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Marchland
From a series of stories featuring Elizabeth Swann and Jack Sparrow

by Hereswith

The tale thus far...
1. A Matter of Trust
2. Steps of the Dance
3. Mirrored Movement
4. Reasons to Believe 1 - 2 - 3 - 4
5. Ladies Speaking in Confidence
6. In the Dark Watches of the Night
7. Fair Weather Morning
8. Marchland
9. White Squall (Rated 'R')
10. Halcyon
11. Turnabout 1 - 2 - 3 - Epilogue (Rated 'R')

When Jack first stood at the helm again, it was a noteworthy moment, even though they lay anchored outside Tortuga, and the Pearl could only respond to his bidding in the subtlest of fashions. Excited whispers and scattered murmurs of approval could be heard among the crew; to them, this was a sign that their Captain was well on the mend.

And so he was. Not completely healed, but less haunted, and he had a restive air about him that reminded Elizabeth of a bird she had seen, years ago, in a gilt-wire cage at Lady Hatherley’s mansion, its entire body coiled tight around the desire to take flight. He would spread his wings soon, the sparrow would, and seek the reaches of the sky.

She crossed her arms, frowning. The setting sun made the colours rich and vibrant, and the scene before her near beckoned to be captured on canvas, with brushes and paint, yet it seemed to her that something, some important detail, was missing, and she could not figure out what, to begin with; then it struck her, and she hurried down below to get the hat.

*

She returned to the deck, slightly out of breath, and Gibbs gave her a nod, as she approached, and half a smile, when he spotted what she had behind her back. Jack, however, did not acknowledge her arrival. He was still in the midst of some deep and private communion with the Pearl and Elizabeth hesitated, watching the play of those slender fingers along the spokes of the wheel with an emotion very much akin to envy.

He had not touched her, on purpose or by accident, since the morning she had woken in his bed. And it was, to be honest, driving her to distraction. She was all edges, on account of him, prickly like needles and sharpened like swords, and not even solitude, such as could be found on the ship, brought her any measure of relief. Things clung, in the sweltering heat: fabric of clothing, tendrils of hair and the most wanton of thoughts.

Once, by the side of a roaring bonfire, he had laid his hand on her shoulder, his thumb raised like an unspoken question. She had been younger then and not precisely sober and he, not precisely sottish; and her affection for Will had doused the faint flickers of temptation.

It was different, this time. She wasn’t a blacksmith’s darling, not a blacksmith’s wife, and Jack had asked her, plain and simple. Yes or no. But they had danced in circles around each other for so long that though her heart had stilled, in that instant, the rest of her, caught up in the motion, had not been able to stop.

Her musings were suddenly and rudely interrupted by a parrot-shaped blur that swept by, so close she felt the rush of wind from its passing, and landed, with nary a wobble, on the wheel. Jack lifted his head, brows arching high. The bird did not budge.

“Fine,” said Jack, stepping backwards. “But it’s not to be a habit, savvy?”

Parrot’s beak opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

Gibbs muttered an oath and Jack glanced over at him, before pinning Elizabeth with a heavily dark-rimmed gaze. And that particular embellishment of his person was also a sign, of sorts, for while his strength had failed him, he had forgone the use of kohl. “What’s that, then?”

“Well—” she began, strangely reluctant to part with the hat. It had buoyed her, when she had feared he was dead, the smooth leather bearing silent witness to both her anger and her grief. But she looked at him—Captain Jack Sparrow, blessedly alive—and she straightened, determinedly, shrugging off the residue of pain. “I’ve decided I shan’t keep it,” she continued, holding out the tricorn. “It is yours, and I’ve no need of it, now.”

“No?” He took the offered treasure. “I’m much obliged, love.”

She almost flinched, and berated herself rather fiercely for it. He had called her that so often, wearing away at her initial dismay, little by little, and his tone had not changed. It wasn’t more of an endearment than it had been in the past, and
so, did not warrant such a reaction.

Jack put the hat on, on top of the red bandanna and the odd assortment of decorations and, after adjusting it to his liking, proceeded to curl the ends of his moustache upwards. “There! What say you?”

“Shiver me timbers!” Parrot stated, and preened.

Gibbs barked out a laugh, rubbing his chin. “Aye,” he agreed, “the blasted bird has the right of it. Ye cut a grand figure, lad, that’s fer sure.”

Jack bowed low, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. ”Mrs. Turner?”

“Quite the pirate captain,” Elizabeth managed, after a brief inner struggle, and it wasn’t the reply that burned on her tongue, but it would have to do. She’d be damned before she admitted just how fetching he was, in that gaudy and utterly outrageous way of his, especially with Gibbs, and Parrot, within earshot.

But he knew. She could not hope to believe that he didn’t, because—oh, God—that grin. He unleashed the white and the gold like he would have a blistering broadside and there was no mistaking the challenge or, indeed, which query it was he dared her to answer.

Yes or no, Lizzie. Aye or nay.

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