Okay, first I wanted to say thank you to a few new readers/reviewers. La Pirate Rose and Tortuga Lady, I appreciate it and I promise to keep writing as much as you want! And the same for FrozenFire676 and moonlightandmagnolias (which little p.s I love the name!)...thank you both for adding my story to your alerts, glad to know your waiting for more. I shall deliver.

Sophies-Welt, as always I appreciate it greatly, and I have to agree that was my favorite line to write of that whole chapter. It was a cross between Jack being jealous of how dead on she could portray him, and complete shock! lol

And now, Chapter 11. Whew, finally finished it. Again, it's based off a Coldplay song, A Rush of Blood to the Head. With good reason though I assure you. Hope everyone enjoys, and not to worry, I'm already hard at work on Chapter 12, now hopefully I don't loose power from the potential hurricane...yikes. (Also...little side note: The language spoken by Jack's mother is Brazilian, and as I was also informed, slight Peruvian, for those who are a little concerned. I'll have some added translations at the bottom of the chapter, but I think it's pretty comprehendable. Feel free to slap me if it's annoying.)

Chapter 11: A Rush of Blood to the Head

Circles danced erratically at the surface of the bucket's collection, rings stretching to the outer limits. Elizabeth's body, weakly propped at the foot of the bed, was in a crumpled heap on the wooden planks as she studied the actions of the raindrops. They fell from a miniscule hole in the low ceiling of her room, having rolled off of the railings and sails high above on the bow's deck. She wanted to move from the position she was in, possibly venture out into the rainy day, assist the crew, get something to eat, merely be seen. But the rash contractions of her lower abdominal muscles had other plans in reminding her of the toxicity level her veins had induced the night prior. So she struggled, arms weakly hung around her waist, legs curled to the side and face pale and limp, just waiting for someone to come and find her that way, anyone.

Jack.

And there it was, her fear; Jack. He had managed now to seep into the greater part of her logic, as if anything needing to be solved could so be accomplished by his witty remarks or smug kindness. And maybe it could, maybe that wasn't too far off the mark anymore. The passing years had proven him to be a much better man than the world had plastered him as; time and again he had risked his own life to give her one last chance at hers, and for what? Self gratification? Constant indebtedness from a woman? None of this. From what Elizabeth had seen over the few days back at sea with him, Jack was a changed man on many a front, a more subdued man, one of fatigue and regret almost but not without charm to follow. There, beneath the callous façade of his kohl smothered eyes and beguiled dingles, was an edge that no wench nor pirate alike had seen, no king or soldier. But she, she had seen it a long time ago, as if peering in through the window of a storefront and doting on the gems locked away inside.

She had known.

With a careful and noted haul, she handled pushing her weak bones from the floor and to the frame of the bed, standing wobbly legged thereafter. Whatever she had consumed the night before, and however much she had managed to swallow was far from a friend of hers on this day. The inhalation of rum and liquor of all sorts had never really been a healthy characteristic of hers, and it brought on more nightmares than it was worth. Images, sounds, horrendous pictures drawn out in her mind, consisting of demonic war, beloved death, bleeding hearts, decapitation, amputation, all of the things she had seen in her short life, all of the things that she had wished she had been blind to. Her mother, dead before her time, lost to unwarranted illness that had eaten her body and spirit from the inside out, day by day into the grey skies of London. Her father, taken out of this world by the hands of her own enemy, Jack's enemy, for no reason ever given to her. James, gone by the hand of the devil himself, a sword through the gut, eyes penetrating as she had struggled to keep from drowning herself, unable to help him, unable to save him. And Will, husband, lover, friend, her hero when Jack had not been, the man who would have gladly assured his own place amidst danger for her to walk free without a scratch. He was pulled from this world as a blade severed the only trinket he had ever been able to give, his heart; whilst her hands had slowly carried him into another world, a cursed, unfair world. And there he was again in that memory, Captain Jack Sparrow. The man, the legend who had also died, beckoned into the jaws of his immortal demon by the hand of someone whom must have been his mortal imp by now.

"Didn't you ear' what she did t' im?"

"As ye wish t' tell me woman, I doubt I ave' any choice in the matter…"

A shadowed conversation filtered out through the open shutters of the Holly Tavern as Elizabeth made her way into town that evening. She was in search of nothing in particular, except a possible avenue to clear her mind. This wish was not so granted, as it was worsened. Stopping at the corner of the hallowed alley, she heard the familiar voices of Henry and Anne Holly, two of the most argumentative raconteurs on the Cove. But despite the obnoxious tones they used towards one another, they seemed to have as equally a high level of knowledge on issues she was interested in. Today's topic…

"Poor Jack, tied im' t' the mast o' the Pearl she did."

"You've lost yer final marble."

"Do you not believe me then Mr. Holly?"

"Ow' can I believe that a trifling lass…girl at that, left a Sparra' fer dead? King Turner is a fine girl, not a monster."

Elizabeth coaxed a short grin at this mention.

"She's t' devil Henry, the devil itself ere' t' take charge of all she can get er' bony…little ands' on!"

"If you insist Anne."

The two had concluded in the unharmonious rumor scrape for the afternoon, taking to preparing the tavern for evening business. Elizabeth, perplexed by the woman's thoughts on her, shuffled back out to the coastal grass, disappearing beneath the underbrush.

Finding her way out into the stormy haze of late afternoon, she spotted Marty first, clinging to a rope lead into the skies. He waved shortly, continuing on with his work and hardly noticing the limp scale of Elizabeth's saunter as she leaned on the wall, the door, a few barrels to come to the outer deck, no one noticed really. Blurs were all she could make out, a few men she didn't recognize, the lopsided grin of Gibbs, and Mr. Cotton's parrot as it flew over her head and to the stern of the ship. All of this done while the rain slowly trickled across her cheeks, bare feet, brazen knuckles, and pounding head. All of this too, while she searched out one man, one unforgiving rouge.

She didn't know what she would say to him when he was found, didn't know if she would explain her disgusting state from the night before, or apologize for anything she might have said, or even if she would throw herself at his mercy, and beg to be forgiven all of her vices against him and his health. She simply didn't know anymore.

"Alguns corações…tenha as estrelas em seu lado…"

"Wot' does it mean muv'a?"

" Ah, meu Prince…" The woman replied, stroking the young boy's face in a charmed fashion, the small trinkets braided into his hair of significant importance as they cooled her palm. "It means that some hearts, muito poucos…very few, have the stars fighting for them. That they are destined…"

"Destined for wot'?"

"Amor grande…great love, meu filho."

In a distant battlefield of his mind, Jack tossed recklessly against the confines of sheets, pillows, anything to keep from understanding the images. A woman he had long since decided was a muse of some sort, an illusion of truth from a childhood he could only remember as fondly as the sea remembers the dead. His mother, the angel of darkness who had haunted his every breath, his every glimpse in a mirror or fragment of broken glass. There she was in his eyes, the cinder and smoke that met in a jolt of energy, hers. The russet glow of his skin, a direct shadow of hers in the fairytale of immortal youth that she had succumbed to. Even the bristly strokes of his fingers, long and tenuous with knowledge, experience, were her own. In his rest he encountered her on this night, and no matter the strain of his forehead to the pillow, no matter the fray of his beating heart, she was not quite finished.

"Many girls shall find themselves charmed beneath your wit, meu caro Jack."

"Girls are daft ogres!" With a spirited wind of laughter, her crimson eyes danced in the existing flame beside the bed, as she brushed back the ebony sea of tresses to her shoulder. His mother was as mysterious as the Southern wind she longed for, a woman of her own people, of a land given to the sun gods, the rain, the oceans. And her marriage into a man's life, a man once bargained for the crown of England, had given her the plead of devotion to a subliminal, colonial lifestyle in mock comparison to her home. But it was her only son, only child, who found the most interest in her cultural release, her stories, her magic. "That is not so my son. One day you will see amor, a girl will be much more to you."

"Who?" Collecting a trivial pouch from under the fold of her apron, she moved it into the light, it's ruby embroidery an enchantment. Jack sat up, his small hands reaching out to investigate, but she assured him she would reveal its contents, and so did moments later. From inside to her cocoa palm, fell three soft stones, each of an indifferent hue. He carefully brushed his tiny fingers over each one, indigo, bronze, and a shade of yellow. Picking up the indigo stone from her hand, she held it up into the jetting light as he watched, eyes fixated. "This stone, cerulean…azul, is your first love. A girl with sparkling eyes of the deepest seas." He sat mesmerized, only partially understanding, and frankly not wishing to accept it as truth. "But why?"

"As estrelas, the stars they have no reason for their choices at times." Accepting her humored evil, he moved to roll the small brown stone beneath his finger, peering back inquisitively, "And who is this?"

"This, rust brown, creamed tea skin…this is your heart's desire, the one who will tempt you always. This flame will never die, my son. Only fade in time." Still there was very little understanding in his eight year old intelligence, but he moved on lastly to the yellow pebble, rubbing it carefully, as if he sensed its importance already. "And who is she?"

"She…a girl, menina…a delicate beauty."

"Delicate muv'er…will she break?"

"She may."

"And what will I do with er'?"

"You will be her hand. Lead her through the darkness, Jack. Conduza-lhe…care for her. But remember one thing…" His mother placed her hand over his, cupping it around the pebble for safety, "This is your destiny, and she is much like you. She is your mirror, with a fierceness even you will not best at times…"

A rattling jerk and tap at a door, his door, pulled him hopelessly from the truth of his dream, nightmare even. The flushing strain in his eyes from the salt and clever torment of the sun came to him when he peered across the room, through a dozen or so scattered candles and at the pained glass of the French doors. Rumpled, tired and lacking any motivation to speak to the visitor he still rose, letting his bare feet trample over piles of clothes and books, and finally greet the blur, the transformation of his memory, the yellow stone. "Jack!" While he rubbed the corners of his eyes of distress and kohl shaded goo, he held his hand to the doorway, awaiting an explanation he would never comprehend over the pounding raindrops. "D-did I wake you?"

"Uh…I don't remember."

"Well, I didn't mean to startle you, I can return lat…" In interruption, his hand extended from the panel of the door to where hers was shivering in the open rain, "No. Ye've arrived t' speak, now come…speak yer mind…" Dropping her hand shakily in the warmth of his, she followed him inside, the heat emitting from the burning candles relaxing her water sodden body. Jack realized she had soaked herself nearly to death in the storm, and wondered whether to offer her something dry, or simply allow her to shiver until he had to use body warmth as a last resort. Good thinking, mate.

"Did ye know it was raining when ye trekked across the ship, dressed n' such unsuitable garments?"

"My roof leaks. I knew."

"Ah…" Jack stood numbly in front of her, his eyes grazing somewhere between her bare, pruned toes and the curvature of her inner thighs beneath the masculine material of her breeches. He tugged at the woven cords of his tunic, letting the night sweats heal over on his chest where she could not see, and then rubbed at the back of his neck the beads of moisture that had collected. When finally he had opened his eyes to enough substantial brightness that he could form clear images, he looked up and into her eyes. They weren't sparkling, or blue. And her skin, though lush and woven into a spindle of sunlight, was far from a creamed tea. Lizzie wasn't indigo. Lizzie wasn't bronze. Lizzie was…

"I'm f-freezing."

Cold. "I suppose ye expect me t' show sympathy…" His grin was tumultuous, winning and still bearing a rancid hint of purity. "No." She replied solemnly but with a grinding clatter of her teeth in chill, tipping her face down while her hands clung to her shoulders, forming heat out of the present flames and Jack's close breath. It was a delightful sight for him, and once he had jerked his mind out of unnamed thoughts, he returned with an offer. "Is this then the trifled moment in which th' gentleman would invite the lady t' his stash of dry clothes?"

"W-what gentleman?" It was still her no doubt, Elizabeth Swann still lingered, that devilish ferocity he desired to see at all costs. Her eyes burned with what little fervor her bones still contained, "Ugh…forget it…" and when she snarled and started back towards the door, he managed to catch her damp sleeve and upper arm between his grasp. "Old' it!" She ripped her arm back frustratingly, staring up at him in all declaration of wanting to draw a fictional gun on his temple. "What?"

"Are ye really going to make me ask the question a second turn bout'?"

"D-do I look as if I care a stitch about what you do…or d-don't do?"

Nothing was spoken, no cynical remarks, no throaty insinuations, nothing of Sparrow infamy. He simply stared down to her, and she back at him, and somewhere between the shivering of veins and sweat sliding down his back, the decision was made. With a straight brow, slanted, curious eyes, and a congested tone he gave her the invitation, "In t' trunk beside me charting table."

"T-thank y-you," she whispered through chattering teeth, and headed off into the corner by the windows, in search of some trunk. Jack stood idly by, slightly watching her and also searching out a fresh bottle from the cabinet to his left. He assumed after the night she had endured before, rum was out of the question, and so found a simple canteen of blackberry wine, a taste he had forgotten for quite some time. And while he poured two handsome glasses of the thick, pungent liquid, he noticed Elizabeth tugging a similar tunic of his out of the chest, along with an older, well worn pair of pants. "Noble choice Mrs. Turner. Ye'll dress t' be as handsome a gentleman as ever there was…" with a flick of his neck in superior attitude, she winced annoyingly back, as he returned to his wine, choking it down with an ageless saunter. When she finally rose to join him at the table, her eyes met the drink and fell back inside of her head, "I'd rather not…"

"Fair enough. I believe the inside of yer gut is still wafting in the sails."

"And so it is, as I had hoped. Now…do you mind?" Holding up the pile of clothes in front of him she nodded from cotton to him in obvious demand of privacy. Jack however was in no mood to stand in the icy breeze blowing against his cabin, and so nodded directly back with a grin. "No Lizzie dear, I don't mind at all if ye would like t' change linen in me presence. How thoughtful of ye…"

"Jack."

"Elizabeth."

"I'm married, it isn't decent."

"Lass…" He joked callously, leaning on the table to bring his face closer into hers, "I assure ye, I know what er'ything looks like. You carry not a single piece of unique flesh from that o' the other strumpets along these waters. Now please…do proceed."

"No. Turn around."

"Will having the privilege of me back as a view make ye feel better… really?"

"Yes."

Honey, all the movements you're starting to make
See me crumble and fall on my face
And I know the mistakes that I've made
See it all disappear without a trace

Grumbling with a gold smirk, he finally stood upright and swaggered into the open floor, back turned, head tilted slightly off towards the glass of the windows. The less than virtuous windows at that, with a view far grander than the one she was currently preview to, far grander. He watched as she peeled the white cotton from her chest, the sensuality of her fragile, but still soft form entranced him quickly. Her arms dancing in the candlelight, taut, firm and supple breasts begging to be teased to substantial peaks, her waist, slender and agile, and her legs as she moved the pants down, long and inviting with a warm center at the core intersection. The sight was far too bitter for him to crave, a raw, as she had put it "indecent" entertainment for the evening. A body he had imagined thus far in his life at an uncountable rate was standing feet away, glowing in the window's shimmering glass, desperate to be given a fresh chance at love. He had spoken of her body too meekly, it was unique, for it was the most glorious pattern of flesh his eyes had ever been laid upon, despite the millions he had memorized. Elizabeth Swann…was indeed just that, a velvety, exquisitely yellow swan, awaiting the guiding touch of a sparrow to free her once and for all.

"Alright." She replied finally, as he halted his inner conflict and turned back again to face her.

"Much better?"

"Yes."

"Well…I do recall you wishing t' share a few choice words…?" Vaguely recalling what it was, she took a seat at the table and waited for him to join her with his bottle before fully remembering. "It was about last night."

"Was it?"

"It was, I was just curious…"

"About?"

"About what I said." This would have been it, the perfect, most opportune moment of his life. To give her a reminder course on the absolutely untrue mention and confession of love she had made, and how her only desire in life was to be carried away with him for all eternity, free of a dead husband, free of all responsibility. But the good man in him had returned, and he was eager to get started on deeds for evening. "Ye said quite a lot."

"Nothing…bad, I hope."

"Rather depends on yer definition of bad? Wot' possible comment might spark such a label?"

"A confession."

A confession…ere' it comes, ye've done yer job right lad.

Tis' not that sort o' confession.

How do ye know?

Shappo mate, the girl seems t' be coming to er' senses finally.

Comin' on strong too, we might add...

It's impossible.

Says who...Captain Jack Sparrow?

She's married.

T' the whelp. Even whales marry on wiser terms.

Lizards too.

Enough.

It's ne'er enough Jacky…

"A confession…doesn't come t' mind. Is there a particular, topic this confession might have been based upon?"

"Will."

"Ah, still reeling fer ole' tentacle cheeks eh? Well love…" He began, sliding from his chair and walking the distance back towards the clear opening of the room. "William is as fine a topic as any, but rather not worth me time anymore. For ye see…he's eternally out o' harm's way. So no saving t' be done by me, ever again." Jumping from her own seat she came to his broader height, glaring up into his eyes again, demonically, angelically at that. "You wouldn't tell me if I did say anything anyway. I know you Jack, your loathsome attitude towards Will, you don't care at all about him."

"Is this yer conclusion?"

"It is." Her voice was stammering on a selfish and bitter level now, with glazed eyes and cold knuckles. "He was a threat to your grand schemes from the start, and since, was nothing but a burden in your eyes. Me as well."

"I see. You ave' it all solved." He stepped out to the side, wavering on his ankles towards the doorway while still speaking, "In that case Mrs. Turner, I suppose that the risk of me life t' save not only yours...numerous times," tossing his hands in the air wildly, with her on his heels, "…as well as that whelp-ish savage ye call a spouse…" his hand made it to the doorknob as it swung inwardly to the room, the rain splattering both of them quickly as they struggled to gain a stance against the now rocking ship. "I suppose then that can only mean that I don't care, an' that perhaps…I'm the angriest bastard t' ever sail this sea?!" His voice had raised to match the octave of the wind, glaring down into her eyes as they became as his drenched as his, a veil of diamond raindrops covering them. "Wot' do ye think Lizzie…am I close enough for ye!?"

"Saving my life isn't enough Jack, it doesn't prove anything but your sense of guilt!" Each of them fell back to their respective sides of the doorway quickly after, the waves splashing across their feet from the rails of the ship, as they managed to stand properly again to continue the battle. "Not enough for ye eh, well wot' ever is!? I gave you air in those lungs…so that ye can stand ere' and yell at me! I ignored the factor o' luck t' bring ye onboard the Pearl…countless times! I gave that bloody, cow-earted' traitorous husband o' yours a second chance at life! Wot' more do you want…take it all Elizabeth! TAKE IT!"

No warning was given, merely a strut from her side of the doorway and a pummeling embrace as she threw herself upon him, roughly, desperately in primal sensuality. As her arms locked around his neck, her lips met his, rum and sea spray coated but hungry just the same. Her feet were no longer touching the deck, Jack had tucked his arms strongly around her waist in return, letting her dance with the air between her toes and wood. At her lips she felt the coarse stab of his tongue as it searched out an avenue of taste, to which she obliged quickly, both meeting with a passionate stroke between cheeks and teeth. Jack felt the grip his toes had to the wet deck give way at the final crash of a shoal, and in a topple they fell to the adjacent wall, lips still melded together, her fingers through his heavily soaked dreads and soft curls, and his own wandered the plateau of her lower back, his borrowed shirt riding along her skin. They were lost in something that could have never been, something that nearly wasn't again, never having paid attention to…

"LAND HO!"

"Tortuga!"

And they call as they beckon you on
They say start as you need to go on
Start as you need to go on

It wasn't what they wanted, the slow, painful separation of weak limbs, mouths, eyes, but it happened nonetheless. A steadying swing of the ship's hull into the gentler black waters of Tortuga Bay came, and once it had, Elizabeth fell from his arms, eyes still shut tightly as if savoring what she thought had been a dream, and he watched, waited, silently pleaded for her to open them. When she did everything stopped abruptly, her heart, his mind, their discomfort all falling into some hideous past. The rush of unbeknownst crew all around them, an increasing vibration of music and liveliness from the coming docks, and the silence wafting in the still wet breathing room between them, one of which was shortly broken.

"Lizzie…I…"

"Jack, don't."

"Wot' now?"

"Just don't. Go, it's Tortuga."

"Come with me, we'll ave' a drink at Miss Kitty's…we'll uh…discuss this matter, as it were?"

So meet me by the bridge
Meet me by the lane
When am I gonna see that pretty face again
Oh meet me on the road
Meet me where I said
Blame it all upon a rush of blood to the head

"No. We can't." And with that she disappeared from his view, into the slowing, sparkling rain. Her yellow hair fainting within the moonlight, and Jack's body a weak and tumbling mess, in need of strong drink. He only hoped that she would come to the town, not hide away from him, not ignore the ever present feelings, the pent up anger all laid out against his lips. He wanted to know her more than ever, he wanted to see Elizabeth Swann beneath the Caribbean stars tonight. A sight he had far too long since been without.

Translations for the extra curious few like myself:

"Alguns corações… tenha as estrelas em seu lado…" : "Some hearts...have the stars on their side."

Mue : My

muito poucos : very few

"Amor grande…great love, meu filho." : "Great love, my son."

As astrelas : the stars

menina: young girl

Conduza-lhe : Show her care