The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 11
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 again for now
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.
Summary: Gillette gets taken prisoner. James gets concussed. Jack Sparrow is deeply unsettled in a less-that-funny way. Important plot-related things happen.
Chapter Eleven
Captain Gillette looked up when the brig door creaked open. He gaped.
Some of this was truly not James’ fault; he usually made a point to keep his clothes neat, clean-looking and orderly enough, making him look more like a roguish and heavily armed merchant of some standing, rather than a pirate, but today his uniform had suffered battle and rough handling as well as a bit of ravishment; and so James looked...distinctly more pirate than he would usually allow himself. Seeing the look on Gillette’s face, James supposed that he should regret this, but found instead that he was quite amused.
Andrew Gillette had known James Norrington for several years, but the man before him was a stranger: with a neatly-trimmed beard along his jawline and chin, long brown hair tied back too-casually so that a few strands had come loose and were thus tucked behind one ear, his formerly pale face now lightly browned with sun so that by contrast the man’s pale sea-green eyes almost seemed to glow in the lamp-light, and that garb...Gillette could not find it in himself to compare what the now-captain now wore to the crisp brocaded uniform that the proper Commodore James Norrington had once worn.
And this toughened green-eyed man who entered the brig was smiling, sincere amusement and good humor at the edge of his casually predatory expression. He had a faint glow of health and...something else...about him. That excess glow confused Gillette somewhat; the only thing he could compare it to was the hum of energy and satisfaction that Norrington had sometimes radiated after a particularly good sword-fight, but this was less vicious somehow, for all that it seemed equally smug.
This was James Norrington come to life; he had shed his Naval uniform like a ashes after his high rank had been set aflame. Gillette had never thought that a phoenix would look like...well, a piratically roguish hawk.
“James?” he asked tentatively.
“Hello, Andrew. I should have guessed that if Theodore were to take anyone prisoner, it would be you.” James’ greeting smiled held no small hint of bitterness as he shut the door behind him gently. The brig had two wooden benches, one on either side of the door. James sat across from Gillette. “I suppose he’s already spent an hour or so trying to make you see the light about the Navy, to no avail,” he mused.
“Indeed he did,” Gillette admitted, looking mournful and exasperated at the same time as he glanced at something in the middle-distance. He shook it off easily and again met the cool gaze of his former commander. “You look...” Gillette swallowed around a lump in his throat that might have been from disgust and horror as much as sheer nerves. “You seem to be well, James--all things considered.”
Like propriety and suddenly very-nearly-piratical fashion sense, James mentally added. Andrew Gillette was an easy-to-read man, and all too familiar to James, like many other parts of the Navy: parts he had once cared for or even loved, as he had loved the Dauntless, but which he now felt sadly and reluctantly disappointed in. The solemnity of his thoughts showed in his expression as he replied, “As do you, Captain. I’m afraid that the lovely Anamaria has stolen your ship; however, considering her attitude toward the Navy, things could be worse.” He cleared his throat slightly. “In return for the ship itself, she plans to unload the rest of your ship’s inhabitants, including Studson and his family, at a respectable port in the dark before dawn. No ransoms required.”
Gillette nodded, feeling suddenly ill. “I see. She did seem...particularly vicious.”
“She can be,” James murmured, in the same way that he would admit a defect of his own men: in a tone that suggested a number of redeeming qualities existed, too. “But I was able to persuade her against killing any of the Navy-men aboard. It was the least that I could do, knowing there was no way to stop the others from being taken by Davy Jones’ crew.” He lowered his gaze to the brig floor for a moment in a look of grief, before fixing it again on his former Lieutenant.
Gulping audibly, Gillette put his face in one hand, not bothering to adjust his hat when it fell to cover his eyes. “I saw them. From the ship. I saw those--those creatures come out of the water. By the time I turned around, that lady-pirate had her pistol aimed at my face as Ted shouted ‘everyone stay calm; we are taking over the ship.’” He exhaled slowly, but gave a very bitter half-smile, glancing up at James. “What is it about Sparrow that attracts these things? Undead pirates, curses, and apparently--you called them Davy Jones’ crew? The Davy Jones? As in ‘the locker of’ in reference to the bottom of the sea?”
James nodded ruefully. “Captain Jones is much like his men; although he resembles an octopus more than the others.”
Gillette groaned and hid his face in both hands. “My God. And Beckett wants to involve us in this? He wants whatever Sparrow is after that those...fish things--he sent us after a chest of some kind. Why? Why, James?”
“In order to kill hundreds of decent men, further his company’s interests, and fill in all of the blank places on his map by capturing and controlling powers greater than those any single man was meant to have.” At Gillette’s pleading look, James sighed. “In that chest he was so intent upon getting, was the heart of Davy Jones, who himself controls the sea, usually to the favor of pirates because he was once a pirate himself. He is also a formidable fighting force and can send a giant sea creature, the Kraken, after people at will. Beckett wants to use the heart in order to seize control of Jones, and thus the whole of the sea.”
Gillette’s eyes widened, then he nodded slowly. “He would destroy all of the pirates. And seize control of all trade.”
There was a hint of something in Gillette’s tone that James did not like: anticipation. “Yes.” He did not plan on informing the man any further.
But he asked, “Did you--does Sparrow have the heart?” and he sounded so panicked.
“No. No he does not,” James said quietly.
Gillette relaxed and leaned back against the bars behind him. “Oh thank God.” Then he looked all too intently at James’ face, and the ex-commodore was reminded that this man had known him for a decade. “You...you have it, don’t you? Because you don’t trust-”
“I do trust Captain Sparrow, Gillette, or else I would not be sailing with him,” James said softly, but with a sharp edge, like a gentle caress across the throat from the flat of a knife-blade. “I trust him a far sight more than I would ever trust Lord Cutler Beckett.”
Gillette’s gaze darkened. “Ah. I...see.”
James sighed and shook his head, looking at the floor again. “No, Andrew, I am afraid that you do not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and inhaled slowly. After holding it for a moment, he exhaled slowly an deliberately, showing a hint of exasperation. Composed once more, he lowered his hand and met Gillete’s gaze. His voice was calm, almost kind, and his expression inscrutable. “Once we have made our planned trip up-river, I shall see to arranging either: a trip home for you with a merchant vessel wherein those aboard will hear how you washed up on the beach along with the wreckage of your ship, which will be reported as destroyed instead of stolen--I have seen to that, and Anamaria will see to it that the ship becomes unrecognizable--or, if you prefer, I can ransom you, claiming either that I found you in a similar manner or that it way I myself who destroyed your ship. Either one should protect your reputation. Captain.”
Andrew Gillette swallowed convulsively at the flintiness of Norrington’s stare. “Thank you, Captain Norrington. The merchant vessel should do nicely.”
For a few lingering moments, James stared at his old friend, and tried to think of some way, any way, to remove the man’s deliberately-installed blinders; however, he came up with no clever plans, this time, and finally shook his head, looking away from Gillette. “I am sorry, Andrew.”
The other man gave a half-hysterical laugh. “For what, James? For turning pirate? For abandoning the Navy? Or for taking me prisoner while my men on shore died at the hands of-”
“Gillette,” James barked sharply, and the other man fell quiet. The ex-commodore’s sea-green eyes were alight with fury and a hint of pain. “I am no pirate, and for all that I am a rogue, I am an honorable one, if you can get that concept through your thick, wig-insulated skull; I only abandoned the Navy when it became clear enough to me that it would no longer allow me to keep my men safe because those more powerful than myself could command me to sail them into a damned hurricane in order to go after one of the least reprehensible pirates in the whole of the Spanish Main; and pardon me for assuming that you might be a good enough captain to follow your men into battle and protect them yourself if only by being there to tell them when to retreat with haste, instead of leaving your green-horn lieutenants to freeze up and react with fear rather than reason in the face of horrors that they were unprepared for, but which you, having fought at the Isla de Muerta, would have been better capable of coping with. Captain. Gillette.”
The British Royal Navy’s Captain Andrew Gillette had paled until his face was whiter than his cravat. Never before had he seen Norrington quite this enraged; even when he had defected and taken the Admiral hostage, James had carefully contained his anger, if only in order to save lives. It occurred to Gillette that his own life was currently the only one at stake, and that if James thought that killing him would save the lives of a number of good Navy men, that James would then kill him. He wisely kept his mouth shut, not giving voice to the many denials or the excuses that he wanted to shout; Gillette’s survival instincts were strong, and they urged him, very wisely, to remain silent instead of provoking Norrington further.
James took a slow, deep breath, and the scorching heat of his rage was carefully banked until it no longer resembled an inferno, but still gave off enough light to provide a warning. “Before your little bout of slanderous accusations, I was apologizing for my inability to show you the world as I see it, because I cannot open your mind for you, especially when you willingly keep yourself closed-off and blind to it. Goodnight, Captain Gillette. I will, in all likelihood, speak with you again tomorrow. If not, I am sure that Theodore will, and that he will be capable of kinder words than I.” And then the ex-commodore made his exit, locking the door behind him and making his way to his cabin to fetch himself a small bottle of fine rum.
Rum obtained, James climbed the main mast and settled himself atop the highest perch he could find, wrapping one arm around the mast and leaning on it for support. He scarcely felt the jolts of pain from his flesh-wound, still full of justified ire as he was. He would not sleep tonight; he could feel the way that his mind was racing, and knew it would not rest until at least tomorrow night, with its current momentum.
Lifting his bottle of rum to his lips, James stared out over the horizon as his ship kept pace with theBlack Pearl. Both crafts moved too fast for any other ship in the caribbean to catch them, albeit still just shy of the Black Pearl’s top speed. The wind felt fine on James’ face as the sun neared the horizon. Within two hours, it would be sunset.
There was a beating heart in the pocket of his coat, it smelled of salted meat, and tomorrow he would use it to make a deal with Jones. It could also, if James chose to stab it, make him immortal.
Idly, James wondered if immortality might mean never requiring sleep. He wondered if life would become like his insomniac nights, wherein two or three cycles of alternating sunlight and starlight extended into one singularly long day, which tended to seem oddly blurred in retrospect. Perhaps, James reasoned, he would merely have to keep his humanity by sleeping and eating, loving and living, to keep the world from sliding into something alien and distant. Assuming he could find some means of achieving immortality that did not require him to spend ten years at a time on a ship ferrying the souls of the dead, with only one day’s reprieve in between each time.
Then, of course, he laughed softly at himself for being so foolish. It was difficult enough for his rational mind to accept the idea of immortality. Then again...
He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his sword. He had impaled Davy Jones upon it, and look how that had turned out. Immortality was hardly an abstract concept in such a situation as his current one. Whether or not it could be discovered without such a hindering contract involved...that remained to be seen; yet, it seemed more possible, in this strange and irrational world that he now traveled the water of.
The Immortal Captain James Norrington, James mused, swallowing a few more mouthfuls of rum.
An interesting thought.
James sighed and shook his head at his own fancy, a wry expression on his face as he realized quite how Sparrowish that last thought had sounded. Perhaps I am becoming increasingly piratical. Again, he laughed softly to himself.
Shortly after his escape from capture and slavery at the hands of the Spanish, his recovery, and his wreaking of justified vengeance, the young then-second-lieutenant James Norrington had begun taking measures to keep himself and his men safer. He learned to pick locks, and taught many of his men, those he worked with more closely, to do so as well. He taught them to sew a few handy little lock-picking tools into the hems of their clothing where the items would be least likely to be discovered. His relief had been infinite when it had saved the life of one of his long-time friends, the then-midshipman Theodore Groves.
When now-ex-commodore Norrington took the late night-watch and stood in at the helm, he was thinking about dozens of things relating to a number of subjects: his life, his future, his ship, Calypso, and the bizarre feeling of the still-beating heart in his coat pocket.
One thought that did not occur to him was, that while Andrew Gillette had not been the most adept or skilled lock-picking pupil, he had learned enough to, after a number of failed attempts of course, eventually get free of the brig below-deck on the Gold Hawk after he had plucked the necessary tools from the hem at the waistline of his breeches.
Thus, the abrupt removal of his hat and then the loud crash as Gillette smashed a half-empty bottle of rum over his head caught James Norrington very much by surprise. Just before he lost consciousness, he figured out exactly what had happened and slurred, “Dammit, ‘Drew, you half-French whoreson devil.” Then his world went quiet and filled with colorful writhing shapes lighting up against the dark backdrop of his eyelids. When alarms went up on the Black Pearl some minutes later, as the other ship’s watch spotted James’ prone figure, they sounded very hollow and distant, as though James heard them from outside his body. Then heat and awareness seemed to flood back through him, starting with the searing pain in his head and rushing downwards through the rest of his body, moving at roughly the speed of oozing tar, and leaving a similarly bad taste in his mouth. His skin felt prickly.
Then he remembered his name and where he was and everything else he could possibly remember, and his senses came back with a sickening thud, and James groaned, one hand clutching at the deck weakly to try and stop it from spinning so much, but it seemed to be slowing. He could hear better now.
“James! James!” That was Groves. His voice sounded a little closer. So did the thudding footsteps, which made the throbbing in his head worsen--two people approaching. Was one of them staggering? Someone cursed in Portuguese, but he sounded relieved about it: not one of James’ own men, surely.
With herculean effort, James opened one eye as the footsteps came to a halt. He was met with the sight of a very pale-faced Theodore Groves, who knelt beside him, looking hesitant to touch anything. Over his first mate’s shoulder hovered a curious and concerned-looking Jack Sparrow. “What are you doing down there, James?” he asked somberly, but there was something in his look that was akin to anger or fear, well-masked.
James grimaced and felt the all-too-familiar sensation of drying blood on his face. He licked at the corner of his mouth and tasted some of it, finding it to be a little fresher than he had expected. “Bleeding, apparently,” he retorted. Reaching up and gripping Groves’ un-scarred shoulder, he pulled himself up into a sitting position with a low hiss of pain, and added, “I am also regretting a few particular examples of my past thoughtfulness and generosity, as they would seem to have been bestowed upon a damnable wretch.” To assess the damage, he raised a hand to his head and prodded here and there gently, wincing only once. He discovered only one source of bleeding: a large cut beginning at two inches behind his hairline and reaching down halfway to his eyebrow--due to the broken glass post-impact, surely. Otherwise, the impact of the bottle had not caused anything more severe than the concussion that James identified by recognizing the also-too-familiar black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.
Jack spoke again: “Welcome to the life of rogues, love. Your prisoner, then?”
“Yes.” Norrington started position himself to attempt standing, but then abruptly stilled as a look of cold realization crossed his features. His hand slammed over his coat pocket, which sagged empty against his chest. Clutching at the empty fabric, James voiced a number of foul, creative and slightly disturbing strings of curses in mixed French, English, Spanish, and a surprising hint of Gaelic.
Groves’ face turned a funny color.
Jack was impressed, but the look on James’ face made everything seem suddenly less funny. “No,” Jack warned, as if scolding. “No. Don’t say it, James, mate. Don’t you dare tell me-”
James interrupted him. “Gillette took the heart.”
Jack seemed to puff up with rage for a moment, snarling, then abruptly smoothed down his metaphorical feathers and began pacing, all the time muttering curses in a few more languages than James had used, but their meanings were roughly the same--except, of course, the one in a Chinese dialect which meant ‘may he live in interesting times.’
“He’s stolen a longboat, hasn’t he?” James hissed through gritted teeth, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.
Groves helped him, offering his forearm for leverage, which his captain gratefully accepted. “Yes. I’m sorry that I forgot his lock-picking abilities, Captain.”
“We both did, Theo. As I was his teacher in this matter, I shoulder more responsibility than you do.” James wrapped one hand around a helm-spoke and felt a sympathetic hum from the ship; it helped to clear his head somewhat. He leaned his weight against the wheel.
“You what?” Jack barked.
“It was after my experiences with the Spanish, Jack; I did not want my men to suffer the same fate if it could be avoided and so I taught lock-picking to a large number of men. Gillette was actually one of the least skilled practitioners I have ever taught, which is, I am sure, part of why it failed to occur to me that he might-”
“Escape. Of course.” With a ragged sigh through his teeth, Jack cursed a few more times, but his demeanor seemed unusually still, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides instead of gesticulating wildly. He was holding something back. Still gritting his teeth, he said, “We don’t have long, then. Jones will be on our tails soon, and we didn’t gain enough distance while we were weighed down by that bloody EITC ship Anamaria insisted on keeping.” Jack’s fists were almost shaking. “He’ll catch up with us ‘fore we reach land.”
“Then we fight, Jack,” James said softly, but with firm conviction. “As this is my mistake, I will guard you and your ship with my life. I’m sure that I can draw off Jones’ ship, and if you can at least temporarily beach the Black Pearl, then the Kraken will not be an issue, either. Perhaps your Tia Dalma woman can come up with a way to be rid of it whilst I find myself a way to escape Jones.” He smirked. “Perhaps by leading him straight into half of the Admiral’s fleet, assuming they are still anywhere near their previous course.”
Jack raised his eyebrows a bit, his rage momentarily pierced by a slightly lusty jolt of respect for James’ impromptu plan. The younger man had clearly well-learned the lessons of beneficial chaos.
Then Groves brought the darker mood back, clearing his throat and trying to ask, “Captain, you’re concussed, are y-”
“You know for a fact that I’ve had worse, Theodore,” James countered gravely, with a reproachful glare. “You were there to see what I was still capable of even then.”
Groves fell quiet, but the way he glanced at his captain’s wrists was explanation enough.
James ignored it, and continued, “And then, Jack, I will need to borrow your compass in order to track down Captain Andrew Gillette.” His sea-green gaze fixed on Jack, and the pirate almost shivered at what he could read in it.
His own anger feeling rather humbled by the near-inferno blazing in James’ eyes, Jack felt himself hesitate for a moment before he nodded. “We have an accord, James.”
“Good. Now, Groves, rouse the dawn-shift men and set them about preparations for some less-than-smooth sailing; also, send two of them to the galley to prepare food and make use of the coffee stores; we’ll need the strength and the energy.”
“Yes, Captain.” Off he went.
Still leaning against the helm so that he would not either fall over or sway about like Jack, James again touched the side of his face, frowning at the tackiness he felt there from the drying mixture of blood and rum.
Jack approached him, and pulled a rum-flask from his coat. The pirate tugged the handkerchief from the ex-commodore’s pocket, cutting off James’ intended objection to drinking while concussed by making it clear that drinking was not actually the intent. Jack soaked the cloth in rum from the flask and reached up to clean the blood from James’ face, earning a sigh from the injured man as he leaned into the touch.
“Thank you,” James said quietly. Then the cloth, finished wiping away the excess blood on his cheek, brow, and chin, began to cleanse along the edges of his wound, making him wince; the alcohol burned as the first drops of it met with cut flesh.
“You’re still not going to be living this one down,” Jack muttered.
“Not even when Gillette is dead?”
Jack considered this, soaking the kerchief with more rum and cleansing the wound directly. His touch was not quite gentle, but it cleaned as thoroughly as the situation would allow. “Mayhap,” he said, steely at first, but then he snorted and shook his head, his tension easing a little. “Most likely, love, but it’s still stormy weather for now, an likely for a while yet. You did just admit to teaching the bastard how to get away with such as this.” A flicker of anger crossed his features again as he glanced at James’ eyes again, meeting the other man’s gaze before focusing again on the wound; it had stopped bleeding, at least. “This is two flesh-wounds in one day, plus a head injury.”
James bowed his head, both to make the cleaning easier and to accept his share of guilt. “He was once a very good friend. A loyal man. Over the years, I’ve entrusted my life to him...more times than I can count.”
Jack sighed, sounding older than James had ever heard the pirate captain sound, as he said, “Aye. I know how that goes, Jamie. Took me ten years to get the Pearl back when I learned a similar lesson from a man named Barbossa.”
James exhaled, relieved. He relaxed further when he felt Jack’s fingers brushing the bits of broken glass from his hair.
“You also gave me a right scare for a bit, there, mate. You looked dead when I first spotted you, and even more so when I finally swung aboard. The spilled rum made it look like there was a lot more blood than there actually was.” Something about Jack’s voice was a little too contained, almost stilted when he said the words ‘dead’ and ‘blood’, and it made James feel a fresh flare of guilt, but also...something rather warmer.
James shut his eyes, feeling oddly comforted. “Please accept my apologies, Jack.”
Jack emptied his flask into the kerchief, which was now soaked and stained almost wholly blood-red. He cleaned the wound once more, his fingers more gentle this time as the rum burned more sharply; his other hand, however, pocketed the flask and then settled on the back of James’ neck, clutching slightly, his thumb stroking the line of the ex-commodore’s throat. The possessive gesture seemed to help the pirate calm himself. Quietly, Jack demanded, “Just try to avoid doing anything quite that stupid again, ay, love?”
The warm, inexplicably comforting feeling increased. If he had been capable of it, the ex-commodore would have purred a little. James rested a hand over Jack’s, the one on his neck, and squeezed reassuringly. “D’accord, Jack,” he murmured. James heard a ragged sigh of relief from the pirate, and let his thumb trace the line of Jack’s wrist, and turned his head just enough to press his lips against Jack’s pulse, feeling the pirate tense for a moment; probably because it was the same wrist that bore a pirate brand, just a few inches from where the ex-commodore had kissed it, and the silent message in that gesture was not lost on either man. Then James turned his head to where it had been before, and let his hand fall back to his side.
Jack’s hands pulled away with reluctance, and he took a step back from James as the Gold Hawk’s crew emerged from below-deck. He handed back the bloodied handkerchief, which James accepted as he lifted his head. When James looked up, Jack held his gaze as though searching for something in it, and then looked away before it was clear whether he had found what he had been looking for. “I should be gettin’ back to my ship.”
James watched him stalk away, leaning against the helm as he pondered his position in life. If not for the lingering heat of his rage, the concussion, and the overall seriousness of the situation, he might have been laughing hysterically by now, like that mad Scottish cephalopod captain of the Flying Dutchman.
As it was, James found himself still feeling...oddly but pleasantly warmed by what Jack Sparrow had implied, and the counter-implication that he had given the pirate in return. Surprisingly, it helped to calm and control the fierce rage that still enflamed him and made his vision too-sharp and too-clear, in spite of his concussion. The warmth anchored him, and kept his hands from shaking as he gripped the helm-spokes.
The wind was good for now, but the air tasted like the promise of a storm. His theory was further validated by the way Groves rubbed his scarred shoulder as he re-emerged on deck; the old wound from the Isla de Muerta tended to bother him before and during storms. James made the appropriate mental notes, and began silently plotting their course.
Previous || Story Index || Next
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 again for now
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.
Summary: Gillette gets taken prisoner. James gets concussed. Jack Sparrow is deeply unsettled in a less-that-funny way. Important plot-related things happen.
Chapter Eleven
Captain Gillette looked up when the brig door creaked open. He gaped.
Some of this was truly not James’ fault; he usually made a point to keep his clothes neat, clean-looking and orderly enough, making him look more like a roguish and heavily armed merchant of some standing, rather than a pirate, but today his uniform had suffered battle and rough handling as well as a bit of ravishment; and so James looked...distinctly more pirate than he would usually allow himself. Seeing the look on Gillette’s face, James supposed that he should regret this, but found instead that he was quite amused.
Andrew Gillette had known James Norrington for several years, but the man before him was a stranger: with a neatly-trimmed beard along his jawline and chin, long brown hair tied back too-casually so that a few strands had come loose and were thus tucked behind one ear, his formerly pale face now lightly browned with sun so that by contrast the man’s pale sea-green eyes almost seemed to glow in the lamp-light, and that garb...Gillette could not find it in himself to compare what the now-captain now wore to the crisp brocaded uniform that the proper Commodore James Norrington had once worn.
And this toughened green-eyed man who entered the brig was smiling, sincere amusement and good humor at the edge of his casually predatory expression. He had a faint glow of health and...something else...about him. That excess glow confused Gillette somewhat; the only thing he could compare it to was the hum of energy and satisfaction that Norrington had sometimes radiated after a particularly good sword-fight, but this was less vicious somehow, for all that it seemed equally smug.
This was James Norrington come to life; he had shed his Naval uniform like a ashes after his high rank had been set aflame. Gillette had never thought that a phoenix would look like...well, a piratically roguish hawk.
“James?” he asked tentatively.
“Hello, Andrew. I should have guessed that if Theodore were to take anyone prisoner, it would be you.” James’ greeting smiled held no small hint of bitterness as he shut the door behind him gently. The brig had two wooden benches, one on either side of the door. James sat across from Gillette. “I suppose he’s already spent an hour or so trying to make you see the light about the Navy, to no avail,” he mused.
“Indeed he did,” Gillette admitted, looking mournful and exasperated at the same time as he glanced at something in the middle-distance. He shook it off easily and again met the cool gaze of his former commander. “You look...” Gillette swallowed around a lump in his throat that might have been from disgust and horror as much as sheer nerves. “You seem to be well, James--all things considered.”
Like propriety and suddenly very-nearly-piratical fashion sense, James mentally added. Andrew Gillette was an easy-to-read man, and all too familiar to James, like many other parts of the Navy: parts he had once cared for or even loved, as he had loved the Dauntless, but which he now felt sadly and reluctantly disappointed in. The solemnity of his thoughts showed in his expression as he replied, “As do you, Captain. I’m afraid that the lovely Anamaria has stolen your ship; however, considering her attitude toward the Navy, things could be worse.” He cleared his throat slightly. “In return for the ship itself, she plans to unload the rest of your ship’s inhabitants, including Studson and his family, at a respectable port in the dark before dawn. No ransoms required.”
Gillette nodded, feeling suddenly ill. “I see. She did seem...particularly vicious.”
“She can be,” James murmured, in the same way that he would admit a defect of his own men: in a tone that suggested a number of redeeming qualities existed, too. “But I was able to persuade her against killing any of the Navy-men aboard. It was the least that I could do, knowing there was no way to stop the others from being taken by Davy Jones’ crew.” He lowered his gaze to the brig floor for a moment in a look of grief, before fixing it again on his former Lieutenant.
Gulping audibly, Gillette put his face in one hand, not bothering to adjust his hat when it fell to cover his eyes. “I saw them. From the ship. I saw those--those creatures come out of the water. By the time I turned around, that lady-pirate had her pistol aimed at my face as Ted shouted ‘everyone stay calm; we are taking over the ship.’” He exhaled slowly, but gave a very bitter half-smile, glancing up at James. “What is it about Sparrow that attracts these things? Undead pirates, curses, and apparently--you called them Davy Jones’ crew? The Davy Jones? As in ‘the locker of’ in reference to the bottom of the sea?”
James nodded ruefully. “Captain Jones is much like his men; although he resembles an octopus more than the others.”
Gillette groaned and hid his face in both hands. “My God. And Beckett wants to involve us in this? He wants whatever Sparrow is after that those...fish things--he sent us after a chest of some kind. Why? Why, James?”
“In order to kill hundreds of decent men, further his company’s interests, and fill in all of the blank places on his map by capturing and controlling powers greater than those any single man was meant to have.” At Gillette’s pleading look, James sighed. “In that chest he was so intent upon getting, was the heart of Davy Jones, who himself controls the sea, usually to the favor of pirates because he was once a pirate himself. He is also a formidable fighting force and can send a giant sea creature, the Kraken, after people at will. Beckett wants to use the heart in order to seize control of Jones, and thus the whole of the sea.”
Gillette’s eyes widened, then he nodded slowly. “He would destroy all of the pirates. And seize control of all trade.”
There was a hint of something in Gillette’s tone that James did not like: anticipation. “Yes.” He did not plan on informing the man any further.
But he asked, “Did you--does Sparrow have the heart?” and he sounded so panicked.
“No. No he does not,” James said quietly.
Gillette relaxed and leaned back against the bars behind him. “Oh thank God.” Then he looked all too intently at James’ face, and the ex-commodore was reminded that this man had known him for a decade. “You...you have it, don’t you? Because you don’t trust-”
“I do trust Captain Sparrow, Gillette, or else I would not be sailing with him,” James said softly, but with a sharp edge, like a gentle caress across the throat from the flat of a knife-blade. “I trust him a far sight more than I would ever trust Lord Cutler Beckett.”
Gillette’s gaze darkened. “Ah. I...see.”
James sighed and shook his head, looking at the floor again. “No, Andrew, I am afraid that you do not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and inhaled slowly. After holding it for a moment, he exhaled slowly an deliberately, showing a hint of exasperation. Composed once more, he lowered his hand and met Gillete’s gaze. His voice was calm, almost kind, and his expression inscrutable. “Once we have made our planned trip up-river, I shall see to arranging either: a trip home for you with a merchant vessel wherein those aboard will hear how you washed up on the beach along with the wreckage of your ship, which will be reported as destroyed instead of stolen--I have seen to that, and Anamaria will see to it that the ship becomes unrecognizable--or, if you prefer, I can ransom you, claiming either that I found you in a similar manner or that it way I myself who destroyed your ship. Either one should protect your reputation. Captain.”
Andrew Gillette swallowed convulsively at the flintiness of Norrington’s stare. “Thank you, Captain Norrington. The merchant vessel should do nicely.”
For a few lingering moments, James stared at his old friend, and tried to think of some way, any way, to remove the man’s deliberately-installed blinders; however, he came up with no clever plans, this time, and finally shook his head, looking away from Gillette. “I am sorry, Andrew.”
The other man gave a half-hysterical laugh. “For what, James? For turning pirate? For abandoning the Navy? Or for taking me prisoner while my men on shore died at the hands of-”
“Gillette,” James barked sharply, and the other man fell quiet. The ex-commodore’s sea-green eyes were alight with fury and a hint of pain. “I am no pirate, and for all that I am a rogue, I am an honorable one, if you can get that concept through your thick, wig-insulated skull; I only abandoned the Navy when it became clear enough to me that it would no longer allow me to keep my men safe because those more powerful than myself could command me to sail them into a damned hurricane in order to go after one of the least reprehensible pirates in the whole of the Spanish Main; and pardon me for assuming that you might be a good enough captain to follow your men into battle and protect them yourself if only by being there to tell them when to retreat with haste, instead of leaving your green-horn lieutenants to freeze up and react with fear rather than reason in the face of horrors that they were unprepared for, but which you, having fought at the Isla de Muerta, would have been better capable of coping with. Captain. Gillette.”
The British Royal Navy’s Captain Andrew Gillette had paled until his face was whiter than his cravat. Never before had he seen Norrington quite this enraged; even when he had defected and taken the Admiral hostage, James had carefully contained his anger, if only in order to save lives. It occurred to Gillette that his own life was currently the only one at stake, and that if James thought that killing him would save the lives of a number of good Navy men, that James would then kill him. He wisely kept his mouth shut, not giving voice to the many denials or the excuses that he wanted to shout; Gillette’s survival instincts were strong, and they urged him, very wisely, to remain silent instead of provoking Norrington further.
James took a slow, deep breath, and the scorching heat of his rage was carefully banked until it no longer resembled an inferno, but still gave off enough light to provide a warning. “Before your little bout of slanderous accusations, I was apologizing for my inability to show you the world as I see it, because I cannot open your mind for you, especially when you willingly keep yourself closed-off and blind to it. Goodnight, Captain Gillette. I will, in all likelihood, speak with you again tomorrow. If not, I am sure that Theodore will, and that he will be capable of kinder words than I.” And then the ex-commodore made his exit, locking the door behind him and making his way to his cabin to fetch himself a small bottle of fine rum.
Rum obtained, James climbed the main mast and settled himself atop the highest perch he could find, wrapping one arm around the mast and leaning on it for support. He scarcely felt the jolts of pain from his flesh-wound, still full of justified ire as he was. He would not sleep tonight; he could feel the way that his mind was racing, and knew it would not rest until at least tomorrow night, with its current momentum.
Lifting his bottle of rum to his lips, James stared out over the horizon as his ship kept pace with theBlack Pearl. Both crafts moved too fast for any other ship in the caribbean to catch them, albeit still just shy of the Black Pearl’s top speed. The wind felt fine on James’ face as the sun neared the horizon. Within two hours, it would be sunset.
There was a beating heart in the pocket of his coat, it smelled of salted meat, and tomorrow he would use it to make a deal with Jones. It could also, if James chose to stab it, make him immortal.
Idly, James wondered if immortality might mean never requiring sleep. He wondered if life would become like his insomniac nights, wherein two or three cycles of alternating sunlight and starlight extended into one singularly long day, which tended to seem oddly blurred in retrospect. Perhaps, James reasoned, he would merely have to keep his humanity by sleeping and eating, loving and living, to keep the world from sliding into something alien and distant. Assuming he could find some means of achieving immortality that did not require him to spend ten years at a time on a ship ferrying the souls of the dead, with only one day’s reprieve in between each time.
Then, of course, he laughed softly at himself for being so foolish. It was difficult enough for his rational mind to accept the idea of immortality. Then again...
He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his sword. He had impaled Davy Jones upon it, and look how that had turned out. Immortality was hardly an abstract concept in such a situation as his current one. Whether or not it could be discovered without such a hindering contract involved...that remained to be seen; yet, it seemed more possible, in this strange and irrational world that he now traveled the water of.
The Immortal Captain James Norrington, James mused, swallowing a few more mouthfuls of rum.
An interesting thought.
James sighed and shook his head at his own fancy, a wry expression on his face as he realized quite how Sparrowish that last thought had sounded. Perhaps I am becoming increasingly piratical. Again, he laughed softly to himself.
Shortly after his escape from capture and slavery at the hands of the Spanish, his recovery, and his wreaking of justified vengeance, the young then-second-lieutenant James Norrington had begun taking measures to keep himself and his men safer. He learned to pick locks, and taught many of his men, those he worked with more closely, to do so as well. He taught them to sew a few handy little lock-picking tools into the hems of their clothing where the items would be least likely to be discovered. His relief had been infinite when it had saved the life of one of his long-time friends, the then-midshipman Theodore Groves.
When now-ex-commodore Norrington took the late night-watch and stood in at the helm, he was thinking about dozens of things relating to a number of subjects: his life, his future, his ship, Calypso, and the bizarre feeling of the still-beating heart in his coat pocket.
One thought that did not occur to him was, that while Andrew Gillette had not been the most adept or skilled lock-picking pupil, he had learned enough to, after a number of failed attempts of course, eventually get free of the brig below-deck on the Gold Hawk after he had plucked the necessary tools from the hem at the waistline of his breeches.
Thus, the abrupt removal of his hat and then the loud crash as Gillette smashed a half-empty bottle of rum over his head caught James Norrington very much by surprise. Just before he lost consciousness, he figured out exactly what had happened and slurred, “Dammit, ‘Drew, you half-French whoreson devil.” Then his world went quiet and filled with colorful writhing shapes lighting up against the dark backdrop of his eyelids. When alarms went up on the Black Pearl some minutes later, as the other ship’s watch spotted James’ prone figure, they sounded very hollow and distant, as though James heard them from outside his body. Then heat and awareness seemed to flood back through him, starting with the searing pain in his head and rushing downwards through the rest of his body, moving at roughly the speed of oozing tar, and leaving a similarly bad taste in his mouth. His skin felt prickly.
Then he remembered his name and where he was and everything else he could possibly remember, and his senses came back with a sickening thud, and James groaned, one hand clutching at the deck weakly to try and stop it from spinning so much, but it seemed to be slowing. He could hear better now.
“James! James!” That was Groves. His voice sounded a little closer. So did the thudding footsteps, which made the throbbing in his head worsen--two people approaching. Was one of them staggering? Someone cursed in Portuguese, but he sounded relieved about it: not one of James’ own men, surely.
With herculean effort, James opened one eye as the footsteps came to a halt. He was met with the sight of a very pale-faced Theodore Groves, who knelt beside him, looking hesitant to touch anything. Over his first mate’s shoulder hovered a curious and concerned-looking Jack Sparrow. “What are you doing down there, James?” he asked somberly, but there was something in his look that was akin to anger or fear, well-masked.
James grimaced and felt the all-too-familiar sensation of drying blood on his face. He licked at the corner of his mouth and tasted some of it, finding it to be a little fresher than he had expected. “Bleeding, apparently,” he retorted. Reaching up and gripping Groves’ un-scarred shoulder, he pulled himself up into a sitting position with a low hiss of pain, and added, “I am also regretting a few particular examples of my past thoughtfulness and generosity, as they would seem to have been bestowed upon a damnable wretch.” To assess the damage, he raised a hand to his head and prodded here and there gently, wincing only once. He discovered only one source of bleeding: a large cut beginning at two inches behind his hairline and reaching down halfway to his eyebrow--due to the broken glass post-impact, surely. Otherwise, the impact of the bottle had not caused anything more severe than the concussion that James identified by recognizing the also-too-familiar black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.
Jack spoke again: “Welcome to the life of rogues, love. Your prisoner, then?”
“Yes.” Norrington started position himself to attempt standing, but then abruptly stilled as a look of cold realization crossed his features. His hand slammed over his coat pocket, which sagged empty against his chest. Clutching at the empty fabric, James voiced a number of foul, creative and slightly disturbing strings of curses in mixed French, English, Spanish, and a surprising hint of Gaelic.
Groves’ face turned a funny color.
Jack was impressed, but the look on James’ face made everything seem suddenly less funny. “No,” Jack warned, as if scolding. “No. Don’t say it, James, mate. Don’t you dare tell me-”
James interrupted him. “Gillette took the heart.”
Jack seemed to puff up with rage for a moment, snarling, then abruptly smoothed down his metaphorical feathers and began pacing, all the time muttering curses in a few more languages than James had used, but their meanings were roughly the same--except, of course, the one in a Chinese dialect which meant ‘may he live in interesting times.’
“He’s stolen a longboat, hasn’t he?” James hissed through gritted teeth, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet.
Groves helped him, offering his forearm for leverage, which his captain gratefully accepted. “Yes. I’m sorry that I forgot his lock-picking abilities, Captain.”
“We both did, Theo. As I was his teacher in this matter, I shoulder more responsibility than you do.” James wrapped one hand around a helm-spoke and felt a sympathetic hum from the ship; it helped to clear his head somewhat. He leaned his weight against the wheel.
“You what?” Jack barked.
“It was after my experiences with the Spanish, Jack; I did not want my men to suffer the same fate if it could be avoided and so I taught lock-picking to a large number of men. Gillette was actually one of the least skilled practitioners I have ever taught, which is, I am sure, part of why it failed to occur to me that he might-”
“Escape. Of course.” With a ragged sigh through his teeth, Jack cursed a few more times, but his demeanor seemed unusually still, with his hands clenched into fists at his sides instead of gesticulating wildly. He was holding something back. Still gritting his teeth, he said, “We don’t have long, then. Jones will be on our tails soon, and we didn’t gain enough distance while we were weighed down by that bloody EITC ship Anamaria insisted on keeping.” Jack’s fists were almost shaking. “He’ll catch up with us ‘fore we reach land.”
“Then we fight, Jack,” James said softly, but with firm conviction. “As this is my mistake, I will guard you and your ship with my life. I’m sure that I can draw off Jones’ ship, and if you can at least temporarily beach the Black Pearl, then the Kraken will not be an issue, either. Perhaps your Tia Dalma woman can come up with a way to be rid of it whilst I find myself a way to escape Jones.” He smirked. “Perhaps by leading him straight into half of the Admiral’s fleet, assuming they are still anywhere near their previous course.”
Jack raised his eyebrows a bit, his rage momentarily pierced by a slightly lusty jolt of respect for James’ impromptu plan. The younger man had clearly well-learned the lessons of beneficial chaos.
Then Groves brought the darker mood back, clearing his throat and trying to ask, “Captain, you’re concussed, are y-”
“You know for a fact that I’ve had worse, Theodore,” James countered gravely, with a reproachful glare. “You were there to see what I was still capable of even then.”
Groves fell quiet, but the way he glanced at his captain’s wrists was explanation enough.
James ignored it, and continued, “And then, Jack, I will need to borrow your compass in order to track down Captain Andrew Gillette.” His sea-green gaze fixed on Jack, and the pirate almost shivered at what he could read in it.
His own anger feeling rather humbled by the near-inferno blazing in James’ eyes, Jack felt himself hesitate for a moment before he nodded. “We have an accord, James.”
“Good. Now, Groves, rouse the dawn-shift men and set them about preparations for some less-than-smooth sailing; also, send two of them to the galley to prepare food and make use of the coffee stores; we’ll need the strength and the energy.”
“Yes, Captain.” Off he went.
Still leaning against the helm so that he would not either fall over or sway about like Jack, James again touched the side of his face, frowning at the tackiness he felt there from the drying mixture of blood and rum.
Jack approached him, and pulled a rum-flask from his coat. The pirate tugged the handkerchief from the ex-commodore’s pocket, cutting off James’ intended objection to drinking while concussed by making it clear that drinking was not actually the intent. Jack soaked the cloth in rum from the flask and reached up to clean the blood from James’ face, earning a sigh from the injured man as he leaned into the touch.
“Thank you,” James said quietly. Then the cloth, finished wiping away the excess blood on his cheek, brow, and chin, began to cleanse along the edges of his wound, making him wince; the alcohol burned as the first drops of it met with cut flesh.
“You’re still not going to be living this one down,” Jack muttered.
“Not even when Gillette is dead?”
Jack considered this, soaking the kerchief with more rum and cleansing the wound directly. His touch was not quite gentle, but it cleaned as thoroughly as the situation would allow. “Mayhap,” he said, steely at first, but then he snorted and shook his head, his tension easing a little. “Most likely, love, but it’s still stormy weather for now, an likely for a while yet. You did just admit to teaching the bastard how to get away with such as this.” A flicker of anger crossed his features again as he glanced at James’ eyes again, meeting the other man’s gaze before focusing again on the wound; it had stopped bleeding, at least. “This is two flesh-wounds in one day, plus a head injury.”
James bowed his head, both to make the cleaning easier and to accept his share of guilt. “He was once a very good friend. A loyal man. Over the years, I’ve entrusted my life to him...more times than I can count.”
Jack sighed, sounding older than James had ever heard the pirate captain sound, as he said, “Aye. I know how that goes, Jamie. Took me ten years to get the Pearl back when I learned a similar lesson from a man named Barbossa.”
James exhaled, relieved. He relaxed further when he felt Jack’s fingers brushing the bits of broken glass from his hair.
“You also gave me a right scare for a bit, there, mate. You looked dead when I first spotted you, and even more so when I finally swung aboard. The spilled rum made it look like there was a lot more blood than there actually was.” Something about Jack’s voice was a little too contained, almost stilted when he said the words ‘dead’ and ‘blood’, and it made James feel a fresh flare of guilt, but also...something rather warmer.
James shut his eyes, feeling oddly comforted. “Please accept my apologies, Jack.”
Jack emptied his flask into the kerchief, which was now soaked and stained almost wholly blood-red. He cleaned the wound once more, his fingers more gentle this time as the rum burned more sharply; his other hand, however, pocketed the flask and then settled on the back of James’ neck, clutching slightly, his thumb stroking the line of the ex-commodore’s throat. The possessive gesture seemed to help the pirate calm himself. Quietly, Jack demanded, “Just try to avoid doing anything quite that stupid again, ay, love?”
The warm, inexplicably comforting feeling increased. If he had been capable of it, the ex-commodore would have purred a little. James rested a hand over Jack’s, the one on his neck, and squeezed reassuringly. “D’accord, Jack,” he murmured. James heard a ragged sigh of relief from the pirate, and let his thumb trace the line of Jack’s wrist, and turned his head just enough to press his lips against Jack’s pulse, feeling the pirate tense for a moment; probably because it was the same wrist that bore a pirate brand, just a few inches from where the ex-commodore had kissed it, and the silent message in that gesture was not lost on either man. Then James turned his head to where it had been before, and let his hand fall back to his side.
Jack’s hands pulled away with reluctance, and he took a step back from James as the Gold Hawk’s crew emerged from below-deck. He handed back the bloodied handkerchief, which James accepted as he lifted his head. When James looked up, Jack held his gaze as though searching for something in it, and then looked away before it was clear whether he had found what he had been looking for. “I should be gettin’ back to my ship.”
James watched him stalk away, leaning against the helm as he pondered his position in life. If not for the lingering heat of his rage, the concussion, and the overall seriousness of the situation, he might have been laughing hysterically by now, like that mad Scottish cephalopod captain of the Flying Dutchman.
As it was, James found himself still feeling...oddly but pleasantly warmed by what Jack Sparrow had implied, and the counter-implication that he had given the pirate in return. Surprisingly, it helped to calm and control the fierce rage that still enflamed him and made his vision too-sharp and too-clear, in spite of his concussion. The warmth anchored him, and kept his hands from shaking as he gripped the helm-spokes.
The wind was good for now, but the air tasted like the promise of a storm. His theory was further validated by the way Groves rubbed his scarred shoulder as he re-emerged on deck; the old wound from the Isla de Muerta tended to bother him before and during storms. James made the appropriate mental notes, and began silently plotting their course.
Previous || Story Index || Next