bringmethatnpc | (no subject)

Yes, but I might.

Holding her tongue, Elizabeth sits in the far corner of her cell, resolutely ignoring the other, odiferous prisoners. She stares at her hands, snapping her attention back to her fingers when her gaze starts to wander to a streak of dirt near her hem. How long do they expect to hold her like this?

...Of course, considering the most likely immediate alternative, this isn't so horrible.

It took quite a bit of money in bribes and called-in favors, but the carriage is waiting outside, and the keys to the prison cell are in his hand.

Weatherby Swann is an honorable man. He's taken pride on being a loyal subject of the crown, and he is not one to rebel or disobey orders. But where his daughter is concerned, all of his other loyalties pale in comparison.

His voice is hushed as he swings the cell door open. "Come quickly."

As surprised as she is to be released by her father -- especially at this hour -- Elizabeth isn't going to question any circumstance that sees her safely on the other side of the bars. At least not yet.

Rising to her feet, she follows hastily. The prisoners call after her, not at all pleased when she fails to look in their direction.

Hurrying to catch up, she feels her stomach knot as they reach the corridor above. Never before has she seen quite that look in her father's eyes.

"You’ve got to tell me what’s going on!"

He takes her hand and pulls her along. They haven't much time.

"I still have some standing with the king. I’ve arranged passage to England. The captain’s a friend of mine."

The captain also carries a letter to the King himself, informing him of certain events in the colony in which Weatherby is supposed to hold power.

Passage to England?

Although she does not slow her pace, she starts and attempts to either free her hand or tug him back.

Breathlessly, "No! Will’s gone to find Jack!"

The sooner his beloved daughter is on that ship, and on her way back to civilized society, the better. He ought to have put an end to this pirate nonsense a long time ago.

"You cannot count on William Turner. Come!"

Catching sight of the coach ahead, Elizabeth lifts her chin defiantly, trying to ignore the sharp note of desperation in her own voice.

"He’s a better man than you give him credit for—"

He speaks more sharply with Elizabeth than he ever has. He must do something to impart the seriousness of this matter.

"Oh, please. This is no time for innocence. Beckett has offered one pardon only, one, and that is promised to Jack Sparrow. Even if Will succeeds, do not ask me to endure the sight of my daughter walking to the gallows. Do not!"

His fingers close around her arm as they hasten to the carriage. Shocked by his words and the speed with which all of this is happening, she allows him to put her inside.

In the back of her mind, she's already considering her options. However, all she can do at the moment is stare at her father.

He begins to close the door, but tries to soften the blow of his words.

"Perhaps I can ensure a fair trial for Will. If he returns."

A valiant attempt, but there's no softening the truth of the matter.

"A fair trial for Will ends in a hanging," Elizabeth states, eyes wide with growing concern.

It is a harsh truth he must speak, but better she knows it, and accepts it, now.

"Then there is nothing left for you here."

He closes coach door and hurries to drive his daughter to safety.

Lord Cutler Beckett is working late into the night. The business of empire requires a lengthy correspondence.

The decanter of brandy is one third full. At the beginning of the evening, it was two-thirds full.

The glass at his left hand is -- naturally -- half full. Beckett thinks of himself as a very positive-thinking man.

Two smart raps against the door interrupt the scratching of Beckett's quill pen before the door is opened. Mercer steps swiftly into the room, his black clothes a deeper shadow against the dimness of the office. In strange contrast, his voice is light and unhurried.

"Miss Swann is making her escape, as expected. She and her father are most likely heading for the docks."

At times it is a veritable burden being right.

"Then I trust, Mr. Mercer, you shall do your duty well and with all haste, and intercept."

Beckett lifts the glass, but not in a salute -- a mere delicate sip, before setting it down with a quiet, demure thunk on the very nice wood of his very nice desk.

The faint upturning at the corners of Mercer's mouth are the only changes in the still figure.

"Of course."

He's out the door, then. Striding swiftly, Mercer tells one of the soldiers to gather those who are not on duty and meet him at the docks, then he goes on ahead.

And Beckett smiles (a lord's smile, he thinks to himself) and bends his head (with no delicately powdered hair out of place) over his letters.

Governor Swann drives the coach down to the docks watching the streets and alleys for official observers. He's the governor of Port Royal. He ought to be able to drive when and where he pleases without notice.

He pulls the horses to a stop, knowing that things have changed and his most powerful supporters are far across a vey wide ocean. He's risked much, and he'll risk more for his daughter.

"Wait inside!" he calls to Elizabeth.

He hops down, approaches the captain, whose back is turned and who is standing very still.

"Captain? Captain!"

As the governor comes closer, the captain falls sideways to sprawl upon the dock, Mercer's knife coming free from where it had been lodged between his ribs.

Mercer pulls a piece of cloth from his pocket with a black-gloved hand and begins cleaning the knife blade, glancing up at Governor Swann.

It's one thing to see a man die in battle, even during the battle of a pirate raid. It's quite another to see one slaughtered in cold blood in front of you.

"Oh my god!"

He steps back. If Beckett's creature murders on orders, then neither he nor Elizabeth is safe from harm.

Mercer smiles a little, wiping the blade clean of blood.

"Evening, guv’nor. Shame, that," He nods to the fallen body of the captain, his voice light and free of remorse.

Tucking the bloodied handkerchief away, he holds up a piece of parchment, sounding interested, "He was carryin’ this! It’s a letter to the king!"

Mercer tilts his head towards the governor, smile fading. "It’s from you."

Weatherby backs up, then turns and hurries back to the coach, which is now surrounded by soldiers.

"Elizabeth!"

As he approaches, a soldier grabs him roughly.

"What are you doing?!"

Mercer steps over the captain's body and quickly strides after Governor Swann, tucking his knife away for swift retrieval, should it be needed again.

Passing the governor, he jerks the coach door open, only to find it empty. He turns on Governor Swann, his voice flat. "Where is she?"

"Who?"

She's gotten away. Somehow she's gotten away, and dear Lord, please protect her.

He doesn't take kindly to people trying to feign ignorance to his questions. Nor gently, apparently. Mercer grabs the governor roughly by the collar and swings him round to slam him up against the coach, ignoring Swann's frantic "No!"

He winces in pain. He's not used to being manhandled so. This is a moment he never once in his life imagined could happen to him.

But if it means that he can distract Mercer and the soldiers and give Elizabeth that much more time to get farther away, he's willing to make the sacrifice.

Elizabeth had no intention of waiting inside, even before she heard her father cry out. Everything is moving much too quickly and out of her control for that.

Had he had time to consider the matter, the Governor likely wouldn't have put her in a coach with doors on each side. Luckily for her, he hadn't.

Hurrying away, she struggles not to react when she hears the commotion.

Time to take matters into her own hands -- for Will, for her father and for herself.

On his feet, and now back to his desk, lantern in his hand, letter in his other --

Beckett's chest has been disturbed. The letters of marque inside are missing.

The conclusion is not a difficult one to reach.

"No doubt you’ve discovered that loyalty is no longer the currency of the realm, as your father believes."

Letters of marque in one hand, pistol in the other and both behind her back, Elizabeth steps from the shadows.

"Then what is?"

Beckett turns to face her, his smile sardonic.

(Predictably.)

"I’m afraid currency is the currency of the realm."

"I expect then that we can come to some sort of understanding," she suggests, hands still behind her back as she approaches Beckett. Her eyes do not waver from his face. "I’m here to negotiate."

Drawled: "I’m listening."

He has the upper hand, and she has no leverage.

Elizabeth swiftly pulls the pistol from behind her back and points it at Beckett's face, hand perfectly steady.

How's that for leverage?

It suffices.

Irritably, he says, "I’m listening intently."

The corner of her mouth tilts up, just slightly, as she displays the leather bound letters of marque in her other hand.

"These letters of marque are all signed by the king."

So sharp she'll cut herself, Elizabeth Swann.

"Yes, and they’re not valid until they bear my signature, and my seal."

"Or else I would not still be here," Elizabeth replies dryly. "You sent Will to get you the compass owned by Jack Sparrow. It will do you no good."

Of this, she's quite sure.

"Do explain." Expression a little darker, voice drier.

Elizabeth is only too happy to comply.

"I have been to the Isla de Muerta, I have seen the treasure myself, and there is something you need to know."

Both angry and smug, she smiles faintly, prepared to tell him a tale he'll never forget. Or at least a tale that will make him reconsider his goals.

What Elizabeth Swann has yet to learn is that the only person in this room who looks good in smug is Cutler Beckett.

"Ah, I see. You think the compass leads only to the Isla de Muerta, so you hope to save me from an evil fate. But you mustn’t worry." He turns toward the map on the wall, away from her. "I care not for cursed Aztec gold. My desires are not so provincial."

And back to face her.

"There’s more than one chest of value in these waters. So, perhaps you may wish to enhance your offer."

Smug might not suit her nearly as well as it does Beckett, but she wears enraged bride very well.

Wasting no time, Elizabeth puts the pistol under his chin, cocks it and exerting just enough pressure, walks with him to the desk.

"Consider into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding night," she sneers.

Oh, how she longs to hit him.

Enraged bride?

Frustrated virgin, more like.

"So I did." If there is amusement, it's very, very well hidden as he signs the letters, and presses his seal into the small puddle of hot wax. "A marriage interrupted. Or fate intervenes. You’re making great efforts to ensure Jack Sparrow’s freedom."

No argument from this quarter.

Eyes narrowing, Elizabeth snatches at the letters.

Coldly, "these aren’t going to Jack!"

Of course not.

Shame, then, that Beckett's got a tight grip.

"Really?" Equally cold. "To ensure Mr. Turner’s freedom. I’ll still want that compass. Consider that into your calculations."

He eventually lets go. Elizabeth eyes him with distaste, but she has what she needed. Now in possession of the signed and stamped letters of marque, she levels the pistol at Beckett and slips into the night, keeping to the shadows.