Chapter XVIII

Moving On

Two years.

It had been two years. Jones had felt as if it had been two decades. Two years. Two years without Bree.

Of course, Jones had hidden these feelings of loss. The crew couldn't know. If they knew…

Why didn't Jones want them to know? Did he think they would view his affection for Bree as a weakness? Jones, ever since he had been so terribly hurt by love, had viewed it as a terrible weakness. It hurt…but Bree…she actually loved him back. She was slowly healing the wound in his scarred chest. Just the knowledge of her love was like a soothing salve.

Jones, every morning, would listen to Bree's beautiful voice sing her song over the waves. Somehow he felt as if she was singing for him. The passion carried in her tones was that of a virgin widowed before her marriage. Stripped of love, bereft of the only affection allowed her.

And every evening, Jones would sit in his cabin and listen. Listen to the same tune, but this time in the form of his music box. He could still hear it. He was pleased that Bree was using it. It was a way to assure him that his little pirate still belonged to him, if only in her heart. Every night. Every night it played. Jones received a mental picture of her cradling the small music box in her hand as she slept, her hammock swinging back and forth with the swell of the tide, her face peaceful…as she dreamed of him.

He had no idea how accurate that picture was.

"Fire!"

Jones' voice rang out over the water, soon followed by the thunderous boom of the Flying Dutchman's guns going off one by one. The opposing ship was splintered to matchwood, debris and shards of wood spinning through the morning fog.

Jones made a motion and the crew, all eager for battle, made their way over to the enemy ship, weapons at the ready. Jones himself crossed to the wrecked vessel, drawing his broadsword. Normally he didn't take part in the battles, but this was a good way to vent his sorrow from losing Bree.

Jones was confronted by a young man, who was holding a rapier in his trembling hand. His large dark eyes were flooded with terror as he looked at his opponent. Jones swung his sword out, the sturdy blade actually snapping through the rapier blade and severing the young man's head. Jones, his eyes reddened with bloodlust, went after the next man within his reach, grabbing him around the neck and ramming the blade into his back up to the hilt until it protruded from the man's chest.

Wrenching his blade free, Jones turned, feeling a sharp sting on his lower leg. Looking down, he saw a young boy, no older than eight, hanging on for dear life, biting and clawing. Reaching down, Jones lifted the boy by his neck, ready to squeeze the life out of him.

Suddenly, an image of Bree flashed before his eyes. She was standing before the young boy they had captured from the vessel Seabuck. She was shaking her head, saying in a defiant voice, "I ain't gonna kill a child."

Striding over to the side, Jones cut the ropes to the boats, watching as it splashed below. Lifting the boy by the collar, Jones snarling in his face, "Get yerself to land, an' sharpish!" Without another word, he flung the boy over the side, into the sea. He watched as the boy floundered in the water, not taking his eyes away until the child had managed to climb into the boat.

Jones turned away, somehow feeling that Bree would have been very proud.

All the crew were dead, now. Jones wasn't taking any prisoners. He stood at the railing of the Dutchman, wiping his blade off with a dirty rag. Maccus came to stand beside him, saluting, "No plunder here, Cap'n."

Jones nodded absently. Then a squabble broke out between Clanker and Penrod. They were both trying to haul a chest onto the Dutchman, both wanting it for himself. Jones sighed in exasperation, striding over to them. He pried the crewmembers apart and slammed his claw down on the lock of the chest, snapping it off. He opened the chest, his eyes falling on a bundle of parchment. There was a wooden box. Opening it, Jones found ink, a quill and wax. And idea began forming in his mind.

Taking hold of the chest, Jones spoke, "I'll take these. Nothin' o' use for ye numbskulls." But as he passed Clanker, he clapped him heartily on the back.

Jones hadn't written a letter in so long. He wondered if he could remember how.

Starting was harder than Jones thought it would be. How would he address Bree? Dear Bree? Miss Bree?

Jones left a space before writing Bree's name. He would come back to it.

Yet Jones found himself stalling again. What would the tone of his letter be? He wanted to let her know he missed her. That he cared for her. That he loved her. But…what if the message was lost and then found by a stranger? Surely…Jones winced. He shouldn't care what others thought.

But one of the main reasons Jones didn't want others knowing of his love for Bree was to keep Bree safe. There were many power hungry, evil men who would see Bree as a tool to obtain that power. They might threaten her life, or kidnap her and ransom her for all of Jones' powers over the sea. Jones would give them up in exchange for Bree, but he didn't want that to happen. Why not avoid it if possible?

Jones started writing out a few agonizingly plain lines. His handwriting wasn't as good as it had been once. The strange shape of his hand made it harder to hold the quill properly.

The captain started the letter off with a simple salutation. Nothing too personal, almost like a businessman speaking to another businessman.

But as the letter went on, Jones found himself slipping and writing a few endearments. The one he noticed that seemed to be appearing most frequently was the term 'dear heart'. When he noticed all this, Jones forced himself to stop writing like this. The letter went on for a few lines, noticeably plainer and more thought over.

But once again, the tone of sweet yearning slipped in through the ink. Jones felt as if he was barely thinking about what he was writing. It began flowing out of him, the sorrow, the heartbreak, and the agony of being away from his beloved Bree. He had to let her know!

Before Jones caught himself, he found himself writing as if he was courting her. Worded like a love poem, his letter had almost reached the end of the piece of parchment. Biting his lip, the sea captain brought the letter to a rapid close. Then he signed his name, in big bold letters. His signature hadn't changed, even after centuries of never even picking up a pen.

Jones sat there, just staring at the letter. Then he read over it. Over and over again, he read it. He tried to imagine Bree's expression were she reading this. He was struggling inside. Part of him longed to send the letter, to let Bree know that he still adored her, even after two years of separation. But another…knew this would be painful to Bree. To remember. It would be like tearing open an old wound that wasn't quite fully healed.

Jones, angry with himself and with the unfairness of it all, tore the parchment, throwing it down and treading it into the slimy deck. He snarled, feeling tears of hot anger and disappointment stinging his eyes. If only I could let her know!

Needing to calm down, Jones turned to his music. He gently stroked the keys of his organ, his mind working. He bent his neck down, moving his tentacles down, spreading them out over the keys. Then he began softly pressing them down, almost at random. He felt as if something was guiding him.

Before Jones even realized it, a beautiful, simple melody was playing. It was somewhat slow and halting, as Jones had never played it before, and it was playing out in his mind.

Jones began to play faster and stronger, the music coming to him like a divine revelation. Musical genius or compassionate angel, he didn't know, but something inspired him, more than anything had in his entire life.

Still playing, Jones fumbled for a fresh scrap of parchment, drawing a quick scale and then beginning to write. He wrote until he had the basic melody scribed onto the parchment. Then he began to embellish the piece, adding dynamics and accompaniments. Dual melodies evolved, and the music grew stronger, more complex, and far more beautiful.

Jones let his mind rest in this time. The music was so…different from the song of the music box. It was so wild and free, adventurous, but melancholy, hinting at a sad past. Beautiful, yet bold. Soft, yet firm.

It reminded him of Bree.

It had been almost two hours since Jones had begun working on the song. He hadn't ceased, pieces of parchment littering his organ and desk area now.

At last, the piece was finished. Jones sat back, sighing contentedly. This had truly freed him for the moment and cleared his mind.

Then it struck him.

Why not send the song to Bree?

No one would know the message behind the song. But Bree would.

Fetching another piece of parchment, Jones began copying the music down as neatly as he could. When he finished, he paused. It needed a title.

Jones actually sat there for ten minutes, simply staring into space. He fingered the medallion around his neck, and then wrote down four words.

For thee, sweet Bree.

Bree lifted her head from her blanket, her eyes filmed over with sleep. She yawned expansively, deciding to get up and walk about on deck to shake off the sleep.

Slipping out of her hammock, Bree pulled on her jerkin, climbing up to emerge on deck. She shivered. The morning was cold, and fog hung on the air like thick smoke scudding across the water. Bree went to the railing of the Bloodmast, yawning a few more times and rubbing her arms to get them warm. Then she spotted something. A small object was bobbing through the water at the side, where the waves lapped at the ship.

Bree, curious to see what it was, fetched a long pole and managed to hook whatever the object was by a small rope. Hauling it up, Bree retreated to a corner to look at it.

Sitting down, Bree unhooked the object and examined it. It was a small keg, and when Bree shook it she didn't hear any liquid sloshing about inside. She examined the bunghole. It was watertight.

Bree unsheathed her claws, which she still had, even after two years, and brought her hand slamming down on the barrel. It splintered into pieces, revealing a small bundle of parchment. Bree, now doubly curious, picked the bundle out and undid the string tying the pieces of parchment together.

Bree saw something written on the front of the package. Having learned her letters at last, (Barbossa had insisted on it) Bree was able to read the name. A tremor went through her.

Davy Jones

Bree literally tore at the package now, eager to see what was on the pieces of parchment. Her heart was pounding and her hands shaking. Bree spread the sheets of paper out on the deck before her, her eyes tearing up as a smile lit her features.

A song.

Bree ran her finger over the notes of music, mentally going over the sound of each note. This was a different song from the one she had played with Jones. Her gaze flicked to the title of the song.

To thee, sweet Bree.

A tear splashed onto the parchment, and Bree silently wept. Joy at the knowledge that he still loved her was mixed with loneliness, knowing that this was all she could hope for…just his memory.

After she had properly recovered, Bree hurried down to the hold. She had gotten her very own fiddle while on one of the Bloodmast's many voyages. She was eager to play this new song. She took the fiddle and the music up to the bow, tuning her instrument.

Bree took a deep breath as she put the bow to the strings. Then, slowly and softly at first, she began to pull the bow across, the notes coming out perfectly.

Bree felt herself swept away by the music, tears coming to her eyes. This song was dedicated to her. By the man she loved. She played like she had never played before, giving herself over entirely to the moment.

The crewmembers of the Bloodmast woke to the sound of Bree's song. All thought it was the voice of a Siren. It was so beautiful, so sad and wild, it brought emotions whirling from the depths of one's heart.

Bree finished the song, her face moist with her tears. She slowly took the bow from the fiddle, sighing. She spoke out into the fog, her voice softer than a whisper.

"For thee, my captain."

It had been almost a total of four years since Bree had been separated from Jones. Yet the pain was still there for the girl. Memories never fade, no matter how much time passes.

The music box had begun to break. Bree had wound it up one night to listen to it as she slept. It began playing, but then it suddenly stopped. The gears were jamming. Overuse had caused it to grow rusty and scratched. Bree was distraught. What was she to do now?

Now Bree only had the song Davy had written for her. She kept the envelope the letter had been in stowed away in her jerkin, close to her heart. She never showed it to anyone. However, when alone, she would pull it out and simply stare at Jones' name, written in his own hand. The ink had begun to fade and crack, but she still kept it close.

And this was what Bree was doing the night they pulled into Tortuga. She was the last one out of the hold, moving slowly. Stepping off onto land, Bree hardly noticed the rowdy atmosphere. She was busy thinking, humming her beloved tune to herself.

But she was brought back to reality as she accidentally bumped into someone. Looking up, Bree held up her palms in apology, "Oh, I'm sorry, marm."

Bree stopped to observe the newcomer. It was a tall, beautiful young woman, with dark, curly hair that fell in lovely disarray about her shoulders. She had deep blue eyes that had the look of a kind but brave soul in them. Bree felt a sudden admiration rise in her. Bree was a rather perceptive girl who could sense a person's character.

The young woman looked to Bree, smiling graciously, "No harm done, little one." Her deep blue eyes flicked to the broadsword slung across Bree's back. A warm smile spread across her lips, "Ah, I know you. Bree, isn't it?"

Bree tilted her head, surprised, "Aye marm, but…how d'ye know me?"

The young woman smiled at her again, her voice warm, "I've heard many good things about you, brave girl. I know your captain well."

Bree felt flattered, scratching her cheek as a blush crept up to her cheeks. She smiled softly, "Well, erm…thank ye, marm. How d'ye know Barbossa?"

Before the woman answered, her eyes looked past Bree. A soft smile lit her lovely features and she strode forward gracefully.

Bree turned, seeing Barbossa coming towards them. He met the young woman, smiling broadly at her. Bree could instantly see a soft expression in his eyes. Bree grinned, immediately understanding.

Barbossa bent and kissed the young woman's hand, and she wove her arm through the crook of his elbow and walked beside him. Both adults paused beside Bree. Barbossa looked at the young woman proudly, then addressed Bree, "Well, mate, I see ye've met Miss Doyle."

Bree nodded, smiling up at her captain's lady. The young woman laughed softly, her voice like summer wind through bluebells, "Oh, I'm sorry, I never introduced myself properly. My name is Lillian. And I've…known…Hector for many years."

Bree raised an eyebrow at her captain, saying in a voice filled with mirth, "Hector?"

Barbossa coughed, whispering into Lillian's ear, and the young woman pursed her lips in a fake pout, "Oh, come now, sir, your first mate has a right to know your name."

Bree stifled a giggle, enjoying seeing her captain deflate before this woman. She radiated authority and strength. And Bree could see that, despite her upright manners and grace, that she was a warrior.

Bree took a pace back, speaking in a tone strained with stifled laughter, "Well, me lord an' lady, I won't keep ye."

Lillian smiled down at Bree, her eyes friendly. Barbossa grinned as well. He had a fatherly affection for Bree. But he then turned to Lillian, "Shall we, me dear?" Lillian smiled at him, and the two went off together.

Bree stood, finally breaking into a fit of laughter. Hector! Who would've thought it?