A/N: Just saying quickly because of a concern that was raised — nothing happening to Theo at the hands of Mercer is sexual. Not going down that road! Don't worry :) it's not something I have any interest in portraying in any of my stories (one of the few ways I'm not taking inspiration from Outlander here), and I also just don't think it's something Mercer would have done here, anyway.

Also, this chapter features the return of the king (and I don't mean James…or Elizabeth...or Aragorn - although wouldn't that be a hell of a plot twist?). This could've technically been one bigger chapter, joined with the next one, but we're all for stretching things out a bit and the pacing worked better this way so…here we go.

By the time Mercer was finished, Theo could feel her pulse pounding in the tips of every finger on her right hand, burning and throbbing with an intensity that did nothing to help her fight the urge against vomiting everywhere. Maybe she already had, she wasn't sure. What she could be sure of was the cool, light relief that washed over her when she heard Mercer open the door and step out into the hallway, although it was difficult to hear much of what he said afterwards over the hammering of her heart.

"…she said…might be telling the truth…as sure as I can be…unless you want me to…"

She was saved from hearing Mercer's next twisted suggestion by the rush of footfalls towards her - although she shied away from them on instinct, flinching right up until she managed to crack her eyes open to find Hattie staring down at her in horror.

"They wouldn't let me in, I couldn't stop them - I'm so sorry," she breathed, her eyes flitting from her hand, to her abdomen, and then to her face, dismay widening her eyes more and more with each glance until they were the size of dinner plates.

"What are they saying?" Theo rasped, jerking her head in the direction of Beckett and Mercer as they convened in the hall outside.

Luckily - or maybe unluckily - they didn't seem to have much interest in speaking quietly, and Hattie didn't have her body screaming at her to contend with as she tried to listen. Theo closed her eyes again. Even keeping them open amplified everything. Who knew that sight could be noisy?

"Beckett's saying he wants you in a skiff and with him when he convenes with the pirates," Hattie whispered after a few moments, pausing to listen again "Mercer doesn't seem to think it's a good idea. I…I think he intends to give you back to them."

Theo wanted to ask questions. So many questions. Few of them would probably be coherent. But asking them would stop Hattie from hearing, so she gritted her teeth and continued to breathe. That alone felt like a major victory.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sir?" Hattie whispered Mercer's words to her, moments after he said them "Norrington will be out for revenge. Might be…might be cleaner to throw her overboard now."

Theo's good hand shook. Her bad one might have, too, but she couldn't feel much of it.

"Norrington has…" Hattie trailed off, and then forced herself to continue on, repeating Beckett's answer now "Norrington has Miss Swann. Revenge mightn't be a priority of his, but having him see what his decisions last night brought about for his wife will still dampen his stomach for the fight ahead. Have you ever fought men who thought victory was theirs? It's not easy. No doubt she's told the pirates that. Now, have you ever fought men who knew they would be defeated? Let her go to them, let her tell them everything we pried out of her. Let her decimate their morale before the fight has even begun. Let Norrington die knowing his line ends with him. Let him go into this battle a man broken."

The more horrible shit he said, the more Hattie stopped hesitating to repeat it, quickly growing as numbed to it as Theo already was.

Mercer spoke again, and Hattie continued to whisper "And if she's lying?…And now Beckett just said that they can test if you are at the start of everything, and then plan their next move accordingly."

Another pause, and then Hattie murmured "I think they're making preparations now. We're getting you out of here, Theodora, but you need to hang on."

Two hours ago - even one hour ago - she'd have cried with relief at that. But now she knew she had to go and tell all of her friends that she'd just secured their defeat, through sheer inability to keep her fucking mouth shut.

"Why do they think I was pregnant, Hattie?" She breathed "Why did you tell them that?"

"I know you hadn't announced it yet, but I worked it out for myself, and I thought that in telling him I'd be giving him information that was ultimately useless, and that would soon come out regardless," Hattie replied "I…I also hoped that he'd be gentler with you, considering. Which was foolish of me. I knew him unpleasant, but this? I never could have imagined…"

Theo couldn't blame her for that. She'd seen the damn movies, and even she was stunned by the depths of Beckett's psychopathy. He'd have made a hell of a CEO in her time.

"It's all right," she murmured "I don't think he'd be sending me back to them if he didn't think it'd give him the opportunity to tell James himself."

Sure, he'd still have the delight of telling them all that she'd spilled the beans as to their victory, but the tidbit about the fictitious dead baby was right up Beckett's alley, and probably made it much too irresistible to deny himself the pleasure of it. The sick bastard.

Theo took a deep breath in, and she hoped. Although what she hoped for, even she did not know.

When Theodore Groves next set his eyes on Theodora Norrington, he could not believe his eyes. Then, when he finally began to comprehend what he was seeing, he missed the small period of time where his shock was able to soften the blow. Ashen-faced and barely conscious, her right hand was wrapped haphazardly in crimson-stained gauze, which she held cradled and trembling to her chest. Her shirt - for she was dressed as a man - was bloodied, too, although this blood was older and browner.

She walked (to use the word loosely) across the gangplank between the Dutchman and the Endeavour, supported by Hattie on one side and a soldier on the other, her boots dragging more than stepping. Hattie was considerably gentler with her efforts to help.

"What did they do? Was it Jones?" Groves strode up to them, directing his second question to Hattie when it was clear that Theodora was barely aware of his presence at all "Where is Admiral Norrington?"

"It wasn't Jones," the maid shook her head, face almost as pale as her employer's "It was…"

She trailed off, her eyes seeking out somebody on deck and her mouth falling shut when she found them. Groves followed her line of sight, and stared in mingled disbelief and dismay when they landed on Mr Mercer, chatting to Lord Beckett with a smirk on his face. It was only when his stare turned to Hattie, and he found her looking every bit like a green soldier who'd just seen his first taste of battle, that Groves began to believe what she'd told him.

Theodora trembled where she stood, and Hattie shifted uncomfortably under her weight "I have to get her to the skiff - he…he wants to take her to the parlay."

Groves had little idea what to say in response to that. He had little idea of what to say at all, save for moving to Theodora's free side and shouldering some of her weight himself. She grunted in pain, but otherwise barely reacted as they slowly walked her over to the skiff, where Groves then took it upon himself to carefully set her down within. Pausing by the side of the boat, Hattie shot a look back to Mercer, and then she reached into her apron and presented a handkerchief.

"Here," she murmured.

"What's this?" Groves frowned, his eyes flickering between her and Theodora, whose eyes barely flickered open not that she no longer had to focus on standing upright.

"I…you'll see…I just have a feeling…you should have them."

That was all the explanation he'd be getting, it seemed, and he could not question her further when others began to approach the boat - Beckett, Jones, and some despondent member of Jones' crew. Jones looked as murderous as he always did whenever Groves set eyes on him, but the barest hints of a pleased smirk flickered across his sickly green features when he saw the sorry state of Theodora, huddled in the bottom of the boat like spare cargo. Groves never thought he'd see her looking worse than she did when they'd first met - or when they'd rescued her, Sparrow, and Miss Swann from that island over a year ago. Where was Admiral Norrington? What the bloody hell was going on?

"Lieutenant, don't you have your duties to attend to?" Beckett asked him coolly, and Groves stepped back.

It was only when the skiff was being lowered down towards the water that he turned his gaze to the handkerchief Hattie had given him, and unfurled it to see what lay inside. Fingernails - five of them, so bloodied that it took him a moment to discern what he was looking at. Groves' chest clenched. Then, after a moment of thought - perhaps following the same gut instinct that had Hattie giving them to him in the first place - he wrapped them back up again, and slid them into the pocket of his uniform.

The dawn rose on a dull grey day, and James greeted it with the utmost begrudgement on the deck of the Black Pearl. Preparations were underway for the battle that lay ahead, but he made no move to involve himself in them. He wasn't interested in much other than revenge, and he'd have to wait for that.

"'Ere, mate," it was Sparrow that broke him from his bloodlust-laden thoughts, pushing a bottle of rum into his hand and keeping one for himself "As promised."

James grimaced down at the bottle, but Sparrow was already waxing poetic.

"To Theodora," he raised his bottle "Good woman, good pirate, good humour…middling taste in men."

Breathing a laugh utterly devoid of humour, James sighed and took a swig, grateful that - for the time being, at least - he'd cried himself dry. The world would truly be coming to an end the day he found himself sobbing on the shoulder of Jack Sparrow. Still, hearing others speak of her was almost as bad as the world carrying on as though she'd never existed at all. It had him wanting to rail and scream that they had not known her. Not as he had. But he pushed down that urge every time, for it would not get him what he wished for.

"You know," Sparrow said, leaning on the rail "When I first met Dora, she-"

He was saved from any reminiscing before it really began when a cry broke through the air and was echoed across all ships in this ramshackle fleet of theirs.

"Sails!"

The thud of boots on deck rang out across each ship, like a low gentle rumble of thunder, as captains and crew alike strode to their respective bows to peer out at the horizon, cloaked in mist. There were sails - ones that appeared starkly white in comparison to those that flew above most on this side of the battlefield - and James knew them instantly. The Endeavour. His hand wandered to the hilt of his sword of its own volition, as battle cries began to ring out.

They died off rather quickly when more sails began to poke their way through the mist - until the number doubled, tripled, and quadrupled beyond count. Then there was only silence, as all slowly realised exactly what it was that they were taking on. James didn't balk - James had already known, and he didn't care. His grip on his sword tightened.

"Cap'n!" Gibbs cried out.

Barbossa and Sparrow turned their heads to the man in unison. It spoke to the gravity of the situation that they did not bicker over titles now.

"Beckett's signalling - parlay!"

In a moment of jarring perfect unison, James and Jack both frowned and then regarded one another. That was not like Beckett. Not at all. Not…unless he had a bargaining chip.

"Take me with you," he said to Sparrow, rounding on him.

The pirate stared at him with wide, dark eyes as he faltered, replying weakly "I don't know if that's my call, mate."

When James turned to seek out Elizabeth's attention on the deck, he found her already watching him - his exchange with Sparrow having caught her attention. She was their Pirate King, if she said so, no other could argue. But he wouldn't beg. Instead, he remained where he was, stared at her intently, and tilted his head in a way that said 'you owe me this much'. He would row the boat to this little meeting if he had to, if that was what it took to secure him a place in this meeting, but he would be in it.

Even if his hope was fruitless, even if this meeting was geared towards Turner and whatever bargain he and Beckett had struck between them - as he was already realising it very well could be - it would still give James a much clearer shot at Beckett than any ensuing battle might. It was still a chance.

Elizabeth relented with a pinched frown and a nod, and James was already striding towards the skiff that was being prepared.

James did end up rowing. For the most part he minded not - the energy that it necessitated was a welcome release for all of the anger, grief, and even the anxiety that bubbled in within him, and if he kept his gaze cast firmly downwards he did not have to see the strange looks being levied his way. As far as his pistol was concerned, wet powder was no longer an issue. He was a quick shot - he was certain he could kill Beckett so long as he took his chance and did not fail the first time, for there would not be a second.

Doing so would cost him dearly. It would make a martyr of Beckett, and the pirates would not leave such a move unavenged. But he was not expecting his blind hope as to Beckett's motives for this parlay to bear fruit, and so he cared not. Right up until they reached the shallows around the sandbar, which was when he glanced up…and saw Elizabeth's wide-eyed stare of horror directed at something behind him.

Whipping his head around, James caught a glimpse of achingly familiar long crimson locks, and that was all he needed. He was up and out of the boat regardless of the fact that the water was still deep enough to come to his hips. There was a scramble somewhere behind him - likely to grab the oars, preventing them from following him out of the boat - but he paid it no mind, wading as quickly as he could out of the water and then all but sprinting across the sand, heart soaring.

She was alive - she was standing, so he knew Beckett hadn't simply brought her body to parade before them. She was alive, he had not lost her, she was well-

There was a certain kind of irony in the fact that the moment that last thought crossed his mind, he began to notice the details. The way Hattie stood beside her, one of Theodora's arms draped over her shoulders so that she could take on most of her weight (and it was truly most of her weight, judging by how the girl struggled), how her head lolled, rolling around on her neck whenever Hattie had to move to adjust her grip until it eventually lolled backwards, the hair which did not stick to her face falling back in tangled waves. She was pale. Very pale. Worryingly pale. And her eyelids flickered, but they did not open.

"Ah, Admiral Norrington. I thought you might be here. Although I suppose it's Mr Norrington now, treason and all."

James paid Beckett no mind - nor even the senior of the Turners, who lurked at Jones' side. Theodora was more balancing atop her legs than she was standing on them, the locking of her knees being the only thing keeping her upright. Occasionally one would threaten to buckle, and Hattie would readjust accordingly, often coming dangerously close to giving way beneath her weight herself before they found their balance again. Finally he was close enough to see how sweat rolled off her brow in droves, despite the fact that the day was barely even a warm one yet.

"Theodora," he breathed, stopping before her.

She barely offered a grunt in response. Every fresh realisation was like a blow to the chest, his eyes seeking out the wound to her abdomen - not difficult, given that they had not seen fit to change her out of her blood-stained clothing. But plenty of the blood was not brown but crimson - bright, vivid crimson, rivalling that of her hair, too fresh to have been spilled last night. Was she still bleeding? But how would it get all over her arm thus? That was when he noted the gauze crudely packed about her fingers, and that was when his own blood turned glacial.

It was her right hand, entirely red with blood and still cradled to her chest as though on instinct, and when James reached out to touch it - hardly daring to touch her at all, lest she vanish like some sort of spectre when he did - the stickiness denoted how fresh that blood was.

"Theodora," he said again, fingers snaking around her hand and into her palm.

The moment his grip tightened, though, she sprang to life, her breathing quickening and growing ragged as she fought to open her eyes.

"No- no!" She tried to scramble back, tearing free of both his grip and Hattie's.

It was difficult to say what was worse - how she recoiled from him, or wondering who it was who had put such fear in her that she saw them before her even when they were not present, for he hoped dearly that it wasn't him she was seeing before her. Although he could take a guess as to who she thought he was. But in her eagerness to break free, she had forgotten that her legs could not withstand her own weight, and she went tumbling down into the sand - where she cried out, her good hand flying to her abdomen. Hattie rushed to her side, kneeling down in the sand beside her prone form.

"I'm afraid Mrs Norrington wasn't particularly forthcoming with a few of the finer details as to what lay ahead. We found ourselves obliged to remedy that," Beckett said softly "I'm afraid the child did not survive. Although given what you now face, perhaps that's a mercy. It's certainly one less mongrel in the world."

He had little idea of what Beckett was saying beyond his first sentence, and it did not matter. James knew more than enough. It was then that he began to tremble almost as hard as his wife did - but with rage. Pure, unadulterated rage of the likes he'd never before felt in his life, white-hot and all consuming. His pistol was in his hand a moment later, and it was pointed squarely between Beckett's eyebrows in even less time than that.

Beckett stared down the barrel of the pistol, blinked dispassionately, and then looked back to James, meeting his gaze with a bored expression.

"I will kill you for this," James vowed.

The expression on Beckett's face did not shift - save for a smug smirk when the others finally caught up and Turner took it upon himself to seize James' wrist, forcing his pistol to point up into the air. He struggled against Turner, and almost won thanks to his advantage in height, right up until Sparrow joined the fray and held him still, a hand snaking beneath his left arm and up over his chest to hold him still.

"Let's not turn him into a martyr, eh, mate? I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for bullets to the nose before you know it."

James continued to struggle, and Elizabeth called above the skirmish "Norrington, stand down. Now isn't the time for this."

Biting out a growl, he turned his head and spat "You are not my king."

"Sir- Sir! Mr Norrington- oh, for the love of…James!"

Hattie's cries broke through the din, their heads turning - Beckett's only with mild interest, and Jones' with a sick smirk. It was impossible to say whether it was due to her energy no longer being expended on trying to stay upright and the pain that doing so brought about, the adrenaline from her panic and subsequent fall shocking her into reality, or just all of the shouting breaking through the fog she'd previously been trapped within.

This time when he struggled against their hold, Turner and Sparrow let their hands slip away from his person. James caught only a glimpse of the heavy, solemn looks that they directed towards his wife, and they threatened to respark the fury within his chest. They were looking at her like she was dying - and she was not. She would not. He refused to allow it.

Apparently content that their parlay would not be ended before it began by immediate murder, Turner turned to his father somewhere behind them, but James paid the exchange no mind. Theodora was trying to sit up - and failing - her breathing a rasping rattle, broken only by a murmur of his name.

"James?"

Her right hand was still cradled to her chest, but he took up her left as he fell to his knees beside her in the sand, and this time she did not shy away.

"I'm here," he confirmed.

An attempt at opening her eyes ended in a wince and a hiss of pain.

"Too bloody bright," she mumbled.

Grimacing, he lifted the hand that did not clasp hers and cupped it above her eyebrows, shielding her eyes from the daylight. When she opened them next, they were rimmed with red, stark against the icy blue-grey of her eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought you dead," he confessed.

She exhaled shakily "You...you weren't too far...off the mark."

"Don't say that, you will not die," he admonished sternly through gritted teeth before repeating his earlier vow to Beckett "But he will. I will kill him for this, Theodora. Both of them - all of them. Whatever it takes."

"Good," she breathed.

Her grip on consciousness was already waning once again.

"Right. Now that we've all our reunions out of the way - shall we begin?" Beckett called out to all gathered.

James clenched his jaw so hard, he was certain his teeth would shatter.

A/N: Next chapter is the parlay - the official spelling of parley is with an 'e', with 'parlay' being considered a stylised version - but in the OST for the third movie it's spelled as 'parlay' and so I defer to the canon. This one time. Because the canon also kills James, which means it may be discarded when convenient.

Anyway, this angst is all a lot, so I've been writing fills for Flufftober 2022 of Theo and James over on my Tumblr (esta-elavaris) – I'll post them on here once this story is done, but for now they're only over there if you want to have a gander. Part one is already up, but they should stack up quick considering there's a prompt for every day of the month and I don't want to still be filling them come 2023. I've pinned a masterpost to the top of my tumblr page linking to fills so far so they'll be easy to find!