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Author’s Note: As ever, POTC and DMC is not mine. It belongs, I believe, to Disney. Sadly, this means that Norrington is not mine either.
I apologize for the length of time it is taking for me to update, but as far as I’m aware, it would seem that I am posting for my own enjoyment alone. And now, of course, that AWE has come out…well, my little fic-let is completely implausible. So read on with the consideration that nothing in this story ties, in any way, to the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie.
I must add: In this chapter, I have Norrington cooking. I highly doubt that it would be a skill that he would actually possess, so I apologize. But with his fall in fortune, and lack of crew, I couldn’t see any other method of having him prepare a meal. I've no clue if anything in this is historically accurate, so I apologize for that too...but it was a heck of a lot of fun to write.
He was feeling more and more uncomfortable; not only about being forced to tell her of his unsavory involvement with Davy Jones’ heart, but at having a young lady aboard his ship unescorted. Especially this young lady, who seemed to be in some world of her own, and never noticed common proprieties.
She was feeling wary—as if there were something that she ought to tell him, but could not think what it might be. After seeing Nicholas the previous evening, and tactfully squeezing as much information about the ‘mysterious’ ex-commodore as she could, she didn’t know what to think. He seemed to be a decent sort, but there was something harsh—something bitter, about him, that she didn’t understand. If Rachel had her way, she soon would.
Preparing to meet him on The Legend took more time than she had anticipated. Dressing her hair was an impossible task, since the heavy tresses refused to remain confined, but picking a gown took as much time as it did prior to an engagement with Nicholas. It rather disconcerted her.
The meal he had prepared was modest: he had learned to cook before he had ever joined the military and had found the skill useful to upkeep. The galley of The Legend was something of a disgrace, but he had managed to create edible food with less space than this.
Exasperated by the turn of his thoughts, his mind drifted to Beckett. In their last encounter, the Lord had been particularly enigmatic about when he would let James and his small crew leave Port Royal. He was beginning to think –rather accurately- that Beckett was unwilling to let him out of his sight for fear of…him? Changing loyalties? The more Beckett stalled, the more he longed to return to the sea.
The more he regretted giving up that brief chance for freedom…
A voice from the wharf hailed him, and he was jerked from his reverie. Exiting the cabin of the ship, he hastened to go onto the deck.
“Miss Baird,” he remarked coolly, instantly certain of whom his guest was. “I hope that you were not followed, this evening?”
She frowned in thought, eyes bright with concern.
“I hope not, though I confess that it didn’t occur to me to see,” she mumbled, bumping into a barrel as she turned to glance behind herself.
They were both silent—both reflecting on the peculiar circumstances that called for them to form an alliance of sorts, however reluctantly.
“Mr. Norrington,” she said at last, with her musing gaze fixed on the flickering flame of a nearby lantern. “I have come to the conclusion that Lord Beckett does not trust you. Do you trust him?”
He was not accustomed to being surprised so frequently: it seemed to be a gift of hers, and it was not one which he appreciated.
“What gives you the right to inquire?” he retaliated after a moment of gaping at her. She regarded him in puzzled silence, with an absent expression adorning her features.
“Mere curiosity,” Rachel told him, finally. He didn’t think that that was all there was behind the inquiry but he decided it couldn’t hurt to be frank. After all, he owed the truth to someone. He would have preferred to confide in one of his former Lieutenants…but he didn’t know what had happened to them after the hurricane. He felt a stab of guilt.
“No,” he stated suddenly. The honesty of the statement surprised him, and rather uncertainly, he repeated it to reaffirm, more to himself than to Rachel, what he had just said. “No. I do not trust Lord Beckett.” It felt good to admit it.
Rachel smiled complacently. “I rather thought so. You see—remember how I told you that someone could die? I have come to the conclusion that the man indicated…was you. I have no real evidence, to be sure, but I cannot think of anyone else who would inspire such animosity.” She fixed him with a reproachful look. “You owe me an explanation.”
James was still too busy digesting the fact that she believed he was going to die, and hardly heard her continuing words.
“I suppose that I do,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “But I’m not the only man in Port Royal, Miss Baird. It could have been anyone.” She looked stricken.
“Oh dear. That would be my overactive imagination, I suppose. I’m sorry…but the men referred to a Lord. THAT must be Lord Beckett!” There was a triumphant glimmer in her optics as she pronounced this and walked to the ship’s rail to peer out at the ocean.
“I expect,” Rachel added thoughtfully, “That perhaps if you tell me about the circumstances leading up to the present day, I could determine the man indicated. After all, I suppose that Governor Swann could be viewed as a dangerous obstacle, too. He is working for Beckett, if you hadn’t heard.”
She had a remarkable way of straying from the topic, but revealing such valuable information.
“Indeed.” He leaned on the rail, reflectively gazing out over the sparkling Caribbean sea. “It started with the hurricane.”
She shot him a startled look, before realizing that at last he was telling her what she wanted to know.
“We had pursued Sparrow for months—and I should have known better than to try to sail through it. I may be foolish at times, but I would have thought that I was an experienced enough seaman to know better. I was consumed by the need to secure that bloody…er, that pirate, behind bars again, I suppose. It clouded my judgment, and my ability to consider the lives of my men.” His tones were truly bitter, and she was wise enough not to interrupt. Telling the whole tale, for the first time, was distinctly odd. He was grateful for her silence, and lack of reproach.
“I lost them in the storm, and my ship, and my commission. I was too inept to be Commodore—I am too self-centered. I know it, now! After resigning, I wound up in Tortuga. A girl like you probably hasn’t heard of it—it is a notorious pirate port. Suffice it to say that I was troubled, and not myself. I wound up as a deckhand in Sparrow’s crew—it was there that I beheld the Letters of Marque signed by Beckett, and heard of the Heart of Davy Jones. He is a legendary man—monster…being…to whom sailors go when they die at sea, and who controls the Kraken. It is said that he cut out his heart after being betrayed by a woman. Whoever possesses this heart can control him—thus control the sea.”
He was speaking too much. He had never spoken so many words at a time, since of late he rarely spoke at all.
“Sparrow, Elizabeth Swan (and myself) went ashore on a tiny little island, where it was buried. William Turner showed up with a key—Sparrow had tricked him into serving on Jones’ crew or some such thing. We had…different ideas of how to use this power. We fought. In the end, Jones sent his crew to retrieve his heart. I stole it, and the letters of Marque. To escape, I pretended to draw them away from Sparrow and company. I was picked up by an East India ship, and returned to Port Royal with thoughts only of redeeming my lost reputation and position, since I had learned that Beckett was seeking the Heart. You know the rest. It was I who traded it to him, for a pardon. My reward is as you see.” Broodingly, he gestured widely around The Legend. Rachel was silent for a moment. He wondered if she believed him. The more he considered the wild tale he had just told, the more he doubted it himself.
“I heard that Captain Sparrow is dead,” she ventured tentatively, hesitant to break his reflections. He looked rather forbidding at the moment and she was reluctant to interrupt.
“My fault,” he replied dully, with a cynical smile. “My job finally carried out—and not by me.”
She considered her conversation with the market vendor, and sighed.
“Such is life.” Briefly, James wondered if she truly knew anything of the world.
Rachel was disappointed by his tale. It was not that she had expected some fantastic adventure, but the fact that his story had not matched any of her ideas. And the fact that it seemed this man was no less human than any other.
“It’s only human to regret it, you know,” she remarked thoughtfully. He frowned.
“Where did you come to that conclusion?” he inquired dryly, with a hint of sarcasm that she didn’t catch. Rachel turned, gazing up at him with grave hazel eyes.
“Your voice.” She fell silent and shifted a little bit nervously. “And your eyes. I have never seen a man with such tortured eyes.”
He contemplated her dubiously, uncertain whether to believe her or take it that she had seen more than was really there.
“But I am honorable again. I have a ship—a crew. I have a life,” James stated resolutely. “I have all that I need.” Except freedom. A will of his own. Did he really have all that he needed?
“That is the problem with men,” Rachel murmured. “They make a decision, thinking it’s what they want, and then spend the rest of their lives convincing themselves that it is right. Mr. Norrington, you are not truly honorable.” Her eyes were shadowed, and a faint smile curved up her lips. He knew that she was right.
“How so?”
“Does stealing make a man more honorable, even if it is rewarded?” Her voice was mild, and he was beginning to become most alarmed when she used such tones.
“Clearly not, but no one acknowledges it but the man himself,” he remarked drolly. “I know many pirates who would disagree with you, besides.”
“And therefore he lies to himself. Another mark of dishonestly,” she retorted with more gravity than he might have expected of her.
“You’ve made your point, Miss Baird. However, these days, I’ve found that truly honest, or even honorable, men are scare. I do not pretend that I am of this rare breed.”
“It doesn’t seem…wise, to leave the ability to control the sea with Lord Beckett, if what you say is true,” she remarked delicately, in an apparent change of topic. He raised his eyebrows.
“There isn’t any alternative,” he pointed out. “And I don’t intend to risk offending the man who is my overseer.” Rachel fiddled with a heavy strand of hair escaped from it’s knot.
‘But…Mr. Norrington.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Mr. Norrington. Couldn’t you…take the heart back?” For the third time that evening, she surprised him.
“And lose all this?” he inquired heavily. She looked a little bit defensive.
“You have hardly gained anything. Only a ship. And really, is this worth it?” Rachel sounded uncomfortably like his conscience, even though she sounded increasingly uncertain about her idea.
“I don’t know about you, but I have come to believe that Lord Beckett is quite dangerous enough, as it is. I have thought it through. All you have to do is distract His Lordship, sneak into his office, steal the Heart of Davy Jones, stow away on a ship, and find Jack Sparrow’s crew.” She sounded as matter-of-fact as though she were discussing the weather.
“ALL?” he choked. “Miss Baird, it is just like a woman to come up with some absurd solution!” She gave him a thoughtful look, illuminated by the flicker of a lantern.
“Are you suggesting that it’s absurd, or are you simply uncertain if my plan will work?” she inquired mildly. “Trust me, Mr. Norrington.” He was unable to respond. She misinterpreted his gape. “I’m sure…” Rachel began cautiously.
“You told me yourself that you have an overactive imagination,” he interrupted. “I wouldn’t want to take any chances, Miss Baird.”
“Well, then, I’ll help you.”
“You can’t sail, he managed, wondering if she had ever told a lie.
“That’s why I’ll get Nicholas to help,” she told him with great satisfaction. He found the idea of the Merchant captain involved in any dubious activity amusing—almost as amusing as the idea of Montgomery agreeing to help him.
“I expect that he’ll agree to take you.” There was a suspicious glint in her gaze.
“And how do you intend to do that?” he asked with interest.
“Oh, I have my methods. He will not be able to object.” There was a hint of a smile adorning her features which he did not entirely trust. For the first time, he felt mildly sorry for the other man.
“And what if I don’t agree to carry out this plan?” He couldn’t resist asking, even though he had already decided what he was going to do. Rachel looked momentarily apprehensive, considering belatedly that he might actually be loyal to Beckett, but her face cleared.
“Then I’ll do it myself,” she replied with an absent tilt of her head. “Since it’s clear that you can’t leave such power with Lord Beckett.” He smothered a smile, and tried to match her grave look, making an exasperated noise under his breath
“Indeed,” he responded dryly. “But what if I am content with the present circumstances? What if I don’t want to, er, become ‘truly honorable’ as you put it?”
She rolled her eyes expressively.
“It’s clear to anyone that you’re not. The fact that you had to behave in a dishonest manner has been plaguing you. Wouldn’t my plan reverse that?” Her persistence bothered him…as did the fact that she seemed to know him so well.
Surprisingly bright eyes glittered up at him.
“But stealing is dishonest.”
“So are you if you keep lying to yourself.” There was a modicum of truth in that. James winced.
“That’s a cliché” he told her. She grinned, but the smile quickly faded.
“I’m sorry—I’ve said too much. I’m rambling.” Rachel turned around, and began to stride away –as much as a lady hampered by skirts could- before pausing and arching an eyebrow at him.
“You… will consider it?” she inquired hopefully, before disappearing at the rail. He surged forwards instinctively, before realizing that she had clambered down the ladder to the wharf and was proceeding slowly away.
Lost in thought, and reflecting unnecessarily on a certain pair of hazel eyes…he went to the galley where he ate his cold supper without really tasting. He ruefully reflected that perhaps he should have asked Miss Baird to stay. After al, they still had much to talk about.
“He has confirmed our suspicions—he will have to be dealt with,” came the eerily familiar, cultured voice. She didn’t wait to hear more. Gasping, she picked up her skirts and ran, slipping along the damp docks in her delicate slippers. She closed her eyes in a silent plea for strength—a shout from behind her confirmed her fears.
Behind her came the heavy tread of running feet.