Author's Note: Before anything else is said, I really want to thank all those lovely reviewers. Eleuteria, you hit the nail on the head. Even though I don't depend on so many reviews for one chapter before I even think of writing the next chapter, receiving such encouraging reviews really does help me sit down and write (even if I'm stuck), because I can't let you guys down! Anyway, I just broke 100 reviews for this story (!), and I want to thank you all so very much. Love you all :) Anyway, the story!

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Barbossa knew his men had begun to question his leadership as soon as they realized their new headings. Montserrat was a British colony but one not known for its wealth. It was an island of parishes, not jewels or gold. A few said the captain was getting too old to be in charge, but most (due largely in part from De Faria's stories) believed he'd been stricken by the Siren's Curse.

"Now see 'ere, cap'tin," Pintel had argued, standing before Barbossa at the wheel five days since they'd left Port Royal. "Da first step is admitting it's a curse. I know ya know all 'bout 'em, and ya should recognize one when ya got it."

"Aye, o' course," Barbossa had agreed through gritted teeth. "And it ain't be a curse, ya lubberin' fool."

Barbossa hadn't even tried explaining the reason behind his course of action, and not just because he knew it wouldn't appeal to them. It was none of their business.

As the lush island appeared on the horizon, Barbossa summoned De Faria to his cabin. When he told him his plan, De Faria stood rigid, his brows furrowed.

"I won't go, if that's what you're expecting." His voice was hard. "Disguising once and playing a part is nothing, but I'm not about to make it part of my job description. I thought this was a pirate ship run by the ruthless Portuguese captain. I signed on to be a pirate. Treasure. Women. Pillaging. "

"I don' remember askin' yer opinion, De Faria." Barbossa spoke with a dangerous calm that made De Faria's eyes burn.

"I don't particularly care," De Faria snapped. "This ship deserves a better captain; one to lead it to spoils and treasure, not false trails to some cursed trollop."

If Barbossa hadn't known better, he would have thought De Faria leaned into the blow. The young man was unconscious before he hit the floor. Barbossa grabbed him by the back of his jacket and dragged him out on the main deck.

"Shut him in the brig until I return," he ordered to the men nearby. A few whispered to each other before coming forward and taking De Faria's limp form.

"I'll be back before nightfall," Barbossa growled.

It took over an hour for Barbossa to row the small skiff to the island alone. He had no idea where he was going, but he soon found a path that drew him to a valley of modest houses, storefronts, and a large church on the far side.

What had led him here? Barbossa's mind ached from trying to understand everything that had recently happened. Weary and unresolved, fingers of doubt curled around his mind. Surely sirens wouldn't reside on such a civilized island. Or would they? She couldn't be a siren.

He couldn't connect himself to her at all. Even her letter that could have been sent to him remained anonymous as to whom the recipient was to be. That didn't mean she was a siren.

How could he forget her? It was true, some events in his past seemed hazy, but he could always recall them. Everything he'd learned about the girl was from other people. Except those brief moments of clarity. The sounds, the images. He couldn't even remember now what they had been. But she couldn't be a siren.

"You there!"

Barbossa whirled around to face a boy no older than eight looking up at him in alarm. Barbossa glanced around and realized he'd been so deep in though he hadn't noticed that he'd reached the town streets.

"What do ye want?" He demanded, looking hard at the boy.

"I know you!" The boy cried, and seized his arm. "You must come with me."

"Ye don' know me an' I don' know you," Barbossa snarled, trying to the scare the child away. The boy shrank back momentarily, but his face was still curious.

"Please," he whispered, and Barbossa hesitated. Something he couldn't explain had led him to Montserrat in the first place. Perhaps this boy would lead him to an answer. Barbossa sighed, and nodded once at the boy, who grinned.

He led him to the town prison, and there Barbossa stopped. It was one thing to go ashore on British land where piracy was punishable by death, but entering a prison would be almost turning oneself in.

The boy glanced up at him questioningly. "We're almost there. You need to see my father." As he spoke a man stepped out of the shadowed columns and looked at the boy.

"Where've ya been to, boy?" His voice had a graceful Irish lilt to it, but Barbossa regarded him suspiciously. When the man caught sight of Barbossa, his face twisted in disbelief.

"It's him!" The boy exclaimed, seeing his father's face. "The one in the picture!" His father nodded, the look of shock still on his face. Barbossa stomped up the white steps to the man.

"What's all this be about?"

"One of our inma- charges drew a picture years ago of a man. It's still on the wall of their cell. It looks just like ya."

Something cold swept through Barbossa's insides. "I'd like ta be the judge of that statement."

"Of course," the man agreed, still flustered. He led him inside past the main lobby to a set of stairs. The man unlocked the door and relocked it after they had both stepped on the landing.

"My name is Marcus, by the way," the man said, holding out a tentative hand. Barbossa stared hard at him, and he dropped his arm self-consciously to his side. Barbossa followed the man in silence until they reached the bottom of the stairs, and Marcus unlocked the next door, and swung it out to reveal a barely-lit stone hallway with metal grated doors lining both sides. As the passed each cell Barbossa glanced from side to side. Many of the inmates were asleep. Some were speaking to themselves or the stone walls. A few were restrained in their cots.

"The asylum sends their 'opeless cases down 'ere," Marcus whispered reverently, and finally paused, gesturing to the next cell. Tentatively, Barbossa approached the cell door and rested his hand almost tenderly on one of the metal bars.

First he noticed the charcoal drawing done on brown butcher's paper hanging from the wall. It was indeed his face, even though the lines had been smudged and blurred with time and contact. He looked long at the picture but something stirred in the corner, and he finally saw the huddled form in the corner.

Her dark, dirty hair hung in tangled ropes over her face. Her dark dress was worn thin and raggedly hung off her meager frame. Her legs, naked to the knee, looked brittle as twigs and twisted, angry scars ran from her bare feet to her knees. A noise of pity escaped Barbossa's throat, and her head lifted slowly.

There was nothing but vast emptiness behind her eyes. They were dull and lifeless, but when Barbossa looked into them he knew her. Her laugh. Her voice. Her smile. The graceful turn of her head when she'd heard him call to her. The stubborn glares she'd given him during arguments. She'd loved the color blue and the sound of the waves crashing upon the shore. She'd hated him and loved him. The conniving, fiery strumpet. The sweet, loving young woman. Miss Farthin'.

"Open this door." It wasn't a request.

Marcus looked at him strangely for a moment, then sighed and began ticking of the keys on the ring that hung from his belt. "She's one of our well-be'aved ones. Never talks, 'ardly moves, barely eats." He finally located the appropriate key and slid the door to the side.

Slowly, as if afraid a strong exhale would break her, Barbossa entered the cell. He knelt and and slowly lifted one of her hands from where it hand been resting on her ankle. She looked straight into his eyes but he got the heartbreaking feeling that she wasn't seeing him. He reached up and touched her cheek. His fingers remembered the shape of her face and he traced the overly-pronounced curve of her cheekbone to her ear.

"Miss Farthin'." The syllables felt wonderful as he spoke. She continued to stare vacantly at him, and he tried again. "M'randa."

She blinked, and rested her head sideways on her knee. Her eyes were focused on something far away. Barbossa stood, suddenly furious.

"Why is she here?" He demanded, grabbing Marcus by the front of his jacket.

"Like I said, the asylum sends over its patients who aren't progressin'."

"What will happen to her?"

Marcus shrugged. "She'll stay 'ere unless her parents return for 'er."

Barbossa thought back to the old colonel sipping his tea, talking as if his daughter were dead.

"She'll be comin' with me, then." He growled, releasing Marcus from his grip with a shove.

"Legally, I can't let you just-" The pistol aimed straight at his forehead caused Marcus to falter. Barbossa lowered it a few inches to look him in the eye.

"I forced ye," Barbossa said calmly. "I threatened ye with the life of yer son. Tell 'em whatever ye want. She'll be comin' with me."

"That she will," Marcus whimpered.

The woman followed him willingly enough and didn't speak a single word as he wrapped his coat around her bony shoulders before leading her from the prison into the lengthening shadows of twilight. Her eyes were still heart-wrenchingly vacant. She walked as though something else were controlling her movement, her arms hanging limply and her head dropped loosely to one side. She never tripped, even as he guided her through the dense undergrowth of the forest that surrounded the town.

It wasn't until he'd shoved the rowboat back in the water that he noticed something wrong. As he looked to the sea the darkening waves broke white froth at his feet, and the horizon lay bare before him. The Sea Dragon was gone.

It didn't take much intuition to assemble the pieces. De Faria's rebellious words, the crew doubting Barbossa's capabilities and naturally looking for a new leader. Although such mutiny would any other time have affected him, all Barbossa could do was gaze wearily where it had been anchored.

He turned back to look at Miranda Farthing. She stood quite still, the large jacket nearly touching the sand on her slight frame. Her eyes were fixed with frightening intensity on the ocean.

Barbossa.

The rising tide seemed to have whispered his name and the captain jerked upright. A gull seemed to laugh as it drifted over his head, and he heard the voice again-this time in the wind.

So you find her.

The voice sounded familiar. Barbossa whipped around to look back at the waves, from which a dark-skinned woman was ascending. Her mortal name had been Tia.

"Calypso." Barbossa nodded his head in greeting, and she smiled at him.

"It been so long," she exclaimed, approaching him and stopping a few feet away. Her eyes passed from Barbossa's face to the woman in rags behind him. "But poor girl," she breathed, "it se'ms like yeste'day she spoke dem words."

"What words?" Barbossa asked. Calypso smiled sadly up at him.

"'Make 'im forget me.' Dose were da last words she's spoken. Silent ever since."

Barbossa felt his shoulders sag. "Why?"

"She had to trade her ow'en mind for your sou'el. Sweet girl. She didn' want ya to see her like . . ." Calypso looked back at the woman, still intently staring at the water. ". . . like dis. So she asked me to make you forget her."

"Yer a witch, Calypso. Why couldn't ya save her?" His words cracked harshly through the air. Calypso only gave a sideways smile.

"I was mortal den."

The implication caught Barbossa's attention, and his anger subsided slightly. "And now?"

"Well." Calypso laughed the word, and continued. "Dere's still not'ing I cen do, but I cen help you."

"How?"

"Miss Miranda Fard'ing lost her mind. Oe'nly you cen find it. I give you dis." She bent forward and scooped a round stone from the water. She held it in both hand and held it to her mouth, whispering an ancient language. When she opened her hands, a waxy green apple had replaced the stone. She held it out for Barbossa to take.

"Eat," she directed. "When you wake, you must find her."

"Ya must delight in givin' out mysterious help," Barbossa growled. Calypso only laughed. As she did so, her body began to shimmer and ripple. In another second she was a laughing column of water, and in another second she'd descended back into the waves.

Frustrated, Barbossa stomped out of the water and leaned against one of the nearby palm trees. Miranda stood calmly before him now, still staring hypnotized at the water. Barbossa contemplated the apple. When he bit into it, it tasted as tangy and sweet as he remembered it should.

The darkening form of Miranda Farthing was the last thing he saw before sleep took him.