So sorry for the delay! The most recent instalment in the PotC saga threw me a bit off-guard in terms of writing, so it took me a while to get back in a right frame of mind. As you can see, this story is, thankfully, very alternate-universe, meaning it's different from the AWE we saw in theatres. Things will finally be explained in this chapter, so I hope it clears up any confusion.
Elizabeth didn't know exactly why she'd stepped aboard the sloop- the Firebrand, it was called- but somehow, she had found her way to the dim cabin on the vessel, clasping a cup of grog over a wobbly table with Bootstrap and Anamaria, a single lantern burning on its surface. The ship was still in the harbour, she was still in Tortuga, but somehow, she felt so removed, separate from the port; a part of her knew that she could never return to the life she had led for the past two years, that Jack was gone to her. She had resigned herself to but one mission, a single question.
"What happened to him?" There was no way Elizabeth could bring herself to speak his name.
Bootstrap fondled the rim of his mug with worn fingers as he chose his next words. "Will did what he always felt he had to do; he fought. Fought, and fell all the harder."
"As expected," added Anamaria wryly, her face drawn into something like exasperation and pride.
Elizabeth couldn't meet their eyes, and instead fastened her gaze upon the weak russet mixture of her untouched drink. In her mind she could see that furrowed brow, that confident stance, a sharp cutlass clenched in a firm hand, steadfastly facing an invisible foe. Who?
"Could you go back to the beginning?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly. "To what happened after he… after we parted?" She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear, but the knowledge had to be gained.
Sighing, Bootstrap gulped some grog and leaned over the table. "You mean after Jones was killed? After that Admiral of Beckett's took his place on the Dutchman?"
With a pang, Elizabeth remembered James Norrington, who had been the one to replace Davy Jones after his death, binding himself to the service of Calypso. It was not a fate she would have wished upon anyone, but thankfully, Norrington had willingly accepted it; he probably knew it was the only path left for him. It did not seem to suit him being a pirate, and he no longer felt content wearing the uniform of an officer under Beckett's command; not to mention the fact he was physically dead, and would not have been able to do anything else in the living world otherwise. Through the will of Calypso, he had been resurrected, and with the help of Jack Sparrow and Will Turner, had managed to stab the heart of Davy Jones. With the former Dutchman captain defeated, Norrington took up the helm, but he did not rejoin the battle that was waiting out of the maelstrom; he chose instead to leave forever the world that had been so cruel to him and join the land of the dead, as was intended for the captaincy. As the Flying Dutchman submerged into the ocean's storm, the Black Pearl pulled away from it, leading the other pirate ships to face the East India Trading Company… where they had been vanquished.
Blinking away the events surrounding the Dead Man's Chest, she nodded to Bootstrap, urging him to tell the tale.
"Well, I was freed from my service, as you can see." He gestured to his face, formerly blemished by the sea's fauna. "Will and I were reunited, and he wanted to go off. Find a ship of our own. I was planning to join Jack on the Pearl, or maybe stay on the Dutchman if there was nowhere else to go, but Will… couldn't stay." Bootstrap awkwardly glanced at Elizabeth, and guilt simmered in her stomach. She knew perfectly well why Will refused to stay on the same ship as Jack and her.
"That's when they came 'cross me," said Anamaria, joining in the conversation, "and my ship."
"How did you get it?" Elizabeth asked, indicating the cabin walls around them. "I had thought you would have stayed on theBlack Pearl."
For some reason, Anamaria's shoulders stiffened. "Jack owed me a boat, he got me one, and I left." She did not look at Elizabeth as she said it.
Elizabeth remembered hearing that Anamaria hadn't been very fond of Jack, so she assumed that was the problem and decided not to impress the matter further. "And you three eventually came across one another."
"A right good bit of fortune that was," said Anamaria with a nod. "The Firebrand's a fine boat, but I needed crewmembers, and they weren't showin' up. Too scared, maybe, or ashamed of sailin' under a woman. Pretty much the only good man to show up was Silas, my old mate, who's around here somewhere. I lost most of the others to the East India Company…" Her voice fell somewhat.
Elizabeth glanced down sadly at the mention of the battle that had destroyed piracy, all those months ago. Shuddering, her memory coaxed forward ships, swathed in flame and smoke, sinking to the darkest depths of the maelstrom surrounding them. So much fog, and so many bodies… Best not think about that.
Anamaria continued. "I needed a crew; the Turners needed a ship. We joined forces, Bootstrap as a first mate, and Will and I as co-captains."
Something strange flared up in Elizabeth at the word "co-captains", and at the unusually fond look that had crossed Anamaria's face. The thought of Will, becoming close to someone else… particularly when that someone else was another woman…
Bootstrap's rough voice shook her out of her oddly jealous thoughts. "I'm sure you know the East India Company, Miss Swann." Elizabeth angrily dug her nails into the table in response. "Still going strong. Of course, Will wasn't ready to accept our last defeat; he wanted to fight again, and thought he could urge others to feel the same way. Someway or another, word spread, of one last chance, a final hope.
"The Company's time was divided in the American colonies; if we could break them there, perhaps their influence would weaken elsewhere they lurked. Our makeshift fleet wasn't much, but we had ourselves a good number of strong frigates and whatnot to fight, and sloops like this to make a quick getaway if needed. It was just unfortunate we couldn't have the Dutchman or the Pearl on our side. I believe we tried to contact you at one point."
They had? Elizabeth hadn't known. There had always been various papers scattering Jack's desk; the letter of summons must have missed her eye, if it had been there. But they had gone somewhere else instead, to try a bit of pillaging. "Our most recent excursion was to Africa," she said. "I don't believe our paths would have crossed."
"Perhaps not." Bootstrap stared into his remaining grog, light from the lantern's flame bleaching it a pale golden colour.
It was Elizabeth who decided to say the next inevitable words. "You failed in the battle."
"An understatement," Anamaria muttered through gritted teeth. "We were destroyed."
"Most ships were damaged beyond any hope of repair, some sunk to the bottom of the bay, others forced to be left adrift. Only the faster boats managed to get out of the wreckage; ours was one of them. There were so many men lost, and nearly all captains were either killed or captured; they were the important ones, see. But none were as important as Will. Somehow, it was known to Lord Spelford that he was our leader."
Spelford… the name didn't mean anything to Elizabeth at first, but she quickly recollected him as the man who had replaced Cutler Beckett as head of the EITC. She didn't know much about him, other than Jack had been sure to avoid any waters with him in the vicinity.
"Will was captured as we were forced to sail away," Bootstrap went on, his voice becoming raspy with regret. "And I now have reason to believe he was taken to that… that prison. Unlike Beckett, Spelford doesn't want the destruction of his enemies to be a quick one. He's been known to make his enemies … die as slowly and painfully as possible."
Elizabeth's insides burned in unexpected rage as she imagined Will, the gentle blacksmith apprentice, left to die in some dank prison cell in the middle of a sea. How long had he been there? Could he even still be alive? Fear prickled through her as she thought of his recent absences in her dreams. That couldn't have meant…
"Why are you here, then?" She set her mug down a tad more forcefully than she had intended to. "Why aren't you trying to save him?" Bootstrap closed his eyes in shame.
Anamaria suddenly stood up, the usual fire rekindling in her expression. "You don't think we haven't tried? These things need plottin', lass, and a fighting force, and a cause greater than one man's life. Besides," she continued, cutting off Elizabeth's chance of speaking back indignantly, "I didn't see you too keen on joinin' him a few months ago- oh no, too busy in Jack Sparrow's bed, aye?"
With a snarl, Elizabeth rose up to face Ana. "I have left Jack Sparrow. He betrayed me, and I have no wish to see him ever again!"
"Good," growled Anamaria. "At least one of his wenches has learned something." Shutting her eyes tiredly for a moment, she glared at Elizabeth once more and turned on her heel towards the cabin door.
"Let me join your crew," Elizabeth said suddenly, surprising even herself.
Ana's hand paused on the latch, and Bootstrap slowly rose from his stool. "What was that, Miss Swann?" he asked.
"I want to join your crew, aboard this ship, if you'll have me," responded Elizabeth, trying her best to sound strong. "I can help you come up with a plan to save Will, along with what other captains may be in that prison. If we're lucky enough, I daresay there's a chance to conquer the East India Trading Company once and for all. You forget." She meaningfully stroked the oriental weapon in its intricate baldric slung about her hip. "I was elected Pirate King once."
Bootstrap and Anamaria measured her up (the latter a bit more sceptically), looking at the slight woman before them, hard and angular, determined and alone. She had no greater chance at survival than either of them, but even in her youthful position, there was a grit and hopefulness that went beyond her twenty-one years. For a moment, she could be trusted.
"Welcome to the crew, Miss Swann," said Bootstrap.
Jack Sparrow had awoken to many hangovers and bleary mornings, but this one definitely ranked among the worst of them. He had an unbelievable headache, his mouth was dry and sticky, he could barely see straight, his eyeliner was smudged, and to top it off, the room didn't even have any bloody curtains over its window, letting forth a most undesirable band of sunshine across his face. Fluttering the heavy lids of his eyes and smacking his chapped lips a few times, he rolled over on his side to face the warm lump curled under the moth-eaten quilt beside him.
"Oi, Lizzie," he grumbled in greeting as his hand flopped across her back. "If I'd known the morning would be like this, I would have just remained in the most pleasurable activities of last night." He absentmindedly toyed with the silvery blonde curls atop her bare shoulders.
Hold on… Lizzie didn't have hair that blonde… it was more of a grungy kind of light brown… and it wasn't washed that well either.
Gulping, Jack peered over the edge of the figure to see her face. Oh yes, a very pretty lass, to be sure, but most definitely, upon second glance, not his charming murderess.
Bugger.
She'd need a lot more than rum to forget this…
