A/N: Thank you so so so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all enjoy this one.

Chapter VI

As soon as I got outside, I was met with more than a few curious looks. However, no one said anything until I was handed a bucket of water and a brush.

"Time to be scrubbin' the decks," Gibbs instructed, shoving the cleaning materials into my arms.

I knelt down beside Emery and Schmitty, who were already toiling away furiously. Towards the bow of the ship, Wentworth tended to the injured Spritely's wound, while his brother supervised protectively. After sterilizing the affected area with rum, he dressed it with a torn piece of cloth.

"Off you go, Tommy-boy. Keep it covered and remember to change the bandages," he reminded him.

The younger man nodded gratefully and went back to work with his brother.

I hadn't realized that I'd been staring until I locked gazes with Wentworth. His eyes quickly flicked from my face to my shoulder, and he started to approach me.

"You're hurt," he said eventually.

"Just a scrape," I said nonchalantly, "I'll be fine."

"Still, it should be cleaned. You wouldn't want it to fester… Here, let me…" Without my consent, he began giving my upper arm the same attention he'd given Tom's hand.

"Thanks…" I said quietly once he'd finished. For some reason, I felt embarrassed and as if I couldn't meet his stare. It was not a pleasant feeling.

"Don't mention it. 'Spose we should get back to work, though," he suggested with a goofy smile.

"I suppose so," I agreed carefully. Oh dear. This was not good. I had the nagging suspicion that Wentworth was beginning to become infatuated with me. Perhaps if I ignored his advances, he would get the message. I could only hope.

Soon enough, Sparrow had emerged from his quarters and resumed navigation of the ship.

"How much longer til we reach our destination, Cap'n?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, I dunno. You know how these things go, mate – could be a matter of hours or a matter of days. We'll find 'er when she wants to be found, I'm sure."

"So it is who I think it is!" he exclaimed proudly.

"I was referring to the island," Sparrow countered disparagingly. "Oi, Navy boy," he started abruptly, "Seeing as you've seemed to have taken such a fancy to our dear Cassiopeia, why don't ye teach her how to use that utterly worthless cutlass on 'er belt."

I jumped at the sound of my name, which he pronounced very exaggeratedly as "Cass-i-o-peia." I hadn't been aware that Sparrow was even observing the crew, let alone analyzing my interactions with Wentworth.

"Aye aye, sir," the other man replied obediently. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Wentworth was sweet, but it was obvious that he was nothing more than a sheep following his proverbial shepherd.

But I didn't want to be rude, so I graciously accepted his offer. Plus, it would be a useful skill to learn. Although, I was quite sure that he wasn't nearly as good a swordfighter as he made himself out to be; Cotton, Marty, Gibbs, and Sparrow were all significantly better versed in the art of fencing, no doubt.

Wentworth hesitated for a moment. "Now, sir?" he asked timidly.

"No, next week," Sparrow said sarcastically, "Yes, now."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

The captain didn't bother gracing him with a response, but instead turned his attention to his compass.

"Right, stand up," Wentworth instructed me.

I did as I was told and automatically unsheathed my sword.

"Now," he said, "let's work on footwork first – it's the most important part. Watch where I step and try to mirror it."

Footwork? This should be interesting… I thought cynically.

He shuffled to the side by crossing his left foot over his right, and I slowly emulated his motions.

"Good. Now if I strike here," he put his weapon up near my right shoulder, "you must block me."

I brought my cutlass up to meet his, relishing the faint ting of metal on metal.

"Let's try the same thing, only faster." And so we did. It was painfully simple.

"I have another idea," I butted in, "Why don't you just pretend you're fighting me for real, and I'll try to defend myself. I think that might facilitate things – that's more or less what I did earlier."

"I don't know if that's a good – "

"Sure it is," I interrupted, "Just try not to kill me. Stop yourself before you actually strike."

"Alright, if that's truly what you wish…" he said begrudgingly.

He came at me again, and I could tell that he was restraining himself. However, this method was infinitely more exciting.

As he swung, I just narrowly dodged him.

"For such a pretty thing, you sure are clumsy," he commented, readying himself for another blow.

"Thank you," I replied sardonically. When he struck this time, I blocked his attack with my blade instead of jumping out of the way. The force sent painful shockwaves through my wrist. Motivated by this sensation, I made a move to attack him. He wasn't expecting it, so I got a cheap shot off. I accidentally sliced the back of his hand.

"I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, mortified.

It wasn't a deep wound by any means, but it was still bleeding. One scarlet streak of blood ran down his skin, finally forming a droplet and falling to the ground. I couldn't take my eyes off of the scene.

"You're squeamish, I see," he commented, tearing a piece of his chemise to bandage the cut.

"What?"

"You don't like blood – I don't know if that's a good quality to have on a pirate ship…"

"Oh, yes… I detest blood. Makes me sick." In fact, nothing could have been farther from the truth. I found the sight of it tantalizing, almost disturbingly so. Perhaps it was just another one of my mermaid quirks.

He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Such a woman," he teased.

I gave him a feeble smile, before asking, "Are you certain you're all right? I feel horrible… I can't believe I did that!"

"It's just a scratch," he said, echoing my words from earlier.

"Maybe we should stop…" I suggested.

"Do you want to stop?"

"No – well, I mean, I want what you want," I said lamely.

"I think we should carry out this lesson," he said firmly. He was not about to allow his ego be tarnished by a flesh wound – he didn't want me to think he was weak.

"Alright, then…" However, this time I was most definitely going to wait for him to make the first move.

This sparring continued for another forty minutes or so, without any other injuries. By the end of it, I didn't feel as if I had improved my skills in any quantifiable way, but I supposed that it would take much more practice for there to be any visible progress.

The sun was just about to set, and Emery had been given galley duty for the night. The crew had tried to pin the task on me (on account of my being a woman), but Sparrow had intervened and insisted that I desperately needed fencing practice (somehow he'd managed to insult me while simultaneously trying to help me…). I was infinitely thankful for this, though, for I hadn't even the slimmest idea of how to cook – I knew next to nothing about human food, so I studied closely what Emery had prepared in the hopes that I might be able to replicate it in the future. I noticed, interestingly enough, that Sparrow was not partaking in the banquet that poor Emery had scrounged together and had instead decided to retire to his cabin.

I watched in fascination as some sort of fish-concoction was scooped onto my dusty pewter plate. Judging by the looks that the others were giving the meal, it wasn't considered to be appetizing. However, I had no qualms – any type of fish, in my opinion, was delicious.

I happily dug into the meal in front of me, garnering several disgusted looks from my fellow crewmates.

"What?" I asked through a mouthful of fishtails as they all eyed me in revulsion.

"At least someone likes me cookin'," Emery said accusatorily to the rest of the men. "Hey, if the lass can eat it, how bad could it be?"

In response, Schmitty spat out a mouthful of half-chewed goop back onto his plate. "This stuff's awful!" he complained.

"It can't be that bad…" He tried some for himself, and visibly struggled in swallowing. "Oh," he said in defeat once he'd gotten it down.

"Great," Marty said angrily, "We've been sailin' for days, and I've yet to have somethin' to eat. You, missy," he said, pointing to me, "shall be takin' over galley duty for the rest o' the trip."

"I can't cook…" I stated somewhat bashfully.

"Well, you'd best learn," he countered, " 'cause you're not 'ere to improve the scenery."

With that, he stormed out, presumably to indulge in some sort of tomfoolery involving the rum supply. The rest of the crew followed suit, save me. I hadn't eaten in days either, and this fish stew (if that's even what it was meant to be) was certainly hitting the spot.

When I'd finished, I walked out on the main deck to see everyone drinking from growlers and dancing; even Cotton was participating, strumming a tune on some sort of guitar-like instrument. Gibbs was passed out on a barrel and the Spritelies, who were probably drunk for the first time in their short lives, were holding onto each other for dear life. Eventually, Tom – the finger-less one – broke out into song.

"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life ferme!" he slurred rowdily.

The conscious members of the party acted as if this was the first time anyone had ever thought of singing in the history of time, and joined in eagerly.

"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, we loot," they sang in unison, "Drink up me'earties yo ho!"

Now thoroughly entranced, I sat on the steps next to Cotton and watched the musical fiasco unfold.

Sparrow poked his head out stealthily from his door. "Did I 'ear…?" Upon witnessing the bacchanal, however, he slammed the door open dramatically and fully emerged.

"Oi! What're you lot doing! The rum! You're drinking all the rum!" He began absurdly prying the bottles out of everyone's hands, much to their displeasure.

"You never struck me as one to break up such a lively celebration… sir," I commented cheekily.

"Believe you me," he began elaborately, "nothing pains me more than impeding on a perfectly good drunken extravaganza. But, you see, this is all the rum we've got. This rum – this rum right here – has to last us for some unspecified duration of time. Do you understand what that means? We could run out! Do you know what happens when we run out of rum?"

I shook my head, indicating that I indeed did not.

"Bad things," he answered testily, "horrendous things. Things that would make your skin crawl. Which is why," he continued with newfound cheeriness, "we mustn't let it happen."

I couldn't quite tell whether or not he was being serious, but the idea entered my head that a lack of rum might really, truly be a bad thing – it would also mean a lack of an antiseptic and a lack of stomach-able drinking water.

Sparrow took a long, exaggerated swig, before sashaying back into his room with his arms filled with half-empty bottles.

The members of the crew who were still physically sound enough to register what had happened sourly filed below deck, and I followed them. Wentworth wasn't nearly as inebriated as the others, so I (barely) helped him support Gibbs, Emery, and Scmitty below deck. Marty, Cotton, and the others were able to mind themselves, thank the Lord. When the limp bodies of unconscious three were secured, I helped the Spritelies into their hammocks (they had been having a real hard time with it, and after the fourth or fifth time I couldn't stand to see them fall face-first to the floor again). Tomorrow, I thought wryly, none of them would be in any state to continue sailing. Oh well. It was their own fault.

When everyone was safely tucked away, I fell into my own hammock and attempted to drift to sleep. However, Schmitty's ungodly snoring – despite being a welcome sign that he was, indeed, alive – was proving to be quite the preventative force. So I lay there, still as possible, caught on the border between sleep and consciousness. I opened my eyes drowsily and saw a dim light coming from the top of the stairs, probably from the lamps on deck – someone – everyone – must have forgotten to put them out. I was inexplicably drawn to it; I stood and began to climb up the narrow staircase.

After I hit the chilly night air, it became apparent that the deck was deserted. I'd thought perhaps that Sparrow might be there, but it seemed that even he had turned in for the night.

It was so beautiful – so serene. The water was calm and black, reflecting the stars so that the horizon was completely indistinguishable; the water and the night were one. It was like there was nothing in the world apart from the sea and the sky and the ship.

But I felt a pang of longing in my stomach – this was not how it was supposed to be. There should not have been any ship; anything that separated me from the sea – my home – was wrong. It was false – an unnatural barrier – a lie. I dearly missed the coolness against my skin and the feeling of the water passing through my hair.

I needed to be in the water. I needed to be one with the ocean once again, if only for a brief moment.

But was it worth the risk? Was it worth someone discovering what I was?

It was so unlikely that anyone would come out here – the crew was fast asleep…

I made my decision, and quickly started undressing. I would only swim for a few minutes, and then I would climb right back aboard. Everything would be fine.

I resisted the urge to jump in the water and instead resolved to shimmy down the anchor line (which was a very unpleasant experience, mind you) so as to not make a splash.

I eased feet-first into the cool liquid and felt an extremely bizarre sensation that I presumed to be my legs fusing together. In no time, my tail was back and I felt complete. I dunked my head under and attempted to clean off my face and my hair. Then, I swam.

I dove to the deepest inky depths beneath the ship and circled the hull several times. I had never felt so joyous – so free. I let out a gleeful shriek from underneath the gentle waves, watching as bubbles flew from my mouth and the sound became nothing more than an eerily muffled squeak.

But I soon had to end my late-night excursion and climb back up the rope. The longer I lingered, the greater the risk.

After I hit the deck, I tried to shake off as much water as I could as quietly as I could, before I began to re-dress with disappointment.

When I was fully confident that no one had witnessed my little transformation, I went back to the crew's quarters and was finally able to sleep after having sufficiently tired myself out.

I was sure that I'd been enjoying myself aboard the Poseidon's Jewel. I loved the sense of change, and life aboard a ship was certainly exciting, to say the least. The people were entertaining, and I'd never had the opportunity to spend time with males in their nature habitat before; this was all quite the learning experience.

Up until this point, I really hadn't given Whitecap Bay or my old life much thought. But, that night, my dreams were filled with phantom images of my sisters and the ghosts of their cries. Their wretched screams of anguish and the chaotic scene of them desperately swimming away from me were forever scorched into my memory.

Perhaps I had been wrong to leave. What if the survivors needed me?

But I couldn't go back, for there wasn't anything for me to go back to. So many of my sisters were dead, and I was nothing more than a traitor.

A/N: I'm trying to make Jack a little more light-hearted - some of you said that he seemed a bit too harsh in the last chapter, so I'm trying to rectify that. The reason I made him seem that way was because I always thought of him as a person who would take a long time to trust or even act semi-natural around someone new. I re-watched the first movie, and he did seem kind of abrupt with Will and Elizabeth when he first met them but I can see where I went a bit overboard (no pun intended lol). In any case, I'm sorry for this rambling and I hope you'll review and let me know if you think his characterization has improved any! :)