The port of Bridgetown was bustling with the noises of men and cargo when they disembarked. Syrena had to stand still for a moment to absorb it. Her ears filled with the clatter of laborers rolling hogshead barrels down the pier, and her senses were assaulted with the competing aromas of sugarcane and tobacco and rum. Her marvel was short-lived, however. The moment she stepped onto the dock, the wooden planks rose unnaturally beneath her feet. Philip caught her from behind with his right arm. He threw her an apologetic glance as he helped her straighten. "Sorry, I should have warned you about that. It happened to me the first time I disembarked too."

Philip raised his free hand to the ship's deck in a brief farewell, which was largely ignored. Though he did not say so aloud, she could tell the captain was not sorry to see them go. He was a superstitious man, and most of his crew shared his belief that it was bad luck to bring a woman on board. In their eyes Philip's status as a man of God only partially cancelled out that influence. Still, they had been permitted to embark. When the Morning Mercy had found them on an island ten miles north of Whitecap Bay, Philip had wisely neglected to mention they were former captives of the Black Beard.

They continued down the dock slowly. Syrena was grateful to feel the rocking under her shoes lessen. She had made so much progress with walking in the three weeks before their rescue, it would have been devastating to see it all erased. As they walked Syrena craned her neck to take in the sights and sounds of the wharf. More sunbrowned men hauled in nets of raw fish, flapping and gasping their lives out, while others struggled with bunches of bananas half as tall as they were. Far more disturbing, though, were the lines of shackled men and women with skin dark as molasses. Looking more closely, she saw that some were small children. Many were completely naked, and their skin hung loosely over their ribs. Philip noticed the direction of her open staring.

"Slaves," he said quietly into her ear. "From Africa. They spent the last few months crammed in the galleys below decks. These are the ones who survived."

"Why would they take so many from their homes only to let them die?"

"The slave traders are greedy, and human life is cheap. It's no loss to them if a few dozen perish on the way." He squeezed her arm as they passed. She could hear the edge of bitterness in his voice, even though she was not looking at his face. "I wish there were something we could do, but there's not. Not here, at least."

Syrena shuddered. She had thought her own voyage to Barbados had been terrible enough; to be surrounded by seawater on all sides and yet unable to dive in, for there was always someone on deck watching. Fortunately Philip had borrowed a few buckets off the deckhands for her to splash water on her legs and face under the pretext of washing. Otherwise it would have proved fatal as well as agonizing. But compared to months trapped in a ship's hull, suffocating in a crowded outhouse of disease and starvation, her own journey had been positively luxurious.

Arm in arm they made their way to the end of the pier. When they reached the dirt roads leading into the city proper, a more genteel crowd mingled with the fruit sellers and laborers. A few colorfully dressed couples strolled with their arms linked, like she and Philip. An elderly gentleman tipped his hat to her as he walked by with his lady companion. They think I am his wife, she realized, feeling a small surge of elation in her chest.

"How far is it, to your mission?" she asked.

"About four miles north," Philip replied. "We don't have to go immediately. We can find a cove for you somewhere more private on the way. I know it's been a long time since you've been able to swim."

Syrena hesitated. He was thinking of her, which she found gratifying, but she wondered if he also was thinking of himself. He was dreading this return, had been dreading it since they had begun the voyage to Barbados. Perhaps he wanted her to plead the weakness in her legs as an excuse to lengthen the journey. Then again, perhaps he wanted to arrive sooner and get it over with. She wished she understood him better.

"I would be glad of a short swim," she said after a pause. She felt some of the latent tension in his arm relax and was relieved to know she had said the right thing.

The coves they found along the coast were too large to give them any real privacy, but they did find a tidal pool about a quarter mile inland. The rocks surrounding it made for a difficult descent. This was a relief to Syrena, because it meant no one else would be tempted to intrude. Philip turned his back while she slipped out of her linen bodice, skirt and shift. She found his modesty both perplexing and endearing. During her younger days in Mallorca, she had assumed humans wore clothing because they were ashamed of the ugliness of their legs and wished to compensate for not having beautiful tails like her own people. But the human preoccupation with covering up seemed to go beyond that, as they also insisted on covering their arms, their chests and occasionally their heads.

As she submerged in the water – after two weeks trapped on deck it was a glorious feeling, there was no denying it – she pondered Philip's decision to return to his former home. A part of her wished she could talk him out of it, if only to erase the shadows she saw in his face when he spoke of it, and the darkness that sometimes haunted his dreams. His church was gone, as was its head reverend, a man Philip had loved and respected during the few short months they had known each other. They had been building something new together. A school, he had told her. By ill chance, the Queen Anne's Revenge had fallen on them while the clergy and some of the more skilled members of the congregation had been laying the foundation. From what he had described, she gathered there had not been much of a fight. Now Philip wanted to return to see if anything could be salvaged from the remains. And if not…

"Then I'll bury the dead," he had said firmly. Syrena could empathize with that. After the destruction of the Fountain of Youth, he had helped her cut loose the shriveled mermaid corpses at the pool of sorrows so they could finally rest on the ocean floor. She would do the same for him. Even so, most of the mermaids at the pool had been dragged there long before her time. They were strangers to her; these were his friends. His wound has only just begun to heal, and now he is reopening it. She feared what he might find there.

"Feeling better?" Philip asked. He turned his head slightly to the side, but not so much that he would catch sight of her over his shoulder. Even in her mermaid form, the sight of her naked torso seemed to make him flustered. She splashed him playfully in the back with her tail.

"Join me," she suggested. He chuckled softly. By the way he hid his face she surmised that he was blushing. Laughing, she pulled herself from the water and reached for her clothes.

"It's all right. You can turn around now," she told him as she adjusted the bodice around her waist. A half-smile of admiration crossed his face when he looked at her again, though in his eyes she saw a trace of puzzlement. She frowned. "What is it, Philip?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just a strange feeling. It seems barely a few days ago you were such a gangly, awkward thing, and now…" His voice trailed off as he offered her his arm. By now it was more a gesture of gallantry than physical support. "There are times I forget you are a creature of the sea."

Syrena bit her tongue and glanced to the side. There were times she wondered if he would rather forget she was a creature of the sea. Occasionally she found herself worrying that their relationship would prove too strange for him. To be pulled from death by a creature he thought existed only in myth, and then to awaken to an unnaturally charmed life…It was much for him to accept in a short time. And he was so very, very young. Slipping her arm inside his again, she did her best to brush the thought aside. He is happy with you, and you are happy with him. Let it be enough.

They completed the next four miles along the coastline, holding their shoes in their free hands so the waves could lap against their ankles. Sometimes they spoke; sometimes they did not. She found the long silences comfortable most of the time.

She knew they were close when she felt the muscles in his arm tense. His heartbeat quickened as well, although this change would not have been audible to human ears. She squeezed his hand, wishing to convey some of the wordless reassurance he had given her on their journey through the jungle. There was value in such gestures, she remembered, even if they did no practical good. He pressed her fingers in response.

He stopped when the shoreline curved northeast. She saw it then, a grey house with a narrow tower sitting on a green slope. A few clusters of wild begonias had grown near the walls. Syrena could not help thinking it looked like such a peaceful place, to cause him so much doubt and anxiety.

"It's gone," Philip observed with detached surprise. "The flag of the Jolly Roger that Blackbeard hung over the steeple. Someone must have taken it down."

The sand gave way to soft grass and shrubs as they approached the mission. Up close, the building looked much less idyllic than it had from a distance. While the basic stone structure remained intact, the windows had been shattered, and rows of jagged glass teeth hung inside their frames. Philip circled around the side of the building. Syrena released his hand, thinking he would want to explore alone without her to slow him down. As his fingers traced the familiar stones, she wondered what memories lived inside the brick and mortar for him. When he reached the doorframe, he hesitated. Much like the window frames, it was now an empty gap overlooking a mess of splintered wood.

"The doors of God's house are always open," Philip murmured softly to himself. The sentence seemed to cause him great pain.

He lingered another moment, as if regaining his resolve. Finding it, he stepped across the threshold. Syrena watched from the doorway as Philip made his way slowly between the split and blackened pews, his footsteps muffled where dirt had seeped through the broken floor. The Black Beard's zombies had obviously burned the place from the inside out before leaving. When he had walked almost halfway down the aisle, Philip grasped the top of the nearest pew and stooped to the ground on one knee. His shoulders looked heavy. Syrena felt a sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and press her head against his neck, but she held back. She sensed this was a private moment that she should not disturb.

A sharp crack near the chancel made them both raise their heads. A short, wiry man in a black coat emerged from the doorway behind the chancel, accidentally snapping a piece of stray wood under his boot. "My dear boy, tardiness is rude, but for an old man, so is excessive earliness. If you wish to remove us, I'm afraid I'm rather busy today. You might come back again in about ten years-"

"Good Lord." The older man stopped abruptly beside the remains of the burnt pulpit. His hand flew to the white neck handkerchief around his throat. "Good Lord, I don't believe it. Philip Swift."

"That's twice now you've broken God's third commandment, Reverend Lawrence," Philip said, straightening.

"Statements of fact do not qualify as taking the Lord's name in vain. You never appreciated ambiguity, dear boy." The reverend crossed down the aisle to where Philip stood. He was truly short - the top of his head barely came up to Philip's shoulder. His thinning white hair pulled away from his face in a loose ponytail. Despite his aged appearance, though, he did not appear at all weak. The reverend grasped Philip's arms and surveyed him carefully through rectangular spectacles.

"Yes, I can see you're not one of those irritating prospectors trying to buy us out. The question is, are you a ghost, or some other unearthly spirit? Do you perhaps carry a message from the late Reverend Anton from beyond the grave?"

"If I'm a ghost, where's my body?" Philip asked pragmatically.

"Fair point, fair point," the reverend said with an absentminded nod, while he continued to survey Philip from behind his glasses. "Are you hurt anywhere? Fresh blood would be adequate proof of a corporeal existence…"

"Sorry, no," Philip replied, and Syrena thought she could hear a smile behind his words.

"Good God, I knew that was your voice!" A taller man with sandy brown curls bounded down from the chancel to join them in the middle of the church. He shook his head reprovingly at Philip. "You don't know how to stay dead, do you? Of all people to come wandering back out of the mess we found here. Ephraim! Julian! You're not going to believe who had the nerve…"

Within a few minutes, Philip was surrounded by four men in black showering him with jokes and good-natured slaps on the back. Syrena lingered near the doorway. This was his world now. He had returned to his element, and she was on the outside, watching. The sensation disquieted her, but it passed quickly enough. He turned to her and held out his arm, the warmth in his eyes conveying what words did not. Come inside, you are family.

Syrena approached with caution. A few raised eyebrows greeted her arrival, but she detected none of the blatant leering she had experienced during their journey with the Black Beard. She wondered if she ought to smile. She decided against it, thinking the motion would look forced and awkward in front of people she barely knew. Performing to strangers was Philip's gift, not hers.

"Miss." The sandy-haired young man gripped her hand in a gesture she had seen Philip make several times with the captain of the Morning Mercy and occasionally some of the crew. A gesture of greeting, and of trust. "Please tell me you're still a miss."

"I don't understand…"

"She's a miss, Simon," Philip answered dryly, reaching over to retrieve her hand. Simon wagged a finger at him.

"Then, Philip, you're either very good, or you're very, very bad." For some reason this remark made all of them laugh, and she couldn't figure out why. This is not Philip's lost reverend, and these are not Philip's lost brothers, she thought, eyeing the four men with some apprehension. Even so, Philip obviously knew them and trusted them. That should be good enough for her.

As the laughter died down, Philip shook his head and pulled her closer to his side. "I'm sorry, I've been remiss. This is-"

"My dear boy," Reverend Lawrence interrupted. "Introductions are all very well, but introductions tend to lead to stories. There is a time and a place for telling stories, and this is not it."

The reverend ushered them outside, a feat Syrena thought mildly impressive considering that everyone else present was more than a head and shoulders taller than him. Simon disappeared behind the building and returned a few minutes later with a coarse bundle he lobbed over the side of the reverend's uncovered wagon. He joined the reverend with the horses at the front while Philip and the other two priests climbed into the back. Philip offered her a hand up. As they pulled out of the shadow of the dilapidated church, Reverend Lawrence called over his shoulder, "You may speak, so long as you restrict your remarks to useless nonsense."

Syrena felt a momentary jolt of panic as the wagon began to move. She craned her neck toward the sea, wondering how far inland it would take them. Beside her, Philip sensed her anxiety and nodded to their two companions. "Ephraim. How far are we going?"

"To the reverend's mission house. About five miles along the coast." It was the pale, black-haired priest with glasses who answered.

Syrena relaxed. Philip slid his arm around her waist. She tilted her head to the side, only half-listening to the lighthearted conversation Philip was making with Ephraim and Julian in the back. The rest of her studied the waves as they sprayed white foam onto the rocks below, reflecting how much smaller they looked from land. A salty breeze tickled her face. For a moment it filled her with an immense longing, and she shivered. She turned away, and it subsided.

Let's pretend, Philip, she thought as she leaned her head against his shoulder. Let's pretend we're a family on our way home, and that we'll all grow old together in a grey house by the ocean. It would be dangerous to nurture that fantasy for long, but it was a harmless game for an evening ride. A cluster of grey nimbus clouds pregnant with rain began to billow in the west, and she closed her eyes.

A/N: I now realize having watched the film a second time that Blackbeard was supposed to capture Philip at sea. Which makes much more sense timewise, considering Blackbeard's voyage began in England. But by the time I discovered my mistake, I had already alluded to the Barbados backstory in Netmakers, so it was too late. This is the universe I am working in now. Possible explanations, in order of increasing implausibility: a) King George was vacationing in the Caribbean for his health when he sent Jack and Barbossa on their errand; b) Blackbeard passed through some sort of time portal or tesseract on the way from London to Barbados; c) Ships in the PotC universe are just incredibly fast.

Beyond that, all I can say is...oops. "Slight AU" meant to compensate for errors in canon.