Prologue: Teardrops on Teague's Guitar

Somewhere in the darkness of a ship's hull, buried away at the heart of the city and locked out of sight, the strumming could be heard. Raspy fingertips to metal cords, the patter of aged wood at a rhythm's pace, and a man of considerable dexterity leading the symphony. Teague Sparrow was a wise rebel, one who had seen the world a thousand times over and settled in the center of it, given life to another of infamous breed, and shared his final smiling moments in life with a woman. A woman he had loved until her dying day.

Every morning, an hour before sunrise, he played for her. A different kind of playing than that he was known for, this harmony was a love song, an ode to everything he once was and could never be again. This is why the Lord of all scallywags, the grandest captain, the Pirate to end all pirates, let his tears fall on the belly of his guitar.

Love was why.

Tied Together with a Smile

Stirring anxiously from sleep, her eyes were green embers in the darkness of the room, and all that could be registered was the aching sound of a thumbing guitar solo. Beats and tones scattered like bits of glass down each narrow crevice and hall in the timeless vessel, Teague's bellowing sadness reaching even her dreams and making her remember too much for her own good in any case. Elizabeth Turner was a lost soul, having been thrown inside of a life she never could have wished for, governed by rules, destroyed by adventure, covered in a sea of debt and guilt as high as could reach her neck. She was married alone, and would surely die alone.

Every morning, an hour before sunrise, Teague's playing spoke to her. It was nothing like what he normally conjured from the old steely box, but rather a love letter, one she herself could strangely connect to. This is why the princess of the seas, the murderess of even the finest pirates, the former Miss Swann, gave into the lullaby and let the tears fall freely.

Love found, lost, and found again was why.

He'd Lie

An ocean away, still wide awake and basking in the glow of a southern sunset over the bow of a ship, his fingertips met the base of the guitar's strings. This hobby, one of few besides drinking, had only become a prominent activity since the day he had left a friend on an island. A married friend. The delicate rumble from the instrument fell across the deck, meeting the ears of working crew with slight enjoyment. Jack Sparrow was a drowning spirit, a man who had crossed over watery paths time and again, one who had risked his own life, as well as given it to a woman, a woman who had stolen his heart in strangulation three years and eight sunsets past. A woman he had loved since his dying day.

Every evening, an hour before sunset, he played for her. The songs he played were calls, wind bargains to somehow bring her back to him, to give him the strength to admit his true feelings to her, to give her the freedom she thirsted for. This is why the Caribbean Lord, the greatest sailor to date, and Elizabeth's good man, allowed his lone tear to dry into the heat of the falling days.

Love, however unlikely, however battled against, was why.