Sorry it took me so long to post chapter 2. I have been to Italy and therefore didn't have access to the internet. Anyway, I'm back now, sun burnt and with several new chapters as well as loads of ideas ;-)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1, I was really delighted to find you liked it :-) Now, if you really want to make me happy, leave some tiny little comments for chapter 2 as well ...

Title: "Life Without A Compass"
Author: ladyofthesilent
Rating: hard R, maybe NC-17 (for later chapters)
Pairings: Jack/Elizabeth, some Will/Elizabeth and Elizabeth/others (implied)
Genre: Humour/Romance/Angst/General (probably a little bit of everything)
Warnings: Spoilers for CotBP and DMC
Disclaimer: The mouse? But I honestly believe Jack and Elizabeth are owned by no one but themselves ...
Summary: Charlotte has a hangover and Elizabeth feels inspired to talk a little about her childhood …
Status: Chapter 2 - Inebriation

Chapter 2 - Inebriation

Waking up with a headache was not a pleasant experience. Neither was waking up on the floor or waking up in the same dress you wore the day before. For Charlotte, things seemed even worse. Apart from waking up with a terrible headache, she was lying on the floor wearing the same dress she had put on more than twenty-four hours ago and she had no idea, whatsoever, where she was and how she had gotten there. The first thing that came to her mind was that she must have gotten off the island she had spent the night on – and strangely, the squirrels who had been her companions there had presumably disappeared as well, as had the lovely little lake filled with the most delicious wine.

She spent what seemed like hours pondering on her strange fate when a coconut fell right off a coconut tree and straight onto her head, making her finally realize that something was definitely wrong here. She looked up to the ceiling. There was no way a coconut tree would ever fit in here. But, on the other hand, she had never seen that kind of tree before, so one could never know …

"Miss Cowley? Lady Wentworth has me look for you because you haven't … Miss Cowley?"

And then a face appeared above her, a face which belonged to a woman with a strange headdress. Maybe she was in Singapore now and that was where you wore headdresses like that. But then, she hadn't been to Singapore either so how was she to know which kind of headdress …

"Oh my … Miss Cowley! What has happened? Are you all right?"

"Yes … but tell me, what did become of those dainty little squirrels?"

"Squirrels? I suppose they are outside in the park, Miss."

A park. So that was interesting …

Charlotte tried to turn her head but it hurt almost unbearably and so she decided to avoid every kind of future movement. The woman with the headdress, however, didn't seem to agree with that. Charlotte could see her face coming nearer. And then two hands pulled her up into a seated position.

"Do you think you can stand? You must have fallen out of your bed and hit your head on the night table. Maybe we should call a doctor …"

"I don't think we'll need to bother the doctor, Marianne. I rather think the young Miss needs a VERY SMALL AMOUNT of red wine with some whisked egg in it. And some breakfast, though I suppose she will refuse to eat it."

Another voice… And this one sounded strangely familiar, like she'd heard it before. Charlotte felt on the verge of remembering something crucial about her current state but her head still felt too heavy for anything but sitting on her neck.

"You can go now; I'll take care of her myself. And bring up some water!"

And then somebody else was holding her a little less careful and suddenly pulled her to her feet.

"I'm going to die!" Charlotte declared, convinced that her head wouldn't survive this rapid movement.

"No, you're not. That is … at least if you'd be the first person ever to die of a hangover."

"Hangover?" Charlotte croaked.

"Yes. Hangover. It's called like that when you had a wee bit too much to drink the day before. Which – undoubtedly – you had. It's not a very pleasant feeling, I grant you that. But I've known people who had much more to drink than you had yesterday. And most of them are still alive. Well, sort of."

And by that, she – whoever she was for Charlotte couldn't see her face or remember her name – made her sit down on the bed, still holding her steady.

"I think", the voice which was wearing a green dress said, "we should now clarify some elemental questions. Like, for example, who you are …"

Some hours and various household remedies later, Charlotte was feeling well enough to join the voice in green which – as she remembered now – was called Lady Elizabeth Wentworth for a little stroll along the extensive grounds attached to Chiswick Hall. Her head was still aching slightly and her mouth felt somewhat numb and dry, but the momentary loss of memory had disappeared almost completely and meanwhile she was even able to remember parts of what had happened the night before. This didn't do much to improve things, though. She had behaved like a common whore in one of those filthy taverns, pouring out her heart to a complete stranger while losing all good sense because of that vile drink called wine. There had never been another moment she had felt so ashamed of herself … well, maybe except for the afternoon she had backed away when Marius had tried to stick his tongue between her teeth. But never mind about that now.

"Lad… I mean, Elizabeth, I …"

"If this is just another attempt to apologize for what happened yesterday, I don't want to hear it. As I told you last time and the time before, there's no need to apologize for anything. You didn't hurt anyone – not even yourself, so what's the matter?"

"But …"

"No, listen …" Elizabeth looked as if she was trying to make her mind up to something, then continued. "When I got drunk – I mean, REALLY drunk – for the first time, I was stuck on an uninhabited island with a pirate called … no, let's talk about that later. In any case, we were alone, just the two of us and there was nothing to drink except for a fair supply of rum left there by a couple of rumrunners who had used the island as a hiding-place several years before. Now, that's a vile drink now, if you ask me," Elizabeth said, obviously having read Charlotte's mind. "Turns the most respectable men into complete scoundrels. However, it did work for me quite well, too. After several pulls from the bottle, we both were dancing around a large fire, singing a somewhat stupid song about …"

"You … and the pirate?" Charlotte asked, seemingly unable to digest what she had just heard.

Elizabeth smiled. The girl was beginning to get amusing even without the aid of alcohol. "Yes – me and the pirate. You know, he was a very handsome pirate with a nice singing voice. And he told me the most amazing stories of adventure, romance – and freedom." Charlotte noticed that Elizabeth was no longer looking at her but staring into a faraway past only she could see.

They stopped on a small clearing, the sunlight breaking through the trees and leaving bright sparkles on their dress and faces. Then, suddenly, Charlotte could see the girl who had been stranded on that fateful island so many years ago: a tall, gawky girl in a white chemise, her wet her sticking down her back, bare feet in the sand.

"And … what happened?"

Elizabeth looked at her, smiling dreamily like having just returned from a voyage to the Milky Way and back. "I can't remember," she replied, a trace of sadness in her voice. "I think we may have fallen asleep … but when I woke up, I was in his arms."

Charlotte's eyes widened in shock and her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something but then she closed it again.

"No, not that … you know – I KNOW nothing happened. At least, not of that kind… We were both fully clad so I suppose … yes, probably, I must've felt cold in the middle of the night and crawled next to him. And then he must have taken me into his arms. But when I woke up the next morning, I was just as shocked as you appear to be now. And do you know what I did?"

Hopefully, Elizabeth didn't really expect her to say anything, Charlotte looked up at her curiously.

"I looked at him, lying there on the white sand, sleeping and I panicked. There was only thing left on my mind: I had to destroy whatever had caused this situation."

"You killed him?"

"No", Elizabeth replied casually, seemingly unmoved by Charlotte's bold suspicion. "For the time being, it was enough to burn the rum."

"But what did become of the pirate? And how did you get the turtles tied together? Who found you after …" It bubbled out of the younger woman's mouth excitedly, but Elizabeth lifted her hand to command silence.

"Easy …", she smiled. "I don't think it's of any use to make an attempt at answering all of your questions in one go. But since we have more than enough time to retell everything that happens in the bible, I could tell you the whole story. If you're interested, that is ..."

Of course, Elizabeth knew all too well that Charlotte would be interested. The girl was already dying to hear more stories of filthy pirates, violent murder, and forbidden touches on exotic islands. And so, in a sunlight clearing in the midst of dignified Chiswick Park, a story which had bided its time in silence began to unfold itself – a story so unbelievable that even Elizabeth herself would have doubted its authenticity, had she not found herself right in the midst of it. After all, it was her story and, as such, she was going to tell it.

"As you might have guessed", she began, "I was born in England. Somerset, to be precise, at a place called Lowfield. I haven't returned there since we left after my mother's death but I can still remember what it was like there. It was not a big house – not as big as this one, anyway – but light and friendly with a beautiful garden. Whenever I think of this garden, I cannot help but think of my mother. She was a frail and rather small woman with dark hair and fair skin; the kindest, most soft-spoken woman anyone could imagine. My father admired her and I believe so did everybody else.

The garden was her own little world, a mock-up of the one out there she had always longed for to see but never could. My father was serving as an official at the Royal Court in London back then, spending most of his time in the city. Of course, my mother could have accompanied him there and I think he always hoped that one day, she would; but she hated London, its smothering heat in summer and its chilling cold in winter. She couldn't stand looking at the beggars populating its dirty streets, nor did she feel at ease with the grand circles my father's position would have allowed her to move in.

So she remained at Lowfield, deserted but happy with what she was left with. I was barely able to walk when she took me with her to the garden to teach me everything about the way the things of nature smelled, tasted and felt like. I learned that of two very similar looking leaves… one could feel like silk while the other cut like a knife. My eyes got used to not just seeing colour but many different shades of it. A cherry will never carry the same colour as a rowan-berry – and yet, both are red.

There were all kinds of fruit and vegetables in my mother's garden and she always took a paring knife with her so she could cut them into pieces small enough to fit into my mouth. I was fascinated by the many different tastes, ranging from bitter to sweet, from dull to salty. Throughout my whole life, I've carried with me an inborn curiosity of what things taste like – I still do. As does everyone else who dares to surrender to it.

When I grew older, she taught me about the innumerable flowers that grew in their neatly tended beds. Although I may not have been aware of this when I was a little girl, I am sure this was her way to teach me about the world and its people. "There are", she said, "flowers like the Lily of the Valley. They are beautifully scented, but at the same time, they are as poisonous as to kill a grown man. And of course, there are the majestic roses which can make you hurt with their thorns if you're not careful.

Others, like this one over there may look beautiful from afar but as soon as you go nearer, their smell will drive you away. This plant, which, by the way, carries the interesting name of "Love Lies Bleeding" seems boring and ugly now but just you wait a few weeks and it will blossom in the most colourful of ways."

I remember asking her how all these flowers could survive in winter for it had always appeared a little strange to me how something that obviously died in autumn could be back in spring. She thought about it for a while, then replied something along the lines of: "You see, not all of this garden's flowers could survive a hard winter. Only the strongest can brave it out – but mind you, being strong doesn't mean you have to be exceptionally big or outstanding in some other way. When the snow starts to melt, the first ones to come out again are not the impressive roses but the tiny snowdrops.

Having survived the winter, most flowers will blossom again more lively and colourful than they've ever done before. And the ones who've died will leave room for new ones, perhaps completely different from their predecessors but still as unique and beautiful."

As it turned out, my mother was not strong enough a flower to brave a hard winter. What started out as a simple cough soon turned into pneumonia and not even the doctors my father brought with him from London could save her. She died the day I spotted the first snowdrop. I remember stepping on it before ripping it to pieces.

Only two days after her burial, my father left Lowfield for good and took me with him to London.

I was determined to hate the city because that was what I knew my mother had done. But then, after some time spent in my father's town-house at Grosvenor-Square, I couldn't help but wonder what this strange and yet exciting place smelt, felt and tasted like. I began to enjoy the afternoon-strolls I took with my governess, poor Miss Melchett who in vain tried to teach me some French and how to play the piano. I had never seen a person with skin as dark as ebony, nor had I ever got to hear someone speak in a language I didn't even recognize as being European. What the garden at Lowfield had been to my mother, London now became for me: A mock-up of the whole wide world, a melting pot of colours, tastes and personalities.

My father, however, almost died of fear something terrible could happen to me. As you may be able to guess from what I've told you so far, I was a very curious girl and so it wasn't long until I almost got myself into serious trouble.

One day, I may have been about ten at the time, I persuaded our cook to take me with her to the market. At first, I was more than impressed by the many people surrounding us, the things you could buy there, the screams of the pitchmen and the smells which seemed to reach London from some far-away shore. But soon enough, I got bored by the endless negotiations my companion had to conduct with the butcher, the green-grocer, the fishmonger, and so, as soon as the opportunity provided itself, I freed myself from the cook's grip and disappeared in the crowd.

The first thing to catch my eye was a market stall displaying a wide and colourful range of objects I had never seen before. Wondering what they were, I reached out for something looking like a somewhat deformed lady's hat with a feather adornment on top. Surprisingly, it felt hard and rather prickly. Curious whether this thing was as heavy as it felt like, I grabbed it with both of my hands and was just on the verge of lifting it when an angry voice shouted:

"Hey, ye li'l piece o' dirt, take that pineapple and I swear I blow yer head off!"

I froze in shock, my hands still wrapped around the strange thing I now knew must be some sort of fruit named "pineapple".

"I… " I stumbled. "…I'm sorry, I didn't … I'm not … not a thief!"

"Yeah, that's what they say …", another voice – a woman's – came up from behind me and before I realized what was going on, I was grabbed by two strong hands and pulled away from the stall.

"I have her!" she shouted. "Someone get for the police!"

These words made me see myself dying in prison or, even worse, being branded. I struggled to free myself but the woman was a lot stronger than I was and gripped me even tighter. In desperation, I tried to bite her hand but this only led to her reaching for my hair and yanking my head back.

"I am Elizabeth Swann", I screamed in pain, hoping that someone would recognize my name as belonging to a well-known London family, but no one seemed to care. I had almost given up when a man's voice said: "What are you people doing? The girl belongs to me!"

"Hah! This girl is nothing than a worthless little thief!"

"Very well. But do you actually think worthless little thieves could afford a dress like THAT?"

For a long moment, I felt as if everyone's eye was resting on me. Then, suddenly I was set free. Rubbing my aching neck, I spotted a tall gentleman clad in a black cloak with a wig and a three-cornered hat on his head. He smiled at me, then reached for my hand and said: "Elizabeth, dear, I've been looking for you the whole morning. Where have you been?"

"Ye should take better care o' the lass", the salesman said reproachfully while the stranger was already pulling me away.

"I will", my rescuer shouted back at him. "Sorry to have troubled you." And with that, we lost sight of the lamentable market stall and its wondrous wares. Completely caught out I did not fight but let the cloaked gentleman lead me out of the market's chaos and into a quiet side road. It was not until we stopped there that I remembered the fact that I had been strictly forbidden to go with strangers. Letting go of his hand, I tried to run away but the man seemed to have expected something like that, got hold of my arm and whirled me around. Wide-eyed with fear, I saw him kneel down in front of me, still smiling.

"Easy, young lady. You don't have to be afraid of me. But of course, a young lady like you has probably been told not to go with strangers – quite rightly so, if I may add. Still, you were probably also told not to stroll around London on your own – which you didn't take too serious, obviously."

I must have looked quite shame-faced for he patted my shoulder in a compassionate gesture. "Now, now … things like that can happen to anyone and I suppose you've learned your lesson. So if you could be so kind as to tell me your address, I'd be glad to accompany back home."

I eyed him suspiciously, not afraid anymore but rather excited by the way this whole story had turned out. "No", I replied, feeling in for a little fight (for the stranger seemed to be no dangerous adversary). "What's to say you're not a -" I thought for some fearsome creature. "- pirate, trying to kidnap me so you can blackmail my father?"

This may strike you as a very coquettish and forward thing to say for a girl my age and you're probably right. But still, this is what I said and the stranger didn't seem to mind. To the contrary, he appeared rather amused. "Ah, yes. A pirate. So, you know a lot about pirates?"

"Well, I've read about them. They are vile, dirty creatures who sail the seven seas in search of reputable virgins they can kidnap and … oh …"

Truth be told, I didn't have a tangible idea of what they did with the virgins after they had kidnapped them but the whole thing sounded tremendously exciting.

"I am sorry to disappoint you", my companion smiled, "but unfortunately I am not employed as a pirate at the present time. I have met one, thought, and I know a song about pirates which I'd be glad to teach you if you let me take you home – Miss Swann! And by the way, I know exactly where you live – being a friend of your father's, that is."

And so I had no other choice than to return home in a rather inglorious way. Still, I was rewarded with a song about pirates which I remember up to the present day. It doesn't paint a very nice picture of these people's profession and from my own experiences I can assure you that parts of it are somewhat naïve; still, when I taught it to a pirate – a real one! – he enjoyed it so much he even taught it to his whole crew."

For a moment, Elizabeth paused, almost as if she had been overwhelmed by the memories.

"Ah yes," she finally added dreamily. "I expect they're still the most fearsome pirates in the Spanish Main – if not in the whole world!"