Jack awoke with aching muscles and a sore back, but he could only smile. Physical pain would be a pretty difficult thing to imagine, he thought. No other shadows or people that looked just like him running around…yes. That nap, that priceless dreamless nap, had truly been a moment's peace. You aren't out of the Locker yet either, mate. Don't forget that little bit of information. Rolling over onto his stomach, he inhaled his pillow hoping the comforting scent would make him forget.
Ain't no one been in that cabin since Miss Elizabeth spent the night in it a while back, Gibbs had said.
Rolling again onto his back, he snorted. How long had he been in the Locker? How long had they all decided he was worth bring back? Instead of snapping at Gibbs and storming in here to get some decent sleep in God knows how long, he should have made those inquiries, thrown Barbossa overboard, taken control of the Pearl, and shot that young miss in the head.
Still time, mate, if you're interested.
Bloody hell, he was interested in something, but it wasn't that.
Springing out of the bed like it were covered in nails, he staggered over to his chair for his coat. You aren't out of the Locker yet either, mate, he thought to himself again, throwing his coat on, and that is truly a discomforting notion.
Excellent word choice, mate.
Bugger.
It is excellent word choice. My apologies if you felt I was being sarcastic.
Sarcasm is not for one to interpret but rather something to be heard and recognized, unless one only perceives a statement to be sarcastic, in which case the speaker would then beg the question if the listener wanted the sarcastic remark to be sincere.
Bugger, he must have been in the Locker a long time.
The rapping on the other side of the door broke the full-blown conversation in his head. Good. He had tired of those. The ship creaked while it glided through the waters, sending him forward a few steps. Steadying himself, he stuck out his arms and practiced following the floorboards. It was an old method, back after the rumrunners carried him off that forsaken spit of land and he practically had to teach himself to walk again. He smiled at his progress. No tightrope-walking circus member could have done better…if said tightrope walker was drunk and sported a gimpy leg.
The knocking continued. Must be Gibbs. Perhaps he could lay his eyes on those charts and see how to leave this place once and for all.
"Enter," he said, arms still up and out to his sides.
They crashed back down at the sight of Elizabeth, her eyes downcast. What had been the beginnings of a healthy browning of her skin when he'd last seen her had escalated into a sunburned nose and cheeks.
"Mr. Cotton's shift is about over and he'd like you to come and take the helm," she whispered, one hand gripping the other's trembling fingers.
Jack's eyes peered over to the desk, his pistol several feet away from him.
"And?"
"And what?" He almost grinned, that fire back in her voice, challenging him to continue.
"And what does Mr. Cotton or you or anyone plan to offer to convince me any of you are worth me time and me efforts, hm? No one really made much of a plea last I addressed that point."
"Well, I suppose it suits you to be trapped with us for an eternity then?"
Damn. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!
"Seeing as how all of you needed me to return so badly, I should think you'd all prefer that to going back to the apocalypse waiting for you back in the real world." He paced around the desk, knowing he could turn his back to her for one second if it meant he could pocket that pistol.
"I'm in no position to make any demands of you," she said with a hushed voice.
"About time you figured that out." He turned to face Elizabeth, his pistol pointed straight at her. She stared it down, for once, her face unreadable to him. Come on now, Jackie, you said you would, he reminded himself. He prepared to take the shot, the click of the pistol pounding on his ears. "No fighting words this time, Miss Swann?"
Biting her lip, Elizabeth turned her neck to face the door, her whole body shivering.
Emptying the pistol and slamming it down onto the desk, he stomped over to her and backed her into the bulkhead, leaving her face inches from his.
"If ye won't fight, then tell me what I want to hear." His rings encircled her throat. "Tell me!"
Both of her hands flew up on top of his, wedging them between his fingers and her throat. Long wet strands of hair flopped over her face.
"I'm, I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Let go of me and I'll tell you."
Blasted woman, always thinking she had the upper hand! Releasing her, she darted just out of his reach before she stood at her full height.
"I'm sorry because I never wanted to put you through that kind of pain!" she shouted, her own hand massaging the part of her throat he had squeezed.
"So then tell me, Miss Swann, why you brought me back? In case Mr. Turner faces some other kind of peril and you need your sacrificial lamb again?" He could hear his own heartbeat, each pound emitting rays of heat in him just from watching her stroke her own neck. No. He hated her. Focus now, mate! You don't love her. You hate her.
You did love her.
Well, well, I don't anymore.
Would the voices never leave him? He let his body fall against the bulkhead, closed his eyes for one second, and tried once again to wish them away.
It was the scent that made his eyes snap open, the same scent at the one that lingered on his pillow, in his sheets. He shivered at her cold fingers cupping his jaw, her lips tracing the line of the bone. They drooped down to his neck, the top of her head angled so it hovered right underneath his chin.
He could forget it ever happened. Groaning at the sensation of deliberate, warm bites, the sounds of his own body betraying him could make him forget the Locker, forget the agony before he arrived here. Breaking into a sweat, Jack could feel each bead thawing him from the inside out, those bites melting every icicle of wrath in him.
"I don't know how else to make it up to you, Jack."
Feeling the range of her kisses drop lower onto him, he craned his head back and braced himself for it, the hidden pleasure that had consumed him. Literally.
Excellent word choice there again, mate.
Make it up to you?
Scooping her up under her arms like a baby, he shoved her off of him and hurried out the door, ran up the stairs, and took the helm without a word. The parrot perched on Cotton's shoulder waddled its toes around until it faced him. The tips of its feathers brushed against his hair.
"Shiver my timbers!" it squawked.
"Mr. Cotton, start scraping the Pearl. I'll not have anything from this place sticking to her. Parrot…" This was always hopeless. He could look at the thing's beady black eyes and order it about. "Just…keep out of trouble like the monkey."
"Nice to see ya back wid da Pearl, Jack," a voice cooed behind him.
He screamed at the sight of Tia Dalma right behind him.
"Enough with that, ye tiresome witch, or I'll be seeing Mr. Gibbs' emphasis on the absence of women on ships."
"Ye could not be rid of me if ye tried." She smirked and stroked the wheel. "A fine ship it is. Course and hard she may be, but always fine."
Tia Dalma waited until the stars speckled the jet black darkness before climbing up into the Pearl's crow's nest. Oh yes, she spoke to them, I notice the irony that is you. Davy Jones isn't so gone yet that he fails to bring you all into sailors' hell. The rage building in her of lacking the knowledge or power, or both, to bring her Pirate Lords back to the real world tensed this human body until her thighs and arms cramped.
"I'm here as you asked, Calypso."
The outline of Mary's wings flapped against the sail, ear-splitting in the silence.
"As I knew you would be."
"Who is that?"
Tia Dalma clutched the mast and leaned over to follow Mary's long finger to the helm, the starlight catching the wine-colored shirt of William Turner.
"What ye want wid him?"
"Nothing. I just be wanting to know those you wish me to protect, is all. T'was not a whim you sent me out here, was it?"
"No. We must find a way to return dem to da world. Mary, if we stay here long, each one bound to kill da others till no one be left but me."
"Ah. A pirate ship this is then, eh? I see your worry. Aye, t'is a shame, seein' as there are bigger fish to fry, so to speak."
For a long time, neither spoke, taking in the silence of Davy Jones' world; even the rushing waves splashing against the ship sounded muted. Doldrums would most likely set in, and with them would come the clanging of swords.
"By Lucifer's beard, miss, I know the very thing!" Mary squealed into the night. "I know the very thing," she whispered. "Which one must be protected most?"
"Most? My Mary, dey all must be!" she huffed. "William Turner. Dat is da one who must leave here most." She had worked too hard, intervened into too many lives, alleviated too many circumstances to fail now, to lose Davy Jones' hand-picked successor. "You do what you must, Mary Read."
A/N: Okay. A few things. Mary Read was a real pirate who died in 1721. In this story, she has been rescued from that fate and must serve Tia Dalma for 20 years. She is 3 years from her retirement, which sets AWE in 1738. Have a historical problem with that? Talk to the artistic license and suspension of belief hands. This has started out very dark, but it's about to take a turn for the...whimsical? I appreciate all reviews, but I do request you tell me how I'm doing with Tia Dalma. I feel I know her the least well of all the characters and since she's about to be a major player soon, I want to make sure I do her justice. Okay. There will be more to come!
The name of this chapter comes from Shakespeare's The Tempest. "Misery acquaints a man with strange befellows."