Jack chewed on the edge of the gold coin, tasting yet again the beautiful flavor that was metal. Barbosa was always one to let him into the treasury and so he had come accustomed to the taste of gold and silver. But no coin or jewel had the taste of the treasure he held. The taste that Jack did not know was power, immortality. He squeaked, carrying the chained medallion with him as he scampered to the body of his former master. It was too late of course. The empty stare of the dead was obvious enough so that even the monkey knew. Barbosa was always kind to the creature, but Jack was too much of an animal to know what hate or revenge was.
Still, the smell of death was intoxicating...dizzying...suffocating...
his blood ran cold...
his heart halted...
Jack knew...even the monkey knew before all amount of feeling left him...it was a different curse this time.
*Meanwhile, at Port Royal*
Norrington wasn't exactly upset that Jack Sparrow had escaped yet again. Nor was he that upset about the report of the Interceptor being blown to bloody bits. No, the matter with which he felt the deepest pain was one he felt least justifiable in. Besides she had the right to choose.
But a blacksmith...
The dawn was always chilly, the sea wind chapping Norrington's cheeks and lips. Painful though it was at times, he enjoyed it. Pain had become so much apart of his life. He rarely saw Ms. Swan anymore. His infrequent visits perished after the pirate raid, and Norrington only needed to speak with the Governor infrequently as well. He never saw the blacksmith either. His job was the only part of his life really. The sad, dull...dutiful job that was his.
The destruction of Barbosa's crew and reputation had made him famous, so Norrington would occasional receive a letter of congratulations or adoration. Sickening. All the letters reminded him of was the few precious moments...when he thought Elizabeth chose him.
She had used him, betrayed him, and left him. Life had never been as brutal. He only hoped it would never be as brutal again. It was impossible for him to say he truly loved her. He loved her as much as social restrictions allowed a man to be. But even the thought of his feelings for her being misguided didn't heal the pain. A Commodore, a respectable, kind man, cast aside for a young, rash-acting blacksmith. The lowest of lows.
"Commodore," a familiar voice called to him. Norrington's swirling thoughts were jerked back to the docks. Norrington turned to meet his lieutenant. Gillette understood why the Commodore was acting so distantly, and so took pains to make sure Norrington stayed on task until the situation finally passed. "The east lookout claims there's a storm heading this way," Gillette told him.
It was an obvious statement. When Norrington looked out to the east, to the ocean, the dark clouds were proof enough. It was fitting. He only hoped the storm would wash away the pain and frustration that held him captive. "Bring the Dauntless back to tow. Tie her tight to the docks, I don't want her to run away either."
"Yes, sir," Gillette said, rushing off.
"Lord knows she'll try," Norrington muttered when he was sure Gillette was out of range. "She'll try."