It was definitely not the ideal trip. Nor was it one of the places he had dreamed of going when he took to sea. But at least he was still on the sea. As opposed to dead…or…not on the sea. So he happily loaded up his ship and sailed for the tiny island buried in the Spanish Main that he had been told held his assignment.
True, assassin was a long hop, skip, and jump away from Admiral, but James Norrington was nothing if not adaptable. So, he had been given a target, a healthy deposit, and a promise of much more, and sent to an island by the name of Diablita Bonita, or, if one was one of her regular visitors, simply Dia. James had not yet struggled out the hidden context behind the two very different Spanish translations. In the end, he had left it to skewed pirate logic. It was his safest bet in most of his on-water endeavors, in these new, changed, and dangerous times.
When he'd been given his assignment, it had surprisingly come without a name attached. He'd been told he would have no trouble finding the man, as he was indeed the king, or "whatever passed for gob'rnment in dem bleedin' parts." James supposed that would make things a tad bit easier. Also his…illustrative employer had given him broken and almost useless bits of backstory. Apparently, the island's populace and thriving had been brought and organized by the current monarch, and supposedly the island was even named for him. He did strange and mysterious things in his home on the island de Dia, and was much revered for it. He was a miracle worker.
Poppycock.
James Norrington would believe in backwater revolutionary miracle workers on the day when his mother came to him calmly and informed him that he was in fact the rightful son of the queen of Spain, and had only been fostered by her in a mad attempt to gain some experience of motherhood.
Yes, exactly. Poppycock.
However, his superstitious companion was offering a very large sum of money for the death of this "miracle worker." And if James needed one thing, it was money. Even retired Commodore/Admirals had to eat. So off he went to Diablita Bonita, seeking a man that was probably much better at persuasion then he was at any miracle like actions. He was approximately 2 days out of its port, and he was already growing bored with this task.
It was times like this that he really missed Sparrow. Inane? Yes, but more importantly, he was interesting. And at times like this, a trait like that really mattered.
But Sparrow was not here, or if he'd heard correctly, any where near here. So he should keep his mind in the current occupation. On to Dia.
He'd formed this little island when he was still very young. Oh he'd been young once. A long time ago. At least in spirit. But even then, he'd had a silver tongue. It was his only heirloom remaining in his possession. And it was that tongue that convinced people he was worth following when he was just 22. A good year for him ,22. He'd been on the sea 6 years. Just as in love with it as the first day he set foot on deck. He was healthy, handsome, strong, and he was full of fire.
So, being who Jack Sparrow was, he'd become the king of an island.
For kicks.
Unfortunately, the island had grown a mind of its own, a concept of its own, and the concept had eaten its way through Jack's thoughts of fun, and rooted firmly in his mind.
He'd named it Diablita Bonita for a reason.
In the heart of her port town, the people never slept. There was always drinking, loving, playing, planning, shouting, whispering, and much, much, much of freedom. What Jack had learned to value most, earliest. Freedom. An entity in and of itself. Jack had created the perfect world in miniature. The women that slept around, slept around because they enjoyed it. The deaths that occurred, were over love, or over hate. They happened, but they were contained, contained by vengeance fulfilled.
And Jack loved his little island. But he loved something else more. The Pearl.
His shining beacon, his lady love, his inspiration, his reason for getting up. He adored that ship. If she would have appreciated it, he would have bought her flowers, candy, diamonds, anything. He would have spoiled her as boys are supposed to spoil lasses, and reveled in her affection.
As it was, he bought her a lot of new guns and sails, and kept her deck clean.
He had heard wind, from one of his many acquired connections, that someone had finally galled the brass to send someone out for him, an assassin. Said to be rather talented, though still a rookie. But no rookie himself, was Jack Sparrow. And he had a feeling that though this would prove to be little to no danger, it would be interesting. And that was what mattered.