My computer was recently wiped, the hardware shot to hell, and we have had to buy a new system. Grrrr. All work was lost, and I am sure all writers will know how heart-breaking that can be. I can only offer my sincerest apologies and remind my faithful readers that my updates have always and will always be sporadic. I suck at updating and I know it.

Anyhoo, as ever, I thank: Oneiriad, LadyBush, Kawaii Thief Kitsune, pendraginink, ellennar, LadyJanelly, Red Stokcings, Sarah, elfgirl, mssparrington, RangerGirl, Gnat Girl (x4) and Sue-AnneSparrow

Disclaimer: I do not own PotC

Dedication: Mon CuddleSlut favori

The night after the day before…ish

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Silent as the footsteps of a forest god, the Black Pearl cut through the still waters on its course for Tortuga. Moonlight, purer than the opalescent beauty it mirrored, danced upon the tranquil waves, running lingering fingers across each rising swell. The black timbers of the wraithlike ship seemed to absorb the glow, as if drinking in the elemental energy of the primeval night.

It is on nights like these when lovers lie long in passionate thoughts and dreamers walk through the far away places to be found on the surface of every star.

It is on nights like this when the turmoil of swirling fragments that is the memory crystallises in a time of ultimate spiritual clarity.

Jack was sleeping when the unearthly scream cut through the sacred calm of the night. He bolted upright, his hand automatically closing on his sword. He looked around wildly, trying to work out where he was, what had happened. He looked across the cabin and froze in horror. Norrington was sat, shaking violently, his hands clenched tightly over his face as ragged gasping sobs tore through him. Jack swore and hurriedly stumbled over to the helpless figure, dropping his sword to the floor with an unnaturally loud clang.

Unthinking, he did the first thing instinct told him to do- he wrapped his arms around the abused form and held on tight, an anchor against the rising tide of dread that seemed to sweeping over the tall form, a safe harbour for the beleaguered and the lost. Norrington continued to shake in his grip, not even flinching from his touch or crying out, just crying and crying as if his soul was being wrenched in two.

Dimly, Jack was aware of commotion outside the cabin and voices calling to him, the concerned calls of his crew. The door opened and the voices became louder, then retreated back from the scene. Uncaring, he focused on the man in his arms. Softly, he began to croon nonsense, simple childish things to ease away a nightmare- for that was undoubtedly what it was. Through Norrington's mind, the ghastly form of Sebastian Rayark leered and cackled, his face twisted in grotesque snide pleasure at the tortures he inflicted.

For we are such things as dreams are made of… Jack had no idea where the quotation came from, it was just there, echoing through him as he kept his arms locked around Norrington. Gradually, little by little, the shaking eased and the wracking sobs lessened. Jack tentatively loosened his grip a little, expecting to feel the man tense up at his movement, but he seemed boneless, exhausted and unaware of what was happening around him. Again, Jack cursed Rayark- to lock a person in his own mind, with only his fears and his nightmares to guard him! Truly, the man was Hellspawn, pure evil given shape and form.

There was movement. Jack had expected Norrington to return to sleep, give in to his tiredness, but the limp body began to shift slightly in his embrace. Jack remained still, hoping that the ex-Naval officer wouldn't react too violently to the situation. The dark head turned against his chest and green-grey eyes looked up into dark pools of emotion. Jack held his breath, as the ever-present flickering spark of life seemed to grow under his gaze, flickering brighter. Norrington, for once his face devoid of fear, seemed confused more than anything. Maybe he still believed himself locked in the arms of Morpheus, for he continued to remain quiet and passive in Jack's arms.

Then a hand, gentle and hesitant, reached out to him. Jack gasped as ice-coo; fingers brushed his cheek, as if trying to feel if he was really there, or just some strange spectre in the feral mood of the night. The fingers ghosted across the golden skin of his face, then fell to his right arm. His sleeve was pushed back, the movements slow and trance-like, to reveal the brands on his arm. Their gazes locked again and Norrington's brow furrowed as he sought for the memory that eluded him in the twisting turmoil o his abused mind.

Jack dared not move, dared not disturb the other man. Whatever it was that was affecting Norrington, it seemed to be triggering something in his mind, another step towards his rediscovery of self. Norrington drew his slender fingers in to clench into a fist at his chest and the loose limbed form suddenly drew up into a curled, defensive position. Still their eyes remained locked.

Norrington's face was still strangely empty as he opened his mouth, pausing for a few moments before uttering the first words he had even attempted since the time Jack had first saw him beaten and chained in Rayark's cabin. At first, no sound emerged from his lips, the action of speaking obviously unfamiliar to him.

"A compass," he said, his dark chocolate tones now croaky and hoarse with disuse. "A compass that doesn't point North."

Then he fainted away.