A/N: Onwards and upwards! I got it out in a reasonably timely manner... New Year's was in there, and I went to a fun shindig, and got pretty inebriated, and spent the next day with a hangover. And then another day was spent with my friend Becka, who's getting married on June 21, and our search to find bridesmaid's dresses. Not a lot of writing time, but here it is! And this one's another long one... about as long as the one before. Whee!
The next update will come to you from Texas; I'm there to spend a fortnight with my grandparents. They don't really have internet, so we'll see how this will work out. That, however, is in the future; now, to the present!
This is a very action-filled chapter, full of hurricanes and battles and a surprising twist that I'm not going to tell you about. Guess you'll have to read it for yourself!
Chapter 24: Stella Procellae
The sky was cloudy and the wind beginning to pick up as James and Stella Norrington departed their home for the harbour. They'd left orders that the shutters should be closed and the staff should pass the hurricane in the cellar if it got bad. Stella tendered her apologies to Caroline d'Ascoyne regarding her inability to honour their plans to pass the storm together; in doing so, she also ensured that the majority of Port Royal would know that Stella Norrington had been forced to take to sea with the fleet.
The admiral of said fleet was so angry he could scarcely see straight. Not only was Lord Beckett undermining his authority with the navy, he was also interfering in his marriage as well. James didn't want Stella to do anything about this hurricane except avoid it. And what were the consequences of his attempt to protect his wife? Beckett went right over his head and got Stella to do as he wanted anyway.
"Are you afraid?" Stella asked him suddenly as they rode down to the docks in the carriage. Her voice was still a bit husky from the Beckett-inflicted bruises around her throat.
"More nervous than afraid," James replied. And more angry than nervous.
She patted his hand lightly. "You'll do fine, James. I'll steer you away from the more violent parts of the hurricane, and do my best to encourage the wind to avoid the ships."
"I wish you didn't have to do this," he sighed helplessly.
"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."
"Where's the hurricane now?" he inquired, changing the subject as he handed her out of the carriage.
"Hispaniola," she said after a moment, looking out across the ocean. "I believe it will only graze Jamaica before it veers north. Cuba will probably take the worst of it—not that Beckett cares, since it's Spanish territory."
"How did the Virgin Islands fare?
"There's a reason you summoned all the ships from the eastern islands to sail for Jamaica," Stella replied dryly.
"That bad?" James winced. "Where do you think we'll sail?"
"I'd advise going south. However, Beckett will probably decide to be contrary and order us to sail north," she quipped, lips twisting wryly. James snorted.
They boarded a longboat which rowed them out to the Endeavour, floating in the increasingly choppy harbour. A fine mist was beginning to fall, and the ribbons on Stella's hat kept brushing against James' arm as the wind blew them about. When they boarded the Endeavour, the deck rocking slightly, and Stella, having not gotten her sea legs yet, staggered slightly and clung to James' arm.
Captain Groves met them on deck. "Welcome aboard, Admiral, Mrs. Norrington," he greeted jovially, as though they had simply shown up for a pleasure cruise. However, there was something strained around his lips and his eyes were wary as he gazed on the lady. James didn't need to be able to read people like Stella did to know that Theodore was deeply uncomfortable with Beckett's handling of the situation.
"Captain," James replied mildly.
"Splendid to see you again, Captain Groves," Stella greeted.
Her voice was caw-like, as opposed to the rich coffee smoothness of her usual social tones. James noted Theodore's brow furrow, and then the narrowing of his eyes as he noted the purple bruises around his wife's neck. "You'll be staying in the same cabin as you always do, Admiral," Groves informed him absently, still eyeing Stella's throat. "And Lord Beckett wants to see you—both of you—as soon as you're settled."
James' usual cabin was on the starboard side of the ship, up near the main deck. "You spent time here recently," Stella noted, once they stepped inside. "Here." And she walked over to the window. "You worried."
"Yes. I'm not at all confident about my ability to lead the men through this hurricane," James admitted. "I have just as much—more—to loose this time."
"You'll be fine," Stella dismissed simply. "You've got me on board."
"You're confident." An oblique question, hidden inside a statement.
"As much as I hate to admit it, Lord Beckett's strategy is sound. I can influence the way the wind blows if I'm out in it," she admitted. "Your likelihood of floundering is much less with me aboard than it is without me—and that's the simple truth."
"And how tired will you be when it's over?" he asked darkly.
Stella grinned lopsidedly. "I don't know—I've never tried this before."
James sat down on the bunk and groaned into his hands.
They hadn't brought much by way of baggage—just some extra clothing, a notebook full of some spells Stella thought she'd need (she didn't want to bring the entire grimoire if there was even the slightest possibility that the ship was going to sink), and some herbs and such. Thus, it didn't take them long to prepare themselves to face Beckett once more.
He was holding court in the Great Cabin at the stern of the ship; When they entered the room, he looked up and smiled. "Admiral, Mrs. Norrington. Good afternoon."
"Lord Beckett."
Beckett strolled over to a desk upon which rested a map of the Caribbean. "Tell me, Mrs. Norrington: where is the hurricane right now?"
Stella tapped the island of Hispaniola with her finger, and the two of them were off. James took a back seat to these discussions, and spent most of the time hovering protectively around Stella. Of course, Beckett didn't try anything—not with him right there. While James had agreed to allow his wife to do as Beckett bid her, and while Beckett was technically his employer, both men knew that if Beckett hit Stella again, James would hit Beckett. And James could hit a lot harder.
There was a slight argument about the destination of the fleet; Stella insisted that south would be best, since the hurricane was looking to veer north. Beckett pointed out that those were deeper, open waters, and they'd be vulnerable; better to go north, and shelter between Cuba and Haiti. Stella then raised a brow and inquired what, exactly, would they be vulnerable to? After all, the hurricane was the largest threat facing them at the moment, and wouldn't the best course of action be to avoid it at all costs? That meant going south, into the Caribbean. Beckett's glare could have frozen the ocean, but he did give the command to sail south.
Later, when the sails were full and the fleet underway, Stella caught his arm and pulled him aside. "Where is the Heart?" she demanded quietly.
"Beckett has it," James replied confusedly. "Why?"
"His hold over Davy Jones is not so secure as he would like," Stella murmured, voice hardly audible over the wind. "You recall his mention of vulnerabilities?" James nodded. "We're sailing into deeper waters. With the distraction of the hurricane, Jones might try and take the chance to get his heart back. I would," she added, smiling thinly.
"The Kraken?"
"Yes. A distraction, while he takes back the Heart." Stella's lips twisted. "That is the vulnerability of sailing south. Going north is worse, though. I could kill myself dealing with the wind north of Jamaica, and when I was dead it would blow you into shore and you'd founder on the rocks anyway."
James heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be marvellous fun, isn't it?"
Stella chuckled darkly and stood on her toes to press a kiss to the tip of his chin. "Look on the bright side, darling. We might both die out here."
Rolling his eyes, James returned to his station.
The winds grew worse as the light faded into night. James and Stella retired to their cabin and tried to sleep. Tried. The energy of the hurricane was making Stella restless, and James was fretting so much over her that her restlessness made him restless as well.
She wagered it was very early in the morning when the hurricane's arms first reached out for their position. She sat bolt upright in the bunk she was occupying and whispered, "It's here."
Her husband's sleepy voice came from the bunk above hers. "Is it at the point where it starts to destroy the ship?"
"Not yet."
"Then go back to sleep."
She slept for a few more fitful hours, until the rocking of the ship and the roar of the wind—and the disquiet in her stomach—woke her. James was already gone, and Stella smiled ruefully; she should've known he wouldn't be able to rest once the storm began, even with her aboard. After the last one, his self-confidence was still a little shaky.
She got up and dressed in the dim light of a stormy dawn, feeling miserable. Then she slipped silently out of the cabin and hurried up on deck. She was awake long before Lord Beckett, and, thankfully, the only other people around were the sailors who had been on duty during the night. The rain was beginning to fall in earnest, but it didn't impede her progress as she staggered and stumbled to the rail and puked, very genteelly, over the side of the ship.
"Seasick, Mrs. Norrington?" came the query from a sailor who appeared at the rail beside her, placing a steadying hand on her back.
"Seasickness, morning-sickness... either way, I feel horrible," Stella muttered, wiping the raindrops from her face.
"Better get back inside, Ma'am," the sailor advised. A clap of thunder sounded overhead. "Storm's getting worse."
Stella smiled thinly, and looked up into the clouds. "I know."
She didn't go inside just yet. She stood in the shelter of the sterncastle, and let the wind and rain lash her face and tear at her dress. James found her there shortly thereafter.
"What are you doing?" he shouted over the wind.
"Listening," she called back.
"You're soaked to the bone—get inside!" Once she was inside, James started fussing, trying to wring out her hair and dry her face with his sleeves. "What on earth were you doing out there, so early in the morning?" he demanded.
"Throwing up," Stella replied honestly.
"Well, let's get you dry—"
"There's no point," she interrupted. "The storm is getting worse. I need to be out in it if I'm to do anything with it."
"Lord Beckett wants us in the stateroom for breakfast."
"Then I will go, and tell him so."
They found Lord Beckett by the globe. He raised a brow when he noticed Stella dripping on the carpet. "How fares the storm, Mrs. Norrington? I assume from the state of your attire that you have already been outside to check."
"It grows worse, as I'm sure you've noticed," Stella replied calmly. "By all rights, I should be out there right now."
"Then you had better go. Keep the fleet safe," Beckett dismissed.
"Will you eat anything?" James asked her quietly, as she turned around to return to the deck.
"No. My stomach couldn't hold it, not this early in the morning," Stella demurred. She grinned weakly. "The wonders of pregnancy."
"You wanted it," James reminded her, tapping a finger on the top of her pointed nose.
"You helped," she riposted, before dripping her way back on deck.
To her surprise, James went with her. "I'm not letting you out there alone. If something happens, I want to be out there to react to it," he explained. "And, above all else, I don't want you going overboard."
To that purpose, he tied her to the ship. Using a pair of silk scarves taken from Lord Beckett's stores, James lashed her arms to the rail of the sterncastle, just before the helm. Stella managed an absent snicker, though the hurricane was already stealing her attention.
And then it swept her away.
She was with the wind, in the wind, on the wind—she was the wind. She whirled and screamed and laughed and roared out over the ocean. As the gale lashed the trees of Hispaniola, Stella was there. As the wind tore at the sails of Beckett's armada, Stella was there. She was the stabbing lightning and the pouring rain and the shrieking gusts. She was the drive of the storm and the stillness of the eye. The strength of the hurricane was her strength, and Stella was more powerful than she had ever been in all her life.
If she wanted, Stella could have joined herself to the storm and sunk all the ships, destroyed that which Lord Beckett was trying so hard to build and drowned the man who'd dared to raise his hand to her. But she didn't. Couldn't.
A tiny thread, as thin as cobweb, kept her anchored in her body and linked her power to her conscious mind, reminding her that, though she was the storm, she was also a woman called Stella. Only the child slumbering in her womb restrained her from letting everything go, and flying off to become one with the storm.
Had Lord Beckett taken her out into a hurricane at any other time, it would have been one of the last things he'd done. The sheer power of the storm and Stella's affinity with it would have overwhelmed her, and there would have been no stopping her. Not even her affection for James Norrington would have kept her from unleashing her fury on her enemy.
Speaking of James Norrington, there he was! Stella-who-was-the-storm saw him climb the steps to the quarterdeck and approach Stella-who-wasn't-the-storm, and touch her hand, and brush away the hair that had plastered itself to her face. Stella-who-was-the-storm gathered her friends and whirled down to swirl playfully around him, nearly blowing off his wig in the process (naturally, all the men had left their hats inside).
James smiled through the rain. "Stop it, Stella!" he called. "I need that!"
Laughing, she blew off elsewhere, to check on the other ships she was supposed to be minding. Something familiar tickled her senses, and she was going to go look when a jangling chorus of wrong erupted from the ocean.
She didn't even need to look to know what it was: the other wind saw, so she did too. So that was the Flying Dutchman. Stella-who-was-the-storm gusted around it to take a look. It wasn't much to look at physically, but she could practically see the enchantments around it. Laughing gleefully, she scoured around the ship, letting her senses drink their fill. The crew was not immune to her scrutiny; she blew several of them over in her haste to inspect them. There was a man becoming one with a coral reef; another with the head of a shark. Did that one have a head at all? Oh yes, there it was—it was that of an eel, and he'd hidden it away to shield it from the driving wind. And there... there was Davy Jones. The master of this curious floating construct and all the weird amalgamations who inhabited it.
James was right... he did have a squid for a beard.
She swirled around him inquisitively, and was positively delighted when several beardy-tentacles curled around the brim of his hat to keep it on his cephalopodan skull. Jones, however, was not delighted. He glared at her fiercely, even though he couldn't see her, and snapped his crab-claw arm at the driving rain.
"Storm's getting stronger, cap'n!" yelled one of the beings—the one with the hammerhead crown.
"Douse canvas and keep her steady," Davy Jones shouted back. His speech was oddly abrupt; he lengthened the sibilant fricatives and overemphasised the other consonant sounds. It reminded Stella of the choppy seas after a storm has passed.
Then he raised his head to the sky and roared, "Let no joyful voice be heard! Let no man look up at the sky with hope! And let this day be cursed by we who ready to wake... the Kraken!"
Stella-who-was-the-storm screamed, and spun back on the air to return to the Endeavour, missing the sight of the Kraken-hammer. She felt it, though—felt the deep thump against the ocean, and the summons that went with it. Desperation and terror drove her on, and Stella-who-was-the-storm slammed back into Stella-who-wasn't with enough force to knock her physical body off her feet.
James was at her side in an instant. "Are you all right?" he shouted over the wind.
Stella screamed at the top of her lungs. She'd meant to warn him, tell him Davy Jones was here and that he'd summoned the Kraken, but apparently coherent speech hadn't yet made it back into her body. She kept screaming and screaming, trying to warn him.
She hated being right about things like these.
"What is it?" James asked frantically.
Words finally formed on her lips. "Kraken! Kraken! Dutchman's here—get the Heart!" she shrieked. All the colour washed from James' face. Then the ship seemed to hit something—an impossible feat, since they were too far out to sea for that. The Kraken was here. "Get it now!"
James immediately ran for the Great Cabin below the quarterdeck, stopping only on the way to order a sailor to ring the bell. Its clanging sent the whole crew into motion as they scurried around the deck, going for cutlasses and spears. More sailors poured out from belowdecks. Panic was heavy in the air.
Stella was terrified—what would happen to them? If Beckett gave up the Heart, Jones would kill him, and then he'd probably kill James as well. If Beckett didn't give up the Heart—and this situation was much more likely—the Kraken might do untold amounts of damage to the ship, many of the people on board might be killed, and they might all sink in the hurricane, which was far from over.
She wanted to scream with frustration. The Kraken was ruining everything! If only it was put out of commission!
Something occurred to her.
No—no, it's foolhardy and dangerous, she scolded herself.
But it could be our only chance, she argued back.
You're not strong enough—
With the hurricane here? Oh yes, I am!
Well, you won't be doing anything while tied to the rail!
Point.
"Captain! Captain Groves!" she called, using the roaring winds to bring her voice to his ears. Groves looked up at her from his position on the poop deck. "Untie me, please!"
Groves made his way up to the quarterdeck; his sea legs were much stronger than hers, and his steps were steady. When he reached her, he used a boot-knife to cut through the scarves securing her wrists to the rail. She was almost knocked off her feet when the bonds came free, but Groves grabbed her arm and steadied her. "What's going on?" he demanded over the noise of the sailors.
"Kraken!" she replied simply. Groves swore, which Stella politely ignored. "I must find my husband! He has to bring the Heart—it's our only chance!"
Groves took her arm and helped her hurry down the stairs of the quarterdeck, then aided her dash towards the inside of the ship. It was hard; the deck was still swaying precariously, the wind was still gusting robustly, the deck had been soaked with rain and the occasional wave spraying salt water, and her skirts had become sodden impediments around her legs.
James and Beckett met them at the door. In Beckett's hand was the pulsating red silk bag, and Stella nearly sobbed with relief. It was probably the only moment in her life when she was actually glad to lay eyes on the man.
"What's going on?" Beckett demanded the moment he saw them.
His answer came in the form of a tentacle as wide as his whole body, which slithered up on deck and plucked one of the sailors off his feet and dragged him, screaming, into the roiling ocean.
"Kraken," Stella replied succinctly.
Beckett's eyes went rather wide, and he frowned nervously. "I didn't think Jones would dare to try something like this."
James and Captain Groves shared an exasperated look, before Groves ran off to take command of the defences. "Well, he is!" James shouted. "Do something! Call him off!"
Beckett's skin was as pale as milk, and he swallowed heavily. Stella sneered at him—she knew he was powerless. He couldn't Call without a ritual, and there wasn't any time for that now. She knew it, and she suspected that Davy Jones knew it too.
He's planned all this out rather well, she thought fleetingly.
"Oh, give it to me!" she snapped, yanking the bag out of Beckett's hands. Then she pressed it to her chest and shouted, "Davy Jones, hearken! I summon thee!" Turning to James, she yelled, "Open the spyglass! The Dutchman is floating off the port side."
"No need!" came a cold voice. And Davy Jones materialised before the mast. With him came a host of his nightmarish crewmembers, even as the Kraken's tentacles began to snake up the side of the ship. The sound of cannons firing came to her ears, but sounded as though it was far away. "I'm here for my heart, weevil," he spat at Beckett, who was still standing, frozen, beside James and Stella.
James removed his pistol in one smooth movement and pointed it at the bag in Stella's hands. "Stop right there," he commanded curtly, "or I'll destroy it, and you along with it."
Davy Jones just laughed. "Ye do that," he pointed out amusedly, "and who'll stop the Kraken from destroying yer ship?" He glanced over his shoulder to where the sailors of the Endeavour were trying futilely to beat the monster off. Then he turned his electric blue eyes back to the trio in the shadow of the sterncastle. "Give me back what's mine," he snarled, "and I'll let the rest o' ye go."
"Liar," Stella whispered.
There was no other choice—he'd backed them into a corner surely as anything. Give back the Heart, and he'd kill her husband and scuttle the ship. Keep the Heart, and he'd let the Kraken do as it willed, and the ship would sink anyway, and he'd have back his Heart. There was no choice but to remove the Kraken from this standoff. It had to be done.
She just hoped she remembered how.
So Stella pulled the Heart out of the bag, clasped it over her own heart, wrapped the power in the wind around her like a cloak, and warned her husband, "Whatever happens, don't let me go."
Then she locked eyes with Davy Jones.
When his wife warned him not to let her go, James immediately grabbed her arm. And not a moment too soon—her skin went very cold, and she suddenly seemed as inanimate as a puppet. If he let her go, she would fall; since he was keeping her up, she stood.
Surprisingly, Davy Jones staggered at the exact same instant, before straightening up and bellowing curses aimed in Stella's direction. A moment or two after that the arms of the Kraken, which had been picking sailors off the deck and winding around the ship, started acting erratically—flailing, twitching—before going abruptly still.
"What's happening?" Beckett asked shakily. James spared a moment to glare at him—master schemer he might be, but it seemed Cutler Beckett was useless in a crisis.
Oddly enough, the answer came from Davy Jones. "Yer thrice-damned witch is possessin' my Kraken!" he bellowed.
James fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Of course she is."
When she was younger, and her mother kept her hidden away from the rough-and-tumble society of their new Tortugan home, Stella used to possess birds, and fly around the island in their minds. Her mother had eventually discovered her pastime, and forbidden her from doing it again—it was too dangerous. Stella could loose herself in the other mind, or exhaust herself through the effort until she didn't have the strength to return to her own body, or even die if something happened to the host while she was possessing it.
It was not a rare talent among the women of their lines (Grandmother Esme had been the best at it, and owned several cats whose minds she used to borrow), but one which was not generally used. It was too dangerous; so much could go wrong. And if Stella hadn't been standing in the middle of a hurricane, with all that power at her fingertips, and with her husband next to her to guard her physical body while her mind was out on holiday, she never would have thought to try her hand at possessing something as massive as the Kraken. Even though she was in her element, so to speak, there was still an absurd amount of danger involved in her endeavour.
However, she didn't have much of a choice. Someone had to take down the Kraken, and she was the only one who could.
She kept Davy Jones' heart close; with that connection, she leapt into Jones' mind, finding his link to the Kraken and roaring through with all the power she could marshal, coming at last to the beast's consciousness. There she spread like some kind of malevolent root system, pressing her will against its—her—instincts.
The Kraken was hungry. That was the defining instinct that drove her on. Currently, she was angry as well at the pain the men were inflicting on her. And she was loyal—as much as she could be, with such basic instincts—to Davy Jones.
Stella used the power of the Heart to spread her will over the Kraken, commanding her to cease her assault, influencing her to calmness. Because of the power of the Heart which made her seem familiar to the Kraken's mind and the wellspring of power available in the form of the hurricane, it wasn't long until Stella had control of the leviathan and ordered it to stillness. She was able to keep her mind mostly apart from the beast, since the Kraken was seafaring and Stella herself was avian, but she felt everything the Kraken did. From the pain in her tentacles (did she have tentacles?) to the hunger gnawing in her belly (but James had fed her, not two hours ago) to the cool water all around her (but she didn't like the water), she felt it. She felt the instinct to destroy and the promise to protect; she knew the sea and all its secrets the same way she knew the ways of the sky. Her heart—hearts?—bent towards a being with tentacles like her, but equally—stronger?—towards a man with green eyes.
Was she a lady? A storm? A beast with a multitude of arms? All of these things? None?
Stella wasn't entirely sure anymore.
An eerie hush descended on the ship. The Kraken's tentacles stopped moving, and slithered back down into the water. Even the wind ceased its shrieking howl, just... fading away before it struck the Endeavour. James, who was still holding Stella steady, felt a strange energy passing through her body, and he wondered if she didn't have something to do with this unnatural quiet.
Davy Jones took a menacing step closer to the party of three: James, his insensate wife, and their equally insensate employer. "Stop," James commanded, before Jones had even set his crab-like peg-leg back on the deck. He pressed his pistol closer to the heart, wishing desperately for a sword. "Don't move."
The squid-man just scoffed. "Ye can't do ennathin'—not without killin' her," he pointed out astutely.
"Hardly." The smooth voice inserted itself into the conversation like a well-placed knife through an enemy's ribs. "At the very least, all he'll do is blow off her fingers. And since he's her husband, I'm sure she'll forgive him... eventually." Apparently, now that all the urgent danger had passed, Lord Beckett had snapped himself out of whatever panic-driven paralysis had afflicted him, and was back to pulling all the strings of the people around him.
But considering the virulent glare Jones had turned on the Norringtons once he knew their relationship, James wished fervently that Beckett had stayed silent a bit longer.
"Really, Captain Jones," Beckett went on, strolling carefully forward to where James still held his wife erect. "I had thought you understood your position. Using your tools for such a purpose... I'm quite disappointed." He removed a slim blade from an inner pocket of his jacket, and pointed it directly at the beating heart cradled against Stella's chest. "Perhaps I overestimated both your rational powers... and your usefulness to me."
The look of loathing Jones gave Beckett could have peeled paint right off the hull. "Then do it, and be done with it," he spat.
"And loose both my treasures?" Beckett inquired rhetorically. "No, you shan't be escaping so easily, Jones. Stella? Escort Captain Jones back to his ship," he commanded, speaking over his shoulder to the inert Mrs. Norrington.
He was, of course, violently surprised when a tendril of Stella's loose black hair shot out like a bolt of lightning and curled around his neck.
Beckett started choking and scrabbling around his neck, but Stella's hair was wet and smooth like... well, like a Kraken tentacle, and he found nothing to dig his fingers into. James started violently and nearly dropped his wife—the rest of her hair had started writhing and swaying a bit like Davy Jones' beard, and her skin had taken on a smooth, almost slimy texture—but for his recollection not to drop her under any means. And Davy Jones started laughing.
"What fortuitous circumstance be this!" he crowed. "She may have possessed the Kraken, but the Kraken's got her hooks in too! Well done! Now, pet," he added, voice turning sinister, "kill him."
"No!" James shouted, as Stella's... hair... tightened around Beckett's neck, forcing the man to drop to his knees. "Don't, Stella. We still need him." As much as it galled, this was true. Beckett was the lynchpin around which the entire enterprise turned; without him, it would fall to pieces, and the middle of a hurricane with a Kraken underfoot was not the moment for such an upheaval.
"He hurt me," came the reply, torn from Stella's throat with a strange guttural flatness.
"Aye," Davy Jones agreed emphatically, "so take your vengeance!"
"Keep your guns on them, men!" That was Groves, bringing another player into the standoff.
"You can't do this now, Stella," James hissed. "They'll kill you if you kill him!"
"Finish the job!" Davy Jones bellowed. "Kill him, and return my property! The fleet's yours to destroy when he's dead!"
"Stand down, Captain Jones!" came the command from the soldiers. "Release Lord Beckett and Mrs. Norrington, and return to your ship!"
"Kill him! Finish—!"
"Stand down—!"
"Let go—!"
It was a step away from a total mêlée, with everyone shouting, and the wind beginning to scream, and the ship creaking, and the waves crashing against the hull.
And in the noise, James leaned down, brushed the squirming tentacles of his wife's hair away from her neck, and whispered gently against her skin, like a stone dropping into the water, "Starling, come back."
A moment, stretched as tight as corset stays, in which everything hung in the balance.
Then a soft sigh. Stella sagged into James' arms, and her hair uncoiled from Lord Beckett's throat. James breathed a sigh of relief himself, and slipped an arm around Stella's slightly swollen belly, spooning her drenched body against his. Lord Beckett himself collapsed onto the deck, gasping for air. And Davy Jones turned a look so hateful onto the Norringtons that James could feel it on his skin, and he unconsciously held Stella closer.
Stella used him as leverage and pushed herself as far upright as her strength would allow. "Go," she commanded hoarsely, glaring tiredly at Davy Jones. "Take your... creatures... and go. Leave us, or I'll destroy your ship and you along with it."
"Witch," Jones spat at her, glowering hatefully.
"Monster," she retorted. "Begone!"
"Not quite," Beckett corrected, having collected himself and stood. He cleared his throat a few times, but the poisoned honey of his voice was absent, and his tones nearly as harsh as Stella's currently were. It was curious form of justice. "It seems I was unwise to allow your pet to continue on under your control..."
"Now is not the time for a soliloquy, Lord Beckett," James ground out. Stella's hair was growing restless, writhing against his chest in a truly disquieting sensation, her breath was coming quicker, and her body was tense. "I don't know how much longer she can hold it."
Beckett's cold blue eyes studied her dispassionately for a moment. "Perhaps you're right, Admiral." He turned to Davy Jones. "Kill it."
"What?" Jones demanded, lowly.
"I believe I was quite clear," Beckett replied calmly. "You cannot be trusted with the Kraken. Kill it."
However much time had passed, or was passing, Stella wasn't sure. Her entire world had narrowed to the Kraken, and to herself. Even the storm beyond had retreated to the fringes of her consciousness as she tried so hard to continue exerting her control over the Kraken.
She was tired... so tired. Stretched so thin, pulled so tight, about to snap like a bowstring. She had never possessed something so large for so long, and she worried that it was starting to take a toll on her. She knew she'd have to let go soon, or she'd kill herself through the effort, but what would happen when she did?
A tickle in her mind—or was it the Kraken's mind?—called her away from the Endeavour. Probably the Kraken's mind, then. She glided through the choppy waters toward the Dutchman, and—
Pain tore through her—both of her. She screamed.
Stella gathered herself and pulled away. Tried, rather—the Kraken, afraid and wounded, wouldn't let her leave, and clung to her like a favoured toy, as though she had some power to drive the hurt away. She didn't understand... she had come as Davy Jones had asked her—why was he hurting her?
Another explosion of pain. Another terrified wail. Was she screaming? Was the Kraken? Both?
She pulled and pulled on her mind, trying desperately to return to her own body. The Kraken's pain was hers, and if she was dying and Stella couldn't separate her consciousness, Stella would die too.
Another wave of pain, more intense. Pain was her world now; every moment was physical and psychic agony, and she could feel death approaching at a rapid clip. Neither Stella nor the Kraken were unfamiliar with death, having both delivered it and fought it, and they knew.
The Kraken wouldn't let her go. She clung to life tenaciously, and since Stella was alive she clung to the witch as well. And Stella didn't have enough strength to tear herself away by force.
Perhaps this was a bad idea, she thought woozily.
One final shot, and pain gave way to a blessed darkness.
The storm rallied itself again, now that Stella wasn't around to soothe it or take its power—whatever it was she'd been doing. Davy Jones and his crew had walked into the woodwork of the Endeavour and thus vanished back to the Dutchman. James was glad to see them go; perhaps then his wife would return to normal, and he could send her inside.
A cannon shot sounded. A mere moment later, Stella went stiff in his arms, and screamed.
"What's happening?" Beckett inquired politely, watching as Stella began to shake.
James picked her up and brought her inside, away from the rain, and lowered her gently to the floor, kneeling beside her. Her hair was still twisting and writhing of its own volition, her skin was still wet and clammy and strangely serpentine, and her eyes were wide and staring off at nothing. Another cannon shot sounded, scarcely heard over the roaring wind, and Stella's blue-tinged lips opened in another bloodcurdling scream.
"God's blood, he's killing her," James realised in horror. "Stella! Stella, you have to get away from the Kraken!" He wrestled the Heart of Davy Jones away from her rictus-like grip and thrust it back at Beckett. "Stella, come back!"
"I don't think she can," Beckett commented over his shoulder, tucking the Heart back into its bag.
The cannons were firing with more regularity, and Stella kept screaming and scrabbling at the deck as her body twisted with pain. Tears were beginning to leak out of her unseeing black eyes, and her pale face was warped with her agony. James grasped her hands, knowing she'd harm herself if she kept flailing, and trying to offer what comfort her could... he didn't even know if she could feel it. There was nothing he could do for her.
Then, one final cannon shot. Thunder rolled over the ocean. Stella took a deep, sobbing gasp... and went limp. Her eyes rolled up into her head, and her hair went still as her face smoothed out into an expressionless mask.
James' hands clenched convulsively around Stella's as all his breath whooshed out of his body. It felt like he'd just been punched in the gut.
"No," he whispered, gathering her fragile body into his arms. She was limp and cold, but had never looked so beautiful to him than at that moment, when loosing her was a very real possibility. What will I do without her?
Then came the unwelcome query from Lord Beckett.
"Is she dead?"
Stella floated on the tide, with the wind. Her tears became one with the water, and she wept quietly as she went along.
The Kraken was dead. Stella had been with her in her last death throes, as she hadn't been with Jack Osborn, offering comfort to the last. She had to stay anyway—Stella couldn't escape from the mire of the Kraken's mind until she was dead.
Was she dead too?
Mama? Papa? she called. Jack? Mama? Are you there—here?
She didn't know how long she blew along with the sea and the sky. Time had no meaning. Eventually, she found herself alongside a ship—a tiny, rather decrepit ship, and wafted up through the hull. There were sailors—dirty, unkempt sailors. Pirates.
In the Great Cabin, under the sterncastle, was an older man in a very large hat peering at a series of charts. Stella recognised him. "Damn!" she swore. "I am dead."
The man—captain, rather, since he couldn't be anything else in such a pretentious hat—turned around, startled. "What the blazes...?"
"I'm dead, you fool. And I must be in hell, too—there's no other reason for you to be here as well, Hector Barbossa."
"This isn't hell, ye daft hyssop," Barbossa snorted, rolling his eyes.
"But you're dead."
"I'm not."
"Of course you are. Jack Sparrow shot you."
A stained grin. "Death didn't take."
At this point, Barbossa had apparently decided that Stella wasn't hostile, and had approached where she stood... floated... hovered. He peered at her curiously for a moment. Then he stuck his hand through her chest.
Stella shrieked indignantly, and went to slap him roundly across the face. Her hand went right through him.
This seemed to please Barbossa. "Aye, ye be a ghost," he concluded.
"I see death hasn't made you any less of an unmitigated ass," Stella remarked sourly.
A smoky chuckle interrupted what probably would have turned into a fairly inventive round of insults, and Stella didn't even need to look to know who it would be. A smile spread across her face. "Tia!"
"Bonjou, ma pitit," Tia greeted warmly, her voice providing the only heat Stella felt at the time, as sultry as a humid afternoon just before a rainstorm.
Stella wafted over, but realised that, just as she couldn't hit Barbossa, she couldn't embrace Tia, either. "I miss you," she whispered. Tia gave her an inky smile and placed the palm of her hand on Stella's ghostly cheek; Stella felt an echo of the sensation. "Are we dead?" she asked.
"Non, cherie," Tia assured her. "You 'ave but come to see us 'ere, on our travels."
"So I'm not dead?" Tia shook her head. Stella glared poisonously at Barbossa, who smiled mockingly at her. "He ought to be."
"Stella..." Tia warned.
"Well, it's a valid point," Stella snapped. "My mother—"
"Was at peace," Tia interrupted.
She scowled. "It's still not fair," she muttered. Then, collecting herself again, she sneered at Barbossa. "Since I'm not dead, can I curse him?" she inquired, pointing at the captain, whose eyes went wide.
Apparently deciding that there was no shame in hiding, Barbossa skittered nervously behind Tia, who laughed her rich rum-like laughter. "Better no' waste your strength," she advised. "You still needin' to get beck t'you body." She laid a hand on Stella's abdomen. "Da pitit be all dat keep you livin', and dat's a heavy burden."
"My baby," Stella whispered, putting insubstantial hands on her belly.
"Her be strong one day," Tia promised. "But only if her gets de chance to be born."
Before Stella could respond to that—or, most importantly, ask if Tia had any pointers on how to get back—the cabin doors burst open, and two sailors strode in. She recognised both of them.
"Mr. Turner! I'm surprised to see you here... or perhaps not," she greeted smoothly. Gone was the vulnerable soon-to-be-mother, the uncertain ghost; in her place was Black Stella the witch.
Will did a double-take, staring dumbfounded at the apparition standing before Tia Dalma. "Miss Bell?" he eventually said.
"Actually, it's Mrs. Norrington now," she corrected, taking perverse pleasure in the gasp this information wrung from Will's companion. "I got married."
"To James Norrington?" Elizabeth Swann interrupted incredulously.
"Why, yes! Jealous?" Stella queried. And she smiled poisonously.
So, this was Elizabeth Swann in the flesh. It was the first time Stella had actually laid eyes on her for an extended period of time. She was beautiful—no doubt about that—though her hair was more golden than James apparently remembered, and there was something hard in her jaw and cold in her eyes.
Perhaps, if there hadn't been such history between them (though Elizabeth was rather unaware of this), Stella might have been disposed to like Miss Swann. She was passionate, clever, and steadfast; she was also scheming, secretive, and willing to do anything and everything to achieve her goals.
Stella had once commented about seeing through a glass darkly; though she had been referring to Davy Jones and her husband, the same applied to Stella and Elizabeth. The two women had many similar traits, though Stella was icy where Elizabeth was ardent. Had James been asked, he would've rolled his eyes and made a comment about familiarity breeding contempt. Had Stella been asked, she would have raised a brow and remarked that Elizabeth was far below her contempt.
Stella never admitted the real reason, even to herself.
"Yes, I married James Norrington, after his return to Port Royal," she replied more thoroughly.
"Traitor," Elizabeth breathed.
"To you? You're a criminal—a pirate. The best you can hope for is the hangman's noose. In the eyes of the majority of the world, you're the traitor," Stella sneered.
"It's possible to be a good person and a pirate," Elizabeth spat back.
"Of course. But somehow, you don't quite manage to carry it off," Stella said with mock-sympathy.
"How dare you—" Elizabeth gasped.
"How's your father?" Stella inquired swiftly, interrupting whatever else Elizabeth might have said. "Hmm? I daresay you don't know, do you? You just left him behind when you fled Beckett to seek out your fiancé. Fiancé... have you married him yet?" Elizabeth's flush was all the answer she needed. "I didn't think so. I wonder, then, what's your father suffering for?"
"My father's suffering?" Elizabeth repeated, looking struck.
"He's under Beckett's thumb—of course he's suffering," Stella snapped. "And all for his precious daughter."
Elizabeth's face had paled noticeably, but Stella wasn't done yet. She glanced over at Will, where he hovered protectively around his fiancée, and plucked knowledge from him which she would use to hurt the woman he loved. "His father is in his mind constantly; the elder Turner's suffering is his. You, however, Miss Swann... you are not exactly a stunning example of filial devotion. Weatherby hasn't stopping thinking about you since the moment you left. I wonder..." her voice dropped lower, "how much mind do you pay to him?"
"You have no idea what I feel for my father," Elizabeth growled, glaring at the ghostly Stella.
"I know you good as forgot him the moment you left Port Royal," she returned sweetly. "I suppose you hated your station so much throughout your life that you were eager to shed everything about it the moment you could—including your loving father, who'd never been anything but supportive of you. You're all he has in the world, and he's sold himself to save you. Yet you've all but forgotten him to gallivant around with pirates. Such an ungrateful, selfish girl. Or perhaps, just a..." She smiled—a slow, lazy grin that promised pain at the end and—though she didn't know it—made her look a bit like Jack Sparrow as she accused Elizabeth: "Pirate."
Elizabeth's face went white as milk as her dark eyes filled with tears, and she whirled around and nearly ran from the cabin. Will shot Stella a look of loathing and followed her.
Stella smirked. "James is right," she remarked amusedly, "I'm a bad person. I enjoyed that far too much."
"Ye always were a viper-tongued bitch," Barbossa remarked idly.
Stella glared at him. "Hector, I will hurt you." Barbossa threw up his hands in surrender and subtly moved a bit behind Tia Dalma.
"Betteh save you power, Stella," Tia advised. "Beckett's not done wit you yet."
She suddenly felt tired. "Of course he's not."
"What's wrong with your hair?" Barbossa demanded.
Stella lifted a hand, before remembering that she couldn't feel anything. "What is wrong with my hair?"
"It's movin'."
"Oh... that. There was a... Kraken," Stella said haltingly, realising that an explanation would be almost impossible—and that she didn't trust Barbossa that much anyway.
She'd gobsmacked him, at any rate; he stared at her blankly for a long moment, before just shaking his grizzled head and plopping back down at his table, apparently deciding to pretend that she wasn't there.
Tia, however, sashayed over, and ran a hand over Stella's aura. Her dark eyes widened. "What did you do?" she breathed.
"What I had to," Stella replied stiffly. "I didn't want to die, Tia."
"You nearly die anyway," she pointed out.
"It was a calculated risk."
"Veerry risky."
"I knew what I was doing."
"Did you? Did you really?" Tia pressed. "De beast, it die when you still wit it. And now it survive in you." She ran a graceful hand over Stella's hair—or at least, where Stella's hair would be if it wasn't insubstantial.
"What?!" Stella squeaked. "Is it permanent?"
"If you live," Tia replied ominously.
Stella took that to be Tia-speak for 'get back to your body soon, or you won't get back there at all'. But she didn't want to leave—she'd missed Tia, missed talking to her and taking counsel from her. She'd felt safer when she knew that she could run to Tia on the Pantano if things went truly wrong. But now things were truly wrong, and Tia was on this tiny boat in the middle of the ocean. "I wish... it all got so complicated," she sighed helplessly.
Tia smiled compassionately. "You stronger dan you t'ink, bijou. For what it wort', t'ough, you 'ave my favour." And she leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on Stella's ghostly forehead. Stella actually felt it—the warmth of Tia's lips and a strange tingling sensation.
She stared at Tia as though she'd never seen her before, realising that there was much more to her friend than she had previously. The voodoo enchantress, correctly interpreting her expression, just smiled mysteriously. "You go show dat liddle man what we are," she whispered.
Stella laughed—the full-bodied, caw-like cackle that only Tia and James had ever been able to coax out of her. Then she closed her eyes and put her hands on her belly. Tia's hands went over hers—again with the almost-feeling sensation—and she murmured, "I be wit you when you need me. Now go."
Stella went.
Is she dead?
James didn't answer—couldn't answer. An answer would make things real. But if he said nothing, he could still hold his wife in his arms and make the rest of the world would stay still for a little bit longer.
What would he do without her?
Beckett wasn't taking kindly to being ignored. "Admiral," he insisted, "is she dead?"
"I don't know," James ground out through clenched teeth.
"Then check."
He didn't want to, and held Stella's body tighter.
Then, suddenly, her skin got warmer. She stirred in his grip, and muttered something indistinct.
Something unbearably tight in his chest went slack, and he felt as though he could float away on the relief thrumming through his veins. "She's not dead," he breathed. Then, louder and more defiant, "She's not dead."
"Thank heavens," Beckett remarked, without any real feeling. He bent over to peer at the still limp form of his admiral's wife. "Mrs. Norrington, are you sensible?"
"Leave her alone," James snapped. "She's exhausted."
"I need to know about the storm, for all our sakes," Beckett replied coolly. "Mrs. Norrington. Mrs. Norrington, awake!"
Stella stirred in James' arms again, mumbling faintly. Her hair was going all strange again; James could feel it moving against his arms. He rested his hand on her forehead and gently brushed his thumb across her wet skin. Her eyelashes fluttered. "Starling. Lord Beckett wants to speak with you."
"Lord Beckett," Stella muttered, her speech slurred, "can go to the devil." At least, that was what James estimated she said. Between the rain lashing the doors, the muted roar of the wind from outside, the creak of the hull, the shouting of the men outside, and Stella's own incoherence, her words were barely comprehensible.
"Mrs. Norrington," Lord Beckett repeated. "I must know about the storm."
Stella's black eyes fluttered open, and she shot a dirty look at Beckett. However, it was much less fearsome and powerful than her usual glares, given the bleariness of her eyes and the fact that she was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. "The storm will do as it wills. I have no more strength to affect it," she informed him indistinctly. "Besides," she added in a murmur, "it's almost over anyway."
"How close to almost over?" Beckett insisted.
"Give it a few hours after sunset," Stella replied softly, before curling in towards her husband and making clear that the conversation was over.
"I'm putting her to bed," James announced, lifting her up. "Sunset will be in an hour or so—not that we'll see it—and there's nothing more she can do for you." He paused a moment, to give Lord Beckett a very stern look. "Everything you asked, she has done," he said lowly. "Now let her have some peace. I do not want her to see you until tomorrow." And he turned to go.
Beckett's voice reached his ears. "Be sure to tell her she did quite well."
Stella was shivering and hovering between waking and sleeping when James got a midshipman to open the door. They were both soaked to the bone, and he immediately set Stella down on the table until he could get her into a dry nightgown and into bed.
However, he was stymied by Stella's dress, which was complicated and wet and the laces knotted... he'd never had to deal with ladies attire before. "I apologise in advance for the damage I'm going to do to your dress," James said to his wife's body. And then he took his boot-knife and sliced through the laces, nearly tore off the sleeves in an effort to get her arms free, and finally managed to get her only in her shift. He dropped the sodden mass of cloth of the floor.
When she was finally unclothed, James briskly but gently towelled her off. Her fingernails and lips were blue from the cold, and gooseflesh was popping up all over her body. But he eventually manoeuvred her into her nightgown and tucked her into her bunk, piling all the blankets at hand onto her body.
After a few minutes, she stopped shivering, and slipped quietly into sleep. James knew he should return to deck, but Groves had everything well in hand and he was still reeling from having nearly lost her. So he moved a chair to the side of the bunk and seated himself.
Her hair was still... well, still acting a bit like Davy Jones' beard. Perhaps this was just an after-effect of whatever she'd done to the Kraken. James reached out and tentatively ran his fingers through her hair; it still felt like hair, still parted along his touch. But it also gathered itself into larger locks, and twined gently around his fingers, slithering up to wrap softly about his wrist. It felt like hair, but didn't act like it, and was a most disconcerting sensation.
James stayed with her for a quarter of an hour, until duty niggled and reminded him of his responsibilities. Stella still slept deeply and peacefully, and her skin was warm when he brushed his fingers against her cheek—and a tendril of her dark hair came and curled itself lazily around his hand. He rubbed the moving strand between his fingers; it wasn't solid, like a tentacle, but separated into all its varying strands.
"I wonder what you'll make of it when you wake up," James commented quietly.
But she didn't wake for two days.
The hurricane did indeed peter out after sunset. The wind still blew, but with less ferocity. The rain fell, but more gently. Grey sunlight filtered through the clouds with the advent of the next dawn.
James met the day on the sterncastle, standing at the rail at the front of the helm where Stella had been lashed the day before. His wife was still sleeping; a slight pity, since she could've given them an estimate of their position. The hurricane had blown them God knows where, and there had been no stars the night before by which to chart their position. North was the common estimate of Jamaica in relation to themselves, but otherwise no one knew where they were.
Theodore found him at the rail about mid-morning. "Admiral," he greeted.
"Good morning, Captain," James replied, sparing Theodore a wan smile.
"I daresay the fleet survived the blow quite well," Theodore commented uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.
"Quite well indeed," James agreed mildly. There was obviously something on his subordinate's mind.
"Er... how's your wife?" Theodore inquired, after clearing his throat.
James frowned. "She's sleeping."
Theodore coughed. "Right. Right. I... hope she's... well."
He certainly wasn't making any headway on whatever it was he wanted to discuss. "Walk with me, Captain?" James suggested evenly. They strolled in silence along the decks, stopping at the bow and looking off into the distance. "Have you any idea where we are?"
"Off the coast of Mexico, I think, was the last guess."
"Mexico has a lot of coast," James noted.
"I never said it was a good guess," Theodore winced. Then he finally seemed to pluck up enough courage to breach the subject he'd wanted to from the start. "James, what in God's name is wrong with your wife?"
"At this exact moment in time?" James replied coolly, feeling the insult on Stella's behalf. "She's sick and exhausted."
"That's... that's not what I meant," Theodore said haltingly. He quailed slightly under James' icy glare, but rallied admirably. "I like her, James—you know that. I think she's charming, clever, and a good match for you. But... well, she makes the men nervous. They... they say she's a witch."
"Of course they do," James sighed tightly. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Bearing in mind how useful Lord Beckett considers her, you think he'd be a little better at protecting her—or allowing me to do so."
"What?" James just gave him a withering look. Theodore understood immediately, and drew himself up indignantly. "James, you can't think—?"
"I don't know what to think anymore."
There was a long, weighted pause, full of unsaid words. Then:
"Do you remember that time, when you were still captain of The Interceptor, and we chased that pirate ship—what was it called?—all the way to the coast of Florida?" Theodore began.
"The Sea Lion," James replied, looking off to the horizon. "Yes, I remember."
"I was shot. I thought I was going to die, until you found me. You dragged me to the surgeon by my coat."
"And you left a trail of blood all the way across the deck... it took ages to swab off." James looked down, and to his clenched fists.
"You took a ball yourself."
"I didn't notice."
"I know. And all the men noticed you not noticing," Theodore grinned. "I remembering thinking you were the best officer I'd ever seen."
James smiled as well, but it was a sad smile. "That was a simpler time."
"Before Beckett came, and decided he knew more about running a navy than we did," Theodore muttered. "James, I still think you're one of the best officers I've ever seen." At his superior's bark of disbelieving laughter, Groves insisted, "I do. I've never stopped thinking it. You fought beside us in the thick of battle. You never asked us to do anything that you wouldn't do yourself. You care about the men—too much, sometimes." What went unspoken was the comparison to Beckett, who commanded the navy with no prior experience and sat all the time in his stateroom. "Were I to choose, I would choose you," Theodore affirmed quietly.
"You're a good man, Theodore. A good man, a good officer, and a good friend," James said, looking down at his hands. "I desperately need someone to trust."
"I won't betray your confidence. Not to that," Theodore promised scathingly. "I don't like him."
"I've yet to find someone who does," James muttered. "Stella hates him."
"What's wrong with her, James?" Theodore asked.
"I don't know yet. I'd have to ask her, but she's still asleep," James replied honestly. "She's not a witch, Theodore, or possessed, whatever you've heard about her."
"Then how... what...?"
"She's got a gift," he said simply. "She has an affinity with the wind and the skies, and a mind more powerful than a steel trap. And Beckett wants to use them."
"Last night..."
"Last night she fought with a Kraken and won," James interrupted. "For us. To save our lives she nearly killed herself. Once again, she nearly killed herself. Have you noticed the suspicious mildness of the hurricanes this season? Stella's doing. Not that she gets any thanks for it!" he added, building up a head of steam. "Nor does Beckett pay any heed to her health, or her delicate condition, or my own preferences regarding my own wife's doings—! No, he simply demands more, more, more from her! He counteracts my authority over this fleet, over my officers, and even over my own family!"
"I'd wondered why you brought her along," Theodore admitted.
"I didn't want to!" James exploded. "I wanted her safe at home—she wanted herself safe at home! I wanted her to sit around, eat bonbons, and do whatever it is pregnant women do. I didn't want her out on the open ocean weathering hurricanes and controlling massive sea monsters! But we have our orders," he spat bitterly.
"Why... I mean, I know the man is powerful, but how can he think to command your own wife?" Theodore asked incredulously.
"Because if she doesn't do as he says, he'll send me off to be killed. If I don't do as he says, he'll hang her," James explained dully. "It's quite ingenious, really, using us against each other. And this position is, of course, all my fault... I begin to think I should have just let Jack Sparrow have the blasted Heart." He sighed heavily. "I wanted Stella to protect me from this kind of position. I didn't think I'd be throwing her right into the line of fire. I daresay Beckett treasures her talents far more than he does mine."
"I thought he hated her," Theodore said confusedly.
"He does. He can treasure and hate her at the same time."
"Then... then those bruises..." Theodore inquired tentatively, gesturing to his neck.
"She acquired those some time between entering the cells at Fort Charles and leaving them," James explained tightly. "She was in a cell alone, and left it only to have a private discussion with Lord Beckett. I'll let you draw your own conclusions as to the acquisition of her newest 'necklace'."
Theodore looked horrified. "He wouldn't!"
"He did," James corrected grimly. "And the worst part is that I can't even thrash him for it."
"Good God," Theodore breathed, shaking his head. "I'd never thought... Lord Beckett! Although I suppose that makes more sense than the other alternative." James quirked a quizzical brow, and Theodore flushed slightly. "Well, it is legal for a man to beat his wife," he muttered uncomfortably.
"I'd never—!" James protested indignantly.
"I know," Theodore interrupted. "You love her—any fool can see it."
James grinned crookedly. "Want to know a secret, Theo?" he asked. Without waiting to hear the answer, he went on: "I don't love her. Not like I loved Elizabeth Swann. And she doesn't love me, either. We're good friends, Stella and I, but we only married so I could bring her to Jamaica and so she could protect me from Beckett."
Theodore digested this declaration. "Oh," was all he said. "I take it things didn't go according to plan."
"Hardly," James sighed. "I'd forgotten what a commodity Stella is to greedy sailors. I didn't think that Beckett would want to use her. I definitely didn't think they'd hate each other the way they do. And I didn't think Beckett had as much power over us as he does." He sighed again. "Master tactician, I am not."
"That's not true," Theodore protested loyally.
"Oh, I can create naval strategy, win battles, outmanoeuvre pirates... that sort of thing," James allowed, looking pensively off at the horizon. "But I can't plan for what people will and won't do in certain circumstances—that's why I needed Stella," he added wryly. "She's very good at that. But she can't protect me—protect us—from the results of my own folly."
"I have to give it to you, James," Theodore remarked after a long moment of silence. "When you cock up, you do it on a grand scale."
James shot Theodore a flat glare. "Thank you, Theodore."
Theodore grinned, before sobering. "So, is she all right?"
"I don't know," James admitted. "I don't know what kind of effort she has to expend to fulfil the orders of the company—only that every time Beckett demands something of her, it saps a little more of the strength she cannot afford to loose." He clenched his fists again. "God's blood, Theodore, he's killing my wife."
"The men are terrified of him," Theodore remarked. "They think he trafficks with demons."
"He trafficks with Davy Jones—that's close enough," James muttered.
"No one likes him."
"Stella says he pays too little attention to the little people. He gives no effort to making himself liked, and wields power with all the subtlety of a hammer," James noted.
"That's true enough."
The two men shared a long glance. The question of 'for how long?' hung in the air between them.
It was true, what Theodore Groves noted. No one liked Beckett; even those who liked him personally didn't like his behaviour. They—James, Theodore, and all the other men in command of the armada's ships—were officers, trained from an early age to hold command of ships on the sea. They worked hard for their power, put their lives on the line for it. They did not take kindly to a civilian, no matter how powerful, coming aboard and telling them how to do their own jobs, and they liked even less that he was ignoring the chain of command.
James Norrington had been a respected figure, even after his disgrace. His promotion to Admiral had given a burst of confidence to the men—Old Iron Guts was back, and they'd go crush the pirates just like they used to. As Admiral, he ought to have been in command. Lord Beckett should have stayed on land, in his offices, and sent the orders to the Admiral, who'd execute them as he saw fit.
"He won't let us go," James announced quietly, after a long moment of silence. "We're too tangled in the net to get ourselves out now."
"Then you'll have to cut yourselves free, somehow."
"Will you help us, Theodore?"
"In every way I can." He clapped James on the shoulder. "Send my compliments to Mrs. Norrington, when she awakes."
"I will."
Then Theodore grinned, breaking the solemnity of the moment and the serious air as he changed to subject to something much more innocuous. "So, you're going to be a father? Well done, James! Well done!" he congratulated jubilantly, as the two officers meandered off the forecastle and back towards the helm. "Perhaps you'll name the child after me?"
James snorted amusedly. "It'd have to be something like 'Theodora', since Stella's certain it's a girl. Would you want to inflict a name like that on any child of mine?"
"I'll have you know Theodore is a very noble name, Admiral Norrington..."
Though it was no longer spoken of, a seed of a conspiracy had been planted. When and where and how it would flower was unknown.
A/N part deux: Woot woot! And there's chapter 24! Blimey, this thing's getting big!
Now I start setting the stage for what I think AWE should have been. A lot of my reviewers (and myself included) think that a lot more could have been made of the armada thing, and Norrington's place in it. So, I'm going to have a go. Wish me luck—I'm better with character studies, and not politics, and there will be a lot of politicking.
The next chapter (no guesses on when it'll be out; could be soon, since I've got an airplane ride later today to look forward to, but it could be later since I don't know what kind of internet access I'm going to be having down in Texas) is going to be much less... hectic. You've had two lovely action-packed chapters; now, I think the Norringtons deserve some down-time... not that it'll last long.
Please review, and let me know what you think! (And if you find any spelling or grammatical errors... I didn't really have any time to edit this one up.)