Elizabeth stood on the Pearl's foredeck, the violet silk of night air caressing her face. It was the gentlest touch she'd known in the days following Jack's return and Will's unforeseen choice. She was not certain she deserved such gentleness, but had now regained enough of the spirit of the girl she'd been to stubbornly reject the thought. The weeks of the excruciatingly slow journey to the east she remembered as a distant haze. She had refused to allow herself comfort in the form of the crew's company, Will's cautious affection, or Tia Dalma's assurances of a chance at absolution. Barbossa had been the only one on the ship whose company she could endure for long, given his unabashed amorality and clearly stated self-serving motives; the black irony of that did not escape her, and brought a twisted smile to her li

The sound of movement and voices on the deck behind her caused her to turn from her contemplation of the night sky emerging from twilight. Jack had stepped from his cabin to take the helm, as was now his habit, for the night's first watch. He rarely appeared in daylight since taking back the Pearl. She wondered if he now preferred the darkness because death and betrayal had come under brilliant blue skies and the harshness of the sun. In the presence of the crew, Jack affected the meandering speech and eccentric mannerisms she had once assumed to be the sum total of his persona. It was only when she caught glimpses of him talking alone with Gibbs, or on the infrequent occasions when he spoke to her, that she saw the man she had come to believe was truly Jack. This man wore Jack Sparrow's elaborate, self-contrived costume over the scarred and tattooed body of someone dangerous, focused, intensely alive and hungry with it. This was the man that lived beneath Jack the drunkard, Jack the fey, Jack the inelegant would-be lover. Shivering, she pushed the last word away. In that direction lay maddening confusion and chances she was currently far from willing to take.

Making her way to the small cabin she had been allotted, she met Jack's eyes and nodded, carefully. He responded in kind, and with equal caution, dark eyes hooded, the voice that stirred a painful tightening in her chest silent. Nothing between them was now understood, and neither of them had attempted to cross the divide that existed since his rescue (if she could give it that name) and subsequent soul shaking events. She served as part of his crew, followed his orders, and bowed to the whims of his Pearl.

Elizabeth's days of physical labor and the slate of the sea were now a backdrop to her efforts to make sense of her new reality. Memories of all that had occurred since the day a hundred lifetimes ago when he had pulled her from the water were now shifting, coalescing into a diary rewritten. Elizabeth had been eighteen when she literally woke to her pirate fantasy; firmly ensconced in a world she believed would hold, would continue, would bend to her will. She had believed in the power of that world, and in her own power to rule in it. Elizabeth Swann had fallen from grace, and in that loss had found a cursed and costly freedom. In little more than a year, the dervish that was Jack Sparrow had shattered her world like a hurricane. She believed that she might hate him for it, and was more than a little certain, and wholly terrified, that she might love him for it more.

Elizabeth swore and jabbed her needle into the sailcloth. The light had gone, leaving her with the inadequate glow of a ship's lantern, and she was tired, tired with an ache that surpassed the strain in her muscles and the sting of a dozen small pinpricks in her hands. Her soul ached from indecision, guilt, frustration and loneliness - bone deep loneliness, born out of grief for Will, her father, her former self. She stared at the canvas holding traces of red, blood crimson, scarlet remembrance…

She stood with Tia Dalma on the deck of the Pearl, the Pearl as she had been, whole and proud, her captain's joy. They had plunged off the edge of the world, their ship miraculously coming to rest on an obsidian black sea. The surface met a silvered light filtering through a heaven in which no god lived, and the air was wrong, metallic, lifeless. Her companion had taken her hand, and somehow they were here, standing before accusing chains, where she had sent Jack to his own particular hell. "Pirate…"

"Call to him; only you can - call to him and he will answer." Elizabeth had cringed, denial in her heart, but the air had shimmered and she was blind, falling, falling, and then he was there, in her arms. Jack's body felt as whole as his ship, but when she opened her eyes the universe shifted and for one sickening moment she saw blood, so much blood, torn flesh, white bone, the evidence of her betrayal. Then, warmth and solid muscle, leather, linen, tangled hair and bronzed skin undamaged beneath her questing hands…Jack. But his eyes, God, his eyes-she could not endure that look of madness, terror, disbelief; so she kissed him, once and again. Kissed him to bring him back, bring him to her, erase her sin, give him life. Caressed him with lips and tongue and hands and her own sweet strength. Summoned him back with the force of her being, her…love? Was it love, then?

Jack struggled against her, stilled, then responded with the greed of one starved for contact, desperate for the touch of the living. He tasted of anger, long dead seas, want, and hope. When she opened her eyes again, they lay on the Pearl's deck, beneath her black sails and the eyes of all present. Tia Dalma's triumphant, Barbossa's knowing, the crew's wide in fearful amazement, Will's…in Will's eyes she saw a decision, finality, a foreshadowing of where his brave heart would eventually lead. Will…

A shadow fell across hers, and she started, faced Gibbs hovering in indecision above her. Gibbs had surprised her over these last weeks. She had known he possessed more of honor and compassion than would be expected of a pirate first mate, more, for that matter, than many "gentlemen" of her acquaintance. He had shown her so many small courtesies and kindnesses, in spite of the fact that she now believed he had an inkling of what might really have transpired on the day the kraken dragged the Pearl, and her captain, into the depths. She wasn't sure that his public stance on that matter - "Jack's honest streak finally won out" - had more to do with remaining true to the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow and his self-imposed role in perpetuating said legend than it did with any unearned compassion for her. She did know that she found comfort in his avuncular presence, and in his obvious affection for Jack, also something of a surprise. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the adventures, the tragedies, the sheer momentum of all they had shared, she had known so little of them all, these men, of herself…

"Miss Swann…"

"Elizabeth, please Mr. Gibbs."

"Elizabeth, yes, all right then," this followed by feet shuffling and eyes looking everywhere but at hers. "The captain, he be wanting to know, well, where ye'd like him to put in to port, as it were…"

"Port? Why would I have any say in that?"

"Well, he be wanting know, that is, where ye'd like to leave the ship."

"And he sent you to speak for him?"

"Well, aye, but…" more shuffling of feet, this time backing away, "but I told him ye'd want to speak for your own self."

Elizabeth was on her feet and heading toward the wheel before she tossed back a reply to an apprehensive Gibbs. "Speak for myself? I can do better than that."

"Aye, no doubt ye can" - but this in a whisper, with a smile her retreating back could not observe.

Elizabeth covered the distance to Jack in a few long strides. All thoughts of a deeper Jack Sparrow, an unknown Jack Sparrow, the man she had entered hell to save, had disappeared in a tide of rage that would have stunned her moments before - she had thought that wellspring of emotion drained dry. Her captain stood at the wheel, one elegant hand draped over and the other resting on his ("infernal!") compass. "Jack Sparrow!" she spat, eyes flashing and fists clenched, "how dare you threaten me by proxy!"

His eyes focused on her, as though surprised to find her in his presence. "Threaten ye, love? What threats are these? And by all means, allow me the chance to make them in person, by explaining the nature of these threats in detail, so that I can deliver 'em to ye with proper and fair service," he said in a velvet smirk, every evidence of his old snark and bite in full display, complete with sway and gestures.

"You sent Gibbs with orders to put me off the ship! You've barely spoken to me in days, you gave me to Sao Feng without so much as a second glance, and now you plan to abandon me in the next port knowing full well that I…that I…"

"Knowing full well ye have no place to go in this world?" his voice softer, eyes predatory and sharp.

Elizabeth felt the rage melting away, a flood of grief in its place. Summoning as much of her anger as she could, she hissed "Yes, no place to go, not since all I had is lost to you, your deals with the devil, your damnable…freedom!"

"Freedom, is it?" Jack's voice was a blade, cutting through the last of her defenses. "You were all free, Lizzie, free to make the choices you did. Will chose his destiny, love, at all costs, and I know it cut ye deep. Your father chose to barter his honor, because the dear gent thought it would buy yours, and your life, rest his soul. Norrington? He chose the devil with eyes wide open, opened by you, if I might say so, dearest Lizzie. And Sao Feng? You can believe it or not, again a choice, but I gave you to him to keep you out of what was to come, and out of that you were, at least until fate sent you back. And besides, I knew him; much too vain a pirate to take a woman who was not willing.

Elizabeth's eyes flashed but she held her tongue, and her doubt. He moved closer, his voice rough velvet, "I want to offer ye one final choice, but it must be yours alone, made because you can't make any other, savvy? Your choice to take what you want, and the shackles that pay for the having of it."

Elizabeth stared at him in disbelief; "Choice? What choice are you offering Jack, other than which port I'll be left behind in?"

Jack shifted, his eyes leaving her face for the first time. She caught a brief glimpse, before his kohled lids dropped, of the man she had begun to see, at a distance, living beneath the pirate trappings. "I'll leave the riddle then love, and map it clear, just this once. If you want to leave the ship, leave this life, I promise you I'll deliver you to England, wherever you see your life to be. I'll see you safe. A fair offer, for the woman who delivered me to the aforementioned devil."

Her face hard, voice steely, Elizabeth hid the pain building in her chest. "And is there another choice on this map of yours?"

"Aye, love, a second choice, and if you make it I'll need to know you chose from wanting, not from lack of a better course."

"You promised a clear map, Jack. What are you offering me?" His eyes found hers and she felt the universe shift yet again, for suddenly she saw, saw him, and he was all and more than she had believed him to be; she felt him, the way she had on the deck of his ship when she sent him to hell, the way she had when she claimed him back.

"Freedom, dear Lizzie; and shackles." He kissed her then, a third kiss and the first he had taken from her, tasting this time of desperation and promises, fear and desire. Then, he let her go, stepped back into the shadow of the wheel, faint starlight framing him ghostlike and uncertain.

Shaken and strangely numb, she turned but was called back by his voice, "Look, Lizzie, look up!" He laughed, the first time she could remember such a thing from him, a true and heart deep sound. "The heavens know how to stage a play, do they not?" She gazed up at the night sky, and the stars were falling, one by one, streaking across the heavens in a display of silent fire.

"What is it Jack?"

"The end of the first act, love."

--

3 It was Ragetti who provided further explanation of the phenomenon she had witnessed with Jack that night. Some of the crew had stumbled on deck to watch the event, ending her chances of any further cartographic instruction, and kisses, from Jack. The emaciated one-eyed pirate had offered the story from his strange collection of knowledge and philosophical deliberations which never ceased to bemuse Elizabeth.

"Once when I was a lad, had already turned a pirate by then, we came upon a British merchant ship in the North Atlantic, ye see. 'Twas at night, pitch black with no moon, and the stars began fallin' like rain just as we boarded 'er. One of the people we, eh, came upon as it were, told us it was sure to be a sign of the doom that would befall us. He told the story of St. Lawrence, one of them martyrs who died for the faith; he were tortured and killed in ancient Rome on the tenth day of August. Funny how they be so precise about dates and all, these churchly folk. 'Tis August now, I reckon, mid-month. Anyway, the story says that every year on the day of his death, the stars fall down like burnin' tears-the tears of St. Lawrence. Oh, and also I heard - from another gent of my, um, acquaintance who called hisself an as-tro-no-mer, that what they really be called by them what studies such things, as-tro-no-mers, that is, is meteors," finishing with a firm nod of his head, slightly out of breath.

"I like the tears of St. Lawrence better," sighed Elizabeth, feeling oddly at peace. The ache had left her body and spirit for the first time in days. She did not have the energy to question this, coming in the wake of Jack's offer. She did note, with some satisfaction, that the captain had certainly given her ample time to make a choice. The Pearl was currently weeks away from the point where Jack would have to ask her for a heading. She wondered if he was allowing time for his own peculiar brand of persuasion. She relaxed, seated with her back against the deck railing, the crew unusually quiet, sipping from a shared bottle and engrossed in the sky's display. Thoughts regarding what Jack's offer meant and where it could take her floated through her mind, resisting hold or close scrutiny.

What would it mean, to be a pirate's bride? Or, not a bride, not to Jack; to him, and now by her own measure, she too was a pirate. Although, based on her new and costly worldly wisdom, piracy existed in many walks of life, not just on the seas. What kind of life could they have? Their recent experiences had taught harsh lessons about the probable fate of those opposing law, order, and the commerce of those that now ruled the trade routes. Were there other seas for them, places yet open and free that would tempt a man like Jack? Would he be faithful, stay fierce for her, love her as she would demand to be loved?

Elizabeth's eyes drifted shut, then opened to meet Jack's, standing with Gibbs beside him . His gaze was watchful, assessing, but he allowed her a brief smile that reached his eyes. He lifted the bottle in his hand, drank, and raised it in a brief salute. Gibbs took note, flashing a wink when Jack turned back to the wheel. Long after, she would remember the paradoxical peace of that moment, Ragetti's story, and Jack's characteristically effortless appropriation of a saint's tears for use as his own dramatic punctuation. This was the night she would always remember as the night she admitted - to herself alone - that she might well be falling in love with Captain Jack Sparrow.

The next morning again brought heat, calm seas, and a favorable westward wind. The Pearl was making steady progress across the Indian Ocean, towards the African coast and the long circumnavigation required to enter the Atlantic. They had last made port in the Maldives, and would next reach the Seychelles, a week or more away, stopping to take on water and supplies. Word among the crew had reached Elizabeth; Jack was now on the hunt, pressured by the men and by an impending shortage of rum. His compass, it seemed, was working again.

Elizabeth whiled away an hour in the rigging pondering what, exactly, that meant for the state of things between them. Was it working because the needle was free to point to what he wanted, now that he might believe he had that which he had previously desired? Should she be angry at this, given that she had yet to make her choice, and certainly had not stated said choice to Jack? The choice itself remained elusive, in spite of her realization of the direction her heart had chosen. She was not a woman accustomed in her previous life to stepping off into the unknown. Pirate she was, and her actions in the orbit of Captain Jack Sparrow had proven her ability to draw blade and make Occam's choice, however ruthless. She was not yet ready to be proud of that, or sure enough of her wisdom to firmly opt for what promised to be a lifetime of such decisions at Jack's side.

Jack emerged from his cabin much earlier than had lately been his habit. He moved in an indirect, weaving line towards Elizabeth, stopping to peruse the crew's work and growl orders regarding his exacting standards for the care of his ship. Upon reaching her, he took up a stance leaning against the railing, giving her a leisurely head to toe appraisal.

"Tis time you began some proper instruction in the art of sailin', love; I have the necessary instruments and adjuncts in my cabin, therefore schooling will commence there forthwith," this offered with a lazy wave and a mocking approximation of a gentleman's bow.

"Your cabin? And just what might this 'instruction' entail?" she asked suspiciously.

"Cartography, navigation, geometry-all above board and proper, and this, my dear, is on captain's orders, not his request."

There was enough of sober intent in Jack's eyes, and enough of the leer she discovered she had missed over the last weeks, that Elizabeth followed him without further comment. Once in the cool and cluttered space that was his domain, Jack began to arrange various objects and instruments on the chart table. Elizabeth allowed her gaze to wander over those of his possessions that were visible. Candles on every surface, jars containing unknown substances, numerous large and small chests, the razor talon of a large bird of prey, what looked to be a large collection of maps rolled and stored in baskets and urns, and books; dozens of them, some in French, Spanish, Latin, and what appeared to be Greek although her own education had not extended to that ancient language. She tucked this last rather surprising discovery into her cache of newfound insight into his character and murky history. Jack, it seemed, was an educated man.

"Take a seat. We begin lesson one in cartography." Elizabeth took the chair beside him, and Jack leaned closer, taking up what she recognized as a compass of the sort used in map-making. "What do you know of the principles of geometry, love?" he asked.

"I was well tutored in Port Royal, Jack; however, it was difficult to influence my tutor to take me much further than basic sums, as he held firm beliefs about what was appropriate for a girl of my station to know," she admitted.

"And you were unable to persuade him? I find that hard to believe, love," he said with what appeared to be the utmost sincerity.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with their heads together over parchment. Elizabeth found herself becoming engrossed in his tutelage, while not a little distracted by the chance to watch his long, elegant fingers holding quill, brush, and compass to create finely detailed examples of course charting. The warmth of Jack's body, the occasional brush across her bare forearm of braids and beads brought to sharp focus the lust she had fought since…when? When did that begin, precisely? She had desperately yearned to join Will in their lost marriage bed, and had been able to appreciate Norrington's finely masculine features in spite of never seriously considering him as a suitor. However, in spite of her conflicted feelings about him, Jack had a physical presence and sensual pull unlike any man she had known

When Jack finally corked the ink bottle and stated his intention of taking over the helm, she asked him why he had chosen her as apprentice to what was commonly a captain's skill. He paused, his body stilled in a way that caused a stir of unease in her own, and met her eyes with something in his that she did not recognize. "Someone needs to know it, someone must be able to plot a course, lead the crew."

"Lead the crew? What are you speaking of, Jack? You're the Pearl's captain, why teach me?"

"I have, shall we say, a long history of living moment to moment, dearest; it hasn't always had what one could call the optimum result. Let's just say for once in me cursed life I'm thinking ahead, looking to the next longitude, so to speak."

"Jack, you promised to leave the riddle," she said as her sense of unease grew.

"I suppose death gives a man a new perspective, love, a tendency to hedge one's bets a trifle more thoroughly," softening his words with a gentle cupping of her cheek.

"What do you know, Jack? What is it you…see?"

"Everything, and nothing at all Lizzie, save what is right in front of me; I simply want you to be well prepared for the seas ahead, equal to any man and any event, whatever sea you choose," this with a grin that flashed gold, then he was gone.

Elizabeth retired early to her narrow cot that night. She had every intention of using the relative peace of her tiny cabin to reflect on her newly acquired knowledge of the conundrum that was Captain Jack Sparrow, and his somewhat disquieting motives for her new course of instruction. Instead, she found her mind (and body) returning with determination to the memory of that third kiss before the Pearl's wheel; to her desire for him that now resonated with something more, something deeper, something dangerous yet strangely sure, combining into a new and puzzling whole. What she had felt for Will had been real, she never doubted that. It was love born of childhood friendship and shared history that she treasured still. What she now felt for Jack was born in a darker place, the place where her childhood had ended. She had killed him, and out of that sacrifice they had both been reborn.

Restless, and with sleep eluding her, Elizabeth allowed herself comfort from her own soft hands. They ghosted over her body with a sweet friction she had discovered on a long ago summer's night, in the safety of an innocent's bed in the house of her father. When she brought herself to that familiar peak, sailed over, took flight, it was Jack's name she whispered to the sea.

Her dreams that night, when they came, were not of Jack but of Will, her father, that final night at the edge of the world. She again watched her father's eyes as the awareness of death reached them. Watched him smile at her with loving resignation, a silent blessing and farewell, and disappear into the eerie mist. She saw Will, his handsome, beloved faced turning to her as he stepped onto the deck of the Flying Dutchman. His gaze held resolution and a strange peace, as the sea change washed over him. Not the grotesque distortion created by Davy Jones' bitterness, but a sea-dream transformation that limned his features in silver and mirrored his own true heart. Elizabeth knew in that moment that Will would be a captain of the afterlife who offered redemption, rest, to the sea's weary captives. His choice to command the Dutchman was born of love rather than hate.

When she woke, it was with a sense that the piercing knife of grief had dulled, leaving in its place a tender healing ache. She could think of Will, her father, her former life, with both regret for what was lost and joy in what had been. She stepped on deck with a new resolve, quite sure of her heading. Elizabeth Swann the woman wanted some answers not framed in enigmas. She thought she might have some excellent ideas regarding how to begin deconstructing the mystery that was Captain Jack Sparrow.

--

4

The Pearl had overtaken a British square-rigged merchant carrier sailing under the flag of the Royal Africa Company two days out from the Seychelles. Her crew fired a few half-hearted shots in resistance, but she was quickly overwhelmed by the Pearl's superior weaponry and speed. Elizabeth boarded as Jack barked orders to the members of his crew relieving the ship's hold of her cargo, while swaying from barrel to chest inspecting their contents with obvious delight in spoils so easily won. Gunpowder, rum, bolts of silk, and luxuries intended for the new French plantations of Mahé were rapidly transferred to the Pearl's own hold under the dejected nose of the carrier's captain.

Busy examining the contents of an elaborately carved chest containing French milled soap, exquisite bolts of handmade lace, and a lovely silver-backed set of brushes and combs, Elizabeth glanced up to see him descending below decks. Curious, she followed down the rough steps, pushing past the Pearl's crew and weaving through the labyrinth of crew's quarters and galley. She found him at last in the deepest part of the hold, staring into a dark, foul smelling space.

"What is this, Jack? It smells of…human waste, of blood."

"This? This…is another circle of hell, Lizzie." He turned to her then, and she recognized the coldness in his eyes. She had seen it before, on a tiny island, when she had naively demanded truth and he had pulled back his sleeves to reveal pain, scars, her first glimpse of the man behind the legend. "A slave hold, dearest, a floating stable, if you will, used to transport human grist for the mill of the civilized world; 'tis what pays the cost of all the lovelies being carried off this ship."

She had followed him back to the dazzle of sunlight, subdued, the day's brief joy gone. Elizabeth knew that the slave trade had played a role in Jack's conversion from young merchant captain to pirate; had seen the brand on his forearm, knew of the humiliating and savage toll he had exacted from Beckett in return. She also knew of the role slavery had played in her former life of aristocratic privilege. Reconciling that with her own identity and her memories of her father and their Port Royal circle of friends was a struggle she recognized would not attain resolution this day, if ever. Working in a companionable and necessary silence with Cotton to stow the last of the goods, she turned her thoughts to a different quandary.

Her cartography instruction with Jack had progressed, as had her crusade to acquire further knowledge of his character and history. This had not, however, gone according to plan. What she thought had been delicate efforts at subterfuge had resulted in an intriguing mosaic. She was building an image of a man caught between enchanting legend and harsh, passionate reality. Her illusion of subtlety had been dismissed with some amusement on his part during their last lesson. She had, very casually, hinted that he might be familiar with a certain English locale. This insight was based on certain traces in his speech that could be heard at random intervals, such as when he waxed lyric in recounting bits of his own history. He had turned to her following a discrete brushing of her unbound tresses across his cheek meant to distract him from her purpose. His mouth was a satin tease, disquietingly close to her own.

"If you want information, love, dates, facts, names of lovers and the deceased, battles won and husband's cuckolded, all you need do is ask. Not that I want you to cease your current very pleasant methods of interrogation, mind you." He brushed her hair gently back from her face, fingers ghosting her skin. "Just want you to acknowledge that I am, in nearly all instances, an honest man. This due of course to being a lazy one; lying requires a great deal of energy and concentration. Truly, no one ever expects the truth from a pirate, thus making it a highly effective means of disarming one's opponents."

"Do you consider me an opponent, Jack?" She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, off balance and intensely aware of the sensual quickening this produced, her heart's rapid beat and the warm air of his cabin scented with sandalwood, spice, him.

"Finest I've ever had, love," his mouth closer now, breath soft on her face, "but I must confess to a certain readiness to end our swordplay, expedience in my book being a virtue second only to honesty. Again, lazy, and to state the obvious, pirate. You've not spoken of my offer since I made it." His dark eyes held warmth and humor, but she saw a sharp apprehension lurking behind.

Honesty. Well. She had to admit the truth of his self assessment, as well as the ease with which he read her heart. Was that a product of Captain Jack Sparrow's celebrated cunning, or a touch of the faerie handed down through his Black Irish heritage? She had met his father, and suspected the latter was closer to the truth. Truth. So be it.

"I need to make this choice as a woman, Jack; not in grief, or lust, or impulse, not as the girl I was. If I love you, I need to know what that means, who I'll be in that. I've lost my father, Will, everything that anchored me in the world. You saved me from drowning once, and this...this cannot be another rescue. I betrayed you, to save us, to save myself, to stop…"

"Lust? Never underrate lust, dearest, 'tis one of the finer wines. And ye know I hold no grudge for what you did, love. It was a choice you made for me that a better man would not have left to you. A choice that led you to bring me back from hell, fight for me, define yourself. I've had dozens of women and maybe thought I loved one or two, but I never dreamt to find a woman could match me point to point, could hold me black heart like you do. I'm not a patient man, but I am a persistent one; it took me a fair decade to win back the Pearl."

"And you did it with your own strength, Jack, with what was real in you. Let me find my strength, my truth, and I'll make my choice." She found her strength to be ebbing fast; he was too close, his voice too soft.

"Fair enough, but let me tell you the truth of love, what life and death have taught me of it. Love is woven of chains, chains that bind you to your lover's fate. Love makes you bare your throat to God's sword and your chest to the Devil's. At the whim of either one, a false move in the rigging, a lucky blade, childbed, those chains will drag you under with the one who owns your heart. I'm a coward, dearest, you know the truth of that, but death showed me what the afterlife can be if you've never risked those chains. Endless, empty, no voices, just the rattle of regret and hollow freedom."

In candlelight, his eyes for once open to his soul, his want, he took her breath away; pagan philosopher, captain and predator all lived behind those eyes. She had touched the sweet pulse at the base of his throat, felt his lifeblood at her fingertips, and fled his cabin before all strength left her. The intensity of engaging in an honest verbal dance with Captain Jack Sparrow had reduced her to cinders and ash, and at the moment she was too shattered to rise for a second waltz.

Elizabeth had fallen into her bed the night after they divested the British vessel of her cargo too exhausted for immediate sleep. She had left the crew, and Jack, celebrating on deck. He had slipped back into swagger and feline grace on leaving the emptied carrier in the wake of the Pearl. She could hear his voice above the others, roaring out a ditty that made her blush in spite of months of exposure to pirate lyricism. Her thoughts returned to what she had learned of Jack Sparrow, and herself, since reaching world's end and living to sail towards a new horizon.

A terrible fight, their final stand against the Chinese pirates. She had found a tide of savagery rising in her that submerged all else. The last man she faced had driven her back towards the Pearl's stern; she sensed another behind her too late to do more than sidestep a hand's breath. His blade skittered a burning trail across her ribs, and then she felt a body meld to hers, back to back, lean, quick, familiar. Jack's movements paired with her own, giving her strength, and she buried her blade in her opponent's throat with a vicious cry of triumph. Behind, she felt Jack stagger. Turning blind, she deflected a killing blow inches from his heart and their blades simultaneously drove the second pirate to the deck.

They stood panting, both bleeding, both with the animal alchemy that battle calls forth pounding in their veins. Jack's eyes held something dark she could not read. He turned to survey the aftermath with a scarlet flow dripping from the slender fingers of his left hand, leaving a trail on the boards beneath boots red with someone else's lifeblood. Many of the Pearl's crew lay dead or dying, draped in cruel, clumsy posture across her decks. Among them, young Andrew, who had shared Elizabeth's thrill at flying high in the rigging. Marty, his child's body flung carelessly beneath the mainmast. Pintel, whom she had never come to trust, ragged lion's head cradled in Ragetti's arms. His keening wail pierced her heart and dissipated her bloodlust to the wind.

She had refused to have her wound seen to until Jack was finally willing to go to his cabin, his crew at rest. Those whose rest was final were wrapped in black sailcloth with surprising gentleness by the surviving crew, and sent into the sea's embrace. Gibbs, a chest of bandages and medical paraphernalia in his hands, led the way. Jack had waved Gibbs aside, gesturing towards her. He had begun methodically swallowing the contents of a half-full bottle of rum, seated in the shadows of nightfall on his bed. She had taken a chair at the charting table, watching him, while Gibbs deferentially lifted her shirt, cleaned the shallow but lengthy incision over her ribs, and applied clean linen bandages. When he finished he moved towards Jack who stopped him with an arcing wave of his near empty bottle.

"Want her to do it. Lizzie. Needs stitching. She's a fair hand with a needle, seen her work on the sails. Better handiwork than yours, Gibbs, no offense."

Gibbs had looked between the two of them and handed over the chest and a clean bowl of water without a word. Elizabeth found she could not summon a protest, and she moved to the bed, setting down the chest and hanging a lantern beside it. She helped him remove his vest, the red stained linen beneath it, and froze. Jack's latest injury, a deep gaping slice through the tattoo over his heart, was woven into a tapestry of scars. She had seen the bullet holes, the brand, and the twisted tissue of his left forearm. What she had not seen was the spider's web of long healed lashes across his back, the white lightning bolt of what must have been a near fatal wound descending across his ribs and finely muscled abdomen into the line of silken black hair that trailed into his breeches. And others, many others, that read like heiroglyphs of pain. She inhaled deeply and began to bathe the wound, Jack's dark eyes fixed on her face.

With the needle threaded and a measure of rum applied against infection (he had hissed at that, clenched his jaw, then nodded), she steeled herself, willed his bronzed skin to appear as a section of his ship's black sail. Her skill held true as she placed each stitch; the blade had not reached muscle and the bleeding had nearly stopped. Glancing up as she neared the wound's center, she was nearly undone by meeting his eyes. Lids lowered, half in shadow as he lay prone, she could not mistake the arousal that triumphed over pain. Felt it as well; he was hard against the forearm steadying her as she reached for more thread. She had heard of such things, whispered, of taking pleasure in pain. She could not have predicted the echoing thrill that surged through her own treacherous body. She hadn't moved away.

Jack had finished his bottle while she applied bandages, telling her a convoluted tale of a Chinese explorer named Cheng Ho, whom he claimed was "a eunuch, tragic really, could have sired a brilliant crew of brigands, that one." She left him sleeping, with a new confusion in her heart.

She recalled other images and dialogue between them, as she lay restless in her bed. The Pearl's nightsong of gently creaking timbers and whispered contact with the water had failed, for once, to send her to sleep. Jack, smiling, had revealed bits and pieces of his history to her that she had no choice but to believe were truth. At least, truth as it lived in his tangled internal labyrinth of experience mingled with self devised legend.

"My mother was English, born of minor nobility fallen on hard times." He had produced a miniature framed in delicate gold, wrapped in oilcloth and hidden in a cubby concealed behind his cabin's elaborate woodcarvings. It glowed in the lamplight, the luminous portrait of a young woman with Jack's fine eyes and high cheekbones. "Her family disowned her when she eloped. Me father, well, you know what path he chose. He was an Irishman, hence the disowning, a merchant captain, turned to piracy and left me behind when she died in childbirth. Her uncle took me in, something of a dilettante he was, it was rumored with the young lads as well as the ladies. But, he saw to my education and showed me none of that. He died when I was twelve; had nowhere to go and his money went elsewhere, so I was apprenticed to a local cartographer, local being in London. Went to sea at sixteen, never stood long on land since."

An oddly peaceful evening spent in the quiet of his cabin, both absorbed in exploration of a chest full of fine leather bound volumes, newly published and meant for a wealthy man's shelves. Books that had found their way instead into the hands of two pirates, seated side by side at an oak table, in a midnight black ship, sailing through moonlight on the waters of the Indian Ocean. She had stolen glances at him, his exotic face draped with a dark curtain of braids, intent as he perused a collection of Donne's verse. Beautiful, she found him beautiful, and dangerous with it; yet this night she could sit by his side as companion with the same trust and strange calm she felt beside him in battle.

His revelations had unsettled her, time and again, in spite of what she'd now seen. "'Twas the first time I learned of what a man can use another man's body for, during long nights at sea. Wasn't gentle, but I was willing enough, and I've visited those shores again from time to time. Surprised, love? Shocked? Thinking me less of a man? Let me assure you there's no affection in it, not for me, though there is for some. 'Tis more the brutality, I confess, the sheer animal sensation of taking in another man's power. We'll leave it then; can see you need some time to find a place for that story."

"I ordered them dead, slit throats with my own hand, burned their ship into the water. What we saw in that hold has no rightful human place in this world."

"Thought I was in love, with that one. Gypsy dark, with a face like a pixie. When I came back to port, she'd gone; left with a man who could give her what I couldn't."

"It isn't the finding of a thing, of treasure, that fires my blood, makes me hard; it's the chasing of it, the hunt, that first touch of it; the fire dies soon after." This last may have been the worst, though she was then loathe to admit it. What did that mean for her, her heart, after, should she choose to go to him?

Now, this night, she believed that fear had been answered, as much of an answer as could be found. Her doubt of herself had also somehow found rest, slipped into place and completed the puzzle, as far as it could ever be complete. Elizabeth fell under the spell of the Pearl's murmured enchantment, of his, and she slept without dreams.

--

5

The day that followed Elizabeth's leap of faith, her rebirth as the woman who had chosen to align her fate with that of Captain Jack Sparrow's, began as something of an anticlimax. Jack had sauntered on deck that morning in obvious high spirits and informed the crew that they would drop anchor at La Digue, an uninhabited granite isle northeast of the French occupied Mahé and to the east of the larger island of Praslin. Jack stated his confidence that by anchoring the Pearl on La Digue's north shore, they could avoid contact with any stray vessels in the area. The men would be allowed a full day of well earned rest, extra rations of rum, and the chance to gather fresh fruit and to hunt the island's plentiful small game to supplement their steady diet of fish and ship's biscuit.

"Beautiful place it is, lads," he elaborated, "diamond white beaches, waterfalls that dance like the loveliest of Spanish whores, huge pink boulders spread across the beachfront like a willing woman's thighs, flocks of birds the colors of child's candy. But beware-there are crocodiles in the estuaries bigger than longboats, giant land tortoises that can snap a man's arm with one bite (but they make a lovely soup), and a vile little beast, half cat, half dog, that will sneak in and snatch a man's tongue as he snores on the sand." This last was offered with an apologetic glance at Cotton, the whole speech delivered with Jack's customary repertoire of languid gesture and an earnest sincerity which defied skepticism.

Not that there were many skeptics among this crew, Elizabeth mused; not with regards to their captain. With the exception of Ragetti, Cotton, and Gibbs, and a handful of taciturn crewmen from Singapore, those remaining had been recruited to sail to world's end from the encampment in Tia Dalma's murky Caribbean sanctuary. Refugees of the African slave trade, some the direct beneficiaries of Jack's own passionate hatred of human bondage, they were intensely loyal to him. Kalé, an immense and quietly competent Angolan, had been the one to carry Jack to the main cabin from where he lay semiconscious on the deck of their rescue ship following his return from the dead. He had ignored Barbossa's protests with a majestic glance of contempt, and her own attempt to cling to Jack with a slow shake of his head. Gently extricating the captain's limp body from her guilty embrace, Kalé cradled him like a child, crooned to him in his native tongue, and bore him away from her. She had felt his eyes on her many times since, tracking her actions and responses to Jack with care, using some internal magic of his own to calculate her worth and intentions. Now, she thought she saw understanding and a new warmth in Kalé's dark eyes, as if he somehow detected her choice.

The rest of the men had also come to a casual acceptance of her, not just as someone holding a unique position with their captain, though as yet undefined, but as a crew member and equal. This, she reflected, was remarkable, given the typical place of women in the world. She had mentioned it to Jack, during an evening's complicated cartographic exercise involving plotting a course around Africa's cape.

"They aren't from our world, are they, at least not from yours; for some African tribes, though not all, women hold more power than men-the power to bring life itself. Asian seas have seen female pirates for centuries, more savage than the male version in some cases. Before the Roman church took pains to destroy them, there were whole religions, cultures, based on goddesses, feminine strengths and mysticism. Besides, pirates are by necessity of a pragmatic nature. I'm their captain, and not one who believes in the lash-they're loyal to me and to the Pearl; they see what you are to me, and thus extend their loyalty to you."

Somewhat miffed at his apparent dismissal of the weight her own strengths carried in the crew's estimation, she decided to push him on that. Slyly, using the excuse of pressing the question to press closer to the warmth of his shoulder, she asked, "And what, exactly, am I to you, Jack?"

He had turned to her then with disconcerting sobriety, his eyes challenging, and answered. "Everything, and nothing that is mine." This time, he was the one to walk away.

~

They dropped anchor before sunset that night, needing full daylight to avoid running afoul of the treacherous coral reefs surrounding La Digue. Cotton prepared the usual evening meal of boiled fish, adding a fruit stew made from the last of the stores from the Maldives and a healthy dose of cinnamon he found among the spices pilfered from the English carrier. Jack had eaten on deck with Elizabeth and the crew, all of them watching the sun's display of magenta and fire as it sank into the sea. Jack had regaled them with Greek legend and Egyptian theology on the origins of the sun and stars, cloaking what she knew to be scholarly knowledge in his usual Falstaffian performance.

She knew this was part of his cunning, his shield, but also knew that no small part of his outward persona was based on his sheer joy and delight in the eccentricities and vagaries of the world he lived in, the path he chose. This was a facet of him that she loved. She loved him. The ease with which that thought crossed her mind startled her. In all her careful maneuverings and questioning, all of her history with him, where had that begun? Lust and admiration had been instantaneous, she could now admit, that day on Port Royal's dock when he had saved her, manhandled her as a means to his own salvation. But love, how had that built on a foundation of confused loyalties, constant danger, even mutual treachery? Being partner to a man like Captain Jack Sparrow would mean no end to their figurative swordplay, but she found she thrilled to the thought, accepted it, found it necessary as air.

As the sky darkened and the first stars appeared, Jack had nodded towards the foredeck. "Come on then; something I've neglected in our lessons, and this is a good night for it-clear skies, all the glories easily visible."

"Glories?" Elizabeth followed, curious. Hesitant, as well, as this was her first opportunity of the day to be alone with him. Having focused all her energies for weeks on the intricacies of verbal dancing with him, on reaching a new understanding of herself, and on making a life altering decision, she realized she had neglected to consider how to approach disclosing her choice. Neglected, also, to consider the subsequent consequences of such a discussion. Given Jack's propensity for expediency, those consequences were sure to be swift in coming. She took a deep breath, and followed him forward.

He made a brief stop in his cabin, emerging with his spyglass in one hand and a dusty bottle of unfamiliar shape in the other. Gibbs was at the wheel, but the rest of the crew had retired early below decks in anticipation of making an early start to the day ashore. Jack led the way, halting at the railing and waving both bottle and telescope at the night sky. "Constellations!" this with a grand, proprietary sweep. "Every competent navigator must have a firm understanding of the star's positions; can't think how I've been so remiss in your instruction." The Milky Way soared over their heads, a brilliant swathe of light, the moon a perfect glowing crescent. Jack opened the bottle, drank deep, and passed it to her. It contained a rather fine French brandy that burned foreign sunlight down her throat and the taste of a long-ago afternoon onto her tongue. He handed her the spyglass and began pointing out various groupings, tracing the outlines with his elegant artist's fingers, providing names and his own eccentric versions of their stories and origins.

"Orion, the largest; the hunter, with a bow and sword; the dingles between his legs are supposed to be his scabbard, though I've always been inclined to think of him as otherwise generously endowed; Draco, the dragon, breather of fire and lightning on a stormy night at sea; below it is Hercules, the hero and an outcast of the gods, born on the wrong side of the blanket, as it were; to his left, Lyra, see, the three strings; and your own symbol, love, Cygnus, the Swan, just there, her wings forever outspread in flight, as is fitting." He turned and smiled at her, sculpted features limned in silver-blue moonlight, dark eyes and full mouth teasing. "Below and to her left, that's Andromeda; she was a princess of Ethiopia, doomed to be a chained sacrifice for a sea beast because her mother's pride offended the gods. The mother is seated above, Cassiopeia, the vain bitch herself. And there, to the left, Perseus, the winged warrior; he swept down and rescued Andromeda by slaying the monster, although the silly chit was too coy to speak up and tell him what was coming; left him to his own devices and deductions." This time his grin flared with a demand and a challenge, and he closed the distance between them until the railing was hard at her back and his lean body pressed against her own. A whisper, soft as the night air across her lips. "Tell me, Lizzie darling, tell me now, speak up; you've had the feel all day of a woman who finally knows her mind."

And here it was, the culmination of the dance, the last act of a play begun in another lifetime, on another sea. Trust Jack to see through her so effortlessly. Words, usually so quick to serve her whim, words had left her, fleeing before her tongue could capture them, leaving her frustrated and mute as the hapless bound princess reclining in the night tapestry of stars. His eyes searching hers, his hands now tracing the outline of her face, her throat, he offered no rescue, only further distraction. "Stop, Jack, stop now."

He froze, stepped back, his features hard, and the look in his pain darkened eyes broke the chains holding her capacity for speech; she reached out for him then. "No, Jack, yes, I mean yes, yes to your offer, to freedom, chains, everything. I want to stay with you, be with you, now. Now, Jack."

Whatever chains had maintained his own uncharacteristic restraint during their days of cautious circling broke with the speed and finality she had expected of him. Their retreat to his cabin was something she could remember afterwards only in flashes of sensation and starlight. Deep kisses broken only by their need to make further progress, the feel of his skin as she slid a hand beneath his shirt, sharp pain she ignored as her back at last collided with the door handles. His mouth was molten honey, tasting of an alien sea, his tongue a wondrous revelation. Their final stumbling fall to his bed, the welcome weight of his body covering hers, her surprising discovery that the hair beneath his rough, ornamented braids had the feel of sun-warmed silk. Somehow his complicated layers of clothing, leather, and buckles found their way to the floor; she remembered laughing, gasping at her first uninhibited exploration of a man's body, his body, and the mysteries it promised.

He rose above her, pulled her into his arms, breathing endearments and obscenities as he made her own clothes slip miraculously away. "Lizbeth, god, want you, want to take you apart, make you come undone, come for me, cry for me." His hands trailed fire over her skin, called forth fire from within. He shifted her head from his shoulder, held her body arched against him, lowered his lips to her breast as he stroked inside her. The wet heat of his mouth, the velvet of his tongue, combined to release an arrow of rapture that shot to the ecstasy his fingers were creating between her thighs, and she shattered, cried out for him as he'd promised, slipping into the depths of an uncharted sea. His voice again took up the narrative of her fall, the words lost, leaving a sound like caressing rain in their wake.

She felt him at her entrance before she could surface, felt the shock of their first contact skin to skin, reached and circled with questing fingers, touched hard desire sheathed in satin that slipped back beneath her touch. Felt the play of muscles across his scarred back shaking with the effort at control, and then he was inside her before she could draw breath. A brilliant pain flared, died to embers, rekindled, building to a pleasure different from what he had given her before, deeper and more intimate. He began to move, his voice unceasing and soft at her ear, telling her of the wonders of her body and of what it did to him to be in her, to be lost in her, to be hers. And she came undone as he'd promised, fell apart, came together again around him, her body clenching his of its own accord, pulling him in like the tide. He drove himself into her, his body tightening under her hands, and at the last withdrew, moaning his loss and completion, spending heat across her belly.

Thought coalesced slowly, when her body could spare energy from the retrieval of her physical senses. It had been more, much more, than she had dreamed it would be, an intensity of body and spirit, his and hers together, that created something savage and fierce and new. Would it have been like this with any other man, if fate had not brought her to Jack? She already believed that this was impossible, and a question she never wanted answered. This knowledge filled her with piercing joy and fear combined, feelings she did not yet know how to share with him. She needed new words, a new language, a new courage to do that.

They lay tangled in linen and each other, panting until breath returned. He moved to her side, gathered her in his arms, kissed her, his narrative for the moment stilled. "Jack, what you did, when you…finished," she asked when speech was possible, trailing her fingers through the still warm liquid he'd left on her skin, "will that keep me from getting with child?" So many questions still, so much between them as yet unsaid.

"Aye, that's the hope, at least; but dearest, there are dozens of other ways to take our pleasure without that worry. I plan to instruct you in every one, thoroughly, slowly, with frequent reviews and evaluations of competence, and of course daily drills." He raised her hand to his wicked mouth, drew each finger inside its liquid heat, tonguing them clean with a cat's lazy insolence.

Smiling, she raised the hand he did not hold captive to his face; the cabin's only light came from the moon shining through the windows behind his bed, but what she could see of his features took her breath once more. No man had the right to look as he did at that moment, so wildly beautiful, radiating satisfaction and a sensuality that threatened to drown her.

"Are you all right, love? Any pain?" His voice and the hand that caressed her face in return were gentle, but she could see the passion building again in his eyes, midnight black in the scarce light, causing her body to thrill and resonate in response.

"No, no pain; I believe I may be ready for another lesson in cartography, Captain; further instruction in…charting. What happens, for instance, when my hand ventures, here, at just this speed?" She slipped her fingers between his legs, cupping this new and fascinating territory. His answer, in the form of tutorial guidance offered through clenched teeth, and later reciprocal mapping of her own body, saw them well into the night. They slept at last, rocked by the Pearl in the rhythm of her endless lovemaking with the sea.

--

6

She woke to the sounds of the crew on deck, disoriented until memory came flooding back. Her body held a lingering exhaustion, unfamiliar aches and pleasures mingling into a new awareness. The source of this change stirred beside her, and she gazed for the first time at Jack Sparrow abed in morning light. His ever present bandana had been lost sometime in the night. Without its frame his features were altered, soft in sleep, revealing more of the man than his pirate trappings usually allowed. The skin of his forehead was smooth, paler than the bronzed planes below. She reached out and stroked a finger over a white scar bisecting his right eyebrow, marveling at lashes long and thick as a child's. He opened his eyes then, smiling into hers, and reached for her.

"Morning, Lizzie," pulling her down to kiss her, hands already roving beneath the sheets. "Sore, love?"

Trust Jack to go directly from sleep to action. "Well, yes, a little, but…"

"No fear, pet, La Digue holds the perfect cure, and I will introduce you to it shortly. What say we go forth to meet the day, and postpone further delights until this afternoon."

"That long?" she said wryly. He released her with a final slow kiss, and left the bed to search the floor for his scattered clothing. Standing in the early sunlight, his body patterned with secrets and history, he pulled her again into fascination. Tattoos and scars she had felt but not yet seen were visible, shifting across the lean muscle beneath his golden skin. She had left marks of her own, during the night's passion; faint red moons from her nails layered over the crueler marks left by the lash. Across his chest, the shadows remaining of her own needlework crossed the still healing red scar that cut through the name of a woman from his past. She made note to ask him about her one day soon; whoever she had been, she had mattered enough that he had caused her to be committed to his flesh, a sobering thought for a new love. She rose herself, more self-conscious in her nakedness than Jack; he paused in fastening his breeches to trace her body with soft, hooded eyes.

"Beautiful, Lizzie, so beautiful; wish I could see you in the rigging like that, flying free, above the world."

"Now that would give the crew something to sing about after dinner; a new shanty for the ages, Naked Wench Amongst the Sails," she laughed, blushing and swatting at him with her own breeches. He caught her close, kissing her forehead and stroking back the tangled mass of her hair.

"Best get dressed, love, before I act on piratical impulse and ravage you again."

"The ravaging was mutual, as you well know, and may I remind you that this naked wench is also a pirate, thanks to you." She slipped the breeches over her hips and began to search for her boots.

"No, me lass, I take no credit for that; you were born a pirate." His smile flashed gold as he settled his hat and with a last smoldering look exited the cabin, leaving his coat and vest behind. She was left to wonder what the crew would make of their union. She was sure they knew of it by now, given that Gibbs must have witnessed their passionate headlong rush from the foredeck the night before. Even if he chose to remain silent on the matter, the Pearl offered a very small stage when it came to that sort of drama. Her new philosophy and confidence intact, she pulled on her boots and strode on deck – the crew would do with it what they would, and she would give no quarter to a challenge.

The air was warm crystal that day, affording a sharp edged view of the island's shore. White ermine beaches circled an emerald robe of lush vegetation that covered the shoulders of sloping hills, rising to a centered mountain peak. Even at this distance, La Digue seemed vibrant with the mysterious life as yet hidden from her view. It was as lovely as Jack had described it to be. They were seated in a longboat with Kalé at the oars, muscles rippling under skin the color of strong Darjeeling tea. He had nodded at her, glanced from her to his captain, and offered the wonder of an almost imperceptible smile. Jack had produced a large sailcloth bag at the last moment, stowing it under the seat without comment. He had pulled her down to sit beside him, draping a casual arm across her shoulders. This effectively answered any questions of her own about what his demeanor towards her would now be like in the men's presence. His stance did not flaunt their new intimacy, but neither did it conceal his joy in it, which she could feel singing to her own with every sea swell.

They drew the boat ashore onto the sparkling beach, where Cotton and his parrot where supervising construction of a large fire. The bird squawked its indignation at the flocks of black parrots gathered in the trees at the forest's edge; they answered with a single, mocking voice. Their mute chef had brought a huge black pot from the galley which awaited the crew's efforts at hunting and gathering. Jack strode about barking orders and dispensing appropriate weaponry, offering suggestions as to which creatures and island fruits would make the best additions to their diet. "Stay away from the inland rivers, mind, keep to the smaller streams; those crocs I told you about once made a meal of my first mate, right before my eyes, and a bloody mess that was. Best find one of the smaller tortoises and bring it back to Cotton for his pot; he makes a soup better than you'd find in France itself. Stay away from their jaw end and you'll be alright -roll 'em over with your swords and go for the underbelly."

The men dispersed quickly, and Jack called her over to conference with Gibbs regarding their next port of call, the large island of Madagascar to the south. Before reaching harbor, Jack wanted a complete inventory and sorting of their plunder. He gave Gibbs the names of the crewmen he trusted to complete it, asking for her consult in this with a natural ease that brought her a frisson of pride. "We'll dispose of the cargo in Toamasina's marketplace; not another like it in the world, love, anything a man or woman could want you'll find there. Silks, spice, medicines, rum, wines, the finest weapons, the most gloriously expert whores," this with a leer and a warm hand stroking her back beyond Gibb's vision. She trod lightly on his foot, pondering the question of where the appetites of a man like Jack could lead her as his lover. She was still naïve enough to have little reference for this, but was not surprised to find that her newfound philosophy might extend to adventure in this quarter as well. That, she decided, was best set aside to contemplate another day; this day promised enough to suffice unto itself.

Their discussion complete, Gibbs went off with Ragetti in search of game, and Jack announced his intention of showing her the "cure" he had spoken of earlier. "A short stroll up the beach, and then into the forest, love; there's a miraculous place, a little Eden, always wanted to share it with a willing lass," his lips a self satisfied smirk, belied by the fire in his eyes. She followed him, the sand dusting their boots with diamonds, the island's perfume of wedded azure sea and jade land scenting the shimmering air.

They left the beach to follow a small stream that swirled through a green mass of trees, bush and vine so thick it would have been impossible to walk elsewhere. Flocks of birds with blue-black wings and ivory bellies gleaming in the green filtered light chattered in an exotic avian tongue over their heads. In the dim of the undergrowth she glimpsed flowers of impossible color, their satin petals shades of violet, cerulean and lemon yellow she had not seen even in the Caribbean.

She watched Jack's form moving with lithe, loose-hipped grace before her, appearing as comfortable in this wild habitat as he did on the deck of his ship. Her body was awake to the prospect of further sensual adventure with his, heat already beginning to center and build. Her mind, however, thoughts triggered by their discussion of a hunt and the treasures of Madagascar's bazaar, turned to a conversation over candlelit parchment in his cabin. "It isn't the finding of a thing, of treasure, that fires my blood, makes me hard; it's the chasing of it, the hunt, that first touch of it; the fire dies soon after." He had given her other words, later, words about the nature of love and chains and death that gave her cause to think she was not the kind of treasure he would tire of. But, she was young enough, and more than enough in love, to want the lingering doubt answered.

They reached a place where the forest began its rise to the mountain's crest, the birthplace of the stream they followed. A waterfall spilled down the verdant swell, catching and reflecting the sun's light in a rainbow prism of color. A deep, small pool formed where it met the island's foundation of smoky mauve granite, here worn smooth by centuries of the water's caress. Jack pulled her close, mouth and tongue seeking her neck beneath her hair. "The cure, love, for any damage I've done; strip yourself down and wade in; the water's warm and will wash away the ache. Want to take you in it, feel it around us, make you melt into it."

"You can never damage me, Jack; I'll not allow it;" a fierce whisper in his ear. He pulled back, tilting his head and searching her face, amusement and a trace of genuine hurt in his eyes.

"What's this then, love; doubting me already? You know what I am, better than anyone, but I've promised you truth and you shall have it. Out with it, ask your question, what's troubling you?" He didn't release her, but stilled, waiting her response.

"I do know what you are, Jack, what I am as well, and I came to you with eyes open; what I don't know yet is what we are together. I don't expect or want an answer to that, it's what we'll discover together, make together, and it will be what it is." She caught her lip with her teeth, feeling foolish and frustratingly unsure, not a match to her newfound character at all. "It's just, you said to me once that treasure, finding it, pursuing it, was what mattered for you; once you had it, possessed it, the fire left you…"

"And you think I'll tire of you? The flame in my heart will die, I won't burn and harden at the mere sight of you? Lizzie, my love, you are not anything I could tame; I could never own you and would never want it; you'll always dance just out of my grasp and I'd have it no other way. I've spent the last weeks trying to show you who are, how glorious that is, what you can be, with me or without me. I'm a pirate, as are you, not a man for promises, not a good man, but I can't look to a future without you in it; I'll hunt you, fight for you, with all the viciousness and cunning I possess, for the rest of my life-wherever that takes us."

The universe shifted, yet again, as she suspected it would continue to do for her, with him. Again, she saw him, felt him, knew the essence of him, knew he now lived in her soul. She kissed him, his satin mouth tasting of truth, want, and the mist of their future. They shed clothing, entered the water, as warm and healing as he'd promised. When neither could withstand the pull of slow, liquid exploration any longer, he was inside her again, letting the water carry her weight as he moved her over him. Their hair floated and intertwined on its surface, over their shoulders, his collection of charms and memories of a life now linked with hers reflecting the waterfall's refracted light. After, they laughed at the multicolored gathering of birds settled in the branches overhead, bearing curious witness to strange creatures engaged in acts as old as time.

The sack he had brought turned out to contain fresh clothing for them both, soap and the comb and silver-backed brush taken from the pillaged English ship. She knew that Jack did bathe on occasion, more often than she had suspected when not in pursuit of cursed mutineers or being pursued by death itself. She had even found that he possessed more than one shirt and pair of breeches, although all were bleached and faded into more or less the same state of wear. They slid the soap over each other's skin, laughing with new arousal; he made an attempt to pull the comb through her hair until she snatched it away, wincing at his efforts. He showed more stoicism, allowing her to pull through the tangle beneath his braids until it was more or less free of knots, clean and twining around her fingers like silk thread.

Clothed again, they returned to the beach under a late afternoon sky's golden clarity. Jack pulled her away from the direction of the crew's encampment, saying he had one more "glory" to show her. They rounded a curve in the shoreline, where the granite wind sculpted boulders now glowed almost purple in the changing light, forming a barrier holding land from sea. Elizabeth caught her breath; here, the rocks strewn on the sand had been placed with intent, shaped into something born of human thought. Towering columns that seemed held together by the wind alone rose up to the sky, centered on a grouping of flat stones, smoothed by hands long dead, that could only be alters. What gods did these belong to, and who had worshipped them? Jack shook his head in response to her questioning glance. "Don't know how this came to be, love, or when; no sign anywhere that this island was ever home to anyone. Do you feel it? The power it holds?" His dark eyes were quiet, grave, holding something that created an ache in her heart.

She did feel it, a strange magic, an echo of what she had held within her on the Pearl's deck at the world's edge, demanding his release from hell, calling him into her arms. She answered by taking his hand, drawing him to the sun-warmed stones, pulling him down. She took him there, once and again, her body pleading with his to never leave, never wander, never die, swearing to follow should he go. He moved beneath her, hands guiding her hips, filling her with strength and fire. "Hold, love, can't finish this way, let me over;" reluctantly she released him, mourned the separation, cried his name as he entered her again with her back to the mystic stone. He spilled this time beside her, pouring libations to long forgotten gods, his voice a hoarse whisper, pledging forever and tomorrow.

They returned at sunset to a roaring fire, the crew well on their way to rum fueled contentment. Dressed fowl and other unidentifiable carcasses hung ready for a return to Cotton's galley. As promised, the pot was filled with something Gibbs pronounced as "heaven in a bowl," a large and empty tortoise shell visible nearby in the sand. Jack snagged a full bottle and they ate near the fire's blaze, watching the stars return as the sky turned to an ebony sea.

"Where will we go, Jack? After Madagascar, the Cape, when we reach the Atlantic?" Elizabeth was sated, well fed and well loved into a state of melting contentment; her words were musing rather than anxious.

"Aye, that's the question, isn't it, love; no ports we're likely to find without a waiting gallows, for both of us. Beckett's untimely demise alone isn't likely to change that. We've plenty of time to ponder it though."

Lazily tracing his jeweled fingers splayed in the moonlit sand, she recalled a rumor heard long ago at her father's side. "I've been told there's a new order forming in the colonies, in America; talk of disloyalty to the Crown, a possibility of revolution. Maybe…maybe we could find a place in it; piracy might mix well with rebellion, don't you think?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, considering her face and her statement with equal intensity and interest. "Aye, now there's my pirate lass; knew you'd be my match for cunning, darling; might best me at ruthless taking of the opportune chance, at that." He raised the bottle, drank, passed it to her, catching her fingers to kiss before relinquishing it, under Gibb's open look of approval. "To us all, and to the Pearl." The men rumbled agreement, hoisting rum to the heavens and drinking deep.

"To our beginning," Elizabeth murmured. Life would come for her, for them, moment by moment; fate would decide what it brought. She rested her head against a legend's chest, under a blazing night sky reflected in the sea's feral depths, serene against all odds.

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