Okay so I went to see PoTC 4 and while it wasn't 'black pearl' it wasn't unwatchable. But like the previous movies I totally locked onto Philip and Syrena. I mean, could they be a little cuter in all their awkwardness? So I dropped my other fics like hot potatoes (sorry!) and typed up this little piece that attempts to take us from 'you gave me a name' to 'i'll cry tears of joy at your well being'. Obviously its all in Syrena's pov because I found her to be the more interesting of the two.

It was too warm.

The air was too dry, the arms around her were too thick, the skin covering them was too warm. The thin, damp cotton that clothed her had already dried in the air, now it hung rough against her skin. Skin that was not meant to be subject to the dry air and certainly not meant to cover her from head to toe. She refused to look at the toes that now took the place of her fins, toes that led to legs that led upwards. They were long and pale, nothing like the tail that should have been there. The air brushed across them, reminding her constantly that she was not where she should have been. And her left foot ached terribly where the man who carried hers sword had pierced it, back when it was a fin.

Oh why why hadn't she fled with the others?

If only that barrel hadn't pinned her, trapping her in the shallow lagoon. She had been so ready to attack the lone sailor, so ready to be a hero instead of the quiet, little thing the others saw her as. But when the moment had come, instead of leaping up and attacking him she had grabbed his leg and yanked him out of harms way. The excuse was in her mind, that she wanted to kill him and not some falling piece of debris. It was an excuse that would be accepted, with disappointment, even though she would have no trinket to show for the death she had not caused. That was the way it always was. As the others rejoiced and laughed over their kills she would sit to the side, unable to look away from the glazed eyes of the dead.

Not like the eyes of the man who carried her, whose gaze was set resolutely forward. She could feel his hands against her, hands that were rough with callouses and dry with salt. One wrapped around her shoulders, the palm firmly pressed against the cotton. The other curved around the outside of her thigh, just above the skin on the back of her knees. But while the hand around her shoulders sometimes shifted slightly against the fabric, the one on her thighs never moved, almost as if he was afraid to shift his fingers against her bare skin. Or perhaps it was simply because she was heavy. She felt heavy, as if everything in her was being pulled down towards the water where she belonged.

"We rest here!" the raven haired woman shouted back to them.

The man who carried her moved towards the rocks nearby, lowering her onto one. His hand shifted against her skin, brushing higher on her thigh. Heat rushed into his cheeks, his eyes lowering as he moved his hand out of the way. Her own hand was slower to slide from his neck, joining its brother on the opening of the shirt he had placed around her. Her eyes landed on him, unwilling to look down at the limbs that stretched from where her tail should have been, but he had turned to another member of the crew and was speaking to them. Much to her surprise, the man reached up and tore the remaining sleeve from his shirt, tossing it to him.

He walked back over to her, her eyes following his every movement as he came to stand in front of her and kneeled down, one hand touching her ankle. Her foot jerked in surprise at the strange touch and his head flew up.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" he asked.

She shook her head, pressing her lips together lest she show her fangs in surprise and anger at the fact she had an ankle to be touched at all. His hand slid around the delicate curve of the joint, his rough fingers moving slowly as if he could sense this was an alien experience for her. Her eyes watched as he braced her foot against the fabric of his pants. She could fee the muscles of his thigh and the hard bone of his knee underneath the bottom of her foot. She watched as he turned the sleeve the sailor had given him inside out and turned back to her foot, his hand once more sliding over her skin.

A sound escaped her lips as the skin dragged against the fabric of his pants and the strangest sensation spread across her foot, causing the limb to jerk against his hand.

Surprise widened her eyes as she pressed her lips tighter, looking firmly at the ground. The sensation was strange but not as unpleasant as the feeling of his hand around her ankle. It was almost, but no quite, pleasant, it certainly brought her closer to smiling than anything that had happened so far.

"You're ticklish," the man told her, drawing her eyes up to him. He was looking intently at her foot but his gaze lifted to meet hers, "many people-" he stopped, "it's not uncommon," he told her, "not on the feet," his eyes went back to her foot and she felt his grip adjust, "I'll be quick."

He wrapped the sleeve around her foot and the cut that still graced it, tying off the sleeve as she fought to keep still. She focused on his hands, watching as they moved quickly without the water to slow them. It was odd how hands could be quicker above water but the journey to wherever they were going seemed endless. It would be much quicker if they could just swim there, though she knew without her tail that would take much longer as well. Being a human seemed to mean that everything went slower. His hands finished and lingered on the top of her foot, calloused fingers pressed lightly to the soft skin just underneath her bandages.

"i am sorry about this," he said, his eyes rising to meet hers.

"Then why did you do it?" she asked, unable to hold her silence.

Shock engulfed his features as he gaped at her. Resolutely she held his gaze, refusing to let him shirk the responsibility for the injury on her foot and the capture it had led to. He seemed shocked at the fact she was speaking at all and she realized that they both had assumed she would hold her silence for the duration of the journey. There was no going back now. Doing her best to exude some of the confidence that Tamara brought up so easily, she raised her chin and looked down at him.

"I didn't think I would actually get you," he admitted. "I'm not one of them, you see," he continued, "I am a missionary, sent by the Church to spread the word of God. These pirates captured me some weeks ago."

"Why do they not let you go?" she asked finally.

"I do not know," he said, "it is Blackbeard's daughter who keeps me alive, Blackbeard himself is not a man of God."

"Is Syrena a man of God?" she asked quietly.

He opened his mouth before closing it and lowering his head. She watched him carefully, not certain what to make of his response. He seemed so intent on his 'God' that it struck her as odd he would christen her with a name not of the people he cared so deeply for. His eyes rose to meet hers and she was surprised to see that pink stained his cheeks, making him seem all the younger.

"A character, in a story," he said, "one that was read to me many times as a boy," the pink stayed on his cheeks, "but I must once more apologize, this time for my boldness, I only sought to help these pirates see you as more than 'the creature', not give you a new name."

She looked up at him, surprised at the honesty in his eyes. He seemed to genuinely feel bad for the result his actions had wrought, bad and surprised. As if he had not known what would happen at all. At once she felt comforted and disheartened by his surprise, realizing that he had very little idea what to expect from the pirates as well. She shifted on the rocks, suddenly even less certain of the situation at hand than before.

"Move out!"

Her head flew towards the female with the raven hair who issued the command. All around them the others were moving out, following the order issued from sure lips. He stood up, gently placing her foot on the ground before walking over to her side, an apology written on his face. She looked down at the rock she was sitting on, wishing desperately that it was in the water. That she could simply slide off of it and swim until her tail ached and the pirates were little more than a bad memory. She would take her sisters teasing over her situation any day.

He was besides her abruptly, bending down with his arm sliding around her shoulder. Forcing her hand away from the fabric it clutched so desperately, she slid her hand around his neck as his other gently took its place under her legs. She could feel the shift in his muscles as he straightened up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Or, rather, as though she weighed no more than he would weigh if they were underwater and their situation was reversed. Easily he fell into step with the others, walking across the unfriendly terrain with confidence.

"Hey Missionary!" one of the pirates cajoled, "if your arms get tired, I'll be glad to carry her for a spell! Or a night!"

The other pirates howled and she felt his fingers tighten against her skin as his jaw ground together. He was angry at their words, as though they could actually hurt her. As long as they decided to spend the night by a pool of water, she would show them what her sisters took such delight in doing to men. She glanced around doubtfully, realizing that any water was far enough away that if they stopped for the night she would be in trouble. Lowering her head she took in the sight of the legs that dangled over the edge of Missionary's arm, wondering if it would be even possible to run. Or fight. Or do anything but be helpless.

"I will not let them hurt you," he assured her quietly, so as for the other pirates not to hear him.

Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck, the only acknowledgment of his words as her lips remained silent and her eyes firmly downwards. She could feel wetness against her arm and she knew that no matter the face he gave for the pirates he was tired. She looked down at the tips of her toes, wondering if her limbs would work now, if she could take some of the burden on herself. But she did not want to slow him down by trying to figure such a thing out. Missionary was in enough trouble as it was, he did not need to be worse off because of her.

Night began to fall as the sunset took hold of the sky. She twisted her head upwards, looking and wondering how it could have possibly only been a day since she had been kidnapped. Settling forward, she heard an odd sound escape Missionary's mouth before he bit it back. But the pink on his cheeks had darkened to almost the red of the sky as the sun sunk down. She frowned, it was an odd color to see on a human's face. His eyes moved over to her and her concern increased at the pained look in his gaze, which he quickly stamped down, his eyes focusing resolutely ahead.

Leaning forward so as not to be heard by the others, she placed her lips nearby his ear.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly.

"Fine," he bit out, though the tone of his voice suggested otherwise.

She frowned at the terse reply, glancing around to look for the source of his distress. There was nothing she could see behind them to suggest he had stepped on anything sharp enough to hurt his feet through the thick soles of his boots. No plants had snapped back to sting the skin left exposed by his black vest. Two of the other pirates seemed to be sniggering at something but they stopped when her eyes flashed. Even so, she could not see them having done anything but laugh, and Missionary had not jerked like she had when he tickled her so she did not think they had done anything.

Which left only her.

Frowning, she looked at her hand which pressed to the side of his neck, following the curve of it across his shoulders until it fell away from his body. Her side was against his chest, the curve of her ribs pressed along the point where his met. Her hips and thighs followed, blossoming from where the edge of the shirt ended to press skin to skin against his side. Nothing was different. One of his arms was around her shoulders, his hand cupping the curve of her arm, the other was hooked under her legs, now well above where her knees were. It must have shifted when she strained to catch a glance at the sun.

Loosening her grip on the shirt, she pressed her other hand to his shoulder and pushed herself up once more, allowing his hand to slide down closer to her knees. Instantly the pulse she saw beating in his throat lessened and the tenseness around his jaw relaxed. Lowering herself back down, she returned her other hand to the front of the shirt, holding it closed as the red began to fade from his cheeks. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but she kept her eyes on her hand, unsure of what to make of what had just happened.

"Thank you," he said finally, his voice matching hers for softness.

She nodded her head quietly, one of her fingers toying with the longer bit of fabric that stuck out from the rest.

"They're ties," Missionary spoke, "its a mans shirt, so its not designed for someone with-" the pink blossomed back in full force, "but it does close, if you would prefer not to hold it shut the entire journey."

Doubtfully she looked down at the longer bits of fabric. Grasping one between her fingers, she released his neck and lowered her other hand, picking up the bit that seemed to line up with it. Carefully she tied the two together before moving onto the next one. Frowning she looked down at the line of smaller holes that now divided the larger one before looking up at Missionary. He met her eyes and smiled apologetically at her confusion.

"Mans shirt," he explained.

She looked down, her hand sliding back up around his neck before she reached out and carefully placed her other hand by its brother, shifting the burden of her weight into what she hoped would be a more comfortable way for him. The sun finally sank below the sky, the moon giving what light it could. All around them she saw the men begin to trip, slowing down their progress. His steps changed, though while he moved slower he did not fall behind. Soon the group of pirates was scattered about the jungle as they made their way behind the raven haired woman.

"How did you know I needed air?" she asked quietly

"I could see you were unable to breathe," he replied.

"No-one else did," she pointed out.

"That is because they did not look," he said.

"Why did you?"

He looked away and even in the darkness she could see the pink that stained his cheeks once more.

"My mother used to tell me stories of mermaids," he said, "but I thought they were only tales, until I saw you," he looked back at her shyly, "my apologies," he added carefully, "I did not mean to stare."

She nodded her head and looked down again as they continued through the darkness. Hours seemed to pass in silence but he did not put her down or show any signs of strain in carrying her for hours. Finally the raven haired woman ordered that they would stop for a moment, though from the look she gave to him it was more out of a courtesy for him than the desire to be careful with the rest of the crew. He lowered her down to one of the tree roots nearby, making certain the shirt was securely around her before he straightened up, one hand reaching upwards and wrapping around the object dangling from the length of chord around his neck.

If she had planned to kill him she knew that was the trinket she would have taken back to her sisters. He seemed to have many things with such a symbol. The necklace around his throat, the book he had pushed into her coffin when the pirate had taken his sword back. Marina had brought a book down once and in a moment of boldness she had picked it up. But the yellow pages had already run soggy with black and at the slightest touch they seemed to fall apart. Marina had declared the cover to be the real prize but she could not help but wonder what had been written on the pages.

She turned her head to see the other pirates clustered over by the raven haired woman, trading swigs from a jug. Looking back at Missionary she frowned. He seemed to be having a conversation with the object, eyes closed and lips moving. Pressing her lips together she waited silently as he finished his conversation with the cross, opening his eyes and looking down at her.

"Does it speak back?" she asked him.

"This?" he pointed at the object, the surprise on his face matching the confusion on hers, "no," he said, "but it isn't meant to. This is a crucifix, a symbol of my faith. But it is not meant to speak to me."

"But you speak to it," she pointed out.

"I speak to God," he explained, "this," he continued, "helps me to think of him."

"Does he speak back?" she asked.

"Yes. not always in the clearest way," he said, "but yes, God does answer."

She frowned, not certain she liked the answer. The sound of feet on the ground drew both their gazes to the raven haired woman who walked over towards them with a cloth bundle in her hand. Missionary straightened and looked at her, but his eyes did not hold the same disgust and anger that they did for the other pirates. She held out the cloth bundle to him.

"For you," she said, "and the mermaid if this is what she eats."

"Somehow I doubt that," he said, taking the bundle from her and inspecting its contents, "we'll manage," he told her after a moment, "how long do we have?"

"Until you are finished," she said, glancing over her shoulder before looking at him, "be quick," she added, turning on her heel and walking to the others.

He watched he go before turning back to her, slowly coming over and sitting beside her on the root, opening the bundle. She looked at the pale squares nestled against the darker fabric. He picked one up and held it out to her. Carefully she took it, inspecting the pale square. Bringing it towards her nose, she sniffed it, unable to smell anything she recognized. Lowering it she placed the corner of it in her mouth.

"Wait, don't bite," came the quick instruction, "you'll break your tooth," she paused, looking over at him, "you've got to suck on it first," he explained, "to soften it."

Carefully she followed his example, placing the corner in her mouth and letting it soften. It was still hard when she bit into it but her tooth did not break. Silently they consumed the crackers and while she was grateful for something in her stomach she would have preferred something she could eat quickly and ravenously instead of the slow work of the crackers. Soon they had consumed as many as they dared and her mouth was dry enough to bring her to tears. Missionary stood up and walked over to the men, returning with a jug.

"It isn't water but it should help," he said offering it to her.

She placed it to her lips and took a long drink of the rum. That she had consumed before. Barrels fell to the sea when sailors and their boats were destroyed. It was, perhaps, the one spoil she and her sisters could truly enjoy. Lowering the jug, she looked at the surprised expression on his face before holding it out to him. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks and took a much smaller sip with a wince of distaste. Setting the jug down he looked over at the pirates before walking over to her and sitting down next to her once more, offering her the jug.

"Oy! The Missionary's over there with the Mermaid!" one of the men's voices rose above the rest.

She saw him tense in anger but something about the jibe struck her as odd.

"Missionary is not your name?" she asked.

He looked over at her and once again seemed surprised. She found she did not like the look of surprise on his face, especially not when it came to her and her actions. As though he could sense her dislike he quickly shook his head, a small smile coming to his lips.

"No," he said, "its Philip," he explained, "Philip Swift," he hesitated, "and your name is?"

"Syrena," she replied, lifting the jug to her lips.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw his smile widen in amusement. But it seemed to genuine and heartfelt to be directed at her. Lowering the jug she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and looked over at him but the smile did not leave his face. If anything it widened further and she wondered if he would laugh. He had a nice enough voice, she imagined the sound of his laughter would not be unpleasant. Their eyes caught and for the first time she returned the smile with one of her own.

"Lets move out!" the woman shouted.

He stood up with a regretful sigh as she set the jug down, carefully bracing her hand against the root and pushing herself to her feet. He was by her side instantly as her legs trembled but she forced them steady. It would be easier for him to pick her up if she stood. His eyes swept across her, as if looking to see if she would fall but she refused to let her knees buckle. If she walked she would collapse and get them both in trouble, but she could at least stand. Slowly Philip reached out, his arm sliding underneath hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent down and slid his other arm underneath her legs, pulling her back into his arms as he straightened up and walked back towards the others.

Philip walked a bit away from the others. Not far enough to be accused of lagging but a bit away from the main group. She was glad, the pirates seemed to be more foul tempered as the night wore on, and she would much rather be off to the side with him than in the thick of them, even if he had stabbed her with a blade. She wondered if they were going to walk for the entire night. Blackbeard seemed intent on it, on reaching the Fountain as quickly as he could. But to get it to work he was going to need a tear from her. She did not like to think what they were going to do to get it.

Her fingers tightened against Philip's shoulder. If they wished for a tear they would have to go through great lengths to get it. Tamara had made it clear tears were for the weak and though she was many things not particularly prized by her Queen, weak was not one of them. Philip's hand tightened reassuringly against her shoulder and she looked over at him with a soft smile that he easily returned. They looked away before the others could make more comments. The raven haired woman pushed them through the night, barely allowing them a break until the sun began to crest over the horizon.

"We rest here!"

As they walked over to the clearing that the raven haired pirate shouted towards, she could see that this time Philip was glad to stop. His skin was shining with sweat and she had felt the hand on her legs shift several times in an effort to find a comfortable position to carry her in. Her own arms would have ached from pulling for as long as they had been walking and he would have been almost weightless to her. The clearing they were in had no roots or rocks to sit on, just the ground which the other pirates seemed more than content to use.

"I can stand," she said softly.

"Syrena-" he began but she shifted her legs resolutely against his hand, "hold onto me," he said finally, "and be careful of your foot."

She nodded her understanding and adjusted her grip on his shoulders. He moved his hand so that she could carefully lower her legs to the ground, touching her toes then the balls of her feet and finally her heels. Slowly she relaxed her grip on him, shifting more of her weight onto her legs. They trembled but held and though she knew that she would not be able to walk very far, standing was more than she could have done when her tail first fell away.

Sliding her hands from his shoulders, she gripped his arms before settling her hands on his forearms. Slowly she lowered herself down, letting him hold her up as much as he could as the alien muscles in her legs moved to accommodate her weight. She heard a few of the pirates sniggering at her struggle but ignored them, not wanting to strain Philip more than she already had. Finally she was sitting on the ground. Sliding her hands from his wrists, she carefully drew them into her lap.

Next to her, Philip dropped to the ground heavily and reached towards his neck before stopping, his eyes rising to look at her. Realizing she was staring at him, she focused her gaze elsewhere, understanding that it was difficult to look after injuries when the person who inflicted them was nearby. She looked down at the leaves under her legs, realizing that scooting away was not going to help either. Looking away was the best she could do for him. Instead she looked down at her own foot at the bandage tied around it. It had stopped hurting, but she thought that it would help if perhaps Philip did not use a sword until he had proper training.

She turned her head to look at the sun that climbed in the sky. The other man had said they were about a days walk from the pools that would show they were close to the fountain. Surely they had been walking for about a day by now. Her eyes found Philip's and she could see he seemed to be thinking the same thing as her. There was no other reason she could see for the guilt in his eyes. She looked down, feeling uncomfortable with the idea that he felt guilty for what he had done to her, especially after he had shown her more kindness than she ever had seen from a human. Even if he was rather peculiar with his talking Gods and storybook names.

Suddenly he was on his feet, his eyes wide. She stiffened as she felt the heat of other people behind her. Her eyes rose to meet his and she felt fear coil inside her as she heard the sound of fabric behind pulled apart. His gaze moved from the people behind her towards hers and she quickly looked down, her hand tightening on the fabric of his shirt as the men moved forward, a cloth sack just edging the periphery of her vision.

"Syrena-"

It all went dark.

Okay, next time Philip gets to be all damsel in distress and the mermaid gets to save him. Why? Because I like whump and badass females and in the end both of those things occurred-oh and the mermaid was really sweet too.

Please review!