I'm not dead yet!! And neither is this story!! What is it with me and updating? I apologize over and over to anyone who has been faithful enough to keep up with this ambling fanfic; I've always been a slow thinker, both a perfectionist and a procrastinator (bad combination), so that always affects me, even in fan matters. The sad thing is, I was fourteen when I started this; now I'm almost sixteen, and I'm only on Chapter Ten...

There is a character in this chapter that has been mentioned before, but hasn't made an appearance 'til now. He is not, in fact, an OC of mine; he is borrowed (without permission) from another fandom that I love; if you know where he's from, you get a virtual hug from me!

This chapter is hopefully a tad longer than the others, but be warned; there is a lot of reminiscing going on, and very little dialogue (though I did stick in a conversation somewhere). But, to me, the relationship between Will and Elizabeth was never really about the dialogue, anyway.

Once again, I am most deeply sorry for taking forever to update.

Disclaimer that I should have had long ago: I own nothing except the plot, the Firebrand, Silas, Jeremiah Trilby, and Lord Reginald Spelford. Pretty much everything else is PotC or borrowed tidbits from other fandoms.


Jack couldn't remember the last time his bloody compass had worked properly. For the past- what was it?- three years, at least, the needle had wavered in several different directions when he flipped it open, rarely settling in one place for more than a few seconds. Even by concentrating, nothing seemed clear.

Elizabeth, Elizabeth... The word pounded furiously in Jack's brain. I need to find Lizzie. He fluttered his fingers over the compass, like he was trying to enchant it to point the way he needed it to go. Northwest-by-west. Southeast. East-northeast. It was like an overexcited child when confronted with an array of sweets; it wanted to try everything. Or perhaps, it was him that wanted everything, as Tia Dalma had teasingly implied so long ago. Jack had always craved freedom- the compass would point to whatever could give him that. But what, exactly, could offer him true freedom?

Even when he was a lad, Jack Sparrow had always wanted to have a bit of everything. His nimble fingers would find their way into trash heaps and barrels and fine silk purses, testing and feeling. Sometimes he would manage to get away with his frayed pockets a tad heavier than they had been moments before; other times, all he received was a swift boxing to his ears. His thieving skills improved as he grew older- but then, his desire to steal, to have, grew steadily stronger as well. As he became more aware that his life would never reap riches and nobility, he sought to win prizes instead. It didn't matter what it was; fights, games, gambles, women, gold... the possession of anything was satisfying, and if he lost it, the greed to gain it back was even pleasurable still.

Perhaps Jack's thirst to gain came from the meager benefits of his childhood, the way he was constantly pushed down and discouraged from taking. His youth was a collage of desperation and bitterness, glaring stains upon a paper that should have been clean. A father that preferred the embrace of the sea to the pleading grasp of his son; a mother that withered away from him like seaweed discarded upon the shore; the feeling of lying crumpled and small on the ground as a stronger boy jeered and kicked at him, always the scapegoat of the gangs he sometimes tried to join; the constant pinch of hunger and loneliness in his belly; the indignity of crouching in the shadows of filth aboard ships as they unknowingly carried him to what he thought were new worlds; the raw feeling of determination after being struck down by his masters- the cartographer, the Italian swordsman, the leaders of the EITC- simply because he had to learn what they offered, no matter what the cost. He refused to be a mere ragamuffin on the streets, only destined to become no more than a common seadog as he aged. No; Jack vowed to become a captain; wait, more than that. He would be a legend. Never again would he be kicked down and shoved into the ordinary life poor men were expected to lead. Whatever it took, he would be immortal in the memory of time, his freedom enduring always, and if he came to it, he would push aside anyone who got in the way. Or, at least nudge them off to the side for a bit, until he figured out what to do with them and how they could be of use.

And if he lost a few things along the way, well, there was always another sure to come along- or so he told himself. There were some things Jack could never give up- the Black Pearl was one of them. As a young ex-trader out of the East India Trading Company, he had refused to leave her behind, broken beneath the ocean after Beckett, angered by her captain's soft heart, had destroyed her; with the pirate brand still fresh on his skin, Jack had struck up a bargain with Davy Jones, trading his precious freedom for the ship he loved. When Barbossa had led the mutiny against him, Jack had not permitted himself to rest until he had regained his dark lady back for himself, and lodged his single bullet in her deceitful lover's heart. Yet again, many months later, when his old enemy committed the same crime, Jack had still managed to win the Pearl back, and was finally able to experience the pleasure of dropping dear Hector off on Rumrunner's Island as he had wanted to for so long (though lately he had heard rumours that Barbossa had found a way off and had managed to secure a new ship, but Jack tried not to let that little fact bother him too much). Through his relentless pursuit of her, the Black Pearl had become the physical embodiment of his lust for immortality- to hold on, to never fade away. With her, his freedom was pure and intact; she was one thing he would never let go.

And Elizabeth Swann, Jack was certain, was another.

At least, he thought he was certain. She was his lass, wasn't she? No other woman could ignite the same fire in him as she could, or toy with his affections and twist his silver tongue in such a way. Jack saw so much of himself in Elizabeth, in her manipulating ways and passion and hunger for freedom; yet she also was the challenging spitfire that he as a womanizer delighted in figuring out, someone he could belittle just as she tormented him in turn. They clashed often and connected occasionally, a tumbling relationship that worked just fine for him. And, up until she had quite unexpectedly run away, an arrangement he thought she enjoyed as well.

But she had chosen him, hadn't she?. For reasons that she never chose to explain (and reasons he was not altogether eager to sort out), Elizabeth Swann had chosen him, Jack Sparrow, over Will Turner.

Will Turner... Jack's spine prickled uncomfortably, an odd emotion gnawing at him. Satisfaction, perhaps? Fear? Guilt? Affection? But it didn't matter; the lad whom he would have once considered to be his best mate was long gone, just as his father before him, and so many others who had left Jack's side. An array of faces came back to him in a rush, small shards of his heart that he had worked hard to bury away; his lip twitched slightly as he remembered them: his mother, his father, his fellow childhood urchins... old shipmates... lovers...

The needle on the compass trembled, feebly settling in one direction. Jack knew where it was pointing- and why. Judging from what he knew of Elizabeth's abandonment of him- gathered from a somewhat questionable witness- and instinct deep inside him, he knew it was the way he needed to go, to find Elizabeth- but it was not pointing for her. There was another, it seemed, still firmly latching onto his soul...

"Sail due east, men!" he barked over his shoulder, the individual orders immediately bleated to the men by Gibbs, who saw the tangle of emotions in his captain's face and thought it best to leave him be. Jack's eyes flicked towards the compass again, almost embarrassed by its heading. Once more, irritably, he shook it, as if he were trying to erase the arrow from its weathered face- and from his own mind as well.

Jack didn't try to pry into his heart that often.

Mostly because he was afraid of what he would find.

--

Will may have closed his eyes after Elizabeth left, but he had been far from falling into sleep. His body was worn after facing yet another trial against death, but his mind and heart refused to give him rest. A constant echo pounded through him, bringing up thoughts of remorse, unworthiness, confusion, and Elizabeth. One thought stalked another, circling him in a single restless grip.

What, exactly, had brought her here? How had she known? Had she somehow come across a pirate that had been in the battle- his father, perhaps? Will sighed with a short waver of relief; if so, it meant his father, and Anamaria and the crew as well, were safe. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if they had been hurt on his account.

Will had always loved his father, despite the patchy influence he had had in his son's life. Perhaps that was why his abandonment had been so painful... because every time the father turned back to the sea, the little son had clung all the harder to his leg, begging him to stay just a little longer. Will had loved him too much; loved his silence, his gruffness, his sad blue eyes. Bill's absences had hurt Will because he felt his father had not loved him back. But all that had changed, now that they were reunited; because Will had chosen the father who had never been there over the love of his life, and it had healed the mangled link between them, fused into something stronger. Bill Turner was the thing that had kept Will going each day, picked him up when his heart had felt too heavy to carry. If Bill was gone, Will had felt he would wither away too.

Though there had been someone that might have had the chance of claiming a piece of his heart... Anamaria, the feisty female pirate whom he had barely known before joining her crew had somehow also become part of his world. Their relationship was an odd one; where he was steadfast and quiet in his dealings, she chose fire and intimidating persistence, and naturally they had reached strife on many an occasion. Perhaps her spirit had reminded him of Elizabeth, or her personality was the kind he wished he sometimes had, but in any case, something had sparked between them; Ana was almost like his sister now. They made little attempt to try for something more. Something was holding them back; for their own reasons, ones they rarely discussed, but both knew of, they had refused to dwell into the realms of anything resembling a courtship. Certainly they had come close... but they valued each other too much to put their faith into something as dangerous as their own hearts.

Two years ago, in the last conversation they had ever had, Jack had told Will if he chose to lock his heart away, he would lose it for certain. That was Will had attempted to do after he and Elizabeth had parted. He had not dared to mention or even think of her. At first he even tried to hate her, because she had said she hated him; but that was even more agonizing than trying to remember their love. It had made him angry, how she could so freely be rid of him, but he could never brush her from his heart, no matter how hard he tried. Oh, to be like Davy Jones, and with a mere knife free the burden from his chest forever!

The dreams, it seemed had always been there; in those despairing first nights, Will had floated through fragments of images that no longer belonged to him... her tangled golden hair, her pouted lips, her intelligent voice, her warm brown eyes... then he would wake, writhing and twisting, his father's arms the only haven from the wonderful, heartwrenching nightmares. As the months wore on, the dreams became longer and more detailed; he was able to move freely throughout them... he was able to pull her into his arms, hold her as he would never be able to do in the waking world, and she would love him as fiercely as she once did... Waking up in the mornings, quite alone, was a tormenting process, but he was willing to brave it, just to keep living for the beautiful world of the night. It was only there that the thoughts of Elizabeth were not ones of pain. There she was a ghost, nothing more.

But now Elizabeth was here, deep within this fortress, and she was not a ghost. She had guided him back from certain death, though she had no reason for coming to him in the first place. A part of Will was giddy with excitement; the other felt only despair. He knew he could never take her back, not after what he had done to her; they had their own lives now, as torturous as it was to live them. But oh, how he wanted to embrace her... press her close to him... kiss her...

Overcome by a mind that until recently had not been his own, Will sighed and rubbed a hand over his furrowed brow; he was so deep in his thoughts that at first he was surprised when someone spoke.

"Ah, good; you're awake," said a nearby voice, casual and friendly, a tone odd to hear in a place such as this. Will turned his head stiffly to the cell closest to his, looking straight into the blue-grey eyes of the Dread Pirate Roberts, an ally and fellow leader of his rebellion against the EITC. Roberts' back was against the wall, his boots crossed atop each other, his hands clasped upon his chest; one would have gotten the illusion he was merely lounging at the base of a tree, lazily observing a golden summer day instead of staring at bleak stone and iron bars. Even now, it was as if Will had simply woken from a nap, and Roberts was striking a chat amongst grass and gentle breeze.

"I have to admit; you were starting to worry me there for a bit," continued Roberts. "I figured you were either suffering madly from some illness brought upon by this place, or that my attempts to talk to you proved unworthy of response."

The corner of Will's mouth twitched; a rather odd movement for him. "How long have I been out?" he murmured, the words scratching his raw throat.

"I'd say about a week before your valiant lady arrived on the scene."

A wave of guilt and emotional pain burned Will's eyes, and he turned his gaze to the stone floor on which his cheek rested; an attempt to look at anything other than Roberts' unblinking, searching stare.

But Roberts looked at him anyway, observing his reaction, taking in the slumped shoulders, the crumpled brow, the worn edges of his mouth... but most of all the eyes, deep with a torrent of grief, resignation, and longing. And something else. Something else that Roberts knew very well indeed.

"You know..." said Roberts softly, keeping his eyes locked on Will, knowing the young captain was listening, even if he did not return the look. "I consider myself to be in love. With quite a beautiful creature, if I do say so myself. Hair the colour of autumn, see, and skin like wintry cream- a rather winning combination. She was proud and strong, as I remember her, and it took much time until she found it in her heart she loved me as I did her. Our courtship was a happy one, but cut short through a matter of circumstances, resulting as who I am now: The Dread Pirate Roberts, captain of the ship Revenge. An occupation, I'm sure, she knows nothing about."

Will said nothing; he was unaware that Roberts had had a girl somewhere, a girl he would probably never be able to return to. Tales of broken love were ever common now these days, it seemed.

"It's been about four years now since I last saw her," continued Roberts softly, "and I have been unable to send word to her for all that time. It's quite likely she thinks me dead, though a part of me wishes for her to be irrational in that matter.

"...But I do know," Roberts added after a moment, "that if I had the chance to hold her again, to begin once more what is now lost to us... I would take it. No matter what the cost. Even if I end up losing her in spite of our reunion, at least I will have known then we weren't meant to be. Still, whether she accepts me or not, I would be certain where her heart lies. And mine as well."

Finally, Will looked up into his eyes, his expression lost and curious.

Roberts shifted onto his arm, turning away from Will. "Not that it would be of any interest to you or anything. Just a tale that happened to come into my mind." And with that he fell silent.

Will continued to stare at Roberts, pondering all he had said. For the rest of that day, he did no more than sit in his cell with utter stillness, thinking and praying and deciding...

--

There were no other notches in the coffins; there hadn't been for days. Elizabeth tried to tell herself that it wasn't anything to worry about, that Jeremiah was probably coming after her to make his marks- but the more pessimistic side of of her quailed whenever she saw the unblemished wooden of the coffins, knowing that he almost always came before her, and the fact that he had not been first for many days bothered her. What if...?

Elizabeth shook her head to clear away these dark thoughts; she had to stay strong, and keep up her act. If she let her guard down now, all could be for naught; there were prisoners who needed her, and a prisoner, perhaps, that she needed just as much.

That whole day she tried not to think of Will; even the whisper of his name in her mind was a deafening pain too much for her to endure. He seemed to be everywhere she went; the ragged prisoner who she handed her canteen of water that morning was Will; in the glittering eyes of Fletcher, the guard who had helped her on her first day, was Will also; even her own reflection in the single dirty mirror of the quarters she could see Will staring at her forlornly. The man who she had tried so long to forget was now haunting her in every waking step.

But as the shadows along the stone walls stretched longer and darker, Elizabeth knew she couldn't hold off seeing him any longer. Even if he would not take her, she had to save him; that was the pact her heart had made, and though she wanted to run, it would not release its hold on her.

With a brave attempt at casualness she headed toward his cell, head erect and heart pounding. As the familiar wrought-iron bars came into view, her hand automatically groped for the ring of keys on her belt; despite how much she was shaking, despite how her tongue seemed to swell with all the words she wanted to say, she would get this over with quickly. Their bond had been cut; she would respect that. If she strayed too long, she was afraid what she might do.

The violent tattoo in her chest shuddered to an overwhelming halt as she saw him, sitting upright against the wall of his cell, staring directly at her. The sharp angles of his face seemed more defined, a look of intensity sharpening his eyebrows and setting his jaw; an expression that tore at the heartfelt memories that had until recently been locked away. His gaze startled her; it was not the broken, helpless features she had become used to, and the hardness of it scared her, and for a moment, she wanted to turn back. But then she saw his eyes, and the softness in them, contrasting greatly with the rest of his countenance, was directed gently at her; a strange sensation swept over her entire being, and suddenly she felt she could stay there forever.

Even when they were children, Elizabeth and Will had always had a connection with their eyes. A simple look could say a thousand words, and her father had often been bewildered by the understanding they had with hardly saying more than a few sentences. His eyes would twinkle at her, and hers would laugh back; when tears clouded his, hers would become searching and compassionate; if hers were wide with fright, his would narrow in anger for whatever had hurt her. Then came the awkward years of their adolescence, when society had started to yank them apart, but their eyes would still find each other, even when others had tried to turn them away. Whatever their connection was- mind-reading, some called it, or hypnosis- it had been real, and it had kept their bond of friendship and love as the years had changed them.

That was why Elizabeth had been so upset when Will turned away from her in the maelstrom, and also why his closed eyes had destroyed her so. But now, after so much had happened, after how much they had broken each other, he was looking at her. And all she could do was gaze back- for a moment, for a day, for a century.

Her throat seemed to constrict, stifling her voice, and the simple act of breathing quickly became difficult. Even more so did her chest tighten when he spoke. "Elizabeth," he whispered, so quietly she could hardly hear it. His eyes became pleading, and his hand raised toward her wearily. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

The same words as last night- but his eyes conveyed a different meaning entirely.

Ever so slightly, her hand reached for his. She had always been rebellious- even to her own misgivings. Any thought of keeping her distance from him vanished as she suddenly flew towards him, collapsing beside him and pressing his hands to her face, letting them catch the tears that suddenly flowed down her cheeks. At first tentative, he now held her to his chest, eyes squeezing tight as he rested his lips atop her head, clutching her near to him for as long as he dared. Her fingers groped for his bony shoulders, dancing up his neck and tangling into his mane of hair. No words had to be spoken, their bodies entwining thirstily and without comprehensive thought.

"Will..." she breathed, trembling in his arms. The name scorched her tongue, like coals not yet extinguished from a fire, painful and beautiful at the same time. She had forgotten how much she loved the taste of the word.

They inclined their heads toward each other, misty eyes glimmering with passion, fear, hope, and wonder. Ever so slightly, her lips parted, and he tilted his head to meet her...

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of calm, even footsteps broke the promise of a kiss, and Will and Elizabeth felt their hearts shatter. Their eyes flickered wildly towards each other, briefly finding the same horror and shock, and for a short heartbeat they were able to draw a slight feeling of courage for the love within each other's gaze as the footsteps grew louder and stopped in front of their cell door. With terror, they turned away from their connection to face who had come.

Standing there, smirking hungrily, much like a lion satisfied with the capture of its prey, was Lord Reginald Spelford.


Well... my first cliffhanger. Yay.