Hey everyone!
I apologize for the lack of an update in forever, but now that the third movie's come out, I think have some idea of the direction I want to take this in. This past year was really busy, and this coming one is going to be even worse, so I'm hoping I can finish this story now. (yay for the dark side of ambition!)
When I first thought about and started writing this, I wanted to play with ideas about post-DMC events, some random plot twists, and explore character relationships, but there wasn't really an idea for the main plot. Sure, I had my characters, developments, ship captains, etc down, but I didn't know where to go as far as recovering Jack and defeating the East India Company. So I'm not changing my original story at all, I'm just using my ideas for Valor to retell the third movie as I think it should have happened. Therefore, kinda obviously, there will to be spoilers (probably), maybe not in this chapter, for the third movie (AWE) in here. If you haven't seen it yet, see it!
I hope you guys like my take on it-- read on.
--cy.
"Let us begin at the beginning. Unless you admit it to me, I cannot help you. Tell me, boy, what is it that you most want?"
He pauses. Perhaps he doesn't like the way she phrased the question. Perhaps he does not like his answer.
"Honor, or so I thought. But what use--" He grips the hut's old table and shakes his head. He hasn't had the heart to put the wig back on yet, but the Admiral's stripes were too appealing to forsake for this visit. "But what use is honor to me now? What use is it to her? Everything I've done has turned wrong; the world's gone mad." A sigh. "And now I have nothing left to give."
She smiles and trails her index finger across her mouth. "Oh, my dear boy, that is far from the truth. The world has always been mad. You are at an advantage. Once you believe you have nothing to give, you are free to give anything without regret."
He starts, gazes at the table, wavering, and then makes his wish and seals his fate.
Preparations are made, the winds lash into a grey fury. She grants his wish.
And the storm smiles.
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I. The Turning Wind
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"Damn that sea witch and her treachery!"
Captain Hector Barbossa, leader of the expedition for the recovery of one Jack Sparrow, dug his boot into the sandy shoal. "To leave us without the Pearl, with nary a row boat, nor any other seaworthy craft for that matter--stranded on a god-forsaken island in the middle of the ocean, trying to sail to the end of the world--!"
"Well, it is a very nice island. And we're making progress. We're on the sea and that's closer to where we want to go than the swamp." Ragetti piped up.
Pintel echoed his support. "Yeah, captain. Look on the bright side. Jus' wait an' see."
"What'll I see? That there's no chance of rescuing Jack without a vessel? Forget your optimi..." His voice died in his throat and he stared off at the horizon before quickly delving into a pocket and fishing out his spyglass. "Arrr, methinks I spy...
"With your little eye?"
Barbossa shot Ragetti a withering look. "No, you twit."
He grinned evilly. And for a formerly dead and otherwise zombie pirate, it was quite an evil grin.
"...a boat."
Folding the telescope up, Barbossa pointed it at the incoming craft. "Steal it."
Pintel and Ragetti exchanged worried looks.
"But won't whoever's in there be angry and potentially hazardous if we steal their boat?"
Barbossa rolled his eyes. "That's why you bring along swords to subdue and dispatch them. Now get on with it!" He turned on his heel and went to watch the action unroll from atop a dune.
"You heard the man," Pintel said, unsheathing a dagger. "Subdue and dispatch. I personally am more inclined towards "dispatch," myself."
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Former-commodore and present Admiral James Norrington had had his share of hostile welcoming parties in his years at sea. Between bouts with pirates, rebel officers, and unruly tavern inhabitants, he was well-prepared to do battle, despite sailing in a run-down old dingey. It wasn't the only vessel Tia Dalma had, but she had flatly refused to lend him anything else for the voyage, considering its purpose. Far more pressing, he couldn't understand why these particular people would be attacking him. The witch hadn't informed them about his coming, had she?
"Prepare to be boarded! Yer vessel is ours!"
Ah.
He rolled his eyes. Oh, honestly. Jack Sparrow was better than this.
"Very well. Take it."
Pintel and Ragetti grinned at one another in exhilaration and dashed over to claim their prize.
"We've done it! Finally got the best of you, eh, commodore?"
"Yeah, take that!"
Norrington turned, and added almost as an afterthought:
"Be advised gentlemen, that vessel is prone to leak."
He heard their collective groan of disappointment as he trudged the rest of the way up to the beach, boots squelching in the muddy kelp. In his hand he gripped the mouth of a cloth bag tightly, holding it close.
Here they all are, the famous rescue party, stranded on a sandbar. He wants to smirk-- it feels so familiar in these clothes-- he supposes that they've been to Tia Dalma too? It does stand to reason, judging from the observation that the dead zombie-pirate has come back and is (hopefully) no longer a zombie.
Barbossa approaches, then that young Turner, and a little farther off, Elizabeth Swann as well. The former has apparently caught sight of the bag at his side and is making vehement gesticulations at it from the dune as the three climb down to meet him. He sees with a strange touch of satifaction that the latter two walk with some degree of distance, that things are not altogether happy for the happy pirate couple. Could he then still hope...?
No. He is the most foolish of fools, but he certainly no longer entertains that notion. He has made his choice and there is nothing left to do but follow it.
"Mister Barbossa." He refuses to call the pirate a captain. He was a captain once, in the Navy, and he would not share ranks with a criminal. Nor will he wish the pirate a good day; the greeting is curt.
"Master Turner. You are looking quite well." If you take "well" to be synonymous with "underfed", "tanned to peeling", and "weary beyond belief", then yes, Master Turner, you are the very picture of health.
"Miss Swann." Oh, and he hates that he feels his breath catch in his throat, hates that he can still sense his pulse racing, despises himself for everything he's done and everything he's about to do. But yes, Miss Swann, no matter how many desert islands I find you on, you will ever and always look exquisite.
"Seems like someone's sunk to filching officers' coats now. What a strange sight, commodore." Sneers Barbossa. "The world plays strange tricks on us all. Regardless, you have done us a great favor." His eyes touch the brown sack delicately, hintingly. "You seem to bring the solution to all our, ah... problems."
Norrington would have liked to intervene with something snarky and distinctively waspish at this point, but Will Turner butts in.
"What have you done with the key? Is it safe?"
He rolls his eyes again. "Oh, it's safe. Very safe, Master Turner, safer than you would ever believe."
Elizabeth steps closer to him, hestitates for a moment, and then smiles and throws her arms around his neck. Norrington can barely breathe and it has nothing to do with how tightly she's holding him.
"I'm so glad you're alright! We'd all thought you'd been killed, or drowned, or that those fishmen had gotten you."
"Aye," intejects Barbossa sulkily. "I had my money on the fishmen."
Will is getting frustrated. "But what about the key? Where is it? Do you have it?"
Elizabeth has not yet let go. Norrington is finding it extraordinarily difficult to speak and can't help but take delight at the sour expression spreading over Turner's face. A bitterness creeps into him, knowing that the embrace won't last and that she's probably only drawing it out to irk Turner. Never for himself, not solely for his reaction and his alone.
"No, I do not." He says and she releases him, as expected. "It is not in my possession, though I am keenly aware of exactly where it is."
Barbossa can't take the suspense any more. "But that doesn't matter compared with what's in the bag, am I right?"
He shrugs. "That is for you to decide, I suppose." Sensing that he's about to be barraged with questions, he continues before they have the chance to ask. He'd rather not explain everything to them together. "I would feign speak with Miss Swann alone."
Ah yes, Master Turner, don't think that I didn't take great pleasure in that disapproving glare of yours. I hold the strings now and I intend to play to my rules. In future, I doubt our paths will across again and, for that, I am grateful. The best of luck to you.
Norrington begins to walk away from the gathered company, towards a forest grove. It is secluded, not terribly shady, but provides for basic privacy without infringing too much on propriety. He stiffles a laugh. Thinking about the concerns of propriety at a time like this! In the end, he really hasn't changed much. Not much at all. He grows somber again.
The bag seems to weigh heavier and he knows it's getting late.
He sees her departing after him, furrowed crease pressed on her brow, the red of the oncoming sunset eating away at the edges of her fraying dress. If there was any memory of Elizabeth Swann he held dear, most prized, more cherished above all else, above seeing her at the Governor's annual balls, above returning weary to port and glimpsing her as a child waiting at the harbor, above proposing to her (many things actually were fonder to him than this particular recollection), it was this moment when she crested the hill and met him there, perfect, made immaculate by the setting sun, that he would keep in his mind always, for however long always might be.
A moment passes as he stands there staring back at her, engraving every detail into his memory, and then, with a slight cough to cover his silence, he turns and leads her into the grove.
A line of approaching clouds mars the brilliance of the sky. And the storm smiles.
The game's begun.
