A/N: Thanks so much for your feedback, everyone. As always, it's greatly appreciated :)

Chapter 9

The sun sat fat and sated in her throne among the skies, her face a fiery grimace surrounded by a cerulean magnitude that blinded his eyes whenever he tried to look at it. It had been a long voyage; weeks had turned into months until time had evaporated in the torrid heat, their abundant wishes melded into the sole desire for fresh water. The Wench had carried them through, with her unascertainable pride, storms and calm, with the brilliant white of her sails and her perfectly shaped bow. When he lay in his cabin, alone, his musings surrounded by incense and dark smoke, he imagined he could still smell the fresh wood mixed with tar; she was not just a ship, she was his, her fine carvings and elegant interior only born to render service to his dreams, and he swore to himself that he would never abandon her.

Dehydrated and tired, he walked down the gangway with his head held high and at a well-measured pace; he found that the waves' never ceasing dance had guided his steps for so long it seemed almost impossible to counterbalance land's unnerving immobility.

He walked straight on, using his arms to keep himself from stumbling, but the dock moved farther away with every step he took. He quickened his pace, almost to a run, but the effort only brought a stabbing ache to his chest. The shimmering heat became impossible to bear, and when he forced his eyes to the skies, the sun was on the verge of tumbling down, as though she too were swooning from her radiating warmth.

In defiance of the pain he was in, he spun around to return to the Wench, determined to save his beloved ship, but when he turned, he saw her on fire, flames protruding from her hatches; on deck, countless people were scrambling and jostling, screaming in mortal fear--there were Gibbs, and Marty and – could it be? – Scarlett, he knew he had to save them, desperation filled his every fibre, but he couldn't move. An invisible force had taken hold of his shoulders and legs, pulling him to the ground with brutal determination.

"NO!" he cried in sheer panic, but his attackers wouldn't let go of him. Instead, he heard Davy Jones's mocking voice right above his prostrated form, his every word punctuated with a tap of his wooden leg. "100 souls," he hissed. "That was our agreement, Jack."

"But our debt has been settled!" His voice had dissipated into a hoarse whisper, every word another dagger to his painfully throbbing chest. Still he fought the powers that restrained him, unable to let those on his ship perish right before his eyes. "We have to help them!" he yelled with the last of his strength; with a last stab of pain everything faded into impenetrable blackness.

Hours passed like long days; he was lying on his back, the ground beneath him the velvet texture of smooth water, his favourite element. Perhaps he was floating, safely carried by his first and only love until he'd reached some foreign shore, possibly Africa. Oh yes, he hoped it was Africa. For a moment, he allowed himself be swept away by the memory of drums carrying their hypnotizing rhythm through a starlit night, a woman anointing his lids with kohl while an outlandish melody rose above their heads in an eerie crescendo, smoke and firelight and … chains!

His eyes opened wide to escape the image, but there was no sky above him, no ocean below, only a strange, greyish fog that encircled him, the perfect definition of emptiness. There were voices. Far away voices, uttering meaningless syllables he found impossible to understand. He wanted to respond, but when he opened his mouth, he found he had forgotten how to speak, the languages swirling in his head creating Babylonian confusion that made it impossible for him to form a coherent sentence. He persisted, but no sound escaped his lips, nothing to help him break through the mist., Suddenly, when despair and exhaustion had weakened his endeavours, he felt something – no, someone - approaching him through his colourless prison.

"Jack … "

Jack … that sounded familiar. His heart almost skipped a beat when he realized someone was calling his name.

"Jack …"

There! He could perceive an oddly shaped form, and while his gaze remained fixed upon it, it began to grow features until he could discern eyes, nose and a mouth. A human face, without a doubt, though it seemed peculiar there was no body attached to it. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but before he could remember how to control his limbs, the face was shoved away. Hovering over him was Cutler Beckett, wearing his wig and a neatly tailored blue coat; seemingly unaware of Jack's presence, he was sipping on a lightly steaming cup of tea, every bit the distinguished gentleman. With all the time in the world, he put down the valuable china, careful not to spill a single drop before turning his attention to the man stretched out in front of him.

"Hello Jack," he said softly, "I came for you."

Something cold pressed to Jack's forehead, and when he looked up, he realized it was Beckett's pistol. A shot reverberated through the mist, the rest was silence.

Elizabeth found it difficult to suppress a relieved sigh when Kate Heung shut the door behind her with an angry bang that made Jack wince in his unconscious state. The sight of the midwife's flowing skirts disappearing in the darkness of the hallway had left her with an undeniable feeling of relief; part of the ballast resting heavily upon her shoulders had lifted, and though she knew it might only be for a split-second, she savoured the gift of being able to breathe freely again. There were situations that called for a level head and quick, clear-cut decisions; Kate had provided both, but in exchange for her services, she had demanded something Elizabeth was not prepared to give: Answers.

Sensing her reluctance, the older woman had fallen back upon drawing her own conclusions, and in the end, Elizabeth had felt as if her every gesture was being mistaken for the display of intimacy. When they'd lifted Jack's limp body to put on one of Will's shirts and breeches, he'd raved like a wild animal caught in a cage, his fever-ridden mind a prisoner to dark fantasies the frightfulness of which she could only grasp through his panicking screams and desperate attempts to free himself. She had longed to give him something to hold on to, a tangible piece of driftwood in a vast ocean she feared he might get lost in, but every touch to his cheek, every caress alongside his throat or across his sweat-slicked forehead had been observed by Kate with triumphant glee until she'd barely dared to touch him anymore.

With Kate gone, Elizabeth felt nothing of the restraining embarrassment that had accompanied her ever since the surgery was completed. With regained confidence, she reached out to check on the cloth she'd placed on Jack's forehead and found it had already soaked up the heat emanating from his skin. Resolving not to interrupt the peaceful realm his mind had drifted to, she pulled the cloth away and plunged it back into the bowl placed on the nightstand, the splashing of the water the only sound in the quiet of the sickroom. Teague's sitting form was obscured by the semi-darkness the drawn curtains created. The old man's presence, however forceful was comforting despite his silence. There were no words needed between them, his slumped shoulders and grave air conveyed sadness so deeply felt it would have been a sacrilege to question it.

Captain Teague might have been a pirate feared by all of Shipwreck City and beyond; the man who sat beside her was nothing more than a father in his grief, not unlike her own father in his age and demeanour. Her heart became heavy with grief to look back at her younger self and find she'd only ever seen the Governor, never the loving parent until it was too late.

Overcome with tenderness for the old pirate, she lifted her head and smiled at him, but Teague seemed far too absorbed in his son's misery to take notice. His gaze was fixed on the dark spot slowly forming on Jack's bandage, and though she couldn't see his eyes, Elizabeth knew she'd find them wet with tears. The sight of the great Captain brought to his knees by life's cruelty sent an icy breeze down her spine, and caught in despair's iron grip, her own vision became blurred. Through a finely woven veil of shimmering pearls, she watched Teague's weathered fingers brush over his son's wrist, almost shyly, as if he didn't know if it was the correct expression of affection, a simple gesture so full of sorrow she felt like an intruder witnessing it. Embarrassed, she turned back to the bowl, fished out the cloth and wrung it out, in the process wiping her eyes; pirates didn't cry.

Her companion seemed to have come to a similar conclusion, for there was only the slightest trace of unevenness in his voice when he spoke: "Didn't seem too fond of leaving him alone with us, don't you think?"

At first, Elizabeth didn't know whom he was talking about, his words casual as if he was picking up the track of a momentarily interrupted conversation, but she realized he was alluding to Kate's departure. Clearly, she'd thought herself indispensable, but Elizabeth had been quick to praise her away with every trick in the book as soon as Jack was safely tucked into bed with a fresh bandage covering his wound; the wound had been left open to bleed, and the dressing would have to be changed every hour, but Elizabeth had managed worse.

"She was probably more worried about leaving us alone with him than the other way round; after all, Jack isn't doing anything that might be used as food for gossip." The sarcasm was dripping from her lips like vitriol, but the sting of Kate's insinuations was still too fresh to allow only the slightest feeling of remorse at her own injustice. "Not yet, that is," she added as an afterthought, a small ray of hope to inspire new confidence in Jack's recovery, and Teague's lips curled into a feeble smile. Bending over Jack, Elizabeth brushed some rebellious strands of hair from his face before she replaced the cloth on his forehead, and the cooling wetness made him moan in his sleep. Her hands lingered for a while, straightening the linen's edges, and while she was doing that, Teague's roughened fingers came to rest upon hers.

"I won't deny she did him great service today," he said quietly, reminding her good-naturedly that they had every reason to be grateful for Kate's services, "but I am glad you sent her away. It's worse enough he has us seeing him like this."

She didn't have to look at Jack to know he was right. Even though it didn't always appear that way, she knew Jack was used to being in control and have things go his way, the Captain's title he was so proud of an allegory for the independence and freedom he'd always sought in his life. Confined to his sickbed and bereft of his most faithful lover, he couldn't find the words to make them leave him. After his resurrection from the dead, he'd spent days in his cabin, licking his wounds and waiting for the pain to take away yet another piece of his trust; it was his way to deal with his temporary weakness. Nothing would have scared him more than the thought of someone watching his misery, and Elizabeth found it disturbing to think that amongst all the people he wouldn't want to see him like this, she probably occupied the foremost position, closely followed by Barbossa and possibly his father.

"Do you have any idea who did this to him?" she asked, knowing it was unlikely Teague had an answer to provide. The question, though completely innocuous, made his hand tremble as if her words had caught him off-guard, but his surprise faded so quickly Elizabeth came to the conclusion her mind must have been playing tricks on her.

"No. Haven't seen him," he mumbled, and, to emphasize on his statement, added: "for years."

"But you've seen him after …" Elizabeth startled, suddenly seeing the possible implications of his words. "You mean he's been here – again?"

"Again?" Teague seemed perplexed, and despite the dim light, Elizabeth thought she saw the lines in his face deepen. No longer sorrow-stricken, his eyes, glittering in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, were suddenly awake, as was his mind, and Elizabeth couldn't help but wonder what had put him on alert. She'd led their conversation into this particular direction to keep them from steering into deeper, more dangerous waters, and yet, it seemed the pirate had trouble navigating the rocks she hadn't known were there.

"Since the last Brethren meeting," she replied, unsure what kind of answer he'd been expecting and it appeared he felt quite similar, for it took several long moments for him to speak again.

"Ah, yes …," he said, the tension gradually leaving his silhouette. "I mean, no, he hasn't been here. Jack would never get anywhere near me if he can avoid it. And you would have seen him, wouldn't you?"

In fact, she HAD seen him. More than once, and on different occasions; he had been walking through the market in a dark green coat, his swagger as unmistakeable as the red head-scarf and the heavy braids falling down his back, but when she'd quickened her pace to catch up with him, he'd disappeared without a trace. Two years later, she'd seen him again; he had been standing outside her shop, looking through the window, but the moment she'd set foot on the street, it was as if he'd never been there. It was then she decided she had probably been victim of a trick of her senses. After she'd told herself that it couldn't possibly have been him, she never spotted him again.

"No," she replied, and if it hadn't been for Teague's odd behaviour, she would have been convinced it was the truth. Like his son, the Captain was known for playing his cards close to his vest, but his exhaustion and the strain of the past few hours had lowered his defences. She couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't been completely honest with her. "But have you heard anything?" she dared to inquire further, careful not to defy his quickly rising temper, but her precaution proved unnecessary.

"I know no more than you, Elizabeth," he stated forcefully, and when Jack winced in his sleep, continued in a lower key. "It's only that the – how much is it now? – eleven years had me somewhat confused. When you're my age, lass, you'll see that you lose track of time. Hadn't realized it has been that long already – that's all. Regrettably, Jackie has never been one to write letters, and even if he was, he would hardly have mentioned any trouble he'd gotten himself into."

Elizabeth couldn't help but agree. Despite the year's softening effect on her memory, Jack's debt with Davy Jones and the disaster his silence had created was still fresh in her mind, and no matter what kind of trouble he was in this time, it was difficult to imagine there was anyone except himself who knew the exact details. Of course, that didn't change that Teague, despite his age, rarely lost track of time – nor did it alter her slowly rising suspicion that he was concealing something. Unfortunately, there probably wasn't a strategy cunning enough to plunder a secret from the master himself; it wasn't for nothing that Captain Teague had been made Keeper of the Code of the Brethren, and a man who was so scrupulous in guarding piracy's mysteries could be expected to be twice as devoted to his own. She was contemplating if it was worth trying to weed it out of him when a rattling breath scared her away from her musings. Dumbfounded, she lowered her gaze to Jack's sleeping form, surprised to find that he looked peaceful and calm; a child's innocence was gracing his features, his lips curled into a soft, carefree smile. Somewhere in his feverish dreams, in the midst of pain and torture, an unknown power had extended a hand to him, wrapped his shaking body in a pair of loving arms and caressed the pain from his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Encantadora Maria, yo te amo con ilusión," he whispered softly, his voice full of affection and unveiled tenderness for the person he was speaking to. Confused at his changed state, the feeling that he was gradually slipping away from life like a punch to her stomach, she gave Teague a questioning look. The old man didn't notice her. His eyes were closed, his shoulders shaking violently while he recited what seemed to be the continuation of Jack's poem:

"A quién le dare las quejas non gras de mi corazón." He spoke in a rhythmic chant, almost as if he were following a melody, and Elizabeth suddenly had trouble understanding what had passed between father and son right before her very eyes.

"What – what was that?" she asked, her bewilderment almost tangible.

"A song," Teague sighed. He slowly opened his eyes, making a reluctant retreat from the strange realm he'd allowed himself to step into. "One I haven't heard for … I can't remember..."

"The language--Spanish, wasn't it?" Elizabeth continued to inquire. She didn't know any Spanish herself, but had heard enough of it in her life to be able to recognize it.

"Yes." Teague nodded.

"I didn't know Jack knew any Spanish." She had seen him use French and Latin in the past, but it had seemed he'd only recited fragments he'd overheard elsewhere. The same might have been true for the myriad of incoherent words he'd bubbled out in his delirium, but his pronunciation of Spanish suggested that he had a more than profound knowledge of the language.

"Oh!" Teague exclaimed, obviously surprised. "Didn't he tell you? Jack's mother was from Spain.… " His voice was loaded with all the world's riches, glittering like jewels and ethereal like the moonlight caught in a pearl's polished surface while he went on with dreamlike determination. "Her name was Elena Benica Maria Hernandez, and those who had been lucky enough to lay their eyes on her for only a moment came to believe that heaven on earth existed…"

Teague's voice led her out of the closed bedroom, away from sickness and death, straight into the streets of Sevilla where, on a warm summer's evening, a young woman walked down the Calle to the Plaza Santa Cruz. The barrio bustled.