He thinks of Elizabeth for a moment.

By desire.

He jerks his chin up and inhales, filling his chest with the salt scented air. The window stands open, and he can smell the sea. It's different now. He's a different man. Wiser, perhaps. Smarter, certainly. He's not blind to anything now, even ambition, no matter how it might look to the outside world. The only thing he wants now is his freedom, bought and paid for in blood, betrayal and the cold sweat of rum.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes another deep breath and then looks in the glass again. It's more than the outside that's changed, though all that matters now is the outer image.

The razor gleams in the sunlight, as sharp as one of Turner's swords, as dangerous as Elizabeth's eyes, as wicked as Sparrow's smile. He grabs the pot of soap and lathers it on his brush, every turn like a pestle against mortar until the brush is coated, its bristles thick with the foam. He shakes his head, his wet hair falling, framing the lines of his face, taut and too thin from his time in exile.

He bathes his face with the brush, sweeping it over the dark bristles. He tilts his head back, stroking it along his chin and jaw, drawing lines of white down his throat. He surveys the sight, like sea foam on the shores of the man he was, washing away with the slice of the blade to leave the man he is.

The razor fits in his palm like the hilt of a sword and he relishes the weight of it for a moment before letting the blade slide down his cheek. Short, careful strokes cut swathes through the foam, leaving behind smooth skin, pale next to the sun-darkened flesh. He slices the blade through the water, watching the hair and foam separate and dissipate. Nothing holds together, nothing lasts.

He looks up at the mirror again and finishes the job quickly, watching the months fall away with the beard, restoring order in the smooth lines of his profile. He glances over and surveys the crisp, clean uniform hanging on the back of the door, the blue and white and gold so pristine they make his eyes ache. He sets the blade aside and moves over to them, drawn like a pirate to treasure as his fingers caress the raised insignia on each button.

He dresses slowly, drawing each garment on like a shield of honor, pulling the fabric close. It smells only of clean air and nothing of the sea, and he knows that will change soon enough. Soon it will be stiff with salt and wind, will weigh with the cold heaviness of sea water. Soon the blue will fade in sunlight and darken with spilled blood, but for now, it is perfect. It is a suit of armor like knights of old, a layer of protection from those who would seek to do harm.

He brushes the epaulet on the shoulder and moves to the mirror, admiring the sight for a moment, though he knows it's something of a lie. There are many who would do harm to King and country that he will look away from, let pass because the unwritten rules are clear in the shining gold.

Gold. Gold in his pockets, in his purse, on his shoulder. His services cost far less than what he paid for the right to provide them, for the illusion of freedom that comes from seeing the noose slipped from around his neck.

He looks away, knowing too well how easy it is to get caught in the glitter of gold, to lose sight of what is important, what truly matters. Instead he lets his gaze fall to the final piece of his masquerade, the final cloak that disguises him as the King's man. He lowers the white wig, queue bound tightly in black ribbon, onto his head and raises his chin.

The King's man, serving a man other than the King. A wolf in sheep's clothing pledging service and duty and offering deceit. The smell of powder assaults his senses and he breathes it in deep, feeling it shroud his lungs like smoke.

He watches himself through the haze, the sharp edges of his lips curving in a ghost of a familiar smile. The flag is different - the King, the East India Company or the Jolly Roger - but the men are the same.