Thank you, Starling Rising, for your steady support. You rock my world!
Thanks to jedipati for betaing!
Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney
Will was relieved to find that sunlight bullied Tortuga into a pseudo-sane state. That much the better for a few hours of sleep and a breakfast, he felt inundated by a magnanimous tolerance that lasted the whole morning.
Then, at high noon, he and Jack arrived at Daizon's dock to inspect Mr. Gibb's handiwork. Will saw the exceedingly scraggly line of seamen standing for inspection along the dock and felt himself growing infuriated mental thorns.
Jack Sparrow didn't seem much happier, but his first mate was completely oblivious to this. "Feast your eyes, Captain," Gibbs exclaimed. "All of them faithful hands before the mast, every man worth his salt."
They paused and looked down with differing expressions at a bald, muscled sailor who glared up at them from his four-foot height. Clearly, anyone better than scrapings from the bottom of the barrel was too sane to sign on to a ship headed for the Island of Death.
"And crazy to boot," Gibbs added grandly.
Will was frowning. "So this is your able-bodied crew?"
Ignoring this, Jack proceeded down the line and stopped before an almost-ancient man with a blue and gold parrot on his shoulder. Despite the age that lined his face, the man stood straight and tall. "You, sailor," Jack addressed him, as Will and Gibbs came up.
"Cotton, sir," Gibbs supplied.
"Mr. Cotton. Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger, and almost certain death?" Jack brandished a green banana dramatically.
Blankly, Mr. Cotton looked to Gibbs. Mr. Cotton's parrot cocked its head.
"Mr. Cotton!" Jack barked. "Answer, man."
Gibbs leaned forward to see Jack, who refused stop glowering into Mr. Cotton's eyes. "He's a mute, sir. Poor devil had his tongue cut out. So he trained his parrot to talk for him. No one's yet figured how."
Mr. Cotton's wrinkled face twisted hideously, his mouth opening to reveal the stump of his tongue. Both Will and Jack flinched back. Jack instinctively half-mimicked Cotton, sticking his own tongue out, while a pained yet fascinated Will squinted.
Jack clutched his banana and turned with difficulty. "Mr. Cotton's– Parrot." The bright bird looked at him. "Same question."
The parrot squawked. "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!"
Jack was incredulous. He purposefully didn't look at Will.
Gibbs leaned in again. "Mostly, we figure that means 'yes.'"
"Of course it does." Jack looked to Will. "Satisfied?"
"Well you've proved they're mad," the youth snapped.
"And what's the benefit for us?"
Both men turned toward the angry voice, which had sounded distinctively feminine.
Will's eyes were drawn to the end of the line. He stiffened. It was the… man? with the ragged hat from The Faithful Bride!
Slowly, Jack walked right up to the ragged hat. Will followed, watching impatiently as Jack tried to see under the hat, then grimaced.
The sailor let Jack pull the hat off. The beautiful brown face of a woman was revealed, but something was wrong: her jaw was mulishly set and she gazed at Jack with palpable hatred.
"Anamaria." Jack smiled.
She viciously slapped him.
"I suppose you didn't deserve that one either," said Will contemptuously.
"No, that one I deserved."
Anamaria nodded. "You stole my boat!"
He faced her. "Actually–"
She hit him again. He reeled, eyes wide. "Borrowed!" He turned back cautiously. "Borrowed without permission. But with every intention of bringing it back to you."
"But you didn't!"
"You'll get another one!" Jack's voice cracked.
Anamaria thrust an obstinate forefinger in Jack's face; he leaned back. "I will."
Will leaned helpfully over Jack's shoulder. "A better one," he said brightly.
"A better one!" Jack echoed.
Will pointed down the dock. "That one."
"What one?" Jack asked Will.
At Will's nod, everyone turned toward the 'better' ship. It was the Interceptor, resting far out in the harbor.
"That one?" Jack growled. Will gave him a testy smile as all eyes turned their way.
Jack bowed his head, then faced Anamaria. "Aye," he managed. "That one." Pointing at the Interceptor he added, "What say you?"
"Aye!" Anamaria hollered, and the rest of the crew chorused in agreement. They all clattered away down the dock for the lifeboat. Anamaria huffily grabbed her hat from Jack before following them.
"No, no, no, no," Gibbs sidled up to Jack. "It's frightful bad luck to have a woman on board, sir."
Quite out of sorts, Jack could face humans no more, and so stared up into the sky, stating, "It'll be far worse not to have her." He then turned and walked off, leaving Will and Gibbs alone to look up at the sky just in case they'd missed something.
Once they were sailing free, everyone felt better despite the fact that they were headed to an island that was impossible to find, under a captain who braided his goatee. The beginning of a voyage was contagiously exciting and Will found most of the sailors willing to begin teaching him the plethora of skills required to sail a ship. Gibbs in particular had much to teach: "Left-handed ropes are coiled against the sun, or it's bad luck! Anti-clockwise, y'see."
Will learned the sailors' names, Cotton, Marty, Moises, Kursar, Matelot, Tearlach, Duncan, Ladbroc, Crimp, Quartetto…the list of men went on, and Will's opinion of them up.
Jack was giving Will the cold shoulder, pretending he didn't exist which, for some perverse reason, made Will feel even more smug to have taken advantage of him for once. The pirate remained obstinately at the helm, glaring if Anamaria got too close, or acted too appreciative of the masts' heights. Always in his free hand was a compass and it wasn't for show; Jack looked at the compass more than he checked on Anamaria to make sure she wasn't eyeing the gouges in the rail and wincing.
The only problem Will had was that he'd glanced over Jack's shoulder once and seen for himself that the compass did not, in fact, point north. It just pointed in the direction Jack was muscling the ship, which could've been in circles.
As the sun set, though, many eyes were uneasily turned to the northwest, where a bank of clouds was pushing multiple snowy-pink heads up into the pale sky. The orange light of evening turned the undersides of the clouds a dramatic ink color, and by the time the sun was gone, a damp, disorganized wind was worrying the Interceptor's sails and the clouds were no longer swelling up, but galloping, stretching, closer. The swells were growing, too, heralds of violence biting at the Interceptor's hull.
Will saw Gibbs talk with Jack, and soon sailors were climbing the rigging to bind a sail or two. The dark storm was melting into the twilight sky, all distinction between the two slipping away. Suddenly the only sign that the storm didn't swallow the whole sky was that there was lighting to one side of the sky and none on the other.
Marty and Kursar were uneasily lighting the lamps, glancing frequently between the fretting canvas and the yellow lightning that frequently writhed above, in the storm's belly. "A storm, the first night," short Marty spoke up to his friend as they passed Will.
"Back luck, 'tis," Kursar muttered.
Will heard a faint hissing. He had enough time to wonder what it was before a hand of wind slapped the Interceptor, coating every surface with cold rain. The Interceptor reeled and her crew along with her and suddenly Will's old fear of ships was back. It was frightening to have an uncaring lump of wood, nails, and glue be the only thing keeping him from falling into the massive, unfathomable monster that was the sea.
Blinking furiously against the drops stinging his face, he made his way along the rail until he was near Gibbs, who was bellowing orders to those up top. Gravity pushed down on Will's shoulders as the Interceptor climbed a black swell, and then Will's belly and head seemed to float as the vessel slid into a trough. Sickened but too anxious to care, he stuck next to Gibbs as the sailor bustled to keep the Interceptor intact.
The gale mounted to a howl and arms of water began to slide arms over the Interceptor's heaving deck. Lightning jerked the world in and out of sight. Water filled Will's shoes, his clothing, his ears, his eyes, his nose, leeching warmth out of him until he was too cold to think about the black, black sea that seemed to want to swallow them all alive. He had never been so insignificantly placed in such a powerful palm; he was nothing; the ship was nothing. Just a soon-to-be rotted leaf twirling in a body of water hundreds of miles wide.
It was in this numb place that an unlikely exhilaration grew. In the place beyond reason and the pitfalls it created, Will rose and fell with the sea, felt the writhing ship quivering beneath his squashy shoes, grabbed a mast…both felt and heard the sails straining to join the careening gusts in the sky, and realized he had never lived before.
It was foolish to resist the sea's rage, he vaguely realized, for it was an invitation to be risen to, a potential dance partner offering a wicked hand. Fear was just the spice that quickened the heartbeat and flushed muscles with readiness. To not think, to realize that worrying was pointless, to surrender was utterly emancipating, and with freedom came peace beyond understanding…opening the door to the most surreal enjoyment.
As his mind faintly came to this conclusion, Will helped Gibbs wrestle with a rope, tugging as the sails resisted them. The rest of the crew bumbled about the best they could; the only firmly placed human aboard was Jack, who stood straight at the helm, compass in hand.
A wave crested over the railing into Will's and Gibbs' faces, driving them off their feet and across the deck. They fetched up against the far railing with the wave, and tangled, struggled up as the wave receded. Will, still holding the rope, rushed back, and Gibbs followed and helped him secure it. Will looked through the curtains of water falling from the sails, to Jack.
"How can we sail to an island that nobody can find with a compass that doesn't work?" he demanded over the shrieking wind.
"Aye, the compass doesn't point north," Gibbs shouted, "but we're not tryin' to find north, are we?" Then he looked up at the soaked sails, eyes flashing. "That fool will have us lose the canvas and the masts besides!"
He stumbled up the tilting deck Jack. "We should drop canvas, sir!"
Jack's hat poured water and his face was taut with concentration, half of him lost in the ship and the storm. He was untouchable. "She can hold a bit longer!"
Gibbs reeled. "What's in yer head that's put you in such a fine mood, Captain?"
Jack grinned, wide eyes fixed on some invisible prey. "We're catching up."
His crew surrounded them, a circle of horror.
Barbossa's hand was around her throat. She couldn't breathe. She could barely heft the knife; her entire body had turned from flesh to useless, heavy clay. His rotted face was so close to hers, so transformed by rage and hatred; her very ability to think abandoned her.
"You lied!" he snarled, and she would have choked on his breath if she'd been able to breathe. "I asked yer name an'you lied, you–"
She didn't hear the foul names he spat in her face; all she heard was her own stumbling heartbeat. Dark fuzz was beginning to cuddle her vision. He was going to kill her and unless she rallied, she'd die without an iota of sprit or courage to her name.
So with every last bit of strength she had, she stabbed him. She felt something crunch beneath the knife; something else wetly gave way, but as revulsion rose in her throat, Barbossa was howling, mouth gaping, strings of spittle stretching between his jaws. His jaws opened wider and wider and wider until all she could see was his black mouth and she knew he was going to bite–
Gagging, Elizabeth wrenched herself free of the nightmare and huddled facedown, clutching middle as her gagging turned to dry heaving. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she stared at the grimy floor to reassure herself that she was awake now.
She bore her body's rebellion, waiting until her belly quit heaving, and then she rolled onto her side, feeling her back press against a wall. The dreary white light outside the Pearl's windows indicated day, and made her squint her still-streaming eyes. All she could hear was the grumbling of the Pearl and her crew.
They'd barely escaped a storm last night, and the rough water and distant lightning had taken Elizabeth's emotions out of her control; thus the nightmare. She was partially amazed that she'd slept at all. And she was still a mess.
She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobbing that had seized her chest. What was the use of trying to tidy up her strangling mind? She was going to die anyway. Her only satisfaction was that her death would leave Barbossa and all his poxy crew just as cursed as they were, if not more so. She just hoped she was dead before Barbossa realized he still couldn't taste his own vile mouth. And then she was shocked that she should hope for something so grim.
She should have been mourning all the proper things that maidens mourned when on their way to being sacrificed on heathen altars, such as never marrying a true love, never holding her own child, never getting to wear that one silk gown made for the ball. Elizabeth snorted minutely. Wearing gowns was death these days anyway…
It just wasn't proper for her to be thinking so flippantly, and she hated it. She did feel awful when she thought of never seeing her father again, or her friends, but it was a vague sort of grief. They were so far away, so different from the monsters whose presence engulfed her mind. And she'd stabbed a man. She was a sheltered goldfish that had been tossed into a coral reef: she'd left everything behind and her new world had shattered her and tossed the pieces in a heap. She'd stabbed him.
She'd stabbed him. She, Elizabeth Swann, Fine Lady, Governor's Daughter, Potential Fiancée to a Commodore.
That night had ruined her capacity to be conventional in any way. The knife-stab had ripped away her innocence and the tour of the moonlit deck had eaten away her mind, heart, and soul. She had not realized how brutally hungry horror was. She was decimated by it, inside and out.
And now she was going to die, bearing Will Turner's name. She wished she had asked him earlier about the medallion, and so learned how potent it was. The part of her that still cared for the little boy with the traumatized eyes was glad, though, that he wasn't here, in her place. The rest of her wished she'd never set eyes on him.
But, she'd stabbed a man. The way it had felt…she curled up tighter.
She'd stabbed him.
A sonorous bang jolted her upright. The floor shuddered beneath her, then was still. At the same time, the barest suggestion of a shadow was cast on through right side windows, a long strip of faint black. It slid over the floor, the table, the candles, and out the back windows.
Grabbing the nearest chair, Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet and moved to a window. The outside of the glass dripped water and her breath fogged the inside. Beyond, everything was shrouded in fog, but she could see what had to be a mast jutting from the water. Beyond it, the ribs of a hull clawed upward. Similar sights crowded all around; when she looked out of the back windows, she could see they were moving slowly down a corridor formed by the remains of a thousand ships.
She stared.
Some time later, the white, white fog swallowed the graveyard of ships and Elizabeth was barely breathing, for the Pearl had gone eerily silent. There was hardly a creak to be heard.
The fog on the right looked bruised for some reason. Elizabeth, face close to the glass, peered at the dark splotches, and caught her first glimpse of the Isla de Muerta.
Input is very much appreciated!