Chosen Path

Barbossa slammed the cabin door shut behind him and stalked across the deck. It was too late to encounter more than the occasional crew member, and a lucky thing for those who had the sense to stay out of his path.



He stumbled down the stairs past the sleeping crew, and lurched across the deck to the hold. Rum. Where was the rum? He rummaged through their supplies until he found a bottle, and tilted it to his mouth. Empty. He flung the bottle against the wall, setting the glass shattering with a satisfying crash.



Not nearly satisfying enough. He dug through bags of biscuits, kicked a few rats, and swore at the maggots crawling over his boots until he procured another bottle, this one considerably heavier than the first. He ripped the cork out with his teeth and upended the bottle against his lips.



The fiery liquid stung his throat as he gulped it down, lighting a sudden flame deep in his belly. Vile drink. Vile, wretched drink for a vile, wretched woman.



Barbossa sank onto a crate as he swigged the foul stuff. He normally insisted on wine, leaving the rum to the scurvy curs what slept closer to the galley. But tonight, he needed the burn of the hard liquor. If he drank enough of it, maybe he could drive her from his mind.



Her. Elizabeth bloody Swann. The wretched, betraying little harlot who stole his heart and played him for a fool. Again. More rum.



Her voice echoed in his head, mocking him. “I need you, Hector…always be a King to me…you are my choice.” Lies, all lies. The bottle was growing lighter.



She’d always intended to go back to Turner in the end. Manipulative bitch would use him for seven years, make him a father to her children, toy with his heart, offer promises she had no intention of keeping. Then, as soon as Turner came back, walk away like none of it had happened.



Well no more. The last time she had played him for a fool, he’d gotten his revenge. Making her watch while he blew up the ship her little lover boy appeared to be on. Too bad he couldn’t blow up the Dutchman. Stealing her dignity by making her strip before the crew. Stranding her on an island with Sparrow, where no doubt whatever honor she fancied she still had would be lost.



His present options were regrettably more limited. Keel-hauling her was not without its appeal, and marooning remained attractive. But while he was not above hurting her, he would not punish her unborn babe. His unborn babe.



He was going to be a father. He’d been waiting his entire adult life to hear those words. And now they’d been spoken by a woman who’d just left another man’s bed. Damn Calypso and her damn prices. He’d thought Elizabeth’s words were suspicious. How could something he’d always wanted possibly be a price?



Perhaps the price was that he’d know about the babe, know the child existed, but never know him. He’d never hold him, never carry him, wouldn’t watch him grow from a boy into a man. Would the child even know such a man as Barbossa even existed? If they met in twenty years time, would he even know his own son? Did it matter?



It was likely better this way anyway. He hadn’t been a young man in many a year, and while he wagered he had a few years of good pirating ahead of him, the promise of retirement dangled in the not too distant future. A cozy house, a warm, dry bed, enough spoils to keep him in apples till the end of his days. There should have been a woman, a sweet wife by his side, loving him. There wouldn't be.



No, the last thing he needed now was a child. Bad enough Elizabeth had pushed Billy on him. The lad had grown on him, even if he was a bit of a milksop. All Turners were. Elizabeth didn’t know how easy she’d had it. Barbossa chuckled to himself and raised a toast. Give ‘er hell, son.



Barbossa drank to his unborn babe and held the bottle up to the lantern light. It was half-empty already. When had that happened? The alcohol was already blazing through his system. Wine never had so strong an effect, but then, he was accustomed to wine.



Something was moving in the vicinity of the stairs. Something noisy, feet stumbling down stairs, knocking into barrels. Barbossa turned to squint in the darkness, wavering slightly on the crate.



“Bugger. Weren’t this cluttered when I was Captain.”



Barbossa sighed. “Jack Sparrow.”



“Barbossa? What’re you doing down here, mate?”



“My ship. What are you doing here?”



Jack settled down beside Barbossa and accepted the bottle Barbossa hadn’t offered, taking a swig.



“Bloody betraying merchant scum mutinied on me.”



Barbossa couldn’t hold back a hearty laugh. It was a miracle Sparrow managed to maintain Captaincy for any length of time at all. Of course, his first two successful years with the Pearl had been due in no small part to a superb choice of First Mate.



“I don’t see the humor. If good Mister Cotton hadn’t tossed that rope, I’d still be swimming.”



“Or on the Flying Dutchman.” Barbossa snatched his bottle back.



“Ah, yes. Speaking of which...” Jack reached into his pocket and withdrew a key. Barbossa made a grab for it, but Jack held it out of reach. Overbalanced, Barbossa was forced to grip Jack’s shoulder to steady himself. Jack frowned at him. “Easy, man. You alright?”



“Fine.” Barbossa removed his hand and swigged another few mouthfuls. “That the key to the chest?”



“The very same. All you need to do is distract dear Lizzie - shouldn’t be a problem for you - while I scurry inside your cabin, swipe the chest, stab the heart, Robert’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, and Lizzie’s all yours.”



Barbossa cleared his throat. “Might be a problem, ackshully. Ashtully. Dammit.” Why couldn’t he say the damn word? He wasn’t that far gone, was he?



“Why? She don’t like you when you’re three sheets to the wind? Can’t imagine why. You’re much more interesting when you’re in the drink. Unpredictable. Dishonest man though you are.”



Barbossa rolled his eyes. “S’over, Jack. ‘Lizbeth and me...s’over.”



Jack shrugged. “No worries, mate. Soon as I get dear William out of the picture, she’ll change her mind.”



Barbossa shook his head. “Don’t matter. Not her mind to change.”



“You ended things with her? Why the bloody buggering hell would you want to go and do a stupid thing like that for?”



Barbossa snatched the rum away from Jack’s prying fingers and took a long swallow. The bottle was nearly empty. “She fucked Turner, Jack. I can’t abide that.”



“Of course she fucked Turner. It’s what she does. She’ll tell you you’re the moon and the stars to her, bat those pretty eyelashes all over the place, make all kinds of promises she has no intention of keeping, and the minute Turner shows up, she shows her true colors.”



Barbossa gave Jack a sideways glance. Just what exactly had transpired between his erstwhile lover and Sparrow?



“But why care, if she’s sleeping in your bed in between times? More than she ever did fer me.” The corners of Jack’s mouth turned down and he watched Barbossa from the corner of his eye.



“Why care? I like me women to be mine Jack. I’m disinn- dinkl- dishin- don’t like to share.”



“You like your women to be women, with little other requirement. You’d not think on who else she was with were she your whore.”



“S’not a whore.”



Jack shrugged. “Better if she was. Men like you and me, Barbossa, we don’t fall in love. We don’t marry, women don’t love us. They use us for our money, our status, as much as we use them. Take what you can get from Lizzie, and when it’s over, find another woman. One’s the same as another, behind closed doors.”



Barbossa shook his head. “That’s where yer wrong, Jack.” If he focused on every syllable, he could just manage to wrap his mouth around the words. “Every woman’s speshull, but there’s no one like ‘Lizabeth. You know that, Jack, I know yeh know that.”



Jack shrugged again.



Barbossa upended the bottle over his mouth, swallowing the few drops that dripped in. Damn. How was the bottle gone already? “She’s havin’ a baby.”



“‘Course she is. Terribly virile the bloody whelp is, for a eunuch.”



“No, Jack. This one’s mine.”



“Hmm.” Jack clambered over Barbossa towards the rum store. Barbossa would have argued, but another bottle wouldn’t go amiss, even if it required sharing with Jack. Jack procured a bottle and collapsed back down next to him. “Complicates matters a bit, that.”



“Her problem. She wants to fuck Turner, baby’s her problem.”



“Don’t waste your lies on me, Barbossa; I’ve known you too long. You’ve been going on about wantin’ a son from the day I met you. I bet you danced a bloody jig when she told you.”



Barbossa rolled his eyes and reached for the rum. “Proposed.”



Jack choked on his mouthful and handed over the bottle. “You? Asked her to marry you?”



Barbossa shrugged.



“She turned you down.”



“Aye.” What crazed impulse had made him confess that to Jack? Why not let that little moment of humiliation die with him? Rum washed away the bitter sting of rejection, but the pang in his heart refused to yield. “She loves Turner.”



Jack’s lip twitched. “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to not kill the whelp, then, for dear Lizzie’s sake?”



Barbossa felt his lips tug sideways. The irony was not lost on him. “Oh, no. By all means kill the whelp. I’ve half a mind to make her watch yeh do it.”



“Not good, Barbossa.” Jack scratched at his ridiculous beard braids. “No, don’t do that. She won’t be going back to you, mate, if she thinks you were behind this little deception.”



Barbossa released a snarl. “She won’t be comin’ back to me at all! She don’t want me, yeh hear? An’ I don’t want her no more!” Barbossa staggered to his feet, pacing the deck. The seas were unusually rocky tonight. “She lied, Jack. Stabbed me in the back, right in front of me face! She’s an ungrateful slattern, and the sooner I’m rid of her, the better!”



Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Believe it or not, mate, I know exactly what you mean.” Jack shoved something hard into Barbossa’s hand. It was not rum. “Open it.”



Barbossa stared at the object. The bloody compass. The bloody broken compass that did not point north. Barbossa sighed and flipped it open. It spun for a moment, then settled on an area to his left. Odd, considering the rum was to his right. In fact, there was very little to his left except the stairs leading to the deck.



“Hector?” The small voice hovered in the doorway, unmistakable.



“‘Lizabeth.” He snapped the compass shut. “Fuck off. M’not in the mood.”



Jack disappeared in the direction of the voice. “Ignore him, darling, he’s had a few too many. Keep him out of the rum and you’ll be fine.” Jack reappeared to snatch the compass back and secret it away, Elizabeth on his heels.



“Jack? What are you doing here?”



“Was just leaving actually. Attending to some unfinished business with the good Captain.” Barbossa narrowed his eyes at Jack’s hand slapping his back. “And now that it’s finished, I’ll be on my way, and leave you two lovebirds to your onesies. Er, twosies.”



Elizabeth stepped into the lantern light. “Thank you, Jack.”



Jack pitched across the deck and up the stairs. Too late, Barbossa realized he had taken the rum with him. Damn it all. And now the cause of his grief was right bloody here, not leaving. He bent over the crate of rum, already considerably emptier than when he’d first come down.



“Hector? Can we talk?”



“No. Did yeh not hear me? I said leave. Me. Be.” He found a bottle, staggered to his feet, and swallowed down more of the vile liquid. It was beginning to lose its bite.



“Please?” She turned her doe-eyes on him, eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly. Didn’t she realize that had never worked on him? “I can’t accept that this is ending. I can’t.”



Barbossa sank back down onto his crate, not looking at her face, her trembling lips, her twitching fingertips. Fingertips that had been so recently touching Turner, lips that had been kissing Turner’s mouth…gods, where else had she kissed him? Things he’d taught her to do with that mouth…she’d better not have done them to Turner. The bottle shook in his hands. “Shoulda thought of that before yeh fucked Turner. Now shut up and leave me alone before I lock you in the brig, woman!”



Elizabeth fell to her knees before him, loose hair clinging to her cheeks. He suppressed the urge to brush it back. “If that’s what it takes to assuage your ire, so be it. It is no less than I deserve.” Girl was finally talking sense. She laid her hands on his thighs, staring at them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...I can’t have you both, and I shouldn’t have tried. I’m so sorry.”



Barbossa squeezed her cheeks between thumb and forefinger, forcing her face up to meet his. “Lovely Elizabeth. That ain’t near enough for me.”



“Then tell me what is.” Her voice had jumped into its upper register, into that near-squeak that was occasionally endearing and often irritating. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, I swear it, just please, tell me this isn’t over!”



Barbossa cocked his head, watching the woman before him. The urge to strangle her had subsided some. It was nice to hear the high and mighty Elizabeth Swann reduced to begging. Especially at his feet. Maybe a night in the brig wouldn’t do her harm. “You tell me, Miss Swann. What am I worth to you?”



“Everything. Anything! Please.”



Barbossa considered her for a moment, deep eyes wide, lips trembling, fingernails digging into his thighs. Another time, she’d have been beautiful. Fuck, she was beautiful now. Anything? “I might be willing to consider takin’ yeh back. But there be some conditions.”



Elizabeth nodded, a hint of a smile dancing on her lips. “Name them.”



“Three things.” He drew her up into his lap and she curled against him, winding her arms around his neck. She was warm and soft against him, her hair was corn silk on his cheek. He slid an arm around her waist, resting his hand on her abdomen. “First, the child. Call him Barbossa.”



He felt Elizabeth’s nod against his neck. “Done.”



“Second. We get married.”



Elizabeth hesitated a moment. Barbossa was not the sort of man who took to begging. She had said no once; he would not ask again. He was not asking her for her hand now, but demanding it, as a condition. A matter of negotiation. There was no reason for his breath to hitch in anticipation of her answer.



Elizabeth spoke slowly. “I’d not be the first English King to end one marriage so that I might begin another.” Her fingernails played against the back of his neck. His arms tightened around her ever so slightly. Just say yes. “But I think I owe it to Will to tell him first. Would you mind terribly if we waited? Just until I can see Will again, so I can tell him?”



She was in no position to be setting terms. But it wouldn’t matter; if she accepted his third condition, she would be his, completely, solely, forever. His wife, and unlike that fool Turner, he’d never let her go. “No need fer that.”



“Why?”



Only a woman with true pirate blood would even consider his third condition. She just might have the constitution for it. Only one way to find out. “Condition the third.” He turned Elizabeth on his knee around to face him, forcing her eyes to his. “Kill him.”



Elizabeth scrambled off his lap, jaw nearly hitting the floor as she did so. “What?”



“Yeh heard me. Give the child my name. Take it yerself as well, when we’re wed. Kill Turner.”



Elizabeth took a step back, shaking her head. “You bastard.”



Damn. He’d been so sure, she’d killed Sparrow after all…but then he’d been wrong about her blood before. “Those be me terms. Take ‘em, or leave me the hell alone.”



For a long moment, the only sound was Elizabeth’s breathing, hard and heavy. She breathed like that sometimes, lying beneath him, when he fucked her hard, the way she liked it. Did she breathe like that for Turner? Did the boy even know how she liked it? Barbossa opened his throat to more rum. Was she still here?



“I couldn’t kill him, you know. Not even if I wanted to.” Elizabeth’s breathing had quieted and her voice was soft, back in its normal register. “He can’t die, Hector, not unless I were to stab his heart, and then I’d be the Dutchman’s Captain, and you couldn’t marry me, and the child would never be born. So your little plan is inherently flawed.”



Oh, she wanted to play, did she? Good. He had the trump card this time. He’d played the villain with her before; time again to remind her what happened to those who crossed Hector Barbossa. Barbossa leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles, offering her a slow, sinister smile.



“Turner’s heart is locked in its little box. Where be the key, I wonder?”



Elizabeth turned her head just slightly, eyes not leaving his. “With Will.”



“Are yeh quite certain of that?”



Elizabeth’s answer caught in her throat. He could see her mind piecing together the facts as she knew them to come up with the inevitable conclusion. “Jack?” Her voice was breathy.



Barbossa said nothing. She stumbled backwards, then started for the stairs. Barbossa staggered after her, almost missing the top step as he struggled to keep up. His bad leg smarted, and the rum addled his balance more than he cared to admit.



He grabbed her arm when she reached the upper deck, but she easily shrugged him off and sprinted for the cabin. It took all his focus to reach the door as she tugged it open, and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her against himself as the door swung shut behind them.



Jack stood at the table, chest closed before him. Barbossa saw the key in the lock, and a small dagger on the table beside the chest. Elizabeth struggled in his arms.



“Let go of me! You right bastard, let me go! Jack!”



“Oh, don’t yeh be cryin’ to him, Missy.” Barbossa hissed in her ear. “You betrayed him too, don’t think he’s forgotten. Yer going to watch this.”



Barbossa kept one arm wrapped around her midsection, the other higher, against her throat, keeping her face towards Jack. The slightest motion and he could choke her.



“Lizzy...” Jack’s eyes roved over Elizabeth’s body, still wriggling in his arms. She scratched and bit, kicking backwards at his shins, but Barbossa held strong.



“Jack, please, don’t do this. Please!”



“Go on, Jack.”



The key turned in the lock and Jack lifted the lid of the chest. For a moment, the only sound was the steady thumping of Will Turner’s heart.



“Hector.” Elizabeth’s voice was laced with unshed tears. “Please, if you ever loved me, you won’t let him do this.”



“An’ if you e’er loved me, yeh’d not have gone to Turner today. If you’ve any thought yeh want me back, ye’ll be still and see what happens to those what betray me.”



Elizabeth released a sob. “I hate you.”



He should have hated her back. But something within him was breaking with every word she spoke.



“S’a funny thing, holding someone’s life in your hands.” Jack had turned his attention back to the heart, holding it in two hands. “Holding the key to your own life eternal.”



“You don’t need to do that, Jack! You’ve got the charts, we’ll go to the Fountain! Jack, you can live forever that way.” Elizabeth refused to stay still in his arms.



“Ah, Lizzie, that’s where you’re wrong, love. The Fountain of Youth restores a man, or a woman, it’s true. But it won’t keep you young forever. You’d have to keep going back, and that’s risky. This, though, the Dutchman. That’s eternal life, that’s guaranteed.”



“Until someone comes along to rob you of it! Will you let go of me?”



Elizabeth’s elbow connected ferociously with Barbossa’s chest. “Oof!” He pressed his arms tighter around hers. “No. Shut up. Jack, carry on.”



“No! Jack, listen to me! There’s a job to do on the Dutchman. It might be eternal life, but you wouldn’t be free, Jack. You’d be bound to the duty, have you forgotten that? Isn’t it better to live a single, mortal lifetime free than an eternity in servitude?”



Jack cocked his head. “You know, Hector, she does make a good point.”



Barbossa moved his hand up to cover her mouth. She bit at his hand, but he tilted her head back, pressing it against his chest, and she finally quieted her motion. “Shut it, Elizabeth. A mortal life means back to the locker with you in a few short years, Jack. Is that what you want?”



Jack’s fingers danced along his chin. “I don’t want to go back to the locker.”



“Mmph! Mmph mmm mph!” Elizabeth’s teeth made another move for his palm.



“You going to let her speak?”



“No - ow! Bitch!” Elizabeth’s heel connected with his bad knee at just the right place to knock him halfway to the ground and she wrested herself from his grip.



“There is no locker! Jack - ”



“Wha’s that?”



Three heads turned abruptly to see Billy, hand in hand with Jack the monkey, cocking his head wide-eyed at Sparrow. At Barbossa’s nod, his Jack left the lad’s side to leap onto Barbossa’s shoulder, earning a scratch behind the ears.



Elizabeth and Sparrow still stared dumbly at the boy. With a roll of his eyes, Barbossa spoke up. “Go back to bed, boy.”



“Don’t you talk to my son!”



“Our son.”



“My son, you lying, mutinous, betraying bastard!” Elizabeth’s whirled on Barbossa, hand flying for his face. He caught her wrist and snarled at her. He didn’t like to raise his hand against women. But once again, this one pressed his limits.



“Momma, what is it?” Billy had managed to ignore his mother’s traitorous ramblings and instead moved slowly towards Jack, fixated on the heart in Jack’s hands. For his part, Jack stared just as wide-eyed back at the lad.



Elizabeth hurried to her son’s side. “It’s a heart. It’s your father’s heart.” Elizabeth looked to Jack. “Will’s heart. Not that monster Davy Jones’s.”



“Can I see?”



Billy held his hands up to Jack, who pulled the heart closer to his chest. “Mine.”



“Jack.”



Barbossa watched, frowning as something unspoken seemed to transpire between Jack and Elizabeth. Jack wrinkled his nose and held the heart out to Billy.



“Gently, darling.” Billy took the heart in his grubby hands and held it at arms length.



“Aah!” He jumped back, laughing. “It’s moving!”



“Yes, it’s alive.”



Billy laughed again. “Daddy, come see!”



Daddy? Jack mouthed the word at him.



Barbossa rolled his eyes. “Can see from here, lad.”



“Daddy, do we kill it?”



Barbossa grinned. Clever, clever lad his son was. Even if he wasn’t really Barbossa’s son. No Turner would think of killing first. Too bad the Dutchman wouldn’t do well to have a three year old in command. He’d likely be a fair sight better than the current Captain.



“Billy!” Elizabeth bent down to her son’s level. “Of course you can’t kill it. Whatever would give you that idea?”



“We kill fishes. An’ maggots.”



“That’s because fish are for eating! Hearts aren’t for eating, we don’t kill them!”



“Oh.” Billy frowned. “What’s it for?”



Elizabeth stroked her son’s hair. “It’s for loving, Billy. Your father gave it to me because he loves me.”



“An’ he has yours?”



“Well, no, actually, he doesn’t. I still have my own heart.” Did she now? Wretched woman. Would she never acknowledge him? Would she never give him her heart?



“Oh.” Billy looked back at the heart and frowned. “It feels funny.”



“Why don’t we put it away?” Elizabeth took the chest from the table and held it open before the lad. “Here, put it in here.”



Billy nodded and dropped the heart into its box, Jack’s hands wavering over him all the while. Elizabeth snapped the lid shut, turned the key, and pocketed it, tucking the chest under her arm.



“Come on Billy. We’ll sleep with the crew tonight.”



“Nooo!” Billy broke into whining tears, and Barbossa suddenly found himself released from his apparent paralysis. He snatched Elizabeth’s arm as she attempted to brush past him, Jack hissing at her from his shoulder.



Elizabeth frowned at the monkey. “I thought we were friends.” Jack turned his back on her and curled his tail around Barbossa’s neck. That’s me good boy.



“Fine, if that’s the way of things.” Elizabeth’s eyes flashed up at Barbossa’s. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, and he could feel the heat of her body invading the small space between them. Once he’d have closed that space, reclaimed her with lips and hands and slick bodies, reminded her why she’d come to him in the first place. But that time was past.



“Aye, that be the way of things.” His hand still squeezed her arm, fingernails pressing half-moons into her bicep.



“Let go. You’re hurting me.” Hurt? She knew nothing of hurt. His hand trembled as he clung to her for a second longer, then released her, shoving her towards the door.



“Get out. Get out of me cabin, and stay out.”



Elizabeth’s mouth set in a firm line. “Don’t worry. I’ll never come back in here again.” Chest and son in hand, Elizabeth stormed from the cabin, door banging into place behind her.



And she was gone. Had she been his fiancée, even briefly? Did it matter? She wasn’t anymore. And with her went the boy he’d come to think of as his own son. And the child who actually was his, who would have his blood. The child he’d wanted, his entire life, gone, lost to him.



And all that was left was Jack. “What the blazes happened, Sparrow?”



Jack sank into Barbossa’s chair at the table. “Dunno…everything was going fine until she showed up. Told you not to make her watch.”



Oh that was just perfect. On top of everything, he was going to have to listen to Sparrow’s judgment? “Shut up.”



“And then the kid started looking all google-eyed at me.”



“I said shut up.”



“You sure he ain’t your kid, Barbossa?”



Barbossa drew his pistol. “You too. Out.” Sparrow curled his lip, but didn’t move. Barbossa advanced on him, gesturing with his pistol towards the door. “Out! Before I shoot yeh!” Sparrow finally scrambled out of the chair, swaying towards the door.



“Alright, alright.” The corners of Sparrow’s mouth turned down. “Used to be my cabin.”



Barbossa marched Sparrow to the door, pistol against his back. Jack squirmed himself around to face Barbossa, fingers waggling. “Maybe we could share – ”



“Barbossa!” Barbossa met Jack’s eyes. The third voice invading their conversation from outside the cabin was not Elizabeth’s.



“Barbossa you damnable bastard, come out and fight me like a man!” He heard the gunshot and cocked his own pistol. The voice was familiar, but he hoped he was wrong. He was tired, he was full of rum and anger and sorrow, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed and make the world disappear.



But the world, evidently, disagreed.



“He’s looking for you, mate.” Sparrow clapped Barbossa on the arm and ducked behind him. “I’m stayin’ in here.”



Coward. Barbossa flung open his cabin door. “Turner.”



“Barbossa, you lying bastard! Where’s the key?”



It was too much. His pistol was loaded, Turner stood before him. The shot rang out before he could stop to consider what it was he was doing. The bullet reached its target, but Will only glanced down at his chest.



“What’s in your head, Barbossa? It doesn’t matter how many shots you have, I still can’t die.” Turner had the audacity to laugh as Barbossa pulled his sword. “It won’t do any good, Barbossa.”



“Does me plenty good.” He lunged for Turner’s gut, but the lad parried and side-stepped him.



And with that, he was crossing blades with Turner. Barbossa slashed at him, growling and roaring at the lad, but the whelp remained unfazed. Jack, the brave one, clambered from Barbossa’s shoulder into the rigging to watch the action, waiting for the opportune moment.



Barbossa let Turner advance on him, then pushed back, until he drove the boy against the rail. With a shriek, Jack pounced then, landing on Turner’s head and blinding him. Barbossa took advantage to plunge his sword into the boy’s gut with a fierce “arrgh,” timed to coincide with Jack’s retreat for maximum effect.



“Give it up, lad. I’m better than ye.” That might not have been precisely true, but if Turner believed him, it would undermine his confidence and become the truth.



“Maybe. Maybe not. But I still have the advantage.” Will leaned back against the rail and kicked at Barbossa’s midsection, sending him and his sword lunging back. “I can’t die. You can.”



“Can’t kill yeh, s’true. But I can still do yeh some damage.” Barbossa swung for Turner’s arm. Would it sever, if he sliced through it?



“Where’s the key?”



Barbossa ducked a blow just in time. Why had he drunk so damn much rum? “Don’t look at me, boy. I don’t want any part of that curse.” Barbossa spun around, catching Turner’s blade against his own, using their brief deadlock to leer into his eyes. “You get to see Elizabeth once every ten years. I get to see her every day in between.”



“You dare impugn her honor? Elizabeth would never look twice at the likes of you!” Damn, but the boy was wearing him out. Maybe it was the rum, maybe it was just that he wasn’t accustomed to fighting an opponent who couldn’t be beat. How long had this duel been going on? And where the blazes was Sparrow?



Turner picked up his pace, and Barbossa found himself back against the stairs. He put everything he had into forcing Turner back, but every step forward was countered and pushed back twofold. At last, Barbossa caught his foot on the stair, his knee gave out, and he found his neck meeting the tip of Turner’s blade.



“Yeh don’t want to be doin’ that, boy.”



A menacing grin spread over Turner’s face. “No, I really think I do.”



“Not part of the job. Yeh want to go the way of Jones?”



Turner’s eyes blazed, the tip of the blade trembled against Barbossa’s neck. Would this be his end? Truly? Felled by the blade of a bleedin’ Turner? No, he couldn’t bear that. Barbossa mustered the last remaining bit of strength he had, his last desperate chance to escape the rage of this misguided son of a traitorous cur.



He never got the chance.



* * *





Elizabeth found a hammock to hang in the galley, and tucked Billy into it, but found sleep escaped her, despite the late hour. She clutched the chest to herself, pressing her ear against it. The key hung cold and heavy against her heart. Elizabeth cursed her wayward heart.



Had she ever believed herself to love Barbossa? She had thought so, she’d said so. She never should have said it, though, not to him. That traitorous, mutinous bastard who would force Jack to do his dirty work, and force her to watch…he was cruel, ruthless, vicious and wretched. And, the small voice in her head couldn’t help pointing out, that was exactly what had attracted her to him in the first place.



He was a pirate to his core, brilliant in his schemes, formidable at the helm or by sword. When he was loud, crude, and raucous, he made her laugh. When he was quiet and tender, he made her tremble. When he fought at her side, she was never prouder. He put all of himself into everything he did, holding nothing back, whether driving the ship into the heart of nature’s fury, battling enemy after enemy, or falling in love.



Or breaking her heart.



She had erred, true enough, but his punishment was far disproportionate to her crime. It was only natural that she would be glad to see Will after so many years. Even were he not her husband, they’d been friends for so long, and she had missed him terribly. She’d been glad to see Jack, too, and Hector hadn’t been unhappy. Of course, she hadn’t visited Jack in his cabin.



But Will was her husband, and it had been so terribly long, and Hector hadn’t lately been able to…but that wasn’t his fault, of course. And it was hardly an excuse to run to another man’s arms. But she had apologized, cried, begged, and he still saw fit to force her to watch her husband’s brutal murder. Cruel, heartless bastard.



And yet, the moment her son, who he’d insisted was their son, appeared, he’d dropped every threat. Elizabeth’s hand strayed over her abdomen. Could he be a father to this child? Would he? Could she let him be?



No, she couldn’t let him near this child. He was too volatile, and what sort of example was he already setting for her son? Billy held something wondrous in his hands and wanted to kill it? There was only one man whose influence that could be.



For the umpteenth time that day, Elizabeth wiped tears from her eyes. If only she could have stayed with Will. Will would have loved her and their children, been so dedicated and devoted.



Hector…had been so good to her, and to the child who wasn’t his. She’d betrayed him, betrayed that kindness, but his betrayal had been far crueler. She hated him, truly, every traitorous bone in his body. So why couldn’t she push him from her mind?



There was some commotion on deck. No doubt due to Jack’s presence. Elizabeth cocked her head. The other sailors still swung soundly in their hammocks. Someone snored, another muttered softly in her sleep. But none made any moves towards wakefulness, and she hadn’t heard a shout for all hands.



Elizabeth put the chest down and stood up. That was definitely Hector’s shouting. Perhaps Jack was challenging him over the failed assassination attempt on her husband. Good, maybe Jack would shoot him again. It would be better if he died, properly, and stayed that way. Elizabeth ground her teeth and listened to the clash of swords above her.



Yes, Jack, she thought, go on, kill him. Get him and his false pledges of loyalty, his vicious lies, his fiery kisses out of her life forever. Will was right, she should have waited on land. But with Hector dead and gone, she would never have to think about him again. Never have to think about why she had agreed to marry him. Why she had nearly condemned Will to an eternity of service to Calypso. Why the child who grew in her belly was a Barbossa, and not a Turner. Or why she was so eager to meet the babe.



Why were her cheeks wet again? She had probably cried more this day than she had since Will’s death. She wiped the tears away, grudgingly admitting to herself that perhaps she did not want Hector dead. She could hurt him more if he lived.



Elizabeth hauled herself up the stairs to take stock of the situation on deck. She hated him right now, hated him more than she’d ever hated Jack Sparrow, but the sight of him sprawled against the stairs, sword at his neck sent her heart to her throat. If he was to die, it would be by her hands. He wasn’t going to die.



It was dark, the moon barely a sliver, but she saw no other crew on deck. The man wielding the sword wouldn’t be crew, and wasn’t Jack…perhaps a stowaway merchant out for revenge? Elizabeth’s hand strayed to her pistol as she stalked silently across the deck. No, she couldn’t trust it, it was too dark, and if she missed her shot, she’d hit Hector.



In one motion, she grabbed a handful of the merchant’s hair and laid her knife blade against his throat. She hissed in the man’s ear. “If you harm one hair on his head, I swear I will tear your throat out with my bare hands and leave you to the mercy of the sea.”



His sword lowered, Hector rose slowly, rubbing his neck, and the fog from Elizabeth’s mind lifted. It had been some trick of the moonlight, perhaps, that had blinded her to the swordsman’s identity. She hadn’t needed to hear him speak to know him, but when he did, she felt her world crash around her head.



“I am the sea.”



“Will.” Her knife clattered on the deck and her chest constricted; she couldn’t breathe. What had she done? What had she nearly done?



“What the hell is going on, Elizabeth?” Will twisted in her arms and pushed her back against the rail. “Are you in league with him? Against me?”



“No! I didn’t know it was you!” How could she have known it would be Will? He wasn’t supposed to be here, why was he here? “What are you doing here?”



“Where’s the key?”



There was only one key. Elizabeth’s hand went to her breast where the key hung. She felt Hector’s gaze boring through her, a quick glance over Will’s shoulder confirmed it. The truth would damn him, damn them all.



“It’s right here.” Elizabeth tugged the key from around her neck and pressed it into Will’s hand. “There’s nothing going on. When we left your cabin, you left it on the nightstand. I took it so it wouldn’t be unattended, then forgot to give it back. That’s all.”



Will shook his head, tucking the key away. “Elizabeth. Did you have to pick this ship?”



“What other ship would I choose?”



Will leaned forward, hands gripping the rail on either side of her. “Any one that doesn’t have Barbossa or Jack on it!” Elizabeth leaned back from his bared teeth, and Will drew himself back up, mopping his brow. “I know you have to live your life. But I haven’t forgotten what happened the last time I left you alone with Jack.”



Elizabeth folded her arms. “Jack’s not been with us.”



Will nodded slowly. “So it’s Barbossa now.”



Elizabeth’s gaze slid sideways towards Hector, now leaning against the rail of the stairs. “No.” Hector’s eyes flicked up, barely visible by starlight, to meet hers. “It’s not Barbossa now.”



Will grabbed her arm, eyes flashing wildly between Elizabeth and Barbossa. “No? Because that was quite the impassioned speech you gave for someone you don’t – ”



“I don’t love him!” Elizabeth rose to her tiptoes, hands balling at her sides as her shout hung in the still air.



Will dropped her arm and moved across her line of sight to stand beside her, staring towards the invisible horizon. Perhaps not invisible to him. His hands slid along the rail. “I never said you did.”



Elizabeth folded her arms, her back to Will’s horizon. “Good, because I don’t.”



“Good.” Somehow, his voice didn’t match the word he spoke.



Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “You don’t trust me.”



“Should I?” He looked back at her, his face a mask of frozen emotion.



Elizabeth closed her eyes and forced a breath. The burden she bore in her womb felt suddenly very heavy. “I think you know the answer to that.” When she opened her eyes, Will was staring back out to sea, hands restless on the rail. She covered one with her own. “I’ll be there for our day. I can promise that much.”



Will’s head sagged for a moment. “The chest. Is it safe?”



Elizabeth nodded. “Yes.” It was now, at least, with the key in Will’s hands. “It’s safe, that much I can promise.” She squeezed his hand. “And I do miss you.”



Will turned at last, brushed her cheek with his palm, and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. “Duty calls. Be well, Elizabeth Swann.”



Elizabeth blinked. “I thought I was Elizabeth Turner.”



“So did I.”



Elizabeth shook as his hand fell from her face. “I will be there. I promise. I won’t see you doomed, not if I can still save you.”



Will nodded, face unmoving, and faded from the deck of the Pearl onto the Dutchman in the distance. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around herself, forcing a few deliberate breaths. It was far too late into the night, and she felt the need for solitude and sleep overwhelming. Before she could reach the stairs, though, she felt a hand on her shoulder.



“Yer a little liar.”



She shrugged out of Hector’s grasp. “I’m still angry with you.”



“Then why’d ye lie? Why not tell ‘im the truth of the matter?”



Elizabeth whirled around to face him. “Because I may be angry, but I don’t want you dead!”



“How very altruistic of yeh.” Barbossa sneered, hand on his hip straying over his wound. He was strongly favoring his left leg and his shoulders slumped as he swayed on the deck. He was overexerting himself again, forgetting that he was not a young man anymore, and injured on top of it. He wouldn’t want to hear it though, so Elizabeth bit her tongue.



“You might thank me.”



“For?”



“Saving your life!”



“Bah!” Barbossa turned away, grabbing a rope for support. “Had complete control o’er the sitchu- sid-” He closed his eyes and set his jaw.



“Situation?”



“Aye.”



Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Yes you are the picture of control right now. A little less rum, Captain.”



Barbossa’s face leaned into hers. “Yeh givin’ me orders?”



“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” His lip curled up. He stank of rum and sweat, and hovered far too close to her. Not so long ago, she’d have kissed him. Whatever had possessed her to kiss him, ever? She snapped her parted lips together and turned her back to him again. “Are we quite finished here?”



She heard his long sigh behind her. “Aye. I do believe that be the case.”



His footsteps faded as he walked away, cabin door clicking behind him. Elizabeth eased herself down to the galley, finding her hammock and crawling into it. She couldn’t cry anymore. Shouldn’t want to. It was over. Will had seen the truth of her heart, and Hector didn’t want her anymore. Not that she wanted him either.



She couldn’t cry anymore, and wouldn’t and didn’t. Not a single tear for Will, not another sob for Hector. No tears for her fatherless children, for Billy who would lose the only father he’d known, and the unborn, who would never know his father at all. And certainly, she didn’t cry for herself, for her many missteps, grievous errors, unforgivable betrayals. So the wetness on her cheeks and hands and blankets was surely seawater, or mist, or anything but tears. Because Elizabeth Swann could stand on her own, without Will, without Hector, and she would be just fine. Everything was just fine.



No. She did not cry at all.