Potc/Koh Sparrington
This is one of the summer drabbles I promised that grew wildly out of proportion and is no longer a drabble at all. The rest are still in production. If you've not got yours yet, I haven't forgotten.
Title: Daydream Believer
For: kyleri for the summer drabbles I said I'd write
Request: Sparrington in the Kingdom of Heaven-verse
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU(ish). Manglings of history.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses then I’d be sneezing because I’m allergic to horses and I’d be mad because I’d rather that wishes were the many incarnations of Johnny Depp.
This is set in the same verse as “ Things that Stay the Same”. (last one in the group) This comes before it. Unbetaed. Which probably wasn’t sound thinking.
*~*~*~*
Half the men were seasick on the way to the Holy Land. James was not, but then again, he grew up on the English coast and he knows the water as well as he knows his duty. His duty is to serve Baldwin the fourth, and, when the king dies (which seems likely to happen sooner rather than later), he will serve his successor.
Actually, James’ duty is to go to the Holy Land, kill the infidels and make a name for himself so the third son of Lord Norrington will have done something useful with himself and honored the family name in the process. James takes his religion very seriously, and this call to arms seemed a little closer to his temperament than becoming a monk and spending the rest of his life in cloisters. What he wanted to do was live by the sea and…he would have settled for being a fisherman but James had decided he would rather spend the rest of his life in a desert than behind stone walls. Being the Norrington to take their men to the Holy Land would do just fine if it kept him a free man.
He was not the first son to go there, but the second. His eldest brother had gone before him and managed to make something of a mess of doing his sacred duty. His Holiness the Pope had declared that this war was holy and to kill an infidel was a guaranteed path to Heaven. As it turned out, the king seemed to have something of a different opinion on the matter and James’ brother was hung for disturbing the peace.
James has no desire to die, he’s just a little unsure which is worse, being hanged for doing what the Pope says, or courting potential damnation. James hopes that all will become clear once he reaches his destination, but he has a sinking feeling that he will not be quite so lucky as to have the answer handed to him so easily.
For all that he had prepared himself for a new way of life his introduction to the Holy Land is something of a rude awakening.
He is not used to such extreme, unrelenting heat and he thanks God that his chain mail is strapped to his horse’s back and not his own. The men stumble around him, sending up prayers in many languages that they are safe ashore. Not so for James, and he looks back regretfully as they follow their guide into the desert, leaving the sea behind them. He trudges through the sand, to spare his horse the added burden as it too adjusts, and tries not to think of the way his mouth is already dry, or the sand pricking his eyes, or the weariness he already feels under such an unforgiving sun. He thinks instead on his duties and wonders how he is supposed to fulfill any of them, when he can barely breathe, never mind think.
James, in his own opinion, has many talents that will most likely prove wholly useless to him out here in the Holy Land. He can mend a fisherman’s net, he can read Latin, he knows when a storm is coming and how long before it hits; all manner of things that kept him dually occupied in his idle days as a third son. Now he is a second son and he laments that he did not study at more useful past-times. He knows the desert storm is coming, even before the guide alerts the caravan to the fact. He can taste it and smell it. He has no idea what to do when it arrives.
The sandstorm blows up suddenly and is terrifying in its ferocity. No quite as terrifying, however, for James, as finding himself separated from his party, lost in the desert, unable to see so much as a foot in front of him.
He wraps a spare shirt around his face to cover his nose and mouth from the sand and it doesn’t help.
The sand is so thick that he walks right into the tent without even noticing it. James crawls along the edge until he finds a tightly sealed flap. He doesn’t know what to do about his horse but he’s choking to death and he makes the hardest decision of his life when he leaves it outside, scrabbling his way into the safety of the tent. It says something about the ease of his life that this is the most difficult choice he’s ever had to make.
There is a man, a saurason, sitting crosslegged at a table of food. He looks up, crossly and waves his hand at James. “You are letting sand in,” he says in perfect English, though his voice is thick with a Moslem accent. When James does nothing but stand there and pant and gape at the man he scrunches up his face and says, less confidently this time, “Vous avez laissé le sable dans ma tente.” It’s not very good French, but James understands that too.
James swallows past the dryness in his throat and coughs. “My apologies,” he replies with a short bow, unwrapping the shirt from his face. “I got lost in the storm.”
If this Moslem is perturbed at seeing a Christian in his tent, he makes no sign of it. “This is not a storm. It is just a passing moment, it will not hold.” The man nods encouragingly. “Please, take your ease.”
James sheds his outer layers, leaving them in a sand covered heap on the floor, and then sits, albeit nervously. His host is exactly the kind of man he is supposed to kill. Killing the man whose hospitality has just saved your own life seems a little churlish to James so he only smiled weakly and shifted about on his seat. Belatedly he remembers his manners. “Thank you,” he says, another cough tickling at his throat. “And I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this.”
“My name is Yahya Ibn Ahmed al-Karim.” He pours James a glass of iced water and rests his elbows on his knees, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You may call me Yahya.”
There is no way that James could have pronounced Yahya’s full name so he’s as grateful for the respite as he is for the water. “James. James Norrington.” He swallows down grit with the water, but at least his mouth no longer feels like the air outside. “My thanks for your hospitality.”
Yahya snorts and starts piling a second plate high with food. “Even your brother would have taken refuge here, but I pray that you will not repay me as he would have.”
James chokes on his water. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your brother, the elder Norrington, was not a bad man, just…overzealous.” Yahya pushes the plate across the table towards James. “You will have to work to repair your name. I can see you are not him, but others may not be so forgiving.”
James stares at the food blindly. “I…I will not apologize for him,” he says finally. “I cannot.”
Yahya, through a mouthful of food, shrugs and says, “I would not expect you to.” He swallows and licks his lips. “What do you say, James Norrington?” His accent draws out the syllables in James name until it sounds like someone else. This is a place of new beginnings and James wonders if he will like this new version of himself that he can hear in Yahya’s voice. “Will you kill over language, and skin, and a difference of opinion on a religion that shares so much? Or, perhaps, will you work with the king for his dream?”
“What does the king dream of?”
Yahya shrugs one shoulder in an oddly elegant gesture. “Peace.” He licks the honey off his fingers and looks up and James through his lashes. “I have never seen the sea,” he announces in a manner as sideways as his glance. “You, I think, have not before witnessed my own sea of sand.”
James isn’t sure what is meat, what is vegetable, what sauce to dip which in and what is liable to make him ill. He sips hesitantly at his ice water instead. “No, indeed I had not.”
Abruptly Yayha leans forward and takes food from James’ plate. “Are we enemies?” he asks and James can only shake his head dumbly, a little bewildered at the way the conversation keeps turning about on him. “Good.” Yahya’s grin is bright against the tan of his face. “Then you must eat with me.” He deftly pushes the food between James’ lips. “Eat.”
James chews obediently and discovers it is chicken, and deliciously spiced at that. He looks down at his plate to remember what it was that Yayha gave him. When he lifts his gaze again he is treated to the sight of watching Yahya licking the fingers he had in James’ mouth. Yahya seems wholly unconcerned but it makes James distinctly uncomfortable. He picks at his food but his stomach has clenched up and it’s hard to enjoy the meat as he ought to.
“What do you dream of James Norrington?”
He washes down the chicken with more water and avoids looking into pitch-dark, kohl rimmed eyes. “The sea.” James isn’t sure why he tells Yahya that, but despite his discomfort, he likes this odd man who would take in the brother of a man who wronged his people. He likes the quick and ready grin that Yahya flashes at him, even if it is tinged with pity.
“Yet you come to the desert. Why?”
James swallows hard. “Duty.” He tries to smile but it sticks in his throat. “What do you dream?”
Yahya laughs. “That is not a subject fit for the table,” he says with a wink and, to his surprise, James finds himself laughing too.
Title: Daydream Believer
For: kyleri for the summer drabbles I said I'd write
Request: Sparrington in the Kingdom of Heaven-verse
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU(ish). Manglings of history.
Disclaimer: If wishes were horses then I’d be sneezing because I’m allergic to horses and I’d be mad because I’d rather that wishes were the many incarnations of Johnny Depp.
This is set in the same verse as “ Things that Stay the Same”. (last one in the group) This comes before it. Unbetaed. Which probably wasn’t sound thinking.
*~*~*~*
Half the men were seasick on the way to the Holy Land. James was not, but then again, he grew up on the English coast and he knows the water as well as he knows his duty. His duty is to serve Baldwin the fourth, and, when the king dies (which seems likely to happen sooner rather than later), he will serve his successor.
Actually, James’ duty is to go to the Holy Land, kill the infidels and make a name for himself so the third son of Lord Norrington will have done something useful with himself and honored the family name in the process. James takes his religion very seriously, and this call to arms seemed a little closer to his temperament than becoming a monk and spending the rest of his life in cloisters. What he wanted to do was live by the sea and…he would have settled for being a fisherman but James had decided he would rather spend the rest of his life in a desert than behind stone walls. Being the Norrington to take their men to the Holy Land would do just fine if it kept him a free man.
He was not the first son to go there, but the second. His eldest brother had gone before him and managed to make something of a mess of doing his sacred duty. His Holiness the Pope had declared that this war was holy and to kill an infidel was a guaranteed path to Heaven. As it turned out, the king seemed to have something of a different opinion on the matter and James’ brother was hung for disturbing the peace.
James has no desire to die, he’s just a little unsure which is worse, being hanged for doing what the Pope says, or courting potential damnation. James hopes that all will become clear once he reaches his destination, but he has a sinking feeling that he will not be quite so lucky as to have the answer handed to him so easily.
For all that he had prepared himself for a new way of life his introduction to the Holy Land is something of a rude awakening.
He is not used to such extreme, unrelenting heat and he thanks God that his chain mail is strapped to his horse’s back and not his own. The men stumble around him, sending up prayers in many languages that they are safe ashore. Not so for James, and he looks back regretfully as they follow their guide into the desert, leaving the sea behind them. He trudges through the sand, to spare his horse the added burden as it too adjusts, and tries not to think of the way his mouth is already dry, or the sand pricking his eyes, or the weariness he already feels under such an unforgiving sun. He thinks instead on his duties and wonders how he is supposed to fulfill any of them, when he can barely breathe, never mind think.
James, in his own opinion, has many talents that will most likely prove wholly useless to him out here in the Holy Land. He can mend a fisherman’s net, he can read Latin, he knows when a storm is coming and how long before it hits; all manner of things that kept him dually occupied in his idle days as a third son. Now he is a second son and he laments that he did not study at more useful past-times. He knows the desert storm is coming, even before the guide alerts the caravan to the fact. He can taste it and smell it. He has no idea what to do when it arrives.
The sandstorm blows up suddenly and is terrifying in its ferocity. No quite as terrifying, however, for James, as finding himself separated from his party, lost in the desert, unable to see so much as a foot in front of him.
He wraps a spare shirt around his face to cover his nose and mouth from the sand and it doesn’t help.
The sand is so thick that he walks right into the tent without even noticing it. James crawls along the edge until he finds a tightly sealed flap. He doesn’t know what to do about his horse but he’s choking to death and he makes the hardest decision of his life when he leaves it outside, scrabbling his way into the safety of the tent. It says something about the ease of his life that this is the most difficult choice he’s ever had to make.
There is a man, a saurason, sitting crosslegged at a table of food. He looks up, crossly and waves his hand at James. “You are letting sand in,” he says in perfect English, though his voice is thick with a Moslem accent. When James does nothing but stand there and pant and gape at the man he scrunches up his face and says, less confidently this time, “Vous avez laissé le sable dans ma tente.” It’s not very good French, but James understands that too.
James swallows past the dryness in his throat and coughs. “My apologies,” he replies with a short bow, unwrapping the shirt from his face. “I got lost in the storm.”
If this Moslem is perturbed at seeing a Christian in his tent, he makes no sign of it. “This is not a storm. It is just a passing moment, it will not hold.” The man nods encouragingly. “Please, take your ease.”
James sheds his outer layers, leaving them in a sand covered heap on the floor, and then sits, albeit nervously. His host is exactly the kind of man he is supposed to kill. Killing the man whose hospitality has just saved your own life seems a little churlish to James so he only smiled weakly and shifted about on his seat. Belatedly he remembers his manners. “Thank you,” he says, another cough tickling at his throat. “And I’m very sorry to intrude on you like this.”
“My name is Yahya Ibn Ahmed al-Karim.” He pours James a glass of iced water and rests his elbows on his knees, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You may call me Yahya.”
There is no way that James could have pronounced Yahya’s full name so he’s as grateful for the respite as he is for the water. “James. James Norrington.” He swallows down grit with the water, but at least his mouth no longer feels like the air outside. “My thanks for your hospitality.”
Yahya snorts and starts piling a second plate high with food. “Even your brother would have taken refuge here, but I pray that you will not repay me as he would have.”
James chokes on his water. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your brother, the elder Norrington, was not a bad man, just…overzealous.” Yahya pushes the plate across the table towards James. “You will have to work to repair your name. I can see you are not him, but others may not be so forgiving.”
James stares at the food blindly. “I…I will not apologize for him,” he says finally. “I cannot.”
Yahya, through a mouthful of food, shrugs and says, “I would not expect you to.” He swallows and licks his lips. “What do you say, James Norrington?” His accent draws out the syllables in James name until it sounds like someone else. This is a place of new beginnings and James wonders if he will like this new version of himself that he can hear in Yahya’s voice. “Will you kill over language, and skin, and a difference of opinion on a religion that shares so much? Or, perhaps, will you work with the king for his dream?”
“What does the king dream of?”
Yahya shrugs one shoulder in an oddly elegant gesture. “Peace.” He licks the honey off his fingers and looks up and James through his lashes. “I have never seen the sea,” he announces in a manner as sideways as his glance. “You, I think, have not before witnessed my own sea of sand.”
James isn’t sure what is meat, what is vegetable, what sauce to dip which in and what is liable to make him ill. He sips hesitantly at his ice water instead. “No, indeed I had not.”
Abruptly Yayha leans forward and takes food from James’ plate. “Are we enemies?” he asks and James can only shake his head dumbly, a little bewildered at the way the conversation keeps turning about on him. “Good.” Yahya’s grin is bright against the tan of his face. “Then you must eat with me.” He deftly pushes the food between James’ lips. “Eat.”
James chews obediently and discovers it is chicken, and deliciously spiced at that. He looks down at his plate to remember what it was that Yayha gave him. When he lifts his gaze again he is treated to the sight of watching Yahya licking the fingers he had in James’ mouth. Yahya seems wholly unconcerned but it makes James distinctly uncomfortable. He picks at his food but his stomach has clenched up and it’s hard to enjoy the meat as he ought to.
“What do you dream of James Norrington?”
He washes down the chicken with more water and avoids looking into pitch-dark, kohl rimmed eyes. “The sea.” James isn’t sure why he tells Yahya that, but despite his discomfort, he likes this odd man who would take in the brother of a man who wronged his people. He likes the quick and ready grin that Yahya flashes at him, even if it is tinged with pity.
“Yet you come to the desert. Why?”
James swallows hard. “Duty.” He tries to smile but it sticks in his throat. “What do you dream?”
Yahya laughs. “That is not a subject fit for the table,” he says with a wink and, to his surprise, James finds himself laughing too.