The Lady had watched their tumble with shaded eyes, she had exerted herself to steer them from the larges obstacles and the most dangerous plants but there was little else that she could do for the moment. The course she had plotted was still running true, and so far the players had not stumbled, but for the moment the fate of the venture lay with them. What she knew of them told her that the greatest danger, anger and its spawn revenge, was behind them, though what waited ahead would not necessarily be kind. But they were well forged these two, and well tested and balanced, worthy vessels for the task if they could but cross this bridge.

Her mind reached out to feel the shape of events just ahead, just fragments of a melody, even to her, as they were etched against the song of this place. Her peices were close to their goal now, but that didn't make it certain. She looked down on them again as they lay sprawled upon the sand, the grains of it glowing like moon dust in the light of the cloud enveloping them. Where they were now she could not follow, but she would do what she could.

The Lady spread her fan, studying the pictures forming there for a moment before snapping it shut and turning her eyes back to the two soft bodies wrapped in silver light. She smiled and dipped her head in acceptance, the bodies she could preserve, but the spirits within in them she must trust to the old ones.

***

It was like every morning he had ever seen, and yet every sunset too.

He was standing on the edge of the sea, feeling the water swirling round his feet, eddies of sand clouding the shape of his toes and tickling at his ankles, the spray white as her lace and just as delicate. Laughter, his laughter, echoed across the sands as the current sucked the ground from beneath him and tugged at him like a puppy urging him to come and play. There was no reason to be afraid for his hand was gripped firmly, fingers strong as the tide held him fast and he knew that even if the sea did its worst he could not fall. Not while this hand held him fast. His mother's hand.

She was singing to him, her voice carried on the wind and in the sound of the waves. Words that no one else around them understood, that no one else in the whole wide world understood; but he understood, for she had taught him the words and it was their special language, private to them, a barrier against the rest of life. Only he, his mother and the sea understood it, and that knowledge bound the three of them together with ties that could never be broken. Only when the three of them were together, Jack, her, and the sea, did she sing in this way. His father hated the words he could not understand, and she would not use it in his presence, for though she did not fear him she loved him, as she loved Jack, and would not hurt him by excluding him in such a way.

Jack did fear him though, and the sound of her song was all the more wonderful for it told him that his father was not near.

For now there was no fear, just the song, the sea, and her hand in his, keeping him safe.

***

The rumours of the marketplace were as baffling as the ones of the waterfront, for where the whores and sailors spoke of angels the farmers and herdsmen spoke of ghosts, specifically ghost ships. What gave Hathaway some pause for thought was that no one had offered an explanation for either that didn't include Jack Sparrow, and yet no one could put him with either ship or angel for certain. The power of his legend was becoming something more powerful than reason it seemed.

But he wasn't totally sure that there was nothing in the whispering. If Sparrow wasn't on the Black Pearl, as it seemed he wasn't, and he wasn't in the town, and as yet there had been no sign of him, then he had to be somewhere; everything they knew of his past suggested a ship as the most likely place. So a ship somewhere where ships usually weren't might indeed be connected with Sparrow. The problem being that as it was farmers who had seen this ship, not sailors, it was hard to get a description that meant anything.

Their most helpful informant was a young lad, about twelve or so, and one apparently brighter than the usual occupants of the market place. They had been directed towards him by a handsome woman of middle years who was selling some of the best looking sweet meats on display, it was some time since Groves had seen marchpane and he couldn't help but wonder which ship has been taken from and by whom. Not Sparrow most certainly. The boy had told the woman a story, or so she said, in return for a slice of a similar treat and it had taken little to induce her to pass it on to them, shaking her head in disbelief, but pointing out the boy as she did so.

They met up with him on the rough and blackened bench of a tavern, where, over a mug of home brew and a plate of cheese, they fell into a favourite pastime of the Tortuga poor, story telling. For a lad raised on an isolated farmstead the chance to talk, rather than listen, was as heady a treat as the marchpane, and after the initial contact had been carefully engineered Hathaway had done little more than sit back and let him chatter.

He had seen the ship, or so he said. A month or more ago as far as they could judge, he had brought a couple of goats to market and had nearly lost them on the road. His pursuit of the fleeing animals had taken him close to the cliff edge several miles up the coast and it was there that he had seen the ship.
"Out in the bay she were, just sittin' there like a hen on a fine clutch, all happy and proud. Never see big ships there so at first I thought it were a dream, " he waved his mug in a knowing manner, "that bay is nor big and there be some powerfully unfriendly rocks not far out. I'd never seen more than a fisher there afore."
The boy gave a gap toothed grin,
" Can't say I thought much about it then, for I'd had a skinful of ale that night and me head weren't entirely comfortable, if you understands me."

Hathaway had nodded and turned his attention to the dark honey coloured ale in his mug, for it wouldn't do to be seen to be too interested,
"I knows them kinds of dreams," he had agreed, settling himself more comfortably on the bench, "can lead a body to see things that aren't there. My first captain was a real cove for em', caused no end of hard work he did because of them too."
Beside him Groves was frozen in incredulous immobility at the change in his speech. Hathaway could only hope that the man would have the sense to follow his lead, and stay quiet if he couldn't.

The boy had grinned and swallowed a gulp of home brew then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, belching his satisfaction,
"Oh she were there right enough, still there a day later when I went back, and I were sober enough then, no choice in it for the missus would have skinned me if I'd drunk any of the price."
He caught Hathaway's sceptical look and slapped his empty mug on the table top in annoyance, no doubt he was accustomed to being disbelieved but disliked it for all that,
"I tell you she were there. Fine ship I'd say, not seen her like afore. White she were, all shiny in the sun, too white to be real if you were to ask me. Like one of them shells they polish and sell, if ya take ma meanin'"
Hathaway gave an impatient shrug,
"Were she real or not? Make up yer mind!"
"No ship like that is real," the boy scoffed, obviously concerned to make the most of his tale.
He looked meaningfully at his mug and Hathaway grudgingly slopped a little of the ale from the jug in front of him into the proffeed vessel.

The lad grinned again,
"No she were a ghost right enough. What else could she be, in that place and all aglow? No ship of wood would make it there, and there were nary a sign of man aboard her for all she was whole and prettily trimmed."
He raised his mug in salute,
" Now I'm not sayin' what type of ghost ship she were, just that she were a lot bigger than any fishing boat. Three masts she had, and she were broader across the beam than a fisher."
"Like a warship?"
The boy shrugged,
"Can't rightly say, havin' never seen a warship. Lived all me life here see. Don't get many warships here. Leastways not up where I live, the farm's up't other end."
He frowned as he thought back, the ship suddenly more interesting than maybe he had thought at the time.
" Never seen a ship like her truth be told, she looked fast to me but I didn't notice if she had gun ports, " he shrugged, "but either way she weren't good news for someone I'm thinking. A fine lady like her in such an out of the way place could only be because she was waiting for someone and didn't not want to be seen, ghost or no."

Not being a sailor the boy couldn't tell much more that was useful, though he was free enough with wild tales of where she might have come from and who it was that she might be stalking, Jack Sparrow prime amongst them. Yet it gave Hathaway some pause for thought, as he explained to Groves as they settled down in the shadow of a dilapidated barn to get some rest,
"Well the boy was shrewd enough, and he was right when he said she probably didn't want to be seen. It's clear that it wasn't the Black Pearl, and it doesn't sound as if she was a merchant. She might have been Spanish of course, or French, though she would be less likely to hide if she were, but the lad was sure she was white and I've not heard of them painting their ships white as yet."
"And shiny." Groves chipped in as he settled himself somewhat gingerly on a pile of pilfered straw, "What do you think he meant by that?"
"I'm not sure. It might just have meant that she looked new, but it might not. Either way it was clear that she wasn't something he would have expected to see here, which, given that two unlikely events occurring at the same time in roughly the same place are more than likely to be connected, makes me inclined to say that the ship went with the lady."
"Why?"
"Singular lady, singular ship, neither were probable, so their being unconnected seems even less than improbable, wouldn't you say?"

Groves thought about that for a moment,
"Perhaps you are right si....captain. But why were they here and where did they come from?"
Hathaway settled himself more comfortably,
"I don't know."
"But you are sure that they are connected with Jack Sparrow? As the lad thought?"
"As the lady was looking for him she must be connected to him in some way, in which case if the ship goes with her then the ship is also connected with Jack Sparrow."
Groves was silent while he added that idea to his wondering,
"But why would Sparrow want another ship?"
Hathaway shrugged,
"To go after the Black Pearl perhaps, if this Barbossa took it from him? Why the lady should assist him is less clear I'll grant."
"There were rumours that Jack Sparrow was dead, sunk with the Pearl, but that both were brought back from the locker by William Turner and Miss Swann, with help from the sea goddess," Groves said slowly. "Beckett seemed to find the idea credible and as you say who can tell what is not possible any longer." He looked at Hathaway with wide eyes, "Could she have come from the same place? Or might she be the sea goddess herself?"

Hathaway didn't scorn the idea, instead seeming to examine it from all sides,
"On balance I think not the goddess, why would she need such a ship? But another voyager from the locker, that is a possibility, though not one I feel comfortable with." He considered the matter in silence for a few moments, and then shrugged and settled himself down to sleep,
"Though the truth is that the lady worries me more than a little, wherever it is that she comes from." He admitted as he closed his eyes, " If Sparrow has control of the heart of Davy Jones, then the last thing the situation needs is him getting help from some other supernatural agency. But I would no longer put it past him Mr Groves, I really wouldn't."

Groves leaned back against the straw, it wasn't only the lady that caused him to wonder for he had some concerns about the man beside him too. But he had to agree that on past record he wouldn't put it past Jack Sparrow to have found another supernatural agency either. An image of Davy Jones swam up before his eyes, and a memory of James Norrington, and he groaned.

***

Elanor watched the sun sink down across the horizon, the red rays slit into streamers and trailed across the decks by the stark elegance of the masts and yardarms, the tight furled sails barely softening their lines. This ship was as much her home as the house on the bluff and she knew its moods better than she knew her own, it was hard to think that it might be years before the four of them sailed out of this bay again.

"Are you sure this is what you want? You are very young to commit yourself to so much."
Her mother's voice was calm as ever, the question just a gentle enquiry without sting or challenge.
"Yes, I'm sure. Are you disappointed?"
"No, you know that. If it is what you want then that is enough for us."

She turned from the sea towards her mother, scanning the familiar lines of the face in search of the truth,
"But I'll be away so much, are you sure you don't mind? I always thought that dad at least wanted me to take up research and work with you."
That brought a shake of the golden head, but there was a hint of sadness in the accompanying look,
"If that's not what you want then he doesn't want it for you, any more than I do. He only wants what's best for you," with a sigh she turned towards the dying sun, "and being here might not be best. Things are going to get difficult, everyone with any sense can see that. There is no way of knowing how it will go, but we fear for the future. It will be worst for the young and we could not do much to protect you from it."

Elanor's mother looked out across the sea and watched the sun, her green eyes flecked yellow like the wave caps and her hair turned molten by the sunset light as she stretched out a hand and closed strong slim fingers around the hand resting on the rail,
"At least in the navy you'll have a place to grow and be what you can be," she looked back to her daughter and smiled, "and you have always loved the sea. What more could we want for you but a chance to be yourself and in company with something you love?"
The sense of dread was suddenly suffocating,
"It may not be that bad. Surely they will come to their senses?" Elanor pleaded.
That brought a grimace from her mother and a shake of her head,
"Not necessarily. It's not about what is, it's about what they feel, and they all are vying to feel too much. Sense has been surrendered in the worship of sensibility, and nothing can be more vicious and mindlessly cruel than that, particularly when they have also convinced themselves they have right on their side. Even here."
Her mother sighed,
"At least in the navy you will be amongst people who have something better to do than dwell on their own emotions, maybe that will keep them human. No, it is probably better that you go, I doubt that your father and I could do more for you."

Thje dread was growing so strong that it almost chocked her,
"But you will be alright, won't you?"
"Us? Yes. We have work to do, and that work is valuable. We will concentrate on that and leave the arguing to others."
She smiled again,
"We will be here, waiting for you when you come home. You will always have a home here, and we will keep it safe for you."

They had tried so hard to honour that promise, but in the end they had failed. The feeling of dread has been only a warning of what was to come and she had never forgiven herself that she had not listened to it while there was still time.

***

She was gone, and he would never know where or how, for his father would never tell him. That much had been clear from the closed trap mouth and grim look as he brandished that head, and the way he had declined further conversation on the matter, just pushing the grisly trophy into his hand and striding off back to the table to supervise the removal of the codex.

He had known what Teague had meant when he had held up that trophy, and though he had done his best to play the part, to avoid showing the anger and revulsion he had been intended to feel, he had felt it all the same. His father had known him better than he had thought and he had known what he was doing. The sick dread of the truth and the bitter knowledge of a chance lost and another avenue closed, the loss of the one human love he had been sure of, had bitten deep.

Not that Jack had felt any desire to explore matters further, not then, not with a battle looming and the need to think out the last details of the stratagem he was struggling to build. Not while thinking was harder than it had ever been, while parts of his mind still seemed to be missing or un-cooperative. Negotiating his way past the shallows and rocks of Barbossa's plan and bringing the Brethren court to the necessary conclusion had exhausted him, but there had been no time to rest or even draw breath, and certainly no time for remembering. Certainly none for grief, no matter the cause of magnitude. That, as always, he had put aside for later.

Avoiding his father had meant spending time plotting with Elizabeth and Barbossa when he would have preferred to be alone, but then he was accustomed to doing his thinking while his mouth pursued another tack so it shouldn't have been so hard. But this time it had been hard, very hard indeed, only the habits of a decade of surviving had got him through it; that and the continuing confusion that had followed him from the locker, that kept so many of his memories behind a screen of smoke as white and harsh as the desert he was desperate to escape.

He'd needed his wits about him despite the weariness and confusion, with Barbossa not yet reconciled to giving up on Calypso as a source of rescue, and with Elizabeth driven by a fury at her father's death, and only that holding her back from guilt and grief. No saying which of the pair of them had been the most dangerous and deluded at that moment and Jack would have preferred to be free of both.

He had rolled his eyes but said nothing when Gibbs had told him that Barbossa had the witch imprisoned in the brig of the Pearl, even with Jones so close. Jack knew Tia Dalma well and had little doubt that her true self would be no less capricious than her human form, which meant that there was no saying what she would do once she was free. He had no fear of her for himself, for reasons he had no intention of explaining to anyone, but he knew that this was the worst of times to break the binding. For they were, he had no doubt, facing a formidable human enemy what ever happened.

Elizabeth on the other hand had been sure that Beckett could not have enough ships to threaten the pirate fleet, and, while he had again said nothing, he had wondered what she thought the man had needed herself and her father for. He had no doubt that Beckett would not have come and risked himself without being sure of victory, and therefore he had been equally sure that the vicious little snake had commandeered every vessel he could get his hands on, and some he shouldn't have been able to.

No, there had been no doubt in his mind that a substantial flotilla awaited them.

Which would mean they would have to parley, or rather, as he had realised as he read the code, Elizabeth would have to parley. To which meeting Beckett would bring Jones to taunt him, and probably Will as well. With Elizabeth there he wouldn't be able to resist it. So even if Jones did not demand they give him up, which he might not with Beckett there for fear of being seen to plead, then William or Elizabeth would no doubt propose a trade, and he would still end up on the Dutchman. Which was where he intended to be of course. The plan had the advantage that it would ensure that the Dutchman would remain the one place that Beckett would not expect him to wish to be and as long as he could maintain Beckett's belief in that then he had a chance of success.

But it had been a hard and wearying night, running over it over and over again in his mind while his mouth spoke other words and his head worried about what he might be missing; yet at least the effort had kept memories of her at bay and closed off the void that he knew waited for him. On a wave of despair he had gone to face Beckett, to play the final hand and take the Dutchman, and it was that grief, unspoken and unacknowledged, that had cost him what he wanted most. For when faced with the sight if it in another he had found he could not turn away. That surrender of his prize had, perhaps, been his restitution for so many other acts never performed, for goodbyes never said and apologies never made. His repayment for a neglected love never regained elsewhere.

Later, when the battle was over, the presence of Barbossa had kept him occupied and on his toes and by the time they had made Tortuga he had thought himself reconciled, for he had done as she would have wished and found his way back to himself again. Yet he could not have been, for only that could explain his oversight with respect to the Pearl. As he watched the sea role into the sands, and watched the water flare red in the sun, he suddenly wondered if the loss of his ship, his one other love, had been some form of self punishment, even though he had known that she would not have wished it. But it seemed the matter was not settled, even with the loss of the Pearl, and now there was no holding the memories, or the guilt, back.

The shore was the same, the sea still capricious, the sand between his toes as soft as ever, still running with the tide and calling him to play, but her voice didn't mingle with the sound of the surf now and never would again. She was gone. There would be no secret words now, no strong fingers wrapped around his own, only the sea would keep him safe now, for she was gone. The one person in the world who had truly known him and who had been his without question and without price was gone and the words that had not been said in many a year now never would be.

Knowing that she would not have blamed him or ceased to love him did not ease the grief, nor yet the sense of being lost, and as the sea darkened from blue to purple his mood followed it.

The sea stretched out towards the sky, the smooth surface broken by the heave of the swell and the breaking of wave tops, the scabbed over wheals opened up to the salt of the waters, the pit inside him growing bigger than the horizon. The pain took hold of him and he was a child again, lost on shores he had long ago left behind, wailing for a song he had abandoned and that now he would never hear again.

***

The world was dark and cold and surface of the sea grey as gunmetal. Elanor tore towards the advancing waters with fury in her heart and tears in her eyes.

They had done nothing wrong, all they had tried to do was make people see the road they were walking and the old sins they were in danger of revisiting. Their only crime was being brave and honest. Yet their honour hadn't saved them. They would never come back and the time she had thought she had was just an illusion. Their ship had gone beyond her reach and in that moment all she wanted to do was follow them, for it seemed that there was nothing for her here. She did not want a world that had killed them in such a way. They would never take to the seas again yet in the sea she might find them.

The sand shifted beneath her feet as she ran, the horizon was a far mist she could not see. The waters called and though the seas were and as cold and grey as her heart she fled to them, for she was alone and there was no where else to run to.

***

Jack was not sure if the sound that filled his head was the wind blowing off the sea, or the crashing of the surf on the sand, or the seabirds wheeling above him or his own grief. The sand was white as the locker but the sea as blue as any in the Caribbean and the sun as warm as the tears that ran down his face. He closed his eyes and felt the surf nibble at his feet as the salt dried on his face. She was gone and would not be coming back.

In that moment he despised his father for not knowing what he had had, and hated him for the having of it, for his son had searched the world and known more women than he could count and yet he had not found the same. Yet the grimness of his father's face rose before his closed eyes and told him of the lie of that, Teague had most certainly known what he had lost.

Maybe then he was wrong in assuming he could not find the same. Perhaps he was just looking in the wrong places. He turned his face towards the sun, eyes still closed. Maybe, just maybe, he was not beyond the finding of it even now, if he wanted to. Perhaps that was the issue, if he wanted to.

The bird cry sound was getting louder and it stirred other memories, things that he must do and that would not be put side. He felt the sun on his face, drying the salt on his skin, somewhere there stirred the knowledge that he could not change the loss but that there were still calls upon him that must be attended to. Wearily he opened his swollen eyes again.

The sea was gone and where it had been there was a silver blue haze and beyond that a stretch of water like none he'd ever seen before. A figure ran passed him, pale hair streaming behind her, boots scattering the silver grey sand in great clouds, her sobs carried like the bird calls on the wind. His mother's voice joined them on the wind and he felt a sudden urgency as if another door was slowly closing and he started forward without thinking.

The woman in front of him ran on and he followed her, boots sinking in the sand, arms failing as he sought to match her turn of speed, still not sure why either of them were running or what he proposed to do if he caught her. All he was sure of was that he had to catch her, that his future depended upon it.

Then she was in front of him and he reached out, catching her around the waist and pulling her down beside him onto the sand that was suddenly hot and white. She flailed at him, her cries strident as the gulls wheeling over the Pearl, and he caught her wrist and pulled her towards him, trapping her against his chest and wrapping his arms around her, holding on to her as she fought to break away.
"It's not the sea Elanor," he heard himself say, his voice hoarse and ragged as if he had been shouting or crying for years.
Jack pulled her face against his shoulder, she was Elanor he suddenly recalled, catching her hands in his and holding them tightly as once strong finger had held his own. He spoke into her hair as he fought against her attempts to break away, his mother's song echoing amongst her tears,
"Look luv, look," he tightened his grip on her hands, "it's not the sea. You can't run to it, it won't aid you. It's not the sea."