A/N: Augh god, the length it took to put this up... months, months, I daresay it's been forgotten... to be honest, I was just about to shut this story down, too, but then a miracle happened.

The deleted scenes for the DMC and AWE turned up, and Beckett was... he was... well... he was glorious. I cannot even begin to describe how overjoyed I was when I saw Tom Hollander portray the little despot so perfectly. And so I've been more than rekindled, I'm going to start trying to aim for at least once every other week, if not more often.

Please review, even though I've been terrible... I really, really do love this story now, and all my inspiration is back...!

Thanks so much to all my wonderful reviewers, couldn't have made it thus far without you: Countcresent (thank you so much Count, you're my godsend), Lady Elizabeth Beckett, Chloe, A Ninny Mouse, LittleMissWesker, and alice.

Also, at the end of this chapter, I will be ranting in a fangirl-ish manner about how wonderful the deleted scenes were. Please ignore it if you don't want it.

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

Warnings: Nothing, surprisingly.

Chapter Eighteen

Proof.

"This is Port Faith?" Derrick inquired incredulously as they stepped off the ship into the mediocre town.

"A lawless place. Anarchist haven," Teague muttered as he surveyed the area. "Just be thankful that Beckett and his men haven't reached this place yet.

Amadi and his crew descended, with Jack following soon after, walking in that usual tipsy manner of his. Turning to Derrick, he said delightfully, "You know, you don't seem too bad t'me. Wot say you we go and hit the bar and get some wenches?"

"What the hell do you think you're asking, you mangy pirate?" Derrick snapped, recoiling. Turning to Amadi, he said quickly, "How long are we going to be here?"

Amadi rolled his eyes. "As long as you keep complaining, we could be here forever. So shut it."

Grumbling, Derrick folded his arms over his chest as Jack excitedly headed into town.

Meanwhile, from afar, Maiara watched with a smile on her face...

"How long has it been since you've last seen London, Ms. Swann?" Beckett inquired as the two of them stood side-by-side on the deck of the HMS Constance, looking out towards the sea. The waves around them bobbed and parted as the ship made its way through the ocean at a leisurely pace. Port Royal was far behind them by now, and with that, all of Beckett's worries.

(Or so he thought.)

She smiled and shrugged. "I left there when I was but a young girl. I haven't been back ever since." Then she blinked and her eyes got a distant look. "It was on that voyage that I met Will, too."

Beckett grew quiet. It wasn't his place to speak and he knew it.

She pointed out at sea. "It was exactly that direction from our vessel. There was a burning wreck of a merchant's ship, and the soldiers began to check it for survivors. Will was lucky. He had survived on a plank of wood. I caught eye of him first, and they dragged him onto the boat." A little grin turned the corners of her lip upwards as she recited her memory fondly. "He was wearing a medallion under his shirt. It looked like a pirate medallion... so I took it and hid it. I didn't want my father to think that the boy was a pirate." She laughed. "Back then, I didn't know that the medallion was pure Aztec gold, part of a cursed treasure chest. Even as I look back at it now after all I've been through, the experience seems almost otherworldly to me."

For a moment, Elizabeth was quiet, lost in the world of her memories, smiling blankly at the ocean. Beckett glanced at her inadvertently; there was just something so beautifully blissful about her expression...

And then she frowned. "But Will's not here... not anymore."

Beckett averted his gaze, turning his head away from her. He was loathe to admit that he felt no sympathy for Will Turner. He had never liked the boy. It sounded pathetic of him to even say that he had been... just a smidgen... just a tiny bit... a little... jealous... of Will.

But Elizabeth kept talking and talking, completely oblivious of Beckett's fretting. "And it was on that same voyage, too, that my mother passed away." She sighed. "It's really a pity. Maybe I would have grown up a tad less... adventurous if I'd had a mother to look after me."

Then she blinked, finally realizing that Beckett was standing there. Turning to him, she said curiously, "You probably had a mother and a father looking over you, didn't you? Which is why you're just so stiff."

"Stiff?" he repeated, annoyed. "What exactly, Ms. Swann, have I done to constitute as being described with the term 'stiff'?"

She laughed. Her laugh was light, dainty, angelic, almost lovely—

What are you thinking? Beckett thought to himself, horrified—

—"Oh, don't be silly, Beckett," Elizabeth responded. "You're the very definition of 'stiff.' The way you walk, and talk, and act. It's almost as though you've been programmed to act like a stick."

For a moment, he was too stunned to respond, but then he quickly regained his senses. "That," he said quickly, "is not true."

"It very well is," Elizabeth argued with a smile.

"No, it is not," he denied.

"You avoided my question about your mother," she said suddenly.

Beckett stared at her, and then looked out towards the sea. His voice lowered. "Now that is none of your business asking, Ms. Swann, and you know it."

Suddenly, all the lighthearted spirit in the air thudded to the ground, weighted heavy with tension. Just as Elizabeth was about to apologize, however, Beckett suddenly spoke again.

"My mother was a good, proper woman. Chaste... kind... rather religious, if I don't say so myself." He mumbled under his breath as he added, "But she failed to see her children correctly. She failed to see what they really wanted..." His voice trailed off as he was lost in thought. Then, regaining his voice, he finished breathily, "She became sickly when I was young. And then she died."

Elizabeth blinked, turning to stare at him. But he was turned away from her, looking in a different direction.

"I'm sorry," she said gently.

He breathed quietly for a moment, and then checked the sky. The sun was nigh set. "It's late," he said softly. "We ought to get some rest now." And with that, he promptly exited the deck, heading down into the hull.

Elizabeth stood there, frowning. She turned back to the sea again, watching the frothing waves glisten orange-red with the setting sun. "I wonder..." she murmured under her breath, but then quickly shook her head.

No, it must have been just a...

"We're here, milord."

Bloodwoode smiled. "Perfect," he purred, "just on time." Hopping out of the caravan, he dusted off his pristine clothing as he viewed the Beckett household. A large, nice mansion... though not nearly as nice as his, of course.

Chuckling lightly under his breath, he made his way up the steps to the front door, and knocked delicately.

It took an impatient moment before the door finally swung open. A disheveled maid stood in the doorway to regard him. He smiled charmingly. Her annoyed look immediately changed to a warm welcome.

"Oh, 'ello there, sir. Surely you've heard that Lord Beckett isn't home presently?" she told him.

Bloodwoode blinked, feigning surprise. "Is that so? Hmm, he did not inform me of this."

The maid felt sorry for him. Instantly, she added, "But, er, we could always have an... alternative arrangement... What brings you here?"

The Duke appeared pleased. "Ah, that would be most wonderful." He held out his hand. "My name is Duke Bloodwoode," he introduced himself, "and I am here on official business. I would like to leave this letter in his room, if you would not mind. Unfortunately, I will have to do it personally, as it is too important to be trusted with common folk, if you would excuse the derogatory phrase."

The maid blinked. "Oh, no, not at all, milord! Please, by all means, go right ahead." She stepped aside, staring at him. "Lord Beckett's office is just upstairs. It's the one by the library with the well-polished doorknobs. He's very meticulous about that."

Bloodwoode laughed. "Fitting."

He quickly headed up the stairs, ascending the staircase with peacock-like strides. Entering a hallway, he glanced about, studying the house.

French doors, English decor, jade statues, Chinese porcelain, and some items from back when he was stationed in Nippon, I surmise. How very tasteless, he thought to himself, criticizing the furniture of the house as he slowly made his way to the office. I've done my research well, he thought to himself proudly. And there had better be that lacquered-black ebony desk in his office, or I'll be upset. I did go through quite a bit of trouble to get that morsel of information.

Bloodwoode strode past the library and reached a door with meticulously polished doorknobs. The knob was shiny enough that his reflection was practically crystalline in the metal. He chuckled under his breath.

"Oh, Cutler," he whispered delightfully, "ever so perfectionist. It's simply delicious."

He opened up the office door, careful to smear it with his skin oils. Just for spite.

Shutting the door behind him, Bloodwoode took a moment to observe the office. His eyes scanned the room—tall bookshelves filled from top to bottom with numerous volumes, both in Latin and English. More baubles from Nippon (Blechh! Tasteless! thought the Duke). Other unnecessary treasures.

But what caught his attention most was a massive map of the world, painted onto his wall. Bloodwoode's brows rose as he saw it—it was painted just in the way that the East India Trading Company had dominance over all the foreign powers. He smirked, exhaling a bit in delight. He knew Cutler Beckett like the back of his hand—all that stupid despot wanted was power, power, power. He would never understand the finer things in life—romance, drama, beauty, refinery. He liked to pretend he did, but in the end, everything that Cutler Beckett did was just another attempt to be more powerful.

Bloodwoode couldn't help but scoff. How pitiful!

...But enough thinking, there was a task at hand. He stepped over to the desk and glanced about briskly to be sure that no one was watching.

Then, he dove into the drawers.

One notebook after another, he opened each up and closed it. It was mostly filled with trade ledgers, which he didn't care about. Nothing important, just more business nonsense, just the kinds of things he already had enough of. No, that wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was...

YES!

A smile took his features as he held up a small, worn leather book. His fingers ran over the spine and the cover, feeling every dimension of it—his one proof.

This is it, the Duke thought to himself, barely able to contain excitement. This is how I will make Cutler Beckett's life a living hell.

Somewhere under the sea, a primal force stirred.

The booming tremor of an organ made sound once again.

The Flying Dutchman was not yet dead.

A/N: Whew, a lot of stuff happened here... I'm actually really tired, so I'll leave the excitement over the deleted scenes for another time.

Yet again, I apologize strongly for my lack of updating... I swear I'll try to be consistent now, now that I really, really love Beckett more than ever. qq