Disclaimer: I don't own PotC.

Chapter 1

It happened too fast.

At ease as much as the duty allowed, he stood at his Captain's side, shoulder to shoulder, elated by the brush of their fingers as he handed the bronze spyglass to his commanding officer.

"Sir, look half a rhumb off the forecastle," lieutenant Groves reported his survey of the island as the Interceptor lithely glided into the bay, shadowed by a cliff rising on their right. "I believe we can replenish our fresh water supply west from that elevation. I've spotted no significant obstacles between the site and the beach."

Chaotic entanglement of the lianas and large-leafed plants framed a silver flicker of the spring that stretched like a ribbon among the vibrant, breath taking landscape; the beauty that could only have been dimmed by the eyes of the man beside him.

"We can make a safe landing just to the northwest," Norrington pointed out the nearest spot where the smooth line of the beach ended and the rocky shore began. "There is no need for hassle with the extra boats to bring the marines. We want this stop to be quick. I doubt anything can spring from the greenery to devour the crew that's more dangerous than hungry Gillette."

"Your truth, the lieutenant has been restless. It will be prudent to have him lead the shore party," Groves offered on behalf of his friend, though the possibility to step on land and stretch his legs was appealing. Gillette was reputed with the ability to swallow an anchor if the right seasoning presented itself; a joke about his appetite that Phillip was amiable to. Gluttony was hardly the worst sin to be guilty of.

Groves was treated to the shadow of a smile when Norrington looked at him to return the spyglass; however, it never grew into the warm expression he loved as the Captain's attention got caught by a shady movement behind his shoulder.

"TAKE COVER!"

The order boomed across the deck mixed with the shattering of the spyglass, and left unrepeated by the first officer because Norrington grabbed a handful of Groves' uniform and tackled them down the stairwell that led to the bridge, not a moment too soon before the first volley hit the ship. It was his favourite spyglass. The thought was aberrant, considering that more men were about to fall and never get up than there were smashed lens pieces.

Several bruises from paying respect with his back and elbows to each stair were preferable to the fate of the previously occupied spot that was mauled into holes and flying splinters. Groves hadn't even a moment to glower at his leader as everything exploded into action. It was the first officer's job to keep the Captain safe, not have Norrington use himself as a shield to protect his lieutenant from the musket balls. It was a miracle that neither of them got wounded.

From the top of the cliff, the Interceptor's deck was open like a palm of the hand. Every man was presenting an open target to the armed bandits. The marines returned fire, trying to give the crew at least some cover to work with the sails, but the position lacked advantage. Slow. Everything was too slow. Slipping lines had to be grabbed from the limp hands, helm taken over by one man and then another to complete the manoeuvre. Groves questioned why they were making a turn under fire when the instinct was telling him to let the ship run forward, so they could leave the cliff behind faster.

The Captain's voice cut through the shots, rising above the panic and dominating the conscience of his crew. His men held their positions, although death repeatedly claimed more lives, and their blood trickled down the sides of the ship into the sea.

Their stoicism brought the ship about and pulled them out of the shooting range. However, it was too early to breathe a sigh of relief. Two battle ready ships emerged from their hiding places, carrying at least fifty guns between them to the Interceptor's twenty. Had the Navy ship entered the bay, she would have been trapped.

Too absorbed by studying the new threat, Groves missed cannon shot fired from the top of the cliff. With a stunned detachment, he observed the deck shatter around him. The sea and the sky moulded by violence into a crimson afterglow, and in the midst of it he was flying and falling until a painful hit against the water jolted him into reality.

His eyes were wide open when he submerged. He had a full view of the fiery debris sinking all around him, dancing and spinning like the lights of Hell, getting distorted more and more the less air remained in his lungs. Decisively, Groves kicked his feet and swam to the surface.

The Interceptor, blurred by the droplets on his eyelashes, had moved on, her sails rising up one by one, adamantly following the command to retreat. She could not return for one lost man with the two ships closing in on her. It would take an excellent tactic to get around them undamaged. All Groves could do was hope that the crew will get the ship to the meeting point on schedule and return with the reinforcements.

A quiet splash nearby alerted him, and Grove's heart sunk straight to the bottom of the bay. "Captain?" his voice came out as a faint whisper. Danger or not, he suddenly wanted to bring back the Interceptor to pick up her lost crew. The feeling of how utterly useless he was settled in. He should have guessed that he wasn't the only one forced overboard by the explosion. Norrington could have drowned, considering how alarmingly long it had taken him to surface, and he wouldn't have known that his Captain needed help.

Norrington reached the nearest flotsam with a several conservative strokes, and secured his arms atop the maimed, darkened wood. Wearily, he laid his head down. His breaths were short and shallow.

Groves swam to his leader, almost close enough to lay a comforting hand on the lean, strained with the exertion back. "Captain, are you all right?" he tried again louder. Wet uniform and the necktie treacherously coiled around his throat and the exhaustion called down into the emerald depths of the sea he could never return from.

Norrington lifted his head, dazed expression lingering in his eyes, and then they cleared and recognition set in. "Groves, we should head for the left bank," he said without looking for the Interceptor. He expected the crew to follow his last order. He didn't answer the question, but Groves assumed it was unnecessary. They could talk once they were on land. Talking drained strength; meanwhile, even if the weather was fantastic and the sea smooth, the land was at least quarter of an hour away.

Used to following commands, Groves headed for the bank opposite of the cliff where the attack had come from. Unless they wanted to drown, they had to reach the island. An undesirable alternative, considering that there were a hundred bandits stationed on that rock. He had a bad premonition that they have been spotted, and they wouldn't be able to escape capture before the Interceptor could return.

The island had to be surrounded by a network of numerous lookouts, considering how well the ambush had been organised. The bandits prepared in advance for the Interceptor's approach, hiding their presence skilfully and setting their ships such that anyone entering the bay wouldn't be able to leave it. Even the shooting had been organised to kill the commanding officers first.

Horrible suspicion dawned on him. The Interceptor was not on a regular patrol. She was heading to a meeting point where military officers, in command of the nearest English established ports, planned to discuss a recent threat. A mixed group of pirates and Spanish privateers, highly organised and uncannily aggressive, practiced attacking the patrolling military ships with seemingly no other aim than to reduce the commanding ranks of the Navy. So far, they have captured four ships, sending every Captain's head to the Admiralty wrapped up in boxes, gorily mutilated. All hostages have been treated savagely. Most of the crewmen were killed, and a few lucky ones traded for an unreasonably high price. The survivors were unable to provide any information aside from the names of the two ships.

Could it be the same group? The attacks occurred to the northeast, where the militaristic expedition intended to look first. Thus, the Interceptor ran into an ambush in the suspicion free waters where nothing unusual had been reported. The bandits didn't lack intelligence. They could have organised a base away from the attacking ground. Whoever they were, Groves couldn't let them hurt his Captain.

Lieutenant searched the bank suspiciously before leaving the water. He was glad that he hadn't allowed the bay to claim his sword. Instinctively, he looked up to Norrington to consult their further actions. He expected the Captain to be on the shore. His commander was an excellent swimmer who surely would have reached the bank before he did, but Norrington was missing.

Groves caught sight of him as Norrington reached the shallows. As his mind marked the alarming details, Groves rushed into the water where the Captain was holding onto the flotsam at the depth that allowed him to stand. Norrington hardly raised his head to check whether he swam in the right direction, concentrating on the immediate movements, which even at a distance were increasingly faltering.

Groves broke into run, willing the man to stay there until he could help. Much to his horror, Norrington released the safety line. Limply, he slid off the flotsam and disappeared underwater. Groves closed the remaining distance within a heartbeat, which to him felt like an eternity, lunging into the shallows with a cloud of sand raised from the bottom and searching for Norrington. At last he managed to grab the man and secure a good foothold. The water was up to his chest. Groves slapped Norrington's back until the inhaled water poured out of his mouth and his gasps subsided into regular breathing.

"James, everything is fine. I have you. Take steady breaths," Groves urged. The informal address he so rarely used, but secretly longed to, inconspicuously slipped from his lips. He must have been reassuring himself, mostly, with the babbling because Norrington was deeply unconscious. Groves wrapped one arm around his shoulders and placed the other underneath his knees. Stumbling, he carried Norrington to the bank where he laid his charge down with the greatest care and placed his head onto his lap.

Groves shuddered. Overexerted muscles pleaded with him to drop down and lie unmoving alongside his Captain. Still fresh, devastative memories of the battle cut raw. He took a deep breath, willing the agitation to pass, and focused on the task at hand. When he undid the pins one by one delicately, weary of aggravating any existing injury, and removed the ruined wig, Groves found a bleeding wound. It was surprising that Norrington hadn't drowned with such a serious injury. He survived through the force of sheer will, which no matter how pitiful the situation, Groves could never have stopped admiring. The Captain possessed inner strength that shone like a bright star in the dread most places. He inspired and drew others to him for leadership and protection in the hardest of times.

Groves couldn't stop a tender brush across the forehead furrowed in pain. He ripped his own shirt into strips and bandaged Norrington's head. The bleeding had to be stopped in spite of the lack of fresh water to clean the wound. It was impossible to leave his charge alone to search for it, not when those bandits were around. It was paralyzing to think the torture they could inflict if they found the Captain in this state. He'd rather die trice the painful death than let it happen. He'd gladly accept any suffering in place of his Captain. A thought appeared unbidden - he could. Norrington would surely have every objection to his plan, but he was in no position to protest. Those bandits needn't know the truth which one of them was the Captain.

His finger shook as Groves slowly undid the Captain's vest buttons. His heart clenched in sympathy whenever Norrington gasped in pain as the switch was made. Removing the jacket and vest raised a warm blush to his cheeks. Wet, white shirt did little to hide the finely sculpted body, sticking to it at the most inappropriate places, hardened nipples peeking through thin batiste. Groves chided himself for inappropriate feelings. Helping his friend had nothing do to with lust. He dressed Norrington in the lieutenant's uniform, and then completed his own transformation, judging it to be adequate. They were almost the same height. The Captain's jacket stretched tight across his broader shoulders. Otherwise, the attire passed as his, and he could pass for the Captain. He had to or the life of the man he loved was forfeit.