Whether or not he was evil was a reoccurring question. After the pressures of the day, away from the thick heat of the Caribbean sun and the salty spray that rose from the waves as they lapped against his ship, he would lie quietly and think upon it. An Admiral was not supposed to be a man of thought, but rather of one of action: quick and decisive. Whose impact was as final and resounding as the firing of a rifle into a man's head. It was easy enough to ignore such philosophical nothings on the docks, where orders were needed promptly and the only evil sailed in the waters abreast the horizon. But at times like these, in the thick of the shadow of the night, where the only sound was the rhythm of the waves…these were the times were those thoughts lingered in the crevices of his mind.

Elizabeth. She was here too. How real she felt. How sharp and distinct the lines of her lovely features, made even lovelier by the soft glow of the moonlight through the small window of his quarters. Her eyes tonight were brimming with sorrow. She wore the gown from the days where James had been convinced she was a princess – made from spun fantasy and beauty rather than a creature of flesh and fault. Back when he had thought he had the perfect ideal of a woman; a lady, in both blood and manner. Sometimes she was the coarsely dressed creature from the present truth, sometimes a pale little girl humming her pirate tune. But tonight, she was his Elizabeth. His phantom. Not the one that belonged to Turner or to Sparrow – just him.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, though he knew it was to nothingness. "Do you hate me now? Hm. Imagine that at one point, I would have done anything for your favor." His tone grew colder. Her betrayal to him stung every time he relived the memory. Not only with a blacksmith, but also with a pirate. The pirate, for all he was concerned. The very one that had lead him to his ruin in the wine-dark frothing waters. "But then you had to turn out like them." He remembered the harlots back in Tortuga, their smiles a mixture of teasing mockery and bestial lust. Once he had thought only men to be capable of perversion. Those whores that fed on a man's soul like cannibals on flesh had proved him very strong. "You stare at me as if I am the traitor. But aren't you happy at all to see that I have regained what I worked so hard for? Or were you more content to have me on my knees, scraping the docks with those filthy rags while your friends laughed at me?"

Elizabeth's gaze remained locked on him, filled with both sorrow and reproach. He calmed. "Forgive me, Elizabeth. I just never knew why I couldn't make you content the way Turner could. Perhaps if I had – "

A fierce pounding on his door interrupted him from his reverie. Norrington shook his head several times. He had to wonder if he was losing his wits. What if the men heard him talking in the night? They'd either think he brought along company, was involved in a sinful tryst with a sailor, or had gone utterly mad. Probably the very last of those options. He was the fool who had pursued a scoundrel pirate through a storm, after all.

"What is it?" he demanded, swinging the door open and pulling on a thin undershirt. "Why are you interrupting me at this forsaken hour?"

"There is a matter that requires your attention," his lieutenant informed him, decked just as elegantly as he. "A rather serious matter. Mr. Mercer thought it best that you dealt with it directly."

The Admiral frowned, tightening the cords of his shirt before throwing his coat over his arms. Trouble already? "Pirates, Gillette?"

"Of that nature, Admiral." He waited for Norrington to take the lead and followed the man down the winding interior of the ship's luxury quarters. Eventually, they climbed aboard the docks, where a number of guards formed a circle. Many of them had troubled expressions on their faces, their eyes all intent upon the circle's center. Norrington advanced, and the men parted so that he could see what was causing all the trouble.

It was a young girl.

No more than sixteen or seventeen, it seemed. She stood defiant and proud, decked in clothes fit for a young lad. Her fair face glowed milky white in the darkness; she was clearly not a laborer or a rogue, judging by her healthy dark locks and fine skin. A rope bound her slender wrists behind her back, the coarse material digging into her flesh. Yet despite this, and despite that she was a slight little wisp of a thing, her mouth was set with determination. Her gaze met Norrington's without falter.

"What is the cause of this?" he breathed, shocked.

"Stowaway, sir. Nasty one, too," one of the guards informed him. "We think that she was 'ere on a mission to poison the lot of us. Found English hemlock in her bag and a pistol. A right bugger. She gave us a hard time." He pointed to a swelling bruise on his cheek and a few bite marks that seemed to have penetrated clear through the cloth of his sleeves. A little spot of red was quickly growing.

"This child? An assassin?" How insane had the world gotten when little girls were the British Navy's greatest fear.

The captive sniffed. "I am not a child. I became far more when I managed to sneak under the watch of your guards and get in this ship – it was easy too." A smile curved on her lips. "You never pay attention to the pretty young ladies, do you? We can slip in and out of anywhere really easy. If we're clever, that is."

"And do you think you're clever, girl?"

She smirked in turn. "Fooled you sure enough."

Her expression wavered a little as he approached. He was a man of intimidating stature, even when after just being roused from his bed. His expression was solemn as he regarded her. "A clever girl would not risk everything she has to climb aboard a British naval ship with the intention of killing men who have done you no wrong, young lady. Men who have laid their lives on the line of duty to defend you."

"They aren't here to defend me," the girl spat. "They're here to imprison us! Beckett's a selfish dolt and you're his little lapdog, following orders this way. Don't you ever get tired of being a prissy old pet?"
A few of the men snickered, but then silenced them quickly when Norrington shot them threatening glares. The unfortunate truth of the matter was that this girl's words reflected the truth. The hard, bitter truth. He was a lapdog hiding behind his prestige and title. But that did not matter now. "What is your name, girl?"

"Clara," the girl stated rather proudly. "Just Clara."

"And where is your mother and father, Clara? Your family?"

Her nose scrunched up, obviously distasteful at the mere mention of them. "Who cares? They wanted to sell me just like…just like a horse. A big pretty horse so I can breed more sons for them. But I wanted something better. I wanted to be a pirate. A fighter for the freedom of the people. And here I am." She straightened her shoulders, standing proud and tall.

Norrington felt something clench over his heart as he gazed at her. Her eyes. They were not the exact shade as Elizabeth's, so why did they seem so very much the same? Filled with hot ambition and the drive, the need for new horizons. Their faces were so very different – hers small and delicate of feature, Elizabeth's sharp and handsome. Yet…

"You do understand that you are in trouble."

She smiled at him. "I wouldn't come on here if I wasn't ready for trouble."

The Admiral turned to Gillette, moving close enough to privately confer with him quietly. "Can we not arrest her, Lieutenant? We'll send her to the prison at Port Royale. Her family can bargain to pay for her release. It may be an economic boon to Lord Beckett."

Gillette's expression was impassive, but Norrington could tell that it was quite deliberately controlled. He paused before speaking. "Mr. Mercer has told me that it is to be left up to your personal decree, Admiral. In my personal opinion, however, I would politely suggest that you reconsider. She is a threat, Admiral Norrington, and likely one of the many that the pirate Swann has encouraged. Lord Beckett has already overseen the execution of those her years, therefore showing leniency on her might be seen as favoring the nobility rather than an act of mercy. Letting her live would be a danger."

A danger. Yes, it was true. But she was only a child…only a poor, stupid, daydreaming child. He turned to her, and there he was reflected in her great dark eyes. Imposing even as he was, the medal on his loosely shouldered Admiral's jacket gleaming in the moonlight. Powerful and influential. All that he had ever worked and aspired to be. From the day he had turned thirteen, he knew his destiny was to be in the navy and go behind where his brothers had dreamed. His single greatest desire was to rise through the ranks and obtain the impossible for the relatively lowborn such as him.

Ambition. Yes, that was what had lead him through the ranks in his youth. What had driven his blood and soul through the storm that claimed the lives of all but him in the heaving swells of the sea, to clamber onto drifting debris and clutch onto life with no more honor than a cockroach. Ambition had let him endure the sweat and the sick depravity of Tortuga, through the meaningless revels in alcohol in prostitutes. When he had stabbed other drunkards for money and in defense, his desire to regain his power had guided his blade. And, at last, ambition meant betrayal and the final severance of lasting friendships. It meant the cold dagger to the back. The final death of Elizabeth's affection and friendship, which lingered in the place of love. He could not abandon it now. His only constant companion, his only true friend. He could not let everything he had achieved flee him now.

Norrington drew the pistol from one of his guards' belts. Clara's eyes widened at the sight of it, the sheen of the muzzle unmistakable even in the thick of the night. But she did not wither at its sight. No, she held herself tall, brave and bold as he took aim. Like a pirate queen, he thought to himself. But she's still only a child…

"Tell mother I – " her voice stopped suddenly as the shot rang out in the night. Final and resounding. The men stepped back, diverting their eyes from blood that seeped out from the fallen body and slicked the decks. It would have to be thrown to the sea soon in order to prevent an alternate disposal through rats. In his mind, Norrington saw a woman and a man with hair and eyes as dark as the depths of the sea standing over an empty grave, waiting. Waiting for their daughter's body to wash up on the shores of home.

Norrington handed the pistol back to its owner. The man treated it as if it were a hot coal and let it fall to the ground. There were tears in his eyes. Norrington knew that this was a break of protocol, but he let the soldier be. Impassive, he turned from the corpse and its audience and marched back to his quarters.

Sometimes, on nights such as these, Norrington had to wonder if he was evil.