His Broken Eyes
John was forced from his sleep when the contents of a rum bottle were poured on his face.
His dark blue eyes annoyed, he unsteadily raised his head. The first thing he registered was the bright light shining in his eyes. Then it was the sky, a beautiful blue. The deck of a grand sheep came into view. And at last he noticed the busy crew around him, shuffling about the Black Pearl.
But he was soon distracted by yet another splash of rum across his bearded face. He glared at the man who stood before him. It was Roger, an old man that he had only met a few days before after their stop in Tortuga.
"You…" John growled, wiping his face with his gritty hands.
"Scrub the deck with us," ordered Roger in his weak voice, his old eyes shining pitifully as he leaned slightly on his walking stick.
John stared at him for another moment before slowly rising from his sleeping position by the stairs. He walked clumsily to the buckets left out for him, picking them up his hand and trying to keep from sloshing the dirty water around. His dirty fingernails seemed to be highlighted as he picked up the rag from the pile next to it and began to make his way to an empty spot on the deck. Many men rushed passed him, their unpleasant smells doing harm to his already confused mind.
He finally found an open place to work and he set down his bucket first, careful not get the contents spilled. They spilled anyway though and John cursed to himself before sitting his now wet knees across the dirty deck. He took the worn rag and wet it, then began to lazily slide it across the wooden deck of the ship, his mind already losing itself in the tedious job of being a crewman.
Before long his mind began to wander from the task at hand. He recalled how he used to clean the floors of his father's ship so many years ago. That ship had been his favorite of any he had sailed on. The Vengeance had been a majestic ship. For a pirate ship, that was. He recalled the feeling of pure freedom he had felt when he had stood and watched the water move past him. John had only been ten years old at the time but it was a memory that could never seem to break itself from his mind.
The sound of a muttered curse brought him back to the present. His eyes quickly refocused, realizing that he had just sloshed water on another man working next to him. He quickly uttered an apology but the man just sent him a fleeting glare of annoyance before turning away from him. His sea green eyes had seemed to flash at him and John's thoughts wandered off yet again, his worn out hand automatically moving the rag back in forth across the deck.
That man had also been picked up at Tortuga. He was nothing the like Roger though in any way other than the fact that they both looked run down. He looked young, despite his unkempt and messy outward appearance. The eyes seemed to speak measures for him. He had never seen such regret and darkness in the eyes of a man before. At times his eyes would darken furthermore, more often when a man by the name of Turner was mentioned or in his few moments of confrontation with Jack Sparrow. His eyes always seemed to give him away. He had seen them light up with a sort of regretful wistfulness when speaking to Elizabeth Swann, a female pirate who had left a large impression on the crew. His repressed feelings for the woman were obvious in a painful way. But how a man could have developed such feelings in only a few short days caused John to question their past experiences together.
Norrington, he thought suddenly. He remembered the name by which a few had called the complicated man by. Surely not a first name, he decided. John squeezed the rag before dipping it once again in the murky water. What had puzzled him was another title the man had been called. Mister Gibbs had called him a Commodore. Or former Commodore, to be correct. The man looked absolutely nothing like a Commodore looked. Granted he had not witnessed many Commodores in his time. He had not been a crewmember when they had been at battle with a stately Commodore whose name he had never learned of over a year before. A commodore surely looked nothing like Norrington. But the pain in those eyes seemed to portray knowledge and experience. At moments he looked strong and powerful but those times always seemed to pass as quickly as they came on. He almost appeared as if he had seen too much in his young life.
John switched his gaze from the watery deck and his grubby rag to the man next to him. The man had long brown hair that seemed to swish back and forth as he worked, sometimes getting in the way of his face. Norrington seemed to sense his eyes and looked at him almost mockingly before raising an eyebrow a fraction.
"Yes?" Norrington questioned rather rudely.
The older man diverted his eyes hastily, pretending nothing had occurred as he shuddered inwardly at the cold voice.
It was less than a minute later that Norrington rose from his position on the deck, collecting his bucket and rag on his way. He gave John no further glance as he walked away, his dirty clothing hanging off him loosely.
John did not go without noticing the air of dignity that the green eyed man had seemed to have as he left from the deck. It almost completely conflicted with the slightly drunken swagger had had seen him have very often on their short voyage to a place he knew not of.
The bearded man sighed heavily, watching the retreating back of the man as he forcefully dropped the rag back into the bucket. He decided that he would never know the answer to his mystery. Norrington appeared as if he had a long story to tell and he figured that the only way he would get it would be to hear it from the man himself. He wondered if Norrington would ever share it.
As he recalled the flash of mixed emotions in those broken eyes he accepted that it would be highly unlikely.