There were times when the realization of his absence would fall upon him like monoliths, when the effort of breathing was too much. At night he would lay in bed and the desire to give into that weight and to stop breathing was a comfort. In the silence he could hear the slow beat of his heart and the sluggish slush of blood in his ears. But then the part of him that was not a man, but an animal, would roar to life and he would suck in a breath and whisper to his grief: "More weight."
The days were dull as English rain and everything had the appearance of ruined grey stone, of abandoned fortresses built in the time of the Conqueror. Nothing pleased him. Not the ledger book, not the little ships, not the little soldiers, nor any personal game of risk with pins and needles decorating a dissected undulating heart. During balls he moved about the floor with the smoothness of a Russian automaton; every word and gesture was perfectly polite and entirely without feeling, hidden in the chiaroscuro under the chandelier.
Gaunt and wan, he looked broken down as old abbey walls, and people wondered if he had come down with some strange tropical malady. After months without word, sight, or sign he had not given up, but given in. Mercer had come back empty handed and there would be no relief from this crushing weight. It was an old comfort that had lost its savor; he let Saunders suffocate him with concern and sweeties as though he were still a child. On Sundays he would lay in bed, praying to no one and believing in nothing. Meals sat untouched, so did the liquor.
Sitting in his office was a chore and he observed his strange collection bric-a-brac on his desk as though he did not recognize them. The withdrawal was such that he did not perceive the sudden flurry of activity around him; guards and clerks hurrying about and slamming doors and drawers, suddenly frantic. Mercer touched his shoulder when he showed no response to his clerk's voice. Slowly, he lifted his head up. Here came the sun, suddenly blinding him, and standing as the source of this nimbus was a man long thought dead and beyond the reach of a substantial bounty.
Cutler Beckett felt like he was dying when he locked eyes with the long, lost James Norrington. The breeched mulatta that was with him had found him, nursed him, and now returned him to claim the bounty. She said she was a ship's captain and had found the poor bugger adrift at sea with a grievous wound. "Smuggler, more like," Cutler's mind provided and he listened dispassionately to the tale, but his eyes gleamed with avarice and the beastly part of him that had cried out for life now slumbered. His blood tingled in his finger tips and toes as his heart rushed with blood.
"The East India Trading Company is gladdened to have its most distinguished Admiral returned. It has been long indeed and in light of this heroic rescue…" Beckett rattled off the speech as any Honorable Director of the Caribbean should and placed his clerk in the position of "dispensation" of the bounty. In the meantime the Lady Captain should consider herself a guest of the Company and was offered the luxury of bathing, food, and a room on the Company's premises. The good Admiral would be reinstated and reinstalled in his usual accommodations.
Mercer kept watch from the secret room behind the walls as the domestic negresses fawned over the mulatta's yellow skin and good hair during her bath. One of her own trunks had been brought from her ship and from it emerged a fashionable evening dress of yellow silk, white chiffon, and gold lame in the French style. He watched from the peephole: white silk stockings slid up, stays and farthingale laced into place, the dark nipples pebbled under the sheer chiffon of the decolletage, hair dressed with a gold lame toque, a bit of power and rogue, and then her feet slipping into match shoes.
Dinner was a splendid affair full of coquetry, excellent attire, and ravenous eating. Mercer went through the mulatta's trunk, even its secret compartments, looking for anything to confirm his suspicions. The Admiral was himself again in a bright uniform, freshly powdered wig, and clean-shaven face. He sent thrilling sidelong glances down the table throughout the small talk and the courses. Mercer found nothing but an old and ugly music box of tinkered gold of a Greek goddess's bloated face. He returned to the secret room behind the paneling and waited at the peephole.
The evening ended and it was time to retire and a sudden tension filled the air as guests and host returned to their rooms. James Norrington stood in the center of his old, scarlet room and waited. He was tired and terrified and could only hope that Anamaria's plan would work – for her sake. As for himself he had no hope left. And then Cutler Beckett had come into the room and shut the door behind him, leaning against it and watching him with burning grey eyes. Beckett launched himself off the door and collided with Norrington in the middle of the room.
James submitted to the clawed hands that tore at his wig, his hair, his clothes and the mouth that kissed with a bite of teeth. Naked, a little bloody, James was pushed down onto the bed by Cutler's fierce hands and the beast that had slumbered was now wide awake and roaring. He turned Norrington over and he would make the man feel that weight as he slaked himself of its crushing force. James screamed beneath him, pushing back against that weight and the answering scream that came from the back of Cutler's throat was that of an animal.
Indeed, the whole house was full of screaming that night as Anamaria never returned to her room, but broke into Beckett's office to steal the heart from its hiding place and make off with it. Mercer came out of the darkness at her and nearly slit her throat, but she moved away and his knife only caught the chiffon gathered around her neck and freed her tits from their soft confinement. She had her own knife and stuck it in his arm, in his thigh. He screamed in her face as he grasped her and pulled her flush against him. Her nipples pressed hard against his chest as he reached around and stabbed her in the back.
Afterward, Beckett was sobbing into the back of Norrington's head and choking on whispers, "Oh, James…I've missed you…so much." "I know," came the scratchy voice from a throat raw with screaming. One hand reached back to caress Cutler's thigh to soothe him while the other hand reached behind his head to stroke Beckett's hair as he sobbed. Turning about, he gathered Cutler in his arms and Beckett turned away from the intensity of the embrace, forcing James to spoon him. Norrington placed his bloodied lips against Cutler's soft hair, just above his ear, and whispered, "Never let me go."
Anamaria screamed and went rigid as the blade penetrated her back and she felt the assassin's prick hard against her stomacher as he ground against her. She swung her head back and then brought her forehead against his, stunning them both. They staggered apart and Anamaria grabbed the knife in her back and pulled. The assassin fell back against the desk and she saw her opportunity. Rushing him, she threw her weight into him and pinioned him against the desk. Anamaria drove each knife through flesh and wood. Mercer was knifed to the desk like Christ was crucified on the cross.
Cutler wrapped his hands around the arms that held him from behind. They had both said things to each others back that they could not say to each others face; things that could only be spoken in a whisper. Much less things that could be spoken of in the light of day. "I'll never let you go, never again," Beckett whispered and the arms gripped him tighter, showing him a devotion he had never known at all. An overwhelming pressure built inside him again and the tears came rushing out and the last of the weight left him. James coddled him from behind and his own silent tears lay as drops of dew on Beckett's hair.
They had screamed into each others face for what seemed like hours and the assassin kept jerking against the desk, unable to free himself. His bollocks had drawn up tight together and his prick was swollen and seeking a dark and bloody hole to bury itself in. Anamaria kneed him viciously between the legs, and then he lay limp against the desk, dazed and bloodied like Christ. She laughed, at him and at herself, and lifting a hand up her skirts she touched her viscous cunt and then smeared her dark honey under the assassin's nose. Mercer tried to bite her fingers off. Laughing, she gagged him and left.
Then next morning, Cutler Beckett was looking a bit tousled, but well rested. The Admiral was sleeping in, still needing to fully recover from his ordeal. Upon entering his office he stopped short and cocked his head. Mercer was pinned to his desk like a butterfly and getting blood on his expensive Persian carpets. Beckett removed the gag and Mercer ground out that the "Bloody, black bitch has stolen the heart!" Cutler nodded as he eased the knives from his desk and clerk, "It's just good business." Mercer was gob smacked. "Let her keep the heart. I've got something much better."