A/N: My deepest apologies for the delay in updating, but as I have said, these updates will be few and far between for the foreseeable future. I can only hope what I offer in these sparse times will suffice to please my readers. Please leave me a review and let me know if I am successful in this endeavor.

The days aboard the Flying Dutchman pass slowly, especially for a newcomer. But perhaps a bit of newfound companionship will amend this decidedly grim fate.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any affiliated character, only my personal characters and my plot.

Chapter 2: Lena

The mornings were always pale during this season. Across the horizon, soft and colorless rays slipped through the loosely threaded clouds, grey in color and thin in appearance. The toneless hue above reflected in the waters below, dulling the turquoise Caribbean waters to a muted blue. Blue waves splashed near-silently upon the crusted edges of the ship, leaving colorless residue in their wake. Small droplets found their way through the multiple cracks and splintered planks, streaking across the floor or falling onto the surface of the cannons—plink, plink, plink!

A soft sigh, and her hand came across the round, black surface, brushing away the offending droplets of the cannon she'd just cleaned. Satisfied that (at least for now) it would remain untouched, she moved over to the left and once again began a process which could only be described as tedious and unending. She could still recall the snickering chorus that moved throughout the crew when she'd been ordered down here, perhaps five days ago now, instructed to prove her usefulness. While the command was mildly demeaning, she supposed there was something to be said in light of the captain not ordering anyone down to observe her. Either he fancied his crew had better things to do with their time than keep an eye on a teenage girl, or he assumed she couldn't get herself in too much trouble—or rather, she was smart enough to avoid doing so.

She allowed herself to pause after yet another strenuous period of cleaning weaponry: tools of destruction which would always need to be cleaned and polished without any true success. The sting of salt water registered with her nerves, brief as always, and then it faded once more. Her eyes drifted down to examine the cuts etched into the fine lines of her palms; a collection of longer ones extended to her right wrist, the result of reaching underneath cannons and finding a particularly disagreeable patch of barnacles.

Carefully, she examined these marks now, looking for any sign of infection or other physical damage that might have resulted from exposing the wounds to open air and ocean water. Aside from a minute swelling of red along the most recent injuries—ones she had probably acquired today…or yesterday, who could keep track of days now?—the wounds appeared to be healing perfectly well on their own. The pain was easy enough to accommodate, and it never lasted long anyway.

Her legs objected at first when she stood up, an unsteady response to the swaying of the ship. Using the wall as support, she moved over to the last cannon in this endless row of identical weapons. This one was the most difficult to work with; she still bore bruises from her first, highly unsuccessful try at negotiating with the barnacles clinging jealously to the cold iron. All the same, she went to her knees—a well-practiced stance for her now—and lifted her hand, fingers wrapped around a ragged, ruthlessly abused piece of rag that all but cried for mercy, to be put out of its misery. Absurdly, a part of her thought to apologize for the abuse it was about endure. She anticipated it would not recover.

Her jaw set tightly, teeth clenched behind her lips as the barnacles scrapped mercilessly at her palm and fingers, opening old wounds and creating new ones along the sides of her index and thumb. Teeth ground together in an unfortunate grating sound as she pushed the rag along the rounded surface, her arm stretching out, then returning back in…and out…in…out…in…

"Private matters, eh?" a voice, hoarse and low—but not quiet—spoke from amongst a jumble of others, all belonging to the gathering of crewmen, right beside the rails, "Doesn't take a sharp tool to figure out that puzzle. Even Hadras could do it."

An indignant protest from the named crewman was drowned out in sharp laughter. But not all joined in the amusement. Another voice spoke up, chastising perhaps—though whether it was actually in defense of the unnamed subject remained to be known.

"Come off it, you lot…she's just a kid."

"Kid or not, she's a woman." A twisted grin over a twisted face, "Remember what that is, Clanker? It's just like a man, except it's got a—"

The thin threads clenched between her fingers—threads, no longer even a piece of cloth—protested with each drag across the rough, battered surface. She could feel them breaking, fraying with each sweep across a smooth patch, each jerk and forceful battle with the barnacles. It surely wouldn't be much longer before its usefulness would run its course.

"Nimble little thing—just like a little fish, she is."

"Wonder why she never says nothing."

"Who cares?" an indifferent rasp of a voice spoke above the rest—a voice that spoke deliberately, with cold authority, "As long as she does as she's told, doesn't matter if she talks that pretty head off or stays silent as the grave."

A sharp, painful sensation alerted her to a barnacle hiding around the left side of the base. At least now there would be no need to remove that particular specimen with the rag; she'd done a fine job of doing so with her arm. Her hand paused only for a moment to draw the intrusive object from her flesh, wincing slightly at the stinging response.

She blinked, forcing the pain away. This was not a painless task, just as life was not a painless journey. She would know.

"Girl's to be sent down to clean the guns." A hoarse voice informed the others, dark amusement wrapped around every word. "Says she's to prove her usefulness."

Raucous laughter followed this new information. "Seems her old captain didn't have no trouble with that." One crewman stated, a wicked grin on his features.

"Aye," another agreed, "Why don't we see just how else she's useful?"

Her hands scrubbed furiously at the sleek black weapon, as though inflicting punishment for some unknown crime. Perhaps for causing her grief and frustration, perhaps for collecting such a vast array of possessive sea life, or perhaps because it happened to be there, at the right moment for her silent emotions to spill out upon.

"I can think of how those pretty legs of hers could be useful…"

"Alright, that's enough from the lot of ye." The one they called Clanker—she knew his voice now, knew his face apart from the others—spoke up, seemingly out of mere annoyance if not for his next words, "She's nothing but a quiet kid who wants to be left to herself."

"Where's the fun in that…?" she knew that kind of tone all too well—lecherous and greedy. It was just like the Master's voice, this one. "We can't play with her if we leave her alone."

The rag finally surrendered to the inevitable fate awaiting, falling limp and exhausted against her fingers. Something warm was spreading down her arm, and her eyes found a tiny pool of crimson at the base of the cannon. The source was hardly difficult to locate: more barnacles had come dislodged into her arms, now stained from her blood. Now, it was no longer a simple matter of removing one, but of drawing at least half a dozen out of her limb.

Soon, a small pile of blood-tipped barnacles lay at her bare feet. With a poorly resisted expression of pain, she pulled the very last out of her arm and tossed it to join its fellows. Taking what was left of her rag—nothing completely useful, really—she pressed the tatters to her bleeding arm, staunching the expulsion of scarlet droplets from the gaps in pale skin. A soft sigh of relief passed her dry lips as she settled back against the ship's wall, her hair loyally cushioning her head from the rough boards.

Some kind of laughter passed above her, up on deck. Her eyes lifted for a moment, but maintained little interest. Truthfully, this crew seemed to be able to find almost anything to jeer at, to derive some kind of pleasure and amusement from. The Master had been like that, as she could recall. And not unlike this crew, he had found great entertainment in the torture and suffering of others.

Her hand, nearly unconsciously, drifted to her back to pull her hair over one shoulder and began braiding it. It was quick and effortless to accomplish with skilled fingers, and while she had once had silk ribbons and other fine instruments to bind the entwined strands, a simple knot fashioned by two parted sections of her hair would suffice.

Heavy, shuffling footsteps caught her attention, coming from above down the narrow, cramped staircase leading to the weaponry, separated from the stairs that ventured into the common area where the crew was known to gather. They didn't sound like the captain's footsteps—and it was highly unlikely he would actually come check her progress in person, not when there were plenty of crewmen to do the job for him. And she doubted it was the first-mate. Like the captain, there were others to look on after lower members of the crew, and he clearly had other matters to tend to; she could only assume this to be the reason she had yet to see him since her soul had been sworn to the devil himself.

The footsteps had grown louder, drawing closer in the few passing moments it took to maneuver down the stairs. Finally, a figure appeared in the shadowy entrance: slumped slightly in stature, with something heavy and metallic clinking around the thighs. After the briefest moment, she recognized the sound, and thus easily identified her visitor.

The crewman—Clanker—paused in the door, dark eyes set beneath a brow weighed down with the barnacles covering nearly his entire face. Silently, he scanned across the row of cannons, finally settling on her in the corner, and then back again over the weapons. Finally, his gaze returned to her. It was not like the stares of the other crewman, which had quickly proven to be cold and indifferent, but something that very much resembled interest, perhaps even curiosity, as though she were a being he might like to learn more about.

"You do all this by yourself?" he inquired, gesturing around with one hand to the cleaned weapons. She knew well that this was a question he could answer on his own. No one else had come down here since she had been sent back into this dark corner of the ship, and no other could be found in the room with her.

From what little she could discern of his expression, she would allow herself to believe it was displaying awe, and perhaps more intrigue. With a short nod, a gesture she supposed he directed more at himself than her, he moved towards her, the other hand holding something large, bulky even, wrapped loosely in cloth. The chain-shot dangling from his belt swung with each movement, chains clinking quietly against each other, iron balls lolling carelessly across his thighs. Her eyes watched this movement for a moment with an inane interest before lifting to his hand. She recognized the smell almost instantly; it had been a rare occurrence to move throughout the Master's city without this stench lingering upon the air.

He knelt beside her, the items in hand coming to rest on the floor before being unwrapped. Two large fish, stripped of their exterior cover, lay still on the boards. Clearly, they had been cleaned, and she found herself oddly impressed at the neat job someone—would she be right to guess he had done it?—had performed in preparing the now-deceased animals.

"Here," he said, taking a blade and carving a decent chunk of meat out. He extended it out to her in his palm. "It's not much, but it's edible."

She looked at him in silence for the briefest moment, then reached out to take the offering. It was cold, uncooked. A part of her stomach recoiled in horror, wanting to reject it before it had even touched her tongue. The rest of her was too easily reminded that she hadn't eaten since she came aboard the ship.

He seemed pleased when she lifted the fish to her mouth and pulled the meat apart with her teeth. "There ye go…" he nodded, as though a father praising a child, "Need to put some meat on those bones, we do. Can't have ye blowing away with the next wind."

That almost got a smile out of her, but she caught herself just before she allowed such an expression to show. Instead, she moved to take another bite of the fish, ignoring the short objection from her stomach. The meat was definitely cold, and a bit difficult to chew properly, but it was still food. Even if her body protested it now, she would be able to sleep with a full stomach tonight.

She felt his eyes studying her carefully and lifted her gaze back to his face. He blinked and lowered his intense stare, almost as though he were ashamed to be looking at her in such a way. "Sorry," he mumbled, and she found herself strangely touched by the humility and genuine apology she heard in his voice, "It's yer eyes…never seen a shade quite like them before. Except maybe in the sun…like when it hits the water just right. Ever seen that?"

Her head moved in a slow nod, almost uncertain of whether or not she should be allowing herself to think back on those rare moments she could enjoy the sight of a sun lowering across the water, just before it fell beneath the horizon. Perhaps it was wrong for her to remember how much peace and awe she'd felt, gazing out at the golden orb streaming over pale waters, reflection streaked with the white foam of crashing waves.

A low chuckle, friendly in nature—when was the last time she'd heard a sound like this?—brought her eyes back to his face. He had another piece of fish meat in hand for her, and once she'd accepted it, he cut himself a piece as well, shifting back against the wall. "That what yer eyes look like…but I suppose ye hear that from all the men."

Her eyes fell away from him yet again, this time with a different expression escaping—against her will—into her features. He seemed to consider her silence for a moment, then he spoke again, and she could hear the surprise in his voice. "Ye mean to tell me not one soul's mentioned how pretty those eyes of yours are? Not once?"

Pretty…this was a word she knew well, and knew it to be used in a variety of contexts—pretty little thing was the most common, the one she was most familiar with. But she didn't remember it being offered to her so…was the right word genuinely?

"Well," he stated, "There are more fools in this world than I thought." He nodded to himself then, as though he had come across the answer to one of the great questions of life.

A few moments passed in silence, allowing her to contemplate how it felt to be something appealing to a man who displayed no intentions of manipulating her, of using these offered compliments against her. It was strange, but not unpleasant. She knew enough to acknowledge she didn't dislike it.

In fact…she thought she might like it.

"Tell me, lass," he said thoughtfully, cutting himself another piece, "Ye have a name?"

It was her turn to look surprised—an emotion she wasn't accustomed to experiencing, and even less accustomed to expressing—as her eyes darted back to his face. He was looking at her expectantly, as though he couldn't wait to learn her name…as though he had nothing else to look as forward to in his life as her answer.

When she didn't answer, he tried again, his expression still friendly, still alien to her. "C'mon now…surely ye don't want us calling ye 'girl' for the rest of yer life? We got to have something to call ye."

It was a wonder she hadn't forgotten her name by now. All those years…and she'd only been addressed by her name once—maybe twice. But maybe it had been the simple act of remembering her name—her real name—that had kept her alive…kept her sane.

She found his hand extended out to her. "They call me Clanker." He said, still waiting, still looking at her with that strangely pleasant look in his dark, shadowed eyes.

Another moment—one of so many that had passed, one of many to come—moved in silence. And then a pale hand, slender with long and delicate fingers, lifted and set down in his broad palm, rough with the barnacles latched to the skin, but still a touch she found comforting.

"Lena," she whispered, "My name is Lena."