As If The Sea Should Part
Prologue
A/N- So, to summarize, this is a sequel to Where Sea Winds Blow and sort of wish fulfillment on my part (what I would have liked to see happen in AWE, because I felt it was a disappointment, for the most part). If you felt that way, or want to read someone else's idea of what would have been a satisfying movie, this story will probably not disappoint. I hope. Yes, I realize that this is the title of an Emily Dickinson novel. Truth be told, I have not yet thought of a proper title and for the time being, I have stolen this one. I believe it to be tentative at best, I just wanted to avoid leaving this story "Untitled" until I could come up with something.
Secondly, please know that any mention of race relations/prejudices are in the interest of being historically accurate only and are not my own opinions. I had tried to avoid this issue but considering that the time period I'm writing within is the early 18th century, I figured it could only be held off for so long. I don't expect this to cause in problems, but just in case someone interprets them the wrong way, know that I am by no means condoning racism or closed-minded beliefs.
Also, I wanted to mention that there is a plot retold in here that I took from one of the POTC graphic novels. I haven't ever actually read this particular novel, but the plot device was intriguing to me, so I chose to borrow it for this chapter. Please know that this is my own interpretation of a summary and not a word-for-word retelling of those comic pages.
It had been horribly cloudy and humid that day. Many of the men suspected they'd run into a patch of bad weather, but Admiral Norrington would be damned if he didn't catch the man he set out to pursue because of a batch of dark clouds.
He'd told his young son this would be the day they'd catch a pirate and he wanted him to be present for it. He wanted James to see the vile, ruthless, and immoral heathens with his own two eyes.
"You and I, James, are going to catch and hang an infamous pirate Captain," Lawrence Norrington had told his young son that morning before departure. "And you will understand why it is imperative that you carry on the tradition in my stead."
James Norrington needed no experiential encouragement. For as long as he could recall, he'd been anticipating the day his father would take him along on an expedition at sea. He could think of no other man he wanted to be more like than Lawrence, and at ten years old, his training had begun. He'd grow up to be a stalwart, pirate-slaying Admiral of the British Royal Navy just like his dad.
The expedition hadn't gotten very far under way before the crew's weather predictions began to come true. A hideous, powerful wind began to rock the ship off course and torrential rain blinded most of the sailors from seeing an inch in front of them. Certainly, this would cast a pall on the highly awaited capture, if not ruin it completely.
He didn't quite remember how or when, but somewhere between the lookout announcing the sudden appearance of The Misty Lady and the crew running about feverishly, he fell. He had somehow toppled over the side of the ship and splashed below into the churning, murky, salt-ridden water. He was cold, and most of all, more scared than he would ever be again in his life.
His father realized immediately, shouting out commands to his crew.
"That's my son!" he continuously reminded, as if it would somehow make the effort to fetch him more successful. "That's my son!"
Ropes were thrown, but because the waves continued to pull James farther and farther away from the ship, the attempt eventually became futile.
Worst of all, he had not yet learned to swim. He splashed and kicked in the water vehemently, hoping that panicked, restless movements would somehow substitute. At the very least, he was staying afloat, but the fact remained that the motion of the sea was sucking him farther out.
Lightning flashed, thunder bellowed.
James began to cry. He knew it was babyish and weak of him, but he was so very frightened and he didn't know what else to do. His father's face was beginning to blur as the distance between them became even greater and the tears in his eyes mixed with the rain.
"Help!" he cried out as loud as his swollen windpipes would allow. "Please help me!"
It was around the time he had decided he would die, when an arm wrapped itself around his chest and shoulder, like a gun strap. It felt strong and thick, not unlike his father's, and was accompanied by a strong, metallic, musky scent that James would later realize was a mixture of alcohol and tobacco.
The body that held him began to propel them surprisingly fast through the water, back towards his father's ship.
"There, there now, lad," the masculine voice of his savior coaxed. "You're safe, now. We'll get yeh' back to dear ol' dad in no time…"
James was not yet in a position to see the face of the man who was saving him, but he allowed the voice to let him relax, nonetheless. There was something melodiously comforting about its tenor, almost as if it had spoken to a young child with the intent to calm before. He could nearly liken its effect to that of his mother's when she would sing him to sleep.
The weight of the world seemed to drop from his shoulders, even as the chaos of battle and storm continued to rage on around him. He could not remember what it was the man had said as he swam them back, but he had continued to talk. It was the tone that James would remember, the tone that would help him fall asleep on anxious nights, even to adulthood. For a brief, blissful period of time, it seemed as if the nightmare had ended.
But unbeknownst to him at the time, it had barely begun.
When they arrived back at the ship, his father met them almost immediately. Lawrence greeted James' eyes with an uncharacteristic look of joy and relief at his son's seemingly impossible survival. But when he caught a glimpse of that man that had carried James to safety, this expression was replaced abruptly by one of horror and disgust.
The crewman seemed overjoyed, however, and when James had been properly hoisted on deck, Admiral Norrington allowed the men to bring his son's rescuer on to the ship, as well.
"Captain Teague," his father had greeted the man curtly.
James was surprised at this revelation as well, but had figured his father might undergo a change of heart. James certainly had. After all, how horrible could Captain Teague have really been if he had saved him? Surely the pirate his father had spoken so coarsely of couldn't have been this man. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding?
Captain Teague proceeded to bow graciously, greeting James' father with a very genteel, "Admiral Norrington, sir."
"I suppose you want something in return?" Lawrence presumed through gritted teeth. "A pardon, perhaps? A surrender from my fleet?"
Captain Teague chuckled, which apparently made Lawrence even more infuriated.
"Nah, nah, good sir. I'm just as willin' as you are to carry on wif' it. I didn't save your son fer any kind of leverage. I've got a boy of me own, you see-"
"Yes, well," Lawrence interrupted. "I can't very well take a man into captivity the same day he rescues my issue."
After a brief exchange of a few more words, Captain Teague was released to return to his ship and his father ordered a turn around to port. As for James, he was dragged by the forearm into his father's quarters where he was told to remain for the remainder of the voyage.
"Father, I don't understand!" James exclaimed before Lawrence could slip back out onto the deck. "He saved me! Maybe he isn't as awful as we thoug-"
His sentence was interrupted by the hard smack of an open palm against his cheek, the force of which caused him to stumble backwards. Lawrence gripped him by the upper arm and jerked him forwards to look him in the eye. The tears that had before been soothed away by Captain Teague began to return.
"You listen to me, boy," Lawrence growled. "I would have rather seen my son dead than indebted to a pirate, much less Captain Teague. Do you understand me?"
James could only nod.
This seemed sufficient for his father, as he was suddenly released to fall back onto the office floor. When Lawrence disappeared, slamming the door behind him, James found a corner of the room to crawl into and weep.
When they'd return home, his father would neglect to speak to him for a year and a half. He'd never fully forgive James for what occurred that night, even when he'd join the Royal Navy and progress quickly through the ranks.
In Lawrence's final hours, on his deathbed, he'd refuse James in as one of the last to see him. He'd ask the eldest of James' sisters, Josephine, to,
"Remind him to whom he is still indebted. Perhaps then, he will understand why I can't look him in the eye as I leave this world."
James would immediately accept a naval position in Port Royal, Jamaica. He'd leave as soon as possible with Governor Swann and his family, vowing never to return to England. He hoped leaving the old world behind would help him to erase the nightmares.
And it did, for a while. It was now that he'd become Admiral Norrington that he couldn't seem to shake the ghosts of the past long enough to get a decent night's sleep.
He was up again with the same visions.
The same pair of glacial, stone grey eyes would appear in every nightmare, starring accusative daggers into his soul. He swore it was the spirit of Lawrence coming to exact some kind of misplaced revenge.
Gin and his window looking out onto the Port were the only comforts left to him on restless nights, which were becoming more and more frequent as time passed. He had stopped hoping for the sense of contentment and completion that he knew he'd feel when he returned to glory at Port Royal. It wasn't coming.
There were many issues at hand preventing it, the most prevalent of those being that he was now Admiral Norrington. His father was the last man who'd been referred to as such. He cringed every time someone would call him by the full title. To make matters worse, he'd begun to realize his growing resemblance to Lawrence as he got older. The blue irises he'd inherited from his mother that used to shine in a cerulean brilliance had begun a rapid fading. They were now almost grey.
His face had began to wrinkle and sag in the same places. He was horrified a few days prior when he accidently caught a glimpse of his reflection in full uniform. For a split second, he thought he'd been joined by the ghost of his father. When he looked again after realizing it was merely himself, he had a difficult time pointing out the differences between the two.
He blamed this sudden, rapid physical degeneration on the fact that he had returned. A part of him had begun to realize that coming back was a huge mistake, but another part reminded him he had no choice. This was his destiny, the only light in a collapsing tunnel.
But was it, really? Slowly morphing into his father was his destiny? That couldn't have been his fate.
Could it?
He also hated Beckett. He supposed he should have realized this back when he was plotting his grand ascension, but he remembered how occupied he was with himself at the time and how successful it was at distracting him from the hard facts.
Over time, Cutler Beckett had revealed himself to be much more than the spoiled, entitled son of a Duke James had grown up with. He was a genius of evil intent and harbored absolutely no concern for his enemies. He was absent a soul, that much James was sure of. Being a crucial part of Beckett's cruel schemes made him feel ill at ease. There was something so indescribably wrong with it all, even if it was, ultimately, for the cause he'd been bred to stand for- the abolition of piracy.
But it was around this time that he was forced to remind himself where his heart currently lay. While his body and mind were in his office and home in Port Royal, his affection remained securely on the person of a certain female pirate, wherever she currently was. A dark skinned female pirate, at that. He knew the idea would make Lawrence spin cartwheels in his grave, if he hadn't already.
It brought him back to that evening on the ship, the night he began to have second thoughts about Captain Teague. How could a man so allegedly horrible and evil be so selfless? How could a man so cruel, so unforgiving be more able to relax a frazzled child than its own mother? How could a woman of unworthy color and sinful occupation be so deserving of his adoration? Confusing of all how could a man that aligned himself with the Crown and The East India Trading Company be more scheming and merciless than any pirate James had ever encountered?
Port Royal, his former haven from unpleasant memories, had been claimed by a ruthless, satyr of a man. He was not only aiding and abetting the cruelty Cutler Beckett inflicted on the people of Port Royal in the name of righteousness, but he had become an active player in the effort to keep Governor Swann, a man he both respected and revered, a helpless pawn in the big scheme of things.
James truly had become Lawrence Norrington. He didn't intend it, but it had fallen into place as easy as clockwork. He had been lying to himself all along, and he now abhorred with every fiber of his being the man he'd become.
How could he possibly redeem himself now? What action was required to absolve him of his former foolishness?
A part of him already knew the answer. He would have to dig to find the proper courage within himself to carry it out.
He woke up to the sight of six women hovering over him, all of them Malaysian, he presumed, and all of them donned in not but short, black silk robes and slippers.
The sight, itself, was very pleasing and it took him a minute or two to recover from the mere aesthetic ofit to begin to wonder what he was doing here. The last image he could recall was of being caught it a nasty bit of mid-summer, Atlantic weather, when another ship broke into view.
He remembered feeling a bit queasy at the sudden presence, but the memory soon faded to black.
He supposed it wasn't the worst place to find one's self in after blacking out for an extended period of time. He would always take pleasure in a multitude of scantily-clad, exotic women milling around him, even if they did seem hard at work at something on his body that he could neither feel nor pinpoint the location of.
Being the man he was, he decided it might be best to greet his hostesses, which he proceeded to do, very charmingly.
Instead of giggling or blushing, as he had expected, the women began a chain of horrified screams, starting with the woman he initially acknowledged. They all proceeded to speak quickly in their native tongue- Malay, he soon picked up, affirming his theories of their origin- and half of them hastily exited the room.
"Well, at least I know for a fact I'm not dead," he sighed to himself, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. "This most assuredly is not heaven."
When the women that had disappeared not that long ago reappeared in the room with a very sour looking Sao Feng, he began to ponder the possibility of being in hell.
"Jack Sparrow," Sao Feng greeted in his typical, sarcastically pleasant manner. "I suppose I should have expected you to wake up from my sedative early."
Jack attempted to rise and prop himself up on his elbows so as to get a better look at his host, but soon discovered that he was more or less paralyzed from the neck down.
"Sedative, eh?"
Sao Feng seemed fairly amused by this.
"Oh no, don't bother trying to move," he warned. "This drug of mine will keep you still for quite some time. And you will perhaps find that this is beneficial for you, as well."
"How do you figure?" Jack felt obligated to ask.
Sao Feng grinned, motioning for one of his female minions to fetch a mirror. This she did, proceeding to place it up beside Jack's upper bicep so that he could get a full view of the gash that resided there. Though it had been partially sewn up and treated at this point, it was still rather horrifying. His grimace made Sao Feng's smile widen.
"So you see, Jack Sparrow, my having saved you has benefited us both."
"I can't see how that's possible," Jack quickly countered. "I mean, I'm clearly not dead. The way I figure it, that's the only the prize the great Sao Feng would have deemed acceptable for having rescued dear ol' Jack Sparrow. And if you really think about it, the two somewhat cancel each other out, don't they?"
Sao Feng was visibly annoyed, but such had been Jack's intention.
"There are things much more satisfying than death, Sparrow."
Having said that rather spitefully, Sao Feng mentioned some commands to the women in the same dialect of Malay, before leaving with all but one of them who stayed behind to finish sewing Jack's wound.
Though Jack knew it'd be most prudent to ponder Sao Feng's hidden agenda, he found his attention had been stolen by the female that at sat at his right, working diligently on closing the wound with a needle and thread. He knew he'd be dissatisfied if he didn't seduce or charm at least one of Sao Feng's beauties, so he turned his head to grin at her.
"Apa khabar, love?"
She tried to hide a smile in pursed lips, but both she and Jack soon discovered this was impossible.
It had been Barbossa's idea to go back to Port Royal.
Because Barbossa was now their Captain -whether they liked it or not- and no one who wanted to keep their head ever protested Barbossa's ideas, they were headed back to Port Royal to commandeer a proper ship and get Jack's location out of Cutler Beckett.
Admittedly, it was a somewhat flawed scheme, but it was all they had. Elizabeth volunteered to be the one to pay Beckett a visit at gunpoint, which seemed fitting since he had more to offer her than anyone else on the crew, and Tia Dalma gave them a second dingy with which to carry the rest of the crew from the marshland to Port.
With a crew of eleven, two longboats, and three days of sea travel ahead of them, many might have given up right then and there in Tia Dalma's shack. But it was Barbossa that informed them the Brethren Court had been called to convene, making the effort to retrieve Jack all the more imperative. Every one of them knew their obligation to the court could not be outrun, so they consented to work with what little had been given to them to achieve their goal.
Before they left, Anamaria felt compelled to approach Tia Dalma. She convinced herself it was out of concern for Alexander, who didn't seem to be getting any better, yet, there was another question nagging at the back of her mind that she hesitated to acknowledge.
"I was wondering," Anamaria muttered to Tia Dalma after most of the crew had left the shack. "…perhaps you can help us, in some way. We have a very ill man on our crew who hasn't shown any sign of recovery. I fear the worst for him. Might you be able to help him?"
Tia Dalma nodded slowly.
"Iah can. But dis would require me to join your crew. Iah'm not sure Iah want to make dat commitment."
"Please," Anamaria pleaded, lifting the curtain from the window they faced so that Tia Dalma could see Alexander Whitting. "He's suffering. I don't know what to do."
The other woman hesitated for a moment, as if in thought.
"Perhaps, yeh' can owe me, den. One favor."
Anamaria nodded, smiling widely. "Yes, that sounds fair."
Before Tia Dalma could leave to begin gathering her things, Anamaria touched her upper arm.
"I have one more question…" she whispered, uneasily.
Tia Dalma grinned, knowingly.
"James Norrington is still alive. Yeh' needn't worry."
She then continued her trek to the back bedroom, leaving Anamaria to ponder this inexplicable occurrence with a hanging jaw.