A/N: Since before the story's been going so slowly before, I hope that now, with the voyage, I'm not rushing things. Celebration parties for my reviewers: Mistress Beckett, SunAndMoon16, Miss Cuttlefish, Rhinoceros, Amymimi, ninjalover13, and Lady Elizabeth Beckett (you know, I honestly keep typo'ing that as "Lazy Elidabeth Beckett"...). Oh, there's also going to be quite a bit more action in this chapter. Hope you don't mind it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean. Neither do I own the lovely characters presented herein. Except maybe any OFCs.

Warnings: Some violence and a bit of swearing as usual. Though neither should concern unless you're afraid of violence, in which case I wonder why you like PotC.

Chapter Nine

Castaway.

Gentleman Jocard was many things, but a coward was not one of them. Yes, he was a former slave. Yes, he could be quite conceited. And violent, too. But no, he was not some half-wit, lawful commoner. He respected Teague, if only grudgingly, but just like that, Teague's words were not absolute.

So Jocard took to sailing his ships around in the open seas, instead. Taunting Cutler Beckett. Because really, there was no way in hell that the miniature Lord would beat him, so why should he even worry?

Anyway, it wasn't long before Beckett had found Jocard indeed.

"Gentleman Jocard!" one of his men exclaimed. "We have spotted the EITC fleet."

He took out his spyglass and stared out, spotting one of the ships. His lip curled.

"Seems so," Jocard muttered. "Adjust course!" He shouted. "Surround them and take down those fools immediately! Cut out their tongues!"

"Lord Beckett! The pirates are in sight," reported Groves as he dashed over.

Beckett put down his teacup. Having tea—even before a grand battle with the Pirate Lord of the Atlantic Ocean—was simply just his style. Never mind what other people thought of his habits. "So it would seem," he said smoothly. So Ms. Swann's advice was correct, then. Good. Yes, it had taken weeks to find just the first Pirate Lord, but, at least they'd found one. Perhaps he shouldn't be so harsh on her anymore.

He noted the opposing fleets' maneuvers—obviously intending for battle. Pity. Beckett inherently preferred negotiations. He'd sooner bargain his way out of a scuffle than mow his enemies down with cannonade and cutlass. Violence was a blunt tool, indiscriminate and blundering; words were careful scalpels, picking things apart from the inside-out.

"Full canvas," said Beckett to Groves. "Ready the cannons. Port to starboard." Groves nodded, relaying the order in shouted commands. "Signal the rest of the fleet to give no quarter. I intend to leave nothing behind in my path but lifeless bodies and wrecked ships," Beckett added in a clipped tone.

He then headed below-deck to the gallery, leisurely making his way to Elizabeth's quarters. Knocking lightly, he said, "Ms. Swann?"

Elizabeth grumbled. She was splayed out on the bed, reading one of the books she'd grabbed from the shelf, immersed in the epic poetry. "It's open," she snapped.

Beckett sighed, impatient with her rudeness, and opened up the door, stepping inside. He knotted his fingers behind his back and gazed at her lazy, informal position. How unbecoming, he thought to himself distastefully. "We are currently engaging in battle with Gentleman Jocard," he informed her boredly. "You'd best keep safe during the exchange. I cannot have you injured."

"I cannot have you injured." If it were coming from any other man's mouth, Elizabeth might have thought the statement remotely romantic. But no, it was from Beckett, and that meant that he just didn't want to lose his valuable tool. "I can fight," she said indignantly.

"You," said Beckett icily, "will keep yourself out of danger in the duration of this trip." Before she had any time to argue, he had turned and left.

Elizabeth grunted and slammed the book shut, now no longer in the mood for Paradise Lost. She then reached for her nightstand and stuffed her favorite book—My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates—into her dress folds, keeping it close. It was odd, she knew, but the book had become something dear to her. Besides, just the notion of Jocard's men bursting into her room and tearing through the poor, old novel repulsed her. No, no. It deserved a much better fate, even if it was Beckett's book.

Then she headed up onto the deck. The battle had just begun, it seemed. Cannonballs flew about and Jocard's men had boarded the ship. Swords flashed and pistols fired. Elizabeth picked up the blade of one of the fallen men, making her way into the scuffle with ferocity. She was technically one of Beckett's men now (unwilling she may be), and so she fought like one. (She'd never liked Jocard, anyway.) Never mind their cries of "traitor." She was saving Jack! That was justification enough. Wasn't it?

She hacked through one of the men, trying not to look at his face, trying not to wonder if he had a family back at home, if he was a father with a beloved daughter, who would miss him so dearly to hear of his death. Her heart panged, but she steeled it. She did not need her soft soul now. She needed a warrior's heart.

Something touched her back and she turned, tensed—then relieved when she saw it was merely Groves, overcome by a large amount of pirates.

"They might not be the most skilled," Groves shouted over the fray, "but there's an awful lot of them!"

Elizabeth could only nod in response; no time to speak. She felt her arms growing tired and sore, and hoped it was almost over—just as she did, though, a new wave of the pirates poured onto the Pearl. She groaned and continued slashing, cutting, stabbing. The sword tore through flesh, making fresh wounds upon skin. She did not need to think of the spilling blood and agonizing pain. She did not need to sympathize.

Just as she ripped the sword out of another man's abdomen, somebody stole into her sight, swiftly kicking her in the shin. Not expecting this, she yelped in pain, and during her slight moment of hesitation, he landed another swift blow to her side. Dropping the sword, Elizabeth keeled over a bit, about to regain her senses when suddenly something clubbed her on the back of the head. Hard. Black dots sprayed her vision, and then she slumped over.

Beckett had hoped to stay safely on the Pearl and do absolutely nothing except witness the chaos before him. After all, he did not like fighting nor violence. (Or at least, he didn't like to be directly involved in it.)

Still, Jocard had an unexpectedly large amount of amateur forces. In a battle like this, though, where it was power or nothing, the experience of men was hardly relevant. Perhaps Jocard was well-prepared this time, unlike that pitiful fleet Beckett had witnessed before right after closing in on Shipwreck Cove.

He stood up on the quarterdeck, where no one else was, partially because you had to go up stairs to get on it and partially because the stairs were guarded. He stared down at the brawl below nonchalantly, thinking little of it, though taking cautious count of how much forces he had remaining. Not much.

His eyes wandered to his other ships. Odd, they were doing alright. Perhaps Jocard had concentrated all forces on the Pearl. Did he know that Beckett was on the ship, or was Jocard just another selfish pirate who wanted the Pearl for himself? Well, nevermind that. The important fact was that Beckett's forces on the Pearl were being overwhelmed and required external assistance from the rest of the fleet.

Then Beckett's eyes blinked as he saw Elizabeth fall onto the ground in a heap. He grew slightly worried. Though he wasn't entirely sure whether he was worried for Elizabeth herself, or merely the fact that her loss would mean his plans being jeopardized.

He started down the steps, instinctively coming over to her. The words "Ms. Swann" were ready in his throat, about to roll off his tongue in the usual lazy manner, but then Gentleman Jocard himself stepped in the way.

"Cutler Beckett," Jocard snarled. "There you are, you filthy slime-ball."

Beckett almost rolled his eyes, but that was not a habit he took to. But why should he even take insult from someone so far below him? Instead, he decided to brush off the remark. "Gentleman Jocard," he said coolly, tipping his head, not intending to look as hotheaded as his inferior. His eyes surveyed the surrounding area, noting how Jocard's men had gathered in a circle around the two of them, and that his own men were on the floor, groveling. How annoying.

Jocard readied his odd, bone-hook weapon. Beckett couldn't even fathom what it was supposed to be, nor did he want to know to which animal that bone had previously affixed itself. "You will be dead," the Pirate Lord growled. "And I'll cut out your tongue." Vengeance flashed in his eyes. "You enslaved me and my brothers, and you will pay."

Beckett chose not to respond to the barbaric comment, nor the vengeful one. Instead, he knelt and took the sword of one of his fallen men, observing the blade, feeling its steadiness in his palm. It was alright, but not nearly as impressive as Norrington's ceremonial sword, which he had handled earlier. That had been a true gem. Hm, Beckett thought to himself placidly, perhaps Mr. Turner did have his uses. It's quite a shame that that particular blade found itself under Davy Jones's ownership.

Jocard smirked. "You will know better than to fight me, midget," he taunted.

But Beckett wasn't really listening. He was paying more attention to watching Jocard's stature—obviously, not a learned man. A pirate. Not a duelist. Pirates cheated. Kicked and punched and used all sorts of other means of attacks that were not allowed in a duel. Beckett was a duelist. Well, not always the most earnest duelist, but then again, how was one supposed to succeed without a little fib here and there?

Jocard grinned. He lunged forward, a bold and quick move that expected a powerful blow. Beckett swerved to the side, swiftly dodging, observing the way Jocard's muscles tensed and his body reared back just before going forward, the way he stepped in with his right foot first and then finished off his lunge with a slight swerve in his heel.

Beckett did not make any move too revealing, though he rather doubted that Jocard was even watching. Most people did not pay attention to their opponents' faults and habits; that, he supposed, was why they always lost. He started slowly stepping back, still observant, careful not to back into the crowd ring around them. Jocard sneered and charged, waving his silly bone-hook thing. He made for a strike again—

But Beckett saw this one coming. The rearing, tensed muscles just before the hit. He weaved out of the way and made for a quick slice across Jocard's rather exposed chest. The smelly pirate stumbled back, staggering. The previously-hooting crowd turned quiet. And then Beckett, unable to draw this out any longer, swiftly lunged, slipping the blade into the enemy's breast.

Jocard's expression was unfathomable as the sudden pain hit him. A mix between burning hatred and frozen shock. "You..." Jocard spat, struggling for words, but only blood dribbled down his chin.

Beckett stared passively as the Pirate Lord of the Atlantic Ocean fell to the ground. Dead.

The pirates were quiet, silent as the grave. But then their silence was broken by wild riot. "You killed the captain!" "The Pirate Lord!" "Jocard can't be dead!" "Kill Beckett!" "Cut out his tongue!" came the shouts.

Beckett sighed. He left the sword in Jocard's body, instead kneeling down by Elizabeth. "Ms. Swann," he said in a voice that lacked urgency, "it is imperative that you wake up in this instant."

Elizabeth, however, did not stir.

Beckett let out a breathy "Damn," barely audible. He knew he was in trouble. He had slain Jocard, but that had only riled the pirates further. He knew he should have sent Parker to do this. Speaking of Parker, where was that useless ingrate?

But just as he was about to get up again, an uncomfortable, notched cutlass pressed against his throat. "We'll toss him," said Jocard's first mate between his teeth.

Beckett stood on the plank, unable to suppress a brief chuckle. He knew he should have called for help, instead of going out there and recklessly fighting the Pirate Lord. Still, the danger had been imminent... oh, bother.

The rabble of pirates had looks of steely rage in them as they jabbed blades at him. Beckett pursed his lips. "I believe you pirates grant a single pistol when carelessly dumping your captives," he said in a clipped tone.

Jocard's first mate grunted and gestured with his head. Somebody handed him a pistol with a single shot, which he handed off to Beckett. "Now jump," he snarled.

"What of Ms. Swann? She is unconscious," said Beckett as he took the gun.

The first mate scowled. "She's unconscious, and Jocard is dead." He paused. "We're dumping the traitorous wench, too."

Beckett's lip curled. Scoundrel. He strolled to the edge of the plank. And then dove.

The water was a cold splash at first, but the longer he stayed in it, the warmer it became to his adjusting flesh. After pummeling down a few feet into the ocean, it wasn't long before Elizabeth tumbled down after him. He took hold of her and swam his way to the nearby island. He was thankful that water made her lighter in the sea, but once they were on land, water made her heavy, and he cursed it.

Stepping out onto the sand, Beckett dropped Elizabeth and surveyed the island. It had a thick jungle in the center, but there was also a faint scent of commerce. Jocard's first mate was a fool. There was population on the other side. He could sense it.

Elizabeth began to shiver. Beckett turned to her and picked her back up, walking farther from shore, closer to the entrance of the jungle. He propped her up against a palm tree, then took off his frock coat and blanketed her with it. Never mind that it was drenched; it would have to do.

Elizabeth, he realized, was the last Pirate Lord in his possession. Sparrow and Barbossa might as well be dead. Actually, no. Sparrow and Barbossa were probably freed now, no thanks to Jocard's crew, which was even worse than them being dead. How annoying.

Fine. Beckett was used to starting from the bottom-up. He'd have to return to Port Royal. Gather sufficient forces. Kill Jocard's crew for spite. Then use Elizabeth Swann to get the rest of the pesky Court. But then a sudden fact slapped Beckett straight in the face.

With Sparrow gone, he no longer had any leverage against Ms. Swann.

... Oh God.

Teague was stirred when he heard an awful commotion up on the deck. He'd been stowed away for weeks, but it didn't bother him. He was waiting for the opportune moment. And besides, the food was good, the port was good—he had nothing to complain about.

But it was odd, the commotion. Usually everything on Beckett's ship was uptight, silent, and proper. Teague slowly rose to his feet and started towards the exit, pressing his hear upon the door. He heard Jocard's booming voice. Then Beckett's, a gentle murmur. And then a loud ruckus. Talking. Threats. And then a splash. Another splash. Laughing. Celebration.

Curiosity stricken, Teague headed up onto the deck, bursting into the light, onto the open air, after being cooped up for so long. Jocard's first mate turned to him, as did everyone else.

"Glad you listened to me," Teague grunted sarcastically. Then he noticed the dead Jocard on the ground. "That's interesting," he muttered, and then looked at the other EITC ships. The rest of the fleet was approaching quickly, trying to reclaim the Pearl from pirates. Then he turned to the first mate. "What's your name, lad?"

"Amadi," he huffed back in reply.

Teague bobbed his head as a nod. "Bets keep out of the way of the EITC. Let's sail out o'here, mate."

Amadi hesitated. "The Pearl?"

"You lost men and only have enough to pilot one ship," said Teague. "Give up on the Pearl. Get back to your own ship. As long as you have the Pearl, you'll be a target."

The men appeared dismayed. Though they headed back to the Ranger anyway. Teague followed, his gaze dismal.

Where's Jackie? he wondered.

Beckett watched as his own ships reclaimed the Pearl and then—turned and left. Without even looking for him!

What in the blazes? Had they forgotten proper protocol?

He blamed this blunder on Parker. He was annoyed, but decided to voice nothing. And anyway, no one would be able to hear his complaints. Instead, he looked back to the unconscious Ms. Swann. He pondered on how long she would be out, but it didn't particularly bother him. He liked her better quiet.

He knew there was a town not far off, but he couldn't fathom just how far. And he didn't want people to recognize him. No, he'd have to properly disguise himself, too, were he to venture there.

First, Beckett removed his wig. Dark brown curls fell to his shoulders. He unraveled the ribbon from his wig and tied his hair in a low ponytail with it. Shifting his gaze about, he spotted a washed-up bottle of rum and seized it. Better to look a wasted drunkard than a mysteriously washed-up Lord, or else people would ask questions. Questions he did not want to answer.

He opened up the bottle and instantly recoiled at the pungent scent, reminiscent of Jack's abhorrent breath. Oh, well. He'd have to deal with it. He showered a bit on his waistcoat, getting the reek onto himself. Then he tasted a small bit and immediately spat it back out.

"Disgusting," he hissed.

At least have the decency to utilize high-quality rum, he thought to himself disdainfully. But he'd have to get used to it for a more convincing act. Beckett forced himself to down just a sip of the putrid liquid.

Then he turned to Elizabeth and sighed. She was still out cold, but no longer shivering. He hoped that no one would harm her during his absence; he had tried to hard to keep her alive and coax information from her. He was not about to let all those efforts go to a complete waste.

Wait, he thought to himself, fool. Don't neglect to check her status for injury.

Beckett knelt by her side and looked her over. A bloodstain, slowly growing, made itself visible on her left arm sleeve. He made the same aggravated chewing motion he always did when in deep thought or stressed. Quickly, he folded up her sleeve to reveal an ugly cut wound on her forearm flesh. Staring at it, he then removed a strip of cloth from his waistcoat, wrapping it around the wound to pressurize it into ceasing the bleeding.

Contented, he placed his frock coat neatly over her again, and then headed off in search of civilization.

"Bloody hell," Beckett complained when he first saw the city.

Of course it was here! It just had to be here! Port Faith of all places! Bad things had occurred here in the past. It was one of the few places where the EITC's influence did not spread. And Beckett despised it.

He crept into the loud, bustling port city, rife with activity and liveliness. It was not too far an image from Port Royal, save the fact that there was no military influence that even deigned to touch upon this place. It was as lawless as Tortuga, but so much more civilized. And not nearly as smelly.

He strolled through the streets, trying to look like the average drunkard. Nobody paid him any mind, nor shouted out his name, which was pleasing. Beckett was almost impressed with himself, but he knew he hadn't reached his goal quite yet.

He needed a ship to get back to Port Royal. And he would need a crew for that.

Looking about, he struggled to recall old memories. They were blurry, but they came to him. Yes. The cobbled street. The flower stand that no longer stood erected. The well which yielded no water. The bar on the side, entitled The Merry Lemon. He couldn't help but wonder who came up with these absurd names. Lemons couldn't be merry. Lemons weren't even alive.

Beckett headed into the bar and glanced around. A fight was going on, as usual, and a band of cheeky performers was promoting the scuffle. He weaved through swinging fists and rum bottles, ignoring the awful stench that permeated the bar.

Then he finally found his destination. A shroud in the wall that led into a back room. Parting the curtain, he stepped through and found himself in a small little room, dimly lit by a single candle. One man sat inside, his feet on the table, a pipe jutting from his lip. A cap sat crooked on his head over a mess of dirty blonde hair, and amber eyes gazed out from the shadow of his hat.

"Captain Valor," said Cutler Beckett smoothly. "I require your assistance."

A/N: Whew! So much packed into this one! Hope it wasn't too much. And also no, Beckett's character isn't changing quite yet; his acts towards Elizabeth weren't really out of kindness as much as they were his desperation to keep his plans afloat. Though his plans aren't much of anything now. Haha! Alright, thanks for reading. Please review!