The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish - Chapter 3
Title: The Raptors of Misdirection and Waxing Gibberish
Pairing: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary: Norrington, as much as he likes his new ship, is unnerved by some things. Like the fact that it seems to be sentient. His next trip to Tortuga once more sees him met with Jack Sparrow. There is rum.
Chapter Three
Officially, the Gold Hawk was property of the Royal Navy, but one Commodore James Norrington quietly purchased it after pulling a few strings and preventing the Navy from altering the ship or fully evaluating how useful an addition she might make to the Admiral’s fleet. While he could not quite explain why he did it, the commodore kept the Hawk docked in Port Royal, supplied and ready to sail at a moment’s notice, and when he had time to spare or when the paperwork was yet again driving him mad, he would step aboard and inspect her, with every ounce of care and patience that he possessed; it soothed him.
Today, it was the paperwork that brought him to her, as well as his earlier mandatory socialization with men he knew now had sold their loyalties to Beckett.
Every time he came aboard, James felt the hum of the ship’s presence through his boots, like a contented sigh. The ship had a silent air of expectancy and excitement. James was not sure how, but he could sense her moods, separate from his own, but as tangible to him as the wind, the weather, the waves, and the tides. He found himself at the helm, his hands brushing across a few of the helm-spokes as he silently soothed the ship, him mind whispering, Not yet.
He was shocked when the faint hum of expectancy seemed to waver and he distinctly heard a low and feminine-voiced thought, clearly with no origins in his own mind, answering him: Soon. Then he could swear that he heard laughter; she was laughing at him for being so shocked and confused by the idea that his ship was talking to him.
James thought again of the woman in the ship’s hold and what she had told him. He had gotten this ship from a clearly supernatural source; should he really be surprised that it came with some perturbing qualities that defied logic and common sense?
Where are you from? James asked silently. It was experimental, to see if this situation was as insane as he thought it was.
Apparently, it was, because the ship answered, more in a tangle of impressions than real words, but somehow James got the message: The depths. The sea. Raised for you.
A slightly unsettling thought occurred to him as he thought back to the woman he had seen, whom he had sworn loyalty to. She had said something about a sister-ship to this one, and that had sounded important; although he had not been thinking so clearly at the time. What is the name of your sister?
The Black Pearl.
James restrained a mad, slightly hysterical laugh and bit his tongue. He rested his forehead against one of the Hawk’s helm-spokes and gave a bone-deep exasperated sigh. The world should not work like this. He was a rational man, and rational men did not believe in talking ships. Sane men...
Well, suddenly Jack Sparrow makes a lot more sense than he used to, James thought, and he could not quite stifle the amused snort or the bark of laughter the thought inspired, but it was brief and did not make him feel like he was losing his mind, which was good.
How did you know? When you said ‘Soon’ how did you know? he asked the ship, still unused to having a conversation with another sentient force using only his thoughts.
Calypso.
Somehow, James knew exactly who she meant: the dark-skinned woman with whom he had bartered. This time he merely gave a bitter and almost mirthless chuckle. “And I am Ulysses, in a way, save that I have always lacked a home to return to anyway,” he muttered, beginning to massage his temples, but he sounded more wry than irate. “And still the journey does go on.”
The ship beneath his feet gave a sympathetic hum that seemed to reach into his very bones: light, golden. Then, suddenly it faded and he felt clear-headed, focused, and calm-to-the-core as he only ever felt when he was at sea. His brow creased in confusion, because he was not at sea; he was in a ship that was still tied up at the dock.
“What was that?” he asked hesitantly, loosening his restraint and finally speaking aloud.
The ship replied: The sea is home.
James blinked once, then twice, then two more times in quick succession: madness or no, he was pretty sure that the magic ship had a point there. James cursed under his breath. “My God, I’m turning into Jack Sparrow.”
The ship laughed at him again. Jack is a dreamer, not a hunter.
Again, the ship was right and James felt distinctly out of joint with his usual reality. Undead pirates, those were easy to handle because they were something that could be fought, that had to be fought because they cut down his men; they were solid, for all that they lacked large amounts of flesh and blood, but they had bled out and fallen when the time had finally come. A magic ship was not something that could be verified by the sword, by blood spilled, and by scars such as the one that James still had from when one of their swords had nicked his waist. A sentient ship was several steps further into the unreal.
And yet, it made a bizarre sort of sense.
What, exactly, are we getting into, here, Miss Hawk?
He sensed amusement from the ship, then there was a strange sensation, like thoughts but less coherent; it was the ship’s way of telling him that she did not usually use words, because they usually did not mean much to her, or make much sense to her. Somehow, through it all, James recognized the particular thrill the ship was itching for; she wanted to hunt and she wanted to fight, with all of the eagerness of a trained falcon awaiting the chance to take wing.
“Oh yes. If this is anything like that preternatural bond between Sparrow and his ship, that man’s eccentricities are so much easier to understand, now,” James groaned.
Again, the ship hummed with anticipation. There were no more words, but James could translate without them this time. It was a simple message, after all, and he’d heard it already: Soon.
He realized, belatedly, that he felt the same sense of anticipation; although it was a calm day, James could taste a storm coming, could feel the hum of an oncoming sea-change. He had no idea what he was waiting for, but knew that he would recognize it when he saw it. He would be watching out for it. Reflexively, he again told his ship, “Not yet.”
And again, like distant music, she whispered back, Soon.
It was another few months before James was able to once more take two weeks’ leave in order to spend another several fruitful days wandering Tortuga and patiently listening to its babble. Too much of his news seemed to concern more information and speculation concerning East India Trading Company than anything else, and he was increasingly sick and tired of hearing about that-bloody-company.
Of course, then James noticed that the passed-out drunkard being hauled out of the tavern to be thrown into the pigs’ stalls was a drunkard with whom he was familiar. On a whim, he apologized to the men he was playing cards with, and explained that he had to go aid his friend to fend off the sultry advances of the local livestock. His French accent, as much as his slightly exasperated tones were responsible for making the men laugh as much as the actual suggestiveness of what James had said.
Surely enough, he verified that the man asleep amongst the sows was indeed the superstitious Mr. Gibbs of his past acquaintance. James tapped his closed lips with a thumb, and contemplated a large wooden bucket sitting ever-so-conveniently near a barrel of rainwater, but in the end decided that the last person he needed to chat with about Jack Sparrow was a drunkard with no ability to keep secrets who would recognize the face of James Norrington all too easily. James shook his head. Why on earth he had felt the brief urge to talk to Sparrow was something that he did not want to think about. He was all too willing to blame a certain ship still waiting in the docks back in Port Royal. His considerable distance from her had made James more restless than he cared to admit to himself.
In any case, Sparrow found James first, a few hours later, James left another tavern without too much to note aside from the leery commentary on the EITC. The commodore was very nearly growling as he stepped out into the street, only to stop dead in his tracks when the familiar lilting voice of Jack Sparrow interrupted his thoughts.
“You look like you need a drink, mate.”
James stiffened, then turned to look over his shoulder at the pirate. He arched an eyebrow, but at last reluctantly nodded and replied, “Perhaps so. I don’t suppose that you might know of any taverns nearby without constant brawling in them?”
Jack laughed. “Got a better idea. Follow me.” He was surprised when James did so, following as he bought two bottles of rum and headed toward the beach.
As the sounds of waves and shifting sands became audible and the raucous noise of Tortuga’s nightlife faded, James found himself feeling more relaxed. The sea had that effect on him. He watched Jack Sparrow plunk down onto the sand, opening one bottle of rum and holding out the other expectantly. James took it, and slowly sat down an almost genial distance from the pirate captain: a foot away. He did not open the bottle immediately, instead pulling a small leather-bound book from his pocket along with ink and pen. “Before I forget,” he explained simply, when Sparrow shot him a look.
Jack nodded, and only peeked a little at what the commodore wrote. He frowned a little when he realized it was in some kind of code. “Wrtinin’ in code. You Navies, no fun at all.” He was startled when James chuckled faintly, as much because of the way it made him shiver as because of the sheer shock of actually hearing the man laugh in a non-sarcastic manner.
“You should talk, Sparrow. The way that you speak when you are most determined to mislead and perplex people could be considered a code unto itself. It should have name... perhaps ‘waxing gibberish’ or something.”
Jack frowned at that and changed the subject. “So... you listen to the old deckhands and the disposable crewmen to learn about us pirates. And you’ve so far only gone after the slimiest of ‘em all. But are ya gonna maybe pace yourself, mate? ‘Cause six ships in those four months was a big dent in the population around here, and you clearly aren’t still of the ‘kill ‘em all’ mindset. At least, so I’m thinkin’; it still almost made me relieved when this last few months the EITC started to run your lot around to play guard-dogs to their bloody ships.”
A faint scowl indicated James feelings on the EITC matter, but he was civil as he explained, “On this particular trip I have paid less attention to piracy than to smuggling operations. They are more wide-spread than the usual routes of any single pirate and take rather longer to track down and eliminate. Since I now have several leads on some of the smuggling routes and the bosses who run them, I have my schedule booked for a few more months, during which the pirate population can complete its recovery, I suppose. Unless, of course, a particularly bloody massacre distracts me, at which point, another half-dozen pirate ships will make their way down to Davy Jones’ locker.” James’ pen scratching along the page was just scarcely audible over the sounds of the tides and the more distant murmurs of Tortuga behind them. “How many times do you think it will take, before the people here pick up on the pattern and the bloodthirsty ones find their careers a little harder to maintain?”
Jack smirked a bit. “You’re treatin’ it like a game, then, Commodore?”
“What else has it ever been to your ilk, Sparrow?”
“Oh, a lotta things. Survival. Freedom. An art form.” He leaned closer. “Then there’s some who treat it like a bloody hobby, but we call them Privateers.” Jack’s gaze fixed on the commodore’s lips as they curled into a smirk again. Jack had to admit that Navy-ness aside, the man had a lovely mouth.
“Somehow, I am not surprised.” A long pause followed as James set his journal aside on the sand, the ink-bottle and pen holding the open pages down as the ink dried. Then he opened his own bottle of rum and took a swig, which reminded Jack to drink from his own.
“So what do you call this, then, Commodore? What you’re doin’ here in Tortuga, an’ this drinkin’ rum with a known pirate on the beach?”
“Considering that, so far as the respectable world knows, I am taking two weeks’ quiet holiday to recover from a bullet-wound in my left shoulder, I suppose that this could be counted as my leisurely socialization with prominent personages about town.” He smirked lightly and shot Sparrow a sharp glance. “If I really wanted to stretch it, I suppose I could refer to you as an ‘old friend’ keeping me out of trouble.”
Bullet wound, ay? Jack had wondered about the slight stiffness to the commodore’s movements on his left side; Norrington hid it well, for the most part. “Gibberish indeed, then. And I’m more like keepin’ you outta my trouble, mate. Your presence here in Tortuga is about as suspicious as my presence would be in the King’s bedroom.”
That made James actually smile slightly, for all that it bore a wicked edge, and for a moment the two men held each other’s gaze thoughtfully; Jack intrigued by a less cruel and deadly side of the commodore’s sense of humor, and James intrigued by the pirate’s wit.
“Do you still have trouble believing that a man can be an officer of the British Royal Navy and a good man?” James taunted.
Jack gaped openly for a moment, which earned a brief laugh from the commodore, which in turn made Jack sputter with shock and irritation. “Alright, who the Hell are you and what have you done with Commodore Norrington?”
The commodore merely laughed again, more quietly, then seemed to notice something. “I just noticed--you have no idea what my first name is, do you? Usually you go out of your way to avoid courteous use of a persons titles or surnames if you have their given names to throw at them with your habitual impudence.”
“Don’t they confiscate the damned things when you join the bloody Navy?”
“Only for the sake of formality and to confuse pirates,” James countered dryly.
Jack snorted. “Well, until recent, I don’t think I’ve quite seen you anything other than formal and out t’see that I suffered--what was it?--a short drop and a sudden stop, I believe.”
“Fair enough.” Appearing amused James lifted the leather-bound book and shook the sand off of its pages before closing it and putting it once more in the breast pocket of his coat.
“I have wondered about your name. Tried to think of one that might suit you more than ‘Commodore’ but I couldn’t come up with anything, mate. The title fits you to a ‘T’, it does.”
“Odd, because I rather preferred the station of Captain.” At Jack’s disbelieving look, James grimaced very faintly and explained, “Less paperwork.”
Jack chuckled. “Then you shouldn’t ‘ave joined the King’s Navy, Commodore.”
James merely snorted. “Due to my social and economic statuses at the time, my choices were limited to being disowned, joining the Navy, or becoming a man of the clergy; the latter wherein I would have gone out of my mind with boredom within two weeks and never gotten out of England.” There was such dark and well-contained anger in his voice that Jack thought he felt the air around them visibly chill for a few moments.
“Bad memories?”
“Interesting family members.” Again, frosty.
“Ah,” Jack said. “Sibling rivalry or horrible parents?” he guessed, his voice knowing.
“A bit of both, but my mother died young so of the latter stipulation I can only judge based on the other half; and while many of his issues stemmed from her death, the rest were purely from his own bigotry. My eldest brother was more clearly despicable; he once tried to kill me.” James took another swig of rum, which Jack thought was quite a good idea, because the man looked like he needed it.
“Interesting gentlemen, sounds like.”
“And one of the worst scoundrels to ever bear the title of ‘gentleman’ as well,” James mused. “He died... not quite a year ago, now.” He did not sound aggrieved, nor did he sound satisfied. He merely took another swig of rum, aware that the pirate was watching him intently.
Jack was trying very hard not to like Norrington. “My condolences.”
“On his death or my apathy towards it?”
“Both.”
James thought about this, and then nodded, just once, his eyes falling shut for a brief moment. “Much appreciated.”
A long, companionable silence passed between them as they drank.
“I still can’t figure why you’re here, mate.”
“Here in Tortuga? Here on this beach? Or are you getting existential?”
“Yes to the first two, and I refuse to dignify the third with an answer,” Jack snorted.
“You really want to know?”
“It’ll help me sleep at night, mate.” Jack surprised himself with his sincerity there, but really, he did worry about this clever commodore; he needed to know what the green-eyed man’s game was, so that he could try to avoid becoming one of its casualties.
James seemed slightly surprised by it, too, and nodded. “It’s simple really: Beckett.”
Jack’s entire body tensed. “Cutler Beckett?” he snapped, looking altogether like a cat whose tail was just stepped on. “He’s stalking about?”
“Yes. He’s a Lord now, as well,” Norrington muttered, his voice scathing.
Sparrow’s face lit up with realization and understanding, his hands flourishing accordingly. “Oh, I get it, then, mate. He’s tryin’ to get his hands into the Navy’s br-”
“Sparrow, I must warn you that if you make that comment as obscene as I suspect that you intend to, I will be forced, purely as a matter of honor, to hit you hard enough that you will wash away with the morning’s high tide and still not wake up. Consider yourself warned.”
Jack scowled. “-business,” he concluded flatly, sounding distinctly put out.
James nodded, and continued the conversation as though he had not just made any idle threats. “Yes. He’s also been trying to put Port Royal in his pocket for about two years now, but his tactics are only now seeping in. His corrupt officials are following suit.” Norrington gave a low growl, which Jack made a valiant effort not to react to. “That man is a snake.”
“You insult some fine reptiles with that statement, mate. I prefer to think of him as a worm. Much lower and more lamentable creature: also, it’s smaller and more aptly slimy.” Jack was rubbing the brand on his wrist with a dark expression on his face.
The commodore noticed. “Ah,” he said. “He gave you that one, then.”
Sparrow grimaced, but turned it into a ferocious smile. “Aye, but I left a mark on him, too, don’t you worry, Commodore.”
James had only ever seen the expression on Jack’s face in one other place: his mirror, back in the days when he had been teaching some Spanish bastards a lesson. Seeing the commodore staring so intently, Jack shot him a challenging glare. Wordlessly, James pushed back his shirt- and coat-sleeves enough to expose his wrists. By way of explanation, he held them so that Jack could see the shackle-scars.
Jack’s brow creased with confusion, then smoothed with pure shock as a sympathetic hiss escaped from between his teeth involuntarily. “Bloody Hell, mate,” he muttered, and hesitantly touched one of Norrington’s wrists, his fingers curling to gently hold it in place, then running the pad of his thumb across the width of one scar. He could read some of its history: made by slave-shackles and not a prisoner’s manacles, the wounds had gotten infected at some point, and had not been cared for properly until they had already begun to fester. It was not something he had ever expected to see on the pale flesh of a naval officer, let alone a proud, high-ranking and authoritative one like this commodore.
James’ jaw clenched at the way his body seemed inclined to react to that simple touch, surprised by not just the warmth of Sparrow’s hand, but also by the not-disagreeable heat that he felt himself wanting to respond to it with; however, James kept himself as contained and calm as ever, and in perfectly stoic tones, he said, “For the record, Captain Sparrow, Beckett and I have some very sharply differing opinions on the management of trade in the Caribbean. I think you can guess which trades in particular we might disagree over most severely.” When Jack gently let go, James calmly re-adjusted his sleeves to cover the marks.
“I believe ya, mate.” Jack thought about it. “Spanish?”
“Yes.”
“Aye. Right bastards, the lot of ‘em.”
James smirked faintly. “I left my marks on them, Captain, don’t you worry about that.” His sea-green eyes were dark with something cold and ferocious.
Jack saw it, read it, and nodded to show that he recognized it. “I suppose ye can be an officer of the British Royal Bloody Navy still be a good man, Commodore.”
The look in James’ eyes softened to bitter amusement, and his smirk did, too. “As can a pirate, it would seem.” Then a bit of a smile. “And it’s James. Commodore James L. Norrington. Since you were wondering.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised a little, but he nodded slowly. “James it is, then.” He raised his bottle of rum as if for a toast.
James tapped it with his own. “Thank you, Jack”
They drank deep, and spent a few moments watching the waves roll in.
“You actually gonna try and chase Beckett out, then?” Jack inquired.
James considered it, felt a faint golden shiver drift to him from across the water--from the distant Gold Hawk. He repeated her message to Jack: “Soon.”
Jack was vaguely confused for a moment, not wholly sure whether or not he was hearing things, because he could have sworn that he’d heard a voice from the nearby waves, but since Norrington had failed to visibly react, Jack blamed the rum and replied, “Aye. That’ll be good, then. You won’t mind if I take down a few of his ships, ay? Me crew is always itchin’ for a chance to throttle some of the EITC.”
A faint smirk, then James told him three places not to go, and five places wherein Jack would have very good luck finding what he was after.
Jack gave a low whistle. “You’re good, James, I’ll give ya that. No idea what’s keepin’ ya in the Navy with that piratical talent right there.”
James’ jaw clenched. “I am disinclined to call it piratical.”
“Hey, mate, you heard those old sea-dogs the last time you were here: ‘there’s pirates, there’s pirates, and then there’s... the bastards of the sea.’ Somethin’ like that. Y’ savvy?”
“At the moment, somewhat, but I blame the rum.” James winced. “And the bloody ship.”
“Wot?” Jack quirked an eyebrow.
James took a deep breath. “I found a ship, recently; she was abandoned. I purchased her from the Navy, actually.” Another whisper of something from across the water, from the direction of Port Royal. A very odd and crooked smirk crossed James’ face. “The whole matter has been on my mind, lately.”
Jack rubbed his ear. “Did you hear somethin’, mate? Like a lady’s voice almost?” Because it hadn’t been the Black Pearl. It had been a different voice. But why did it remind him of her?
“Yes. I did. And that’s part of the point.” He glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of Tortuga’s port. He was faintly aware of the Black Pearl’s position; not as acutely as he was of the Gold Hawk, and it faded once he got far enough from her, but he could sense where the other ship was, and he had no doubt that if he got close enough, he might hear her too.
Jack was looking at him very sharply now. “What are ya lookin’ for, there, James?”
“My sanity, Sparrow. I’m questioning it a lot of late, and sometimes I wonder if it hasn’t outright vanished without my noticing.” He faced Jack again, looking solemn, but also wearing a sincere edge of exasperation that was, for once, not aimed at Jack specifically.
Reluctantly, Jack nodded. “Aye. For a man like yourself in a position such as this, I don’t find that the least bit surprisin’.”
James gave a nod, too, and looked out over the water. “My position... is increasingly fragile. Beckett has managed to put my superiors, including the Admiral, in his pocket. And Beckett’s been twisting everything in knots over the past four months to get in a position wherein he can force me--famous pirate hunter that I suddenly am-” a faint grimace showed his resentment of Beckett, but no hint of regret on behalf of his own actions “-to chase you. Just you. I suspect that he wants something specific from you, as he very badly wants you captured instead of killed or sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Be wary of him.”
Jack winced. “Thanks, mate. I’ll keep a weather eye.”
“Don’t let me come close enough to catch you, Jack. Use every trick that you possibly can, and I will try to be foiled by most of them.” A faint smirk. “And in the process, waste Beckett’s time and money as much as possible.”
That earned a wicked laugh from Jack, and again, the pirate held out his bottle towards the commodore as if to make a toast.
Again, James clinked his against it. They drained the rum, shook hands, and staggered their separate ways.
Previous || Story Index || Next
Pairing: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington
Rating: PG-13 for now, NC-17 later
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington is making himself quite at home in my head, the snarky British bastard.
Dedication: This is all Norrington’s fault.
Summary: Norrington, as much as he likes his new ship, is unnerved by some things. Like the fact that it seems to be sentient. His next trip to Tortuga once more sees him met with Jack Sparrow. There is rum.
Chapter Three
Officially, the Gold Hawk was property of the Royal Navy, but one Commodore James Norrington quietly purchased it after pulling a few strings and preventing the Navy from altering the ship or fully evaluating how useful an addition she might make to the Admiral’s fleet. While he could not quite explain why he did it, the commodore kept the Hawk docked in Port Royal, supplied and ready to sail at a moment’s notice, and when he had time to spare or when the paperwork was yet again driving him mad, he would step aboard and inspect her, with every ounce of care and patience that he possessed; it soothed him.
Today, it was the paperwork that brought him to her, as well as his earlier mandatory socialization with men he knew now had sold their loyalties to Beckett.
Every time he came aboard, James felt the hum of the ship’s presence through his boots, like a contented sigh. The ship had a silent air of expectancy and excitement. James was not sure how, but he could sense her moods, separate from his own, but as tangible to him as the wind, the weather, the waves, and the tides. He found himself at the helm, his hands brushing across a few of the helm-spokes as he silently soothed the ship, him mind whispering, Not yet.
He was shocked when the faint hum of expectancy seemed to waver and he distinctly heard a low and feminine-voiced thought, clearly with no origins in his own mind, answering him: Soon. Then he could swear that he heard laughter; she was laughing at him for being so shocked and confused by the idea that his ship was talking to him.
James thought again of the woman in the ship’s hold and what she had told him. He had gotten this ship from a clearly supernatural source; should he really be surprised that it came with some perturbing qualities that defied logic and common sense?
Where are you from? James asked silently. It was experimental, to see if this situation was as insane as he thought it was.
Apparently, it was, because the ship answered, more in a tangle of impressions than real words, but somehow James got the message: The depths. The sea. Raised for you.
A slightly unsettling thought occurred to him as he thought back to the woman he had seen, whom he had sworn loyalty to. She had said something about a sister-ship to this one, and that had sounded important; although he had not been thinking so clearly at the time. What is the name of your sister?
The Black Pearl.
James restrained a mad, slightly hysterical laugh and bit his tongue. He rested his forehead against one of the Hawk’s helm-spokes and gave a bone-deep exasperated sigh. The world should not work like this. He was a rational man, and rational men did not believe in talking ships. Sane men...
Well, suddenly Jack Sparrow makes a lot more sense than he used to, James thought, and he could not quite stifle the amused snort or the bark of laughter the thought inspired, but it was brief and did not make him feel like he was losing his mind, which was good.
How did you know? When you said ‘Soon’ how did you know? he asked the ship, still unused to having a conversation with another sentient force using only his thoughts.
Calypso.
Somehow, James knew exactly who she meant: the dark-skinned woman with whom he had bartered. This time he merely gave a bitter and almost mirthless chuckle. “And I am Ulysses, in a way, save that I have always lacked a home to return to anyway,” he muttered, beginning to massage his temples, but he sounded more wry than irate. “And still the journey does go on.”
The ship beneath his feet gave a sympathetic hum that seemed to reach into his very bones: light, golden. Then, suddenly it faded and he felt clear-headed, focused, and calm-to-the-core as he only ever felt when he was at sea. His brow creased in confusion, because he was not at sea; he was in a ship that was still tied up at the dock.
“What was that?” he asked hesitantly, loosening his restraint and finally speaking aloud.
The ship replied: The sea is home.
James blinked once, then twice, then two more times in quick succession: madness or no, he was pretty sure that the magic ship had a point there. James cursed under his breath. “My God, I’m turning into Jack Sparrow.”
The ship laughed at him again. Jack is a dreamer, not a hunter.
Again, the ship was right and James felt distinctly out of joint with his usual reality. Undead pirates, those were easy to handle because they were something that could be fought, that had to be fought because they cut down his men; they were solid, for all that they lacked large amounts of flesh and blood, but they had bled out and fallen when the time had finally come. A magic ship was not something that could be verified by the sword, by blood spilled, and by scars such as the one that James still had from when one of their swords had nicked his waist. A sentient ship was several steps further into the unreal.
And yet, it made a bizarre sort of sense.
What, exactly, are we getting into, here, Miss Hawk?
He sensed amusement from the ship, then there was a strange sensation, like thoughts but less coherent; it was the ship’s way of telling him that she did not usually use words, because they usually did not mean much to her, or make much sense to her. Somehow, through it all, James recognized the particular thrill the ship was itching for; she wanted to hunt and she wanted to fight, with all of the eagerness of a trained falcon awaiting the chance to take wing.
“Oh yes. If this is anything like that preternatural bond between Sparrow and his ship, that man’s eccentricities are so much easier to understand, now,” James groaned.
Again, the ship hummed with anticipation. There were no more words, but James could translate without them this time. It was a simple message, after all, and he’d heard it already: Soon.
He realized, belatedly, that he felt the same sense of anticipation; although it was a calm day, James could taste a storm coming, could feel the hum of an oncoming sea-change. He had no idea what he was waiting for, but knew that he would recognize it when he saw it. He would be watching out for it. Reflexively, he again told his ship, “Not yet.”
And again, like distant music, she whispered back, Soon.
It was another few months before James was able to once more take two weeks’ leave in order to spend another several fruitful days wandering Tortuga and patiently listening to its babble. Too much of his news seemed to concern more information and speculation concerning East India Trading Company than anything else, and he was increasingly sick and tired of hearing about that-bloody-company.
Of course, then James noticed that the passed-out drunkard being hauled out of the tavern to be thrown into the pigs’ stalls was a drunkard with whom he was familiar. On a whim, he apologized to the men he was playing cards with, and explained that he had to go aid his friend to fend off the sultry advances of the local livestock. His French accent, as much as his slightly exasperated tones were responsible for making the men laugh as much as the actual suggestiveness of what James had said.
Surely enough, he verified that the man asleep amongst the sows was indeed the superstitious Mr. Gibbs of his past acquaintance. James tapped his closed lips with a thumb, and contemplated a large wooden bucket sitting ever-so-conveniently near a barrel of rainwater, but in the end decided that the last person he needed to chat with about Jack Sparrow was a drunkard with no ability to keep secrets who would recognize the face of James Norrington all too easily. James shook his head. Why on earth he had felt the brief urge to talk to Sparrow was something that he did not want to think about. He was all too willing to blame a certain ship still waiting in the docks back in Port Royal. His considerable distance from her had made James more restless than he cared to admit to himself.
In any case, Sparrow found James first, a few hours later, James left another tavern without too much to note aside from the leery commentary on the EITC. The commodore was very nearly growling as he stepped out into the street, only to stop dead in his tracks when the familiar lilting voice of Jack Sparrow interrupted his thoughts.
“You look like you need a drink, mate.”
James stiffened, then turned to look over his shoulder at the pirate. He arched an eyebrow, but at last reluctantly nodded and replied, “Perhaps so. I don’t suppose that you might know of any taverns nearby without constant brawling in them?”
Jack laughed. “Got a better idea. Follow me.” He was surprised when James did so, following as he bought two bottles of rum and headed toward the beach.
As the sounds of waves and shifting sands became audible and the raucous noise of Tortuga’s nightlife faded, James found himself feeling more relaxed. The sea had that effect on him. He watched Jack Sparrow plunk down onto the sand, opening one bottle of rum and holding out the other expectantly. James took it, and slowly sat down an almost genial distance from the pirate captain: a foot away. He did not open the bottle immediately, instead pulling a small leather-bound book from his pocket along with ink and pen. “Before I forget,” he explained simply, when Sparrow shot him a look.
Jack nodded, and only peeked a little at what the commodore wrote. He frowned a little when he realized it was in some kind of code. “Wrtinin’ in code. You Navies, no fun at all.” He was startled when James chuckled faintly, as much because of the way it made him shiver as because of the sheer shock of actually hearing the man laugh in a non-sarcastic manner.
“You should talk, Sparrow. The way that you speak when you are most determined to mislead and perplex people could be considered a code unto itself. It should have name... perhaps ‘waxing gibberish’ or something.”
Jack frowned at that and changed the subject. “So... you listen to the old deckhands and the disposable crewmen to learn about us pirates. And you’ve so far only gone after the slimiest of ‘em all. But are ya gonna maybe pace yourself, mate? ‘Cause six ships in those four months was a big dent in the population around here, and you clearly aren’t still of the ‘kill ‘em all’ mindset. At least, so I’m thinkin’; it still almost made me relieved when this last few months the EITC started to run your lot around to play guard-dogs to their bloody ships.”
A faint scowl indicated James feelings on the EITC matter, but he was civil as he explained, “On this particular trip I have paid less attention to piracy than to smuggling operations. They are more wide-spread than the usual routes of any single pirate and take rather longer to track down and eliminate. Since I now have several leads on some of the smuggling routes and the bosses who run them, I have my schedule booked for a few more months, during which the pirate population can complete its recovery, I suppose. Unless, of course, a particularly bloody massacre distracts me, at which point, another half-dozen pirate ships will make their way down to Davy Jones’ locker.” James’ pen scratching along the page was just scarcely audible over the sounds of the tides and the more distant murmurs of Tortuga behind them. “How many times do you think it will take, before the people here pick up on the pattern and the bloodthirsty ones find their careers a little harder to maintain?”
Jack smirked a bit. “You’re treatin’ it like a game, then, Commodore?”
“What else has it ever been to your ilk, Sparrow?”
“Oh, a lotta things. Survival. Freedom. An art form.” He leaned closer. “Then there’s some who treat it like a bloody hobby, but we call them Privateers.” Jack’s gaze fixed on the commodore’s lips as they curled into a smirk again. Jack had to admit that Navy-ness aside, the man had a lovely mouth.
“Somehow, I am not surprised.” A long pause followed as James set his journal aside on the sand, the ink-bottle and pen holding the open pages down as the ink dried. Then he opened his own bottle of rum and took a swig, which reminded Jack to drink from his own.
“So what do you call this, then, Commodore? What you’re doin’ here in Tortuga, an’ this drinkin’ rum with a known pirate on the beach?”
“Considering that, so far as the respectable world knows, I am taking two weeks’ quiet holiday to recover from a bullet-wound in my left shoulder, I suppose that this could be counted as my leisurely socialization with prominent personages about town.” He smirked lightly and shot Sparrow a sharp glance. “If I really wanted to stretch it, I suppose I could refer to you as an ‘old friend’ keeping me out of trouble.”
Bullet wound, ay? Jack had wondered about the slight stiffness to the commodore’s movements on his left side; Norrington hid it well, for the most part. “Gibberish indeed, then. And I’m more like keepin’ you outta my trouble, mate. Your presence here in Tortuga is about as suspicious as my presence would be in the King’s bedroom.”
That made James actually smile slightly, for all that it bore a wicked edge, and for a moment the two men held each other’s gaze thoughtfully; Jack intrigued by a less cruel and deadly side of the commodore’s sense of humor, and James intrigued by the pirate’s wit.
“Do you still have trouble believing that a man can be an officer of the British Royal Navy and a good man?” James taunted.
Jack gaped openly for a moment, which earned a brief laugh from the commodore, which in turn made Jack sputter with shock and irritation. “Alright, who the Hell are you and what have you done with Commodore Norrington?”
The commodore merely laughed again, more quietly, then seemed to notice something. “I just noticed--you have no idea what my first name is, do you? Usually you go out of your way to avoid courteous use of a persons titles or surnames if you have their given names to throw at them with your habitual impudence.”
“Don’t they confiscate the damned things when you join the bloody Navy?”
“Only for the sake of formality and to confuse pirates,” James countered dryly.
Jack snorted. “Well, until recent, I don’t think I’ve quite seen you anything other than formal and out t’see that I suffered--what was it?--a short drop and a sudden stop, I believe.”
“Fair enough.” Appearing amused James lifted the leather-bound book and shook the sand off of its pages before closing it and putting it once more in the breast pocket of his coat.
“I have wondered about your name. Tried to think of one that might suit you more than ‘Commodore’ but I couldn’t come up with anything, mate. The title fits you to a ‘T’, it does.”
“Odd, because I rather preferred the station of Captain.” At Jack’s disbelieving look, James grimaced very faintly and explained, “Less paperwork.”
Jack chuckled. “Then you shouldn’t ‘ave joined the King’s Navy, Commodore.”
James merely snorted. “Due to my social and economic statuses at the time, my choices were limited to being disowned, joining the Navy, or becoming a man of the clergy; the latter wherein I would have gone out of my mind with boredom within two weeks and never gotten out of England.” There was such dark and well-contained anger in his voice that Jack thought he felt the air around them visibly chill for a few moments.
“Bad memories?”
“Interesting family members.” Again, frosty.
“Ah,” Jack said. “Sibling rivalry or horrible parents?” he guessed, his voice knowing.
“A bit of both, but my mother died young so of the latter stipulation I can only judge based on the other half; and while many of his issues stemmed from her death, the rest were purely from his own bigotry. My eldest brother was more clearly despicable; he once tried to kill me.” James took another swig of rum, which Jack thought was quite a good idea, because the man looked like he needed it.
“Interesting gentlemen, sounds like.”
“And one of the worst scoundrels to ever bear the title of ‘gentleman’ as well,” James mused. “He died... not quite a year ago, now.” He did not sound aggrieved, nor did he sound satisfied. He merely took another swig of rum, aware that the pirate was watching him intently.
Jack was trying very hard not to like Norrington. “My condolences.”
“On his death or my apathy towards it?”
“Both.”
James thought about this, and then nodded, just once, his eyes falling shut for a brief moment. “Much appreciated.”
A long, companionable silence passed between them as they drank.
“I still can’t figure why you’re here, mate.”
“Here in Tortuga? Here on this beach? Or are you getting existential?”
“Yes to the first two, and I refuse to dignify the third with an answer,” Jack snorted.
“You really want to know?”
“It’ll help me sleep at night, mate.” Jack surprised himself with his sincerity there, but really, he did worry about this clever commodore; he needed to know what the green-eyed man’s game was, so that he could try to avoid becoming one of its casualties.
James seemed slightly surprised by it, too, and nodded. “It’s simple really: Beckett.”
Jack’s entire body tensed. “Cutler Beckett?” he snapped, looking altogether like a cat whose tail was just stepped on. “He’s stalking about?”
“Yes. He’s a Lord now, as well,” Norrington muttered, his voice scathing.
Sparrow’s face lit up with realization and understanding, his hands flourishing accordingly. “Oh, I get it, then, mate. He’s tryin’ to get his hands into the Navy’s br-”
“Sparrow, I must warn you that if you make that comment as obscene as I suspect that you intend to, I will be forced, purely as a matter of honor, to hit you hard enough that you will wash away with the morning’s high tide and still not wake up. Consider yourself warned.”
Jack scowled. “-business,” he concluded flatly, sounding distinctly put out.
James nodded, and continued the conversation as though he had not just made any idle threats. “Yes. He’s also been trying to put Port Royal in his pocket for about two years now, but his tactics are only now seeping in. His corrupt officials are following suit.” Norrington gave a low growl, which Jack made a valiant effort not to react to. “That man is a snake.”
“You insult some fine reptiles with that statement, mate. I prefer to think of him as a worm. Much lower and more lamentable creature: also, it’s smaller and more aptly slimy.” Jack was rubbing the brand on his wrist with a dark expression on his face.
The commodore noticed. “Ah,” he said. “He gave you that one, then.”
Sparrow grimaced, but turned it into a ferocious smile. “Aye, but I left a mark on him, too, don’t you worry, Commodore.”
James had only ever seen the expression on Jack’s face in one other place: his mirror, back in the days when he had been teaching some Spanish bastards a lesson. Seeing the commodore staring so intently, Jack shot him a challenging glare. Wordlessly, James pushed back his shirt- and coat-sleeves enough to expose his wrists. By way of explanation, he held them so that Jack could see the shackle-scars.
Jack’s brow creased with confusion, then smoothed with pure shock as a sympathetic hiss escaped from between his teeth involuntarily. “Bloody Hell, mate,” he muttered, and hesitantly touched one of Norrington’s wrists, his fingers curling to gently hold it in place, then running the pad of his thumb across the width of one scar. He could read some of its history: made by slave-shackles and not a prisoner’s manacles, the wounds had gotten infected at some point, and had not been cared for properly until they had already begun to fester. It was not something he had ever expected to see on the pale flesh of a naval officer, let alone a proud, high-ranking and authoritative one like this commodore.
James’ jaw clenched at the way his body seemed inclined to react to that simple touch, surprised by not just the warmth of Sparrow’s hand, but also by the not-disagreeable heat that he felt himself wanting to respond to it with; however, James kept himself as contained and calm as ever, and in perfectly stoic tones, he said, “For the record, Captain Sparrow, Beckett and I have some very sharply differing opinions on the management of trade in the Caribbean. I think you can guess which trades in particular we might disagree over most severely.” When Jack gently let go, James calmly re-adjusted his sleeves to cover the marks.
“I believe ya, mate.” Jack thought about it. “Spanish?”
“Yes.”
“Aye. Right bastards, the lot of ‘em.”
James smirked faintly. “I left my marks on them, Captain, don’t you worry about that.” His sea-green eyes were dark with something cold and ferocious.
Jack saw it, read it, and nodded to show that he recognized it. “I suppose ye can be an officer of the British Royal Bloody Navy still be a good man, Commodore.”
The look in James’ eyes softened to bitter amusement, and his smirk did, too. “As can a pirate, it would seem.” Then a bit of a smile. “And it’s James. Commodore James L. Norrington. Since you were wondering.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised a little, but he nodded slowly. “James it is, then.” He raised his bottle of rum as if for a toast.
James tapped it with his own. “Thank you, Jack”
They drank deep, and spent a few moments watching the waves roll in.
“You actually gonna try and chase Beckett out, then?” Jack inquired.
James considered it, felt a faint golden shiver drift to him from across the water--from the distant Gold Hawk. He repeated her message to Jack: “Soon.”
Jack was vaguely confused for a moment, not wholly sure whether or not he was hearing things, because he could have sworn that he’d heard a voice from the nearby waves, but since Norrington had failed to visibly react, Jack blamed the rum and replied, “Aye. That’ll be good, then. You won’t mind if I take down a few of his ships, ay? Me crew is always itchin’ for a chance to throttle some of the EITC.”
A faint smirk, then James told him three places not to go, and five places wherein Jack would have very good luck finding what he was after.
Jack gave a low whistle. “You’re good, James, I’ll give ya that. No idea what’s keepin’ ya in the Navy with that piratical talent right there.”
James’ jaw clenched. “I am disinclined to call it piratical.”
“Hey, mate, you heard those old sea-dogs the last time you were here: ‘there’s pirates, there’s pirates, and then there’s... the bastards of the sea.’ Somethin’ like that. Y’ savvy?”
“At the moment, somewhat, but I blame the rum.” James winced. “And the bloody ship.”
“Wot?” Jack quirked an eyebrow.
James took a deep breath. “I found a ship, recently; she was abandoned. I purchased her from the Navy, actually.” Another whisper of something from across the water, from the direction of Port Royal. A very odd and crooked smirk crossed James’ face. “The whole matter has been on my mind, lately.”
Jack rubbed his ear. “Did you hear somethin’, mate? Like a lady’s voice almost?” Because it hadn’t been the Black Pearl. It had been a different voice. But why did it remind him of her?
“Yes. I did. And that’s part of the point.” He glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of Tortuga’s port. He was faintly aware of the Black Pearl’s position; not as acutely as he was of the Gold Hawk, and it faded once he got far enough from her, but he could sense where the other ship was, and he had no doubt that if he got close enough, he might hear her too.
Jack was looking at him very sharply now. “What are ya lookin’ for, there, James?”
“My sanity, Sparrow. I’m questioning it a lot of late, and sometimes I wonder if it hasn’t outright vanished without my noticing.” He faced Jack again, looking solemn, but also wearing a sincere edge of exasperation that was, for once, not aimed at Jack specifically.
Reluctantly, Jack nodded. “Aye. For a man like yourself in a position such as this, I don’t find that the least bit surprisin’.”
James gave a nod, too, and looked out over the water. “My position... is increasingly fragile. Beckett has managed to put my superiors, including the Admiral, in his pocket. And Beckett’s been twisting everything in knots over the past four months to get in a position wherein he can force me--famous pirate hunter that I suddenly am-” a faint grimace showed his resentment of Beckett, but no hint of regret on behalf of his own actions “-to chase you. Just you. I suspect that he wants something specific from you, as he very badly wants you captured instead of killed or sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Be wary of him.”
Jack winced. “Thanks, mate. I’ll keep a weather eye.”
“Don’t let me come close enough to catch you, Jack. Use every trick that you possibly can, and I will try to be foiled by most of them.” A faint smirk. “And in the process, waste Beckett’s time and money as much as possible.”
That earned a wicked laugh from Jack, and again, the pirate held out his bottle towards the commodore as if to make a toast.
Again, James clinked his against it. They drained the rum, shook hands, and staggered their separate ways.
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