At World's Beginning

Mother

When James returned after his strange but oddly agreeable conversation with Barbossa, he stood next to the bed for a moment before proceeding. There was every chance in the world this wouldn't work, and only one that it would. And even if Barbossa's idea did yield results, it could easily be the kind that left them in worse straits than before.

But he had to try. He owed her that much.

James lifted Ona from the bed as gently as he could, finding her dress was still cool and damp from the plunge they had taken earlier, not to mention the downpour from the violent storm. A storm that had, apparently, been manufactured by the entity he was about to face if all went according to plan.

Sparrow and Gibbs watched from nearby—a look of worried trepidation on the latter's face, a dubious frown on the former's.

As James passed them, Ona's limp form carefully cradled in his arms, Sparrow said, "Hoping this one good deed is enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness?"

James hesitated, his jaw tightening as he contemplated sending Sparrow a parting gift in the form of his clenched fist. But then he moved on, ignoring the jab that had cut too deep to not contain edges of the truth.

The Dutchman was pulled up alongside the Pearl, lashed together with ropes and hooks so James could easily cross using a gangplank. Barbossa insisted this had to be done on the Dutchman, and Sparrow was only too happy to hear there would be no arcane rituals happening on his ship.

When James arrived in the captain's quarters, William Turner and Barbossa were already there. The room was just as ominous as James remembered, though much of the grimy crust and barnacle growths were now gone. The organ still spanned the rear hull of the ship, and the light filtering through the opaque windows was as eerie as ever.

The black tallow candles placed in an oval on the floor only lent to the atmospheric feel of heathen deities and old, forgotten magics.

This had better work, he thought as he carefully placed Ona within the confines of the candles. Barbossa had assured him that despite being freed, Calypso could be contacted and appealed to for a boon.

If she's feelin' so inclined, and isn't still... nursin' old grudges, Barbossa had said with a sly smirk.

Yes, James had said dryly. Because gods are often known for their ability to overlook slights, imagined or otherwise.

Think of it this way, Barbossa had mused, placing a gnarled hand on James' shoulder that he had immediately wanted to shake off. Ye'll be appealin' to her to save her child, one which was run through by Jones' own hand. If anythin', ye'd be visited by her wrath for not tryin' to save the girl.

James hadn't found that point very convincing. Gods weren't known for their logical thinking or reasonable natures, either. Calypso could just as easily blame James for Ona's state as she would Jones, and he had half a mind to agree with her.

After Ona was placed on the ancient floorboards, James moved a stray blond hair out of her face. Hold on for just a little while longer. Please, he asked in a silent plea.

"Stand back," Barbossa said, his lips pulled into an amused grin. "This part can be a bit... precarious."

"And what is it we are doing, exactly?" James asked, scowling as he turned to look at the older pirate. He trusted Barbossa about as much as he trusted the merciful whims of the one they were trying to contact.

"Provoking a god," he answered, his smile full of dirty teeth. "So ye best hold on to yer breeches, Admiral. This ain't no place for the faint o' heart."