Delicacy Part Eighteen
Title: Delicacy Part Eighteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,179
Rating: PG-13
Characters: James Norrington, Elizabeth Swann and Mrs. Prior (OC)
Pairing: Norrington/Mrs. Prior
Chapter Summary: Norrington makes an alliance, Elizabeth arrives in Port Royal and Mrs. Prior says good-bye.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Yes, I’m alive! It’s been a month since I’ve updated and I do apologize. My spring semester started and the workload has been a bit more intense than I anticipated. This chapter is more of a series of three interconnected one-shots that cover the Tortuga scene in DMC. I thought it would be rather repetitive for me to rewrite the whole scene, so I tried to dance around it as best I could. Also, I am happy to say that Beckett will be back for the next chapter and he’ll resume his active role in the story until the end. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that commented. This chapter is especially dedicated to aliceworld, a talented artist who has been illustrating this story for me. Please drop my journal and check out her wonderful work. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!
The shadow was gone. And even though James Norrington was sitting in the tavern, swallowing a stiff pint of rum, he could not escape her chill. His tarnished eyes trailed the rickety banister and reached the staircase that ran along the yellowed wall. The second floor of the inn was all joyous noise now. Raucous. Whores perched on balconies, rum poured in golden streams like ambrosia down on the heads of the unsuspecting. But she was gone, had left the room after him and not returned.
Norrington missed Mrs. Prior.
He had never been one for wenching and despite his indulgence of nearly every sense, despite his debauchery, he had treated the ‘ladies’ of Tortuga with respect. But Mrs. Prior wasn’t a whore, no, she was widow. A weeping, wounded, wretched widow.
He had promised her things too, made vows in-between gasps and groans. She wanted Sparrow’s compass. And she wanted more.
An alliance.
Norrington called it such, resorted to the proper military term that reminded him of his navy days. Mrs. Prior wanted them to be friends, partners, she wanted his help.
And he would gladly give it.
They would be a match for Beckett, she convinced him, if they stuck together. She wouldn’t mind going back to Port Royal if he swore to follow. Things would be better then and she wouldn’t be kicked around, abused by a man who had laid claim to her and created a murderer.
Something of his archaic notion of chivalry stirred within him. He could save her, he could, if they only stayed together.
And they would.
Norrington lowered his aching head and pressed it to his open palm, his pulse beating warmly against his skin. The barkeep haphazardly filled his tankard.
“Thirsty tonight?” he asked in a reedy voice.
“Not particularly.”
“And where did you friend run off to?” The barkeep glanced up the stairs with a chuckle.
“I have no idea.”
“Didn’t have enough money to keep her long, eh?”
Norrington didn’t answer.
The whirl of wickedness continued about him. Norrington half-heartedly sipped the rum and then asked for a bottle of something stronger. He was given sailor’s grog, plain, unadorned, quite different from the dainty wines he had sipped out of elegant snifters.
He missed her. By God, he missed her.
Why?
She certainly wasn’t Elizabeth Swann. No, Mrs. Prior was villain, unlike him, unlike any man or woman he had met. Worse than a pirate, perhaps.
But she needed him and perhaps right now, that was enough.
The barkeep kept a keen eye on him and Norrington frowned as if the man was a physical manifestation of his troubles.
And then he heard it, high, chuckling, a voice chirping above the crowd.
“All right lads! Who wants to join me crew?”
*****
Dressed as a cabin boy and just as inconspicuous as one, Elizabeth Swann gladly accepted the port of Tortuga as her new-if not permanent-home. She left the relative comfort of the Edinburgh Trader, embracing instead the teeming streets and catcalls and drunken stragglers that tumbled against her shoulders. And yet her heart was light, a wide-winged bird that hummed in her breast.
She didn’t even mind the smell.
Strange, she thought. Change was indeed a swift, elusive thing. Elizabeth never would have imagined she would feel more comfortable amongst pirates as opposed to her peers. There was an earthiness to these people, a sense of honesty. Of course they lied, of course they cheated and stole and conjured all sorts of mischief. But they did not pretend, did not present themselves with an air of gentility only to…
No.
Elizabeth stopped and dropped out of the street, leaning against a sticky alley wall. She would never think of him again, would chase him from her nightmares and scattered daydreams that only served to remind her of just how far she had fallen.
But how could she forget? Her sins would torment her, gnaw at her heart every time she looked into Will’s eyes…if she ever saw him again.
Without thinking, Elizabeth gathered a mouthful of spit and discharged it to the muddy pool by her feet. The rather crude, plebian act made her feel surprisingly strong again, freed her from a cage she had been trapped in for nearly twenty years.
Scruples did a woman little good and she shed them now like snake’s skin. She needn’t be kept chained, locked in a man’s world where she was indeed treated like chattel. No this world, this Tortuga was different.
She could be free. She could forget.
And yet something bothered her, something indefinite that made her pause and blink in the yellow moonlight.
Mrs. Prior had no scruples. What did that make her then?
Inhuman, she decided. Mrs. Prior was inhuman and Elizabeth was not.
Or so she hoped.
Elizabeth returned to the street. The crowd thickened, coming in like the tide and bringing with it a gangly throng of motley men. Elizabeth blinked. Hmm, she fancied she recognized a few of the faces but her harried mind must be playing tricks, deceiving her like so many men, like him.
She followed the general flow debarking mass up the street and into the square, which comprised mostly of taverns and what she guessed was a whorehouse. Most of the men, especially those with coin in their pockets, gravitated towards that particular building. Elizabeth paused and inspected the line of waiting johns with an odd sense of curiosity. She could have sworn she knew them, had seen them aboard the Interceptor with Jack Sparrow.
It was possible, of course. Pirates were nomads and they probably hopped from one ship to another as they pleased. Elizabeth wondered if she should approach them, ask if they had any news of Jack or better, Will.
But the crowd poured against her, a stream of bodies that stank and stumbled and staggered by. She turned to step away and collided with a dark figure, a cold shadow amongst the moldy pirates.
“My apologies,” she mumbled.
The figure grunted, head bent and darted away.
Elizabeth glanced once more at the whorehouse and was disappointed when she couldn’t find the familiar faces again.
Ah well, she had time.
Her parched tongue reminded her of her thirst and it stuck to the roof of her mouth. Hmm, she wasn’t partial to rum but her days of elegant wine and brandy were over. Elizabeth entered one of the shabby taverns.
A fiddle twittered merrily in the corner of the ratty room, an old, wax weeping chandelier swinging from the rotting ceiling. The air was hot, flushing her cheeks at once. She wove her way through a sea of elbows and ankles and otherwise greasy bodies. And then there was silence, dreadful silence and the constant ebb and flow of people stopped.
Elizabeth craned her neck. What was this?
“You’re hired!” an unmistakable voice chirruped.
Elizabeth swallowed hard.
“Sorry,” a second voice, this one a mere ghost of it’s former glory, rose like a thunder cloud over the packed tavern room. “Old habits and all that.”
*****
Mrs. Prior was standing in an alcove, shoulder to a wall, hands jammed into her pockets, giving every appearance of a disturbed shade that would flit away once the night fled. But for now she was queen when the stars reigned and a gloomy moon frowned over Tortuga like a murderous mother.
She flinched. Murderous mothers were more common than men liked to think.
Her fingers were stiff and she wriggled them. She sniffed, stared at the street crowded with drunken sailors and weaving prostitutes and the utter filth of the earth.
It was done.
But strangely, she didn’t feel particularly accomplished. She had James, had him for a pet like Beckett had once possessed her. And she had worked hard at it, had sweated to gain his grudging trust and acceptance. Yet everything could be a waste if he swallowed another bottle of rum and forgot her. Mrs. Prior would have to make him promise. She would have to make him swear. He had remember her when the time came.
Smoke rose from sooty chimneys, circled the sky, pale against the black. Torches flickered like demon tongues. Mrs. Prior blinked. She didn’t feel right, no, felt weak, wobbly, asleep atop her feet. Where was he?
He came an hour late. She saw him down by the docks, sneaking up the streets to her, eyes over his shoulders, cautious. But he was drunk again, bloody hell and covered by mud.
She frowned.
Disgusting fool.
James did not see her at first and she was forced to step out of the alcove and extend a beckoning finger.
“Here,” she whispered.
His head jerked, like a dog’s, hackles raised for an instant until he saw her.
“Mrs. Prior,” he panted and fell into her.
She embraced him, ignoring the smell. “Is it done?”
“It is.”
“So soon?”
“Yes. Luck is indeed your bedmate.”
“Surely you exaggerate.” Mrs. Prior removed her spotted, stained handkerchief from her pocket and mopped his face free of mud.
He smiled crookedly at her. “I found Sparrow.”
She raised a brow.
James took her hand in his, drew the handkerchief away. “I’ll try to wrangle my way onto his ship. Should be easy enough. Why…why are you so pale?”
“It’s no matter.” She stuffed the handkerchief away and wiped her own sweaty brow with the back of her hand.
“You look ill.”
“I said it is no matter.”
He leaned against the wall beside her and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Mrs. Prior could hear him breathe, his sides rising, falling, rising against hers. She shivered, skin prickling.
“What else have you?” she asked, a cough clearing her throat.
“I’ve met an old friend,” he replied and she thought his voice sounded strangled.
“Oh? How very peculiar. Who is he?”
“She.” James stared at his brown boots.
A knot tightened in Mrs. Prior’s stomach and left her nauseous. Another woman. Surely that was a bad sign. She needed to keep James isolated, needed to keep him for herself if he was to do her any good.
“Who?”
He glanced at her briefly. “A woman, a girl I knew for time. Elizabeth Swann.”
“Where?” Mrs. Prior shook, her every nerve ablaze, joints loosened, muscles tense. She felt the whore’s windpipe beneath her fingers once more.
James stared. “You know her?”
Mrs. Prior took a step back and left the dark comfort of the alcove. She had slipped, said something she shouldn’t have and that was rare indeed. “Never mind,” she said and touched James’ chest lightly, hoping to wash away the error with lust.
“You do know her.” He was incredulous.
“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Prior admitted and she curled her tongue against her lips, striving to ignore the bitter taste of bile that bloomed in her throat. “Never mind, dear, never mind.”
A kiss would smooth away all ills, she decided and with a seductive sneer, she drew closer to him. But James grabbed her shoulders and pushed her roughly back into the alcove.
Mrs. Prior gasped in surprise. “Wretch!”
“How do you know Elizabeth?” he asked. His voice was a growl and Mrs. Prior raised a brow, half-shocked, but wholly impressed.
“In Port Royal,” she muttered. “When my lord took up residence there. That’s it though, no funny business. What? You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?”
James stared at her. “What else? Tell me!”
He was shouting, drawing attention to them. Mrs. Prior glanced over his large, looming shoulder into the street and saw only a soused boatswain pausing to watch.
“Quiet,” she warned James and her hand slithered up his throat. “Be quiet and I’ll tell you. Don’t know what you expect from me, really. Never saw the girl to begin with, as it was. But I overheard my lord saying she was trouble and had something to do with that Jack Sparrow. That’s all I know, understand? All this fuss for naught. God’s sake, keep your wits about you! Now do you remember what I told you?”
James shuddered once, then nodded. “I do.”
“Then we’ll be alright.” Mrs. Prior grasped his hand in hers. “Two is better than one any day.”
“Any day,” James replied somewhat cynically, but there were tears in his eyes. “I ought to be off now.”
“You’ll be fine,” she assured him and to her great surprise, something of her old maternal instinct squirmed to life in her breast. “You know where to find me when all is said and done.”
“Port Royal.”
“Bring the damned compass.”
“I promise.”
There was nothing left to be said and they stood together in silence for an awkward moment. And then one of them moved or perhaps they both did and a kiss was shared, his mouth longing, hers pained, aching.
They parted.
Mrs. Prior watched as he returned to the docks, his steps surer, off in search of Sparrow’s ship. The murderous moon hid behind a cloud.
“Whew!” she sighed once he had disappeared. “If he mucks this up, I swear to God, I’ll…I’ll throttle him!”