Sometimes he wished he could fly. There was a tattoo of a sea hawk on his left shoulder that no one ever saw. He would like it if he could take to the air. Things must be simpler up there.

The rough stone ledge at the top of Fort Charles dug into his elbows, making divots in the skin even through the sleeves of his coat. James welcomed the discomfort. It was tangible. It reassured him. He stared down at the foaming mouth of the ocean below; it's jagged teeth primed to chew up and spit out whatever or whoever was unfortunate to fall onto them. His eyes closed briefly in prayerful thanks that Elizabeth had missed them. He shuddered as images of her flesh torn and bleeding crossed his unwilling mind. To counter the pain of losing her to a far less horrific fate he ground his arms into the stone, dropping his wrists so that the edge cut into them. His actions did not draw blood but when he looked closely in the fading moonlight there were angry red lines across both. It satisfied him but only for a fleeting second or two.

He lifted his hands to scrub them over his face, callused fingers catching at his eyebrows. He was far too tired to be out here thinking. Somewhere behind him in the shadows a pair of marines kept a watchful eye for danger. They were probably watching him as well. There was no privacy at the fort.

His thoughts drifted again.

Elizabeth wasn't the problem. He supposed he would get over her in time. His winged Interceptor was in pieces at the bottom of the sea. He had clashed swords with impossible-to-kill skeletal marionettes—the stuff of nightmares.

Worse yet, his men had died due to his inability to trust a pirate.

He wondered if he was too arrogant. He was a good commander. Did the two go hand in hand? Would those sailors have died if he had followed Sparrow's advice? Could much of the bloodshed have been avoided?

Below the wall a wave crashed noisily, drawing his attention. He leaned out. More waves followed, throwing themselves on the rocks. The sea was angry tonight, or sad. A weight settled over James. If he gave into it he would find solace.

If he could fly he would find another life, far, far away.

"Sir?"

James turned to the voice, moving only his head. A marine named... Wilson stood nearby, his body stance indicating that he was concerned about his commanding officer, yet he did not know if he should be concerned. The lobster-red of Wilson's uniform was a beacon in the night reminding James that the marines aided the Royal Navy, and James served His Majesty. He served to the best of his ability and he did it well. He had little cause for self-recrimination.

James realized he was leaning far out from the parapet; elbows out and shoulders protruding like haunches on a starved dog. He flexed them and slowly straightened into a more acceptable posture. Inch by inch he regained his true self, until his spine was stiff and straight and his hands were firmly clasped behind his back.

His chin lifted and he looked down his nose at the marine. Whatever Wilson had been thinking clearly vanished in the face of the Commodore's authoritative bearing.

"I, uh... " He pulled himself to attention and saluted. "All's well, sir!"

James slowly returned the salute.

"Yes," he replied, confidence in place. "All is well. Return to your post."

"Aye, sir." Wilson marched off smartly.

His back to the sea, James watched the soldier a moment. Then, without a single glance over his shoulder, he strode away.

# end