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ANY PORT
BY: BarbG*** "Mr. Turner." Will froze where he stood on the walls. They hadn’t been maintained through the years. Maybe once they would have withstood cannon blasts, but now the crumbling stones would do little to stem the tide of the battle. "Mr. Turner, I am speaking to you." Will turned. "Captain Andrews," he said, forcing a tight smile that would have almost passed for a genuine one. Andrews had taken a dislike to him on sight, almost eight months ago when he arrived in St. Kitts. "I didn’t hear you." "Yes, well, that was why I was shouting towards the end there, Mr. Turner." Will waited. So did Andrews. For the longest moment they stood on the catwalks, waiting. Andrews broke down first. "What are you doing up here, Mr. Turner?" "Walking, Captain Andrews." Andrews was getting annoyed with him. Will had come back to his little hovel with a purple bruise growing across his ribs from when Andrews had ‘accidentally’ thrown him down a flight of stairs the week before and a lump on the back of his skull from another ‘bump’ the week before. "I think it best for you to return to your master, now, Mr. Turner. There is no need for an apprentice to be on the walls at this hour." Will stepped back as Andrews stepped forward, probably avoiding another accident, and Andrews let him pass. He did go back to the smithy, letting himself into the locked room, and for a moment, the smell of the forge and the metal let him forget that it wasn’t his smithy, nor even his work his own. But it was a place to sleep, and he supposed he should be grateful for it. Instead of sleeping he stoked the forge and took down his latest project. He rubbed the back of his neck, doing little but grinding the dirt further into his skin. It had been a long time since he could remember feeling clean. The heat of the summer day hadn’t subsided, and the moon itself seemed to sweat. Not that he would know. It had been weeks since he’d looked up. If he closed his eyes, but for a moment, he could still feel the ship cutting through the water and the chill of the spray that kept back the heat. The ship, with its sails following the same graceful line as a woman’s back, flying over the water like the sea-birds skimming the surface. This ground never moved. It lay dead under the soles of his boots, passive and heavy. He didn’t look up, the stars and the moon looked too far away on land. On the sea, they were but a hair’s breath away from the edge of the world. The sword in his hand responded to the blows of the hammer even with his mind disengaged. The metal had reached the delicate, fragile state and if he continued to work on it, it would shatter in his hands. It was a beautiful thing, heavy and matched to its owner. A sword worthy of nobility, and yet the work on the hilt was as delicate and minute. "You, boy!" The door to the forge slammed shut. Will, without turning around raised the hammer and shattered the blade into a hundred pieces. They fell, sharp as sudden death, to his feet. "You fool!" Gunter snapped. "Was that the Admiral’s sword?" "Yes," Will said, after a moment’s thought. "It was." "You’ll just start over again," Gunter said. He was twice as broad as Will was across the chest, heavy meaty fists attached to heavy, meaty arms, and the glowing metal in his hands lacked the breath of life it required to become something joyous in its own right. It was really quite a miracle to everyone involved that he suddenly began producing amazing working. "I don’t think so," Will said. He rubbed the back of his neck again, grit on grit making his skin more sensitive. Gunter grabbed his shirt, pulling him closer, and the smell of Gunter’s breath made Will turn his face away. "I would let go of me if I were you," he said. "Or you would do what, exactly, Runt?" Gunter growled. Will smiled. The ground was starting to move again. He snapped his head forward, butting Gunter in the forehead. Gunter stepped back, pulling Will down with him, but Will braced himself against the falling body and flipped himself over to land on his feet as Gunter fell behind him. He turned, placing his boot on Gunter’s chest, and leaned, just a little bit more than he had to for an added touch of emphasis. "If I were you, I would never touch me again," Will said, speaking slowly to keep the anger from his voice. It took every ounce of preservation he had not to let his emotions show through his bland mask. Gunter groaned. Will pressed down harder. He felt the man’s clavicle under the ball of his foot, and it wouldn’t take much to snap the collarbone. "You’re finished, boy. Do you think I don’t know what’s under that leather? You work for me because you had no where else to go, and I’ll make sure--" Will looked around. The smithy didn’t even have a proper bellows, and he wouldn’t miss the closed little space. "Make sure of what, Gunter? If it is true what you think of me, then why should I let you live?" Gunter’s eyes widened. Will let him dangle for a moment, seeing the sweat pop up on the wide face, and then stepped away. "Fortunately for you, it is not true," Will said. He walked over to the water bucket and poured a ladleful over his head. The sweat running into his eyes stung them for a moment and he licked the droplets from his lips as Gunter pulled himself back onto his feet. He moved behind him, Will’s back muscles tensing under the sudden exposure, but Will brought the ladle back down to the bucket and pulled up another scoop. He offered it to Gunter. Gunter snatched it from him, but their fingers didn’t touch. He threw the ladle back at Will. "Get out of here." Will grabbed his things and was gone. The night air on the edge of the sea, where the water touched the sky and the moon shone from both, calmed him. He took a deep breath, feeling the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore as a melody. He kept to the wet sand line, and turned when he heard the scuffle behind him. Two men shadowed him, albeit not very well, and Will found himself welcoming the opportunity. "Hello!" he called. The two men stopped. Will motioned them forward. "You’ve come this far. You might as well attempt to surprise me. I’m willing enough." The two men conversed, heads together with drunken seriousness, but the second man shook his head. They paused a moment, and turned around and headed back to town. Will called after them, his voice echoing against the trees, but they left him alone and unsatisfied. The knot settled in his lower belly, burning like something sexual, and he followed them. The streets were deceptively empty, but Will hung to the edges of the buildings. Real danger lurked in the shadows and alleys, but it only soaked the knot inside him with seawater. He heard the shouts and metal on metal, and his sword was out and ready. The two men who had shadowed him on the beach had cornered a boy. Others had come from the shadows to feast on the remains, and Will pushed past them. The battle was over before Will even fell in his stride, but it left one man with tendons severed in his wrist and the other bleeding badly from a gnash across his shoulder. They ran off, bleeding into the street, and Will turned around as the rest of the bottom-feeders slipped back into the darkness. “He’s yours, mate," he heard one of them say. The boy he had just rescued didn’t look all that grateful on the initial pass over. He flinched as Will wiped his blade off. "You have nothing to fear from me," Will said. The boy was young enough that the peach fuzz on his cheek didn’t hide the blotchy skin. "You must come!" the boy said, tugging on Will’s sleeve. He pulled Will down the alley, about half way, until they reached a man crumpled up with the garbage against the side of the wall. The wound on the big man was superficial but bloody enough to stain his shirt. Will helped the stranger to his feet. "Forgive me. They caught us unaware," he managed, holding the wound tightly. "You shouldn’t be down here," Will said. He kept his voice flat. The stranger smiled, though it was pained. "You need not tell me that, my good man. We took a wrong turn from the wharfs and found ourselves in a very unsavoury locale." "Next time pay the lantern boy a ha’shilling to take you back to your room and it won’t happen," Will said. "Could you... we would be willing to pay." Will thought about it for a heartbeat. A year ago it would have never occurred to him not to help them, but he found himself wondering what would be in it for him. He shook his head. "I would be glad to," he said. The stranger smiled at him. The rooms the man had rented were not located too far from the wharfs, but very far from where Will had found him. He wondered what matter of man would press forward through even worse territory in order to convince himself he wasn’t lost. "They came upon us suddenly. They didn’t give us time to defend ourselves," the man said. "Men of low quality so rarely do," Will said. His ironic tone was apparently lost on the man. They passed into the respectable part of town, to one of the inns on the main town’s street. Will didn’t enter the premises, even with the invitation. He heard a familiar voice behind him, and turned to see Gunter with the night watch, walking quickly past the inn. Will looked away, frozen on his spot, but they didn’t see him. Gunter slapped his wrist, right where Will’s brand would have been. They walked past, and Will caught the stranger watching him. "We sail at dawn. I have use of a sword such as yours," the man said. Inside the inn, servants bustled with packs and a carriage pulled up to the gate and waited. He still heard the guardsmen voices echoing off the buildings. "At dawn, you say?" "Yes, and you are most welcome." Will offered his hand. "Will Turner," he said, watching the man for any reaction to the name at all, but his face remained pleasantly bland. "Bruce MacDougall. The second son of a second son, I’m afraid. But welcome to my service." *** The journey to the docks passed comfortably in the interior of a carriage. Will stopped just shy of the gang-plank. "What manner of ship is this?" he asked. "The _Kyte_ is a good merchant vessel, I assure you," he said. Will looked up to the British flag snapping in the wind, and back to the man. "I believe you," he said. "God help us all." # Being on a ship without working on it felt odd to Will. MacDougall made it clear he wasn’t expected to work, but neither did he seem to need a hired sword on a private ship, which left him with very little else to do. MacDougall seemed to want a companion more than a servant. "You don’t talk much about yourself," MacDougall finally said one evening. Will looked up. He had been sitting at the windowsill of MacDougall’s private cabin, staring at his hands, and the voice calling to him almost annoyed him. He bit back the anger. "Pardon me, sir?" Bruce leaned back from his meal. "You’ve been sitting with me here for over two weeks, and I have yet to know anything about you. You’re well spoken enough, but you say nothing when you speak." "I’m a blacksmith," Will said. "A blacksmith," MacDougall said. His eyebrow raised. "And what were you doing in the taverns in the low part of the city?" "I didn’t say I was a very good one," he lied. "Ah. And your father?" A longer sort of pause. "He was a merchant sailor." MacDougall nodded as though he didn’t believe him, probably because, if Will thought about it, the man didn’t believe him. "And those guards?" "It was a misunderstanding," Will said. "As guards so often make," MacDougall said, mimicking him. "I am a blacksmith," Will said, holding out his hands. His calluses were again thick and proud against his fingers and palms. Bruce looked down at them, more calluses than what a sword would leave, and grunted. "Those are an honest man’s hands," Bruce said, finally. Will curled his fingers up into fists and let them fall by his sides. "They are." "And the rest of you?" "I’ve made mistakes," Will said. "And what is under that leather you always wear?" Will stood up. MacDougall did as well, but they were on a ship and there were very few places to run even if he did want to. He didn’t speak. MacDougall stood between him and the door, so even walking out wasn’t an option. "Those guardsmen were looking for pirates, were they not?" Will took a step sideways. "I told you, I’m a blacksmith." "Not a pirate." "No." "Do you forget the face of every man you have threatened?" MacDougall asked. "My last crossing, a year ago, you overran my ship. I remember you--you’re Jack Sparrow’s little bird." Will felt his cheeks heat up. "If you thought you knew who I was, then why invite me here?" he asked. MacDougall smiled, and all traces of his bland exterior had vanished. "You don’t go hunting without bait, dear boy." "You’re hunting Jack?" Will asked, unable to control the startle in his voice. "I am." Will laughed. "Then it was good to know you." The long nines exploded from the side of the ship, rattling the wine glasses almost off the table. Will jumped to the window, but the ocean was clear and empty from that side of the ship. "You said this was a merchant vessel," Will said. "And you believed me?" Will bowed his head for a brief instant. "Jack?" he asked. His back was to MacDougall, but the skin on his neck was sensitive to any movement from the man. "No, some lower scum, but we need them." "Let me fight. I--" "That’s not going to happen. Stay in here. Needless to say, I have men posted outside the door, and they would be itching to stretch the neck of pirate scum. I wouldn’t tempt them with one so fine." Cannon balls whizzed overhead, and being locked in the room with the sounds of swords against swords was almost unbearable. Men screamed and died around him, but he couldn’t see the battle. Heavy footfalls occasionally ran up and down the passageway, but as none of them tried the doors, he could only assume that the pirates weren’t winning. He paced, and paced again until the small room seemed to close in around him. The battle continued as pink light streaked across the sky, and then the only sounds were from the wounded groaning from the deck. MacDougall opened the door himself. His fine white shirt had been stained the darkest red from a man’s heart, but he himself looked uninjured. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me?" he asked. His sword, not clean either, pointed to Will. Will heard the crackling of flames before feeling the heat from the fire against his cheeks. The ship, much smaller than the _Kyte_ lay burning as it sank, and the remains of its crew stood in a bedraggled line watching it. Sailors stood watching them, holding their long rifles and bayonets on the pirates. "Does anyone here know Jack Sparrow?" MacDougall called. No one answered him. MacDougall went to the front of the line. "You, man, do you know Jack Sparrow?" The man shook his head without saying a word. MacDougall nodded to his man standing by his elbow, and rather than shooting the poor soul, the sailor ran the pirate through. The man fell back, going over the railing, and Will saw the large dorsal fin rising just behind the flailing body. "And you? Do you know Jack Sparrow?" The man shook his head as well, holding out his hands, but was bayoneted regardless. He screamed as he fell. More splashing from behind. "And what about you?" MacDougall asked, approaching the third man. "I know him," the pirate said. He was taller than most in line, with three teeth on his bottom jaw. "I do, I swear." "Very good choice, man. Kill the rest of them." MacDougall walked away with his chosen man as the rest of the pirates were quickly dispatched over the side. Will stood there, body gone cold, as MacDougall motioned him to follow. “And do you know this man?" MacDougall asked, looking at Will. The pirate refused to shake his head, though the answer was obvious on his face. "It’s all right, my man. I’m letting you live. You will find Jack for me, and tell him that I have his little catamite. Do I make myself clear?" "Yes, gov’ner," the pirate said. A single boat lay in the water. It wasn’t from the _Kyte_, so Will could only imagine it was cut loose from the pirate ’s ship. "There’s water for a good week in there," MacDougall said, pointing down to it. "I suggest you swim quickly." From the other end of the ship, long shadows still tore at the bodies remaining at the surface. MacDougall pushed the man off the ship and turned around, not watching to see if he made it. "Now come along, William Turner, and I will show you to your new quarters." For some odd reason, the new quarters were significantly less appealing than before. "You are basing this on flawed logic," Will said, before MacDougall opened the brig. "And what would that be?" "Jack Sparrow isn’t interested in me," Will said. He spoke softly. "He sent me off almost a year ago. Haven’t seen or heard of him since." MacDougall threw his arm around Will, and the heavy weight, combined with the smell of death and his own sweat made Will queasy. "He’ll come." "How do you know that?" "Like it or not, you’re his property," MacDougall said. He licked his finger and ran it down Will’s cheek. "And it just won’t sit with him proper that someone else is playing with it." "You disgust me," Will said, pulling away. He stepped into the brig just to have that barrier between them. MacDougall laughed and shut the door behind him. "You had better hope he gets here sooner than later." A smile spread across his face. "Or that he gets here at all." Will looked around him. The bars were welded together. The salt had eaten away at them over the years, but they still held strong. The cell, however, was only bolted to the slats of the hull, and the wood had been exposed to the same salt. He should be able to pull the bolts free. MacDougall had, rot his eyes, posted two men to watch him. Will sat down on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t time yet. The day came, and the hold was insufferably hot, and then the night where the air seemed to cling to him with the damp chill. Hot again, then cold, then hot and cold and hot. Food consisted of water, thick with sediment but still potable, and the heavy dense bread. It wasn’t enough to sustain him but too much to leave him for dead. "You, Boy, get up." Will opened his eyes. One of MacDougall’s men stood in front of the door. There was nothing in the man’s hands, no food, no water, no weapon, and Will dismissed him out of hand. He closed his eyes again. "Boy!" he pushed at the door, rattling the entire cage around Will. "On your feet." "No," Will said. The darkness behind his eyes was welcoming. The door rattled as the key turned, and Will waited, eyes less than a quarter inch opened. Will felt his entire body hum with response, but it wasn’t until the man went to grab his shoulder that he moved. He slammed the man with the butt of his palm on the abdomen and the man stumbled back. Will stood up as the man gasped for air, and made a show of adjusting the filthy clothes. "What did you want?" he asked. The sailor managed to straighten up and pushed Will out of the cell and down the hall. Will climbed up the ladder and onto the deck, and ignored the man ’s pushes to hurry it up. *** A week ago, Will had sat in MacDougall’s cabin as an honoured guest. Now he stood, all but chained as a prisoner. "You leave a string of very unfortunate coincidences where you go, boy," MacDougall said. He sat at his table, enough food for four people spread out in front of him, and a pistol rested against his lap. Will remained silent, though the sudden hunger pains almost knocked him down to his knees. He kept his face impartial and bland. MacDougall played with the pistol, rubbing it down his trouser leg, and the bottom of Will’s empty stomach seemed to drop slightly inside him. "You are familiar with a man named Captain Reginald Andrews?" A nod, brief and curt. "Found dead in his bathtub. But his lungs were full of salt water." "That is most unusual." "And your old master, Gunter Olafson. Found dead in his smithy. He accidentally swallowed his own bellows." "That would seem to require talent Gunter simply did not have." "As we well imagined. Things just seem to happen to people who have crossed paths with you, William Turner." "And yet, dozens are still alive and well." “You know what I am talking about. People who have mistreated you seem to end up unfortunate." "And yet, here I stand still in irons." "Oh, Mr. Turner, that’s not the worst of your mistreatment. Sit, please." The request was benign enough, but Will planted his feet, balling his fists. The patch of skin just above Will the small of his back began to crawl. As the rest of his skin remained still, the sensation was all the more chilling. "You’re mad," he said. "I do believe I gave you a request, boy. Let’s not skip right to the unpleasantness. Enjoy yourself first." "I’d really rather not." "William, please don’t force my hand and have you assisted in your sitting," MacDougall said. "That really leaves me no place to go from there but..." Will sat. That close, the food made him dizzy from the smell. The richness of the roasted game made him salivate despite himself. "There’ s a good lad," MacDougall said. Silence. Keeping his mouth shut would keep any words he would say inside, and the quiet seemed to bother MacDougall even more. "Eat," MacDougall said. Will picked up the roasted joint of lamb. It had cooled off in the night air, but his fingers were wonderfully greasy from the touch. He brought it off the plate, and then flung it across the room, looking at MacDougall, but still keeping to his silence. "You are the wilful one, aren’t you, Mr. Turner. Did Jack have to break you like this?" "No," Will said. "All he had to do was ask." A vein stood up in sharp relief against McDougall’s temple. He climbed to his feet, bringing the gun square to Will’s temple. "Well, then, if you are not going to accept the offered physical pleasure, I might as well take my own." "Your finesse is greatly lacking, I must say. At least I got him drunk first," a voice came from the corner. Jack sat, dripping wet, legs crossed at the ankle, on MacDougall’s bedding. He pulled off another bite from the joint Will had thrown, and tossed the whole thing on MacDougall's pillow. "You bloody well did not," Will snapped, but he was smiling. An idiotic, intense, body rushing with pleasure, whole body grin. "Well, then maybe I got me own self drunk. But either way, Man, poor form." MacDougall was out of his chair in the next heartbeat, but so was Jack, sword in hand and pricking against MacDougall’s chin. The pistol pointed at Jack’s neck, but Jack was well out of arm’s reach by the length of a sword. "Well now, this is a pretty game we have here," Jack said. They circled each other, warily. "I have men outside that door. All I need to do is shout--" Jack scraped the sword’s edge down MacDougall’s neck. "And whose throat will you be using for that?" he asked, as though he didn’t understand the concept of rhetorical questions. MacDougall’s face turned an odd shade of red, but as he circled past, Will picked up the wine bottle and smashed it against the back of the man’s skull. Wine broke over MacDougall's head, spilling redness over his shoulders. The sound didn’t go unnoticed, however, and voices came from the hall. The window was open, Jack glanced at Will and motioned to it. Will took it in a leap, and for a moment he flew. Bullets whizzed past him, one narrowly missing his ear, and then he was in the shocking cold of the sea. No direction felt up to him, and he hadn’t taken a full lung of air. He panicked, kicking as hard as he could, but a hand caught his shirt and yanked him in the opposite direction. More bullets moved past them in the water, but their speed had already been spent. Will broke surface, gasping. "Swim as though your life depended on it, lad," Jack said, already ahead of him. The first cannon ball shrieked through the air, but it wasn’t aimed at them and it wasn’t coming from the _Kyte_. The Pearl was only illuminated by her firing guns, which made the rosy glow coming from the _Kyte_ seem even more vulnerable. Welcoming hands pulled him up onto the ship and he lay there for a instant panting on his back flat against the deck, but if Jack could pull himself up, shake like a dog and be done with it, so could he. Except he couldn’t quite manage to stand up. Jack looked down at him, impossibly tall for once, but there was no warmth in the way his face. "Stay down. You’re more of a danger to yourself right now." "You’re very tall," Will said. He swore he meant to say something completely different, something about giving him a sword and propping him up, but those were the words that reached his ears. "See to it that no one trips over him," Jack said. The words didn’t make any sense until Will realized Jack wasn’t even talking to him. Wood splintered, men screamed, swords clashed against each other. Will managed to pull himself into a sitting position. The sailor assigned to him stared at him from where he stood. "Captain says you stay put," he said. Will had considered the sitting up to be a major accomplishment. He saw Jack, once, fighting on the deck of the _Kyte_. MacDougall’s men seemed to fall before him, but then he disappeared from sight. A shout went up, victory assured, and the pirate set to watch him wandered off. Will stood up, still weak in the knees and groggy from hunger. Jack’s cabin lay unlocked, and out of habit he let himself in. He collapsed on the bed, exhaustion winning out over hunger, and when the door opened again, the sun was high in the sky. More pirates, some familiar, some not, brought in a spread of food that made Will’s stomach tightened. He was to dizzy to walk across the cabin in a straight line, and sat down at the table. He tore at the meat, not waiting for Jack, and a final pirate walked into the room and gave him a pistol. "What’s this for?" he asked, but the man didn’t answer. Will sat back, hunger sated enough that he could stop and think. He wiped his hands off, taking the pistol, and then jerked it at the door as it opened again. MacDougall entered the room, followed closely by Gibbs. "A present from the captain," he said, and left them alone. Will almost smiled. MacDougall stood, bloody and filthy from the fight, but in one piece. They remained there for a long minute, before Will remembered himself and motioned to the opposing chair with the pistol. "Sit down," he said. MacDougall did so, still not speaking. He went to touch the wine carafe, but Will took it away from him. "I didn’t say you could eat," he said. "You wouldn’t deny a man his last meal, would you?" MacDougall asked. Will was silent for a heartbeat. "Yes, actually, I would," he decided. "Most definitely." "You can’t kill me," MacDougall said. "You said you weren’t a pirate." "That’s right, I did. I’m a blacksmith." "That’s right! A blacksmith!" "But a very angry blacksmith," Will finished. He shot MacDougall, straight to the heart, and the man fell back with his eyes still open. "And apparently, they’re almost as bad." Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He too was filthy and bloody, but it looked better on him. "You would know," Will said, looking away from him to the dead body between them. "That I would, lad." "I won’t kill innocents for you, Jack, maroon me again, that won’t change." "Maroon is when you send a man off to die without getting your hands dirty. You were not marooned." "I may as well have been!" Will said, anger shaking inside him. "I--" "You what, boy?" Jack said. His eyes were again too bright. The words wouldn’t come. "I needed you," he said. "There was no sun, no wind. No waves. Nothing. You marooned me out there to die." "And yet here you are." "Here I am." Jack moved to him, and Will found himself standing up. They stood, a breath away, and the smell of shot came strongly from Jack’s clothes. From his own clothes as well. "Jack?" Will asked. "Yes?" Jack answered. "The body?" Jack paused, looking behind them. MacDougall’s eyes were still open although it was obvious he wasn’t watching anything. Jack swept up the tablecloth and food went flying everywhere. He threw the cloth over the corpse and together they pushed the big man’s body out of the cabin. "Good enough," Will said. Will pulled off Jack’s belt, Jack pulled at his own clothes. Skin against skin, body on body, Will closed his eyes and felt alive for the first time since he had been cast off. Jack held him down, not kissing, never kissing, but tasting him. His hands over Will’s throat, fingers digging into the back of his neck. Until the skies darkened again and the bed was a mass of sodden sheets Jack was with him. They remained locked together, until the final time when Jack hardly moved against him. Just barely enough to make Will’s skin shiver against the feather touches. They shuddered together, Jack pulling away first, and he left the room, still tugging on his trousers. Will followed him out, noticing that the body had been removed during the day. Jack had climbed up to steerage, and relieved whoever it was at the helm. Will no longer waited to be acknowledged, but stood cross-armed beside the wheel. Jack adjusted the heading according to the compass. "You put me three days behind, Boy," he said, not looking at him. "Take it out of my share." "You’re assuming there are shares to offer." Will waited. Jack waited as well. They waited together as the _Pearl_ cut through the waves. "Refuse to follow my orders again, Will, and I’ll keelhaul you myself." "Then you had better be careful what you order of me," Will said. "That’s just not good enough." "It’s going to have to be." Jack said nothing for a long time. "You need to sleep, Boy; you’ll be no good to me fallen." Will nodded. He left Jack in steering, managing to make it all the way back to Jack’s cabin, and collapsed gratefully into the bedding. # Hands once again on the wheel, Jack could close his eyes. He felt every berth and beam in the ship, the smooth running of the lines and each snap of the sail as the wind changed even slightly. Every living thing, from Will just now surrendering to sleep to the rats in the hold fighting over a fallen crumb filled him. The _Pearl_ filled him. They were together, as it should be, but it was never more clear than when his hands were on her wheel. They were in sync, but the great ship was displeased. _He’ll betray you,_ her voice said, coming from every creak and whisper of the ship. _He’ll betray you and me._ Jack didn’t let go of the wheel, despite the listlessness to it. "I know, lass. I know." End 
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