Can I say how sorry I am for not updating in so long?! I apologize tremendously to anyone who's been bearing with me and patiently waiting, you in particular, purplediamond7…


The fortress seemed to be made almost entirely out of stone, carved into the precipice. Black, icy stone, the kind that breathes a cold fog into the chest of anyone nearby, white fingers stroking ribs, searching hearts. It was as if the walls themselves knew that there was a trespasser about to penetrate them.

A trespasser named Elizabeth Swann.

She shivered in the dory as it bobbled closer to the prison on its cliff, absurdly small and unimposing. But that was a good thing; with the vessel's lack of size, there would be less of a chance of being seen. This way, she might not have to draw courage from inside herself, because Elizabeth was sure there was none to be found. How could she step inside that place and face him again?

The boat continued to glide through the water, breaking the waves in suddenly glass-like surface. Feeling a bit paranoid, she tore her eyes away from the ocean, as if afraid to find a reflection in its depths. She looked tired and dirty, dressed in a uniform, but it wasn't enough to make her feel truly disguised. Then again, it wasn't the guards she was trying to hide from.

A shoulder bumped against Elizabeth as her partner shifted beside her. His name was Jeremiah Trilby, the ship's surgeon. Young and dusty-haired, he was a very valuable member to Anamaria's crew, for there were few others that had his healing talent. He reminded Elizabeth of a rabbit, timid, and quick to escape, so it was hard to make him speak up. Jeremiah was the kind of person who blended in with the background, an object in the scenery; even if he had been the only person standing in a room, eyes would have still roamed over him, a mere bystander of no importance. Elizabeth had learned important methods and techniques from him, which could very well save Will's life. It was this Firebrand crewmember that would accompany her to the prison, helping her with the difficult task ahead.

Closer, closer… They needed to find a door, or a line of soldiers to sneak into…

Bootstrap, the one bringing the dory to and from the prison, glanced back at her. Did he see anything?

Elizabeth combed the premises, searching the stone… Jeremiah's willowy finger pointed a way before she found one herself. There, in the side of the prison wall, surrounded by the dark rock of the cliff, was an old, wave-beaten door, not too far from the sea's spray. It was anyone's guess as to where it led, but it was better than strolling through the main entranceway.

They climbed through the foaming water, the sea getting rougher as it came closer to kissing the rock. In a way, this was helpful, because the white spurts connecting with the boat's side would conceal them, working to blend them with the night. But soon they would be soaked, and how would they be able to dry off once inside the fortress, so as to join the ranks without suspicion?

The rough edge of the cliff's bottom was beside them now, the dory nearly scraping against it. Being nearer to it, Elizabeth could see that it was not completely black stone at all, but sparsely littered with moss and skeleton-like scrub. No more than six metres away was the door to their plan.

A wave slapped against the dory, showering them with its brackish wetness. Elizabeth tried to blink away the seawater in her eyes as Bootstrap turned to face her and Jeremiah, water dripping from his curls.

"I leave you here," he managed to say before another surge of saltwater came upon them. "Take care and we'll keep a weather eye out for you." Elizabeth nodded, her heart thundering against her ribs. Jeremiah unsteadily rose from beside her, nimbly grabbing rough areas in the stone nearest them to climb up on. With a tip of his tricorne to Bootstrap, he stepped out of the boat and onto the slope.

Elizabeth tried to smile at the pirate, but how could she attempt to reassure him when she herself needed reassuring? Bootstrap seemed to understand, and gently laid a hand upon her arm. Feeling a pang of reminiscence for her own father, she clasped her hands around his and shook them slightly in a sort of handshake before leaving him and clambering onto the rock. Scraping her toes against footholds, she managed to pull herself over the side, sucking in her breath. When she was able to look back, Bootstrap was almost invisible in the surf surrounding him.

Jeremiah made a jerky motion with his hand, beckoning Elizabeth to follow him. Swallowing, she stepped forward, her hands brushing the wall of rock- and her foot slipped on moss, dangerously slick from the sea. A thrill of terror rushed through Elizabeth as she stumbled, but she quickly regained her footing and crept forward once more, this time keeping an eye for slippery patches.

It seemed to take forever, but finally she and Jeremiah reached the door, one shaky step at a time. As waves crashed over them like a parasol, the surgeon groped for the handle and shook it. It wouldn't budge, as expected. Elizabeth rummaged around in her small satchel, safely hidden in her baggy uniform. In a few seconds, she found a little twist of metal and handed it to Jeremiah. With a few wave-interrupted jiggles and pokes, the lock was coaxed open- and the door was able to creak inwards.

A dark corridor gaped in front of them, damp and swathed in shadow; Elizabeth doubted any torches had warmed these walls recently. Raising her chin as though in defiance, she strode into the dungeon. She may very well be trapped in this place, but she would not be a prisoner to her fear.

It could have been hours, but most likely a few minutes, when light finally managed to reach them. At first Elizabeth didn't believe the dim ghost of illumination, thinking it was just her imagination taunting her in the constricting blackness, but as they drew closer, the fire grew stronger- and so did their anxiety. They could hide no longer. Now they had to join in and become fortress guards.

Another passageway stretched out in front of the one they were in, the two meeting to form a cross. In a moment, clattering of footfalls could be heard, and Jeremiah glanced back at her; if the group was large enough, they would meld in with the back. Elizabeth felt a rush of desperate faith for the dimness, hoping it could veil the both of them.

They pressed themselves against the shadows, still damp from the sea, waiting… A line of EITC lower-ranking members paraded in front of them, not even bothering to peer into the darkness. How many were there? Enough. There were enough. Elizabeth and Jeremiah automatically held their breaths, preparing to step into the ranks. When no more men came, they leapt upon the chance and scuffled into place, standing as tall as possible, matching the guards stride for stride.

No one noticed.

-------

The rest of the night and the first few days passed in a blur for Elizabeth. She and Jeremiah parted ways early on, so most of her time so far was spent hiding and assimilating the ways of the prison guards, alone. But she'd been on her own before.

Playing the part of a dim-witted new recruit, she was finally forced to use a disguised voice to ask a burly man who looked somewhat in charge where her quarters were. Rolling his eyes, the guard pointed down a corridor across from them. Thanking him, Elizabeth asked him what position she should take tomorrow morning, hoping her words were the right ones.

"Patrol the north wing on this level," he grumbled, waving her away, the short conversation clearly finished. Giving a nod, Elizabeth went down the hallway he had mentioned first, another soldier pulling beside her.

"New, I presume?" the guard guessed, surprising Elizabeth so that she could barely bob her head. "It's a rather tiresome job, this is, but we've got to dispose of the bilge rats somehow. There aren't many of their brigs left to destroy now, I've heard." He smirked somewhat, as though he had said something amusing. "So, what's your name, lad?"

Elizabeth had already planned this, but the answer made her stutter nonetheless. "Elias Barlow," she finally said, using the name of one of the powder monkeys on the Firebrand.

"Then welcome, Master Barlow. If you ever have any questions, just ask upon Fletcher, because that's me. I've been here a while now, and someone's got to help the green ones." They were arriving at the sleeping quarters now, which was a large chamber filled with small wooden beds.

"Not much here," said Fletcher, "but I can tell you, it's better than what the prisoners have. Morning meal's at six," he added before turning away.

That first night was hard, but nowhere near the difficulty she would have to endure in the future. But Elizabeth wasn't to know this as she struggled to get comfortable on the stiff mattress, longing for the rocking of her hammock on the sea. Her mind did further work to keep her awake, wondering and worrying, and it was a very groggy and tired Elias Barlow who received a piece of johnnycake and some not-quite-warm tea for breakfast the next morning. She spent the first day peering into the cells of the lower north wing, trying to determine Will from among the prisoners without looking too suspicious. Upon her scrutiny, she realized how bad things were for these former men of freedom.

Broken was the only word Elizabeth could bring up to describe them. Some of them were barely fit to call alive, just mere shells of what was once a devious soul. Others were quite conscious, pacing or sitting in the corner of their cells, thinking about their bleak situation with grim expressions. A various few seemed to have gone mad, enraged at being trapped in such a cage until they perished. Most seemed left where they were to rot, but a few seemed to have been beaten, tortured, untreated scars marking their bodies. Many pirates deserved what was coming at them, but any gallows would be preferable to the torture these were enduring.

She saw no sign of Will at all that first day, but she had expected this. After all, how lucky would she have to have been to find him on first try? The second day Elizabeth went through the same procedure in a different part of the dungeon, looking for Will, and doing her best to listen to the words of the other guards. None of their conversations brought much interest to her, save for one:

"So, what captains have we got in here?"

"A few. Black Smoke James, he's dead now; Spelford was pleased about him. Rather bloodthirsty, you see. Ransacked some important ships, killed a lot of good men. He went down fighting up a storm, apparently, but he fell hard."

"Who else did we finish off?"

"One more, but I forget his name; Philip Marten, or something like that. The rest are well on their way, but they say the Dread Pirate Roberts is holding out strong. Quite annoying, really. But yes, the others- Flint and Turner- it shouldn't be long now."

"Let's hope so. They're the top men for a reason."

Who else would Turner be? Bootstrap had said Will was the leader of the second fight against the EITC, so he would most definitely be one of the major pirate captains caught. But Elizabeth couldn't brush away what else the soldiers had said… about how it shouldn't be long now. One didn't have to be a scholar to figure out the meaning of that.

She was running out of time. He was here, or at least he had been, and she had to find him. She must find him.

By the end of the second day, a knot of anxiety had formed inside her, growing larger as she peered into empty cell after empty cell, precariously moving to and from different parts of the prison.

Keep walking, keep walking… stay at the same pace… Elizabeth could barely distinguish one man from the next, but there was one aspect that glaringly stood out at her: he wasn't here; maybe he wasn't anywhere in this forlorn, horrid place. They'd been too late. He was gone already.

And then she saw him.

Her eyes had initially roamed over him with the same hopeless, fading desperation that had arisen over all the other prisoners she'd seen. The crooked shape of what was once a strong human being showed no spark of individuality upon first glance, and only a moment's hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty was what made her double back. Even much later on in her life, she wouldn't have been able to say what caused her to do it. But turn back she did, and it was that small gesture that changed her life for good.

Her numb fingers slipped against the damp bars as her body fell against the cell door in disbelieving shock- but shock alone didn't even begin to cover the silent screaming, the buzzing, and the vortex thundering through her entire body at that moment. Elizabeth couldn't even let tears fall as she looked upon the man she'd thought she'd lost forever.

He was curled up in a corner in what she hoped was a sleeping position, and she clawed for the keys to open the cell. Common sense made her pause to look for any other guards, and fate was kind to her for once. With a shuddery breath, she turned to face Will Turner.

It took her a moment to realize that the only thing he was wearing was a pair of breeches; his feet, torso, and arms were completely bare. Any other time in the past, she would have been embarrassed to see him so sparsely clad, but modesty was the farthest thing from her mind when she saw the scars. Snaking up his back, curling around his ribs were the bloody remnants of wounds that had never had a chance to heal properly, undoubtedly left there by a whip; he'd clearly been terribly beaten many times. Bruises darkened the rest of his dirty skin like shadows, along his arms and on his face. Oh, his face! The once-handsome visage was sunken and almost angular, masked by injury and illness. A beard covered his jaw, very different from the trim moustache she'd been so used to. The dark, filthy curls of his hair fell into his eyes, completely obscuring them from her view. Those eyes… if only she could see them, then maybe she could tell that Will had come back to her…

A sob ripped from Elizabeth's throat, and instinct brought her hand to her mouth. Weakness quaked in her knees, and she sunk to the stone floor beside him, unable to tear her eyes away from the crumpled man before her. How could he possibly be Will? A sudden impulse made her tentatively reach forward to grab the still hand curled across the stone. Will's hands… she remembered them like yesterday, the rough palms softly caressing her skin, the hardened fingertips brushing her face, traveling down to her chest… This hand was unquestionably his.

Elizabeth stroked further up his arm, inwardly wincing as she took in the injuries covering him, and a bout of shock rippled through her when her fingers picked up something else upon his skin: the blistering, unmistakeable insignia of a "P". They had branded him as a pirate. Fairly recently, seeing as the burn wasn't yet a scar, but it would mark his arm forever, showing the world what he had become.

She let her eyes rest upon this for a few moments before moving her hands gingerly and awkwardly to his face. Gently, she swept away the limp hair from his forehead, revealing the closed eyes and the expressionless eyebrows. He did not stir. A tear dripping on his skin, she leaned forward slightly and whispered, "Will."

Nothing. She tried again, and still there was no response. No, he couldn't be… there was a heartbeat still, a shallow breath from his lips, he was alive… let him awaken. Feeling apprehensive at how close she had to get to him, she whispered directly in his ear. This time, she thought she detected his eyes move from behind the shut lids, ever so slightly. Wetting her parched lips, she called his name once more, and this time she shook him. Now his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, all for a mere instant.

"Please," whispered Elizabeth urgently, gripping his shoulder. Forgetting all her former fears of rejection, she shifted her position and placed his head in her lap, her thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones, her voice urging him to return.

Finally, the eyes opened, and Elizabeth's breath stopped short. "It's me, Will." They were the same mahogany in the dreams, the ones that had stayed with her all this time.

But her joy was crushed as Will stared up at her with those clouded eyes, unseeing and confused. Infection from the wounds, dehydration, starvation, and all the other dire aspects of his situation had made him terribly ill, weak; anyone could see that. But the horrible truth of it was this: he did not recognize her.

"No, it's me, Elizabeth," she hissed through clenched teeth, fighting a new flow of tears as her hands cupped his face, trying to bring life back to him. Will gave her one last delirious stare before his eyes fluttered shut once more; a soft moan pulsed in his throat. Feebly he touched her arm, grabbing onto the last bit of hope, before letting his hand fall.

That small gesture hit Elizabeth harder than anything else, and that moment was when she realized the full extent of what she would have to do. She clasped his hand again and rubbed the coarse skin as her other arm cradled his head. "I promise you, Will," she murmured, "I will not let you go."

One final tear fell.

"I will not let you die."