Yes, I am alive! I can't apologize enough for the delays; some plotbunnies attacked me a while ago, and I didn't think it best to ignore them... I'm not sure how long this story will last; it may take a while for it to finish. Sadly, it won't end in time for its first publication anniversary, that's for sure. Boy, do I feel pathetic...
The walls of the dark chamber were echoing with the ever-familiar cracks of a whip and the short cries of someone in pain. A small, crumpled form writhed on the floor, struggling to fight the agony, the coppery scent of his own blood clouding his senses. The black serpent of the whip attacked him again, its touch like venom upon his skin; then a bucket of saltwater was splashed upon him, igniting the marks with an even greater torture than before. He could barely suppress the yelp issuing out of his throat, pressing his face into the stone so that they could not see his anguish.
A harsh hand snagged into his dust-coloured hair, yanking his head upwards; now the cold blade of a knife was pressed against his throat, slowly and gently brushing upwards to his jaw and lips. His breaths, coming in desperate pants, fogged the metal.
"Speak, vermin," fumed Mercer, pressing the flat surface of the knife firmly against his face. "Use your tongue, or I shall cut it out!"
The young man swallowed, the instinct for survival urging him to tell everything, but his loyalty was stronger. He drew his mouth into a tighter line and looked back at Mercer in both defiance and terror.
With a quick swipe, Mercer cut the spy's face from across his temple to the opposite end of his jaw. Blood trickled into the young man's mouth as he gasped in pain. A swift, hard kick was delivered into his ribs- followed by a snap of bone- and he buckled sideways onto the stone once more. The whip struck him yet again, and a foot was pressed firmly onto his torn face, holding him down.
Almost leisurely clicks of boots sounded from across the floor, and the spy glanced upwards to see the serenely calm face of Lord Spelford, who had witnessed the torture with quiet observance. He bent down to his level now, his eyes mocking.
"It greatly amuses me to think that the likes of you could hope to deceive a head of the East India Trading Company. I do not merely relax in my study all day, lad; my eyes miss very little on the happenings in this fortress. No matter if you tell me or not of your probable accomplice, I shall find him anyway, if he exists. But if you decide to inform me now, I can promise a far swifter death for him; perhaps almost as swift as yours.
"Now tell me; is there anyone with you, and if there is, what name does he go by?" Spelford had his hand under the spy's chin now, jerking it upwards, ignoring the blood that was running onto his glove. The young man said nothing, just gazed back with a mixture of fear, hesitance, and rage smouldering in his eyes; Spelford could decipher each one of those emotions, the knowledge of them alone telling him all he needed to know. This prisoner was needed no longer.
With that, Spelford rose up again, reaching for the scabbard at his side. In one fluid motion he drew his sword and brought it deep into the chest of the prisoner on the floor. The spy's eyes grew wide and blank; blood bubbled from his mouth. As Spelford yanked the rapier from his body, the young man's life went with it.
Spelford brought the blade erect, eyeing the now ruby-coloured sheen glimmering on it. With a grumbled sigh, Mercer stuck his knife back into its sheath, sidestepping away from the body. "I don't think you should have done that so soon, my lord," he said, a tad uncertainly.
"He wouldn't have told us anyway," replied Spelford, wiping the rapier with his soiled glove. "He would have been one of those annoyingly loyal types, despite his weakness. We might as well get the messy parts through before we begin the search for the other one. Besides, with one man gone, their strategy, whatever it might have been, is sure to have a considerable hole in it; killing him could have only added to our benefit. If there were others, how would they have known what happened to their dear partner? Let us confuse them for now. And keep an eye on the new recruits for any suspicious behaviour."
"I will inform Hobson," said Mercer. "And Mr. Fletcher might know something as well; he sometimes helps out with the new men."
"Be sure to inspect things yourself, Mercer. I very much doubt this little incident is of much importance to us, but if it ends up being so, we'd best put an end to it before it spreads any more than it has already." Spelford gave a short nod before striding away, letting his bloodied glove flutter to the floor beside the body.
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The night Will's fever broke, it was as if nothing else mattered for Elizabeth; how could anything be as important, as lovely as the sight of his face, filled with precious life? Her heart was leaping in a lively jig, her senses taking note of only him: she let her eyes roam over his face, hands, and bare chest; her ears picked up the slightest wavers of his breathing with joy; she drank in his musky, beautifully dirty scent; she trembled under the slightest feel of his skin; and with his face barely an inch from her own, her tongue could once again remember the sweet scent of his breath, a taste she had long since forgotten and unknowingly desired.
Will's soul was in a brilliant, achingly wonderful turmoil as well. Part of his mind was questioning why and how; how had he managed to wake with this miraculous angel, always flying on the edge of his dreams, with her arms around him? Why was she here? How was she here? Had those terrible years been no more than a nightmare? No practical, proper answers in words were to be found in her eyes, but he could not have summoned the thought to search for them otherwise. All he could hope to do was gaze at her for as long as he was able, irrevocably and silently loving her…
Eventually, though, words would have to come. But Will was unable to summon to his tongue anything that would describe the immense, agonized feeling he had harboured for so long, the guilt gnawing at him for everything he had done that hurt her. No words could truly illustrate what he felt for her, that deep, impenetrable, untameable sea of love, the thorn-sharp ocean he would have swum a thousand times over, if only to see her smile once more, if only to feel that gaze directed at him. Oh, the honour, to have her merely looking at him! She probably had no idea of how she tormented him so, how the mere thought of her caused his heart, pierced with daggers, somehow to also find a way to soar; he both loved and hated being smitten with her still, the way she was able to turn him, a notable pirate captain, back into that stuttering blacksmith apprentice. His love for her was more weakening than the most crippling torture, yet it also strengthened him with a kind of golden immortality. What could he possibly say to describe all that and more?
How could Will Turner, a man who knew not the art of words, tell her anything at all?
That rational part of him was returning, driving away the present and beckoning the past. What could he say to erase the terrible wrong he had done when he left her in the rain? What would a few flimsy sentences do to make her love him again? How could whispers brush those years away like cobwebs, and relight the fire they had once attempted to kindle? They had failed; that was the awful truth that had been so hard to accept. Both had fallen, and had picked themselves up in a far different place. To start again, yet to drown once more… he had not the heart to try.
And Elizabeth knew it. Staring into his broken, hopeless expression, she knew he would not be able to hold her. Yet she also knew she would not be able to do the same for his soul, no matter how many bandages and healing salves she gave to him. Her heart had been broken, yes, but his far more so, because his love had been stronger, his unwavering devotion and protection far exceeding what she had felt. That fact pierced at her more severely than the point of a cutlass, shamed her more than anything, something she wanted desperately to prove wrong, but would never be able to. He was too pure for her filthy hands to touch, too noble for her to even think of caring for, too beautiful for her undeserving eyes to behold. He had braved the unthinkable for her, turned against his own morals to ensure the best for her, his endless courage displayed time and time again. Yet still she had not cared enough. He had offered her love, but she had chosen mere lust instead, like preferring the simple lump of coal to the transformed diamond.
But had she made that choice? Often she told herself that, just so she could be more confident in her new life, feeling as though she had chosen her own destiny. The truth of it, though, was that he been the one to push her away, turn his back to her. He had become the betrayer in the end, and so therefore it had been him that broke their bond. Despite his visible love, Will had left her. It was him, not her! Pride told her this, but her heart whispered what she knew to be true: though he may have taken the final step, she had made the first. And that, she knew deep down, was far worse. If she hadn't succumbed to her feelings for Jack, none of this would have ever happened. They wouldn't be here, trapped in a prison, weary and frail upon a dank stone floor, unable to speak to each other- unable to tie together the fragments of their lost love.
Somehow, Will and Elizabeth both understood this. Dreams in a land of sunshine weren't enough to bring them together. They had to do it themselves, but at that moment, neither of them was strong enough. Though Will may have been found, they were still lost.
Swallowing, Elizabeth brushed her cold fingers away from his hand, and saw him close his eyes in return, as if agreeing with her. "I'm sorry," Will murmured, so silently he could scarcely be heard. She didn't have to ask what he meant. Holding back tears, she nodded feebly before clambering to her feet with agonized slowness. He remained on the floor, still a beaten prisoner, weak from fighting sickness. Without a word she picked up her satchel and exited the cell, now putting physical bars between them. Before heading back into the darkness of the corridor, she cast one last glance at him, unwilling to let him go again.
But his eyes were still closed. And so she left.
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With her mind in such turmoil and tears threatening to blur her vision, Elizabeth could scarcely see where her feet were taking her. Faintly she noted the distant screams, the grey dawn beginning to seep in through the few tiny windows, the utter stillness about the corridors. Nothing meant anything to her right now; confused and despairing, she was unable to think of anything but Will, and the way he had shut his eyes to her.
That stupid bastard, far too selfless… he never took anything he wanted, never did anything for his own benefit. Why couldn't he at least try to fight for her? But perhaps he didn't even want to have her back… maybe it would have been better if she had never come at all. What bewilderment she felt! Suddenly she seemed very much alone.
Elizabeth was struck by a sudden, strange longing for Jack, odd at a time where everything in her mind was Will. Jack would know what to do, he always had a plan, usually for his own advantage, true, but it was something at times where there was nothing. Oh yes, he'd be able to use his silver tongue, quick wits, and catlike agility to dance around the guards and free the prisoners, through some way or another. If he were here, he wouldn't have been afraid to talk to Will. He'd… no, stop thinking about him! How can you still trust him, after being hurt so many times? No, if the bloody bastard was here, I'd send him right back out to his beloved ship, rum, and salty wenches! That's all he needs to be happy.
She would have started crying again at that moment… but she was sick of tears, hated succumbing to such a display of weakness. Elizabeth paused for a moment to regain control of herself; after all, she was still trapped in this place, and had to keep up her disguise. She pressed her palms into her eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to stop shivering so much. When she allowed herself to see again, a trembling light flickered on the corridor walls ahead… candlelight from an open door. With a waver of curiosity, Elizabeth crept closer to it; the door was made of sturdy reddish wood, held in place with almost intricate filigree. There was a knocker made of same type of metal as well; it was made to model a lion's head, a dragon-like cat fiercely gripping a ring of brass in its teeth. The whole thing seemed entirely unbefitting in such a dismal place; it was easily apparent that it was the entrance to the chambers of someone important.
Elizabeth's mind snapped back at the realization. Ever so slowly, she peered around the edge of the open door; to her utter amazement, a warm, beautiful room was before her, firelight wavering over the many shades of red, brown, and gold. Soft velvet covered the chairs, trimmed with delicately woven tassels; a silver tray, holding the remnants of a meal, was close by the door, ready for someone to whisk it away (admittedly, Elizabeth felt her stomach growl at this); the rug before the fire was like thick moss, the kind of stuff to bury your toes in on a cold night; amongst all the furniture, though, what caught Elizabeth's eye most of all was the desk in the centre of the room, ornately carved from a kind of dark wood; clutches of papers, a small box, a stick of wax for marking seals on letters, among other odds and ends, littered the smooth surface. What information was hidden in that parchment?
Scarcely able to believe the sheer coincidence of her situation, Elizabeth glanced down the corridor on both sides, then back into the chamber once more, just to make sure she was alone in these parts. Swallowing, she then stepped forward, taking the greatest care not to brush the edge of the open door. With the most careful steps, as if she were afraid to leave footprints on the stone, she came to the imposing desk, glancing over its contents.
Most of the letters were concerning the business of trading, and at first Elizabeth paid no attention to those; being so weary, it was still hard to focus, especially on written words. But when the most recent date crossed her eyes, she finally started to concentrate on what the passage beneath it read. The script was like dark feathers, elegantly fluttering across the page in loops and flourishes, almost beautiful to read, but what it contained was far more important to Elizabeth:
September the Second, in the year of our Lord Seventeen-Eighteen
Dear good Sirs of the East India Trading Company,
It is with regret I write that the tempestuous season has fallen upon us now in the Caribbean Sea. As such, I feel it would be an ill choice to send the Promise and the Mary Belle back to Europe at this time, seeing as the goods they carry are of immense value to the Company; a dreadful shame it would be to lose them. Those Company members here were all in agreement to have the two ships and their cargoes wait in Kingston, where they shall be sufficiently safe and well cared for, and then sail in November, when it is presumed the hurricanes shall fade. Coincidentally, November the Fifteenth is the date scheduled for Lord George Dillingham, Lord Thomas Roderick, and myself, Lord Reginald Spelford, to return to England aboard the Endeavour, along with the fine trading vessels the Sea Holly and the Adelaide. It would appear reasonable enough to have the delayed ships travel with this fleet for their passage across the Atlantic.
Do not worry about us being attacked; I no longer see the pyrates as a threat to us. The late Lord Cutler Beckett did a fine job of destroying much of their ranks a few years ago, and I rather pride myself on ridding the Caribbean of the rest since then. None of our vessels have been attacked for some months, save for the one particular incident in the American colonies, which, of course, was swiftly taken care of. Yes, now I truly feel the oceans are open for our taking; now is the time for the East India Trading Company to cross the globe.
We shall see you when we arrive in England.
Lord Reginald Spelford
The Promise, the Mary Belle, the Sea Holly, the Adelaide, and the Endeavour- only the last of these names was familiar to Elizabeth, terribly familiar… but all the same, she stored the rest promptly into her memory, along with the date: November the Fifteenth, November the Fifteenth… Elizabeth's heart gave a few jumps in her chest; this bit of intelligence might prove to be valuable in the future, she could see that easily enough. So many "fine trading vessels" out in the open, carrying cargoes of equally "immense value", not to mention those three Lords, leaders of the East India Trading Company. It was enough to make the pirate in her giddy with excitement, and the warrior side eager to finally strike a blow back at the people who had torn so much away from her. This time, their arrogance wouldn't let them get away so easily; the pirates were not totally expelled in these waters, as they so mistakenly imagined. Come November, they could be proven wrong.
Even if it wasn't clear exactly what to fight for or under what plan it was going to be, it was something. For once, she knew what side she was on. If only everything else was so simply divided; if only the easy path held what she desired most… Will's closed eyes came back to her once more in a stab of pain. Elizabeth shook her head back and forth, as if to brush off the image. A wave of utter exhaustion overcame her; it was high time she fell asleep on something other than stone, cold with dampness and shattered hopes.
As quietly as she came, Elizabeth slipped through the door again and headed in the direction where she thought her bed was; before she went, she glanced back at the lion-head knocker, the glint of light making it look as though it had eyes of fire, burning into her and reading what was inside. An involuntary shiver went through Elizabeth, and she crossly rubbed her arms as if to stifle it. Really, what was there to fear from a lump of metal stuck into a door? You're going daft, lass, she thought to herself.
All the same, for some reason or other, she quickened her steps as she continued down the halls. By the time she came across another person, she was nearly running, and it was all she could to not to collide into the man coming from the opposite direction. Skidding to a halt, she nervously glanced into the stranger's face.
"E-excuse me, sir," she murmured, nervously aware that her voice was raspy and weak, her appearance worn down and dirty, but also grateful that it would help to disguise her; if she didn't meet the stranger's eyes too often, he should be tricked well enough.
The man said nothing in reply at first, his thin eyebrows rising in slight surprise upon noticing the young guard wandering alone so early in the morning. He gazed at her from head to toe, as if sizing her up, before he let his countenance relax into an expression of calm poise. Elizabeth tried to do the same with her own face, not wanting to appear suspicious. Finally the man raised a hand, as if to wave her off; a hand, unlike the other behind the man's back, that wore no glove.
Tired as she was, Elizabeth didn't notice this little fact as she darted past him, casually continuing to her quarters. Neither was she able to observe that he watched her go with such curiosity, the kind that Elizabeth wouldn't have liked at all if she had perceived it.
What was worst, though, was the subtle smirk that crossed the man's hawkish features upon her departure, like a lion taking the first motions of hunting its prey, studying the way the creature moves and best determining the way to catch it. Eyes of fire watched her retreat to the blackness, searching and waiting…
I give tremendous thanks to every single reader and reviewer, those both named and anonymous, for sticking with me all this time! My dear Wills-Elizabeth23, I feel very touched that my story was the first one for you to review, and thank ye kindly for persisting that I continue! And once again, another bow towards the lovely StephCalvino!
Until next time, then. ;)
