A/N: Quicker update, and the rest will be quicker. Only two more chapters after this, and they are typed, edited, and ready to go, so its just at my will that this story be finally finished:] Maybe a few nice reviews would entice me to update faster? Yes, yes. Enjoy!

Chapter Sixteen: Jigsaw Memory

It felt like hours that she sat there; rooted to her spot, in the cold atmosphere he left behind. Her eyes, moist and wide, stared without seeing at the wooden cabin door, her mind in a million different places.

When she did get up, she automatically went to pick up the dangerous shards of glass his fit of rage had produced, swiping a rag off the table to mop up the liquid mess before it could seep everywhere, or cause someone to fall. Mechanically, she cleaned up, closing her eyes every once in a while, trying not to think of the horror and the immeasurable guilt Jack must have dealt with. Still dealt with…would always dealt with.

Her problems seemed to shrivel in front of her, and still she felt how acutely alike they were suddenly.

She stood; holding the rag in her hand, looking at the glass cupped tenderly in her other palm.

Elizabeth carefully transferred the bits of glass into the cloth and wrapped it up, setting it carefully in the middle of the table, where it was less likely to slide off should they run into a rough patch in the ocean. She turned towards the back of the cabin, the focal point of Jack's locked gaze through some of his story, and walked towards it, remembering the many trunks, one in particular, that she'd seen while snooping around in here a few weeks ago.

She stepped into the mass of junk, carefully picking out clear places to anchor her feet, and found what she was looking for towards the very, very back, hidden between the bookshelf and the farthest wall. She pushed a few boxes gently out of the way and knelt down in front of the deep brown trunk, her fingers tracing over the chipped and faded paint that arched across the latch on top.

Carolina

She bit her lip and only hesitated a moment before lifting open the trunk slowly, ignoring the dust that floated upwards and agitated her nostrils.

The floral scent nearly overwhelmed her as she leant back on her heels. Scattered haphazardly over the once-neat contents were tons of Spanish bluebells, all wilted a little but miraculously preserved all the same. Elizabeth picked one up and held it in her palm, twirling the stem between her thumb and forefinger, and lay it gently back down where she'd gotten it, moving on.

There wasn't much there. No clothes. Just…trinkets. Personal belongings. It hurt to think he'd kept them, and yet it painted a picture of his humanity so clear that it was blinding. How could they ever brand these vagabond men as nothing but cruel robbers? Of course there were those who were, plain and simple, that. But then there were men like Jack.

She ran her fingers over the many silk ribbons in the trunk, each brightly colored, one with an embossed C threaded on it in white string. Lots of yellows and blues. Underneath the many ribbons and bluebells was a single pair of shoes; simple beaded satin slippers, a butter yellow with cloth pink roses. Next to the shoes, Elizabeth's fingers found the thinnest silk ribbon, knotted in a circle; a necklace. She picked it up delicately, pursing her lips.

The charm on the end was none other than a glass sparrow. Sculpted neatly, flawlessly, with its wings spread in flight, a single tiny sapphire made its eye, the only color on the whole necklace besides the palest blue of the ribbon itself. She laid the glass figurine against her palm, curious for the first time as to why exactly Jack called his surname 'Sparrow'.

Elizabeth ran her finger over the smooth glass again, and set the necklace back down gently. In the corner were the last of the trunk's contents—that is, beyond they small trinkets such as thimbles and earrings. She sat back, cross-legged, and held the worn leather bound book of paper in her lap, moving a dusty book of psalms to the side. As she looked at the cover of what had been Jack's sister's sketchbook, she felt like she knew something about the girl who seemed to have completely influenced who Jack was today.

Feeling less like she was trespassing, Elizabeth lifted the cover of the book and tilted her head, looking at the expert drawing on the first page. A butterfly perched on a sunflower. The next were mostly the same, pictures of nature: A cottage with green vines sidling up the side, a mass of trees, an expansive beach with a single dog at the ocean's edge, even the view of a little market from a fixed point, complete with a boy playing next to a cart of apples. Elizabeth smiled at the talent and the beauty of it; she'd ever been useless at art, no matter how hard her mother and then her tutor had tried to teach her.

She flipped past the pages of flowers and animals until she came to the last page in the book, where she stopped, and touched her fingers to the page. It was by far the best of the bunch; a drawing of Jack at the helm of his ship, and a girl sitting on the edge of the ship to the left of him, laughing. She didn't need anyone to tell her it was Carolina; the girl looked just like him.

Black hair, wide eyes, and a grin that matched his for all its smirk and character. Looking closer, Elizabeth could just make out the tiny likeness of a sparrow necklace at Carolina's throat. She closed the sketch book, swallowing hard, and replaced the book of psalms on top of it, then putting them both back into the dark corner of the trunk and closing it slowly, enveloping the memories in darkness once again.

She turned around and leaned against the trunk, drawing her knees up a little, cramped in the messy space in the back of his cabin. Jack had done everything he could to preserve the memory of his family, of the one person who showed him who he was, and she had done everything she could to destroy that person in her own life.

She was going to have to face the other side eventually. Even if it painted her black and made her want to turn her back and shake her head. Tortuga had been a hotbed of self-pity and independence, it was easy there to lay blame and hold anger, to convince yourself you were innocent and others had wronged you. Hell, it was just easier that way. Period. But it was wrong.

Here it wasn't so easy. Here it was open and free and (mostly) quiet…and with men like Jack around with stories like his…it was downright judgmental.

She reached into her bodice and disentangled the compass, pulling it out.

Then I'm to assume you know how?

I've had a better idea, of late.

What the hell did he mean? He stared at this bloody compass day in and out, he trusted it like no other, and yet it was broken.

She glared at it, willing it to spill its secrets. Why had Gibbs even brought this mystery to her attention? Was it something she should figure out, something about Jack she should know? Her head spun. She popped open the mechanism and watched the needle spin, not as fast as it had the last time she'd opened it. It lazily swirled this time, from the bed to the wall behind her, to herself directly and finally to the cabin's door. This compass had gotten Jack to Isla de Muerta without a second thought five years ago, and it didn't even point north.

It didn't point north.

Elizabeth suspiciously looked closer at the compass. A light went on in her mind, for what she didn't know. She looked up from the needle's current fixed point and found the cabin's door in her vision. Standing up, she shut it and held the compass and held it in her palm, measuring the weight. She gingerly picked her way out of the mess and towards the exit, stepping out into the waning day, looking around.

The mess and damage was nearly cleaned up; the broken wood and spilt food and drink almost completely clear. Sails were back up, tears all but gone, and Gibbs was standing in the middle of the ship with a sharp eye, ordering final pickups, knowing the crew was just eager for the drinks of victory. He was hard-pressed getting an decent work out of them, as they all chattered and sang loudly over the orders of the first mate.

Mr. Gibbs eyes scanned over the ship and his men, and met hers as she pulled Jack's door shut behind her. She held up the compass slightly, and his head jerked backwards. She nodded and started forward, craning her neck around him and the mast, looking for the Captain. She found him examining a chunk that had been taken out of the starboard side where they'd kissed this morning, muttering orders to Bo'sun. He looked up, saw her approaching, and snapped a dismissal at the man, who gave Elizabeth a rather curious look. She waited until he was out of earshot completely and stepped up, her head tilted at Jack. She held out her hand, the compass held flat in her palm, offering.

"I can't figure it out, Jack," she said, shrugging her shoulders lightly, smiling sadly. "What does it do, if it's not broken?" she asked, hoping on the off chance he'd give her an answer instead of some cryptic riddle. He surprised her.

He looked at her like some resigned school teacher and took it, holding it in three fingers in front of her, looking her in her eyes.

"This compass, Miss Swann, shows you what you most want."

It was a shocking revelation but at the same time, she strangely felt no shock. Unbeknownst to her, she'd figured that out subconsciously, she'd known by herself. She managed a raised eyebrow and a sort of sarcastic smile as she glanced down at her feet and back up, squinting a little in the sun.

"Then it won't do a damn thing for me," she said with a derisive snort, shaking her head at him.

Who was she kidding? She turned her back on him and rested her palm on the edge of the ship, running it along as she started to leave, uncaring of splinters. His hand came over hers and stopped her; he let their palms touch and then released her hand as he came around in front of her, tucking the compass into his belt. Without looking at her, he said:

"You used to remind me of her."

She didn't have to ask who as he walked off, giving a few orders, adjusting his hat, taking his place back at the wheel.

She watched him go, her eyes stinging. Those words cut her deeper than anything he'd ever said, any action she'd ever done, anything Will had ever said. She felt exposed and judged before him and herself, and the higher powers as well. She looked up, blinking, and then back over at his back as he retreated up the stairs.

So many mistakes and so much misplaced blame.

"JACK," she called after him. "Jack."

"Jigsaw Memory" by Muse

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