Author's Note: Welcome to chapter six of "Rubicon". Thanks goes out to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, sudoku, Mystress of the Dark, Tiera-Tarie, Astraeas Dreams, threeheadedmonkey and sweetblonde14. Thank you all so much! As always, I do not have a beta for this fic, so any grammatical or spelling errors that occur are my fault and my fault alone. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters.

March 21, 1731

Log,

Anne is content and so I am. In her happiness I find my own. In her peace I find my rest. And in her health I find my joy.

But is she truly well?

The question has plagued me and alone, in my office during the too bright afternoons, I have meditated on it. She looks cheerful, yes, and seems to be just as active as she was when I left her in England. But I do not trust the pallor in her cheeks, nor her cough.

I would seek counsel or send for a good doctor but I know of not one. Port Royal strives to be an English haven but falls short. I find the place rustic and dull and lacking the most basic amenities of civilized life. I am not sure I would trust a Caribbean doctor, even if he was trained elsewhere. I trust very few men in this place.

But I must think only of pleasant things now. I have a free moment and there is a nice breeze stirring the waters and caressing the sun. Twilight inches over the sky and I can see but a narrow moon, thin and white, like an old scar.

Anne is certainly in the gardens. I can just see them from my window, a great green lawn extending from the back of the house, followed by a rose garden. Anne wants a new birdbath to place in the center of the rose garden. She says the birds fly by but they never stop. I, of course, have obliged her. She has placed an order with a well-known sculptor in Italy though I am sure we shan't see it until the new year. But she is pleased, so I must be.

I am allowed to breathe a sigh of relief. And I am relieved, truly.

For yesterday I received news at last of Jack Sparrow.

Mr. Mercer and Mr. Norrington were both in my office and they seemed very pleased with themselves. For the past two months there have been scattered reports from sailors and merchants. Many have said the Black Pearl sank. And a few said that Jack Sparrow was dead.

I bided my time at first and listened. The talk grew and I listened intently. Could I dare to hope for such a gracious boon?

I said nothing at first. And then Mr. Mercer at last came to me with an unusual smile upon his face. He told me that the rumors had been confirmed, Jack Sparrow was dead.

It was a strange thing, I must admit. I expected happiness on my part, or at least satisfaction. Years of wanting revenge have fueled my hate but now I feel almost lost.

It is said that Julius Caesar wept over the body of his rival, Pompey. Would I weep over Jack Sparrow?

I think not. I am glad he is dead. I am glad he is no longer of this world, but stews in the flames of Hell.

Perhaps now the seas will be safer, for a time. Perhaps trade can continue on unhindered and free from molestation. And perhaps pirates will think twice before setting out upon their ships.

My name ought to be known along the waves, it ought to be whispered in filthy taverns accompanied by frightened glances. I ought to be feared.

I am afraid, however, that not all the news was good.

Mr. Norrington entered my office as well. And though he was solemn and stoic, I think he may have been pleased in his own way. That troubles me.

He reported a sighting of William Turner and Elizabeth Swann. They were on a ship, passing from Caribbean waters. Dear God, where could they be headed?

The last Mr. Norrington reported, they were on the Black Pearl. Could they have possibly escaped when it sank?

William Tuner fancies himself gallant and bold. He does not trouble me. The lad is smart, but not cunning. There is quite a difference betwixt the two.

But Elizabeth Swann. Ah Miss Swann, was it so long ago that you barged into my office in your soiled wedding gown, demanding my signature and humiliation?

She is bold. But boldness in a woman does not surprise me. My Anne is bold enough and I know she could match Miss Swann's bravery with ease. But that dratted Swann is manipulative. She possesses all the damned qualities of a pirate, unreliable, dishonest and cruel. She would lie with a straight face to save herself from peril.

How very unlike my dear wife.

I have reason then to worry over Miss Swann. Therefore, I will continue to listen and to watch and when the moment is right, if she should show herself again, I will strike out at her.

It is a shame almost, that a woman of breeding should go astray and leave behind her life. Ah well, she is a pirate now.

I must admit, despite my contentment, I am a bit weary. I am almost reluctant to admit to the dreams that have followed me these past few nights. Even during the hours of the day, I find my mind ensnared by sordid images.

I dare not tell Anne, for I do not wish to alarm her. No, she is calm now. I should never wish to disrupt her peace. Perhaps I should keep my dreams to myself, as I have with most things these days. Every apprehension, every worry. It is exhausting, yes, but I would spare at least my wife from my fears.

But I feel I must say something, or write something rather. It might be best to sketch out what exactly took place, if only to show myself that it is but a dream and dreams are of no consequence.

Well, it happened thusly.

The dark-skinned woman continued to race along the beach, drawing me onward. My senses told me to stop. I was being foolish. Why chase after her? She looked like a wild woman, with wild eyes and hair and a keen smile. But my legs churned, my feet moved forward and I followed her.

It seemed I ran for a long while. And the moon was overhead and in the ocean. Sand became rocks beneath my feet and at last I found the woman, kneeling by a small pool. She had her thin hands cupped and at once she dipped them into the water.

All the while she said nothing to me, but raised a handful of water before her eyes and smiled.

It was then that terror gripped me and I could not look away. The water throbbed in her hands, slow, soft, beating. Beating like a heart.

And then I felt myself falling back, unable to catch myself.

Every night I awake from such a fright. The bed jolts beneath me and I grasp at the blankets, if only to assure myself that I am indeed safe. Anne sleeps on beside me, undisturbed and dancing in sweet dreams of her own.

No, I shall not tell her.

The afternoon fades now and I look out the window once more. Anne has wandered onto the great lawn with young Cutler in her arms. She sits upon the grass and places him beside her.

My son pushes himself to his feet, so very slowly. For a moment he stands and wobbles and then he falls backwards once more. Anne laughs and gathers him back into her arms. She is so terribly happy. What I wouldn't do to insure her eternal joy.

Perhaps I will got down and meet them.

Lord Cutler Beckett