The World Behind the World: Part I
Title: The World Behind the World: Part I
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave. Jack Sparrow's habit dropping by regularly, as he has for years now, probably doesn't help.
Summary: Consider this to be shamelessly fabricated backstory and subtext for the end of COTBP, with a way to bring in Davy Jones and the others without actually having to go through the other two films. James' worldview has been shaken and the only person he can really discuss it with is a certain pirate.
Note: I've no real idea where this came from, except, perhaps, the thought, "What if James were an atheist and that provided some extra significance...hmmm." Followed by James-voice in the back of my head going, "If I cannot serve and protect as the man I currently am, perhaps I have to become something else." And it all went downhill from there. Plus: the boys were apparently feeling catty.
Commodore James Norrington, like many men of his time who valued reason and scientific thought, considered himself more than disillusioned when it came to such fanciful matters as magic, curses, heathen gods, and the romanticized life led by criminals, cutthroats and scoundrels.
Even at sea, where he had come to feel in tune on an almost spiritual level with the weather, the waves and the distinct characters of the ships under his command, he had kept himself clear on the lines between fancy and reality, between romanticism and rationalism. He had long ago ceased to believe even in God, not that he had told anyone. His world was an all the more wondrous place, for his thinking that no one had designed it, but that awe-inspiring beauty had been created anyway, with more complexity than he could account for in a lifetime of dreaming.
Norrington had long ago made it his mission in life to preserve civilized people from outside threats, be they pirates or foreigners with war-like intentions. However, he had long since become disillusioned about that, as well: the men and women James was meant to protect, he knew, were often just as corrupt as the ones that the navy was meant to fight against.
And so, cynical and slightly embittered, Norrington had continued his career in Port Royal, on the edge of the empire and of civilization itself. The port itself was corrupt and, outside the estates of the rich and prominent, often a haven for cutthroats, scoundrels and pirates, such as were still left in Caribbean waters.
Norrington had cleaned up the place rather well, according to most of Port Royal’s prominent personages, tradesman and merchants. Of course, few of them ever frequented the taverns and other gathering-places of more common sailors after dark.
For ten years he had been studying corruption and quietly working to eliminate its most unsavory figures and forms from amongst the ranks of his own men and the citizenry of Port Royal, by quiet and relatively peaceful (albeit occasionally somewhat underhanded) means, using networks of informants and subtle manipulation. It was still honest work, and had alleviated some of Norrington’s bitterness in recent years.
Following the incidents surrounding the Isle de Muerta, Commodore James Norrington had no idea what to think.
His rational world had grown abruptly and unexpectedly strange.
He and his men had fought a small army of immortal pirates who turned to skeletons by moonlight, due to a heathen curse, which had been lifted by the actions of an utterly selfish and immoral individual by the name of “Captain” Jack Sparrow.
And Sparrow had an appointment with the gallows in the morning.
James was unable to sleep, and not only because of the dull pain of the flesh-wound on his side. Most of his men, he knew, would be able to forget or dismiss the whole event. Many of them were possessed of enough religion and superstition that such would be easy for them, and the rest, who were more rational, would come up with other excuses: temporary madness, the work of the devil, et cetera.
Atheist and creature of scientific reasoning that he was, James found himself at a loss. He dressed in more civilian clothing, leaving his wig behind and donning an old black tricorne that he had worn long ago as a lieutenant. He did, however, still wear his coronation blade at his side.
Then he made his way to have words with the only man he knew could answer his questions, and whose judgement James did not care about in the least.
Jack Sparrow was pretending to snore quietly, but the lingering dust in the air from frantic movement, and the bit of bone (James recognized it as part of a larger bone that other prisoners had once used in order to try and lure the jailer’s dog close with the keys, but the dog had been named ‘Norrie’ by James’ lieutenants, because it was as stoic and impassive as their commanding officer) stuck in the door-lock, belied his act.
“Mr. Sparrow, I know you are awake.”
Still with his mouth partway-open in a fake snore, Jack opened one eye. After a moment of surprise, his mouth snapped shut and both of his kohl-smeared eyes opened wide. “Commodore,” he said quietly, cautiously. “I’ve not seen you outta uniform.” His appraisal showed distinct interest, but also calculated wariness. He was surprised once more to note that the good commodore was not a man softened by his position, which, since he was an officer, was something unusual in Jack’s experience. Jack Sparrow recalled his first glimpse of this man after defeating the undead at the Isle de Muerta: the blood-stained hawk in blue and white, seemingly unaware of his own injuries as he barked out commands in that calm, cold voice. Those pretty green eyes had been ablaze with a very dangerous sort of fire.
Jack Sparrow had met a number of intimidating persons in his time. The battle-ready and fight-sharpened commodore had sent more of a chill through him than most.
And now Norrington looked like a tiger patiently trying to ignore a sizable thorn in its side. He was not in uniform, so this was something personal. Luckily, the man did not seem to have a true vigilante bone in his body so far as Jack could see, and was therefore not likely to shoot him tonight. And the cold, almost clinically distant expression on Norrington’s face said that a bit of debauchery was, a bit unfortunately, also not in the cards. Curiosity piqued, Jack allowed himself a dark gold-edged grin that did not quite reach his eyes. “What brings a man like you to a place like this, all on yer own after dark?”
James could hear the wheels turning in the pirate’s brain. “Questions,” he said simply, giving nothing else away. He sat on the bench before Sparrow’s cell and doffed his hat, setting it beside him. Proper decorum seeming to go with the hat, James then leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands contemplatively as he once again met Jack’s gaze. “About the Isle de Muerta.”
Jack’s thoughts whirled, trying to feel out where this was coming from, as well as where it might be going. “What for, mate? You’ve enough accusations against me from the past to hang me for. Looking for more?” His jet-black eyes were cold.
Norrington did not flinch from them. “No.”
“‘Course not. Not without all yer fancy authoritative filigree on.” His fingers fluttered to indicate extraneous embroidery. “What are you lookin’ for from me, then, Commodore? The whelp has surely told you all of what happened, when you had your words with him, and you wouldn’t trust me to be truthful in retelling anyway.”
“I wonder why,” James mused, his sarcasm as dry as the sahara and cold as the antarctic.
Jack winced as though feeling the rasp of sandpaper against his skin. “Exactly,” he snapped, annoyed.
The commodore took a deep breath. “I am here, Mr. Sparrow, because I am trying to understand matters utterly foreign to me, but with which you seem to be expert.” He raised his eyebrows significantly. “At least, expert enough to break a heathen curse and thus rip away the immortality of your former crewmen, leaving them at the mercy of myself and my men.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had never seen such matter-of-fact humbleness in any man who possessed any sort of natural authority akin to Norrington’s. This man, the pirate was hesitant to admit, was intelligent, despite being one of His Majesty’s popinjays in naval blue and white. “What kind of information are you looking for, then? Further stories of cursed treasures and heathen gods?”
James snorted dismissively. “Hardly.” He glanced out at the sea, visible as it was through the large gap in the stone wall left by the Black Pearl’s attack just a few weeks ago. Other, more important repairs had taken precedent over the single open jail-cell. The raid had damaged much. Quietly, James murmured, “I am a rational man, Jack Sparrow, and I have protected Port Royal as best I could for nearly ten years. I had thought myself prepared for anything.”
Startled, Jack looked away from the commodore, scolding himself for letting the pretty man catch him off-guard with his prettiness. He cleared his throat quietly. “Except a particularly clever pirate and a heathen curse, ay?”
The commodore’s gaze hardened again, his green eyes like sea ice as he met Jack’s gaze again. “So it would seem.”
At last hearing the edge of anger from the other man, Jack grinned wickedly, but it faded fast. His voice was grim and almost contrite as he said, “The curse is broken, now. And you’ll be rid of me in the morning, won’t you?”
To Jack’s surprise, the commodore laughed bitterly under his breath. “Do you think me such an utter fool?”
Jack feigned innocence and confusion. “Ay?”
“Mr. Turner was here earlier in the evening, taking measure of the cells, supposedly for their repair. Am I to assume that he did not speak with you?” James leaned back against the wall now, folding his arms over his chest and remaining carefully stoic, except for the cynical, bleak sort of amusement flickering in his eyes.
“I’ve no idea what yer insinuating, mate.”
James held his gaze cooly, and for a long moment neither of them were inclined to budge. Jack, not admitting anything, willing to speak circuitously and unhelpfully all night; and James, accusing and willing to wait the pirate out, biting at his misdirection with calculated logic until the pirate lost patience.
Then Jack’s stubbornness let up enough for his opportunistic streak to break the silence. “It would seem we’re at an impasse, mate. You want knowledge from me to keep protecting your pretty little town, and I want something in return.”
“Of course,” James dismissed lightly. “You assume, then, that I’ve nothing to offer.” This time, there was something almost playful behind his scathing turn of phrase.
Despite his instincts screaming with warning and alarm, Jack found his interest piqued still further. “You surprise me, Commodore.”
“Fair is fair,” he countered, “except that I have not stolen your ship.”
“You’ve got another one, and doubtless they’ll replace the other for you if you pester the governor into using his connections properly.”
One of James’ eyebrows lifted a bit at that, but lowered as his expression became once more an inscrutable mask. “You already have an escape plan in place, obviously. Or, at least, your supporters do, so it will doubtlessly be impulsive and rather flawed in execution.”
Jack winced. “Not much else on hand to work with, however. Your gallows aren’t exactly located for a handy escape from your fort and its guards.”
“Thank you.”
The pirate scowled. “So what is it you offer, then? Your men won’t exactly be inclined to let me go, even if you are.”
James looked down at the floor. “There are more factors than that, Mr. Sparrow, as I think we are both aware.” A flicker of pain crossed his features; it had that unwillingly vulnerable look, quickly hidden, which Jack had only ever seen inspired by one person...
“Ah, Miss Swann, then.” His voice was still biting, but he almost regretted it when he saw another flicker of hurt on the commodore’s face; although, when the hurt was quickly replaced by fire this time, Jack remembered that this was an injured tiger, likely to lash out. He braced himself for the feeling of Norrington’s claws.
James tempered his anger, however, with a deep breath, summoning control from somewhere deep within him composed of steel and ice. “Yes.”
“You know, then.” Jack almost winced at the gentleness of his own voice.
“I knew it the moment that she made her promise, Mr. Sparrow. I am not a complete fool.”
“Quite an achievement, considering that yer in love and all. Greater men than you have fallen into less subtle traps,” Jack murmured, looking away, trying to remind himself of past pains to prevent himself from liking this man.
James glanced at him with a mixture of wariness and gratitude, but upon seeing the grim and slightly vulnerable look on the pirate’s face, the commodore had to look away again quickly: it reminded him too much of what he had seen in his own reflection lately. “I’ve no doubt it will be quite a scene, and will cause some amount of confusion.”
“An’ I can take it from there, but that’s still not exactly something yer offering me.” Jack’s composure had returned in a blink, and with it came that half-mocking half-tempting lilt to his words.
For a long time now, James considered himself beyond most temptations, but there were a few that this pirate had the potential to stir in him. The commodore felt fortunate, realizing that Sparrow did not seem to think them to be viable options. Not for the first time, James was relieved to find himself underestimated, even if just in his capacity for deviance.
At last, the commodore made his offer, his tone cool and utterly calm: “One day’s head start.” His heartbeat fluttered for a moment. It was a sportsman’s challenge, on the one hand, coming from the pirate hunter; however, from the man, its connotations were different; it was the challenge one might offer by way of mocking or playfulness, because when offered to an equal it was an invite to join in a new kind of game. Both interpretations, James was all too aware, were equally apt, as he gave this to Jack Sparrow.
Just for a moment, Jack reeled, feeling adrift on a brief flare of confusion: this was not the commodore he had ever expected. Then, as ever, he quickly got his bearings and realized what sort of man he was dealing with. The commodore, he reflected, looked much younger and a bit less pale without that horrible white wig. There was not a trace of pompousness to him now, and it made Jack wonder. “How good an actor are you?”
The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at James’ lips for a brief moment, but his mask remained stubbornly in place. “The very best, Mr. Sparrow. The navy has been a fine teacher in that regard.”
Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Not very proper at all, are you, commodore?”
“This place was once considered, by my superiors, to be akin to Tortuga. And I have lived in and quietly begun manipulating my way into management here in Port Royal for several years, Mr. Sparrow. Was ‘proper’ really what you anticipated?”
Jack’s eyes widened with sudden realization: behind the mask of propriety, the perfect illusion of respectability provided by the naval presence and the richer, whiter segment of the populace...this place was still the Port Royal he remembered, for all that its depravities were now well-hidden. And this man was one of the primary ones responsible for maintaining that, in recent years. “And here I thought you were all about duty and honor.”
“You were half-wrong, then. Duty is a myth. Honor is merely another variety of pride, with virtue to guide it,” James muttered. “It is honor and humanity that have kept me here, protecting this place and the people in it; not the illusions of grandeur provided by patriotism, glory or falsely-humble duty.”
“I see.” Jack’s eyes glittered. “And what do you think, now, mate?” A flourishing gesture toward the moon outside, visible through the hole in the wall. “Now that you’ve seen a hint of what’s hiding out there where the world is still wild and parts of the map are still blank?”
James looked out at the moon, and the water, then looked away into the middle distance somewhere to his right. “I think that I may have found a more important battle to wage than the quiet ones I’ve been fighting here, but this is foreign territory to me, and to stumble into it blindly would be suicide.”
“You know, mate, there’s already a few men who’ve taken up that job, but most of ‘em aren’t exactly men anymore.”
“How so?”
“Well, their most recent incarnation, relatively speaking as we’re lookin’ at hundreds of years an’ all, goes by the name of Davy Jones.”
A sardonically arched eyebrow. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”
“Aye, among other things. He’s supposed to serve as a sort of guardian over the sea, which means keepin’ certain things properly hidden from most of the world, save those persistently curious buggers determined to chase the horizon until they run out of it, and we deserve our fates, whatever they may be.” His wicked, proud smile glittered gold in the moonlit and torch-lit dark of his cell. “He’s also responsible for takin’ care that souls lost at sea make it to the other side.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“I’m a good friend, of sorts, to his former lady-love.” This time his smile was a bit softer. “She’s kind enough to me: gave me my compass, in fact.”
Norrington shook his head, but said nothing about what he thought of said compass. “Is she inhuman, as well?”
“Heathen goddesses tend to be, but she’s stuck in human form. To put a long story short: Davy Jones is a cruel bastard.”
“Odd, in that his job seems to consist of mostly benevolent duties.”
“Aye, well, that’s all well and good for those with a bit of humanity left in ‘em, but he’s left that behind. Long story short: heathen goddesses are fickle and possessed of a tendency to drive their lovers mad enough to cut out their own hearts.”
Staring thoughtfully into the distance, James gave a low, considering hum. “Interesting.”
“My world tends to be, love. How about yours?”
James glanced up sharply at that, his brow furrowed and his eyes darkly wary.
Jack wondered where his piratical logic was going with this even as he spoke, but trusted his instincts. “I’m just thinking, Commodore, that you’re quite limited, here. I mean, once you move up to admiral, you can hardly stay isolated here in Port Royal, and you’ll lose all you’ve built here to your successor; however, a man like you wandering the world behind the world, could end up with much more far-reaching protective powers.”
Now the commodore wore a shrewd, intensely suspicious look, sensing that the pirate was once more trying to con him. However, he might not be wholly averse to letting him, depending upon the outcome. “How so? I take it that it’s not exactly like working one’s way up through ranks.”
“Of course not; it’s far easier, and requires a lot less patience. If, for instance, you perhaps wanted Davy Jones’ career for your own, complete with immortality of a sort, all you’d need to do would be to prepare yourself for only coming ashore for one day every ten years, and then once you’d come to terms with that, find the chest of Davy Jones, stab his still-beating heart, and there you are: all yours.”
For a moment, James blinked rapidly, stunned by the barrage of bizarre statements and thrown off by the off-kilter arrangement they had been presented in, via Jack’s rambling style. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Come to think of it, you’d be a great replacement for him.” Jack’s eyes glittered in the dark, bright with fierce and shrewd intelligence. “You’re more responsible, heartbreak hasn’t turned you into a miserable wretch with a cruel streak wider than the ocean is deep, and you seem to honestly want to help people, which is rare in and of itself even among honest men. Jones, y’see, started out as a pirate, so he already lacked a number of your more sterling qualities.”
James shut his eyes for a moment. “I do not believe this. You are sincerely trying to persuade me to...to...” He laughed, a bit reluctantly. “You not only believe in all of this, but you want very badly to make me a part of it. First you are chasing a cursed pirate ship for the sake of revenge, and now--why is it that you want Davy Jones dead as well?”
Jack fidgeted, made uneasy both by how well the commodore had seen through him, and by how attractive the man’s smile was when a laugh escaped from behind that austere mask he always wore. “Well, see, I may owe him a bit of a debt.”
The commodore raised his eyebrows. “A debt.” He was torn between rolling his eyes, laughing again, and feeling a sense of immanent doom. He settled for being sarcastic yet again. “Why am I not in the least surprised?” James shook his head. “What kind of debt?”
“My soul. And a hundred years of servitude aboard his ship. Something like that.”
“Is that...not unusual?” James had to wonder.
“It’s similar in a way, to how he sort of he gets most of his crewmen, y’see. If a sailor fears death and the final judgement and all, he’s the opportunity to sail the sea forever instead, under the command of Davy Jones. Not a bad deal, for a lot of men, but as the ship already has a captain...” Jack gestured toward himself as though he were regretfully at a loss as to what he could possibly do.
James rested his head back against the cool stone wall. “I cannot believe how truly insane you are.” Again, a low, not-quite stifled laugh. “What kind of bargain did you strike with him?”
“Thirteen years as captain of the Black Pearl.” He scowled. “I’ve got one left.”
With a deep sigh, James pulled an elegant silver flask from a well-concealed inner pocket of his civilian coat. He opened it and took a large swig, then offered it to the pirate.
Tentatively, Jack took it, sniffing at it cautiously. His eyes widened. “This is rum.”
“Yes. Of high quality in fact.” James snorted. “I am a sailor, Mr. Sparrow.”
“Captain,” Jack insisted, automatically, then tilted his head back to drain nearly half the flask.
James would have complained, but was distracted by the sight of a single drop of liquor trailing from Jack’s chin all the way down the wiry lines of the pirate’s throat. Unnerved by his own body’s reaction to the sight, which he quickly stifled with experienced control, James did not trust himself to say anything at all. He merely took the flask again when Jack returned it.
Jack watched the commodore lift the flask to his lips and drain half of what remained in it, with a bit more elegance than Jack had done, but like a good sailor nonetheless. “Have you reasons to stay here in Port Royal, Commodore? Other than the fine uniform and all, of course.”
“I have grown to care for many of the people here.”
Following a hunch, Jack inquired, “And are they equally fond of you?”
James hesitated. “They respect me. They are even proud of me.” He screwed the lid back on his flask and tucked it away. “The are, however, afraid of me.”
Again, Jack thought of a tiger. He blamed it on the commodore’s cat-green eyes. There was a lot, now, that he suddenly wanted to ask this man. He wanted to wheedle and tempt the commodore into liberation, but he knew that it was no use at the moment, not for this unique sort of man. Norrington, the pirate hazarded, would need time to think. Finally, Jack asked, “Have I earned my day’s head start, yet, Commodore?”
James shut his eyes, trying not to think of enemies that his sword cut down again and again, but who kept getting up. If he could protect more people from such curses, would it not suit him better than staying here, forever waiting for another attack that might never come? And if another, equally startling and unnatural thing never came, would he not begin to think himself mad? He had much to think about, now. “You have. I thank you.”
“So I’ve put some of your worries to rest?”
His eyes still closed, James felt his lips twist into a painfully cynical smirk. “Hardly. But I am no longer in the dark. This talk has been most illuminating.” His eyes fell open, but did not look at the pirate as James returned his hat to his head and pulled himself to his feet; involuntarily, he winced at the sharp pain this earned him from the wound at his side. He was surprised to feel Jack Sparrow’s hand wrap around his wrist. The grip of Jack’s thieving, pick-pocket hand was gentle, which alone bemused the commodore enough to prevent him automatically pulling away.
“How bad’s the wound?” His tone was purely conversational, but his fingers moved a little.
“Superficial,” James replied, in much the same tone. “If you’re seeking a hidden weapon up my sleeve, you have the wrong arm.”
“I know. Nice dagger, by the by. I noticed you use it once or twice on the Dauntless. One of Will’s?”
“One of his earlier works, yes. Also a coronation gift, incidentally, for when I became a captain.”
Jack’s thumb slipped under the sleeve of James’ shirt. “Did he have a fancy for you?”
James fought to remain inscrutable as Jack’s thumb ran up along the inside of his wrist, across the delicate blue veins there. “Hero-worship, perhaps. His hatred for pirates, and the fact that I had been aboard the ship that pulled him from the wreckage of a vessel attacked by Barbossa on the crossing from England had left him awed by me for some time.” He knew that he should pull away, but the rum had finally begun to warm him, his head and heart were heavy with storm clouds, and he knew that tomorrow he would face rejection from the woman he loved and this damnable pirate would slip away to freedom. And no one, not even his lieutenants, whom he called friends, had dared try to touch him since the Isle de Muerta; everyone James knew, it seemed, was afraid to--except, apparently, Jack Sparrow. James stood very still, letting the pirate touch him.
“Was it you taught him to fence, then?”
“...Yes. I was pressed into doing so, at first; even before she matured, Elizabeth could manipulate like no other.”
“I’ve little doubt,” Jack murmured. “She’s a fiery one, Commodore. Almost a pirate in her own right, and it comes to her more naturally than it ever did Will, and he’s actually got it in his blood.”
James cleared his throat. Her fire and her intelligence had been her primary appeal, had allowed him to see past the little girl he had once known and to recognize Elizabeth Swann the woman as beautiful and desirable, but he could not say that aloud just now: not with Jack Sparrow’s fingers gently making love to his wrist. Instead, he said, “We shall see tomorrow.”
Jack’s hand stilled, but did not move away. “Aye. That we will.” A hesitation. “When do you think you’ll know, mate, whether you want to do us both a few favors and deal with Davy Jones?”
After a moment of consideration, James repeated, more quietly and with a hint of reassurance in his tone, “We shall see tomorrow.”
The pirate released his wrist, taking with him, unnoticed, a shiny bronze button from the commodore’s coat-sleeve.
The commodore nodded once, firmly, and made his way out into what little remained of the night.
Jack was awoken shortly after dawn. He faced his “last meal” with a grim expression until he noticed that, at the corner of the small tray--with its otherwise dull bread, water pitcher, and bowl of mysterious liquidy form of sustenance only vaguely reminiscent of stew--was a familiar silver flask. He shook it, and frowned when it failed to slosh with rum, but then realized that what he heard instead was the sound of a bit of rolled-up paper.
His pulse quickened.
After waiting for the jailer to move out of earshot Jack unscrewed the top of the flask and shook the little scroll out into his hand. He unrolled it and read eagerly.
He paused, turned it over to glance at a small, neatly sketched map on the back, then flipped it over again and reread it.
Out of sheer disbelief, he read it again, and finally let out a breath he had not known that he was holding, and laughed breathlessly.
He tucked the scroll back into Norrington’s flask, which he secured under his waistcoat with the casual ease of an experienced pick-pocket.
So the commodore’s name was James then, if the note’s signature was to be believed. How marvelous, that they were at last on a first-name basis.
That, paired with the fact that his breakfast thankfully tasted a bit better than it looked, got the day of his execution off to an encouraging start.
The scene folded out just as both men had expected, except that Jack was still rather surprised by quite how good of an actor the commodore was. He even knew when to let honesty slip through. Now, for instance.
“So this is where your heart truly lies, then?”
Jack didn’t really want to see the look on the commodore’s face: James had known it would happen, aye, but that wouldn’t do much to soften the blow when it actually hit, out here in front of everyone, savvy?
Tentatively, Elizabeth said, “It is.”
Jack saw it anyway, and looked down lest he say anything they would both regret. Distraction, distraction, I need a... He looked up, and his train of thought abruptly switched tracks. Parrot. He resisted the urge to grin like a madman, but only just barely.
Time to put on a bit of a show, then, before making his exit.
“Well,” Jack said brightly, stepping out from behind the two whelps and ignoring the confused looks everyone shot him. “I’m actually feeling rather good about this.” He focused first on the governor. “I think we’ve all arrived at a very special place, Ay?” He leaned in just unnerve the older man a bit further. “Spiritually,” he continued, “ecumenically...grammatically.”
And then he whirled upon the commodore, pressing in close with his whole body this time. It should have caught him as odd, from the start, that out of all the pompous and dignified figures he’d met, James was the only one who stood his ground in defiance and did not even blink when Jack leaned in this close: deliberately unnerving and, this time, also a bit teasing. “I want you to know that I was rooting for you, mate.” He saw the momentary flicker of only half-honest perturbation in James’ look, mostly expressing something along the lines of What on earth do you think you are doing you insane fool?, before the man’s mask of authority turned it into something akin to a slightly confused sneer.
Jack pulled away, his eyes glinting with amusement as he added, “Know that.” He knew the commodore wanted to laugh, at this point, and so decided to make it worse.
“Elizabeth.” He put on a look of melodramatic sorrow as she turned to him. “It would have never worked between us, darling...” He trailed off, admiring the look of perfectly cutting and sardonic disbelief on her face, which said simply: You cannot be serious. No wonder James loved her. Jack put on a look of contrition, eyes downcast. “Sorry, sorry.” Then he peered up sharply. “Will?”
Young Mr. Turner met his gaze expectantly.
Jack thought briefly about propositioning him, too, just to see everyone’s faces, but didn’t feel he had the time to do it properly and still get on with escaping and everything, so he said simply, “Nice hat,” and darted away, aware of the sounds of boot-steps as the befuddled marines belatedly recalled their duties: namely, the ones that included capturing pirates.
Pausing at the top of the fort to look them all, Jack prepared for the crescendo, backing up as he declared, “This is the day that you will always remember as the day that-”
He saw James’ eyes momentarily widen, alight with a mixture of fear and hysterical humor at the sheer irony of it all, and then Jack was falling toward the sea, feeling that all was right with the world, especially once he bobbed to the surface and caught sight of the Black Pearl. Yes, all was well, indeed.
James had scarcely realized that he had so abruptly darted to stand quite so close to the edge Jack had fallen over until he felt a delayed stab of pain in his side, somewhere through the haze of adrenaline and confusion, and realized that there was a sharp drop several inches in front of where he stood. James watched Jack’s head break the water’s surface and resisted the urge to smirk. The pirate certainly knew how to make an exit.
He heard Gillette scoff, “Idiot. He’s nowhere to go but back to the noose.”
For a moment, James worried that might be the case, but then...
“Sail ho!”
James had been very happy to hear that phrase many times in his life, but this, he supposed, would have to be one of his favorites. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his still-racing heart.
“What’s your plan of action?” Gillette sounded eager.
Ah, nothing like professionalism to cool and clear his mind: the scene around him and his place in it snapped instantly into sharp focus. James schooled his expression into one of hesitation.
“Sir?”
James did not glance at him, making a show of looking conflicted.
He was relieved to hear Governor Swann suggest, “Perhaps, on rare occasion, if pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy, piracy itself can be the right course.” It almost sounded like a question.
James looked down, allowing himself a small smirk for a moment, just long enough for his men to note his change in mood. Then he turned serious once more. “Mr. Turner.” He turned on his heel, careful not to strain his injury again as he moved to a less precarious place stand. Then he waited for William to meet him.
He saw Elizabeth try to hold him back, and heard him say quietly, “I will accept the consequences of my actions.”
Will Turner was, James knew then with startling clarity, a good man. Foolishly noble and a bit reckless, perhaps, but that could be tempered, much like metal: a thought which gave James an idea.
He held up his sword between himself and William, so that he could examine it casually as its blade rested near the blacksmith’s neck. “This is a beautiful sword.” Then his voice took on a lower, more sincere quality. “I would expect the man who made it to show the same care and devotion in every aspect of his life.” He met the younger man’s gaze pointedly, the look in his eyes saying much that words never could.
William’s jaw tightened. He understood, but was too proud to show his bone-deep relief more than the visibly (and involuntarily) relaxed muscle-tension in his shoulders already showed for him. “Thank you,” he said succinctly.
James merely nodded and turned away.
Until Gillette stopped him. “Commodore.”
James turned expectantly.
“What about Sparrow?”
Pretending to weigh the matter heavily for a moment, James looked down, then said, with a more light-hearted air and the merest suggestion of sportsmanlike amusement, “Oh, I think we can afford to give him One day’s head start.” He raised his eyebrows and turned away again before the urge to smile could further tempt him. As he walked further from the top of the fort, from which two interesting bird-like persons had recently tumbled over the past month, James sheathed his sword and folded his hands behind his back, wondering if he were going mad.
Then again...
He recalled fighting skeletons across the deck of his ship, recalled listening with reluctant lack of judgement as Will haltingly explained all, and then recalled Jack Sparrow pressing in indecently close just moments ago and giving James that promising and utterly wicked look.
There were far worse reasons to lose one’s mind, he supposed.
The pirate had seen ahead of James’ own thinking, which had more than impressed the commodore, when he had worked it out several hours ago. Jack had foreseen James’ dilemma about his place in this strange new world, and the decision that the gray pre-dawn hours had brought to James’ mind: If I cannot serve and protect as the man I currently am, perhaps I have to become something else.
And to the inevitable question, What else is there, Jack had already provided an option for consideration.
James was intrigued. He had invited Jack Sparrow into a new sort of game, one which no one else in the commodore’s previous acquaintance had ever been capable of playing: the game that James’ mind played with the whole of the world.
He had felt the silver flask in Jack’s pocket, seen the glint of fire in Jack’s deep black eyes, and read the message in it: Challenge accepted, then, Commodore.
Definitely, James thought, worth a bit of madness.
Story Index || Next
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave. Jack Sparrow's habit dropping by regularly, as he has for years now, probably doesn't help.
Summary: Consider this to be shamelessly fabricated backstory and subtext for the end of COTBP, with a way to bring in Davy Jones and the others without actually having to go through the other two films. James' worldview has been shaken and the only person he can really discuss it with is a certain pirate.
Note: I've no real idea where this came from, except, perhaps, the thought, "What if James were an atheist and that provided some extra significance...hmmm." Followed by James-voice in the back of my head going, "If I cannot serve and protect as the man I currently am, perhaps I have to become something else." And it all went downhill from there. Plus: the boys were apparently feeling catty.
Commodore James Norrington, like many men of his time who valued reason and scientific thought, considered himself more than disillusioned when it came to such fanciful matters as magic, curses, heathen gods, and the romanticized life led by criminals, cutthroats and scoundrels.
Even at sea, where he had come to feel in tune on an almost spiritual level with the weather, the waves and the distinct characters of the ships under his command, he had kept himself clear on the lines between fancy and reality, between romanticism and rationalism. He had long ago ceased to believe even in God, not that he had told anyone. His world was an all the more wondrous place, for his thinking that no one had designed it, but that awe-inspiring beauty had been created anyway, with more complexity than he could account for in a lifetime of dreaming.
Norrington had long ago made it his mission in life to preserve civilized people from outside threats, be they pirates or foreigners with war-like intentions. However, he had long since become disillusioned about that, as well: the men and women James was meant to protect, he knew, were often just as corrupt as the ones that the navy was meant to fight against.
And so, cynical and slightly embittered, Norrington had continued his career in Port Royal, on the edge of the empire and of civilization itself. The port itself was corrupt and, outside the estates of the rich and prominent, often a haven for cutthroats, scoundrels and pirates, such as were still left in Caribbean waters.
Norrington had cleaned up the place rather well, according to most of Port Royal’s prominent personages, tradesman and merchants. Of course, few of them ever frequented the taverns and other gathering-places of more common sailors after dark.
For ten years he had been studying corruption and quietly working to eliminate its most unsavory figures and forms from amongst the ranks of his own men and the citizenry of Port Royal, by quiet and relatively peaceful (albeit occasionally somewhat underhanded) means, using networks of informants and subtle manipulation. It was still honest work, and had alleviated some of Norrington’s bitterness in recent years.
Following the incidents surrounding the Isle de Muerta, Commodore James Norrington had no idea what to think.
His rational world had grown abruptly and unexpectedly strange.
He and his men had fought a small army of immortal pirates who turned to skeletons by moonlight, due to a heathen curse, which had been lifted by the actions of an utterly selfish and immoral individual by the name of “Captain” Jack Sparrow.
And Sparrow had an appointment with the gallows in the morning.
James was unable to sleep, and not only because of the dull pain of the flesh-wound on his side. Most of his men, he knew, would be able to forget or dismiss the whole event. Many of them were possessed of enough religion and superstition that such would be easy for them, and the rest, who were more rational, would come up with other excuses: temporary madness, the work of the devil, et cetera.
Atheist and creature of scientific reasoning that he was, James found himself at a loss. He dressed in more civilian clothing, leaving his wig behind and donning an old black tricorne that he had worn long ago as a lieutenant. He did, however, still wear his coronation blade at his side.
Then he made his way to have words with the only man he knew could answer his questions, and whose judgement James did not care about in the least.
Jack Sparrow was pretending to snore quietly, but the lingering dust in the air from frantic movement, and the bit of bone (James recognized it as part of a larger bone that other prisoners had once used in order to try and lure the jailer’s dog close with the keys, but the dog had been named ‘Norrie’ by James’ lieutenants, because it was as stoic and impassive as their commanding officer) stuck in the door-lock, belied his act.
“Mr. Sparrow, I know you are awake.”
Still with his mouth partway-open in a fake snore, Jack opened one eye. After a moment of surprise, his mouth snapped shut and both of his kohl-smeared eyes opened wide. “Commodore,” he said quietly, cautiously. “I’ve not seen you outta uniform.” His appraisal showed distinct interest, but also calculated wariness. He was surprised once more to note that the good commodore was not a man softened by his position, which, since he was an officer, was something unusual in Jack’s experience. Jack Sparrow recalled his first glimpse of this man after defeating the undead at the Isle de Muerta: the blood-stained hawk in blue and white, seemingly unaware of his own injuries as he barked out commands in that calm, cold voice. Those pretty green eyes had been ablaze with a very dangerous sort of fire.
Jack Sparrow had met a number of intimidating persons in his time. The battle-ready and fight-sharpened commodore had sent more of a chill through him than most.
And now Norrington looked like a tiger patiently trying to ignore a sizable thorn in its side. He was not in uniform, so this was something personal. Luckily, the man did not seem to have a true vigilante bone in his body so far as Jack could see, and was therefore not likely to shoot him tonight. And the cold, almost clinically distant expression on Norrington’s face said that a bit of debauchery was, a bit unfortunately, also not in the cards. Curiosity piqued, Jack allowed himself a dark gold-edged grin that did not quite reach his eyes. “What brings a man like you to a place like this, all on yer own after dark?”
James could hear the wheels turning in the pirate’s brain. “Questions,” he said simply, giving nothing else away. He sat on the bench before Sparrow’s cell and doffed his hat, setting it beside him. Proper decorum seeming to go with the hat, James then leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands contemplatively as he once again met Jack’s gaze. “About the Isle de Muerta.”
Jack’s thoughts whirled, trying to feel out where this was coming from, as well as where it might be going. “What for, mate? You’ve enough accusations against me from the past to hang me for. Looking for more?” His jet-black eyes were cold.
Norrington did not flinch from them. “No.”
“‘Course not. Not without all yer fancy authoritative filigree on.” His fingers fluttered to indicate extraneous embroidery. “What are you lookin’ for from me, then, Commodore? The whelp has surely told you all of what happened, when you had your words with him, and you wouldn’t trust me to be truthful in retelling anyway.”
“I wonder why,” James mused, his sarcasm as dry as the sahara and cold as the antarctic.
Jack winced as though feeling the rasp of sandpaper against his skin. “Exactly,” he snapped, annoyed.
The commodore took a deep breath. “I am here, Mr. Sparrow, because I am trying to understand matters utterly foreign to me, but with which you seem to be expert.” He raised his eyebrows significantly. “At least, expert enough to break a heathen curse and thus rip away the immortality of your former crewmen, leaving them at the mercy of myself and my men.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had never seen such matter-of-fact humbleness in any man who possessed any sort of natural authority akin to Norrington’s. This man, the pirate was hesitant to admit, was intelligent, despite being one of His Majesty’s popinjays in naval blue and white. “What kind of information are you looking for, then? Further stories of cursed treasures and heathen gods?”
James snorted dismissively. “Hardly.” He glanced out at the sea, visible as it was through the large gap in the stone wall left by the Black Pearl’s attack just a few weeks ago. Other, more important repairs had taken precedent over the single open jail-cell. The raid had damaged much. Quietly, James murmured, “I am a rational man, Jack Sparrow, and I have protected Port Royal as best I could for nearly ten years. I had thought myself prepared for anything.”
Startled, Jack looked away from the commodore, scolding himself for letting the pretty man catch him off-guard with his prettiness. He cleared his throat quietly. “Except a particularly clever pirate and a heathen curse, ay?”
The commodore’s gaze hardened again, his green eyes like sea ice as he met Jack’s gaze again. “So it would seem.”
At last hearing the edge of anger from the other man, Jack grinned wickedly, but it faded fast. His voice was grim and almost contrite as he said, “The curse is broken, now. And you’ll be rid of me in the morning, won’t you?”
To Jack’s surprise, the commodore laughed bitterly under his breath. “Do you think me such an utter fool?”
Jack feigned innocence and confusion. “Ay?”
“Mr. Turner was here earlier in the evening, taking measure of the cells, supposedly for their repair. Am I to assume that he did not speak with you?” James leaned back against the wall now, folding his arms over his chest and remaining carefully stoic, except for the cynical, bleak sort of amusement flickering in his eyes.
“I’ve no idea what yer insinuating, mate.”
James held his gaze cooly, and for a long moment neither of them were inclined to budge. Jack, not admitting anything, willing to speak circuitously and unhelpfully all night; and James, accusing and willing to wait the pirate out, biting at his misdirection with calculated logic until the pirate lost patience.
Then Jack’s stubbornness let up enough for his opportunistic streak to break the silence. “It would seem we’re at an impasse, mate. You want knowledge from me to keep protecting your pretty little town, and I want something in return.”
“Of course,” James dismissed lightly. “You assume, then, that I’ve nothing to offer.” This time, there was something almost playful behind his scathing turn of phrase.
Despite his instincts screaming with warning and alarm, Jack found his interest piqued still further. “You surprise me, Commodore.”
“Fair is fair,” he countered, “except that I have not stolen your ship.”
“You’ve got another one, and doubtless they’ll replace the other for you if you pester the governor into using his connections properly.”
One of James’ eyebrows lifted a bit at that, but lowered as his expression became once more an inscrutable mask. “You already have an escape plan in place, obviously. Or, at least, your supporters do, so it will doubtlessly be impulsive and rather flawed in execution.”
Jack winced. “Not much else on hand to work with, however. Your gallows aren’t exactly located for a handy escape from your fort and its guards.”
“Thank you.”
The pirate scowled. “So what is it you offer, then? Your men won’t exactly be inclined to let me go, even if you are.”
James looked down at the floor. “There are more factors than that, Mr. Sparrow, as I think we are both aware.” A flicker of pain crossed his features; it had that unwillingly vulnerable look, quickly hidden, which Jack had only ever seen inspired by one person...
“Ah, Miss Swann, then.” His voice was still biting, but he almost regretted it when he saw another flicker of hurt on the commodore’s face; although, when the hurt was quickly replaced by fire this time, Jack remembered that this was an injured tiger, likely to lash out. He braced himself for the feeling of Norrington’s claws.
James tempered his anger, however, with a deep breath, summoning control from somewhere deep within him composed of steel and ice. “Yes.”
“You know, then.” Jack almost winced at the gentleness of his own voice.
“I knew it the moment that she made her promise, Mr. Sparrow. I am not a complete fool.”
“Quite an achievement, considering that yer in love and all. Greater men than you have fallen into less subtle traps,” Jack murmured, looking away, trying to remind himself of past pains to prevent himself from liking this man.
James glanced at him with a mixture of wariness and gratitude, but upon seeing the grim and slightly vulnerable look on the pirate’s face, the commodore had to look away again quickly: it reminded him too much of what he had seen in his own reflection lately. “I’ve no doubt it will be quite a scene, and will cause some amount of confusion.”
“An’ I can take it from there, but that’s still not exactly something yer offering me.” Jack’s composure had returned in a blink, and with it came that half-mocking half-tempting lilt to his words.
For a long time now, James considered himself beyond most temptations, but there were a few that this pirate had the potential to stir in him. The commodore felt fortunate, realizing that Sparrow did not seem to think them to be viable options. Not for the first time, James was relieved to find himself underestimated, even if just in his capacity for deviance.
At last, the commodore made his offer, his tone cool and utterly calm: “One day’s head start.” His heartbeat fluttered for a moment. It was a sportsman’s challenge, on the one hand, coming from the pirate hunter; however, from the man, its connotations were different; it was the challenge one might offer by way of mocking or playfulness, because when offered to an equal it was an invite to join in a new kind of game. Both interpretations, James was all too aware, were equally apt, as he gave this to Jack Sparrow.
Just for a moment, Jack reeled, feeling adrift on a brief flare of confusion: this was not the commodore he had ever expected. Then, as ever, he quickly got his bearings and realized what sort of man he was dealing with. The commodore, he reflected, looked much younger and a bit less pale without that horrible white wig. There was not a trace of pompousness to him now, and it made Jack wonder. “How good an actor are you?”
The faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at James’ lips for a brief moment, but his mask remained stubbornly in place. “The very best, Mr. Sparrow. The navy has been a fine teacher in that regard.”
Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Not very proper at all, are you, commodore?”
“This place was once considered, by my superiors, to be akin to Tortuga. And I have lived in and quietly begun manipulating my way into management here in Port Royal for several years, Mr. Sparrow. Was ‘proper’ really what you anticipated?”
Jack’s eyes widened with sudden realization: behind the mask of propriety, the perfect illusion of respectability provided by the naval presence and the richer, whiter segment of the populace...this place was still the Port Royal he remembered, for all that its depravities were now well-hidden. And this man was one of the primary ones responsible for maintaining that, in recent years. “And here I thought you were all about duty and honor.”
“You were half-wrong, then. Duty is a myth. Honor is merely another variety of pride, with virtue to guide it,” James muttered. “It is honor and humanity that have kept me here, protecting this place and the people in it; not the illusions of grandeur provided by patriotism, glory or falsely-humble duty.”
“I see.” Jack’s eyes glittered. “And what do you think, now, mate?” A flourishing gesture toward the moon outside, visible through the hole in the wall. “Now that you’ve seen a hint of what’s hiding out there where the world is still wild and parts of the map are still blank?”
James looked out at the moon, and the water, then looked away into the middle distance somewhere to his right. “I think that I may have found a more important battle to wage than the quiet ones I’ve been fighting here, but this is foreign territory to me, and to stumble into it blindly would be suicide.”
“You know, mate, there’s already a few men who’ve taken up that job, but most of ‘em aren’t exactly men anymore.”
“How so?”
“Well, their most recent incarnation, relatively speaking as we’re lookin’ at hundreds of years an’ all, goes by the name of Davy Jones.”
A sardonically arched eyebrow. “The captain of the Flying Dutchman?”
“Aye, among other things. He’s supposed to serve as a sort of guardian over the sea, which means keepin’ certain things properly hidden from most of the world, save those persistently curious buggers determined to chase the horizon until they run out of it, and we deserve our fates, whatever they may be.” His wicked, proud smile glittered gold in the moonlit and torch-lit dark of his cell. “He’s also responsible for takin’ care that souls lost at sea make it to the other side.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“I’m a good friend, of sorts, to his former lady-love.” This time his smile was a bit softer. “She’s kind enough to me: gave me my compass, in fact.”
Norrington shook his head, but said nothing about what he thought of said compass. “Is she inhuman, as well?”
“Heathen goddesses tend to be, but she’s stuck in human form. To put a long story short: Davy Jones is a cruel bastard.”
“Odd, in that his job seems to consist of mostly benevolent duties.”
“Aye, well, that’s all well and good for those with a bit of humanity left in ‘em, but he’s left that behind. Long story short: heathen goddesses are fickle and possessed of a tendency to drive their lovers mad enough to cut out their own hearts.”
Staring thoughtfully into the distance, James gave a low, considering hum. “Interesting.”
“My world tends to be, love. How about yours?”
James glanced up sharply at that, his brow furrowed and his eyes darkly wary.
Jack wondered where his piratical logic was going with this even as he spoke, but trusted his instincts. “I’m just thinking, Commodore, that you’re quite limited, here. I mean, once you move up to admiral, you can hardly stay isolated here in Port Royal, and you’ll lose all you’ve built here to your successor; however, a man like you wandering the world behind the world, could end up with much more far-reaching protective powers.”
Now the commodore wore a shrewd, intensely suspicious look, sensing that the pirate was once more trying to con him. However, he might not be wholly averse to letting him, depending upon the outcome. “How so? I take it that it’s not exactly like working one’s way up through ranks.”
“Of course not; it’s far easier, and requires a lot less patience. If, for instance, you perhaps wanted Davy Jones’ career for your own, complete with immortality of a sort, all you’d need to do would be to prepare yourself for only coming ashore for one day every ten years, and then once you’d come to terms with that, find the chest of Davy Jones, stab his still-beating heart, and there you are: all yours.”
For a moment, James blinked rapidly, stunned by the barrage of bizarre statements and thrown off by the off-kilter arrangement they had been presented in, via Jack’s rambling style. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Come to think of it, you’d be a great replacement for him.” Jack’s eyes glittered in the dark, bright with fierce and shrewd intelligence. “You’re more responsible, heartbreak hasn’t turned you into a miserable wretch with a cruel streak wider than the ocean is deep, and you seem to honestly want to help people, which is rare in and of itself even among honest men. Jones, y’see, started out as a pirate, so he already lacked a number of your more sterling qualities.”
James shut his eyes for a moment. “I do not believe this. You are sincerely trying to persuade me to...to...” He laughed, a bit reluctantly. “You not only believe in all of this, but you want very badly to make me a part of it. First you are chasing a cursed pirate ship for the sake of revenge, and now--why is it that you want Davy Jones dead as well?”
Jack fidgeted, made uneasy both by how well the commodore had seen through him, and by how attractive the man’s smile was when a laugh escaped from behind that austere mask he always wore. “Well, see, I may owe him a bit of a debt.”
The commodore raised his eyebrows. “A debt.” He was torn between rolling his eyes, laughing again, and feeling a sense of immanent doom. He settled for being sarcastic yet again. “Why am I not in the least surprised?” James shook his head. “What kind of debt?”
“My soul. And a hundred years of servitude aboard his ship. Something like that.”
“Is that...not unusual?” James had to wonder.
“It’s similar in a way, to how he sort of he gets most of his crewmen, y’see. If a sailor fears death and the final judgement and all, he’s the opportunity to sail the sea forever instead, under the command of Davy Jones. Not a bad deal, for a lot of men, but as the ship already has a captain...” Jack gestured toward himself as though he were regretfully at a loss as to what he could possibly do.
James rested his head back against the cool stone wall. “I cannot believe how truly insane you are.” Again, a low, not-quite stifled laugh. “What kind of bargain did you strike with him?”
“Thirteen years as captain of the Black Pearl.” He scowled. “I’ve got one left.”
With a deep sigh, James pulled an elegant silver flask from a well-concealed inner pocket of his civilian coat. He opened it and took a large swig, then offered it to the pirate.
Tentatively, Jack took it, sniffing at it cautiously. His eyes widened. “This is rum.”
“Yes. Of high quality in fact.” James snorted. “I am a sailor, Mr. Sparrow.”
“Captain,” Jack insisted, automatically, then tilted his head back to drain nearly half the flask.
James would have complained, but was distracted by the sight of a single drop of liquor trailing from Jack’s chin all the way down the wiry lines of the pirate’s throat. Unnerved by his own body’s reaction to the sight, which he quickly stifled with experienced control, James did not trust himself to say anything at all. He merely took the flask again when Jack returned it.
Jack watched the commodore lift the flask to his lips and drain half of what remained in it, with a bit more elegance than Jack had done, but like a good sailor nonetheless. “Have you reasons to stay here in Port Royal, Commodore? Other than the fine uniform and all, of course.”
“I have grown to care for many of the people here.”
Following a hunch, Jack inquired, “And are they equally fond of you?”
James hesitated. “They respect me. They are even proud of me.” He screwed the lid back on his flask and tucked it away. “The are, however, afraid of me.”
Again, Jack thought of a tiger. He blamed it on the commodore’s cat-green eyes. There was a lot, now, that he suddenly wanted to ask this man. He wanted to wheedle and tempt the commodore into liberation, but he knew that it was no use at the moment, not for this unique sort of man. Norrington, the pirate hazarded, would need time to think. Finally, Jack asked, “Have I earned my day’s head start, yet, Commodore?”
James shut his eyes, trying not to think of enemies that his sword cut down again and again, but who kept getting up. If he could protect more people from such curses, would it not suit him better than staying here, forever waiting for another attack that might never come? And if another, equally startling and unnatural thing never came, would he not begin to think himself mad? He had much to think about, now. “You have. I thank you.”
“So I’ve put some of your worries to rest?”
His eyes still closed, James felt his lips twist into a painfully cynical smirk. “Hardly. But I am no longer in the dark. This talk has been most illuminating.” His eyes fell open, but did not look at the pirate as James returned his hat to his head and pulled himself to his feet; involuntarily, he winced at the sharp pain this earned him from the wound at his side. He was surprised to feel Jack Sparrow’s hand wrap around his wrist. The grip of Jack’s thieving, pick-pocket hand was gentle, which alone bemused the commodore enough to prevent him automatically pulling away.
“How bad’s the wound?” His tone was purely conversational, but his fingers moved a little.
“Superficial,” James replied, in much the same tone. “If you’re seeking a hidden weapon up my sleeve, you have the wrong arm.”
“I know. Nice dagger, by the by. I noticed you use it once or twice on the Dauntless. One of Will’s?”
“One of his earlier works, yes. Also a coronation gift, incidentally, for when I became a captain.”
Jack’s thumb slipped under the sleeve of James’ shirt. “Did he have a fancy for you?”
James fought to remain inscrutable as Jack’s thumb ran up along the inside of his wrist, across the delicate blue veins there. “Hero-worship, perhaps. His hatred for pirates, and the fact that I had been aboard the ship that pulled him from the wreckage of a vessel attacked by Barbossa on the crossing from England had left him awed by me for some time.” He knew that he should pull away, but the rum had finally begun to warm him, his head and heart were heavy with storm clouds, and he knew that tomorrow he would face rejection from the woman he loved and this damnable pirate would slip away to freedom. And no one, not even his lieutenants, whom he called friends, had dared try to touch him since the Isle de Muerta; everyone James knew, it seemed, was afraid to--except, apparently, Jack Sparrow. James stood very still, letting the pirate touch him.
“Was it you taught him to fence, then?”
“...Yes. I was pressed into doing so, at first; even before she matured, Elizabeth could manipulate like no other.”
“I’ve little doubt,” Jack murmured. “She’s a fiery one, Commodore. Almost a pirate in her own right, and it comes to her more naturally than it ever did Will, and he’s actually got it in his blood.”
James cleared his throat. Her fire and her intelligence had been her primary appeal, had allowed him to see past the little girl he had once known and to recognize Elizabeth Swann the woman as beautiful and desirable, but he could not say that aloud just now: not with Jack Sparrow’s fingers gently making love to his wrist. Instead, he said, “We shall see tomorrow.”
Jack’s hand stilled, but did not move away. “Aye. That we will.” A hesitation. “When do you think you’ll know, mate, whether you want to do us both a few favors and deal with Davy Jones?”
After a moment of consideration, James repeated, more quietly and with a hint of reassurance in his tone, “We shall see tomorrow.”
The pirate released his wrist, taking with him, unnoticed, a shiny bronze button from the commodore’s coat-sleeve.
The commodore nodded once, firmly, and made his way out into what little remained of the night.
Jack was awoken shortly after dawn. He faced his “last meal” with a grim expression until he noticed that, at the corner of the small tray--with its otherwise dull bread, water pitcher, and bowl of mysterious liquidy form of sustenance only vaguely reminiscent of stew--was a familiar silver flask. He shook it, and frowned when it failed to slosh with rum, but then realized that what he heard instead was the sound of a bit of rolled-up paper.
His pulse quickened.
After waiting for the jailer to move out of earshot Jack unscrewed the top of the flask and shook the little scroll out into his hand. He unrolled it and read eagerly.
He paused, turned it over to glance at a small, neatly sketched map on the back, then flipped it over again and reread it.
Out of sheer disbelief, he read it again, and finally let out a breath he had not known that he was holding, and laughed breathlessly.
He tucked the scroll back into Norrington’s flask, which he secured under his waistcoat with the casual ease of an experienced pick-pocket.
So the commodore’s name was James then, if the note’s signature was to be believed. How marvelous, that they were at last on a first-name basis.
That, paired with the fact that his breakfast thankfully tasted a bit better than it looked, got the day of his execution off to an encouraging start.
The scene folded out just as both men had expected, except that Jack was still rather surprised by quite how good of an actor the commodore was. He even knew when to let honesty slip through. Now, for instance.
“So this is where your heart truly lies, then?”
Jack didn’t really want to see the look on the commodore’s face: James had known it would happen, aye, but that wouldn’t do much to soften the blow when it actually hit, out here in front of everyone, savvy?
Tentatively, Elizabeth said, “It is.”
Jack saw it anyway, and looked down lest he say anything they would both regret. Distraction, distraction, I need a... He looked up, and his train of thought abruptly switched tracks. Parrot. He resisted the urge to grin like a madman, but only just barely.
Time to put on a bit of a show, then, before making his exit.
“Well,” Jack said brightly, stepping out from behind the two whelps and ignoring the confused looks everyone shot him. “I’m actually feeling rather good about this.” He focused first on the governor. “I think we’ve all arrived at a very special place, Ay?” He leaned in just unnerve the older man a bit further. “Spiritually,” he continued, “ecumenically...grammatically.”
And then he whirled upon the commodore, pressing in close with his whole body this time. It should have caught him as odd, from the start, that out of all the pompous and dignified figures he’d met, James was the only one who stood his ground in defiance and did not even blink when Jack leaned in this close: deliberately unnerving and, this time, also a bit teasing. “I want you to know that I was rooting for you, mate.” He saw the momentary flicker of only half-honest perturbation in James’ look, mostly expressing something along the lines of What on earth do you think you are doing you insane fool?, before the man’s mask of authority turned it into something akin to a slightly confused sneer.
Jack pulled away, his eyes glinting with amusement as he added, “Know that.” He knew the commodore wanted to laugh, at this point, and so decided to make it worse.
“Elizabeth.” He put on a look of melodramatic sorrow as she turned to him. “It would have never worked between us, darling...” He trailed off, admiring the look of perfectly cutting and sardonic disbelief on her face, which said simply: You cannot be serious. No wonder James loved her. Jack put on a look of contrition, eyes downcast. “Sorry, sorry.” Then he peered up sharply. “Will?”
Young Mr. Turner met his gaze expectantly.
Jack thought briefly about propositioning him, too, just to see everyone’s faces, but didn’t feel he had the time to do it properly and still get on with escaping and everything, so he said simply, “Nice hat,” and darted away, aware of the sounds of boot-steps as the befuddled marines belatedly recalled their duties: namely, the ones that included capturing pirates.
Pausing at the top of the fort to look them all, Jack prepared for the crescendo, backing up as he declared, “This is the day that you will always remember as the day that-”
He saw James’ eyes momentarily widen, alight with a mixture of fear and hysterical humor at the sheer irony of it all, and then Jack was falling toward the sea, feeling that all was right with the world, especially once he bobbed to the surface and caught sight of the Black Pearl. Yes, all was well, indeed.
James had scarcely realized that he had so abruptly darted to stand quite so close to the edge Jack had fallen over until he felt a delayed stab of pain in his side, somewhere through the haze of adrenaline and confusion, and realized that there was a sharp drop several inches in front of where he stood. James watched Jack’s head break the water’s surface and resisted the urge to smirk. The pirate certainly knew how to make an exit.
He heard Gillette scoff, “Idiot. He’s nowhere to go but back to the noose.”
For a moment, James worried that might be the case, but then...
“Sail ho!”
James had been very happy to hear that phrase many times in his life, but this, he supposed, would have to be one of his favorites. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his still-racing heart.
“What’s your plan of action?” Gillette sounded eager.
Ah, nothing like professionalism to cool and clear his mind: the scene around him and his place in it snapped instantly into sharp focus. James schooled his expression into one of hesitation.
“Sir?”
James did not glance at him, making a show of looking conflicted.
He was relieved to hear Governor Swann suggest, “Perhaps, on rare occasion, if pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy, piracy itself can be the right course.” It almost sounded like a question.
James looked down, allowing himself a small smirk for a moment, just long enough for his men to note his change in mood. Then he turned serious once more. “Mr. Turner.” He turned on his heel, careful not to strain his injury again as he moved to a less precarious place stand. Then he waited for William to meet him.
He saw Elizabeth try to hold him back, and heard him say quietly, “I will accept the consequences of my actions.”
Will Turner was, James knew then with startling clarity, a good man. Foolishly noble and a bit reckless, perhaps, but that could be tempered, much like metal: a thought which gave James an idea.
He held up his sword between himself and William, so that he could examine it casually as its blade rested near the blacksmith’s neck. “This is a beautiful sword.” Then his voice took on a lower, more sincere quality. “I would expect the man who made it to show the same care and devotion in every aspect of his life.” He met the younger man’s gaze pointedly, the look in his eyes saying much that words never could.
William’s jaw tightened. He understood, but was too proud to show his bone-deep relief more than the visibly (and involuntarily) relaxed muscle-tension in his shoulders already showed for him. “Thank you,” he said succinctly.
James merely nodded and turned away.
Until Gillette stopped him. “Commodore.”
James turned expectantly.
“What about Sparrow?”
Pretending to weigh the matter heavily for a moment, James looked down, then said, with a more light-hearted air and the merest suggestion of sportsmanlike amusement, “Oh, I think we can afford to give him One day’s head start.” He raised his eyebrows and turned away again before the urge to smile could further tempt him. As he walked further from the top of the fort, from which two interesting bird-like persons had recently tumbled over the past month, James sheathed his sword and folded his hands behind his back, wondering if he were going mad.
Then again...
He recalled fighting skeletons across the deck of his ship, recalled listening with reluctant lack of judgement as Will haltingly explained all, and then recalled Jack Sparrow pressing in indecently close just moments ago and giving James that promising and utterly wicked look.
There were far worse reasons to lose one’s mind, he supposed.
The pirate had seen ahead of James’ own thinking, which had more than impressed the commodore, when he had worked it out several hours ago. Jack had foreseen James’ dilemma about his place in this strange new world, and the decision that the gray pre-dawn hours had brought to James’ mind: If I cannot serve and protect as the man I currently am, perhaps I have to become something else.
And to the inevitable question, What else is there, Jack had already provided an option for consideration.
James was intrigued. He had invited Jack Sparrow into a new sort of game, one which no one else in the commodore’s previous acquaintance had ever been capable of playing: the game that James’ mind played with the whole of the world.
He had felt the silver flask in Jack’s pocket, seen the glint of fire in Jack’s deep black eyes, and read the message in it: Challenge accepted, then, Commodore.
Definitely, James thought, worth a bit of madness.
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