The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 5
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Pairing: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-ish for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary:Consider this a re-imagining of the events of DMC and AWE, wherein not only have Jack Sparrow and James Norrington achieved some level of wary camaraderie, but Calypso has struck a deal with Norrington over a pretty little gold ship--and all that even before James takes the admiral of the fleet hostage at gunpoint, thus ending his naval career on a rather spectacular note.
Chapter Five
Then, of course, a great number of things happened within a narrow span of time.
Jack Sparrow escaped from the prison he had broken into and the fruit of his labors seemed to be merely the imprint of an important key. He was soon after met and warned in a creepy fashion by Bootstrap Bill Turner, received the black spot, lost his hat, and summarily beached the Black Pearl on a cannibal island to avoid the kracken
Beckett stormed into Port Royal with threats to arrest the governor’s daughter and her fiancee` for aiding and abetting the known criminals ex-commodore James Norrington and Captain Jack Sparrow, only to make a deal with William Turner to exchange a full pardon and Letters of Marque for Captain Sparrow’s compass, and Captain James L. Norrington found himself being chased around the caribbean by what seemed to be half of the Royal Navy’s fleet, led by a particularly furious Admiral of the fleet.
When William had asked Beckett upon what evidence he based the charges of collusion with Norrington (for the man had escaped Port Royal with no help from the governor or the lovebirds) Beckett handed William a letter, written by the ex-commodore, who apologized for his inability to make it to the wedding due to what was cheekily referred to in the letter as ‘business with the Admiral’; and that was true, as the Admiral had made it his personal mission to crush Norrington into a bloody, splintery pulp--if only he could catch the bastard, whose ship the Gold Hawk seemed to be second only to the Black Pearl for sheer speed, and second to none for agility and maneuvering. Will and Elizabeth had not received the letter before, because Beckett had intercepted it. William gave it to Elizabeth as an afterthought, after explaining that he would track down Jack Sparrow and retrieve the pirate captain’s compass.
It took him some time, but Norrington was eventually able to out-maneuver the Admiral’s pretty little boats by weaving through a few particularly tricky archipelagos, and--out of spite and an almost playful sense of revenge he had never felt before--he headed for Port Royal, at about the same time that William Turner (who had found the cannibal island and escaped it with the remains of the Black Pearl’s crew and their captain) was far away being traded to Davy Jones by a wily Jack Sparrow stalling for time.
Concealing the Gold Hawk some distance away at dusk, Norrington then crept towards the town proper, but stopped along the way when he noticed some rather nasty happenings near the docks. He hid in the shadows and listened. Upon overhearing the orders being given out by Beckett’s right-hand-man, Norrington quickly came up with a few new plans and hurried up along the road.
The governor was trying to save Elizabeth, but he had already been thwarted by Beckett.
James was smiling slightly as he ran. Time to thwart Beckett.
The governor’s carriage was moving as fast as it could, but the paths it took over cobblestones made a lot more noise than the governor was wholly comfortable with, and so while he moved faster than normal and made a bit of a racket, he was not exactly flying at top speed or any such thing.
Norrington, watching from the side of the road where he was concealed by a few large and leafy palms that seemed to be more like bushes than trees, found the noise and speed of the carriage to be perfectly satisfactory for his own purposes. He caught the governor’s carriage as it went by, sprinting until he was close enough behind it to jump up and grab at either side of the carriage roof as he found a narrow edge to plant his feet upon.
He managed this capture just before the carriage headed downhill, so that his added weight would not be noticed by the horses straining and slowing, and so that the governor would bee too focused on the horses to risk glancing behind him as Norrington leaned around the side of the carriage. The ragged sounds of wheels and hooves on cobbles covered the sound of his opening the carriage door (which had been cleverly rigged not to open from the inside) thus revealing a flustered Elizabeth Swann, who had already been preparing to jump. She startled to see James, not quite recognizing him at first, but he merely jerked his head to indicate for her to jump away, and gestured awkwardly with one hand to indicate that she needed to roll when she landed. Her brows furrowed in confusion as recognition finally struck once she saw the commanding look on his face, but Elizabeth still managed to nod in regards to his silent instruction and leap out of the carriage. James caught the door and shut it almost-quietly before jumping backwards off the carriage himself. He did not roll, since he landed on the unforgiving cobblestones instead of the softer vegetation on the side of the path; however, he made up for it by bending his knees and landing in a low crouch like a cat, with his weight spread out on his hands as well as his feet. It stung, and in James’ opinion it looked ridiculous, but was still far better than breaking a kneecap.
After a momentary pause, watching the governor vanish around a bend in the path, James stood up, straightened his hat, and walked back to help Elizabeth detach her skirt from a rather thorny-looking plant. Not bothering with a formal greeting, he said simply, “Beckett’s men are at the docks waiting to capture you and your father. I would advise that we leave post-haste.”
“To Beckett’s office, first. Lend me your pistol, James.” Elizabeth’s tone was harsh.
James’ eyebrows raised. “Oh, good. I was already planning to head there myself.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
With the ghost of a smirk, Norrington opened the bag he carried over his shoulder, showing her the Admiral’s hat and wig inside. “I have a gift for him.” He then closed the bag and dragged Elizabeth into the shadows as she giggled helplessly.
“Oh, God, James, I can’t believe-”
“Shhh, quiet for now, Mrs. Turner.”
She coughed, startled, then said more quietly, “You... didn’t hear, then.”
James looked over his shoulder, not slowing their pace or raising the volume of his voice, but Elizabeth could read the dismay in his pale green eyes. “Oh. No, what happened?”
“He arrested us both the day before the wedding. For aiding and abetting both you and Captain Jack Sparrow.”
James took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, edging it with a slight growl. “Beckett...” Then he shook his head. “Neither of you had any part in my escape-”
“Yes, but you haven’t sent anyone else any apology letters, James,” she said quietly, with a soft, sad smile. “I did appreciate it, though. It was quite funny, I thought.”
That stopped him dead in his tracks for a moment and he stared at the ground. “I... I’m terribly sorry, Elizabeth. I should never have underestimated Beckett; I should have known that he would accuse-”
“James, stop,” she said, raising a hand to emphasize her point. “He’s got us pinned with helping Jack already, he would have found any way to make some variety of charges against us. It’s not your fault.” She rested a hand on his shoulder and seemed momentarily disconcerted by the lack of brocade. For the first time since his escape from Port Royal, she actually looked him over. Her eyes grew very wide. “My God, James, you’ve practically turned pirate! I’m no longer sure how I even recognized you, before.”
“A rogue is a rogue, Elizabeth, but a rogue is not necessarily a pirate; I have not yet been that drastically altered.” He held her gaze for a moment as he graced her with a soft smile. Then he handed over his pistol, his smirk widening into something a bit more predatory, and they both continued toward Beckett’s office.
The wigged and authoritative little man, Lord Cutler Beckett, walked into his office, with his lantern in one hand as he read a letter held in the other. Absently, he leaned over his desk...and noticed something amiss. He opened the small wooden EITC box on the corner of his desk. A moment of confusion, then realized what was missing. He slowly closed the box.
“No doubt you have noticed that loyalty is no longer the currency of the realm, as your father believes,” said Beckett loudly, so that the woman he knew to be lurking nearby would hear it. He heard her slow, deliberate footsteps.
“Then what is?” Elizabeth asked, as she emerged from the shadows.
He turned to face her. “I’m afraid that currency is the currency of the realm.”
“I expect then that we can come to some sort of understanding,” she said, approaching with her hands held almost innocently behind her back. Then she came to a stop and added, “I’m here to negotiate.”
“I’m listening,” Beckett said, stepping towards her, perhaps too close.
Ka-click.
Elizabeth pointed Norrington’s pistol at him, holding it just a few inches from his brow.
Beckett hesitated for just a moment, and rephrased: “I’m listening--intently.”
As Norrington walked through the room behind Beckett, his bare feet silent on the floor, he glanced at Elizabeth, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk as he was reminded precisely why he had fallen in love with her before; with her intent focus on Beckett allowing her to display the ferocity she so rarely ever had an opportunity to use, she was terribly fiery, capable and beautiful.
Elizabeth did not glance at James, because he had drilled it into her that she was not to acknowledge him until Beckett did. She focused on the small man that she was pointing her pistol at, and raised the small leather packet, containing the oh-so-important little sheaf of papers, for him to see. “These letters of Marque, they are signed by the King.”
“Yes, and they are not valid until they bear my signature and my seal,” Beckett said, as Norrington took the opportunity to place the Admiral’s hat and wig, the former placed with precision on top of the latter, on Beckett’s desk. The ex-commodore then quickly moved aside until he was out of Elizabeth’s way and out of Beckett’s sight.
Elizabeth momentarily lowered her pistol. “Or else I would not still be here.” Then she smirked; aware of, but not looking at, the moving form of James Norrington as the ex-commodore made his way quietly into his chosen corner near the doorway and put his boots back on. Elizabeth focused on Beckett. “You sent Will to go get the compass owned by Jack Sparrow.” She shook her head ever so slightly. “It will do you no good.”
“Do explain.”
“I have been to the Isla de Muerta, I have seen the treasure myself,” Elizabeth all but growled. Then that little bit of almost-amusement touched her features again. “There is something that you need to know.”
But now, Beckett, too, was amused. “Ah, I see,” he said airily. “You think that the compass leads only to the Isla de Muerta, and so you hope to save me from an evil fate, but you musn’t worry.” He stepped away from her, followed by her pistol as he faced his map on the wall. “I care not for cursed Aztec gold; my desires are not so provincial.” He turned to face her again. “There’s more than once chest of value in these waters.” He approached her slowly, attempting to intimidate. “So perhaps you might wish to enhance your offer.”
Norrington stifled a growl, but need not have worried, because Elizabeth chose that moment to press the muzzle of the gun to Beckett’s adam’s apple and pull the hammer back with an ominous metallic clack. Norrington grinned at the sight. So intense was Beckett’s focus on Elizabeth and her gun and the effort to maintain his composure in the face of both, that even when he was almost facing the corner that Norrington currently occupied, Beckett did not see the man hidden there in the shadows.
Elizabeth led Beckett back toward the desk, speaking through gritted teeth as she added, “Consider into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding night.” Then she pressed the letters of Marque to his chest insistently.
Now not looking at her, or toward the open doors, Beckett momentarily allowed a show of disappointed irritation to cross his features; he had underestimated his target, and he knew it. “So I did,” he acquiesced, setting the letters down and looking for his pen, only to stop as he noted something sitting in the very middle of his desk that had not been there before, and the sight of it cause his previously quiet and smooth breathing to stutter for a moment; it was the hat and wig of the Admiral, whose loyalty he had purchased and who had then lost him James Norrington the pirate hunter: a poor investment, indeed.
Elizabeth glanced at the hat, and repressed her urge to smile. “Is something wrong, Lord Beckett?” she asked quietly.
Beckett exhaled loudly through his teeth in a hiss. “Where is he?” His voice was less smooth.
“Close at hand, Beckett,” Norrington said from his corner. “Like any good weapon.”
Beckett flinched, his head jerking up to stare in the direction of that voice. He could make out the shape, halfway engulfed in shadows, of a plumed tricorne hat hiding the face of a very un-commodore-like-figure, standing and leaning nonchalant against the corner beside the open doors Beckett had entered through. Somehow, although he could not see it, Beckett could tell that Norrington was smiling, and that it was a very unkind smile.
Elizabeth nudged Beckett’s jaw with the pistol again, and the man reluctantly looked at her, then at the letters of mark.
Very grudgingly, he put them on his desk and signed them in his slow, deliberate hand. “A marriage interrupted,” he said, sounding distinctly more ruffled than before. “Or fate intervenes.” He melted the tip of a dark red stick of wax, dripped it on the page, and pressed into it his seal. He glared at Norrington, but then met Elizabeth’s gaze. “You’re putting in a lot of effort to ensure Jack Sparrow’s freedom.”
“These aren’t going to Jack,” she insisted, perhaps a bit sharply as she went to tug the papers from Beckett’s fingers.
He held fast. “Oh really?” he inquired. “To ensure Mr. Turner’s, freedom, then.” He almost made that sound like a question, too. This time he shot a glance at Norrington archly and then looked again at Elizabeth, openly curious. Before the ex-commodore could interrupt, Beckett said slowly, “I’ll still want that compass; consider that in your calculations.”
“That will be enough, Lord Beckett,” Norrington said curtly.
Beckett met the other man’s gaze sharply, but gently let go of the letters, not glancing at Elizabeth as she backed away, still aiming the pistol at him. “And what part are you, then, in this story, Mr. Norrington? Her bodyguard for the evening? Or are you, too, interested in seeking clemency? I wonder, indeed,” Beckett mused, glancing briefly but significantly at Elizabeth, the suggestion clear.
“That would be Captain Norrington,” James said, smirking for a brief moment, recalling a certain pirate, but it faded quickly back into solemn, cold hatred as he continued, “And I was just passing through to deliver to you my gift, and to warn you that your Admiral cannot catch me even when he chases me with more than half of his fleet, most of which is, I believe, still wandering about near Cuba in state of some confusion. You will receive letters from them to that effect soon enough, I am sure. As far as my dealings with Miss Swann: I decided to capture her before your men did, in order to further spite you. She is my prisoner.” He said it to dissuade further laws broken on Elizabeth’s perhaps, and he could see her struggle to to laugh, which told him that she understood, but found the idea a bit hilarious.
“And you gave her your pistol. Interesting,” Beckett murmured.
“Unloaded, yes,” James lied.
Beckett’s face colored slightly and his patience suddenly failed him. “What. Do. You. Want? Captain. Norrington.”
Stepping into the moonlight to stand beside Elizabeth, James gently took the pistol from her hand, nodding at her politely, and then aimed it at Beckett’s lantern where it sat on the desk. He fired. The lantern burst, sending glass and embers flying. With a yell, Beckett made an all-too-well-timed leap away from it and was not hurt, but still managed to end up with one sleeve partially on fire. He patted it out quickly, with a noise almost like a growl. Then he glared at James with half-mad fury as the acrid smells of burning wig and burning paper and burning varnish filled the room.
James reached into his coat and pulled out another pistol, cocking it and aiming it at Beckett before he could get any ideas about stalling them. The ex-commodore’s voice was as hard and flat and cool as his sword-blade when he said, “I want you and your more abhorrent practices out of the whole of the caribbean, Beckett. And at least one of my important associates also wants you to leave the empty places on that map of yours, instead of trying to claim them, or chase after them with, I assume, a certain stolen compass.” He and Elizabeth were backing away now, as faint shouts came from down the hall in Beckett’s building. Guards were coming. Norrington’s green eyes almost glowed in the moonlight and his upper lip curled enough to show his teeth. “Mostly, I want you to know that these waters are not safe for snakes like you--not anymore.” Then the pair of them vanished from sight.
As soon as they did, Beckett yanked open one of his desk drawers, fury making him heedless of the slowy spreading blaze on the top of the desk as he his pistol and rushed out the door, but when he emerged into the warm night, there was no sign of either the ex-commodore or Elizabeth Swann. Two seconds later, a pair of guards burst into the room behind him. One shouted to ask if Lord Beckett was alright and approached him, the other went about smothering the patches of flame from the broken lantern, which now threatened to engulf the entire surface of Beckett’s desk.
His gaze still scanning the scenery for any hint of his attackers, Beckett turned his head and ordered the nearest guard, “Search the grounds. Every inch of them. We’re looking for a certain ex-commodore and the governor’s daughter. Go!”
They ran as though all the hounds of Hell dogged their heels.
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?”
“Because he is the head of the hydra, and if I were to cut off that head, now, two more would grow in its place, thus speeding the progress of his corrupt practices,” James panted. “I’m still working out a way to prevent that. I need the equivalent of a metaphorical firebrand with which to cauterize, but such a thing has proven rather elusive thusfar.”
“Ah...now I remember why I never play chess with you,” Elizabeth mocked. “Bloody mad strategist that you are.”
James managed a breathless laugh.
Elizabeth pulled up her skirts, bunching them in her hands so that she could respectably keep up with James’ impressive pace as they ran out past the edge of Beckett’s property, but avoiding the road. When Elizabeth’s feet slipped on the unforgiving terrain because of her equally unforgiving formal shoes, she gave a startled squeak not from the fall, but rather because of James; he caught her, tucked his shoulder under her waist, and lifted her in one smooth and efficient movement. Then he kept running, carrying her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Blushing furiously, she cleared her throat and said, “Thank you, James.”
“Not a problem, Elizabeth.”
Had he always been this strong? Elizabeth wondered. No, not since she was much younger and he had done far more hands-on work aboard naval ships would she have guessed that he would possess this easy sort of strength. Whatever he had been doing since his escape from Port Royal before, it had taken some years off him even as it had made his appearance a bit piratical. His body seemed leaner, but more solid, and even through the wholly unfamiliar three-days’ growth of beard he currently wore, Elizabeth had seen how his jawline had sharpened and a certain amount of softness had left his features, removing the image of fine-living and finery, making him look more spartan and predatory. The only remaining traces of nobility and military left in his appearance were his bearing, the stolid demeanor of his facial expressions and even his most casual gestures, and the cleanness of his clothing as well as the inexplicable formality of the way he wore them.
And the man kept running for nearly a mile, still carrying her, before he finally slowed to a halt and set her down so that he could catch his breath. Panting hard, James leaned against a tree to collect himself. “There’s a longboat, not too far...hidden on the other side of the docks.”
Elizabeth stood and stared at him, once more taking in his appearance, but more slowly and thoroughly this time: a surprisingly clean warm gray frock coat with gold-green buttons, a brown leather waistcoat, his navy shirt beneath all of it and looking more ragged than usual with much of its lace torn away by now, while his legs were encased in a pair of battered-looking gray breeches and a tall pair of sturdy leather boots. He had his sword at his side and his pistol tucked away in the inner pocket of his coat. He wore no cravat, and his hat might once have been Navy, but now seemed to brazenly mock those origins, especially with those feathers.
“James Norrington, what has the world done to you?” she asked in amazement.
James stared back at her for a moment, seeming momentarily confused, then he grinned widely, and with perhaps more openness and sincerity than Elizabeth had ever seen from him before. “Quite a bit, Miss Swann, and I have taken my licks, but I assure you that I plan to continue kicking.”
“Apparently.” She shook her head, slightly shocked at how charming that smile was on him. “And I prefer Elizabeth, thank you very much, James.”
He tipped his hat to her slightly. “As you wish.” He seemed to have caught his breath. “Now, shall we move on?”
“Yes, I think so. Do you think anyone aboard your ship could lend me some more...practical clothing?”
“Practical or piratical?” He shot her a faint smirk.
“Yes, actually. This dress is not exactly good for going unnoticed in Tortuga, or for helping aboard a ship, or for even moving around with any sort of general ease. ” She smirked back playfully. “And vaguely-piratical seems to work well enough for you.”
James nodded, smiling. “I am sure that we can find something.”
Previous || Story Index || Next
Pairing: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-ish for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary:Consider this a re-imagining of the events of DMC and AWE, wherein not only have Jack Sparrow and James Norrington achieved some level of wary camaraderie, but Calypso has struck a deal with Norrington over a pretty little gold ship--and all that even before James takes the admiral of the fleet hostage at gunpoint, thus ending his naval career on a rather spectacular note.
Chapter Five
Then, of course, a great number of things happened within a narrow span of time.
Jack Sparrow escaped from the prison he had broken into and the fruit of his labors seemed to be merely the imprint of an important key. He was soon after met and warned in a creepy fashion by Bootstrap Bill Turner, received the black spot, lost his hat, and summarily beached the Black Pearl on a cannibal island to avoid the kracken
Beckett stormed into Port Royal with threats to arrest the governor’s daughter and her fiancee` for aiding and abetting the known criminals ex-commodore James Norrington and Captain Jack Sparrow, only to make a deal with William Turner to exchange a full pardon and Letters of Marque for Captain Sparrow’s compass, and Captain James L. Norrington found himself being chased around the caribbean by what seemed to be half of the Royal Navy’s fleet, led by a particularly furious Admiral of the fleet.
When William had asked Beckett upon what evidence he based the charges of collusion with Norrington (for the man had escaped Port Royal with no help from the governor or the lovebirds) Beckett handed William a letter, written by the ex-commodore, who apologized for his inability to make it to the wedding due to what was cheekily referred to in the letter as ‘business with the Admiral’; and that was true, as the Admiral had made it his personal mission to crush Norrington into a bloody, splintery pulp--if only he could catch the bastard, whose ship the Gold Hawk seemed to be second only to the Black Pearl for sheer speed, and second to none for agility and maneuvering. Will and Elizabeth had not received the letter before, because Beckett had intercepted it. William gave it to Elizabeth as an afterthought, after explaining that he would track down Jack Sparrow and retrieve the pirate captain’s compass.
It took him some time, but Norrington was eventually able to out-maneuver the Admiral’s pretty little boats by weaving through a few particularly tricky archipelagos, and--out of spite and an almost playful sense of revenge he had never felt before--he headed for Port Royal, at about the same time that William Turner (who had found the cannibal island and escaped it with the remains of the Black Pearl’s crew and their captain) was far away being traded to Davy Jones by a wily Jack Sparrow stalling for time.
Concealing the Gold Hawk some distance away at dusk, Norrington then crept towards the town proper, but stopped along the way when he noticed some rather nasty happenings near the docks. He hid in the shadows and listened. Upon overhearing the orders being given out by Beckett’s right-hand-man, Norrington quickly came up with a few new plans and hurried up along the road.
The governor was trying to save Elizabeth, but he had already been thwarted by Beckett.
James was smiling slightly as he ran. Time to thwart Beckett.
The governor’s carriage was moving as fast as it could, but the paths it took over cobblestones made a lot more noise than the governor was wholly comfortable with, and so while he moved faster than normal and made a bit of a racket, he was not exactly flying at top speed or any such thing.
Norrington, watching from the side of the road where he was concealed by a few large and leafy palms that seemed to be more like bushes than trees, found the noise and speed of the carriage to be perfectly satisfactory for his own purposes. He caught the governor’s carriage as it went by, sprinting until he was close enough behind it to jump up and grab at either side of the carriage roof as he found a narrow edge to plant his feet upon.
He managed this capture just before the carriage headed downhill, so that his added weight would not be noticed by the horses straining and slowing, and so that the governor would bee too focused on the horses to risk glancing behind him as Norrington leaned around the side of the carriage. The ragged sounds of wheels and hooves on cobbles covered the sound of his opening the carriage door (which had been cleverly rigged not to open from the inside) thus revealing a flustered Elizabeth Swann, who had already been preparing to jump. She startled to see James, not quite recognizing him at first, but he merely jerked his head to indicate for her to jump away, and gestured awkwardly with one hand to indicate that she needed to roll when she landed. Her brows furrowed in confusion as recognition finally struck once she saw the commanding look on his face, but Elizabeth still managed to nod in regards to his silent instruction and leap out of the carriage. James caught the door and shut it almost-quietly before jumping backwards off the carriage himself. He did not roll, since he landed on the unforgiving cobblestones instead of the softer vegetation on the side of the path; however, he made up for it by bending his knees and landing in a low crouch like a cat, with his weight spread out on his hands as well as his feet. It stung, and in James’ opinion it looked ridiculous, but was still far better than breaking a kneecap.
After a momentary pause, watching the governor vanish around a bend in the path, James stood up, straightened his hat, and walked back to help Elizabeth detach her skirt from a rather thorny-looking plant. Not bothering with a formal greeting, he said simply, “Beckett’s men are at the docks waiting to capture you and your father. I would advise that we leave post-haste.”
“To Beckett’s office, first. Lend me your pistol, James.” Elizabeth’s tone was harsh.
James’ eyebrows raised. “Oh, good. I was already planning to head there myself.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
With the ghost of a smirk, Norrington opened the bag he carried over his shoulder, showing her the Admiral’s hat and wig inside. “I have a gift for him.” He then closed the bag and dragged Elizabeth into the shadows as she giggled helplessly.
“Oh, God, James, I can’t believe-”
“Shhh, quiet for now, Mrs. Turner.”
She coughed, startled, then said more quietly, “You... didn’t hear, then.”
James looked over his shoulder, not slowing their pace or raising the volume of his voice, but Elizabeth could read the dismay in his pale green eyes. “Oh. No, what happened?”
“He arrested us both the day before the wedding. For aiding and abetting both you and Captain Jack Sparrow.”
James took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, edging it with a slight growl. “Beckett...” Then he shook his head. “Neither of you had any part in my escape-”
“Yes, but you haven’t sent anyone else any apology letters, James,” she said quietly, with a soft, sad smile. “I did appreciate it, though. It was quite funny, I thought.”
That stopped him dead in his tracks for a moment and he stared at the ground. “I... I’m terribly sorry, Elizabeth. I should never have underestimated Beckett; I should have known that he would accuse-”
“James, stop,” she said, raising a hand to emphasize her point. “He’s got us pinned with helping Jack already, he would have found any way to make some variety of charges against us. It’s not your fault.” She rested a hand on his shoulder and seemed momentarily disconcerted by the lack of brocade. For the first time since his escape from Port Royal, she actually looked him over. Her eyes grew very wide. “My God, James, you’ve practically turned pirate! I’m no longer sure how I even recognized you, before.”
“A rogue is a rogue, Elizabeth, but a rogue is not necessarily a pirate; I have not yet been that drastically altered.” He held her gaze for a moment as he graced her with a soft smile. Then he handed over his pistol, his smirk widening into something a bit more predatory, and they both continued toward Beckett’s office.
The wigged and authoritative little man, Lord Cutler Beckett, walked into his office, with his lantern in one hand as he read a letter held in the other. Absently, he leaned over his desk...and noticed something amiss. He opened the small wooden EITC box on the corner of his desk. A moment of confusion, then realized what was missing. He slowly closed the box.
“No doubt you have noticed that loyalty is no longer the currency of the realm, as your father believes,” said Beckett loudly, so that the woman he knew to be lurking nearby would hear it. He heard her slow, deliberate footsteps.
“Then what is?” Elizabeth asked, as she emerged from the shadows.
He turned to face her. “I’m afraid that currency is the currency of the realm.”
“I expect then that we can come to some sort of understanding,” she said, approaching with her hands held almost innocently behind her back. Then she came to a stop and added, “I’m here to negotiate.”
“I’m listening,” Beckett said, stepping towards her, perhaps too close.
Ka-click.
Elizabeth pointed Norrington’s pistol at him, holding it just a few inches from his brow.
Beckett hesitated for just a moment, and rephrased: “I’m listening--intently.”
As Norrington walked through the room behind Beckett, his bare feet silent on the floor, he glanced at Elizabeth, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk as he was reminded precisely why he had fallen in love with her before; with her intent focus on Beckett allowing her to display the ferocity she so rarely ever had an opportunity to use, she was terribly fiery, capable and beautiful.
Elizabeth did not glance at James, because he had drilled it into her that she was not to acknowledge him until Beckett did. She focused on the small man that she was pointing her pistol at, and raised the small leather packet, containing the oh-so-important little sheaf of papers, for him to see. “These letters of Marque, they are signed by the King.”
“Yes, and they are not valid until they bear my signature and my seal,” Beckett said, as Norrington took the opportunity to place the Admiral’s hat and wig, the former placed with precision on top of the latter, on Beckett’s desk. The ex-commodore then quickly moved aside until he was out of Elizabeth’s way and out of Beckett’s sight.
Elizabeth momentarily lowered her pistol. “Or else I would not still be here.” Then she smirked; aware of, but not looking at, the moving form of James Norrington as the ex-commodore made his way quietly into his chosen corner near the doorway and put his boots back on. Elizabeth focused on Beckett. “You sent Will to go get the compass owned by Jack Sparrow.” She shook her head ever so slightly. “It will do you no good.”
“Do explain.”
“I have been to the Isla de Muerta, I have seen the treasure myself,” Elizabeth all but growled. Then that little bit of almost-amusement touched her features again. “There is something that you need to know.”
But now, Beckett, too, was amused. “Ah, I see,” he said airily. “You think that the compass leads only to the Isla de Muerta, and so you hope to save me from an evil fate, but you musn’t worry.” He stepped away from her, followed by her pistol as he faced his map on the wall. “I care not for cursed Aztec gold; my desires are not so provincial.” He turned to face her again. “There’s more than once chest of value in these waters.” He approached her slowly, attempting to intimidate. “So perhaps you might wish to enhance your offer.”
Norrington stifled a growl, but need not have worried, because Elizabeth chose that moment to press the muzzle of the gun to Beckett’s adam’s apple and pull the hammer back with an ominous metallic clack. Norrington grinned at the sight. So intense was Beckett’s focus on Elizabeth and her gun and the effort to maintain his composure in the face of both, that even when he was almost facing the corner that Norrington currently occupied, Beckett did not see the man hidden there in the shadows.
Elizabeth led Beckett back toward the desk, speaking through gritted teeth as she added, “Consider into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding night.” Then she pressed the letters of Marque to his chest insistently.
Now not looking at her, or toward the open doors, Beckett momentarily allowed a show of disappointed irritation to cross his features; he had underestimated his target, and he knew it. “So I did,” he acquiesced, setting the letters down and looking for his pen, only to stop as he noted something sitting in the very middle of his desk that had not been there before, and the sight of it cause his previously quiet and smooth breathing to stutter for a moment; it was the hat and wig of the Admiral, whose loyalty he had purchased and who had then lost him James Norrington the pirate hunter: a poor investment, indeed.
Elizabeth glanced at the hat, and repressed her urge to smile. “Is something wrong, Lord Beckett?” she asked quietly.
Beckett exhaled loudly through his teeth in a hiss. “Where is he?” His voice was less smooth.
“Close at hand, Beckett,” Norrington said from his corner. “Like any good weapon.”
Beckett flinched, his head jerking up to stare in the direction of that voice. He could make out the shape, halfway engulfed in shadows, of a plumed tricorne hat hiding the face of a very un-commodore-like-figure, standing and leaning nonchalant against the corner beside the open doors Beckett had entered through. Somehow, although he could not see it, Beckett could tell that Norrington was smiling, and that it was a very unkind smile.
Elizabeth nudged Beckett’s jaw with the pistol again, and the man reluctantly looked at her, then at the letters of mark.
Very grudgingly, he put them on his desk and signed them in his slow, deliberate hand. “A marriage interrupted,” he said, sounding distinctly more ruffled than before. “Or fate intervenes.” He melted the tip of a dark red stick of wax, dripped it on the page, and pressed into it his seal. He glared at Norrington, but then met Elizabeth’s gaze. “You’re putting in a lot of effort to ensure Jack Sparrow’s freedom.”
“These aren’t going to Jack,” she insisted, perhaps a bit sharply as she went to tug the papers from Beckett’s fingers.
He held fast. “Oh really?” he inquired. “To ensure Mr. Turner’s, freedom, then.” He almost made that sound like a question, too. This time he shot a glance at Norrington archly and then looked again at Elizabeth, openly curious. Before the ex-commodore could interrupt, Beckett said slowly, “I’ll still want that compass; consider that in your calculations.”
“That will be enough, Lord Beckett,” Norrington said curtly.
Beckett met the other man’s gaze sharply, but gently let go of the letters, not glancing at Elizabeth as she backed away, still aiming the pistol at him. “And what part are you, then, in this story, Mr. Norrington? Her bodyguard for the evening? Or are you, too, interested in seeking clemency? I wonder, indeed,” Beckett mused, glancing briefly but significantly at Elizabeth, the suggestion clear.
“That would be Captain Norrington,” James said, smirking for a brief moment, recalling a certain pirate, but it faded quickly back into solemn, cold hatred as he continued, “And I was just passing through to deliver to you my gift, and to warn you that your Admiral cannot catch me even when he chases me with more than half of his fleet, most of which is, I believe, still wandering about near Cuba in state of some confusion. You will receive letters from them to that effect soon enough, I am sure. As far as my dealings with Miss Swann: I decided to capture her before your men did, in order to further spite you. She is my prisoner.” He said it to dissuade further laws broken on Elizabeth’s perhaps, and he could see her struggle to to laugh, which told him that she understood, but found the idea a bit hilarious.
“And you gave her your pistol. Interesting,” Beckett murmured.
“Unloaded, yes,” James lied.
Beckett’s face colored slightly and his patience suddenly failed him. “What. Do. You. Want? Captain. Norrington.”
Stepping into the moonlight to stand beside Elizabeth, James gently took the pistol from her hand, nodding at her politely, and then aimed it at Beckett’s lantern where it sat on the desk. He fired. The lantern burst, sending glass and embers flying. With a yell, Beckett made an all-too-well-timed leap away from it and was not hurt, but still managed to end up with one sleeve partially on fire. He patted it out quickly, with a noise almost like a growl. Then he glared at James with half-mad fury as the acrid smells of burning wig and burning paper and burning varnish filled the room.
James reached into his coat and pulled out another pistol, cocking it and aiming it at Beckett before he could get any ideas about stalling them. The ex-commodore’s voice was as hard and flat and cool as his sword-blade when he said, “I want you and your more abhorrent practices out of the whole of the caribbean, Beckett. And at least one of my important associates also wants you to leave the empty places on that map of yours, instead of trying to claim them, or chase after them with, I assume, a certain stolen compass.” He and Elizabeth were backing away now, as faint shouts came from down the hall in Beckett’s building. Guards were coming. Norrington’s green eyes almost glowed in the moonlight and his upper lip curled enough to show his teeth. “Mostly, I want you to know that these waters are not safe for snakes like you--not anymore.” Then the pair of them vanished from sight.
As soon as they did, Beckett yanked open one of his desk drawers, fury making him heedless of the slowy spreading blaze on the top of the desk as he his pistol and rushed out the door, but when he emerged into the warm night, there was no sign of either the ex-commodore or Elizabeth Swann. Two seconds later, a pair of guards burst into the room behind him. One shouted to ask if Lord Beckett was alright and approached him, the other went about smothering the patches of flame from the broken lantern, which now threatened to engulf the entire surface of Beckett’s desk.
His gaze still scanning the scenery for any hint of his attackers, Beckett turned his head and ordered the nearest guard, “Search the grounds. Every inch of them. We’re looking for a certain ex-commodore and the governor’s daughter. Go!”
They ran as though all the hounds of Hell dogged their heels.
“Why didn’t you just shoot him?”
“Because he is the head of the hydra, and if I were to cut off that head, now, two more would grow in its place, thus speeding the progress of his corrupt practices,” James panted. “I’m still working out a way to prevent that. I need the equivalent of a metaphorical firebrand with which to cauterize, but such a thing has proven rather elusive thusfar.”
“Ah...now I remember why I never play chess with you,” Elizabeth mocked. “Bloody mad strategist that you are.”
James managed a breathless laugh.
Elizabeth pulled up her skirts, bunching them in her hands so that she could respectably keep up with James’ impressive pace as they ran out past the edge of Beckett’s property, but avoiding the road. When Elizabeth’s feet slipped on the unforgiving terrain because of her equally unforgiving formal shoes, she gave a startled squeak not from the fall, but rather because of James; he caught her, tucked his shoulder under her waist, and lifted her in one smooth and efficient movement. Then he kept running, carrying her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Blushing furiously, she cleared her throat and said, “Thank you, James.”
“Not a problem, Elizabeth.”
Had he always been this strong? Elizabeth wondered. No, not since she was much younger and he had done far more hands-on work aboard naval ships would she have guessed that he would possess this easy sort of strength. Whatever he had been doing since his escape from Port Royal before, it had taken some years off him even as it had made his appearance a bit piratical. His body seemed leaner, but more solid, and even through the wholly unfamiliar three-days’ growth of beard he currently wore, Elizabeth had seen how his jawline had sharpened and a certain amount of softness had left his features, removing the image of fine-living and finery, making him look more spartan and predatory. The only remaining traces of nobility and military left in his appearance were his bearing, the stolid demeanor of his facial expressions and even his most casual gestures, and the cleanness of his clothing as well as the inexplicable formality of the way he wore them.
And the man kept running for nearly a mile, still carrying her, before he finally slowed to a halt and set her down so that he could catch his breath. Panting hard, James leaned against a tree to collect himself. “There’s a longboat, not too far...hidden on the other side of the docks.”
Elizabeth stood and stared at him, once more taking in his appearance, but more slowly and thoroughly this time: a surprisingly clean warm gray frock coat with gold-green buttons, a brown leather waistcoat, his navy shirt beneath all of it and looking more ragged than usual with much of its lace torn away by now, while his legs were encased in a pair of battered-looking gray breeches and a tall pair of sturdy leather boots. He had his sword at his side and his pistol tucked away in the inner pocket of his coat. He wore no cravat, and his hat might once have been Navy, but now seemed to brazenly mock those origins, especially with those feathers.
“James Norrington, what has the world done to you?” she asked in amazement.
James stared back at her for a moment, seeming momentarily confused, then he grinned widely, and with perhaps more openness and sincerity than Elizabeth had ever seen from him before. “Quite a bit, Miss Swann, and I have taken my licks, but I assure you that I plan to continue kicking.”
“Apparently.” She shook her head, slightly shocked at how charming that smile was on him. “And I prefer Elizabeth, thank you very much, James.”
He tipped his hat to her slightly. “As you wish.” He seemed to have caught his breath. “Now, shall we move on?”
“Yes, I think so. Do you think anyone aboard your ship could lend me some more...practical clothing?”
“Practical or piratical?” He shot her a faint smirk.
“Yes, actually. This dress is not exactly good for going unnoticed in Tortuga, or for helping aboard a ship, or for even moving around with any sort of general ease. ” She smirked back playfully. “And vaguely-piratical seems to work well enough for you.”
James nodded, smiling. “I am sure that we can find something.”
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