Playlist: 'The Eagles' from Lord of the Rings, Return of the King.
'At Wit's End' from At World's End.
And 'Eleanor' from Return of the King.
These songs come one straight after the other, no breaks, so be ready for quick changeovers! If only I could compose a soundtrack myself so it would all fade in nicely...
I really hope you're all enjoying the island so far, mateys! I certainly am. It's all a little bit frisky and silly at the moment, but don't worry, here come the bigger things.
13
Oh, she had a dark an' rollin' eye
An' her hair hung down in ring-a-lets
She was a nice gal, a decent gal
But one of the rakish kind!
Elizabeth poured a slosh of rum onto her tower of small sticks, and began to strike the flint together, holding the tinder close to it, like Jack had told her.
When he had produced the small box, with the key ingredients that they needed most, from the rum cellar, and winked at her conspirationally, she had almost laughed at him.
As if it could be that easy. He did seem to conjure up favourable(ish) circumstances just by magic, just by needing help to come along.
Five attempts later, the tinder sparked, finally, as she blew on it, and caught the rum soaked sticks eagerly as it flared up.
"Jack! We've got fire!"
He waved a hand to acknowledge her, but otherwise kept his eyes on the water he was knee deep in. She got the feeling he was actually on the hunt now.
Was it absolutely necessary that he took his boots, waistcoat and shirt off for fishing?
She sat back on the sand, taking care of the flames, throwing more and more branches and sticks on them as they grew.
Then she took another sip of rum, her sixth, since they had started on this mad venture to find a fish.
It was warm, like the air. Warm, sharp, strong, tasting faintly of burnt caramel.
Difficult to get down her throat if she was perfectly honest. But better than nothing.
And it made her horribly tense shoulders slacken up a little. She felt she could almost enjoy herself, if she drank a bit more, and imagined that this was a voluntary holiday.
Just an ordinary, voluntary holiday on a breeze-blown beach, with her male... companion, out hunting to bring her back a prize, and the luxury of alcohol that she didn't usually get back home.
Home. She missed it quite terribly. Her dear father, who was waiting for her return. Out looking for her, more likely.
Out looking for her.
Out looking for her.
... Of course he was. He would be looking for any sign of her whereabouts, any glimmer of hope on the horizon, trusting her to send him a signal if she could.
She gazed at the pile of blazing branches, as she threw another one on top.
She thought of the rum she had just splashed onto it to get it going.
And how much more there was, in that cellar.
'The Eagles'.
Suddenly, she felt weak. So limp, with relief, with the overwhelming sense of safety.
There was a way out after all. If the rumrunners wouldn't rescue them, why, her father would.
Her loving, dependable parent.
She looked at the darkening sky, and realised it was no use to set a huge flame going now. They wouldn't see it at night.
Tomorrow morning. First thing. She would rescue them, and she and Jack would miraculously be free, so suddenly, and -
Jack.
Of course he would never be free, once aboard a law-abiding vessel, under James' eyes.
She would be sending him back to the cell. Possibly the gallows, for his defiant escape.
They would have to cross that bridge when they came to it.
For now, it was a choice between having Jack's freedom or Jack's death on her hands. And her own. She knew which one he would prefer, as much as she.
She tried not to watch him.
He was so clean from his swim... the burnished skin of his arms, chest and back glimmered with droplets of water, in the ever-more beautiful sunset that graced the horizon.
He looked much more real without his tricorn hat. Less legendary.
Touchable.
'At Wit's End'.
He was as rigidly still as a panther, blade hovering inches above the water, pitch black eyes riveted on his target, brows pushed together in concentration.
He was sombrely serious, dangerous and masculine, and perfect.
From the dark red smudge of his bandanna, trailing down his flow of dreadlocks to the dull white scars on his curved back, to the slanting lines where his hips began, and were immediately covered by the waistline of his breeches.
Quite simply perfect. He was so - desirable.
She snorted derisively at herself. She sounded like something out of a French Romance.
She'd been reading too much.
She was generally too light-headed and dreamy. The result of so many gentle days, having nothing else to do but dream, and romanticise this 'exciting life of a pirate'.
Suddenly, in one swift motion, his sword-arm came hurtling down into the rippling surf, the muscles of his shoulders stretching and tensing, and for a second the whole world was perfectly motionless, waiting to see if he had won his kill.
'Eleanor'.
He lifted his weapon, and from it dangled a large creature, still flailing slightly.
He turned to grin at her, sharing his joy of success, and suddenly he wasn't a dark, beautiful stranger any more, but a cocky, casual criminal.
Same old Sparrow.
His beaming face was endearing, however. She couldn't deny the surge of satisfaction that washed over her like a tide, as he made his way ungainly back to shore, splashing over the white horses with that funny walk of his.
At last, a decent meal.
It surprised Elizabeth how much the thought of food meant to her right now.
The simple things in life.
Like coconuts, warm beaches, roasted fish, and a pirate for company.