Author's note: This is my first Pirate's fanfiction, and I apologize if any of the characters are not portrayed correctly or if any of the ones introduced herein are stereotypical (AKA Mary-Sues). I have tried my best to avoid that, and have endeavored to stay true to the original natures of the characters, but it is extremely hard, as I'm sure many of you have discovered, to do so and so I'll admit my failings now. To boot: my writing is not the best in the world as far as I am aware, no matter how much I may wish it, so please excuse errors of that sort. Please let me know any ways that you think I can improve, and I appreciate feedback.
Pirates of the Caribbean, in any form, does not belong to me, no matter how much I adore Norrington or any of the other characters. Just so you know.
I'm not sure how this will go, since I'm afraid Rachel will end up being a bit of a Sue if I'm not careful. Any comments? PLEASE review. Happy reading, no matter what the opinion of readers.
Cheers.
Set after the end of DMC: from the third person perspective of one James Norrington and a Rachel Baird. The events which may occur in the third movie are unknown to me, so I have endeavored to avoid making inferences. However, I have tried to keep this story true to the events of the second movie.
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Sullen and silent, James Norrington stood leaning on the battlements of Fort Charles. His features wore a brooding look, which told anyone who knew the former Commodore that he was not in a 'chatty' mod. Green-gray optics were pensive; flickering to the wharves and then to the open expanses of water which sparkled invitingly in the moonlight.
It would have been simple to end the turmoil of his thoughts by taking one step forward, and over that edge, but James Norrington preferred to confront his problems face on, and deal with them accordingly.
How many hours had he stood here since being dismissed by Lord Beckett? He had not kept count. He ought to have demanded quarters; a shave –heaven knew he needed one- and a barber, but instead he had simply left.
Just as he had left Sparrow, Turner and Elizabeth on that pitiful little island (Isla Cruces) after stealing the heart. He felt a bit queasy as he recalled it, only now realizing that the theft had brought him another step closer to becoming what he hated. He, the honorable ex-Commodore Norrington, had practically become a pirate.
What should he have done? The question haunted him. It would have done no good to leave the dratted heart and let Sparrow and Turner fight it out. He had really done the only sensible thing. To let the letters of Marque be ignored and forgotten would have been a waste, and by handing the heart of Davy Jones to the East India Trading Company man, he would regain his life and his honor. But in order to regain his honor, he had had to engage in an act of complete dishonesty.
Exasperated by his conscience, which kept pointing out the unpalatable parts of his recent conduct, he made an irritated sound and wished that he had the comfort of a bottle of rum.
He was beginning to understand the attraction of the vile drink. When one's sober thoughts were so puzzling, how could drunken ones be any worse?
Behind him, he heard somebody clear their throat. Annoyed at having been discovered, and at having his thoughts disrupted, he spun around.
"What do you want?" he demanded, lips thinning as his eyes flickered over the young woman standing before him.
Rachel Baird did not recognize the silhouette of the man standing in the Fort. He was not wearing the red coat of the soldiers, so he could not be on watch. Rather, he was clad in an extremely dirty and rather ragged blue coat with a deal of brocade. His dark brown hair was partially contained in a tail, but most straggled free to his shoulders, and as she tentatively neared him, she wrinkled her nose: He smelled, of stale sweat, rum and other unspeakable things.
Hesitantly, she cleared her throat with intentions of asking him what he was doing. Before she could speak, however, he whirled around with heavy brows lowered.
"What do you want?"
Rachel's hands flew to her mouth as she smothered a gasp, and took a step backwards involuntarily. Those crisp, educated tones were unmistakable, even in a man such as this.
"Commodore Norrington?" she asked uncertainly, as piercing green eye swept over her.
"I have not been Commodore for some time," the unshaven, unclean man pointed out wearily. She squinted up at him as she stepped down, trying to find recognition points.
'I suppose, then, that I've no right to inquire what you're doing up here at such an hour," she murmured with resignation, and a dip of her head. "Though it seems a bit odd, sir, if you'll pardon me, since if you'll recall, you have been absent for some months…"
Though she tried to keep her gaze respectfully lowered, she could not help watching him through her lashes.
"One might well inquire what a young lady such as yourself was doing up here at this time, as well, Miss…?" He trailed off pointedly.
It was hard to believe that a man who looked so different from the one whom she had last seen on the parade grounds could sound so identical to himself, yet look so changed. Scrutinizing the effect that a lack of hygiene had had on such a distinguished man, she hastily supplied her name.
"Miss Baird—My father served beneath you."
His obvious irritation at her intrusion faded slightly.
"I do not recall a Baird," he responded guardedly. She nodded, and chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully. What had brought the absent Commodore back to Port Royal after he had resigned his position? And so changed? "Though you have not supplied a reason for your-" he continued. Her mind returned to her half query, and she interrupted quickly.
"At least I am decently clothed," she responded with great dignity, chin jutting out stubbornly as her gaze swept over his worn garments, "And have not been absent from Port Royal for the past months."
He frowned at her, and brushed a lock of dark hair away from his tanned and roughened face.
"You know nothing of the situations which forced my departure, or which have occurred since," he replied in clipped tones, and strode abruptly away. Stunned, and rather bewildered, by having caused such a reaction, Rachel proceeded slowly to the carriage waiting for her outside the Fort, after an evening spent with her father.
Her fertile imagination was already busy with creating scenarios which might have forced the dignified Commodore to resign and then vanish.
Of course, they were wrong.
