Chapter One
Lord Cutler Beckett stared at his guest across the long table. The sway of the sea permitted no candles, and the light of day was waning considerably. The face of his companion was thrown into shadows as dusk swallowed the sea and the H.M.S. Valor along with it. Beckett knew better than to fully trust anyone he asked to his table, but he allowed himself the slightest lull in his defenses when entertaining ex-commodore James Norrington. The man had brought him the heart of Davy Jones himself and had served as a faithful lapdog since then.
Norrington, under the promise given by the letters of mark, had been appointed as a privateer under the jurisdiction of Beckett himself. A captain. Not a commodore. Still, Norrington had never voiced any displeasure with his station. In fact, he was rather zealous, and never lost a shipment. It had been a little over three weeks since Norrington began his employ in the service of the East India Trading Company. The Valor was Beckett's own headship, but it was the faster ship, the Gorgon, that he had given to Norrington's command. And how he had used it!
Beckett took a swig of dark wine with an almost-hidden grin. Across from him, hidden in the deepening shadows, was his best man and his biggest threat. He could no more read his face than read his mind, and that was what made him such a dangerous man. Norrington's swath of dark hair fell into his eyes, which were non-chalantly locked on Beckett's. The wig of station was long-gone, but the air of authority could not be washed away. His every command was followed to the letter, lest any midshipman fall to the steady glare of his sharp green eyes. Beckett was wary of those eyes as they settled on his own, as he very well should.
"Captain Norrington," Beckett began, folding his hands neatly before him on the table. This was a business transaction and needed to be treated as such. "I suppose you are wondering why I asked you from the Gorgon this evening?" Norrington's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Certainly not to be subjected to your lively verbiage, Lord Beckett."
Always toeing the line, James.
"Certainly not," Beckett replied without missing a beat. He raised a hand to call for another serving of wine for the both of them. Norrington watched with a sideways glance as a young woman in a maid's bonnet filled his glass.
"Thank you," he muttered, taking the drink to his lips. She made a slight bow, then moved to light the lanterns hanging around the cabin. The drink was flat against his tongue, having grown accustomed to the hearty, piquant rum left lying anywhere of convenience around the Black Pearl. His mouth ran dry at the thought of Sparrow and his pirate crew, the thought of lying in a dirty hammock and staring at the moldy planks above-- and some far-gone part of him was happy.
He hid the feeling away in the breast pocket of his shirt and turned his attentions again to Lord Beckett.
"I have a proposal for you," Beckett said with languid non-commitment. With the same detached air about him, Beckett reached into a satchel at his side to pull out a dirty brown sack that Norrington recognized immediately. He tried his very hardest to ignore it. "Yes, the heart of Davy Jones," he said a little more than admiringly. "A powerful weapon in the right hands." He stared pointedly at Norrington. "My hands are the right hands, Captain."
"Of course," Norrington replied loyally in practiced monotone.
"Trusting this heart to anyone but myself is a folly I am not apt to make. Showing you the location of the heart is in itself a show of the trust I have in you, Captain." He almost placed his hand on the slowly pulsating bag, but resisted. "It is a matter concerning the heart that I wish to ask you to take upon yourself."
Norrington cocked his head and grinned a sarcastic half-smile. He quickly checked himself, linking the gesture to his weeks as a rum-pot deckhand what took orders from pirates. His features fell back into their trained indifference.
"By ask, of course, you mean insist, Lord Beckett?"
Beckett smirked haughtily. "Naturally." He trained his fingers around the lip of his wine glass, drawing his speech out purposely. "I have a need to visit the Flying Dutchman." Norrington's brows knit perfectly, and Beckett knew that he had the Captain at his mercy. "You see, now that I am in possession of this heart, I am at a loss as to what I must do to make full use of it."
"And you want me to board the Flying Dutchman and speak with Davy Jones on your behalf."
"Quick study. I knew I liked you for a reason, Norrington."
Norrington involuntarily rolled his neck. "I'm not sure whether I should take your compliment or not, Lord Beckett."
"Whether you accept or reject it, I will make your trip worth your time and effort, I assure you."
"Really?" Norrington asked without interest. He paused, then leaned forward slightly. "You haven't told me what you would have me do to get aboard the Flying Dutchman, nor what I am to say to Davy Jones when and if I board his ship."
"Your first question is easily answered," Beckett said as he stood. He held the sullied bag containing the heart in one hand, as if weighing it carefully. "Jones will come to wherever the heart waits. I simply inundate the pirate channels with news of the heart's whereabouts and wait for the Dutchman to come to you." He turned quickly to face Norrington, who did not flinch. "You will be waiting there for him, and, as my ambassador, you will state our common predicament, and acquire from him the way to make best use of his heart."
He returned the heart to its satchel, and turned with a broad look of confidentiality. "The second question is where my good faith in you comes in. I trust that whatever it is that you do say to Jones, that we come off the better." He paused, staring down the impassible face of Norrington and losing, as he did every time. "Do I make myself clear?"
Without thinking, all Norrington could mutter was: "Aye."
A gladly familiar hand pulled Norrington from the longboat and back onto the Gorgon.
"How was your meeting, sir?" Gillette asked naively. Norrington allowed himself less candor on his own ship than he did under the questioning eyes of his superior. He accepted the boat cloak offered to him by the second mate, one Mr. Fredricks, and pulled a cynical grin.
"I appear to have taken on more than I expected." Norrington headed for his cabin, and motioned for Gillette to follow him. The first mate, also a quick study it seemed, asked no more questions in the free air and followed Norrington quietly. Once inside the dim, musty captain's quarters, Gillette took on a quiet air of confidentiality.
"Sir?" At the silence, Gillette pulled up his own chair and sat. "I take it that this meeting wasn't called for dinner at all."
"You are as perceptive as always," Norrington almost laughed, but refrained as he hung the boat cloak on the nearest coat rack. "As usual, the dinner was a ghastly forerunner to a proposition that I would be hard-pressed to ignore, seeing as the man has me captive in a net of my own making."
Gillette decided not to ask what the metaphor was referring to. Norrington removed his hat and hung it over the boat cloak before sitting across the desk from Gillette.
"I am going to need someone I trust," Norrington began plainly. Gillette sat up straighter in his chair. "I trust you very implicitly, Gillette, or else I would not be telling you this." Norrington paused for a long moment, tapping his fingers on the desk before him. He was contemplating something very deeply. Then, his green eyes darted up to Gillette's. "For the months I was not in the navy's employ, I found myself living among pirates. Specifically, I served under Jack Sparrow himself."
Gillette nearly jumped from his chair.
"Captain!" His mouth was pulled wide in surprise. "Sparrow? But the hurricane! What could have led you--"
"Gillette," Norrington snapped. It was no louder than he had been speaking before, but it felt to Gillette as if the man had screamed. He settled back into his seat uneasily. "When you know the lows I've known, then you will see how something as menial as working for Sparrow seems like a Godsend." Norrington ran a nervous hand across his face, feeling the neatly-trimmed facial hair he had been loath to remove. Some part of him needed that connection to the sullied pages of his life.
"How much do you know about Davy Jones?" Norrington asked, calmer. Gillette gave him a mixed glance.
"Next to nothing, I suppose." At least he was honest. "A myth, at best, Captain."
"I assure you, he is much more than myth." His eyes were dark, focused. "You and I are going to give Mr. Jones a visit."
The first mate gave as incredulous a look as he would dare.
"I turned traitor against Sparrow and his crew when I stole the heart of Davy Jones from under them." His eyes traced the callouses of his hand. "I wonder if to this day they know that it was my betrayal, and what it cost them."
"They were pirates, Captain."
"Did I fail to mention," Norrington half-growled, as if the whole thing were Gillette's fault, "that Miss Elizabeth Swann was one of those pirates?" The scalding glare given under the half-lidded eyes was burned into Gillette's mind and was never forgotten after that day. Gillette quailed miserably.
"Yes, Captain, you did fail to mention it."
"Well, do not fail to forget it." His ire forgotten almost as soon as it had begun, Norrington continued in a softer tone. "Lord Beckett is in need for me to speak with Jones on his behalf. For, in order for me to secure this position, I turned over the heart to Beckett. With that power, he could control the very seas if he wished to."
"Wait, Captain," Gillette said hopelessly. "This is all very hard for me to swallow."
"When I am walking up the gangplank of the Flying Dutchman, we shall see how these myths hold up, Gillette."
A long pause seized them, when Gillette stood from his chair.
"Wherever you go, I follow," Gillette said with what might have been a touch of timidity. Norrington smiled and looked out the windows to where the darkness swallowed both sky and sea.
"I will be glad to have the company."
Gillette left only minutes later, leaving Norrington sitting lonely at his great desk facing the closed door. He stood, rapping his knuckles on the hard wood. In the corner of the cramped room stood Norrington's mirror and water basin. He found himself standing over it, facing himself in the mirror. His reflection had changed more than a bit since he last faced himself in such a mirror in his personal quarters back in Port Royal. He was still as dark as he had been, but his eyes were lighter, his beard trimmed short and tame, and his hair pulled almost neatly back behind his head. Almost. Those few stubborn strands hung into his eyes. He brushed them aside. His hand reached down for the razor at the side of the basin.
He knew it was a useless effort, but he would try again.
The blade was resting only centimeters from his cheek, ready to rid himself of the only link to the darkest chapter in his book. I am not a pirate. I do not need to look like one. But his hand was frozen. He could no more move it than move the tides. He knotted his brows in frustration. Why can't I do it? I'm a Captain, a privateer! That part of me is dead.
I don't want it to die.
A dark, frustrated growl escaped Norrington's lips as, with all his force, he smashed the razor against the perfect mirror in front of him. It cracked, splintering his face a thousand different ways. He stared at those fractured images of himself, ignoring the blood on his knuckles. He saw himself a thousand times and hated every image in every way.
An unexplained fit of rage seized him, and before he could stop himself, he threw the mirror across the cabin, where it crashed against the furthest wall and sent sparkling shards tinkling across the floor. He backed into the wall, useless and bleeding. He slid slowly to the floor, knees pulled close and watched the blood leak from his good hand. It was another minute before Gillette burst back in. Norrington watched his approach with empty eyes.
"You there, close that door!" Gillette ordered a sailor, who complied immediately. The first mate turned back to his captain, taking out a kerchief and offering it to the bleeding hand. Norrington wordlessly took it. "Captain?"
"I am weak," Norrington muttered. His eyebrows raised listlessly as he wrapped the kerchief around his knuckles. "Not enough pirate."
As if suddenly coming back to himself, Norrington stood on his own, inspecting his room as if some other rogue had smashed his mirror. He tied the knot tight around his hand.
"Mr. Gillette, tomorrow we meet with Lord Beckett on the Valor to receive our briefing on the Jones expedition."
"Captain, are you sure..." He stood as well, matching Norrington's stance. The look in Norrington's eyes assured Gillette that he was sure. "Right. When are we to take the longboat over?"
"Seven bells," Norrington answered, inspecting the reddening cloth pulled tight on his wound. "I will meet you on deck at six bells." Deflating for a moment, he gestured toward the kerchief on his hand. "Thank you."
"Sir," Gillette gave a small head-nod, and retreated from the captain's cabin. Norrington stretched his fingers to test their strength and set his eyes on the broken mirror across the cabin. He harrumphed and gave it a short smirk before moving to clean it from the floor.
AN: Okay, to start off, this is a pseudo-sequel to "Philosophy Lesson" inasmuch as it hints at some things said and done in that story. You don't really have to read it to get this one, but it may heighten the experience some. Nextly, it seems a lot of people are putting Gillette in their Norry fics, and I feel like I'm jumping on the bandwagon a bit here-- but I wanted someone Norry could trust, and his old pal seemed a good fit. Hope everyone was in-character enough. I'm hoping to continue this for a while if anyone wants me to, because I just love writing about Norrington. And don't worry. All I'll say is that not all is as it seems in this fic! Hope you enjoy-- Happy reading!