Author's Note: Time for a bit of a background into this chapter. According to what I've read about the POTC, Beckett originally hired Jack to captain

a slave ship called the Wicked Wench. Jack, displaying a rare streak of his nobility, apparently set the cargo free, which pissed Beckett off, who then

sank Jack's ship, and branded him a pirate. Now, this is significant, because a brand, by its nature, permanently marked Jack as a criminal, even if

he never engaged in any law-breaking at the time. In the COTBP, shortly after he rescues the drowning Elizabeth, you can see Norrington's distain

and Jack's subsequent arrest, all because of the P on his wrist. I don't think it would be too different than a scarlet letter, and it would certainly

explain Sparrow's very skittish nature towards authority. I don't think it's simply because he fears them, it probably has to do with some past mistreatment

he suffered at their hands. And, yes...I fully intend to explore Jack's angst ridden moments in future fics, if I have the time.

I've not really read any backstory as to how Anamaria and Jack met, so I cobbled together my own slant

on the story. I know that there are a few places that if you squint, there is a hint of a Jack/Anamaria romance going on, but in this story, there

simply isn't. I believe that the two are good friends, and nothing more,and this is how I wrote it.

Anmaria never knew that hell's stench would consist of the unwashed human cargo, the sweat, the filth, the very air poisoned and trapped from the

closed hatch. Here, the humidity swelled into a cloying, blanketing skin that only increased the heat and the misery in the dark. Hell's noise,

she learned, was the groans of the dying and the living, the indifferent clink of shackle as one of the stronger ones turned over. At first,

the hull had been filled with a catophony of shrieks, baby's wailing, their mothers frantically attempting to comfort them into silence,

the babbling of so many, idle conversation, and then the shrieks of anguish as the weaker ones, mainly the sick and the old and the

babies, were snatched from the mass of humanity, uncerimoniously hauled upward to the deck, and flung overboard. One by one, the crack of

light as the hatch opened, the glimpse of the sky, and the sea, the indifferent men weighing each of the slaves' worth. A finger might be jabbed

in judgement, maybe an idle nod, and the death sentence was administered by throwing the living into the ocean with no more thought than

one might have in tossing unwanted bilge water off the deck. Anamaria had already endured the severing of all she ever cherished when they

had snatched her from her home and her mother's arms to shackle her wrists...so small, so frail and bleeding from where the iron chafed

her futile attempts to flee.

She had cowered and wept until they had flogged her tears to a halt. Now, she only endured the days because she could not will herself to die,

and she had no means of killing herself. Time seemed to die along with her prisoners, laying itself to rest in resignation and surrender. There

was no daylight down here to mark the passing of days, or the nights. There was only the crew that came down to torment, and drag away

more of the dying, the sick and the corpses as they flung down bits of weevil-infested crust and tepid, foul water. They cackled as the chained

prisoners squabbled like rabid animals over the precious crumbs. It was enough to sustain life, if this existance could be considered such.

She had sacrificed her last bit of honor when she slapped away an old woman's groping hand for the molded crust. She shoved the bitter crust

into her mouth, choking it down with a sullen glare, as she settled back into the few inches of floor to rest her torpid corpse in the collective heap.

Thoughts of dying were her only comfort, that and the smeared memories of her loved ones as she uneasily dozed, resting her head on her knees,

her dark hair shielding her bruised face from the shaft of light when the hatch was being opened. On that day, she groaned herself awake, cringing

instinctively as she opened her eyes to see what new torture was coming down the steps.

She watched in disbelief to see the bright scarf roped over midnight-shaded hair, the man's bronze face contorted in mute anguish and horror at the

cargo hold. The young man openly gaped at the shackled heaps of humanity, before he locked eyes with hers.

He narrowed them, as he took her in, and she tensed warily as he almost timidly tilted his head, and shook his head in sorrow. She never knew if he

was going to kill her, or what horror he would have unleashed, because his staring was interrupted by a grizzled old man with mutton chops and a

flask heaved high, mid swallow. The old man waddled down the steps, and abruptly halted when he saw the slaves, his eyes flying wide, and

his flask lowered in helpless disbelief.

"Lor'" It was only breathed in astonishment as Gibbs pivoted to see the wretched mass of humanity, his nostrils curling at the turned, as if

seeking direction from his erst-while captain. Jack had gone rigid, his breath tense, and the hatred for what had been done quickening through his

veins and settling like fire to his core.

"Cap'n?" Gibbs lay an almost timid hand on Jack's sleeve, attempting to dredge him back from whatever was making that agony fill his eyes

and leaving him in that stricken, sickening silence.

A hiss of breath, from golden teeth, and those dark eyes shimmering with something akin to tears as Jack only swallowed and shook his head.

He raised eyes skyward, his palms rising as if seeking absolution before he lowered his face back to the hell around him. The grizzled man stood

gawking, before the black headed man gave a single, curt order. "Unshackle them. All of them."

Gibbs eyed the slaves dubiously. "NOW!" Jack's single word was like a whiplash as he helplessly clapped a hand over his forehead, closed his eyes.

Gibbs lingered for a long moment, before he simply nodded in agreement, and gestured towards the stairs. "I'll fetch the keys."

He fled up the dark stairwell as if he were being chased. Gibbs had mercifully interrupted Jack's guilt as he simply held up a row of keys.

Warily Gibbs ventured, "Ye do know that they be naught but property, and by not deliverin' the goods, you'll bloody suffer for it?"

Jack turned those ravaged eyes to Gibbs. "I'll not hold ye responsible, Gibbs. You're not answerable to me. But I'll be damned before I engage in this...

wickedness." Jack flung out a splayed hand, letting it ghost over the wretched human cargo.

Gibbs only swallowed hard, nervously bit his lip, as he grumbled with a hitch of his shoulder, "Ye've picked a fine time to indulge in a do-goodin'

turn, Jack. What's to become of all of 'em, then?" Jack sighed, and forced a smile. "We've not sailed too far from their shore, have we? We can belay

making berth a bit and just let 'em loose back to their own lands."

Norrington's farewell to his men was cruelly abrupt, and without any rational explanation. He felt their sense of betrayal as he fought

the impulse to scream out the truth, hurl it like rocks to shatter the walls that were building between them. Gillette's eyes were bright with fever, the smile on the verge of crumbling as he raised a trembling hand to his sweating temple in salute. Norrington had spent the fleeting moments after that horrific meeting between that cursed sea-wench and Beckett watching them snipe back and forth, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. Beckett seemed to treat her with condensending, amused tolerance. She was feral, vicious as a treed panther, and held enough rancor against Jack Sparrow

to propel them over the ocean by hatred alone, if it were possible. She had only given Norrington a few fleeting glances of disgust,

followed by an unspoken sneer. Beckett had only pursed his lips, shook his head rather boredly, and gave Mercer the

curt order to see Norrington back to his 'sleeping chamber.' Norrington had hopes that he would at least be allowed to see how his men

fared, particularly Gillette. That simple request was answered by Mercer's cruel smirk and a pointed glance at his pistol. Norrington

shuddered at the unspoken threat, and feeling futile and absolutely enraged, simply strode into the empty 'sleeping chamber,' in

silence.

The room was humble, a simple bed with clean linens, a well-tended oil lamp, a bright arch of moonlight through the window. Norrington,

alone at last, stripped of everything he held dear, guilt-ridden and nearly shattering, slowly lowered himself onto the

bed. His troubled thoughts, numbed by the lack of sleep and the strained nerves, felt like boulders as they rolled around his

skull. He closed his eyes against the tears, his fists burrowing into the linen, his prayers feeling woefully inadequate, and his

soul's aching guilt wrenching. Panting, he allowed himself the luxury to slump against the bed at last, his rigid, wary posture

finally yielding to the strain and exhaustion. At long last, Norrington lost the war to keep his eyes open. Just as his tortured

thoughts rose in accusation again, he fell into a dreamless slumber, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ocean.

Meanwhile....

Annamaria idly watched the moonlight over the water, its fractured archs of white shattering over the churning tide. The sea seemed uneasy

as well, as she only sighed and leapt from her perch on the deck, her bootheels silent as she raked the dark hair from her forehead. She

startled when the sentry on guard duty groped for his rifle. She lowered her pistol to his throat, her fear twisting her mouth into a dark

promise as she only cocked her head, waiting. Beckett had apparently given his men strict orders to leave her be, because he only

dipped his head, muttered an apology, and hastily strode back into that rigid line he was walking over the deck.

The shock of meeting Norrington, and seeing him so broken, the strain of navigating the treacherous moods of Beckett, and her

unease at being with all of the King's Own left her already short grip of self-control dangerously frayed. The news of the Pearl's escape

made her heart swell.

Exhaling her shuddering breath, she stowed the pistol back into her boot, relieved and troubled at the same time. She felt almost

a fool aboard this wretched, seething cage of a ship, her very existance an ever sharpening wedge between the freedom she had lost,

and the sick way she had been forced to shackle herself to Beckett to regain her life. She knew that they all held her in contempt. She was

dark-skinned, a woman, unfettered and unbroken, and she feared being taken more than she feared dying to keep the precious scrape

of chance she now had. She bit back the chuckle that almost flooded from her throat, as well as the tears. Either one seen would shatter

the veneer of her being nothing but irrational, feminine fury, and that could not be. She hated it-both being so easily dismissed due to her gender,

and her inability to be caged by corset and duty, were she of the paler skin, but her refusal to be shackled and enslaved on no basis other

than her station, and her skin. She knew that Beckett only tolerated the usurping because he believed himself to be superior in wit, and

station, and therefore, all the more blind for it. She had been hardened by the brutality of the life she lived, and almost died for on more

than one occasion, but she cringed inwardly at what vengence Beckett would mete out if he knew of her betrayal. He was icy calculation,

implied threats, shrewd. She sighed again, looking skyward. "Ye daft pirate, I hope I can save ye....." It was the closest prayer she could

utter in the gloaming emptiness. Tomorrow, she would set out on her path, with that ponce Norrington out on the open ocean. She hated him.

The Antigone suddenly lurched upward, and she scowled as she bucked at the unexpected shift. She even hated Beckett's ship, and the

antipathy seemed mutual. Norrington was rigid, and viciously duty-bound, but from the scant dealings she had with the man, she knew

his idolatrous sense of honor, if not his disgust with her status, would likely protect her from any real harm from his hand. She sneered

at the thought, as her pistol felt cold and comforting in her hand.

She allowed a snort at the irony. Beckett probably viewed her as nothing more than a spewing vessel of rage against Jack Sparrow, ready to be

poured out to drown him. Anamaria had certainly snarled out enough curses about Jack Sparrow to be viewed as simply a woman scorned,

a whining shrew who wanted vengence against a vanishing lover. She drummed her fingers against the railing, with a sigh. It was simply easier

to allow the world its assumptions, than attempt an explanation, even to herself. Jack had entered her life like a tidal wave, altering everything in

its wake, lifting her out of the depths, and liberating her from the literal chains she once wore.

And, in those dark moments of indecision, when she was staring back at the gloaming shore that was being swallowed by the water, when her doubts

were clawing at her and she felt uncertain tears rising, Jack did not mock them. He only offered an understanding smile, and a proffered hankerchief with an almost courtly bow.

"'s always hard, the leaving. It doesn't matter how much the sea swallows the heart, it's a bitter parting to leave what you've known." It was spoken

with sorrow, as he only stared at the water, one hand clenched against the rigging's ropes, as if he needed to hold onto something she could not

name.

"And if ye don't miss anything you leave behind?" She jutted her wrist towards him, the darker indention from the old shackle's scars almost as

dark as the look he gave her. Jack blinked, glanced down at her wrist, and shrugged.

"Then that's a sorrowful thing, love, to hold nothing but hate and memories. Tis a much harder thing to hate what you leave than love it." He gave her

a sad, knowing smile, before he ambled along his way, the solemn wisdom of the moment's vapor vanishing as he clapped a hand over her shoulder in

finality.

Jack had somehow woven himself into the fabric of her very being, like a noose, or a tether, and she did not know which one he was any more. She did

know that he was her friend, he had saved her life, and she was here on the mad gamble that she might return the favor. Beckett, she knew, would kill

him if he ever got the chance. Anamaria just sighed, and cupped her chin, staring upward at the stars. The Pearl was out underneath those celestial

watchers, and that thought gave her a bit of comfort.