The tale of Elsibaton
Water slapped at ancient wooden boards, soaked through by seawater yet undecayed. The chains that bound the chest securely to the rocky walls of the grotto cove were beginning to rust. They'd have to be replaced soon. A last orange tongue of flame licked across the water from the setting sun, shining through one of the natural portholes carved in the barnacle-encrusted walls by eons of pounding waves.
Elsibaton knelt on dry, smooth sand before the chest. During storms, the grotto could fill with the overspill of crashing surf. Sometimes she risked coming out here to watch from the rocky lip, keeping vigil. But the chains were secure, the chest was safe, and Will's heart lay pillowed upon the sea or the land at the ocean's whim.
He had come to her out of the sea. The sea had taken him.
Salt water trickled down her cheek and fell into the shallow pool lapping the chest that held her lover's heart.
No. She would not grieve. He lived, when everyone else she loved was dead. There was nothing left that could hurt him. And she had enjoyed good fortune a-plenty, a king and wise woman that no pirate called ill-luck any longer.
"With all due respect," Elsibaton said, "get away from that, now."
"My name," the human woman reminded her, lowering the pistol slowly, "is Elsibaton Turner."
"Debt?" Elsibaton shrugged. "Freeing you was Barbossa's idea. I am glad of it, but you owe me nothing -- which is a happy coincidence, since I owe you nothing either."