Hold the line
Ha! I finished one of the two birthday fics I'm working on. Only have to get it beta'ed, now. Hopefully it doesn't suck too much! I really hope I'll be able to finish the second one in time, too. Otherwise I'll just post the beginning on time - though I really don't like doing that. Posting any part of a fic before it's finished. You never know when you'll want to go back on it to have it better suit what happens later. Besides, it saved me from posting some quite, quite bad fiction. Tapping, for one thing, and OMT. I haven't given up on either of them, I simply need to go through them all over again.
To go back to that second birthday fic, I know exactly where I want to go. It's just not something I've ever written before and I'm doubtful I can pull it off easily, and in such a short amount of time. I'll see.
Anyway. Here's chapter five of FoF.
A Flight of Fancy
Chapter Five: Still the guns and stow 'em
Norrington spared but a glance at the young woman standing on deck, looking so like a boy, her wrists bound behind her back, before he ordered for her to be released. Next to her, Sparrow winced and raised a finger towards Norrington to stress his point. "Just so you know, she's quite the deadly thing."
Norrington raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? And here I was wondering how you had come to discover her subterfuge."
"That would be when dear Claire tried to end the legend that's Captain Jack Sparrow."
Norrington did not try to hide his surprise, turning towards the sullen-looking girl who was rubbing her wrists. "Claire, is it? No last name?"
Again, it was Sparrow who answered: "Father's name, 'ey? That would be Barbossa."
It took Norrington a few seconds to be able to close his mouth. "Ah. That would answer my next question. Was there any particular motive behind her attempt against your person, or was it just the logical result of having spent some time in your company."
Sparrow smiled affably at Norrington. The commodore turned to look at the girl again, and more pointedly at her cheek. "That scar?"
"A mere scuffle on deck, a few days back," Sparrow once again answered for her. Norrington looked expectantly at the girl for confirmation. She nodded once, sharply.
The commodore turned to Groves, who was standing by his side. "Take her to a cabin and set two guards to it, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
Norrington watched them head for the forecastle, his brow lined with concern. He would never have thought her a girl if Groves had not told him so, but it was now painfully obvious. Her features were not so much boyish as feminine, if not particularly attractive. The daughter of Barbossa, was she? Who would have known.
"Lieutenant, 'ey? Did he come forth with his own lil confession last night? Bad timing, that was. For him."
Norrington turned back to Sparrow, then set off for his cabin without a word, his authoritarian look making it clear enough that the pirate ought to follow. Sparrow walked in a few seconds after him. Norrington was standing as straight as was humanly possible next to the closed window, and gestured for Sparrow to close the door. The pirate raised teasingly inquisitive eyebrows, but complied without a word.
"Lieutenant Groves had nothing to confess to, for he was just as much taken aback by your news as I was." He did his best at hiding his uneasiness. He had still not wholly come to term with this decision. "Wholly independent reasons, my own and not anyone's to question, made me reassign Mr Gillette to captain the HMS Contester."
"Gillette? You made Gillette captain of the Contester? He wouldn't be able to know whether she wanted swiftness or a bit o' rest if she were screaming it to him on top of her lungs, mate!"
"I find that your talent to... communicate... with ships is quite rare indeed, thank the Lord," Norrington tersely replied. "Now, Lieutenant Groves would, I am sure, be most grateful if you kept what you knew to yourself."
Dark eyes rendered even blacker by a lining of kohl danced amusingly over Norrington's face as Sparrow purposefully walked closer to him, one slow step after another. "Would you be grateful, James?"
"I told you to call me Commodore."
"Aye. Commodore James." Another enticing smile, followed by one of those nonsensical gestures of his hands. "Would you then? And how grateful exactly, if I... kept quiet?"
Norrington allowed himself a tight smile. "Grateful that I did not have to send you to your unlawful end, Sparrow. I'd much rather see you dance at the gallows after a fair trial than have to come up with a story to explain how I was forced to kill you in self defence."
Sparrow's face closed down and he straightened up. "I see."
"Do you? Excellent. Now we might be able to get some work done. Were you able to glean some sort of information last night?"
Sparrow turned away, tossed his hat on the table, sprawled into a chair - he seemed to make the chair melt under him to follow his shape more than anything else - and propped his feet up on the table. "Aye, Commodore."
A raised eyebrow. "Your feet, Captain."
"I was much able to do that, with my natural skill of persuasion." A cocky grin.
A step forward. "Your feet, Captain."
"You know what I'm talkin' about, right Commodore James?"
Another step forward; he unsheathed his sword. "Your feet, Captain Sparrow."
The black eyes travelled back and forth between blade and face, as if to gauge Norrington's mood and the likeliness of his using that sword. Meanwhile, he kept talking. "'Course, I had to add some earthly motivation to my persuasion, but I expect the outstanding Navy will pay me back in kind."
Norrington used the flat of his blade to push the feet off the table. The boots clapped loudly on the floor. The commodore came to stand between Sparrow and the piece of furniture to prevent any reoccurrence. "What did you learn, Captain?"
"There was none what could tell me the location of the Fortune's berth, 'course, but I did learn she be headed for the Lesser Antilles."
Norrington considered this. With the winds against them, it would take at least ten days to reach the Northern of those islands. At the very best, if they were extremely lucky, they would be back in Port Royal in little more than a fortnight to hang Low. That, of course, was counting without Sparrow. No doubt the pirate would have revealed his hand by then. "I suppose it would be futile to ask you whether you might have withheld any information?"
"As much as any other question you already know the answer to." A childish grin that stretched the tanned skin over the cheekbones, created dimples in the cheeks. "I wouldn't want to be ordered to stay behind, Commodore."
An amused half-smile, the rise of his lips' corner that he could not control in time. "Of course, Captain."
Sparrow frowned, looking up at Norrington with mock-puzzlement and genuine amusement hidden underneath. "You wouldn't be startin' to like me, Commodore James, would ye?" And suddenly serious, before Norrington could fervently protest, "What will you be doing with the girl?"
His objection died on his lips. Ah, yes. He had quite forgotten about her during this short conversation, and reprimanded himself for it. Norrington's brow creased with concern, his eyes unfocused as he went over his options.
"Said her hometown was Port-de-Paix," Sparrow added, an unreadable look on his face. "Might be best to return her there, don't you think?"
On the same mock-shocked tone Sparrow had taken so very recently, Norrington asked, "Would you be asking for my opinion, Captain Sparrow?"
Sparrow crossed his hands and spread them to accentuate his forceful, "No. Absolutely not. What I'm doing... is trying to influence you, mate. Commodore. You're the one to make the decision after all."
"I'll talk to Miss... Hunt." He could not quite bring himself to call her Barbossa. It seemed a name unfit for a member of the fair sex. He ought to enquire after her mother's name; if she came from Port-de-Paix, a Huguenot settlement on the Northern shore of Hispaniolia, not so far from their current position, it was most likely something French, and very much not Hunt.
Sparrow stood, swiping his hat up in the same movement. "If that be all, Commodore." He turned to go, putting his hat back on.
A question that had been troubling Norrington rose to the surface, and this seemed as good a time as any to ask it. He could never be sure whether the current conversation was the last civil exchange he would have with Sparrow, before the pirate turned on them and they both resumed their expected roles at last. "Captain?"
Sparrow turned about in that brisk, unsteady way of his. "Aye?"
Norrington licked his dry lips. "I've been wondering, watching your crew these past few days. How do you bear it, having so little ultimate control over them?"
Again, that altogether childish grin that seemed to hide nothing. "That's the price of freedom, Commodore James." A rush of hand gestures as he went on, "And I might have less control 'n your type over me crew, but they're more loyal to me than half your men to you."
"My men are -"
"Ready to follow yer every order, aye," Sparrow cut in, taking a step closer as he let his passion about the subject take over, "let's admit to that for argument's sake. They respect your station, your rank. It's no rank what ties me men to me. Savvy?"
Norrington frowned as he seemed to understand the pirate's point, then straightened when he realised how lax his stance had become when he had stopped paying it heed. "Yes. Thank you, Captain, for that... interesting... foray... into a pirate's mind."
"Don't mention it, Commodore. Really, don't."
And with that and his eternal sway to the hips, Captain Sparrow exited Norrington's cabin.
***
She didn't say anything until he was about to walk out. She had volunteered no answer to his considerate question, would she need anything. His brown eyes rested on her for a while, and then he turned to go, his Navy face in place, and she couldn't help wonder whether the other question had been on the tip of his tongue.
She answered it anyway, and made it sound like a challenge. "I won't tell anyone about you."
He turned back to her with a frown that cleared away almost immediately. He'd never been much for circumlocutions, for what little she knew him. He nodded, eyes warming up in that impassive face. "Thank you."
She nodded back defiantly and watched him stride out, heard his voice murmur some order or suggestion to the guards set on the cabin. Why did she have to make everything a challenge? It felt as if it were the only acceptable alternative, either that or submission, and she'd take challenge over submission any day.
How she wished that knife of hers had driven into suntanned flesh to the hilt, eyes widening in shock, mouth open to let out one... last... gasp...
The cabin was small, just long enough to hold the hammock, no other piece of furniture. There was a small window, she could have wiggled her way through if it had opened. She could always break the glass, but the sound would alert the guards instantly. Where could she go to, anyway? Back up on deck, or throw herself into the sea, seeking the oblivion of Davy Jones' locker? Neither alternative suited her.
Of course, Jack would have insisted she did have a choice in that.
Her pale eyes roamed over the waves. He'd said she had his eyes. Did it mean cold, merciless eyes, or had Jack ever seen something else in her father's eyes? It felt as if it should matter, but it ultimately didn't. She had missed her shot. She settled down in the hammock, one hand under her head, the other on her stomach, one leg dangling off the side of it, the other folded in it, and listened to the ship. She'd never been on the Dauntless before, was not used to her constancy, her reliability. It made her long for... something. The shadow of another life, and Jack's words came back to haunt her, along with that annoying grin of his, so good-natured, almost boyish.
The big tragedy of you Navy men... you fail to see the choices you have.
Her fingers itched for her knife, images of the scuffle flashing before her eyes, and the blood pooling on the cut on his chest, marring the golden skin, his dark eyes so close to hers and burning with something more than the lamplight's reflection, muscles tense, breaths ragged, chests heaving, every sound outside of the cabin dulled during that every-instant struggle for death, and survival.
There was some of his blood on her shirt, she noticed, a few splattered drops of crimson on the dirty material. She idly ran her fingertips over them; those calloused hands of hers, hardened at the service of the Navy, were no more befitting of her sex than her clothes and she liked it this way. The blood had, of course, long dried. It would take cold water and a good deal of scrubbing if anyone wanted to wash it off. She didn't. Through the rough material of her shirt, she could feel the long strips of cloth binding her small breasts, pressing them flat so they wouldn't betray her. She wondered whether Captain Groves - no, Lieutenant now, hadn't the Commodore said so? - had his doubts about the two tars that had gone missing over the last few weeks. He probably didn't. He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would let men be killed to salvage his own career and life. Moreover, he didn't strike her as the kind of man who would think her capable of such a thing.
Cold-blooded murder. Well, maybe not so cold-blooded as that. There had been rum, and hushed voices, discord and a definite heat coursing through her veins...
She brought her second hand under her head and stared up at the wood-coloured bulkhead... not this strange black wood she had come to know the last few days, that of the ship her father had all but stolen from Jack. What was she to do now?
The knock on the door took her aback and she straightened up too quickly, unbalancing the hammock. She barely managed to steady herself by leaning a hand against the bulkhead. She did not get up, they be damned if they thought she was going to show manners, as she answered. "Enter."
It was Commodore Norrington himself, and she found with displeasure that the Navy had moulded her well: she was standing straight on her feet, a "sir" on the tip of her tongue, before her supposed rebelliousness kicked in.
The officer looked at her with confusion, lips parted as if to say something, before his brow cleared. "At ease, Miss... Hunt."
She scolded, both that he would need to issue such an order and at the way he addressed her. Crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin out defiantly.
The commodore seemed almost hurried as he turned to close the door, all the while talking: "The guards are of course still outside, for propriety's sake."
She almost snorted at that, but the respect due to an officer prevented her from doing quite that. Propriety? Was the commodore such a fool? As he turned back to her, Navy face full in place and eyes shaded with something akin to nobility, she wondered whether he was not, more simply, such an honourable man. A different sort of fool.
They stood there for a few seconds in silence, the officer rather awkwardly searching for words, and her not having any to utter. He broke the silence at last, hands clasped behind his back: "I feel obliged to ask. Did Captain Sparrow or any of his crewmen... mistreat you, in any way?"
He, too, was the kind of man that would never think her capable of doing what she had done. She let the bitterness twist her lips. "No."
Some measure of relief showed in the green eyes. "Good." Another pause, awkward on his part. She simply waited. "I must admit, Miss... I'm at a loss what to call you," he interrupted himself.
"You know my father's name." He would never think her capable of doing what she had done.
"But I assume you grew up bearing your mother's?"
Not in her heart, not after she had wrestled his name out of her mother's lips. "Calvet."
"Well I must admit, Miss Calvet," the learned man that he was, who must have been taught French from an early age, did not pronounce it Calvay as most Englishmen would, "that I am at a loss what to do with you. Captain Sparrow mentioned that you originated from Port-de-Paix..."
She knew her eyes had flashed dangerously, reflecting the burst of anger in her chest, for the commodore's gaze turned cautious. Her tone was low when she spoke. "I won't stay there."
"And what will you do, Miss Calvet? You cannot possibly think to seek employment with the Navy again. If your thoughts are to turn towards piracy..."
"Never!" Arms uncrossed, tense at her sides, fists clenched. "I will never turn pirate."
The officer surveyed her thoughtfully. "Did you not wish to avenge your pirate of a father? While I do not carry Captain Sparrow in my heart, he is a far better man on his bad days than Barbossa on his good... moments," he finished, as if doubting that her father had had such long periods of goodness as days.
She had not known her father, could not judge him. She could judge Jack for having killed him, though, for having prevented her from knowing him. "I meant to avenge my father, not a pirate, and I still do."
"Did you ever meet him, Miss Calvet?"
A stubborn set of her jaw as she was forced to answer, "No."
A faint smile, humourless, as if she had confirmed something to him. "I did not have the pleasure either. Did you ever care to wonder why your mother would have kept the identity of your father secret? She did, did she not?"
She turned her head away sharply, looking out the small window, refusing to answer. This did not deter the commodore from pressing on.
"Those who did not know what kind of a... man your father was might attribute it to the fear she might have felt at the thought his enemies would want to use you for leverage." His tone rang with martial veracity, his words tracing a truth she had always kept locked away in her bosom, only to be examined in the middle of the night when she could not find sleep. "Others might know better. He himself might have come back to throttle the babe that you were, to eliminate his own offspring for fear they would be turned into leverage. What could such a fierce pirate want with a daughter, regardless?"
His fingers closed around her wrist a few inches before her fist would have connected with his jaw. His grip was hard, but not painful, and he held her gaze for an instant before letting go.
"What options do I have, commodore?" she flung at him, lowering her arm along her body. "Go back to Port-de-Paix, find a husband that would want of a creature like me? Better yet, why not drop me off at Tortuga, and I'll play the wife for any who can pay me right!" She paused, realised with awe that her whole body was slightly shaking. She turned away fully, unwilling to face him any longer, and walled herself up into stubborn silence.
He remained quiet, too, for a few instants. Something caught in his voice as he next spoke, and she forced herself not to wonder at it. "You will remain aboard until I decide of your fate."
He stepped away to the door, stayed there for a few seconds, then opened it and strode out without one more word. Claire slowly unclenched her fists and raised her outstretched hands so she could spy at the crescents her nails had dug into her palms. She was still trembling, and she laid her hands on the bulkhead in an effort to steady herself and get a hold on her body. Her knees buckled under her and she slid down the length of the wooden wall, one that gave off no heat.
The sobs wrecking her body were silent, but to her they were everything, baring her very soul, in and out with her shaky breaths. Just outside her door, the guards did not have a clue.
-- End Chapter Five
To go back to that second birthday fic, I know exactly where I want to go. It's just not something I've ever written before and I'm doubtful I can pull it off easily, and in such a short amount of time. I'll see.
Anyway. Here's chapter five of FoF.
A Flight of Fancy
Chapter Five: Still the guns and stow 'em
Norrington spared but a glance at the young woman standing on deck, looking so like a boy, her wrists bound behind her back, before he ordered for her to be released. Next to her, Sparrow winced and raised a finger towards Norrington to stress his point. "Just so you know, she's quite the deadly thing."
Norrington raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? And here I was wondering how you had come to discover her subterfuge."
"That would be when dear Claire tried to end the legend that's Captain Jack Sparrow."
Norrington did not try to hide his surprise, turning towards the sullen-looking girl who was rubbing her wrists. "Claire, is it? No last name?"
Again, it was Sparrow who answered: "Father's name, 'ey? That would be Barbossa."
It took Norrington a few seconds to be able to close his mouth. "Ah. That would answer my next question. Was there any particular motive behind her attempt against your person, or was it just the logical result of having spent some time in your company."
Sparrow smiled affably at Norrington. The commodore turned to look at the girl again, and more pointedly at her cheek. "That scar?"
"A mere scuffle on deck, a few days back," Sparrow once again answered for her. Norrington looked expectantly at the girl for confirmation. She nodded once, sharply.
The commodore turned to Groves, who was standing by his side. "Take her to a cabin and set two guards to it, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
Norrington watched them head for the forecastle, his brow lined with concern. He would never have thought her a girl if Groves had not told him so, but it was now painfully obvious. Her features were not so much boyish as feminine, if not particularly attractive. The daughter of Barbossa, was she? Who would have known.
"Lieutenant, 'ey? Did he come forth with his own lil confession last night? Bad timing, that was. For him."
Norrington turned back to Sparrow, then set off for his cabin without a word, his authoritarian look making it clear enough that the pirate ought to follow. Sparrow walked in a few seconds after him. Norrington was standing as straight as was humanly possible next to the closed window, and gestured for Sparrow to close the door. The pirate raised teasingly inquisitive eyebrows, but complied without a word.
"Lieutenant Groves had nothing to confess to, for he was just as much taken aback by your news as I was." He did his best at hiding his uneasiness. He had still not wholly come to term with this decision. "Wholly independent reasons, my own and not anyone's to question, made me reassign Mr Gillette to captain the HMS Contester."
"Gillette? You made Gillette captain of the Contester? He wouldn't be able to know whether she wanted swiftness or a bit o' rest if she were screaming it to him on top of her lungs, mate!"
"I find that your talent to... communicate... with ships is quite rare indeed, thank the Lord," Norrington tersely replied. "Now, Lieutenant Groves would, I am sure, be most grateful if you kept what you knew to yourself."
Dark eyes rendered even blacker by a lining of kohl danced amusingly over Norrington's face as Sparrow purposefully walked closer to him, one slow step after another. "Would you be grateful, James?"
"I told you to call me Commodore."
"Aye. Commodore James." Another enticing smile, followed by one of those nonsensical gestures of his hands. "Would you then? And how grateful exactly, if I... kept quiet?"
Norrington allowed himself a tight smile. "Grateful that I did not have to send you to your unlawful end, Sparrow. I'd much rather see you dance at the gallows after a fair trial than have to come up with a story to explain how I was forced to kill you in self defence."
Sparrow's face closed down and he straightened up. "I see."
"Do you? Excellent. Now we might be able to get some work done. Were you able to glean some sort of information last night?"
Sparrow turned away, tossed his hat on the table, sprawled into a chair - he seemed to make the chair melt under him to follow his shape more than anything else - and propped his feet up on the table. "Aye, Commodore."
A raised eyebrow. "Your feet, Captain."
"I was much able to do that, with my natural skill of persuasion." A cocky grin.
A step forward. "Your feet, Captain."
"You know what I'm talkin' about, right Commodore James?"
Another step forward; he unsheathed his sword. "Your feet, Captain Sparrow."
The black eyes travelled back and forth between blade and face, as if to gauge Norrington's mood and the likeliness of his using that sword. Meanwhile, he kept talking. "'Course, I had to add some earthly motivation to my persuasion, but I expect the outstanding Navy will pay me back in kind."
Norrington used the flat of his blade to push the feet off the table. The boots clapped loudly on the floor. The commodore came to stand between Sparrow and the piece of furniture to prevent any reoccurrence. "What did you learn, Captain?"
"There was none what could tell me the location of the Fortune's berth, 'course, but I did learn she be headed for the Lesser Antilles."
Norrington considered this. With the winds against them, it would take at least ten days to reach the Northern of those islands. At the very best, if they were extremely lucky, they would be back in Port Royal in little more than a fortnight to hang Low. That, of course, was counting without Sparrow. No doubt the pirate would have revealed his hand by then. "I suppose it would be futile to ask you whether you might have withheld any information?"
"As much as any other question you already know the answer to." A childish grin that stretched the tanned skin over the cheekbones, created dimples in the cheeks. "I wouldn't want to be ordered to stay behind, Commodore."
An amused half-smile, the rise of his lips' corner that he could not control in time. "Of course, Captain."
Sparrow frowned, looking up at Norrington with mock-puzzlement and genuine amusement hidden underneath. "You wouldn't be startin' to like me, Commodore James, would ye?" And suddenly serious, before Norrington could fervently protest, "What will you be doing with the girl?"
His objection died on his lips. Ah, yes. He had quite forgotten about her during this short conversation, and reprimanded himself for it. Norrington's brow creased with concern, his eyes unfocused as he went over his options.
"Said her hometown was Port-de-Paix," Sparrow added, an unreadable look on his face. "Might be best to return her there, don't you think?"
On the same mock-shocked tone Sparrow had taken so very recently, Norrington asked, "Would you be asking for my opinion, Captain Sparrow?"
Sparrow crossed his hands and spread them to accentuate his forceful, "No. Absolutely not. What I'm doing... is trying to influence you, mate. Commodore. You're the one to make the decision after all."
"I'll talk to Miss... Hunt." He could not quite bring himself to call her Barbossa. It seemed a name unfit for a member of the fair sex. He ought to enquire after her mother's name; if she came from Port-de-Paix, a Huguenot settlement on the Northern shore of Hispaniolia, not so far from their current position, it was most likely something French, and very much not Hunt.
Sparrow stood, swiping his hat up in the same movement. "If that be all, Commodore." He turned to go, putting his hat back on.
A question that had been troubling Norrington rose to the surface, and this seemed as good a time as any to ask it. He could never be sure whether the current conversation was the last civil exchange he would have with Sparrow, before the pirate turned on them and they both resumed their expected roles at last. "Captain?"
Sparrow turned about in that brisk, unsteady way of his. "Aye?"
Norrington licked his dry lips. "I've been wondering, watching your crew these past few days. How do you bear it, having so little ultimate control over them?"
Again, that altogether childish grin that seemed to hide nothing. "That's the price of freedom, Commodore James." A rush of hand gestures as he went on, "And I might have less control 'n your type over me crew, but they're more loyal to me than half your men to you."
"My men are -"
"Ready to follow yer every order, aye," Sparrow cut in, taking a step closer as he let his passion about the subject take over, "let's admit to that for argument's sake. They respect your station, your rank. It's no rank what ties me men to me. Savvy?"
Norrington frowned as he seemed to understand the pirate's point, then straightened when he realised how lax his stance had become when he had stopped paying it heed. "Yes. Thank you, Captain, for that... interesting... foray... into a pirate's mind."
"Don't mention it, Commodore. Really, don't."
And with that and his eternal sway to the hips, Captain Sparrow exited Norrington's cabin.
***
She didn't say anything until he was about to walk out. She had volunteered no answer to his considerate question, would she need anything. His brown eyes rested on her for a while, and then he turned to go, his Navy face in place, and she couldn't help wonder whether the other question had been on the tip of his tongue.
She answered it anyway, and made it sound like a challenge. "I won't tell anyone about you."
He turned back to her with a frown that cleared away almost immediately. He'd never been much for circumlocutions, for what little she knew him. He nodded, eyes warming up in that impassive face. "Thank you."
She nodded back defiantly and watched him stride out, heard his voice murmur some order or suggestion to the guards set on the cabin. Why did she have to make everything a challenge? It felt as if it were the only acceptable alternative, either that or submission, and she'd take challenge over submission any day.
How she wished that knife of hers had driven into suntanned flesh to the hilt, eyes widening in shock, mouth open to let out one... last... gasp...
The cabin was small, just long enough to hold the hammock, no other piece of furniture. There was a small window, she could have wiggled her way through if it had opened. She could always break the glass, but the sound would alert the guards instantly. Where could she go to, anyway? Back up on deck, or throw herself into the sea, seeking the oblivion of Davy Jones' locker? Neither alternative suited her.
Of course, Jack would have insisted she did have a choice in that.
Her pale eyes roamed over the waves. He'd said she had his eyes. Did it mean cold, merciless eyes, or had Jack ever seen something else in her father's eyes? It felt as if it should matter, but it ultimately didn't. She had missed her shot. She settled down in the hammock, one hand under her head, the other on her stomach, one leg dangling off the side of it, the other folded in it, and listened to the ship. She'd never been on the Dauntless before, was not used to her constancy, her reliability. It made her long for... something. The shadow of another life, and Jack's words came back to haunt her, along with that annoying grin of his, so good-natured, almost boyish.
The big tragedy of you Navy men... you fail to see the choices you have.
Her fingers itched for her knife, images of the scuffle flashing before her eyes, and the blood pooling on the cut on his chest, marring the golden skin, his dark eyes so close to hers and burning with something more than the lamplight's reflection, muscles tense, breaths ragged, chests heaving, every sound outside of the cabin dulled during that every-instant struggle for death, and survival.
There was some of his blood on her shirt, she noticed, a few splattered drops of crimson on the dirty material. She idly ran her fingertips over them; those calloused hands of hers, hardened at the service of the Navy, were no more befitting of her sex than her clothes and she liked it this way. The blood had, of course, long dried. It would take cold water and a good deal of scrubbing if anyone wanted to wash it off. She didn't. Through the rough material of her shirt, she could feel the long strips of cloth binding her small breasts, pressing them flat so they wouldn't betray her. She wondered whether Captain Groves - no, Lieutenant now, hadn't the Commodore said so? - had his doubts about the two tars that had gone missing over the last few weeks. He probably didn't. He didn't strike her as the kind of man who would let men be killed to salvage his own career and life. Moreover, he didn't strike her as the kind of man who would think her capable of such a thing.
Cold-blooded murder. Well, maybe not so cold-blooded as that. There had been rum, and hushed voices, discord and a definite heat coursing through her veins...
She brought her second hand under her head and stared up at the wood-coloured bulkhead... not this strange black wood she had come to know the last few days, that of the ship her father had all but stolen from Jack. What was she to do now?
The knock on the door took her aback and she straightened up too quickly, unbalancing the hammock. She barely managed to steady herself by leaning a hand against the bulkhead. She did not get up, they be damned if they thought she was going to show manners, as she answered. "Enter."
It was Commodore Norrington himself, and she found with displeasure that the Navy had moulded her well: she was standing straight on her feet, a "sir" on the tip of her tongue, before her supposed rebelliousness kicked in.
The officer looked at her with confusion, lips parted as if to say something, before his brow cleared. "At ease, Miss... Hunt."
She scolded, both that he would need to issue such an order and at the way he addressed her. Crossed her arms over her chest and jutted her chin out defiantly.
The commodore seemed almost hurried as he turned to close the door, all the while talking: "The guards are of course still outside, for propriety's sake."
She almost snorted at that, but the respect due to an officer prevented her from doing quite that. Propriety? Was the commodore such a fool? As he turned back to her, Navy face full in place and eyes shaded with something akin to nobility, she wondered whether he was not, more simply, such an honourable man. A different sort of fool.
They stood there for a few seconds in silence, the officer rather awkwardly searching for words, and her not having any to utter. He broke the silence at last, hands clasped behind his back: "I feel obliged to ask. Did Captain Sparrow or any of his crewmen... mistreat you, in any way?"
He, too, was the kind of man that would never think her capable of doing what she had done. She let the bitterness twist her lips. "No."
Some measure of relief showed in the green eyes. "Good." Another pause, awkward on his part. She simply waited. "I must admit, Miss... I'm at a loss what to call you," he interrupted himself.
"You know my father's name." He would never think her capable of doing what she had done.
"But I assume you grew up bearing your mother's?"
Not in her heart, not after she had wrestled his name out of her mother's lips. "Calvet."
"Well I must admit, Miss Calvet," the learned man that he was, who must have been taught French from an early age, did not pronounce it Calvay as most Englishmen would, "that I am at a loss what to do with you. Captain Sparrow mentioned that you originated from Port-de-Paix..."
She knew her eyes had flashed dangerously, reflecting the burst of anger in her chest, for the commodore's gaze turned cautious. Her tone was low when she spoke. "I won't stay there."
"And what will you do, Miss Calvet? You cannot possibly think to seek employment with the Navy again. If your thoughts are to turn towards piracy..."
"Never!" Arms uncrossed, tense at her sides, fists clenched. "I will never turn pirate."
The officer surveyed her thoughtfully. "Did you not wish to avenge your pirate of a father? While I do not carry Captain Sparrow in my heart, he is a far better man on his bad days than Barbossa on his good... moments," he finished, as if doubting that her father had had such long periods of goodness as days.
She had not known her father, could not judge him. She could judge Jack for having killed him, though, for having prevented her from knowing him. "I meant to avenge my father, not a pirate, and I still do."
"Did you ever meet him, Miss Calvet?"
A stubborn set of her jaw as she was forced to answer, "No."
A faint smile, humourless, as if she had confirmed something to him. "I did not have the pleasure either. Did you ever care to wonder why your mother would have kept the identity of your father secret? She did, did she not?"
She turned her head away sharply, looking out the small window, refusing to answer. This did not deter the commodore from pressing on.
"Those who did not know what kind of a... man your father was might attribute it to the fear she might have felt at the thought his enemies would want to use you for leverage." His tone rang with martial veracity, his words tracing a truth she had always kept locked away in her bosom, only to be examined in the middle of the night when she could not find sleep. "Others might know better. He himself might have come back to throttle the babe that you were, to eliminate his own offspring for fear they would be turned into leverage. What could such a fierce pirate want with a daughter, regardless?"
His fingers closed around her wrist a few inches before her fist would have connected with his jaw. His grip was hard, but not painful, and he held her gaze for an instant before letting go.
"What options do I have, commodore?" she flung at him, lowering her arm along her body. "Go back to Port-de-Paix, find a husband that would want of a creature like me? Better yet, why not drop me off at Tortuga, and I'll play the wife for any who can pay me right!" She paused, realised with awe that her whole body was slightly shaking. She turned away fully, unwilling to face him any longer, and walled herself up into stubborn silence.
He remained quiet, too, for a few instants. Something caught in his voice as he next spoke, and she forced herself not to wonder at it. "You will remain aboard until I decide of your fate."
He stepped away to the door, stayed there for a few seconds, then opened it and strode out without one more word. Claire slowly unclenched her fists and raised her outstretched hands so she could spy at the crescents her nails had dug into her palms. She was still trembling, and she laid her hands on the bulkhead in an effort to steady herself and get a hold on her body. Her knees buckled under her and she slid down the length of the wooden wall, one that gave off no heat.
The sobs wrecking her body were silent, but to her they were everything, baring her very soul, in and out with her shaky breaths. Just outside her door, the guards did not have a clue.
-- End Chapter Five