YE OF LITTLE FAITH

Author: squaredancer
Rating: R
Pairing: You/Jack
Categories: Action/Adventure, Romance

Disclaimer: I would say that, yes, Johnny Depp and every single film and/or show he’s been in are the property of myself but that would result in a not so pleasant visit from multiple men in black suits carrying briefcases. Perhaps if we all banded together and formed a Johnny Depp army, we could take on the scavenous dogs? No? Okay. *pout*

Summary: One must remember to keep one’s wits about them in all situations - so, when you’re faced with the insufferable, albeit somewhat charming, Jack Sparrow, intent on getting back the trinket that had been stolen from him, why do your wits insist on being anywhere except with you? Things only go from bad to worse when an old rival surfaces, old wounds are torn asunder, and a certain Pirate Captain finds it appropriate to be extremely inappropriate.

Author's Note:

* * * * *

CHAPTER 1

You did think it somewhat odd that the dull ache in your head that usually occurred after a particularly severe night of booze was particularly heightened. The place on which you slept swayed violently, sending you sprawling on to your side and effectively making your head give a weighty throb of protest. Everything seemed to be slightly blunted, any noises made being muffled as if your ears were stuffed with cotton wool. Likewise, it was becoming increasingly evident that you had very little feeling in any of your extremities, your legs like dead weights.

Experimenting slightly as you tried to come to terms with this arrangement, you timidly lifted up one finger and subsequently let it drop again, knowing it must have made a small thudding noise but not hearing it. Two fingers this time, with a considerable force behind the thud and still you heard nothing. You frowned, and then hissed instantly in shock. The left side of your face was erupting in a fire of molten pain, echoed by the loving caress of sure migraine.

Just what had happened last night?

You breathed in deeply, experimentally even, and made a quick mental check of your well being. No toes, ribs, leg or arm bones broken you ascertained, moving each and every limb carefully to make sure. No nausea to speak of and it appeared that the only discomfort you had was the gyrating pain on the left side of your face and the echoing dull thud of a headache that threatened to become worse sometime soon.

Somewhat reluctantly your eyes fluttered open to face the cold of damp wood. You could have sworn you had staggered to your bed in the hired room at the inn the previous night. Perhaps you had fallen off at some point? You grimaced wryly. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if you had. You’d had more than your fair share of ale the previous night, even daring to try some of the alehouse owner’s special concoction: a mixture of mead, sherry, rum and pure nectar. He said that if the first sip didn’t kill you, you’d be fair fine come morning. You sure as hell didn’t feel fine.

You slowly raised your head from the floor, grimacing terribly at the complaint your cheek and temple made as you did so. You’d obviously fallen off the bed head first. Then an unfamiliar sound reached your muffled ears and you tensed instantly, eyes wide and alert. Deciding surprise could only be your best defence in the event of an intruder, you went about the task of attempting to get up without further aggravating the pain.

“Morning, love,” came a deeply melodic voice from behind you, and you turned around painfully, finding yourself facing a rather scruffy looking pirate. His kohl-rimmed eyes looked you over with something akin to virulence, and his body language screamed defensive. You smirked wryly. Why should he be defensive when he was the one standing in your… room.

You looked about only to find that this wasn’t, in fact, your cosy little room at the inn where you stayed regularly. It wasn’t even a room! You were standing in a damn brig, behind closed bars!

It was no surprise you were numb, you thought acerbically. The wind was blowing a gale outside of the ship, and whistling in through every little cranny it could find. In addition to that, there was a constant feeling of being sprayed with sea water, not to mention your clothes were damp and clammy.

Your temporary abode was both bare and plain. It was little more than a brig, fittingly, and you wondered if maybe the worst thing about cells was the fact that they left anyone locked in them bored silly. There were a few odd crates lying about on the other side of the bars, but other than that there was little more than a short wooden bench presumably for sleeping on, and a desk and chair outside the cells, perhaps for guarding. Charming, really.

Your gaze flickered back to the man standing on the other side of the bars and you scowled. What was going on?

“Who are you, then?” you demanded, taking in the somewhat peculiarly dressed man. His hair was long and dreadlocked, not uncommon for sailors seeing as it was simply easier to deal with, held back from his face with a grubby red bandanna that had probably seen better days and topped off with a tri-cornered leather hat. His dreadlocks were skewed with beads and an assortment of other little trinkets, as was his goatee, spilt into two little plaits.

A light blue sash adorned his waist, along with other assorted effects including a pistol and cutlass you noted somewhat wryly. Overall, as first impressions went, you couldn’t help but think that maybe the plaits in the goatee suggested he was a few drops short of a rum bottle. But then one could never judge a book by its cover - and if you were still anywhere near Tortuga, where you had been before you’d woken up in this pathetic excuse of lodging, then you could hardly be surprised by his state of dress. One encountered all sorts in Tortuga, naturally.

“I could ask you much the same question, pet, but seeing as I’m a busy man I’ll not play with words.” He leaned forward and gestured gaily with his hands. “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl, savvy?”

You blinked.

The dull throbbing in your head suddenly came back with a vengeance, reminding you of its existence as you tried to take in this new information. That man standing right there glaring at you, was in fact, Jack bloody Sparrow.

“You’re fair famous in these parts,” you replied somewhat dryly, not missing the smug smile that flashed on his face, gone almost as fast as it had arrived. You were also well aware of the fact that you weren’t even positive which ‘parts’ you were in.

“Aye, but rather more infamous I’d imagine.”

You made a non-commital noise and continued to watch the Captain with guarded eyes. Assuming that this man was who he claimed to be, you had a fair sinking suspicion that perhaps you might actually be situated aboard the Black Pearl, ship of the damned. Ship of the damned your Aunt Fanny, you thought brutishly. Those sorts of bullshit stories were for the likes of teenagers, not full grown adults.

“You goin’ to tell me your name then, love?” he inquired patiently, swaying to the side and gesturing towards you. Apparently he didn’t have much of a stomach for alcoholic substances.

“I’ll tell you my name the minute you inform me as to why I’m standing in a bloody brig with a head full of nails,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring menacingly. This is not at all how you expected the morning after to be like. You had better things to do than deal with patronising Captains and damned vessels.

The Captain laughed a humorless laugh and flounced around to the other side of your cell, stopping as he noticed a small hole in the hull. Muttering something about woodrot and incapable deck-hands, he straightened up and looked over to you.

“You don’t remember none of last night then, eh?”

Your brow rose incredulously. “What about last night?” You huffed indignantly as the Captain’s brow rose to match the height of your own, and then his features took a suggestive turn.

“Shame, love,” he told you, his voicing lowering considerably. “Twas a night to remember, surely.” His eyebrows waggled evocatively and you barely managed to stop yourself from launching at the bars and showing him exactly how much you knew he was lying.

“You lewd bloody scallywag!” you admonished, your eyes dancing with an intense rage. “Let me out of this cage this instant, you useless sea-dog!”

“I’ll not be having any of that talk aboard me Pearl, you hear?” the Captain ordered, though he seemed slightly amused. “And it’s Captain Jack Sparrow to you, savvy?”

“Or what?” you demanded, stalking up top the bars and sneering rudely. "You’d have me walk the plank? Show me the way, then, you won’t have me struggling.”

The Captain’s face remained unchanged and stoic, only his eyes belied his annoyance with you. You had the fleeting suspicion that he could hide that from you also, should he care to bother.

“No, you’ll not be walking the plank just yet,” he told you, his face remaining still and dull. “But you will be staying here in the mean time,” he finished, baring his teeth at you, the gold glinting in the light from the hatch above.

You barely had time to take in what he’d said before he’d disappeared, leaving you with only the silence of the brig to utter your complete and unequivocal consternation at. For mutiny’s sake, you had no idea what you’d even done to deserve this fate! And your face smarted something terrible to boot.

* * * *

After hours of deliberation, you had come to the conclusion that someone had hit you on the side of the head with something. Something heavy, large and blunt, in fact. Why someone would bother to do that when you’d no doubt been in bed sleeping like a log was beyond you, however. What you wouldn’t give for a bottle of mead at this moment in time…

Having nothing else to do after failing terribly at trying to sleep, you took off your scuffed and muddy black boots, deciding that if you really must walk the plank you’d prefer to do it with refinement. You snorted to yourself. You, refined. Yeah right. You carried on regardless, amazed at how your boots were actually shiny underneath all the muck - and all it took was a little spit! Miraculous stuff, really.

Hearing the tell tale signs of someone making their way down into the prison hold, you hastily pulled your half-cleaned boot back onto your foot and feigned sleep. The footsteps came closer, paused, continued on and then stopped again, right in front of your cell, you suspected.

“I know yer awake, lass. Ain’t no point in pretending otherwise.”

You cracked open an eye, taking in the sight of the slightly chubby man standing before you, face covered in fierce grey whiskers. You grimaced. Someone else to come taunt you and not tell you what on earth was going on. One didn’t just wake up locked in a cell on one of the most talked about boats on the Spanish Main for no reason at all. Either that or someone had an extremely cruel sense of humour.

“What do you want?” you demanded, getting up. “Come to feed me to the sharks for shining my boots?”

The man looked puzzled for a second, and then shot a quick glance down at your comically half shined boot. “What ye be shining yer boots fer?”

You scowled and he dropped the question.

“No, lass, there’ll be no sharks bein’ fed this night.”

Small consolation, you thought wryly. You think you’d rather take your chance with the sharks than stay aboard a damned ship with a lewd Captain who held you there for little more than snoring, no doubt. And judging by the size and swell of the waves that the Black Pearl swayed with, they weren’t that far off shore, neither. Perhaps even only a few hundred feet or so.

If you were lucky, you might be able to get to shore before they realised the sharks hadn’t the slightest chance? You doubted it. Somehow you knew that Sparrow had a little more sense than that. Though if he locked up innocent women for no apparent reason… Well, okay, perhaps not innocent, exactly.

“What d’you want then? You haven’t put me out of my way enough yet, perhaps?”

The man huffed quietly. “The Captain be wantin’ a word with ye, and ye’ll not be sayin’ no, ye hear?” He pulled out a large ring of keys from somewhere and proceeded to unlock your cell door. When you didn’t come towards the entrance he stomped in warily, grabbed you by your upper arm and practically dragged you out of there, all the while muttering no doubt slanderous things about you and women in general. Before you regained reliable footing, you were already ascending the stairs and away from the dank cell you had stayed in for no more than a few conscious hours.

Up on the deck of the ship, your breath hitched in your throat as you looked up above at the flapping and thundering midnight-black sails, ominous in their severe beauty. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you admitted that the Black Pearl was quite possibly one of the most striking vessels you’d ever laid eyes on, let alone set foot on.

You ignored the murderous glares being sent your way by numerous crew members, more than puzzled by their strange reaction to your presence on the deck. The sudden hostile change in atmosphere was enough to tell you that these were not nice pirates.

The chubby man paused not at all as he practically hauled you to the other side of the boat and to a set of double doors. He stopped there and rapped a few times before calling out, “The prisoner’s here, Cap’n,” and throwing open the doors. You were shoved inside and the doors were slammed behind you.

It took a few moments for your eyes to adjust to the violent change in light. Outside it had been almost blindingly bright in contrast to the dimly lit brig, and in here it was different again, small black candles casting a wavering shadow over everything.

“Please, take a seat,” came the low voice of the Captain as he bowed and flourished his hands at one of the chairs littered about the room in an exaggerated manner. You scowled, annoyed, and instead took your time examining the room.

The ship was well looked after, you noticed, and the floors and walls were almost excruciatingly clean. Pictures that adorned the walls were somewhat odd in subject, mostly still life’s, you noticed. You cocked an eyebrow at the many pictures of bottles of rum, glasses of wine and punnels of apples. Apple of his eye indeed.

Moving your gaze over more towards the Captain, you watched the fire burn in the grate beside the enormous mahogany table littered with bits of paper and empty rum bottles. Again your eyebrow quirked up as you took notice of just how many rum bottles there were. There must have been a good thirty empty bottles either on the table or rolling about on the floor, following the sway of the boat.

“I’d rather stand,” you answer, a few moments later as you kicked away the rum bottle that had rolled into your freshly half-cleaned boot. “I’m not particularly in the mood to exchange pleasantries. If you were to tell me why you’re keeping me here, however…”

“I’ll not believe for a second you don’t know why you’re here, love,” the Captain answered nonchalantly, taking a swig of rum and then slamming the bottle onto his desk.

“We’ll see how much you believe when I shove a bloody poker up your arse, eh Captain?” you snap, feigning a move towards the fire poker swaying gently on its hook and knowing full well you’d never make it anyway.

The Captain darted towards the poker and picked it up tentatively, turning back and placing it gently beside his desk. “Perhaps not the best plan, pet,” he placated, fingering the hilt of his cutlass in warning. “You’ve a rather pretty face - it’d be a shame if I had to rearrange it for you.”

You scowled. “Perhaps you’d better let me have a go with you then, seeing as yours needs a fair bit of work, like.”

Your scowl only deepened as the Captain chuckled, apparently amused and in no way threatened by you.

“I’ve had no complaints thus far, though I will keep your offer in mind should the need ever arise. But no one rearranges Captain Jack Sparrow’s face without his permission, savvy?”

You shrugged and made a pointed face that clearly said ‘your loss’, before turning and sitting on the large, overstuffed chair behind you.

“Go on then,” you encouraged, gesturing at Sparrow. “Tell me why you think you’ve got a right to keep me here.”

“Aye,” Sparrow said, twisting one of his little chin plaits in his fingers in thought. “If you want to play it stupid, then I suppose I’ll play along a little while,” he smirked, taking a seat at the other end of the table. “Though I doubt very much you don’t remember a thing.”

You scowled darkly at the man, and nodded sharply at him to carry on.

“Twas sometime round ten last night, savvy? My crew were mostly all piss drunk and had taken their leave of me, much to my delight. Left me in some… pleasurable company, shall we say?” He winked conspiringly at you before carrying on. “Why, me Scarlett and I were sitting there minding our own business,” he said, pausing to send you a withering look as you snorted loudly in disbelief, “when whom should happen along but a young lass with hair as loud as a bloody shotgun.”

You winced. There was only one person in Tortuga whom people would describe in that manner, you were sure: Tyra. Theresa was her name, really, but the Tyra came from her long standing nickname of Tyrannical Theresa. Named just so, you thought. And her hair certainly wasn’t something one would ever forget, the most extreme and flaming colour of red one would ever expect to see. Only it wasn’t just red at that. It contained hues of gold, black and even extreme white. You remember the first time you ever met Tyra, and it hurt your eyes to simply look at her.

“There you go, see? You know who I’m on about.” You schooled your expression to mirror indifference quickly, not wanting to give anything else away.

“Aye,” you admitted. “I know who you speak of.”

“Well, few words were said, hostilities exchanged and the next thing I know Scarlett’s run off in a huff, I’ve got a bloody sweltering sore on me cheek from where she slapped me and that little devil-haired wench had run off… with something very important to me.”

You stared at the Captain, somewhat at a loss as to what to say. You shook your head slightly, and then asked, “And so what, exactly, does this have to do with you lockin’ me up in a bloody cell on your damned boat?”

Sparrow smiled wryly. “A companion of yours.”

Your head snapped up to look at the pirate, suspicion tensing every muscle in your body. “What are you implying, Sparrow?”

“Captain Sparrow,” he corrected. “And you know exactly what it is I’m implying. Partners in crime, cohorts, in cahoots with each other, that’s what!”

You sprang from your chair and sent it flying behind you, livid anger flexing and unflexing your hand. “How - dare - you!” you cry, picking up a rum bottle from the table and throwing it over your head, Sparrow ducking just in time as the bottle smashed against the wall behind.

You may not be innocent, or even entirely honest, but you were honorable! Well… to an extent. Okay, not really, but there were lines people simply didn’t cross with you! You had bigger and better things to do with your time, things with bigger rewards and a much better lifestyle, and those things were not funded by petty pick pocketing.

“You locked me up on your bloody ship because you think I stole a bloody trinket?” you screamed, searching around for another bottle to throw at the vile man and coming up with plenty. Bottles smashed one after the other as Sparrow darted about the room, avoiding your aggression and seeming to get extremely agitated in the process.

Peeking out from behind his desk after the momentary pause of missile projection, Sparrow scowled hatefully. “Throw one more bottle at me, wench, and you’ll regret it.”

“That right, Sparrow?”

“You bet your bottom rum bottle it--”

Sparrow stopped mid-sentence in order to avoid the bottle sent careening towards his face. He emerged moments after it shattered on the other side of the desk and stalked over towards you intently, dodging anything you threw his way. Apparently he’d meant it.

Picking up a final bottle before he reached you, you smashed the end against the edge of the table in hopes of giving yourself a weapon with which to hold the vile man back. Unfortunately for you, the bottles were shoddily made and the entire thing splintered and fell away from your hand, slitting your finger as it went and making you hiss quietly in pain. Moments later Sparrow had you pinned against the wall, your head thumping painfully as it hit and evoking an even more spiteful ache than earlier. Apparently concussion was looking good on the cards for you this week.

“I did warn you, lass,” he growled, his hand wrapped around your throat slightly tighter than you were comfortable with. “Now then. You tell me where I can find this friend of yours and I’ll let you go… relatively scot-free. It’s imperative that I get back what she took from me, savvy?”

“Even if I did know where she was, I’d not tell you,” you spat at him, and then attempted to kick him in the shin.

Sparrow hissed painfully as your boot connected with his ankle; unfortunately he wasn’t thrown and simply pushed up against you, pinning you to the wall more firmly.

“Sure there’s nothing that can change yer mind, love?” Sparrow asked, a glint shining in his eye that you didn’t particularly care for. Davy Jones as your witness, you swore, if he so much as tried anything even remotely dodgy, you’d have his balls wrenched off before he could say ‘mutiny’. Smarmy sea dog.

“In your dreams, you wretched scurvy!” You attempted to kick Sparrow again out of spite, sickened by his suggestive tone and more than disgusted by the way he had you pinned against the wall. You had sworn never to let someone make the better of you again after the last time, but it seemed it had only taken you a few weeks to do just that.

“I still fail to see why it is that I’m the one you threw in the brig,” you croaked as Sparrow’s fingers tightened convulsively around your throat. Not quite hard enough to bruise, you hoped. “After all, it was Tyra who stole your little trinket, no?”

Sparrow’s eyes flashed dangerously at you, a mere few inches from your own. He pushed himself away from you, face dark in irritation. “Twas no little trinket, I can assure you. Though you should know that well enough by now.”

“Why’s that then?” you snapped, the seemingly constant scowl adorning your face only furrowing deeper. “I had nothing to do with any of this! I don’t even remember seeing you last night, let alone getting out of bed while I was piss drunk to harass some scallywag and his whore!”

Sparrow quirked an eyebrow at you. “A likely story, pet. You sure held yer own well for someone who claims to be nought but innocent, and piss drunk at that.”

You frown, puzzled. What was Sparrow on about, holding your own? It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was dafter than you had originally thought. “I’m thinking you may be a few rum bottles short of a crate, Sparrow,” you told him, confused.

This made the Captain frown. “I can assure you that my stores of rum are more than sufficient, and I’ve a lot more crates of it than I would care to count. Except when I do, you understand.”

“No, can’t really say I do.”

“Oh, and it’s Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?”

“Look Sparrow,” you began with a martyred sigh. “You’ve got the wrong woman - I went straight back to my room last night, I was fair drunk after the concoction the alehouse owner had me try. I had nothin’ to do with your bloody trinket and nor do I know where you can find Tyra.”

Sparrow advanced upon you again, this time mindful of your wandering boots. He stopped a few inches away from where you stood, his deep brown orbs looking unsettlingly straight into yours. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Sparrow pull his jacket to the side.

You diverted your full attention to his hands as he began to pull at his shirt, drawing it up to around about his rib cage and pointing abruptly at his torso where a large angry looking gash had been very recently stitched up.

“Straight to bed with you, eh love?” he sniped before pulling his shirt back down and swiftly grabbing your wrist, gripping it tightly in his hand. He squeezed maliciously and you could almost feel the blood circulation cutting off.

“I should have your hand chopped for what you did,” he told you almost lovingly. “But I’m a forgiving man… You get me back my trinket and I’ll spare your hand, savvy?”

You stared at the man wide eyed. “You… you’re not…” you stammered, flustered and breathless. He was implying several things at once and you weren’t quite sure you followed. If what you had guessed he was trying to say was right, firstly you had not been in bed last night. Secondly, you’d attacked him and caused that nasty looking gash right up his side - bad enough to need a needle and thread, even! And thirdly, you’d stolen something of his and if he didn’t get it back you’d lose any use of your right hand… your sword hand. Your writing hand. Your hand that wasn’t completely useless!

Only one thing came to your mind in this particular situation. “I didn’t bloody do it!” you cried, trying to pry your wrist from Sparrow’s unrelenting grasp. “I wasn’t out of bed, I could barely walk let alone successfully pickpocket you and gut you like a bloody fish!”

“Aye,” Sparrow admitted, “you were a fair bit floozy, and I certainly hope I never have to admit to being whipped by naught more than a drunken lass, but you were definitely up, and your cutlass was doing a lot of the work for you.”

“You’re lying!” you hissed back, kicking air violently in hopes of catching Sparrow off guard again. If what he said was true, which it couldn’t be, then you must have been so drunk that you didn’t remember a thing. And you’d never been that drunk before!

“Captain Jack Sparrow doesn’t lie,” he whispered pleasantly against your ear as you struggled to free yourself. You were almost convinced to stop and catch your senses by the underlying anger you heard in his voice, but if he found out you truly didn’t know anything about what had been stolen he’d likely lop your hand off anyway.

You struggled with the Captain a few minutes longer, even though you knew full well that he was both stronger and heavier than you were. When you were finally out of breath and too tired to carry on, Sparrow relented his grip on you slightly, convinced you were no longer much of a threat.

“You won’t admit to it then?”

“Course not!” you snapped meekly. “I’ll not be taking the blame for somebody else’s mistake.”

“Mistake is right,” Sparrow breathed acerbically and narrowed his eyes at you. “If you must be stubborn then,” he commented as he reached to his belt for his cutlass.

You knew very well what he intended to do. He was going to unsheathe his cutlass, if not to make good on his earlier threat, then to try and scare you into admitting. Considering you had nothing to admit, you figured that you may as well take your chances - what did you have to lose other than a hand, right?

Using Sparrow’s momentary shift in concentration, you threw your elbow up and heard the satisfying crunch as it connected with Sparrow’s jaw. A strange noise erupted from his throat, a mixture of both surprise and pain as he staggered backward clutching at his chin.

Not wasting the chance fate - or your elbow - had thrown at you, you dived to the other side of the room, behind the desk, and frantically searched for something to protect yourself with. There was nothing but the heavy gilt-framed chair.

Sparrow recovered quickly, probably not too happy about being whipped again by you, something for which you allowed a secret smug little smirk to emerge. He advanced on you warily, and you suddenly decided that there was little to lose in throwing caution to the wind altogether. You picked up the chair.

Originally you had intended on throwing it at the advancing Captain, however you got a better idea as you realized that would never work. He’d probably dodge it. And even if he didn’t, how far could you get before either Sparrow himself recovered or one of his crew came in?

No, there was really only one thing for it.

You flung the chair as hard as you could at the paneled window behind you, shocking Sparrow. He had been waiting for a chair to come flying at him but instead only saw the bottom of his favourite chair disappearing in a shatter of glass, you following close behind.

* * * * *

Lucky for you, you had cleared the chair when you fell into the water far below. And even luckier, it seemed, you weren’t as far from the shore as you had originally suspected. You turned your head to look up at the window you had just flung yourself from and saw an extremely unpleased Pirate Captain watching you.

As you watched, another crewmember drew up beside him and pointed down at you. At this, Sparrow took off his hat and jacket before bending down presumably to remove his boots.

Shit! you thought and quickly stopped treading water in a leisurely manner, proceeding to swim as fast as you could towards the shore. Not even the splash of someone diving from a height slowed you down; actually, it sped you up.

You’d be damned if you were going to get a taste of being free from the Pearl’s presence only to be dragged back aboard and have your hand lopped off.

Panting heavily as you dragged yourself up the sandy beach and into the welcome shade of the underbrush, you heard the sounds of someone splashing through shallow water. You afforded yourself a quick glance behind you at Sparrow’s distance and a small panicked squeak escaped as you realized just how close he was. He was obviously a much better swimmer than you were, even if he was wounded.

Luckily for you, however, you were skilled at sprinting through heavy underbrush, a common occurrence on the somewhat wild island of Tortuga. If it wasn’t wild pubs, wild brawls and wild people, then it was wild bush. You didn’t think you’d ever been so happy to be in the presence of something so wild before.

You shot over treacherous tree roots sticking up from the ground and your boots managed to tread well on the somewhat iffy gravel and mud. Large trees and bushes sped past your vision and you ignored intently the constant stings of whipping vines on your face and neck. And yet you still weren’t losing the Captain. It seemed he was intent on catching you - to try and get his trinket back or to lop your hand off, you weren’t exactly sure. Probably both, after your little break out. This really just wasn’t your week… Actually, it wasn’t even your month!

Suddenly hearing an annoyed grunt and the tell tale sound of loud rustling leaves, you ascertained that Sparrow had lost his footing, giving you a slight lead. Being experienced in the ‘chase’ and ‘being chased’ area, you knew that Sparrow would not be far behind and that there was little chance of outrunning him, regardless of his fall. Practically your only chance of avoiding him was to hide.

So you did just that.

A deeply hollowed out tree root caught your eye as you cleared a particularly large brook, and you wasted no time in propelling yourself forward, down and hidden only moments before you heard Sparrow go flying past. Again, time was the factor here, and when he realized that you were no longer running he would be doubling back to find you.

Poking your head over the hollowed root, you spotted a tree nearby that looked climbable. Darting out, you wasted no time in running over there and frantically scrabbling up its wide berth. Climbing as high as you possibly could, scraping your hands and no doubt tearing holes in your pants on the coarse bark, you teetered precariously on a thin branch towards the top of the large tree.

You could see only a small portion of the ground through a gap in the leaves, and even that was barely visible. Should Sparrow choose to climb the biggest, most easily-climbable tree in the entire underbrush, you’d be basically trapped. And so you had to depend almost entirely on your hearing to ascertain whether the pirate was going to climb your tree or not.

A minute passed, and then another, and then a few more before you finally heard the crunching of leaves under foot. You had to strain your lungs to quell the need for oxygen after your laborious stint up the tree, and held your fist over your mouth hard. Despite the strange wheezing sound emitting from the gaps in your fisted hand as you tried to draw air as quietly and slowly as you could, you could hear the crunch of leaves and gravel circle the area a few times quickly. Some strange rustling noises as you assumed Sparrow checked a few shrubs, before you heard an angry curse erupt from below.

“You’ll not get away that easily next time, wench!”

The crunching footsteps faded and then there was nothing.

You waited almost a minute more before pulling your fist from your mouth and allowing yourself to catch your breath. Your lungs felt as if they’d been dragged through a field of cactus, or pine needles, or rats traps, or something with maximum pain and minimum relief. You clutched your hand to your chest as the breaths came hitched and slowly, wincing as you felt your windpipe contract from the earlier effort.

Cursing yourself for not having any St. John’s Wart with you to help alleviate your hindered breathing, you settled against the trunk of the tree. Straightening your back and legs, you worked on controlling the irregular breathing patterns and the air filling your lungs, hoping to heavens that the attack would cease before you blacked out from lack of oxygen.

Deciding it would be in your own best interest to remain in the tree for while longer almost an hour later, you made yourself a bit more comfortable, crossing your ankles and arms. You weren’t entirely convinced that Sparrow would give up that easily, and should he jump out of a large Mulberry bush, you didn’t think your lungs would with hold for very long at all. Nope, there was only one thing for it, and people were always telling you that sleep is the best kind of healer, right?

* * *

It was the hooting of an owl that woke you up some time later and much to your chagrin you found that night had descended upon your little hiding place. It would be so much harder to know if you were being stalked in the dark. You were hardly up for another stint with that Sparrow fellow, contemptible creature.

Sighing resignedly, you proceeded to cautiously make your way back down to the ground, remembering to pause every now and then to check for any out of place sounds that could be detrimental to your health and/or well being.

Finally deciding that you were quite clear of another rendezvous with pirates from aboard the Black Pearl, you dropped to the ground with a thud and went about your business, being careful not to trip over and incapacitate yourself. All you needed was a space in the foliage to see the stars and get your bearing. You knew this island almost inside out - you just needed to establish in which direction to walk.

Finding your bearing, you determined that north-east was the direction you needed to take, and did so with a little bit of a skip in your step, though not enough to set off another attack. So much for Captain Jack Sparrow being infallible, you thought. Why he could barely handle the likes of you - not that there were many people the likes of you running about at any rate. You smirked. Who said only men could have egos?

However, some hours later your step was thoroughly and irrevocably skipped out. You’d been walking for at least three hours. Having stopped after hearing the breaking of a small twig, you’d lost your direction and been too cocky to check on your bearings again, ending up going the complete wrong way. Realizing your mistake, you had had to backtrack and almost double the time to get back to civilization.

Well, perhaps not civilization, you thought wryly as you finally cleared the last of the shrub and emerged to look over the city of Tortuga. From this vantage point almost everything you could see was alive. A writhing, cussing, drunken mass of bloody noses and rum-bearing sailors.

Well, at least it was better than that brig. Or that insufferable Captain.

After a particularly long day, you really needed some mead. Deciding to steer clear of the Goat-Beard Tavern for a little while, you slunk into the first one you could find, fingering your pouch with enough cash to buy you one pint, grateful that Sparrow wasn’t, at least, a petty thief.

The owner of the Rat’s Scrotum Alehouse looked you over with some curiosity before getting your pint of mead. He slammed it onto the bar, making it slosh from the sides of the tankard. You were entirely too pleased to care, however. Mead was your drink of choice any day. Why, you weren’t entirely sure you’d ever even had a drink of water in your life - there was always mead handy. And lacking mead, you’d take rum.

Ignoring the leering looks of some of the men in the place, you grabbed hold of your tankard and carefully carried it to a secluded corner where you could be alone and appreciate its greatness. You sat down on the crude, hard wooden seat and set your drink on the shoddy wobbly table, caring not in the slightest. It was quite possibly the worst dive you’d ever drank at, but there was that sense of euphoria hanging around. You were drinking mead nonetheless.

Sighing in content, you proceeded to empty your tankard, savoring every last drop. You never knew when you’d be incapable of drinking mead when you lived the kind of life you did, you reasoned. Why, one could get knocked unconscious with a rogue-flying bottle and not have a sip of mead for a week. You grimaced unpleasantly. What a terrible fate.

You glanced at your empty tankard and grimaced with disgust. Did you just drink from that? It looked like it hadn’t seen water and soap since it had been made, some four million years ago. There were large dashes of questionable substances lining the inside of the glass, and wondered idly if the name of the tavern held any semblance to accuracy. You hoped not. You very truly sincerely hoped not.

Slamming the debatable tankard down, you sighed one last time before getting out of your seat to go and find a place to sleep for the night. You left your table and empty tankard and exited the dank pub. The odd little meeting with Jack Sparrow had certainly put you out of your way. All of your belongings were in the inn you usually stayed at, but knowing your luck the place would be being watched. Unfortunately, with your belongings was the last of your money - money that you needed to get a bed for the night.

“Lookin’ for somewhere to spend the night, darlin’?” a nearby sailor leered at you and you shot him with the most degrading look you could muster.

“Go find yourself a whore, man - at least they’ll accept your money to bed you.”

The man only seemed more amused. “Who needs a whore when there be sassy little lassies like you walkin’ about?” he asked, stepping closer and extending his hand towards you.

You quickly went to draw your cutlass from your belt, only to find that the damn thing was missing. Curse that Sparrow! He must have taken it when you were unconscious. You’d have to settle for pointless barbs, then.

“Well you certainly won’t be needing one after I tell my big nasty husband about you.”

The man smirked. “Yea? Well he ain’t got nothin’ on me, lass!”

“Oh, I don’t know. Three hundred pounds and the entire Royal Navy is a fair rival, no?”

“Yer lyin’!”

“Care to test the theory, love?”

You turned around and ignored the offended scowl boring into the back of your head. You had more important things to worry about, and needed to, somehow, get into your room at the inn and collect your effects.

Well… You were hardly inexperienced at sneaking into placed undetected. For perhaps the first time in weeks, you smiled. A real, pure smile. Finally, a challenge that you could really look forward to. But first thing’s first, you thought. You needed a change of clothes.

Making a quick turn, you sauntered back to where the scummy man had previously propositioned you. Finding him no more than a few feet away from where he was before leering at a few of the whores walking past and apparently over the little conversation you’d had only minutes ago, you walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Ah, changed yer mind after all, lass?” he smirked, looking pleased and smug.

You smiled seductively. Or rather, you tried to. It must have worked, however, because the man waggled his eyebrows suggestively and slipped his grubby arm around your waist.

“Let me show ye to me room then, aye lass?”

* * *

You shifted uncomfortably in the sweat-stinking hemp shirt. Surely you could have picked a slightly cleaner victim?

You twisted your mouth into a wry grimace as you adjusted the far too large pants and tightened the black sash that was holding them in place. You had gained something you liked from the experience, however. You tugged at the comfortable tri-cornered hat, liking the snug way it fitted your head and kept the escaping wisps of your hair at bay. It was made of brilliant black leather, slightly worn at the corners, but you didn’t mind. It was so hard to find a hat that wasn’t uncomfortable to wear with your hair being arranged in your custom French plait.

Ready to go, you pocketed the few coins the man had had on his person, hating the fact that you had to resort to such a degrading act. You kicked the despicable specimen sprawled on the floor as you left, tipping your newly hat-adorned head to the doorman on the way out.

As you walked to the other side of town where your room was situated, you noted with amusement that the slight skip had returned to your step.

Getting closer to the area where your inn was, you slowed down considerably. It was highly unlikely that anyone would pay any attention to you around here, lively as the streets were with willing women, viciously drunk men and more than enough alcohol. Very rarely were you disturbed in Tortuga apart from the occasion leering horndog, the cover that other distractions created afforded you more than enough anonymity to suit your needs.

You rounded the final corner that would leave you standing in front of the inn, but didn’t walk straight in the front door, which went against almost every stealth rule in the book. You checked around for prying eyes before delicately hoisting yourself up onto the roof of a small printing shop a few places down.

Hidden in the shadows cast from the generous roof overhanging of the next floor up, you crept silently along the roof, clearing the small space between the next two buildings with ease. As you reached the gap between the final roof and the inn, you mentally cursed yourself for choosing the room at the back of the inn.

It was going to be a lot harder to walk around the outcropping ledge of the inn to the other side without being spotted at all. Situated on that tiny ledge you would be a sitting duck for even the most drunken marksman.

You growled low in your throat and figured there was little you could do about that. You needed your things. Plus, you doubted that Sparrow would pull out that kind of force for little more than a trinket. You launched yourself over the gap, grabbing onto the small outcropping and pulling yourself up all in one fluid motion. Pressing your back against the wall, you waited for shouts or the sounds of feet pounding up the stairs inside.

Hearing nothing, you released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, relieved that you had escaped another meeting with the Pirate Captain thus far. You edged around the ledge before reaching the first window. There was no light inside, and from what you could hear, the occupant was asleep. And snoring rather loudly. You passed by the window quickly, cautious of anyone that might be startled by your shadow flickering across the floor of the room and raising the alarm.

Again, when no noise was made, you continued on. Several more windows were passed uneventfully, as well as successfully maneuvering two sharp corners where the outcropping became almost non-existent.

And here was where you reached the challenge; discerning whether or not there was someone unpleasant occupying your room. You stood for a moment, considering your options.

There was the ‘shoot first, ask questions’ later method… This one did have its merits, but the lack of either gun or blunt object rather left you stunted with that idea. There was also the ‘create a diversion’ method, but the only kind of diversion you could create was one outside, and you doubted that vicious pirates the likes of Sparrow’s crew would be thrown.

You considered the ‘fire’ option. Chances were that anyone inside would wait it out until they were absolutely sure you couldn’t get in and out of the room without being burnt to death or maimed by them… so.

That left you with nothing but your new hat.

Your eyes widened in surprise - you were shocked by your own brilliance. The hat!

You hastily pulled the hat from your head and pulled off your newly acquired jacket, rolling it into a ball and stuffing it into the hat. You knelt down carefully and held the hat out in front of the window, severely hoping that anyone inside didn’t shoot for your ‘neck’, seeing as that was what your wrist was currently masquerading as. You also hoped that if anyone was inside, they had extremely bad aim. You didn’t want holes in your new head adornment, either.

Not a noise came from the room. You tilted the hat and jacket slightly, stifling a snort as you realized what a fool must you look. You tilted and moved the hat a few more times, attempting to make its movements as lifelike as possible before sighing resignedly and blowing the wandering wisp of hair out of your face.

Either this was a really stupid idea, or there was no one inside.

Being impatient, you decided to take your chances anyway and pulled the window open one-handed, using the other to hold the hat and jacket in place. You waited again. Nothing.

You snatched at the curtain inside and pulled it to the side, pulling back after a second’s glance around the room. No shots were fired. You didn’t see any intruders.

Swiftly, you dropped into through the window and crouched on the floor, wary of the dark room. You crept cautiously over to the bed and checked underneath before moving over to the small wardrobe. They were both clear. The only place left was the bathroom. You again moved cautiously over to the door and decided to lose any pretense of stealth. You kicked open the door and sidled in, finding the room clear.

Your room was empty. You frowned as you tugged the hat back on over your head and pulled the jacket on.

You thought that perhaps you would have been happier if there had been someone in there, that way you wouldn’t be paranoid about just having walked into some kind of trap.

Figuring that a swift departure would cock up any plans of ambush or trapping from any aboard the Pearl, you tore to the other side of the room and pulled up the floorboard beside the bed, removing the large knapsack inside.

You pulled it open and looked through it quickly, pleased to see that everything was in place, spare money included. Reaching one last time into the space under the floorboard to check that nothing had been left in there by accident, you felt around. You hand hit something and you heard it skitter across the wood under the floorboard.

It had a slightly metallic clang to it and you wondered what on earth it could be. You had nothing of that kind to your name other than some cash and that was already accounted for.

Feeling around again you managed to grasp the offending item and pulled it out from under the floorboard. To your astonishment, it was a writing contraption of some sort.

You’d seen these during your stay in France quite some years ago. Fountain pens they were called, you think. They were like quills, except you didn’t need to dip them in ink: the ink was already in the pen. You quickly searched around in your pockets for something to write on, and in your luck found a torn piece of label from a bottle of rum in the man’s pant pocket.

Running the pen over the paper you were dismayed to find that it didn’t even work. You shook it a few times but it simply refused to do what it was designed for. You scowled. What a fancy looking pen and the damn thing didn’t even work!

Oh well, you thought. Maybe you could pawn it off for a bit of cash?

You turned it over in your hands, flight from damned pirates currently forgotten as you admired the beautiful handiwork of the piece. You felt something scratch against your finger and turned the pen again to look. An engraving stared back at you from the otherwise immaculate metal casing. Suddenly you felt violently ill. Your stomach had practically jumped into your throat as you looked at the inscription, barely able to read it your head was working so fast.

Engraved on the casing of the pen in an elegant scriptive font were the letters ‘C. J. S.’

You swallowed heavily. You felt faint and suddenly extremely tired. What did this mean? Surely this was not the ‘trinket’ Sparrow had been missing so desperately?

C. J. S.

Could that possibly stand for Captain Jack Sparrow? Surely not! You mentally kicked yourself. Of course it did! Who else do you know who has those initials? Cocky bastard, getting Captain Jack Sparrow engraved on the thing. One would think that Captain was printed on his birth certificate.

Hearing a loud thump outside your door, your heart jumped up into your throat to join your stomach. You quickly swallowed them both down whilst shoving the pen in question into your stocking inside your half cleaned boot. You had time to note, wryly, that it wasn’t really that clean anymore.

You jumped up and grabbed the knapsack off the bed, tying the top together and making for the window just as the door to the room flew open and the Pirate Captain himself stalked in.

Taking a sweeping look around the room, he witnessed your agile exit out of the window and cursed abrasively, rushing over and sticking his head out the window. He watched bitterly as you cleared the gap between the roofs and disappeared over the other side of the print shop.

He scowled darkly, emitting a low growl. That was the second time in one night that he had had to stand and do nothing while you escaped with his treasure.

* * * * *

Your head was spinning with questions as you ran through the busy streets of Tortuga, intent on putting as much space between yourself and that man as you possibly could. No doubt he was severely annoyed at you, because apparently his unfounded accusations towards you were perhaps not as unfounded as you had originally thought.

Had you really been that drunk that you couldn’t even remember stealing, fighting and being jailed all in one foul swoop? And all for a mangy, useless fountain pen at that!

No, you thought with vehemence. Even in a drunken state you had absolutely no use for a pen that didn’t work. You had no idea what else the thing could be used for, so you found it highly unlikely that you would ever take it. Especially if the man had been engaged with some pleasurable company at the time, as the Captain had so helpfully informed you.

In addition to that, you weren’t a thief. First and foremost, you were a pirate.

Catch twenty-two a lot of people would say, but a lot people weren’t pirates and simply wouldn’t understand.

You had grown up a pirate. After your parents had died when you were very little, you had been left under the care of your somewhat wayward Uncle – a pirate and also a highly respectable man. Uncle John had been an extremely unorthodox parental figure, yet his influence over you had been a good one.

You had been dragged about the world, country to country, living aboard the Opulence and seeing the world from the eyes of a pirate. If there was one thing your Uncle John had prided himself on, it was his clear definition of the difference between a respectful pirate and a petty thief.

Right now, you had the sinking feeling that you might have just crossed over that boundary.

You grimaced, and slowed down your pace. In your haste and complete disillusionment, you had failed to realize that you were both extremely breathless and had a painful stitch in your side.

Walking along the outskirts of the city that never seemed to sleep, you wondered what you were supposed to do next. Apparently you had chosen the Captain of a Damned ship with whom to become opposed with, perhaps not your brightest move. If even a slight part of the rumors of the Black Pearl were true, you were stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place.

A few more moments of fermenting on the idea of being decapitated, beaten to death and having your nails pulled out one by one, you realized there was only one thing you could do – you had to find Tyra.

* * *

It was uncanny, you thought, that after knowing each other since you were thirteen Tyra knew exactly where to find you at all times, and yet when you were looking for her she always seemed to escape you. You huffed in an annoyed manner as you scanned yet another crowded pub for the absent woman and found no one you recognized.

Tyra hung around in just about every dive in Tortuga, and having grown up here she knew the place like the back of her hand, more so even than you. It had only taken you a few weeks to get to know Tortuga when you had first arrived here ten years before. You had met Tyra the first day you docked, your Uncle disappearing to deal with some business you didn’t know about. You were left to fend for yourself for the first time in weeks – for the first time since you had last docked anywhere, actually.

Taking the freedom as it came, you’d run off and managed to get yourself into some mischief, you recalled, almost chuckling. Even then it seemed you had acquired a taste for mead. You had pick-pocketed someone’s flask that had sat on his hip, delighted to find that it was filled with the heady substance.

Forgetting a very important point, you hadn’t run away with your prize – you’d stood there and taken a swig of the stuff, only to find that the man had realized your theft moments later. Grabbing you round the wrist, he had threatened to chop of your fingers for stealing from him and looked set to make good on it until what you initially thought was a fire sprite had come to your rescue.

You barely had time to register the fact that your wrist was no longer enveloped in angry, dirty hands anymore and the said hand was now resting somewhat sadly against the ground, lifeless. Along with the rest of him. You hoped he was only unconscious…

You were dragged through several dank alleyways before your rescuer had come to a stop, you bumping heavily into her back.

“Don’ ye know the first rule is to run away as fast as ye legs’ll take ye?” she demanded, waving her arms about in an infuriated manner. You had smiled sheepishly.

“I’ve never done it before, you ken?” you admitted, and scuffed your boot against the dirt.

“Never?” the girl countered, arching luminous red brows in disbelief. “Fer a first timer ye’ve fair nimble fingers!”

You decided to take that as a compliment, not really sure what she meant.

She jutted her hand out towards you, gesturing for you to shake it. “Name’s Theresa,” she told you, nodding. “Only don’ call me that ‘round here, like. It’s Tyra in public. If ye forget I’ll gut ye like a fish.”

You nodded marginally, delighted that you’d made a friend in such a short time. You shook her hand vigourously and told her your name, watching as another ruddy eyebrow raised up.

“’S fair odd name here in Tortuga,” she told you, cocking her head to the side. “I dare say it’d be better if we called ye summat else from here out.” She grinned mischievously. “That one’s too easily recognized, and if ye’re going to hang about with the likes of me then ye don’t want that.”

You grinned. You didn’t mind that at all. In fact, you embraced the idea. You were sick of people coming up with girly little nicknames and calling you them. You swore, the next person who called you something other than your full name or the new nickname you were about to get, they were going to receive a kick in a not-so-pleasant place.

“Sounds good to me,” you grinned at Tyra.

“Right then, what shall we call ye?”

You smirked at the nickname she had given you, still amazed that it had stuck. But then again, so had hers so it was only fair. She’d based it off her opinion that you would probably grow up to be some kind of Delilah, a call woman, because of your lithe figure and charming face. It was only Tyra and the old innkeeper who knew your real name and neither of them would ever tell. You hoped.

“Siren!!”

You whirled around, weary of whomsoever might be calling you. True, you had a lot of friends in this town, but you also had a lot of enemies. You barely had time to ready yourself before the flying form of Tyra hit you with full force. You spluttered as she held you tightly.

“I been lookin’ fer ye everywhere, ye bloody tart!”

You scowled at her, though she knew you weren’t really angry at her. “I could say much the same for you, Tyra. What in the seven seas is goin’ on?”

Tyra looked confused. “What do ye mean? Ye bolted after that bloody pansy outlander and his buddies attacked us, that’s what. I been lookin’ fer ye ever since!”

You frowned in confusion. Things seemed to get more and more complicated as time went by. “Look, let’s not talk about this here. We can’t go back to Frankie’s, the place is being watched.”

Tyra’s eyes widened and she looked worried. Before you had time to say another word, she nodded and gestured for you to follow her before turning and jogging off.

You stopped some ten minutes later in a new room, in a new inn, and threw yourself down onto the bed.

“Mattress! Oh blessed mattress!” you called, remembering the hard and unyielding board you’d been forced to sleep on recently.

Tyra smirked somewhat before laying down beside you. “So then, ye want to tell me what happened after ye ran away from Pirate Pansy?”

Pirate Pansy. You snorted in amusement. You’d have to remember that one if you ever ran into Sparrow again. “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me that.”

Tyra frowned, confused. “Ye don’t know what happened?”

“Oh, I ken what happened after well enough,” you assured her. “One doesn’t forget being locked up in the brig of the Black Pearl that quickly, no?”

Her eyes widened and she sat up, turning to face you. “Ye were aboard the Pearl?”

“None other.”

Tyra listened silently as you told her about your short stay in the brig of the Pearl. She seemed uneasy as you progressed with the tale and she learnt that you had no recollection of that night other than going to bed. You watched Tyra suspiciously as she gave a small jerk when she learnt you knew of the pen that was stolen from the Captain of the Pearl, and that it had initials engraved on the metal casing.

“What do you know about that pen, Tyra?” you demanded, your eyes sparkling with suppressed anger. “What in the name of Davy Jones could you do with a pen that doesn’t work?”

Tyra shrugged, holding something back. “It looked like it would fetch a fair price at the market,” she told you, and you knew she was lying. But you also knew Tyra well, and that she would tell you the real reason she’d stolen it when she felt ready to. You took her answer and ran with it.

“Well, all it’s done is proceeded to put a hefty price on our heads for the likes of that Sparrow.”

Tyra snapped her head towards you. “Sparrow?”

“Yes,” you answered, puzzled. Surely she knew? “Jack Sparrow, the Captain of the Black Pearl. You referred to him as ‘Pirate Pansy’ earlier.”

“Well sink me,” she muttered to herself, looking thoroughly dumbfounded. “I didn’t know he was the Pearl’s Captain. S’pose that means that Barbossa’s dead, aye?”

You stared at Tyra, bewildered. What on earth was she talking about? Who was Barbossa? Tyra sat for a long while simply staring. Something in her turbulent blue eyes told you that you shouldn’t interrupt her, and you didn’t. You wondered, however briefly, if she had ever been aboard the Black Pearl before.

A few minutes later Tyra turned to look at you, the wistful look in her eyes having disappeared.

“Word on the street is that Splendour were sunk last week.”

You shot up into a sitting position, every muscle in your body rigid with tension. “No!” you cried, disbelieving. This was definitely not good, you thought. You’d spent the last five years of your life aboard Splendour along with Tyra and a few other female pirates such as yourself.

“Yup,” Tyra nodded. “I can’t account fer the accuracy of it, but they be sayin’ O’Connell went down with her.”

It felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over you. Every muscle was tight and your head was spinning. “O’Connell’s dead then, aye?”

“Sounds like it.”

You nodded numbly. You didn’t particularly want to think about O’Connell at the moment, things were still too raw. She had been the Captain aboard the Splendour and you her first mate. Suffice it to say that it hadn’t been a friendly departure, yours. In fact, it resulted in a very angry Captain, murderous even.

And when Captain Beth O’Connell was angry, everyone was in danger.

An acerbic little thought niggled into your mind, and you couldn’t help but be relieved by the idea of Black Beth being dead. It would certainly rid you of a lot of the worries you’d been harbouring since you left the Splendour with Tyra and nearly half the crew almost three weeks ago.

That way, she wouldn’t be after you for some sort of revenge.

“Bit of a shocker, aye?” Tyra said, putting her hand on your shoulder. “Least we won’t have to worry abou’ things that go bump in the night.”

You snorted derisively. “Yes we will. We’ve got that bloody Sparrow looking for his trinket.”

Tyra suddenly jumped off the bed and looked at you frantically. “Where be the trinket, Siren?” she hissed. “If the inn’s bein’ watched, how are we goin’ to get it?”

You shrugged. “It’s here. I’ve been to the inn, that’s how I know it’s being watched, ken?”

Tyra relaxed visibly, her shoulders shrugging. “Ye got it in a safe place?”

“Relatively,” you reassured her.

* * *

You watched with some trepidation as the elegant form of a black snake coiled itself around the mast of a ship. Your ship. Your Opulence. Your beautiful vessel that was being so cruelly taken from you.

There was something else, though. A more ominous feeling, as if there was another presence there – an evil presence that your beautiful Opulence seemed to shrink in the face of. Her breathing shuddered and puckered slightly, the sway of her jerking over the waves. You were worried. Your beauty was sick.

Where is he?, you wondered, worrying the lining of your cheek with your teeth. If he didn’t get here soon, there would be nothing to come back to at all.

You knew it was coming, though you had neither the time nor the strength to steady yourself for it. The pain was unbearable then, as the boot hit your wounded body, kicking you over and allowing you to see their face…

Author’s Note: I’m a terrible, terrible person. :P I haven’t updated in MONTHS, and this latest update has been almost finished for equally as long, I just didn’t have the inspiration to give it the finishing touches. So, you have my apologies, cookies and loff if you’d only forgive me. ^_^ I hope this chapter’s up to the same standard as the others even if it is slightly shorter. Sorry again, loffs! – sezzles.

* * * * *

Your eyes flew open as you lay in bed, the slight snoring of Tyra beside you drowning out the gasp that had escaped from your lips. Another nightmare, you deemed.

The same dream again, ominous and nasty in its intent. You’d been having that dream repetitively since the death of your Uncle aboard the Opulence. The uncertainty that followed the dream swallowed you up as you thought about that fateful afternoon so many years ago.

You had only been eighteen at the time and had traveled around with your Uncle for nigh on sixteen years. Everything had happened so fast. One minute everything was fine (if a little wet), the next minute a hostile ship had come from nowhere in the misty rain and fired upon you, causing irreversible damage to the hull of your vessel. Then they had drawn up beside you while you tried to help the crew save the Opulence as she took on water badly, and in the frenzy that had followed, everyone was killed, including your Uncle.

You had thought yourself dead as well. The gaping bullet wound in your side was enough to convince you of that, and your only thought was that you could join your mother, father and uncle down in Davy Jones’ locker happily.

It hadn’t turned out like that, though. Fate had a strange way of twisting things, and all you remember after the excruciating agony of both the kick to your side when you were down and the shock you still remember at seeing who the culprit was, is the occasional blurry memory of being aboard a ship that wasn’t your own.

Apparently, who ever it was that had shot you had had second thoughts. It was the only plausible explanation, because there was no possible way that another ship could have encountered your own doomed one in such a short space of time.

You recall bitterly the few memories you have of that ship. Waking up with the fever ravaging your weak body, the wound on your side all but festering. Then waking up again, later, as the ship’s surgeon made a final attempt at saving you by pouring boiling water over the wound. You can only assume you blacked out from the pain. The occasional memory of being fed by a forceful hand, barely enough to keep you alive. And then the next one, being woken up by Frankie leaning over you in his inn, his face full of worry.

Anything apart from those few memories was a complete loss to you. Two months of your life had been stolen and you could never get them back.

What ship had you been on, you wondered. Who had been the Captain, and what was their motive in keeping you alive? Had there been any more of your crewmembers aboard, being kept barely alive like you?

All the questions swatted against your brain, demanding answers you couldn’t give. It was the questions that had driven you to join the crew of the Splendour, eventually rising up the ranks to become the first mate to Captain Beth O’Connell, otherwise known as Black Beth.

You snorted derisively. How uncanny that her name should be so accurate, you thought. If it didn’t go with her long ebony black hair and equally disturbing black eyes, then it coincided beautifully with her vicious black heart. You had sworn as you abandoned the Splendour only a few weeks ago, that you would never let anyone treat you with such utter disregard again.

Tyra shifted in her sleep, the snoring fading as she began to wake up.

“Have the nightmare again, Si?” she asked moments later as she propped herself up and watched you carefully.

“Aye,” you answered, and pulled the coverlet off you, getting up to dress.

She nodded absently, watching your movements furtively as you bent to pull on your boots and checked that Sparrow’s pen was still there.

“Plan of action?” she inquired.

Your eyebrows drew together as you tried to think what you could possibly do. You needed to avoid another encounter with Sparrow and his cronies, in any case, so that was the first on the agenda.

“I think we should go see Frankie.”

“But the inn’s bein’ watched!” Tyra argued.

“Aye, it is. But Frankie’s the only one who can help us figure out what’s so important about the trinket, ken?” You turned to look at Tyra. “Unless you already know.”

Tyra took a deep breath and then exhaled again. “I’ve not a clue what it does. Ye don’t think it’s a bit risky, though?”

You shrugged and turned back around, scowling at the condition of your boots. “Variety is the spice of life,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Tyra. Perhaps you should invest in some sort of cleaning agent?

* * *

“I told ye he wouldn’t be able to help us,” Tyra scoffed some time later as you sat down on the bed in the inn to remove your boots. You scowled again. At least you had tried. At least you had told Tyra your plan of action rather than keeping secrets. You knew she was holding something back, and it was niggling you that she wouldn’t tell you.

“That doesn’t matter now,” you snapped, jerking back as the boot you had been pulling gave way suddenly. “At least we know where we stand with the damn thing.”

“Which is where, exactly?” she countered.

“No where. We stand no where.” You pulled the offending object out of your stockings and glared at it, daring it to reveal why it was of so much importance. When it did nothing of the sort, you huffed angrily and stuffed it back into your boot, shoving them underneath the bed.

“There’s not a lot more we can do about that tonight, aye?” you informed Tyra, gesturing for her to get up off your side of the bed. She shifted and you took off your breeches and jacket, climbing into bed. Tyra followed not long after.

A long awkward silence stretched out as you both lay there; completely aware of the fact the neither of you were sleeping. You also knew that she knew you knew she was hiding something, as much as it boggled you to put the realization into words.

Huffing indignantly, you turned your back on her and proceeded to fall asleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. You needed to get together a crew and also commandeer a ship in order to get you away from Tortuga and that Sparrow fellow. Jamaica was nice this time of year, you heard.

* * *

For once you dreamt of nothing. The hazy blanket of sleep that enveloped you warmly slipped away ever so slightly as you shifted positions in the bed. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind you registered that it was far too early to get up. It could hardly be gone five, and you treasured your beauty sleep – if sleep hadn’t had you still in her grasp, you would have snorted. You would need to sleep for years to become beautiful, you thought to yourself derisively.

And just like that, your body had decided it was time to wake up. You lay there in the blissful state between being awake and being asleep, sort of just being. You were far too conscious to get back to sleep, unfortunately, and stretched, yawning. A cat-like purr escaped your lips as you lounged in the large, warm bed, savoring it. Where was Tyra?

You cracked open an eye and looked about the room for her, concerned that she should be up so early. You worried about her. No one in their right state of mind would be willingly up and about at five in the morning.

The bathroom door was closed, and you smiled fondly. Well, when wilderness called…

Ooh, and boy was wilderness calling!

You quickly crossed your legs and wondered just how long Tyra had been in there. You jumped out of bed, any pretense of sleep forgotten as you realized to what extent you really needed to go.

You rapped on the door and called to Tyra, pleading for her to be quick. There was no response. You frowned. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep in the privy? You stifled a snort at the idea. You twisted the door handle and pushed it open gently, expecting to see a glaring Tyra behind it but finding no one.

Well, if she wasn’t in there, where could she be?

You turned around and scanned the room again, this time more thoroughly. Confused, you scratched your head as if the answer might lie there. Nothing jumped out at you. She’d probably be back later, you mused.

Turning back to go into the bathroom, something peculiar caught your eye. Lying on the floor, oh-so-carelessly discarded were your boots. You could have sworn you had left them under the bad. Shaking your head at your own carelessness, you walked over and picked them up, placing them neatly beside the bedpost.

Purely out of curiosity, you reached in to pick up the pen and found nothing but air. You quirked an eyebrow and checked the other one. Nothing. Well, that was odd. You knew you had put it in there the night before. You checked your feet and looked at the stockings that were puddled around your ankles. Nope, it wasn’t still in them.

Had someone come in and stole it during the night? But no one knew, you reasoned with yourself. Then a thought struck you, and you hit yourself in the head with dismay.

Someone had come in during the night, tried to steal the pen and Tyra had woken up! And that was where she was. She’d gone off in pursuit of the thief.

…

But then why hadn’t you woken up? And why hadn’t she called for your help, surely two pursuers were better than one?

Perhaps…

No. You shook your head vigorously, trying to shake the thought right out of your mind. It was simply not possible.

Not probable, the little voice in the back of your head prompted. Not probable.

You dressed with extreme haste, not even bothering to chastise yourself over the dirty state of your boots as you wrenched them on and grabbed your things. If someone really had bolted with the pen, then chances were they were in cahoots with Sparrow. And when Tyra got it back, you were going to need to get away quickly.

You rushed out the door and down the stairs, grateful for the early time – there were less people to bump into and be seen by.

The innkeeper threw you a curious look as you charged through the lower bowels of the inn and out the front door. Unfortunately your earlier assumption had been wrong and there were people to bump into.

You thumped down onto the floor outside the door to the inn heavily after hitting the person.

“In the name of Blackbeard, have you not got eyes in your head man?” you cried as you stood up and dusted yourself off, aptly readjusting the black tri-cornered hat so that it sufficiently covered your head again.

“Well, fancy seeing you here, love,” came the familiar voice, and your eyes shot up to meet his brown, kohl-rimmed ones. The annoyed hiss of air escaped your mouth before you could do anything to stop it, and Sparrow’s eyebrows rose sardonically.

“Perhaps you aren’t as pleased to see me as most women might be, aye?”

“I don’t have your bloody pen!” you cried, attempting to push past him. You almost thought you’d managed it when his hand, moving faster than anything you’d ever known in your life, clamped firmly round your arm like a limpet.

“What pen would that be, I wonder?” he asked, losing any pretense of friendliness. He was just plain serious.

You mentally kicked yourself. Trinket! You should have said trinket. Well, you’d gotten yourself into this one, no doubt about it.

“The one that Tyra stole,” you told him boldly, turning to face him. You weren’t going to lie. You certainly weren’t stupid. You knew that he would be able to tell if you were lying, and you had a fair idea by now who it was that had really taken the pen from your boot.

“Aye, carry on. What did it look like?”

“Silver,” you said, pulling your wrist away and testing Sparrow’s strength. You sighed when you realized you weren’t going anywhere unless he let you. “With the initials C. J. S on it. Captain Jack Sparrow, I presume?”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know,” you answered truthfully, and this time he couldn’t deny the fact that what you said was the truth. You really didn’t know where it was.

You felt an instant slash of pain in your gut as the gravity of what had happened earlier hit you. Tyra had taken the pen. She had blatantly stolen from you. You were supposed to be friends! What happened to the pact you had made when you were thirteen and had kept until now?

You blinked furiously trying to rid yourself of the mutinous thoughts whirling through your head, turning away from Sparrow as you did so. Tyra had been all you’d had left. Surely there must be some plausible explanation for what she did.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Sparrow,” you told him as you turned around, your voice low and sincere, all fears finally under control without them ever having spilt over. “Tyra stole it. She nicked from you while I was in bed. I don’t remember anything of the night I supposedly gave you that,” you nodded at his side where you’d seen the nasty gash, “and when I got back to the inn the night I escaped you it was hidden with my things. And now it’s gone again.”

“Gone again where, exactly?” he growled, his grip tightening painfully around your wrist. That was going to bruise, you thought bitterly.

“Well, it got stolen,” you told him, deliberately leaving out the details.

“By whom?” Sparrow cried incredulously.

“Well if I knew that, would I be standing here exchanging pleasantries with you?” you exclaimed, waving your free arm in an eccentric manner. “Why do you think I came running out of there like a bat out of hell? The pen’s gone.”

Sparrow huffed and looked at you. “I thought perhaps you were just excited to see ol’ Jack again, love.” You glared. “Perhaps not, then.”

* * *

You looked around the all too familiar brig of the Pearl with something akin to warmth. It had been over a week since the night Tyra had stolen off with Sparrow’s trinket, and you’d become quite fond of the place, naturally.

You rubbed the worn wooden bench with an affection that suggested you were slightly off balance at the moment, and the guarding crewmember knew it well.

“Ye need to get some drink in ye,” the mulatto woman urged, watching as you whispered sweet nothings to your bench. Obviously some people weren’t used to taking hints, you thought wryly.

You turned to glare at her, annoyed at being interrupted. “Aye, a spot of drink would be nice, you’re right. However!” you interrupted as the woman moved to slip the water pail under the door and she stopped. “That there,” you gestured towards the water with a look of pure distaste marring your features, “is not drink, ken?”

“Yer off yer bloody nut, woman,” she muttered, shaking her head. “‘Course it is!”

You shook your head almost sadly at her. “Nay. That’s cat piss, that is. Get some real drink! I’ll die if I don’t get some mead in me!”

“She does have a point, love,” said the Captain as he suddenly appeared from above. He walked over, the odd swing in his gait making you burst into a fit of giggles that wasn’t usually like you.

Sparrow jerked his head towards you in question, his eyes wide and face disturbed. The woman only shrugged. “Been like this fer a while, Captain,” she told him.

Sparrow nodded oddly and swung around to face you. You supposed you could understand why Tyra would call him Captain Pansy. He certainly did act in a very quirky manner, and his odd eccentricities made his pansy status that much more easier to believe.

You barely managed to clap your hand over your mouth before telling him just that. Instead you found extreme satisfaction in telling your bench instead.

“Having a nice conversation, love?” Sparrow asked, smirking. You mirrored his face.

“Aye,” you said. “I think you’ll find that benches are extremely good listeners. Listening is the key to communication, did you know?” You paused for a second, looking at him. “Well, no, I don’t suppose you would know that, would you?” you added acerbically.

Sparrow shrugged and you dismissed him entirely, turning back to your bench. You grinned evilly as you listened to the bench, completely unaware of the fact that you were acting more than a little crazy.

“Anything of interest?”

You turned to look back at Sparrow, grinning widely. “My bench says you’re a bit of a pansy, like.”

Sparrow’s eyes widened liberally and his mouth opened and shut several times before he gained his composure. “I can assure you that your bench is entirely mistaken.”

You snorted.

“Speaking of mistakes, what are you planning on doing with me, anyhow?” you asked Sparrow, tearing yourself away from the bench and walking over to cling to the bars beside him.

He looked you up and down, more than surveying your current state of dress. His eyes had an impish glow about them and you scowled as the hairs on the back of your arm prickled.

“I can think of quite a few things to be doin’ with you, love,” he simpered. “But first you’ll be telling me all you know about my trinket, savvy?”

Your shoulders slumped in defeat. “Aye,” you said, before turning and wandering back over to your bench. You sat down and crossed your legs, figuring you were going to need all the emotional support you could get, even if it was only a bench.

TBC...

* * *

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