Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. Original characters and plots are owned by me.

Home by Another Way

"I wrote your name in my heart, and forever it will remain."
- Rumi

He was in a boat, sailing gently over seas as smooth as glass. Only a mariner of Barbossa's experience could have even detected the motion beneath him, much less understood its meaning. Barbossa was aware of the eerie vessel's movement through some means that transcended the senses, but he could not measure time at all. How long had he been journeying thus, he wondered.

As the Dark Shore receded and the world of the living drew closer, his memory played tricks on him: memories of his life, once forgotten, began to surface slowly, one piece at a time, but things that had been clear on the Dark Shore were becoming harder to recall.

He still remembered the familiar little phantom running towards him, and the feeling of being pulled back together; of becoming whole once more as she had bound him with the ribbon she called a spancel. The girl and the two fearsome ghosts had taken him from the Dark Shore, snatched him away before the terrible ferryman could drag him to hell.

But these recollections stirred up new and anxious questions. If body and soul were together again, why could he not force his muscles, his voice, or even his eyelids to obey him? Was he, somehow, still not part of the living world?

He was certain that the boat and the spirits that guided it were connected with the world below: each time they entered his thoughts, they brought faint echoes of the winds that had howled along the grey shore. The world below had claimed him, and he was now aboard a craft that belonged to that same world. Why would mariners such as these take him back to the living world and release him?

He reviewed what he remembered of his rescue, and recalled one significant detail: someone (the wraith he had seen on the Dark Shore?) had slipped a hand between his shoulder and the spancel. His flesh was immune to sensation, so he did not feel the slight weight of the girl's hands on his shoulders; but as he mused over his situation, he believed he had the answer.

She was a living person. She, and anything bound to her by the spancel, must return to the living world. If he were not bound to her, the two dark spirits could attack him, and he would never return to the world above. Now he understood the source of the comforting presence that had accompanied him on the voyage, staving off his fear and acting as a restraint on the shadowy others.

As the silent journey went on, he searched his mind for the name by which he had been known among the living. He recognised that, whoever he was, he had loved the sea, and it was home to him. He embraced this knowledge, and then was elated by a vital discovery.

T'was a pirate's life that I led, he told himself.

He could picture himself standing on a deck; he was leading an attack, his sword at the ready. He had a ring that bore the likeness of a roaring lion, and he wore a hat with plumes like a Cavalier's . . . and then he found his name.

I be Hector Barbossa, he thought exultantly, Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea!

He cast about for other clues to his life, and suddenly one captured his attention and brought it into sharp focus.

I had a ship.

He tried to recall the ships he had captained, one after another. Then he called to mind his last command. What became of me ship? he wondered. What became of the Black Pearl? He pictured her tattered sails, pierced by the moonlight, and had another revelation.

Under a spell I was - nay, a curse! He remembered now; the curse that had taken away all sensation and condemned him to exist forever as a miserable, starving creature neither dead nor alive.

But what had happened? Had he ever lifted the curse? He was not breathing or moving, and he could feel nothing whatsoever. Most ominous of all, he was now on a voyage that seemed to have no end.

He began to fear that this ghostly journey might be part of the curse, or a cruel deception. He might still be trapped in the world below. But if the curse had left him unable to die, then how had he got to the Dark Shore in the first place?

After mulling this question for some time, he recalled a swordfight that somehow involved the Black Pearl.

We were locked in battle – but who was I fightin'? A face began to emerge from the shadows of his memory, and he recognised it. Had he been able to move his jaw, Barbossa would have ground his teeth in vexation.

Jack Sparrow, he thought, fuming. And now, Sparrow has me ship, devil strike him. . . .

There had been three against him, he remembered, and the fight had ended with a pistol shot. But what about me? he asked himself. What happened to me? No sooner had he framed the question, than the answer came with chilling certainty.

Sparrow shot me through the heart. Sparrow had planned it all; he, not Barbossa, had lifted the curse at just the right moment, and had killed his adversary.

Sparrow shot me. That be the reason I died.

These mental efforts had sapped his concentration, and he could no longer think. Like a weary swimmer defeated by a powerful current, he surrendered his will, and found himself entering a strange state of consciousness. Though his eyes remained shut, he began to see the boat and its passengers from a vantage point slightly above and to the right of it.

He saw a man of many years, whose face was scarred and ravaged, lying flat in the boat (which looked very like a gondola, now that he could see it). The man lay as still as a statue, with eyes closed and skin deathly pale. A green headscarf was bound about his head, and there was an extravagant red blossom of blood over his heart. A narrow green ribbon that glinted with gold ran all the way round his silhouette. Barbossa saw that his own hat and weapons were piled upon the man's body, and gradually came to understand that he was looking at himself.

His head was resting in the lap of the girl who had been crying; in the gondola, she looked very familiar and less wraith-like. He watched as her fingers lightly traced his brow, his face, and the scar on his cheek. All her attention was focused upon him; she smoothed his hair and whiskers, and touched his jaw as if caressing him. She was the one whose hand was bound to him through the spancel, and he felt a great surge of affection for the strange girl.

He looked at each of the tall, smoky figures, and had a strong impression that the one standing in the bow had the features of a woman and carried a lantern. The Handmaiden, he thought with dread, not knowing whence the words came.

He looked at the second figure, and glimpsed the face of a ferocious hound or wolf. The hound-faced being began to shift its gaze towards him, and Barbossa quickly looked away.

He turned his attention back to the girl, and saw her drape her arm across his chest (how could she have sensed his alarm?) and try to soothe him as if he were a fretful child that could not sleep. He could almost imagine that she might be humming a lullaby for his benefit. If she was, the lullaby proved as effective as any magic potion; Barbossa's vision faded and he fell into something like a light sleep.

Once or twice, he thought the girl murmured something; at other times, he was sure he had changed his position and lay on his side, his arms wrapped around her. But each time, the fleeting vision would pass, and he would find his situation unchanged. Gradually, these impressions dimmed, and he slept without dreaming for the rest of the long voyage.

He awakened with the undeniable certainty that the gondola had ceased moving. Then he heard the girl speak to him.

"Be easy, dear," she said. "Now you're safe." Then she must have taken her hand away from his shoulder.

Instantly, his heart cried out against this. Not again, don't leave again. And though he ached to reach out and clasp her, he was also mystified. Who can ye be, that I incline to ye so much? he wondered. Why do I think ye left me before?

Then he found the last pieces of the puzzle that had been his life.

There had been a mutiny. He had fostered it, inciting the crew, and he had led it. He had seized the Pearl from Jack Sparrow and declared himself her captain. And this girl that had sheltered him in her arms and fetched him back from hell, this girl was Nina, Sparrow's friend and perhaps more, the one he had confronted before forcing Sparrow overboard. He remembered robbing her and locking her in her cabin, but the reason for his actions eluded him.

When he had returned shortly thereafter, intending to claim her as he had claimed the ship, the cabin door was open and a hairpin had been jammed into the lock. They had searched the ship; on the gun deck they found a rope tied to one of the cannons. The other end had been fed through the gun port. Beneath the cannon was a pair of boots. She had escaped him and gone into the sea, and for ten years he had been preoccupied with the question of her fate.

She had vanished from the Pearl, but she had always been present in his heart. He had nursed a secret yearning for her all that time, even when he could do no more than keep the hairpin she had used to gain her freedom.

Convinced he would never see her again, he had still sought her in dreams. She had been the nymph in the sea of flowers – an ocean of love, he now realised. Other dreams came back to him: how her hand had tugged at his pigtail, all the sensations of her head resting on his shoulder, her kiss, their mutual affection. And at last, he admitted to himself that he loved her.

What was he to make of her mysterious return? For it was certainly not a dream that had brought him back from the Dark Shore. Nina, the girl who despised him, had shed tears of sorrow over his death, cradled him in her arms and cared for him. It was her hand that had linked him to the world of the living during that perilous journey.

Be easy, dear. Now you're safe, she had said before she vanished again. He thought it would be worth any price to be able to open his eyes and follow her. But he seemed to be floating in empty darkness, and his senses could tell him nothing. Is it the world of the living that surrounds me now? he wondered. Where are the two dark powers? Be there danger at hand?

Then it seemed to him that Tia Dalma's voice echoed in his mind. She was somewhere in the distance, and she was speaking to someone. He heard her say "Don' look so sad," but could not catch the rest.

Tia Dalma's next words were for him. "Now me gwan heal yuh wound, dear," she told him. But was he even alive? Was everything an illusion brought about by the curse?

She began a low chant, in a language he did not know. Like a sleeper awakening, he began to sense his surroundings. He was in a room, but more than that he could not tell. He could not awake completely, or open his eyes, and movement was impossible. It was as though the thin green ribbon that still outlined his silhouette had wrapped him in a thousand invisible threads, and they bound every part of him like a net of steel.

Then Tia Dalma spoke to him, sounding close at hand. "Me called yuh back from de weird an' haunted shore," she told him. "But yuh gwan need time before me put yuh t' work, dear."

He noticed that sensation was returning to him. He was aware of simple things, like the weight of his body lying flat – but the strongest sensation was also the most alarming. There was a hole in his chest that felt very cold, as if there was an empty crater behind his ribs. He tried to tell Tia Dalma, but he remained mute and immobile. Perhaps I still be dead, but trapped in me body, he speculated fearfully.

The next thing he felt was a small cloth, heavily scented with some strange herbs, placed over his eyes and forehead by Tia Dalma's hand. He heard the rustle of her petticoats as she left him, but in a few moments she returned. This time he thought there was someone with her.

She began her chant once more, softly, almost inaudibly. As she continued, the cold, empty feeling in his chest gradually contracted, until he only felt it at a single point – the place where the ball had entered his body. A few moments more, and he could no longer feel the open wound. Tia Dalma ceased her chant, and he knew she was waiting for him to begin breathing.

His first breath was that of a diver surfacing after nearly drowning. He drew in air through his nose and mouth with a noisy, rattling gasp in his throat, breathing so deeply that he thought he might inhale all the air on earth at once. His ribs ached with the effort and he thought his chest might burst. Then he exhaled just as violently, and lay motionless. He did this once or twice more, until his muscles took over the work, and he could relax as his chest rose and fell peacefully.

There was whispering nearby, and then he thought he was alone again; but no – there was someone yet in the silent room, and it was not Tia Dalma.

After a pause of several moments, he felt the collar of his shirt being carefully adjusted, followed by the touch of two small, warm fingers at the very spot where Sparrow's bullet had pierced his chest. The fingers were removed, and someone - the girl? – laid her ear against his chest.

Immediately, he was alarmed. Me heart must not be beatin', he thought. T'is too late. They can't bring me back. And yet his pounding pulse and tightening chest were evidence to the contrary.

He made a tremendous effort to take the cloth from his eyes, but his body would not obey him. He groaned, desperate now, trying to speak. The watcher by his side loosened the spancel and took his hands, trying to warm them. Finally he managed a few words.

"Am I livin' or dead?" he asked, his tongue feeling like a clump of wool in his mouth. There was no answer, but she – he was certain it was a woman – continued to hold his hands.

"Tell me," he begged. "Where be this place?"

He grew more agitated, trying to form the words with his dry mouth and clumsy tongue. "Who are ye?" Then, fighting down a wave of terror, he added, "Is the curse still bindin' me?"

At this, his hands were released, and his unseen companion began to lean over him, placing a reassuring hand upon his shoulder.

Making a supreme effort, he grasped at her with both hands, and managed to draw her down upon his chest, despite her resistance and the feebleness of his grip.

He felt her body tremble and her arms grow tense. Her long, heavy hair tumbled loose, the ends lying in serpentine waves across his skin. Are ye who I think ye are, he wondered, tightening his grip as best he could.

He moved his hands over the nape of her neck, and touched the fine strands of the hair that he knew from his dreams, from Tia Dalma's loom; and then he was sure. T'is you, he thought, and his throat grew tight with longing for her. Don't leave me, he silently entreated.

The girl did not pull away. Gradually she grew calm, and remained awkwardly in his embrace. She tolerated her capture, he told himself. She would not leave him.

It seemed to take forever for him to retrieve the hairpin from his coat pocket. His unsteady hand had trouble with the simplest movements, and every slight motion of his arm required all his strength and concentration. But finally, he drew out the hairpin, and felt her take it from his hand.

Exhausted, he used his remaining strength to speak, wanting to tell her everything. Can't ye see what I'd give t' feel ye in me arms? he thought. But when he spoke, the words were not what he intended.

"I know ye, little bird," he murmured, hoping she could hear him and understand. "Ye opened yer cage and flew away."

There was a long silence. Then, in a voice so quiet that he had to strain his ears to hear her, she said, "For all those years . . ."

Hesitantly, she took his hand. "How can this be?" she murmured under her breath.

He was suddenly conscious of himself as an older man, ravaged by hard living, his muscles ropey and his hair thinning. Why would she choose him over Sparrow? I know I have a past, he told her in his mind, but I've saved the rest o' me life fer you. As he fell into a deeper sleep, she was still holding his hand.

He did not sleep for long; he awoke in a groggy haze to find that the spancel was gone. Tia Dalma must have taken it away, since it was no longer needed. He tried to move, but found that the weight and weariness of his own mortal form made that next to impossible. He felt drunker than he had ever been, and noticed that the air was filled with the scent of burning herbs, doubtless placed there by Tia Dalma to keep him in this state. Then he heard the girl's light footstep nearby, and knew she had returned to stand at his side.

He lay still in the dim room, his eyes almost closed, trying not to alarm her.

Then he thought, he believed, and he hoped with all his heart, that he saw her touch her finger first to her own lips and then to his. She, not the Nina he had dreamed, but the living person, had given him a kiss. She drew her hand away from his face and lightly down his arm. The moment she reached his hand, he trapped her fingers and held them.

Rather than pull her fingers away, she leaned over him, folding her arms around his shoulders. He felt her kiss his jaw, and then she simply laid her head against his.

Embarrassed by the feebleness of his body, he nonetheless managed to turn his face slightly towards her. "Kiss me again," he murmured, praying that she would oblige him. Don't think, don't question; please, just . . .

She moved slightly, so that they were face-to-face, and then she gave him a slow kiss on his lower lip, and continued kissing his mouth. Her fingers curled lightly, affectionately, around the pigtail at the back of his neck, and he put his arms around her in a weak embrace.

"Ye brought me back," he told her in a faltering whisper between kisses. "When I've got me strength back, I want ye to bring back the rest of me." She stopped kissing him, and he opened his eyes, afraid he had said too much. But as he gazed into her eyes, he saw everything he had ever wanted – tenderness, passion, loyalty – it was all there, and it was all for him.

It can't be a dream this time, can it? he thought. He coaxed her with more kisses, and drew her onto the bed. He still remembered the field of flowers, but he found that the caresses they shared for the next half hour were far sweeter, filling the empty space in his heart with unexpected joy.

"Stay here with me 'til I'm sleepin', sweetheart," he said. She drew him onto her breast and kissed the top of his head.

Much later, the creak of a floorboard and the rustle of Tia Dalma's skirts woke him, and he found himself alone once more. As the obeah priestess approached, he said the only thing he could think of – the one thought that predominated all others. "She loves me. I can tell she does."

But Tia Dalma laughed. "De spancel bound her to yuh, dear. She forgot why she fears yuh, she see yuh differently for a time." She supported his head so that he could drink from a cup of some strange potion she had prepared.

He was dismayed enough to argue the point. "Are ye tellin' me that everything – everything – that just happened was no more 'n a trick?" As he spoke, he realised that the potion was making it difficult to stay awake.

"Nah, dear," she assured him. "De spancel put nothin' in yuh hearts dat was not dere before. Spancel just opened yer eyes an' let yuh bot' see it. But when me wake yuh later on, it all gwan seem like a dream." He began to ask if Nina would think it only a dream, but Tia Dalma anticipated him.

"For her, too," she added with a nod towards her parlour. "By daybreak, all her be t'inking 'bout is what yuh did t' Witty Jack, an' t' Bootstrap, an' what yuh might do to her. Her gwan feel just de way she did before."

"I 'll make her change her mind," he declared.

"I t'ink dat be up to her," replied Tia Dalma with a smirk.

Reluctant to show any weakness in matters of the heart, he resorted to bluster. "Nay, t'is up to me," he insisted, "and I'll not have her floutin' me authority." Then he added sternly, "This time she'll be respectful."

"Den start by being respectful to her," Tia Dalma snapped. "Yuh t'ink yuh be de only mortal under me protection?"

She prodded his shoulder a bit too firmly, just above the place where the wound had been, and he groaned at the unexpected pain. "Hmmm. Well, w'en yuh wake next time," she offered, "if her not too scared of yuh, maybe me send her t' knead yuh shoulder so it feel better."

"Arrr," he growled. "Only if she be naked," he added with a leer.

Tia Dalma laughed. "Same old Barbossa," she said, shaking her head. "Me wonder if de poor t'ing know what be waitin' for her."

He chuckled to himself as she left the room. Still, one thing could not be denied, and it made him smile with secret happiness. At the end of his long journey, she had been waiting for him: Nina, the girl who had not drowned after all, whose kiss still lingered in his mind. We've been meant for each other all along, he thought.

As he fell back into his enchanted sleep, he made a silent promise. This time, I know what I want, he imagined telling her. This time, I'll win ye like a proper gent. Ye'll be me lady and I'll love ye better than any other, and we'll not be parted, ever again.

A/N: I want to thank my readers wholeheartedly for their encouragement, comments and reviews. For further reading, this story is continued in Barbossa and the King's Messenger, which is written from Nina's point-of-view. I am currently posting The Spanish Prisoner, which will be the sequel to King's Messenger. Feel free to PM me if you have any questions, and once again, thank you so much for your support!