Parlait

PLEASE NOTE: Don't drink when you're pregnant! Everyone knows that's not a good thing. But in Elizabeth's time, they don't know that. Just don't any of you reading this try it!;-)


Elizabeth was near falling asleep, more of her leaning upon the table than sitting on the stool, head resting on her folded arms, not even the breeze that tousled her hair where she sat beneath the tent fly enough to keep her eyes from periodically falling shut. Despite the loudness of the violins and the dancing, singing, drinking, whoring, reveling pirates around her, all the rum she’d consumed, and her heavy thoughts, made her feel alone. It had been almost five months since she’d become Barbossa’s prisoner on The Reproach, five months since falling desperately in love with her captor, and very near two months since discovering she carried his child. She had no true way of knowing how far along the child was, she only knew that nothing had begun to show in her figure, and that Barbossa suspected nothing. But every day Elizabeth could feel it, a few weeks ago she imagined it as about the size of a pea, burrowed tight into her womb, and now she imagined it was the size of a plum. No matter its size, it was still her secret, a secret that was becoming harder and harder to live with keeping.

She’d come to hate Jake lately. It was him who had taught her not to trust, it was him who made her wish to keep this secret from the Captain. Barbossa was not Jack, she knew this, and still, she was so scared, too afraid that Jack’s reaction may be a universal one among pirate captains, life at sea, piracy, no place for a family. Jack, in a way, was splitting her and Barbossa apart, and if that were to happen, she’d make Jack pay, more painfully than he did last time.

Nevis was supposed to be a reprieve from the work at sea, a chance for the crew to cut loose, forget about their duties and the threat of the anti-piracy fleets, just a small little pirate colony, founded by their own Caribbean brethren, a safe haven, full of rum, whores, gambling and other wonderful debaucheries. The Reproach’s crew certainly was cutting loose, enjoying this chance to relax, but Elizabeth felt her usual amount of trepidation and anxiety. She hadn’t been relaxed for two months. At least being drunk tempered it somewhat. Now she didn’t even want to move, just wanted to lie there, half across the table, her head turned towards Barbossa so she could gaze at him at her leisure, for of all the extraordinary men and captains here, her man was the one to watch.

There was distance between she and the Captain tonight though, partially because she’d put it there, and partially because he’d been very busy this evening renewing old acquaintances and telling stories with his fellow captains of other ships, swapping information, hearing about the latest safe harbors for their kind. He moved about boisterously and gallantly, obviously a respected man among his peers, one sought out by several of them to ask his advice, all of them anxious to hear of his latest conquest, and few braver men challenging him to arm wrestle. She loved watching that; smiled and hoped that their son would be as big and strong as his father. The Captain was very much in his element, but was quick to warn any and all about laying a hand to his “prisoner.” Elizabeth couldn’t lose her smile as she watched him, she felt proud to love a man who had what the Captain had to flaunt. Jack was generally looked upon with skepticism when he told tales, and laughed at, with good reason. And Jack arm wrestle? She thought not. Too fair a fight.

For a moment Elizabeth did close her eyes. How much longer did she have before she couldn’t hide her condition? The Captain was yet to say he loved her, no matter how hard she at times tried to set up the scenario, or put it to him to merely answer yes or no to her question of “do you love me?” All that had won her was being banned form ever asking again. It would just be so much easier if he was able to say it, for she knew that such words coming from Barbossa would be more genuine, more cognizant, more tenderly offered and meant than they were when Jack said them, for Jack often spoke without thinking.

Jack. She wanted to find him, seduce The Pearl away from him, give her to the Captain, and then leave her nefarious former love marooned on another island, or even treading water in the sea, perhaps even kill him again; gain some revenge, for herself, for the child she had with him, for the child she carried now, and for whatever other tragedy may come of her love for Barbossa.

Had Jack loved her, he never would have put her off in Tortuga; she never would have ended up in that dirty alleyway, alone. She may have been afraid to tell the Captain of the child within her, but she was confident that Barbossa would never let her suffer that same fate, or let his child suffer it. Deep down, Elizabeth knew the Captain loved her, she’d been with him too long now not to notice; he couldn’t have been more attentive to her, couldn’t have treated her with more respect, and he always remembered her, even if they raided a ship, side by side, there was always some small piece of something delightful he managed to surprise her with later on. She worried that the Captain denied his love for her to himself, and that was why he refused to say the words to her, and until she could be sure he at least accepted his feelings for her, she couldn’t trust that he’d accept their child. But how to get him to say it? She’d tried everything, and she was running out of time. Damn Jack! He’d dashed her trust against the rocks of his pitiful selfish nature. More rum. At least clouded thoughts were better than negative ones.

Her tired eyes turned back to the Captain. For now, at least, he had no reason to spite her and turn her away. It may not always be so, but what value was dwelling on if and when he would? Her thoughts shifted, he had to tell her he loved her, what did she have to do to earn that from him?

For the last hour he’d sat bare chested, upon a low stool, a barrel for a table, and he’d taken on at least twelve men, big men, in arm wrestling competitions. Her mind was a bit fuzzy, but she didn’t recall that he’d ever lost, but knew that he’d broken one man’s arm, she remembered the cry and the cracking, Barbossa having warned him twice to give up, had in fact grunted to him between clenched teeth, “I’ll be breakin’ yer bleedin’ arm before y’put mine to the table, lad.” If only the lad had listened.

Mostly what stayed emblazoned in her mind was watching the Captain’s body as he took on opponent after opponent, every muscle on display, flexed and highlighted by a light coat of sweat, the tattoos that covered his upper body dancing as his biceps swelled, contracted and extended, shoulders pushed out, muscles of his back rigid, abdominals rippling as he fought for breath. She shuddered, half drunk, but very aware that her lover was the strongest of men in Nevis tonight. Oh to touch him now! Lately, the only things that managed to ease Elizabeth’s mental suffering were the Captain’s body and his carnal abilities. He’d be exceptional tonight, give her no quarter, she could tell that even through her drunkenness, so full of himself and eager to show off his strength to her yet again. She’d yet to have the Captain on land, there had to be some far off beach from this spot, a secluded little sandy alcove where he could lay her down beneath the moon and himself, beside the breakers, and rock her like The Reproach on a stormy night.

How was it that he managed to take on so many challengers without tiring? She’d found the Captain’s stamina to be bewildering at times, it was no wonder he’d gotten her with child, he never seemed to tire, having her twice a night and generally again in the morning as well, putting Jack much to shame. Where did he get all that vivacity? She’d never have expected a man of his years to be the one who tired her out at night, or who fought until the last enemy dropped, or to now sit, hands locked, biceps bulging, with Captain Edward Teach, another man of very similar stature to Barbossa himself, full blackbeard and as foreboding a demeanor as Barbossa, so much so that Elizabeth half worried what would come when one of them eventually lost this contest. The two men could have been brothers she observed, Barbossa the more senior of the two, and the most ruggedly handsome, but they matched one another in such a complimentary way.

The muscles of Barbossa’s upper and lower arm twitched under the stress, his big shoulder set, jaw locked as he and Teach pushed and pulled against one another, the blackbearded Captain struggling just as much against Barbossa’s power. There seemed to be a stalemate, one stout man not stronger or weaker than the other. Other pirates gathered around them, doubloons quickly being thrown down in wagers as each man cried the name of their preferred champion, but not a fist wavered on the barrel. How long could this last? Teach was the younger of the two; did he possess what it took to defeat the strength of the Captain? Would Barbossa break Teach’s arm as well?

Teach’s lips pulled back into a strained smile as he endeavored to push Barbossa’s arm to the barrel top. “Care to have our own earnest wager, Hector?”

Every sinew from neck to hip to fingertips was engaged, Teach was every ounce as strong as he was. “Aye,” had he just felt the blackbearded one’s hand tremble? “What do you be a mind of?”

“If it’s I who be the loser,” Teach felt Barbossa bend back his wrist, he quickly stiffened it, “I’ll bequeath to you the scroll what was found in Tia Dalma’s abandoned shack.” He leaned more on the table, squeezed the big flame haired captain’s hand harder, seeking out his eyes, hoping to throw him off, for besting Hector Barbossa in a match of strength would garnish Teach a hefty amount of respect. “Yourself and the witch be lovers, not so?”

“Aye, once,” Barbossa gritted back, but began to wonder where Elizabeth was and what she’d heard, and what, if anything, she was reading into it. A scroll from Tia Dalma’s shack, hmmm, be it in her hand he wondered, could be valuable. But he wouldn’t let it distract him, braced his elbow down into the barrel top. “And what be yer spoils of me defeat?”

The mention of Tia Dalma had not had the effect Teach hoped for, but over the flexed broad shoulder of Barbossa, Teach smiled at something he believed may hit just the right target. “I’ll be taking the girl you keep captive.”

Lightening seemed to strike him and shoot through all his veins. Teach? Take Elizabeth? With the strength of the elements fury, Barbossa leaned into his own arm and pushed with more strength then he’d ever remembered having, startled by how suddenly the back of Teach’s hand hit the table, felt even some of the bones in the big blackbearded captain’s wrist dislocate. Teach gave a sharp groan and quickly tore his arm from the table, holding his wrist and realigning the bones that had popped. Barbossa smiled. “I’ll be keepin’ the girl, Ed.” He stood, shaking the remaining tension out of his arm and cast a glance over his big shoulder to gaze at Elizabeth, and realized he’d spent far too much time this evening away from her side; she looked awful, an inebriated heap at the end of the table. And yet he was happy to call her his, nonetheless. And something else that had aroused his curiosity was also his, something that could mean anything, and lead anywhere. “Where be me scroll?”

“Mr. Marshall,” Teach called to his first mate, who promptly reached into his coat pocket and produced the rolled, yellowed paper, tied with fraying twine. Teach took the scroll, placing it within Barbossa’s hand. “Never let it be said I weren’t a gentleman of fortune, in full.” Then he smiled. “My best to you in figurin’ it right, naught but a bunch o’ your witch’s jibberish about birds and lions.”

Barbossa unfurled the scroll, giving a quick glance with a furrowed brow. Teach wasn’t lying, the little he’d read meant nothing, didn’t relate to anything he could think of, and he had grown used to Tia Dalma’s enigmatic styling. He’d look it over later, for he could again sense that Teach was looking towards Elizabeth. Before he could growl or speak, the other captain did.

“What be she to you, Hector?” Teach rubbed his swelling wrist, mentioning the girl had definitely produced an effect in Barbossa, though not the one he’d hoped for.

Barbossa sighed, gave Teach a pat or two on the shoulder, as if apologizing for the damage done to his wrist. “Daughter of Governor Weatherby Swann, of Port Royal.” Though the last thing Elizabeth appeared like at the moment was any governor’s daughter. He turned around fully towards Elizabeth, shaking his head, “other than that, I don’t rightly know.”

Teach gave a laugh. “My best to you in that then also,” he said, then rolled his eyes and sighed himself, heavily and defeatedly. “Married a governor’s daughter me ownself.”

Barbossa gave a simpering laugh, a bit surprised to find himself nodding his head in agreement as Teach walked away. Elizabeth, dear, drunken Elizabeth. He should get her back to The Reproach. Her evening was over.

He’d hoped that being here may help her to lose that look of forlornness he’d seen so often in her eyes for the past two months. Tankard after tankard of run had now changed that look to drunkenness, but that was no better. He knew she wasn’t that heavy a drinker, it was whatever had been bothering her for weeks now that demanded the libation. He only wished he knew for certain what it was she struggled against so vehemently; though he supposed he already knew.

The last two months had been permeated by the distance Elizabeth put between them during the day, keeping to herself, but ever ready at his command should another sail come into sight, and more than ready when they were alone in his cabin, exerting herself like he’d never known any woman to in the pursuit of his pleasure. And constantly she’d asked if he loved her, asked so much that he wasn’t able to live with refusing her an answer any longer, and so he’d forbid the question. He should tell her he loved her, for he did, with a startling devotion, but no, how could he speak words to Elizabeth he’d also spoken to a woman he’d killed? He felt more and more that the words themselves were some type of curse. The moment he told Elizabeth he loved her, their lives would begin to grind towards that same moment when he’d held a pistol to Graciella’s head, and pulled the trigger.

It was easier to wonder, and hope, that Elizabeth’s demon be caused by some lingering emotional attachment to Jack. But, Barbossa doubted this, for she hardly ever mentioned Sparrow anymore, and when she did, there was anger or ridicule in her voice, and it certainly wasn’t Jack’s name she cried out at night. Furthering his sense that Jack was not the cause of her depression was the way she constantly brought up finding The Pearl, and her constant strategies for retrieving the ship, of stealing the galleon out from under Jack, and seeing Barbossa her captain once again. “I want to do this for you, Captain!” She said over and over again, and he did dream of one day having the Pearl back, all other vessels paling in comparison, but Barbossa always brushed Elizabeth off, told her The Reproach was a fine enough ship, and she were, but mostly he worried over the effect that hurting Sparrow would have on Elizabeth again. She’d been more scarred by Jack’s death than Jack was. To further hurt her former lover would do her soul little good. And the cursed words “I love you, Elizabeth” causing him to one day put a pistol to her head would kill Barbossa himself. No, it was best that they both resisted their temptations to please the other in those fashions.

And yet the sad irony of protecting her as he did was that he was also hurting her. She loved him, truly, freely, proudly and told him so whenever she had the chance, only to be rewarded with his smile, a kiss, or his patented, “I know.” She deserved so much more than that, and he couldn’t hold her tightly enough to make up for it. He didn’t blame her for being distant as the weeks wore on, he’d have been the same way had the tables been turned. And now he’d driven her to drink; a pitiful little thing at the end of the table, too drunk to sit up now, eyes glassy and half open, oblivious to what went on around her. He possessed the power to end this, and it was all he could do not to saunter over to her, put his hands on her shoulders and lean down by her ear and tell her, “Stop with yer contemptible poisonin’, girl. Y’ve me heart, I love ye, now straighten up.” Well, perhaps he wouldn’t say it quite like that, but he did wish she’d quit the rum. It didn’t befit a woman like her.

He should take her back to the ship, put her to bed, let her sleep it off and prepare himself to watch her in the throes of misery she’d be in tomorrow. He wasn’t looking forward to that, having to feign his lack of pity for her, having to give his best effort to shoot her disdainful looks whenever she would appear lackluster, or wince when the sunlight pierced her eyes, or no doubt be sick over the side of the ship. Protecting her was his first instinct, and it was difficult not to obey it, but truly, he’d rather it if she didn’t drink to the point of drunkenness. That was Sparrow’s muse; not hers, she was far better than that, as was he. Again he watched Elizabeth tilt the tankard to her lips, her head didn’t rise from the table this time, and more rum spilled onto the boards, her hair and all over the folded arm she was using as a pillow then went into her mouth. Enough. He’d carry her back to The Reproach now, before she became the spectacle she so nearly was already. With a heavy sigh he strode towards her, but a delicate hand slid into his.

“Remember me, Captain?” A soft female voice purred; the French accent that was once so strong upon it having faded a bit and mixed with that of the Caribbean natives. Clothilde spliced her fingers with his, sidled up to him and began to massage the biceps of the arm he’d put to use against Teach. “I remember you, always so very strong.”

“Aye, Clothilde, I remember ye,” He half sighed, averting his eyes from her, wanting to and not wanting to appear that he wished she’d go away. He’d known her since she was a working girl of sixteen in Tortuga, and wherever he made port in the Caribbean, Clothilde seemed to follow him, along with the rumor that he’d had intents to marry her…a rumor Barbossa knew he didn’t start. Perhaps one of the biggest blunders he’d ever made was paying the few shillings that a night with Clothilde was worth…and unfortunately, he’d done so more than once…perhaps in that, he’d lead her on? She was an annoyance, but some part of him had always felt sorry for her. But he hadn’t time or care to think about that now; Elizabeth, she was his only concern. “But I regret that I be otherwise engaged this evenin’.”

Clothilde stuck her puckered lips out in a pouting gesture, a face that Barbossa had always hated. In fact, he’d never been terribly brought to his knees by her face, usually took her to dark alleys or stairwells where a shadow was sure to obscure her overly and crookedly painted features from his view as she earned her pay. She now caught a lock of her dirty blond hair and began to draw it tantalizingly back and forth of his bare chest, and for a moment, Barbossa remembered why it was he went to her repeatedly. “Oh, but Captain,” she sighed, leaning against him and standing up on her tiptoes, putting her lips as close to his as she could, but Barbossa pulled back. She scowled then began to whisper words against his chest, teasing him with her breath on his skin, to no avail. “I’ve missed you, been saving you the first go tonight. Come on, won’t take long, and you know I’m always sweet to you.”

Before Barbossa could even begin to tell her “no” in a more forceful manner than before, Clothilde was suddenly tackled to the ground.

“You get away from him!” Elizabeth, though out of it and sluggish was quick to notice another woman practically hanging off the Captain’s chest. She’d jumped up from her stool, stepped up to the table, ran as fast she could, spilling tankards of rum and likely treading on a few fingers as she did, then leapt off the end of the table and came crashing down onto Clothilde. “He’s mine!” How dare any other woman look at him like that? How dare she smile and tease and touch him? She loved the Captain, she carried his child within her; she wouldn’t have anyone come between them, not in any fashion.

“Elizabeth!” Barbossa was surprised at the ferocity Elizabeth showed, and her quickness for being so drunk. He was also wonderfully flattered. She considered him to be hers? Clothilde struggled to gasp, the air having been knocked out of her when she’d been driven into the sand, face first, Elizabeth straddling her back, grabbing a big vicious handful of her hair and yanking her head up.

“I need him!” Elizabeth was spitting, reaching for her boot and drawing a knife, switching her hand to Clothilde’s forehead and pulling her head back further, throat exposed. “More than you’ll ever know!” She put the blade to the whore’s skin.

No, Barbossa couldn’t allow this. “Elizabeth, stand down!” His voice was firm, he’d given her the same order he’d have given his crew, though he still claimed her as a prisoner. She didn’t stall, not at all, just angled the knife against Clothilde’s neck. He had to stop this, Elizabeth was not one to kill in cold blood; that would be too much for her to bear, she’d never forgive herself, and she already had Jack’s death to atone for. Yelling would be of no good, likely to inflame her further. All eyes were suddenly upon them, it was quiet, Clothilde looking up helplessly at him; but had she left him alone when he’d suggested it, she never would have been where she was. “Elizabeth,” Barbossa spoke softly, took a step forward. “Give o’er the knife. The girl just be doin’ her job, y’can’t fault her for such.”

“I don’t care!” But Elizabeth’s grip on the knife handle lessened. She was beginning to feel dizzy and a little nauseous. She focused on the Captain’s voice, began to think of their child; perhaps this hadn’t been the wisest thing to do, she could have jeopardized the safety of both herself and the baby, prostitutes were known to carry their own knives. Still, she was so infuriated to see this harlot, this whore, inviting Barbossa to sample her wares; she held tight to Clothilde, as if she thought that releasing her would mean she’d jump back up and begin sweet talking the Captain again. At least Barbossa hadn’t looked interested; she’d have cut her own throat if he were.

“Y’do care! Yer a little jealous and a lot drunk.” She wasn’t as tense as she had been, Barbossa approached her, moving behind her, his feet on either side of Clothilde’s hips as he bent over Elizabeth, rubbing her back, one hand on her shoulder. She arched up into his touch and trembled. He leaned down by her ear, his voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. “Give me yer knife, don’t be doin’ this. Think a Jack and what was done and why. Y’can’t live with that, y’won’t live with this. Take it from one who knows, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth wanted to lean back and collapse in his strong arms. She wished she wasn’t so drunk; the Captain was right, this wasn’t like her. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” he didn’t hesitate, ran his fingers up and down her spine soothingly, she was settling down. “Be givin’ me the knife, let her go, and come with me. All will be well.”

With a little cough and a sputter, Elizabeth let Clothilde’s head drop back into the sand, turning more into Barbossa and dropping the knife into his waiting hand, wrapping her arms around his neck, tucking her face against his shoulder, as Clothilde slithered out from under them both. She felt so tired, and confused. What had she been doing?

Barbossa dropped to one knee to sit Elizabeth upon it, wrapping one arm around her waist to steady her, looking to Clothilde who eyed him as though she expected him to somehow chastise the woman he now kept against him. Barbossa shot the whore a glare and shook his head. “Can’t, and won’t, hold her forever. Be gone!” Clothilde scurried to her feet, threatening that he’d seen the last of her, but Barbossa didn’t care. He tucked the knife into his belt, put his arm beneath Elizabeth’s legs, and got to his feet, Elizabeth passed out by the time he stood straight. He looked down at her, such an angelic face, but Barbossa rolled his eyes and called for his first mate to join them at the gig and row them back to The Reproach.

She didn’t rouse the entire trip from shore to ship, Barbossa having to hoist her over his shoulder as he climbed the rope ladder to the deck of The Reproach. Elizabeth woke enough for him to stand her on her own feet momentarily upon the deck, thinking maybe she could walk, only to have her fall forward over the rail and heave up the contents of her stomach. Again he rolled his eyes, but then, he had turned her upside down while climbing the ladder. When she stilled and leaned upon the rail gasping, he scooped her up into his arms again, her head falling against his chest, and she snuggled into him. “That best have been all a it, missy.” He muttered, and carried his drunken charge to his cabin.

It suddenly occurred to her that there was no more breeze blowing through her hair. Elizabeth opened her eyes, she was sitting up, well, there was tension on her clothing that kept her sitting up, but she was looking up at ceiling planks. Oh, her head was dropped back, like her neck was useless, but it wasn’t and she lifted her head up again, the cabin spinning out of control. Why weren’t they outside on the beach anymore? “What happened?”

“Y’got into a fight with a whore,” Barbossa answered, pulling off her boots. He’d tried to sound annoyed, but all he could think of was how she’d boldly stated that he belonged to her. Up until now, he’d never considered she might be possessive of him, and it felt rather good. “Defendin’ me honor.”

Funny, she didn’t remember a thing. “Did I win?”

Barbossa laughed, was that her main concern? “Aye, girl, y’won,” he untucked her shirt. “Y’have me, don’t ye?”

She’d won! That made her feel good, even if she still wasn’t sure what was happening, or what had happened. She moved her hand to her belly, as if checking that everything was all right, it was, as long as she kept her mouth shut about it. The Captain knelt in front of her, unbuttoning her shirt. She smiled, leered really, so he wanted that, did he? “I want to be on top this time!” She’d fought and won, why not?

Barbossa laughed. “No,” he said to her, halting his hands for a moment and lifting her chin from her chest where her head had fallen forward. “I think y’d fall off.”

Elizabeth sighed, so quickly exasperated. Was he actually turning her down? He’d never done so before, what was wrong with him? “I am the victor!” She said, her voice slurred, but commanding. “To the victor go the spoils! Spoil me!”

Barbossa sighed, not even a bit tempted, somewhat amused, but again wishing that she’d not done this to herself…and that he hadn’t made her. “Elizabeth, yer drunk.”

She lifted her head up, was quick to get her eyes to focus. She understood that she’d somehow or another won him, to herself, and now she wanted him. “Does that make a difference?” Her voice was level and full, tone seductive, she could see clearly, strained to sit up by herself, perhaps strained a little too much, because everything went black all of a sudden, and she flopped back across the bunk.

“Apparently.” Barbossa sighed, and went about removing her clothes. Oh well, he had that scroll of Tia Dalma’s to begin to decifer.