He loves to sail.
The first journey proved a rather short one. On the great lake at his family's ancestral estate in northeast England. His father, while older (for he is but the seventh child and the 4th and youngest son) does not renege on the promise he made the night before.
"I wish to build a boat, father!"
"You mean a vessel, boy," comes the laughing reply, the old earl wigless and in his sleeping robes as he peruses a book on architecture or some other cultural pursuit in the great study on the third floor. "Call any captain's vessel a 'boat,' lad, and he'll throw you overboard."
"Is that what happened to Uncle Spencer? He's a rear admiral now, you know." The dark haired boy pulls his lanky body into the leather chair in front of the desk. Green eyes sparkling in dim candlelight, he quickly scans the little ships inside the great glass bottles lining the library shelves. They come from various parts of the world, his dear uncle sending them whenever he gets a bit of coin and some free time to carefully pack such treasures. "In Mysore, southern India according to his last letter," he somberly intones. The voice is oddly adult despite having but eight years to it.
"Nay, he wasn't thrown overboard. At least not on purpose." And it is then that father again goes into detail of how his brother Spencer, a rowdy midshipman so many years ago, was knocked into the sea when he fell off the rigging on his first vessel. The newly christened HMS Queen Anne, it was. Luckily, no permanent damage save an enduring fear of heights.
Over the next weeks, they build a boat from spare boards. A fallen sapling serves as mast, an old sheet from the house, a sail. On a bright summer day, surrounded by a menagerie of the various children of the tenants, he sets sail. It springs a leak halfway across the lake and he goes down with it. Despite his father's entreaties from the shore that he, "Abandon ship, you whelp!"
"Whatever did you do that for?" the old earl chuckles, lightly cuffing his ear as he hauls himself out the lake. "You could have just jumped from your vessel. Your mother will have your hide for pulling a stunt like that."
"A good captain always goes down with the ship," he haughtily replies. Stripping down to his breeches and wringing out his clothes as best he can, he runs ahead. Letting out a loud whoop of glee, he's met by cheers of the other children, they alternately relieved and delighted to see their earl's son perfectly safe and sound.
He loves the sail.
Though he's not quite sure about it this time. Looking up at the grey sky hanging over the bustling London docks, he then eyes the gangplank leading up to the HMS Triumph. Looking back, the tall woman stands behind him, surrounded by the usual bevy of servants. Her red hair is slightly damp from the drizzle, starting to frizz despite the elaborately pinned curls. Matching green eyes are wide and clear as she steps forward from the entourage. Patting him on the back, she doesn't cry, chin up and proud as ever. But he knows her heart aches at his departure. He can feel it in her shaking hands.
The baby of the family, he is closest to her in many ways. Her precocious guardian of sorts whenever father is away on business. But the time has come for him to face his destiny. A naval career. Though at but eleven years of age, he's not sure whether or not it will allow him to make his way in the world. Alas, it is better than the army. To be landlocked and marching over dull stretches of terrain proves far too unbearable.
"Be good," she whispers, hand playing in his hair as she passes him a leather pouch. He feels the steady weight of the guineas in it, mumbling a prayer of thanks for her foresight. "Don't tell anyone you have it," she whispers, "Just a bit of coin for any unforeseen circumstances that require such payment." He tucks it into the inside pocket of his overcoat as she leans over him. A quick kiss on the forehead. He doesn't wipe it away as is custom (for what little boys like to be kissed by their fawning mums?). The weight of what may possibly be his last sight this great lady leaves him speechless. "Oh, and I had the cook prepare these for you, they being your favorites and all," she murmurs. As she passes him a thin paper bag, his nose twitches at the sweet, sugary smell of the caramels.
"Be good," she repeats. Without warning, he clasps his arms about her middle, taking in the smell of her usual perfume and the silken fabric of her skirts. Like her, he will not cry. And like her, his heart aches.
"My little protector," she sighs, pulling away. Crouching in front of him, she gives a long look of appraisal. "As you protect me," she breathes, "Protect those under your eventual command. Protect his majesty's vessels from the assaults of the enemy. And most importantly, protect the innocents of this world from the whims of evil ones that seek to do harm."
"Mother-"
"My dearest one."
With that she is gone, disappearing into the crowd as he is ushered up the gangplank, his fate now at the impulses of his new mistress, the sea.
He loves to sail.
It is why he gives Sparrow one day's head start. The sheer challenge of capturing the brigand flushes a new vigor into his veins. Hopefully it will be enough to forget her pretty glances, dark eyes and dashing spirit. She is another's intended wife now. He will not say he lost that challenge. Rather, gracefully bowed out.
He is a gentleman after all.
But now he regrets his bloody one day's head start, for the hurricane mercilessly pounds his beloved Dauntless.
"Sir, you must abandon ship!" dearest Gillette screams over the howling winds, yanking his arm and bodily shoving him in the direction of the longboats. "You cannot remain, you'll be killed!"
"A captain never goes down-" he breathes, leaning over the railing, fingernails scraping at the wood as he clutches on for dear life. Whether it's tears or rain upon his red cheeks, he doesn't wish to know.
"Sod duty, come with us, man!"
"Leave me," he snaps, yanking his arm out of his Lieutenant's grasp. "Tell what men are left to abandon ship! That's an order!" he snorts, eyes narrowed and harsh, mouth a thin line of sorrow and impatience.
"But sir…"
"That's an order!" he snarls. The other officer withdraws, shocked, until the commodore reaches out, grabbing his arm, face falling with utter disappointment. "Andrew," he murmurs, voice steady and clear over the crack of thunder roaring across the sky, lightning illuminating the empty deck for a few seconds. "You have a fiancé at home. Give her a chance to live a life of love with you. Me? I've nothing left to give. To you, or any of them for that matter." With that, he shoves Gillette over the railing and into the longboat with a handful of his men, the only survivors. Loosening the ropes binding them to the Dauntless, he murmurs a silent prayer of deliverance. May God protect you all in a far better manner than my many failed attempts to do so.
A deadly crack echoes around him, wood splintering and groaning as he swerves to face the direction of vile rattle. The mast breaks apart, rigging snapping, whipping across the deck in coils of thick rope. Holding up his arms in vain protection, he mutters another prayer of deliverance. This time for his soul.
The world goes black and wet, his body carelessly flung into the cold, salty clasp of his pitiless lover.
Washing up on the shores of Tripoli on a piece of driftwood Providence has been so kind to grant him, he awakes. Mouth dry and swollen, eyes red nearly blind, uniform mostly ripped away to rags, awash in impending death. Alas, God has not been so kind to grant him that final, permanent sleep. He mourns for his ship, his dead men and the terrible sea that has taken so much. She proves the most cruel mistress of all.
He may never forgive her.
He loves to sail.
So much that he betrays them all for the sake of the heart. Granted, he's no clue what importance of the disgusting thing has to someone like this Beckett character. Then again, Beckett and his trading company prove the only way regain his livelihood. For what is a man without his honor?
Nothing.
Upon dropping the heart on Beckett's desk, he swears he glimpses a smirk fly across the little man's face. A rather dangerous glint in his eye of some far more sinister plan. Swallowing down his reservations, he stands at attention as the lord curtly reels off the official words. Reinstating his commission, he slides the papers across his deck to the disheveled but no-longer-disgraced soldier, sealed and signed. An admiral now. Certainly nothing to shrug at. Mum would be proud of her great protector. He shall write both his eldest brother, the new earl of the estate, and his sisters tonight, telling them of this most fortunate change of circumstance. See, no reason to worry over his bouts of depression and self doubt. They are gone now, replaced by the costume of legitimacy thusly earned.
He yearns to completely destroy the misgivings eating away at his heart. Something about this Lord Beckett does not sit proper.
Ah, but what may he do? So much taken in so little time. All the for sake of some gentlemanly rule of conduct, giving that despicable pirate a chance to the escape the hangman's noose once more. He is done with playing outside the rules. It's gotten him nowhere. His destiny is finally signed and sealed, just like the papers of commission he snaps into his pocket.
It's good to feel wanted again.
He loves to sail.
It is why he's here now, fighting on the slippery, barnacle ridden deck of this monstrous, supernatural ship. The hurricane blusters around them, the whirlpool of wretched rage in the center of it all oddly appropriate.
Rage.
It is all he feels now. Rage at Beckett for allowing his greed to guide him rather than loyalty to crown. Rage at Sparrow for double crossing them all in his quest for immortality. Rage at her for even daring to think he would have anything to do with her father's death. Rage at the blacksmith for being so damn callous as to give his dear fiancé the impression that his love for her has died, replaced by some false sense of martyr-like heroism. But most importantly, rage at himself for not ending this disaster so long ago when he had the chance. If only he had known the truth of that bloody heart…
But this is no time to dwell on the past. He'd firmly chosen his side when he climbed across the rope with the girlish captain of The Empress, hurling his hat and wig into the sea. When he went below the main deck of pirate ship, exchanging the yellow and royal blue brocade of a navy uniform for the decadent black silks of a heathen costume from the Far East. When he stood quietly at the Brethren Court, allowing these criminals to plot open war against his former company. When he dissected every vulnerable spot in the navy's defenses for them, putting aside supposed duty for the sake of protecting that great freedom given by the seas.
The rage drives him as he slashes through Jones' accursed crew, stumbling over the chest as he skillfully twirls his sword to stab the mutant captain in the back. Aye, he cannot be killed. But he may be maimed long enough to allow the others a proper avenue of escape.
But too late, for Jones has the blacksmith at his swordpoint, his fiancé and Sparrow helplessly looking on as he cackles with glee, reeling back for the deathblow.
He loves to sail…
Would it really be so horrid to undertake such a thing for many lifetimes?
He loves. To sail.
Twisting the key at lightning speed and shoving open the chest, for the first time in what's left of his mortal life, he acts on impulse. His sword strikes the heart, his action setting in motion numerous reactions. True, it is a rash decision. But no time for regrets.
Elizabeth escapes the suffering of loss. Young Turner avoids death. Beckett loses his company, and soon, his life. Sparrow will prove unable to wreck his usual spontaneous havoc into perpetuity. And he, James Bennet Norrington, chooses a final side. His own side, for once exclusively on his own terms.
He loves to sail.
Blessed eternity finally allows him to embrace his one true love.