A/N: I was a bit hesitant to write the chapter, because of concerns about keeping Norrington in character while having an angst-ridden moment. I'm hardly one to do a character study on a fictional character's inner-workings, but, I know that something horrific had to have happened to Norrington between COTBP and DMC to drag him from the heights of being a British naval officer to a drunk who gets hired on a pirate ship. Given the regard that he has for honor and living up to his naval duties in the first movie, I think he would be far more upset over what he would view as a needless loss of life than something 'relatively less anguishing' than being stupid enough to sail a ship through a hurricane. This, here, is my first attempt to explain the 'breaking" of Mr. Norrington. And, to clarify, lest there be any confusion...this is not, and will never be, a slash fic, regardless of how hard you squint. I have nothing against slash fanfic, nor do I care one way or the other if a character is written as being gay and paired off with a character of the same gender. I just think that it's also acceptable for the main male characters in a story to have strong affection for each other, a mutual regard and friendship without romance, and certainly not without a physical component of a relationship being realized. Feelings of confusion about a relationship are almost never neatly resolved by a romp in the sack. It doesn't work in life, and it will not work in my fanfics. Anyway..on with the story....

Night had fallen, passed away, daylight in all its cruel clarity seared down on them. The sky was serene and cloudless, the boats were gently bobbing in the gentle rocking of the sea. The only sounds were the groans of the wounded and the dying, and the ever-present squawk of sea-birds. The remnant of the Calliope's crew were huddled together in the small boats, in shivering, wet misery. A few of the uninjured made half-hearted attempts to paddle the boats. They shouted across the waves to keep their spirits up, or to keep the sad tally of who had died in the night. The dead were hastily prayed over, and gently eased into the water without much more than a quick recitation before being committed to the deep. The Calliope had left behind a hellish mix of rope, wood, and corpses floating on the surface. Norrington had given the curt order to paddle away from the horror of it all. There was nothing to be done for the dead, they were at peace, and he could see nothing good of his men being subjected to the horror of seeing their dead comrades bobbing in the water.

For Norrington, it had been a night of absolute hell and heart-break. In his boat, Williamson, the cabin-boy, a bright eyed scrap of a youth had passed away in the night after sustaining a watery cough and bleeding that could not be staunched. The young man had hacked out his last, his huge eyes filled with the darkness of pain and terror. Norrington could do nothing at all but offer reassurances that seemed cold and formal to the point of cruelty, soothing the boy's worries about his mother, telling him that he was young, but facing death as a brave man. Norrington had held him upright for his last hours on earth, listening to that ragged breath, watching that child struggle to stay in his wrecked mortal shell. Williamson had finally breathed his last sometime before the dawn, as Norrington only bit his lip for a tortured moment, and drew those vancant eyes shut with trembling fingers. Bowing his head, he drew a breath, and forced out each word that seemed heavy with finality.

"We commit your body to the deep, and your soul to the Eternal Father. May God grant you a worthy peace, sailor."

With that solemn invocation, Norrington gave a nod of permission. The small body was hoisted over the side, and gently lowered into the water. Norrington forced himself to watch as Williamson's body sank under the waves, the pale face serene and lingering before he was engulfed and then no more.

Norrington did not reprimand the suspcious wet that suddenly leaked down more than one cheek, but he could not turn to face his men until the blur from his own eyes had been mastered. There were no more words spoken as Norrington only sat back down after offering pitiful reassurances in his stern voice that 'while the situation at hand was tragic, he was resolved to see that no more of his men be lost.'

He only eyed his men with a regal, distancing scowl and a glare before the questions ceased and the silence resumed.

Gillette finally groaned himself awake after succumbing to the pain and exhaustion. Now, he yawned and blinked languidly in the sea-haze, slowly feeling awareness and movement trickling back. His eyes shot open and he shot upward into sitting when he felt the cacoon of blankets swathed around him. He felt something hard and binding over his wrist and slowly, gently raised his bad arm to see what had happened. He was dismayed to see that some merciful soul had bound it in a make-ship brace of wood and strips of cloth. He raised it high, and had instant reason to regret it. He nearly swooned from the sharp movement of the broken bone, and clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from becoming sick in the boat. He panted for a moment, eyes slammed shut as he finally regained control over the understandable reaction to shriek.

"Gillette." Norrington's voice was stern, and concerned as Gillette warily turned to his commander, his cheeks reddening.

"Sir?" The uncertain inquiry was only emphasized by Gillette's improvised salute by touching his forehead. His hat had been lost to the waves, and his once pristine wig had been sullied to a disheveled mess, and his uniform was in tatters. Gillette only looked down.

Norrington only sighed deeply, patiently, and asked, "How is your arm, soldier?"

Gillette forced a smile, and some bright falsity in his voice, "It's much better, sir, Thank you."

"That is good to hear, Gillette." Norrington gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes, before he turned his searching gaze back to the sea. Gillette frowned as he took the interlude to look over his commander.
The long night had taken its toll. Norrington still maintained his rigid posture, but he had to fight to avoid slumping from exhaustion. His hat and wig had been lost, leaving behind his naked head and sopping dark hair. Norrington had somehow managed to rope it back in a respectable tail, but was apparently indifferent to the stray strands that kept falling over his face. He only tucked them behind his ear, morosely.
Gillette felt almost invasive for seeing his commander without the military pomp, the fine brocade, the icy veneer of propriety and place. Weariness was etched over the stern mouth. Guilt and misery had stripped him of that carefully cultivated mask of restraint and distance, leaving behind the broken man underneath.

Gillette hesitated, swallowing hard, and gathered his courage. "Sir? Are you alright?"

Norrington said nothing for a long moment before he forced a weary smile and answered, "I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Gillette....Let me reassure you that I am fine."

Norrington turned back to the sea, distancing himself from the kind inquiry, as Gillette took a long look at the water, and another glance at Norrington. Hesitating, he plunged on.

"Sir?" Norrington looked over his shoulder to Gillette, one eyebrow arched. "Gillette, is something troubling you?" The words were polite but chilled as Gillette uncertainly gestured towards the churning mass around them.

"Forgive me, sir, please, for speaking about things to which I've no right." Norrington's brow furrowed in confusion. Gillette looked into his eyes, and held his gaze, each word suddenly hard as a boulder with the agonizing meaning...

"Sir, that hurricane claimed many lives. Without your steady hand to lead us, *all* of us would have perished."

Norrington flinched, and Gillette felt the sickening stab of guilt as Norrington suddenly stiffened as if struck.
Raising his searing eyes full of naked anguish, Norrington clenched his fists into knots, his voice low, soft, and bitter. "Were it not for my cruel insistence that we sail through the hurricane in vainglorious pursuit of the Pearl, *none* would have perished, Gillette." Norrington put a palm to his forehead.
"I willingly sacrificed the lives of those men, needlessly, for no reason other than to soothe my foolish pride. Do you not see that, Gillette? Men *died* because of my actions, my mistakes....." Norrington's voice trailed off in anguish as Gillette looked stricken, and pale.

"Sir?" It was soft as a breath as Gillette lay a groping hand on his wrist, the grip of a drowning man being hulled out of the abyss of the unforgiveable. Norrington was silent, and trembling as Gillette dropped the grip on his sleeve. "Sir, I know that if there was some action you could have taken to save them, you would have done so."

Norrington grunted at that, and failed at the miserable attempt to regain his veneer of regal distance. His voice was caustic as he only shook his head. "With all due respect, Gillette, you don't know that."
Gillette waved his broken arm in the air between them, wincing, before retorting, "With all due respect, I do know that. You could have left me to die on the ship, you could have ordered the able-bodied to leave the wounded behind, you could have simply abandoned the ship and left us all to die on the open water. Sir, you *saved* my life....we who survived the wreck only did so because of your actions...don't you see that, sir?"