A/N: This story is dedicated to the wonderful Willofthewisp, written in response to her prompt & inspired a bit by Will's "And after which betrayal did you cut out your heart, I wonder?" line :)

Happy Halloween! *hugs*

Disclaimer: PotC belong to Disney.

Cold Wave

A mirror caught his attention on his way to the Great Hall.

The mirror was not tall, just a glimpse of reciprocating light in a simple frame, reflecting the truth with enviable sincerity. His eyes were dully alert and narrow, as if he was constantly squinting to see something in the distance, to capture the fading world around him. He had not noticed this before. He wondered when the wrinkles on his face had become so deep; when had sadness merged with anger in the dark shadows under his eyes?

Turning away with a frown, he headed for the door haunted by the strange impression that his own eyes were still watching him from within the dim, hallway mirror.

When he opened the door a whisper swished past him and he shuddered at the sound of waves crashing against one another. The sound seemed so real that he glanced over his shoulder almost expecting to see a dark wave towering toward him.

But the hallway was empty, even if the sound remained as easily discernible as ever, so alluringly calm and steady. Like a heartbeat. Like a heartbeat.

It crossed his mind that his heart was thudding in waves rather than in beats. If only he could replace his heart with the sea...

He slowly placed his hand on the door and pushed it open.

If the sound of waves was always, everywhere around him, there was no need for the same sound to also reverberate inside him.

She was rising and falling through the clear air, breathing in the sunlight, breathing out the stars. The sky was light blue, then pitch black. Time was lost to the vastness of the sea. Curtains of rain, rays of the sun, tears of the mist, turning like pages in a book; the horizon swirling around, blending in.

I am the sea.

She was whispering and shouting, laughing and raging, roaming across and within in the wind, like the wind; waiting.

The storm came unexpected. It was not her who made it rain. She was hammering with fury, blinded by despair, suffocating with water, closing in.

I am the sea!...

It was the strangest of storms, and she was watching the world shrinking, the horizons galloping toward her, the sea quieting down, the sound, her sound, the sound that was her becoming muffled by an unfamiliar rhythm so frighteningly predictable, a mute sound she could not place. It kept hitting her like a stone, from within, leaving no marks except for the pain that she could trace with terrifying precision.

The pain had a shape and she saw and heard only shreds of the world, small pieces scattered around, scattered outside. There were sides and directions, weight and height, cold and warmth, and there was time, like a knife cutting moments away.

She felt the water brush her skin and she opened her eyes that grew wide at the sight of the sea. She was looking at the sea, the grains of sand biting into the palms of her hands when she tried to lift herself up.

There was the sea, in front of her. Her - a woman with wild eyes who was looking at the sea. Looking at the sea!...

She screamed.

"It was a wrong decision."

The calm melody of the words cut into his thoughts with unpleasant sharpness. He turned around. "Made with everyone's consent, including yours." Davy Jones regarded the tall pirate whose every step made him look as if he was about to fall.

"I didn't say it was the decision not to be made. I said it was wrong," Teague walked across the room toward the window, dark eyes fixed on his ship, the only one in the bay illuminated by pale lanterns.

"The sea is ours now. What could possibly be wrong with that?" Davy Jones afforded a snort but the sound puzzled him. It was almost unrecognizable.

"It wasn't ours before?" Teague's trinkets jingled quietly when he turned around to glance at the man over his shoulder, his eyes flickering in the eerie semi-darkness. Jones' eyebrows knitted in irritation. Teague turned back toward the window.

"What is this supposed to mean?" Davy Jones lunged forward, caught off guard by how difficult it suddenly was for him to walk. It must have been the exhaustion taking its toll on him. He should have left this place hours ago... but there was that faintest glimmer of fear that made him reluctant to return to the sea.

"I cannot fathom the difference," Teague said in a low, pensive voice, the strength of the doubt in his voice planting a sense of abstract regret in Jones' mind. "Can you?"

A hint of seething sarcasm in the pirate's voice made Jones squint angrily. "She was not to be trusted! Everybody agreed with that. The sea is free now."

"So we bound the sea to make it free?"

"We bound Calypso," Davy Jones' hissed in a dark voice. "Not the sea."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Teague's face. "It's not the sea that you wanted to free. You wanted to free yourself." He turned around, meeting Jones' narrowed eyes. "But to free yourself you'd have to remain yourself."

There was something piercing in the man's seemingly indifferent gaze that he always found irritating. "I don't regret any of my actions," Davy Jones snapped. "If you choose to regret yours that is your decision and your mistake. You agreed to bind her, like everyone else."

"Aye," Teague said almost carelessly, picking up a guitar from the table, and Davy Jones wondered if it was the only reason he had come.

He expected the man to mention that he, as the Captain of the Flying Dutchman had threatened the Brethren Court to fulfill his request in order to ensure their dead to be carried to the other side, the duty that had recently become so exasperating. But the Pirate Lord seemed not to care enough to argue.

"Same deed, different burdens," Teague said, running his hand over the guitar, brushing off the dust.

Davy Jones stared at him unblinkingly. Teague gave him a long look before turning around and leaving the room with two hollow words ringing in Jones' ears long after the door shut closed: Good night.

He was not sure if he only imagined a hint of compassion in this final greeting. For a moment he remained where he was, his breathing strangely loud in disturbingly cold silence.

At last he stormed out of the room, intent on leaving immediately.

In the hallway he stopped abruptly in his tracks at the sight of broken mirror pieces scattered all over the floor.

His eyes were mindlessly drifting between the distorted, fragmentary reflections until, suddenly, all the silvery shards turned black, dark mist emerging from the glass and falling over him like a wave.

He gasped but before he had the time to step back the mist was already gone, and remnants of the mirror were silver again.

Clenching his fists, Davy Jones walked across the broken pieces, the sound of crashed glass mixing with the sound of the waves whispering in his head.

"Maybe I shouldn't have done it," Teague murmured to himself, pulling his shirt over his head.

"You shouldn't interfere with another's destiny," a dark-haired girl who was sitting cross-legged on the bed said.

Teague glanced over his shoulder watching her lay the cards on the bed, arrange them with the tips of her fingers, replace some of them with the ones she was holding in her hand. The girl bit her lip, a frown of concentration appearing on her forehead.

Teague tossed his shirt to the side, and stretched himself on the bed in front of her, several rows of cards between them. He propped his head on his elbow and pressed his finger to one of the cards, attempting to slide it away. "Even with yours?"

The girl gave him a mock-annoyed look, stopping his hand, and returning the card to its place. "No," she said, her eyes fixed on the cards.

He caught her hand and she looked up. "You didn't tell me what you saw the other day," he said, his eyes looking into hers with utmost seriousness marred with an ever-present hint of roguishness that she often found unnerving.

She tried to snatch her hand free but his grip was too strong. "I saw our child," she said, holding his gaze and his mouth twitched into a smile.

"That's a curious idea but I doubt it was what kept you awake all night," he said, trying to pull her toward him but she resisted, shooting him a playfully irritated look.

"I don't want to talk about it now," she said at last, and he regarded her carefully. She averted her eyes from him.

"What about the child, then?" he asked to make her look at him again, postponing the other conversation to a more opportune moment.

She gave him a small smile. "Our child will marry a King," she announced and then laughed at the expression that appeared on his face.

He smiled, and to her absolute dismay shoved all the cards off the bed. She opened her mouth to protest but before she had a chance to do so he locked her in his arms and she could do nothing else but return his kisses.

"Captain?"

He did not move, his head remained bowed between his slumped shoulders.

"Captain?"

It took him a hundred years to turn around, it seemed. He looked up and noticed in his crewman's eyes a glimmer of fear that was both unfamiliar and appealing, giving him strength that he had thought was lost forever.

"What is it?" he growled and the man frowned and stepped back, confused.

"We don't have a heading," he said in a low, slightly hesitant voice. His eyes shifted to a flash of light in his captain's hand and he blinked having recognized the object.

"I ordered you to set sail!" Davy Jones bellowed angrily, unconsciously squeezing the knife in his hand, the sharp sensation catching him off guard but he gritted his teeth, withstanding the pain.

The sailor scurried off, not daring to ask any further questions.

Davy Jones stood motionlessly, breathing heavily, listening to the quiet, half-imagined sound of the drops of blood seeping from the cut in his hand to the deck. He looked down at the dark stains, marveling at the pain that was shockingly pleasant in comparison to what was happening in his heart. What had he done? He could feel the question beat inside him, growing louder, hurting more with every passing second.

He turned to the sea.

"I cannot fathom the difference."

His eyes were searching the dark surroundings, he was straining his ears to hear the waves as closely as possible. The sound did not change.

But it was hollow. Like a heartbeat. Like a heartbeat.

He roughly placed his hand over his heart clutching the fabric of his shirt and then angrily letting go of it. He turned away from the sea with mute dismay, hiding his face in his hands, digging his nails into the skin of his cheeks.

Then, suddenly, he saw everything in a flash.

In his mind's eye he saw how he would burn down the church on that island where he had wanted to marry her. He would never carry anyone to the other side, he would watch the souls perish into the ultimate disappointment when they would realize that death, that dying would never end. Let her beloved sea be stained with millions of souls left adrift, draining of all hope and feelings. He would destroy it all, turn her kingdom into the watery ashes, into the darkness that everyone would fear.

He was the sea!

A quiet, metallic sound shook him out of his reverie and he looked down at the deck, not recognizing the object at first, but then the realization crept over him like a treacherous whisper.

Slowly, he bent down and picked up the knife, looking at it as if he saw it for the very first time.

Time would wash away memories but there was that sound, that sound inside of him that would always remind him of her. The most painful, superfluous of tributes she did not deserve.

There was a chest in his cabin that she had given him. A chest filled with letters he had treasured for ten years. Letters filled with lies as black as ink with which they were written. A perfect coffin for the most dreadful of feelings. So easily severed...

Stumbling forward, he raised his hand and hesitated for one, frightful moment of deepest sorrow in which he felt, saw, heard, believed everything.

But the moment was gone - in a heartbeat.

He screamed.