to sit up - if she could lean up on her elbows, she could drag the rest of her body up afterwards, or she could grab onto the headboard and pull, surely she could manage just tha- The plan was scuppered when lifting her shoulder blades from the bed sent shockwaves of agony through her abdomen, and she flopped back onto the bed like a beached fish.
"Do stay still, Theodora, you'll aggravate your wound," Beckett said "May I call you Theodora? I don't believe I asked."
You may go fuck yourself, Cutler.
"I'm telling…Jesus Christ- I'm telling you the truth!"
"I suppose we'll find out, won't we?"
His point was punctuated by Mercer stepping into the room, a horrifyingly pleased smirk on his weather-beaten face. He held a small leather roll - the sort she'd seen medics carry about the ship.
Theo would not beg. She refused to beg. But Christ, how she wanted to beg. It wouldn't make a difference - she reminded herself of that when the terror bubbled up through her chest, and when the sweat on her brow had more to do with fear than pain. Beckett wanted her to beg. If she did so, it wouldn't change a thing, and she'd just make him happy. She refused to make Cutler Beckett happy.
She refused to look as Mercer unfurled the roll on the bedside table, because looking would mean knowing, and knowing wouldn't help. If all else failed, she could focus on the pain in her abdomen, right? Surely no pain could be worse than that. She wasn't starting off with a clean, painless slate, so maybe that would make a difference? Her choice wasn't pain or no pain, it was just pain or a different kind of pain.
Mercer whistled cheerfully to himself as he picked through whatever accoutrements he'd brought with him. Who did he think he was? Mr Blonde from Reservoir Dogs? Would he dance next?
"I'm telling you the truth," her voice shook as she said it again, and her hands had started to go terribly cold.
It was probably a wonder she felt it when Mercer brought the pliers to her fingertip, clasping the tip firmly onto the tip of her pinky nail, like they were nail clippers and he was about to trim it for her. Why had she sworn at him when she first woke up? Why did she try to play the big man? Why did she open her stupid bloody mouth?
Beckett stared at her dispassionately "What is the first move of the pirates in the fight that lies ahead?"
"I don't know, Lord Beckett, I swear to you I don't know," her voice cracked as she lied.
And then Mercer began to pull.
Even after all that he'd seen, Shipwreck Cove was like nothing James could have imagined. And yet he remained unimpressed by it. In fact, he spent much of the final stretch of their journey towards the great ramshackle mass in the centre of the cove feeling Theodora's absence even more sharply than before, for all that he knew might be occurring now if she was here. He'd wrinkle his nose at the sight before them, she would admonish and tease him for being unimpressed, likely to hide her own nerves at being reunited with all of the scum who likely still blamed her for their every woe.
Of course, if they did not then it would be because Sparrow was there. She'd tease him over that possibility, too. Then he'd scoff and insist that Sparrow was likely halfway across the world by now, despite how he'd secretly hope the man had done the right thing for once. By the time he was done plaguing himself with this version of reality, he'd been forced to direct his gaze upwards to dispel any tears that tried to blur his vision. He could not cry - not now, and certainly not here.
Elizabeth watched his process in its entirety in silence - she had not tried to speak to him again since those first few moments on deck after…everything. That decision was one realm in which he had no quarrel with her. Despite how he tried to stop himself how things would unfurl if Theodora was walking by his side, he could almost hear her laughing at him as they walked into the bowels of the meeting place of the Brethren Court.
"Might I point out that we are still short one pirate lord, and I'm as content as a cucumber to wait until Sao Feng joins us."
Sparrows voice greeted them as they progressed in towards the meeting room, and James' nostrils flared while his jaw clenched in response to it almost on instinct. There was never a day when he particularly wished to deal with Sparrow, but if there was ever to be a worst possible day, this would be it.
"Sao Feng is dead," it was Elizabeth who made their presence known, walking at the head of the group "He fell to the Flying Dutchman."
The response that brought about was immediate, the room flying into an uproar as each pirate lord began to offer up their outrage. Elizabeth ignored it, stabbing her sword into the globe the room boasted before continuing on towards the table.
"He made you captain?" Sparrow protested "They're just giving the bloody title away now."
Elizabeth ignored him, and James was lucky enough to be the next recipient of Sparrow's attention, catching sight of him at the back of the group.
"Ah! Speaking of giving titles away - Jim! Good to see you, mate. Where's Dora? I have some particularly insufferable gloating to do over my not running away, and I plan to start it as soon as possible, so if you could just-"
"Jack," it was Elizabeth who cut in, James deigning to do little other than fixing him with a dead-eyed stare.
Sparrow turned to her, mouth already poised to make one of his so very clever remarks, but then he caught the look on her face, and the almost non-existent shake of her head that she gave…and his mouth slowly closed. Under other circumstances, James might've been smug for the solemnity that overcame Sparrow's face then, his eyes darting back to him, seeing his face, and his dark eyes growing heavy. All of his usual excess was gone.
"Bugger," he cursed quietly, eyes lowered as he took a moment to comprehend that fact "I'm sorry, mate. Truly. She was a good lass. We'll drink to her - after this."
During the course of Sparrow's condolences, such as they were, Elizabeth's attention was diverted by her fiance and a reunion that could best be described as tense. James cared not - for Sparrow continued to speak to him.
"How did she go?" he asked.
He frowned at that - he couldn't help it. Those sort of questions were not the sort that he would expect Sparrow to ask.
"Saving my life," he ground out.
And then Sparrow nodded - like it was the answer he'd been seeking. Like it made sense.
"Did you know? Did she tell you? You?!"
A few heads turned towards them with half-hearted interest as James' voice rose without his full intention. But he didn't care.
"I resent that tone, mate, really I do," even his usual inane jokes were half-hearted "But to answer your - rather aggressive - question, yes and no. I knew - not that she was going to…well…but what she planned on doing for you. She never told me, though. Not 'til I worked it out meself. I raised those suspicions when we were on that beach, waiting for you and the good Governor Swann, and she admitted it. After a bit of prodding. Made me swear up and down not to let on to you, too. Threats of violence were involved. Couldn't risk you stopping 'er, I reckon."
It was difficult to say which part of that revelation James found most difficult to contend with, for they both added an edge to the blade that still continued to hack at his insides. Sparrow had puzzled it out where he had not - likely with fewer hints than he'd received. And she'd admitted it. To him. And then James had strode onto the beach and spoken with the two of them with no clue any of it had happened.
To his left, around the other side of the table, he caught snippets of Elizabeth and Turner's conversation through the arguments that were taking place all around them.
"On our side all along….working against Beckett…fell during the escape…"
"Fell? How?"
It was then that James joined the conversation, calling across the table with a sneer "By the hand of your father."
The fact that the two of them had never liked each other much was hardly a secret, and it was displayed now, too, in how Turner scoffed his disbelief and then turned to Elizabeth as if expecting her to refute the claim. She only frowned and lowered her gaze.
"My father would never-" he began to argue, but James left that squabble to Elizabeth - Turner's denial interested him not.
"I didn't know it was him until Norrington told me this morning," she began to explain "He didn't appear to be in his right mind, Will, I…"
When he returned his attention to Sparrow, he was somewhat surprised to find him still there.
"Governor Swann. When did you last see him?"
"Two weeks ago, maybe more," Sparrow answered "Bound for Antigua. Said the governor there is an old friend."
"Lieutenant-Governor Byam," James nodded "Miss Swann is acquainted with his daughters."
He'd be safe there. As lieutenant-governor, Byam was technically ranked below Governor Swann in these parts regardless - but if they could rely on that alone, James would be worried. Beckett's insidiousness reduced rank and loyalty to little. But Byam was old fashioned, and he didn't suffer fools - nor jumped up lords getting above their station for a bit of glory. He'd keep Weatherby safe on pure principle, and Beckett didn't have the excuse of any of the Miss Byams associating with pirates to sink his claws into Antigua.
James didn't have it in him to view it as the great victory he may once have, but it was still a relief. It was something.
With every moment that it was left unchecked, the arguments around the table only gained vigour and volume both, until Elizabeth called above it.
"Listen - listen to me! It's only a matter of time before Lord Beckett finds us."
There were multiple scoffs of scorn in response, but Turner spoke up.
"He has Jack's compass. It could very well be leading him here as we speak."
"You left him with the compass?" Barbossa stared at Sparrow in disbelief.
"Wasn't much time to call on him and pick it up amidst all of the escaping," Sparrow argued.
"Jones is under the command of Beckett, and they're sure to be on their way here," Elizabeth finished.
"How long do we have?" Mistress Ching asked.
James recognised her through reputation alone - there were no shortage of stories surrounding her, a former prostitute who ended up becoming one of, if not the most formidable pirates to sail any waters, not just the Pacific Ocean. In fact, he could recognise most gathered here, if he took context clues into account, as well as a wanted poster or two. He had been very good at his job.
"It matters not, the question is what will we do when they do get here?" Barbossa said.
"We fight," Elizabeth said adamantly.
Laughter erupted all about them, and James did not have it in him to empathise with the indignance that brought about on Elizabeth's face, as he may have once.
"Shipwreck Cove is a fortress," Mistress Ching argued, rising to her feet as she spoke "A well-supplied fortress. There is no need to fight if they cannot get to us."
The murmurs seemed to agree. James watched the proceedings with a curled lip. These were the people he'd worked so hard throughout his life to put an end to? The ones the stories were about? While he'd hardly ever thought highly of them, he hadn't expected them to be such cowards. Self-serving, yes. But not quite so pathetic. As he surveyed the crowd, his eyes drifted to Turner who had a frown on his face, and seemed to be wrestling with something.
"Theodora…" as he spoke up, he met James' eye and faltered, but then pushed on after clearing his throat "Theodora Byrne-"
"Norrington, officiated it meself," Sparrow cut in, and earned himself a black look from Turner.
James didn't so much as turn his head towards him, though, his gaze fixed on the former blacksmith instead.
"She advised me on this once. Hinted."
"Sparrow's witch? The one who got all of those men killed?" Ammand snorted "Whatever her advice is, I say we do the opposite."
"Since then she saved Jack's life twice, and saved my own this very night. Were it not for her, I'd be a pawn in the hands of Beckett as we speak."
James' jaw remained clenched. Hearing people speak of her - those who either hadn't known her at all, or had not known her as he had - was somehow worse than the world pressing on as though she had never existed in the first place, or as though she were still here.
"What did Theodora tell you?" he spoke up properly for the first time - and ignored the glares his mere presence drew.
Turner faltered once again, and James' eyes narrowed "She said that if it came to it, we should fight. And that if we did, we would win."
He was lying. James didn't know how he knew it, but he did. Why would Theodora say so to Turner, of all people?
"She be your witch, Jack. What say you?" Barbossa prodded.
Sparrow turned to James at the same time that he mirrored the action.
"She be his wife - what say him?" Sparrow countered.
James scoffed and rolled his eyes. And then he took the split second he had to think about it, and he answered.
"Turner tells the truth," he said flatly "She said much the same to me."
Before he'd spoken, Turner had appeared all but defeated - and if James hadn't known him to be a liar, he'd have known it for certain when he saw the confusion in his eyes in response to James' agreement. James paid it no mind, though. If Turner had half a brain, he'd understand. Had it been Elizabeth in Theodora's place, he'd understand.
If the Brethren ruled that they would cower and hide, James would be stuck here with them. If they fought, he'd get his day with Beckett - with Mercer, with Jones, with the senior of the Turners, with all of them. He'd get his revenge.
"Dora did make certain implications to me that if it came to a fight, we would win," Sparrow offered "I'm inclined to believe 'er."
"Where is this witch, then? Let her fight her case herself, if her point is sérieux."
It was a Frenchman who spoke this time - Chevalle, he'd say, were he a gambling man - adorned with the sort of wig that would've no doubt had Theodora commenting that maybe James' wasn't so bad after all. The thought had him almost smiling, and that had him feeling worse.
In response to the question, Elizabeth looked to him as though offering up the opportunity to explain. James ignored the look, and said nothing.
"She died. Tonight. Furthering our cause," Elizabeth answered finally.
Her words prompted yet more grumbling - and a few callous cries of 'we're to trust the word of a witch who couldn't even keep himself alive?!', which had James utilising every shred of willpower he had so that he would not draw his sword. Losing his temper would not avenge her. Staying calm would. Eventually.
Mr Byrne's words still weighed heavily on James' mind - and while it would, strangely, be easier to dismiss them as blind hope or denial, something would not allow him to do so. Perhaps that was his own blind hope and denial speaking. But Theodora's father was a fellow soldier. He knew loss, and he knew senseless loss at that. James trusted his instincts on the matter more than he would most others. And still, it would be easier to mark it down as an unwillingness to accept the harsh truth, were it not for Achtland. For she would not show him a body, and some part of him still screamed that it was because there was no body to show.
He didn't dare believe it…but he also did not dare reject the possibility in its entirety. It was possible for him to entertain the notion without accepting it, was it not? And, were it true, it meant that she was in the hands of Mercer. Or Beckett, or Jones, or some combination of the three.
Still, the outcome was the same. They could not remain cooped in here. He had to get to Beckett - either to get his wife back, or to shoot the man in the face. One and then the other, in an utterly ideal world. But he'd long since outgrown the notion that this world was an ideal one.
"There be a third course," Barbossa was the one to bring the court back to order "In another age, at this very spot, the First Brethren Court captured the sea goddess and bound her in her bones…"
James fell to the back of the room, grimacing his disgust as Barbossa laid out his proposal. He'd had his fill of these pagan deities to last him a lifetime.
A/N: Byam was the name of the actual Lieutenant Governor of Antigua during this time period. Fun fact. So, regarding the Brethren Court scene. After the point where I left off, I imagine it would go on to shake out pretty much how it did in the movies, and I really didn't see the point of just typing up the movie scene word for word with a few of James' sarcastic inner comments to go along with it, so I hope nobody minds me leaving it where I did. Also, I've missed Jack.
Finally, I'm absolutely choosing to imply Theo's torture rather than showing it happening as it happens. It would be too grim, we get that she's suffering, and there'd be no real reason for it in this particular story other than gratuitous grimness, which I'm not a big fan of. This isn't Hostel. We'll see the aftermath, and it's necessary for how things shake out in the next couple of chapters, and I just really can't see Mercer not doing it given the information she has at her, uh, fingertips.
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