A/N: I am a bad, bad author. But real life rode me hard and put me away wet. Let me see if I can summarise quickly.
Tried to get another job abroad, down in Latin America. No luck; their economy is just as bad as ours. Then I tried to go to grad school. No luck. Seven schools all rejected me. The economy is crap, and they have no funding. Then my computer broke. I got a new computer just in time to move across the country in search of a job, which I still don't have. Now I'm having to decide whether I want to leave the country again, or stick it out here.
And through this all my heart just went right out of writing; I couldn't produce anything of merit when I could even get up the energy to write anything down. Existential crises do that to me, and I'm pretty much mired in one right now. But I managed to overcome and produce sometime, so here it is. Whether or not it's worth anything is up to you. And I am sorry for making you all wait so long. Hope it makes up for it.
Chapter 35: Stella Doloris
Stella could see Jamaica again—it was a dark smudge on the horizon, visible before the sun set, growing ever closer—and she was utterly jubilant. God in Heaven, she couldn't wait to get off the damn ocean. She was so heartily sick of it she was almost ready to vomit—that is, if she wasn't vomiting already, due to sea-sickness. Apparently, she would never make a sailor.
She had spent most of the voyage alternatively shadowing and avoiding Weatherby Swann. It was... difficult. She cared about him, of course—he'd been acting in loco parentis for her since her arrival in Port Royal, and he was such a gentle, inoffensive sort of man. But therein was the problem. She knew he was going to die—and soon. She was torn between wanting to spend as much time with him as she could before his death, and not wanting to see the aura that proclaimed his approaching demise clearer than the ringing of the tiny bells around her neck... or the way Mercer was stalking him.
Never mind seeing England again; Stella didn't think Mercer would let Weatherby see land.
It was cunning, of course; most of the ship was now aware that Weatherby Swann was keeping almost entirely to himself and planning to return to England as soon as possible, due to his despair over the death of his daughter. If Swann disappeared after this voyage (or even during the tail-end of it), no one would ask questions; they'd assume he'd was grieving in private, or had already left for England.
But I will know, Stella thought fiercely, gripping the wooden rail of the ship tightly. And I will make sure others know, too. One day, there will be a reckoning.
She had no power to stop it. Nothing that wouldn't endanger herself or her husband, seeing as she was on Beckett's leash along with the rest of the fleet, as well as being literally trapped in close quarters with the man. And she wasn't virtuous or valorous enough to try and save Swann despite Beckett. Her primary loyalty lay with her unborn child, even before James, and she would do nothing that could jeopardise her daughter. Defying Beckett would be dangerous, and so she was forced to stand by and wait for them to kill the man she had once hoped would stand godfather for the very child she was trying to protect. Stand by, and do nothing.
Stella hated herself for it.
She sighed deeply and clenched her hands on the rail of the ship—at this point, an expression of her turbulent emotions rather than an attempt to keep her balance. Although she had finally (after weeks at sea) developed a pair of sea-legs, her expanding waistline rendered her balance questionable. However, the ocean was currently gentle and as long as she was careful, she managed to get around on deck without stumbling or falling.
Not that she would have the opportunity to do either, of course. Captain Groves was being particularly solicitous of her; when he was not assisting her himself, he had sent a midshipman to shadow her steps and ensure that she wanted for nothing, be it a lime, a hat, a warmer cloak, or an arm to lean on when the seas were rough. She was grateful for their consideration, but she wanted to be alone.
Solitude had been nonexistent for the past few weeks; when she had not been "graced" with the dubious company of Davy Jones, she'd been in constant company with Bill Turner—something that had been increasingly awkward as said man became more clingy. Now she was free of him (and feeling a pang of guilt for thinking of her friend in such terms), and had a stateroom to herself, in which she spent much of her time. But if she sequestered herself for too long, someone would come knocking on her door to see if she was well. James had apparently requested that his men keep an eye on her in his absence.
While she appreciated the sentiment and, to some extent, welcomed the care, she was desperate to be alone. She did not feel as though she was mistress of her feelings at the moment, and was not inclined to be much in company until she was able to control herself. Especially not with Beckett watching her closely for any sign of weakness.
And Stella was aware that she was displaying many. But between the mood swings associated with her advancing pregnancy and the cruelties of Davy Jones, she felt open—and open was something she had not been since childhood. She was greatly looking forward to returning home to Port Royal, where she could collect herself in private, wait for her husband, grieve for the fate of Bill Turner, and mourn the death of Governor Swann.
She did not notice that she had harboured similar thoughts about her sojourn on the Flying Dutchman, and that the reality had turned out to be far different from her plans.
The sun was sinking down below the horizon in a riot of brilliant colours, and Stella resolutely turned her thoughts towards happier matters. They would reach land tomorrow, and she would finally be free of the ocean. She remained on deck until the sky was spangled with stars, drinking in their pale light and revelling in the freedom of the open air—a welcome respite, after weeks trapped below decks in the perpetual gloom of a supernatural galleon.
The midshipman assigned to her at the moment (there were a series of four or five who accompanied her through all hours of the day on the orders of Captain Groves) began to shift awkwardly as the night deepened. Mr. Charles Parker did tend to lack patience; then again, he was only a boy of thirteen. "Mrs. Norrington," he eventually ventured. "Shouldn't you be getting inside?"
Stella turned to glance at him. Dear child, he was so very anxious to prove himself to his superior officers—and, she suspected, to his peers, who teased him for his cherubic good looks. And if he chose to do so by acting particularly solicitous during the duration of his assignment as her minder... well, she had been so long without kindness and respect that she was not inclined to complain. "In a moment, Mr. Parker. I have so missed starlight," she replied lightly. "And I'm sure the fresh air is good for me."
Young Mr. Parker just nodded and tried not to shift impatiently. He wanted to go join his fellows below decks, but Stella was not of a mind to curtail her enjoyment of the evening air for anyone. Selfish, admittedly, but it was such a little thing and it made her happy. Besides, her unwanted introspection at the hands of Davy Jones had revealed to her that she really was a selfish creature. At least now she was aware of it.
'For if any be a hearer of the word, and not a doer, he is like unto a man beholding his natural face in a glass: for he beholdeth himself, and goeth his way, and straightway forgetteth what manner of man he was,' she quoted inwardly. Or what manner of woman she was, such as the case may be. Now that I have seen, I cannot forget, even if the sight before me is not to my liking.
She resolutely turned her mind away from her recent self-loathing and fixed her attention back on the sky. Only when all hint of sunset had been erased from the horizon and the breezes were becoming chill, even for her, did she allow Mr. Parker to escort her back to her cabin. Thus left to her own devices, she settled with a book she'd borrowed from Captain Groves, and eventually took herself off to bed. Once again, she was left using her animate hair and her own powers to get herself undressed, and greatly looked forward to regaining the services of a lady's maid, who would take care of these things for her. She dropped off to sleep with every anticipation of setting foot on Jamaica tomorrow.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
Stella awoke suddenly, opening her eyes into the darkness of her cabin. All was quiet, save for the ubiquitous sounds that were part of being on board a ship—the creaking of timber, the slap-slap of waves against the hull, the soft breezes through the portholes. She'd stopped waking at the sound of the ship's bells weeks ago. There was no one in the room, no one outside the door... no reason for her to be awake at all.
But awake she was.
Realising that there was a reason for her unceremonious rousing, however unconscious of it she might be, Stella hoisted herself out of bed—no small feat when one was both alone and very pregnant. She donned a robe and her slippers, and quietly quit her cabin, stealing softly along the halls until she emerged onto the deck, which was illuminated only by lanterns and the pallid light of a crescent moon. There was nothing visible to give her alarm; everything seemed to be peaceful.
She closed her eyes and quieted herself, listening to her instincts, then turned and headed aft, keeping to the darkest parts of the shadows. For one, she didn't know what she'd say if anyone found her wandering the decks at this hour, wearing nothing but a robe with her hair writhing free down her back, and occasionally reaching out to ropes and rails to steady her waddling gait. And for another, there was a formless feeling of dread that hung heavy over her head as she crept closer and closer to the stern.
Finally, Stella caught sight of a dark figure at the rail, carrying a body—a dead body. She had seen enough corpses in the last few months to be able to recognise their shape and movements, even though the light was poor. Understanding followed soon after recognition—there were very few reasons for carrying a corpse around on the Endeavour this late at night. And the moment she truly registered what she was witnessing, she stopped cold, clinging to the mizzen. She savagely bit off a gasp, biting her lower lip fiercely. The last thing she wanted to do right now was call any attention to herself.
Mr. Mercer might not be able to kill her, but he would certainly make things uncomfortable.
Stella kept her eyes on him as she retreated silently to a cannon, ducking behind it and crouching as best she could in the shadows. Spells were of no use to her now—Mercer could sense them. But she needed to watch this. Someone had to bear witness.
Sometimes I despise being right, she thought sadly.
And she was right. Weatherby Swann would never see land or his daughter again. He was dead—very newly dead. Beckett must have decided they were close enough to Jamaica and given the order. And now Mercer was disposing of the body.
She watched silently as Mercer unceremoniously heaved the corpse over the rail and then turned and strolled back below, and raged inwardly at the disrespect. Once the assassin was gone, Stella stood and moved to the aft rail, clenching her fists and staring down at the sea which had just swallowed the closest man she'd had to a father for nigh on ten years.
"I'm so sorry, Weatherby," she whispered to the dark ocean. "I'm sorry this happened. I'm sorry I could do nothing to stop it. I'm sorry you won't live to see your daughter, or mine—I had wanted you as godfather, you know. I'm sorry you get no better burial than this, and I'm sorry the only words you'll get spoken over you come not from a priest but from a miserable, selfish, coward of a witch." She bit her lip again, trying to forestall the inevitable weeping.
Once she felt a little more composed, she swallowed around the lump in her throat and began to recite the Lord's Prayer, wondering in the back of her mind how many more lonely, makeshift funeral services she would be called on to perform. "Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."
She swallowed again, trying to force back the tears. Such a waste of life—Weatherby had only wanted to protect his child, which was something Stella was coming to understand better and better. There wasn't a thing she wouldn't do for her unborn daughter, who was safe inside her body. Poor Swann was only trying to protect his only child, out among pirates somewhere in the world, and now, thanks to Beckett's complete lack of tact, he had died thinking she was dead. Perhaps, then, he hadn't minded dying, thinking that his death would reunite him with both his late wife and daughter?
Aware that she was grasping at straws in an effort to make herself feel better, Stella continued in a shaking voice, "We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the Sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."
Had it been fast? Violent, like the deaths of the sailors on board the Dutchman? Had Swann been conscious of what was happening? Did Mercer torment him before he murdered him? Or was it soft and gentle, like slipping away in his sleep? How had it been done? A knife? A garrotte? Poison? She supposed she could find out, but Stella wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know, even as she was honest enough with herself to realise that she would be seeking answers later. Her curiosity would pique her until it was satisfied—that damnable curiosity which got her into this mess in the first place.
Feeling increasingly wretched, Stella took a deep breath and finished the recitation of the liturgy. "In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lour Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Weatherby Swann, and we commit his body to the depths." At this, her voice broke, and she finished with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him. The Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him. The Lord lift up his countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen."
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe and gazed down at the dark, turbid waters that had swallowed the body of her friend, churned up in the wake of the ship's passing. She wondered morbidly if sooner or later she might not end up thrown to those waters herself... or her brother, or her husband, and had to choke back a sob at the mere thought of another grief to bear. How much more can I take? she wailed inwardly.
Her daughter kicked her, suddenly, cutting through her despair, and Stella put her hand over her swollen belly, rubbing the bulge softly. I must take whatever comes. I have to be strong for the both of us, she reminded herself. I have to protect the baby... even at the expense of everyone else. And if that means standing aside while Beckett and his miserable pet murder their way through my friends—
She forcibly stopped that line of thought. For one, there was no sense borrowing trouble. And for another... well, she wasn't sure where the line was. How far could Beckett and Mercer go before she could no longer remain passive? Would she be able to protect her child at the expense of Anne Witcher, or Isaac... or James?
She didn't want to know the answer.
I am a bad person, she thought dully. But hopefully I will be a good mother. It's all I have left to me, now.
With a sigh and a lingering look at the sea, she turned around and made her way back to her cabin. Sleep was a long time coming.
The next morning, Stella dressed in the most sombre clothing she had available. The rather plain, darkish grey-blue robe volante, made to wear during pregnancy, which she trimmed with the ragged black ribbons from her much-worse-for-the-wear cloak (which was actually more of a dingy dark brown after months on the Flying Dutchman) didn't even qualify as half-mourning (especially since there was only enough ribbon from the cloak to wind around the cuffs of her sleeves), but it was all she had. Which was for the best, she allowed. In the eyes of the rest of the world, she had no cause for full mourning, and donning black would have raised questions that Beckett did not want answered. Nevertheless, she would honour Weatherby Swann in this small way. She also wanted Beckett to know that she, at least, was aware of his crimes.
One day, she thought grimly, concentrating as she coiled her animate hair on top of her head, I will see him answer for his actions. One day, there will be a reckoning.
She exited her cabin on the arm of another young midshipman—a Mr. Jonathan Rutledge—who escorted her to Lord Beckett's stateroom. Beckett had issued standing orders that she was to take meals with him. While Stella would have almost preferred not eating to dining with Beckett, she wasn't about to starve herself and her unborn daughter to make a point. It was a close thing, though—meals with Beckett were hellish. They needled each other constantly, and Stella was well aware that she was less thick-skinned and inscrutable than was her usual wont, and that Beckett was revelling in every flinch and grimace he was able to prod out of her. And they were many. It was, in many ways, a slightly more civilised version of what Davy Jones had been doing to her during her time on the Flying Dutchman. Both he and Beckett picked at her constantly, poking at her weaknesses, trying to hurt her and break her in the best ways they knew.
I'll be shed of them both soon enough, she assured herself as she neared the doors of the stateroom. I'll be home soon enough, and I don't mean to set foot off solid land for years after this.
"Good morning, Stella," Lord Beckett greeted mildly as Mr. Rutledge squired her to the breakfast table.
"Lord Beckett," she acknowledged icily, carefully seating herself. She tried to hide the glare she had fixed on his white-wigged head the moment she entered the room, but she hated him fiercely and was no longer very good at hiding it. Perhaps because he had just last night done something truly reprehensible, or perhaps because he kept taking liberties with her that she had not permitted him and did not want. Likely both.
They set to breakfast with no further words. Beckett was mostly focussed on a pile of papers which he perused idly as he ate. That was usually how things went; he ignored her until he wished to say something hurtful. Stella ate mechanically, her rage a burning coal in her stomach. How dare he sit and eat eggs and toast as though he hadn't used those lips to order the murder of a crown-appointed official? How dare he shuffle those papers as though unaware of the blood on his hands? How dare he treat people like this—like puppets to be discarded when they were no longer amusing?
Finally, she could keep silent no longer. She cut her eyes to the vacant place at the table and asked pointedly, her fury all too present in her voice, "Is Governor Swann not joining us this morning?"
That got his attention, and Beckett's impassive blue eyes immediately moved to her, taking in the black trim on her sleeves, the tightness around her eyes, and the white-knuckled grip she had on her fork. It was a very telling inquiry—both of them were entirely aware that Swann had seldom dined outside his quarters since learning of the supposed death of his daughter. Between the question, the black ribbon, and Stella's poorly-concealed rage, Beckett realised that she was very much aware of last night's events.
But he merely acknowledged the new intelligence with a twitch of his eyebrows. He met her burning eyes and replied coolly, "No. I believe he is seeing to his packing. He intends to depart for England with all possible haste once we anchor in Port Royal."
"Oh, I am certain of what he intends," Stella retorted, her tone low and ugly, tightening her grip on the fork to prevent herself from flying across the table and stabbing it into Beckett's eyes. "But is he not departing with undue haste?"
Beckett's cold blue eyes flicked to her teacup, which had started rattling in its saucer, then to her hair, which she could feel slithering around restlessly on top of her head, and then back to her face. The expression of condescending, amused contempt fed her fury to new heights and made the saucer, the plate, and the cutlery start shaking along with the teacup. A distant part of her understood the contempt and felt it echoed in herself—she hadn't lost control and made objects move like this for more than a decade; it was a juvenile behaviour she had thought herself long since shed—but the majority was seething that he had the gall to look at her like that. Like she was a pet who had done something naughty.
That patronising, smug little smile was still on his face as Beckett responded, "Hardly. Swann knows he serves no more purpose here, and that he may as well sail for England with all speed."
Stella took a deep breath. The dishes stopped their noisy shaking, but the teacup was still vibrating with the force of her unsettled emotions and her hair was still restive, curling around her ears and down her neck. "Without a word to anyone?" she asked sharply. Surely he had to be aware that Swann's sudden disappearance would raise more than a few eyebrows. 'Departure for England' notwithstanding, no one in Port Royal would have seen the governor for weeks, and the servants would know that none of his possessions were taken along when Swann 'departed for England'. Rumours would begin to fly, and questions would be raised no matter what the official story happened to be. Was Beckett truly so indifferent to the court of public opinion? Was he truly so proud as to believe himself above justice? Because sooner or later, the Crown would hear of it, communications lockdown or no. Was it carelessness or arrogance that made him so heedless?
"He feels it is best to have a swift, clean break." Translation: Beckett became impatient. It was carelessness, then. Somehow, that made it worse.
"Was it swift?" she hissed quietly, punctuated by the soft rattling of china against china. She asked this question, knowing that it was exposing her soft underbelly, so to speak—revealing that she cared too much, perhaps, about Swann and the manner of which he met his end, revealing a weakness she never would had dared show if she was more herself. But she couldn't bear to think of poor Weatherby suffering any more than he needed to.
"Imminently so," Beckett replied with an amused smirk, dropping the pretence of 'departing to England' entirely. "We are not barbarians here—not like Jones and his crew of miscreants."
At least that was something. At least he didn't suffer. Stella took a deep breath. The teacup stopped its rattling, and her hair coiled itself back on top of her head.
As she finished her meal, she asked, "At what time will we be making land? I still have some packing to do."
"Packing?" Beckett repeated, looking up from his papers as he sipped his tea.
"Yes, packing," Stella said snidely. "Putting your belongings into a trunk for the purpose of having them transported elsewhere. Packing."
Beckett raised his eyebrows quizzically, but there was a malicious gleam in his eyes. "Are you intending to go somewhere?" he asked politely.
Stella frowned at him, wondering if he was being intentionally dense. "I am intending to return home to Port Royal. As was agreed."
"Agreed?" Beckett parroted, adopting a politely curious expression. There was nothing in his countenance or his voice to give it away, but Stella just knew he was gleeful about something. It flavoured the air around him like the smell of citrus after peeling an unripe grapefruit.
"We agreed, when I allowed you to place me on the Flying Dutchman, that I would be off that ship come February," Stella reminded him slowly, feeling a sting of foreboding that she couldn't quite put a name to. Between her apprehension and Beckett's merriment, it was clear that something was going to go wrong. And wouldn't that be a change, she thought bitterly to herself.
"And indeed you are," Beckett noted, gesturing to their surroundings.
"Thus, I will be returning home," she concluded, trying to suppress the compulsion to make it a question. She was returning home, after all this time, to her quiet home in Port Royal with her little garden and her bed and servants to lace up her dresses and help her with the stairs. It was time to put down the mantle of witch and pick up that of wife and mother, though her husband was still absent and her child not yet born. And although she would enjoy having time to synthesise and record everything she had learned about the Flying Dutchman and Davy Jones, she would wait and do so when it wasn't so bitter to think about it.
"That was not part of our agreement," Beckett said, shaking his head.
Stella went still, and turned a look on him that would have had lesser men cringing away. "I beg your pardon?"
"We agreed you would be off the Dutchman before you gave birth—which, as I am sure we have both noticed, you are. But there was nothing in our agreement about returning you to land," Beckett pointed out mildly. "No, Stella, I am afraid I still have need of you here—you know so many things, after all. You will not be returning to Port Royal for some time."
The teacup started rattling again. She understood how it was; this was punishment for knowing what he did to Swann. "How much time?" she demanded through clenched teeth.
"Until such a time as I no longer require your services," Beckett replied with an indifferent shrug.
"And what then?" Stella spat, to the background of shaking porcelain. "When you no longer need me, will I 'depart for England' as well?"
Beckett gave her a scornful glance, as if he were disappointed in her. "Of course not. You're far too valuable to... 'send away', and I daresay the Admiral would have something to say should you leave for England without him." He smiled thinly. "You will return to Port Royal eventually, Stella—a ship is no place to raise an infant, and your husband will receive a new posting somewhere down the line. But from time to time, you will need to accompany the fleet. Never fear, though—I will ensure your child is well looked after by a... capable staff."
She understood what he was saying. She was still being used as surety against James' good behaviour, and vice versa. They were going to be dancing on Beckett's strings for however so long as he was there to hold them. He would use their daughter as leverage, leaving the child in the hands of his agents while he played with her parents like puppets. Norrington la fille would never know the kind of home Stella wanted for her, because Beckett meant to scatter her family to the winds. It was repulsive.
Her rage flared, incandescent and overwhelming, for one moment as she saw her future as Beckett wanted it—bleak, lonely, and painful. Her teacup shattered.
Beckett raised a brow. "Control yourself, Stella. I understand your disappointment, but you agreed long ago to play your part in this enterprise," he said coolly.
"I never agreed to this," Stella ground out, surrounded by a dark corona of writhing black hair.
"Caveat emptor," was all Beckett said in return as he stood from the table and retreated to his desk. Let the buyer beware.
Understanding that she had been dismissed and aware that she would not have hold of her temper for much longer if she remained in proximity to Beckett, Stella threw down her napkin and left, retiring to her cabin. She was in no condition to see anyone else at the moment—her hair was still uncontrolled and very obviously animate and she was still fuming, to the point where angry tears were beginning to gather in her eyes.
Eventually the rage was banked, and a more subdued anger laced with despair took over. She couldn't let Beckett run her life like this. But her only recourse was the Greek Fire. There was nothing she could do but hope that it would turn out all right—she was living under Beckett's thumb, and he had just made it very clear that it was going to be her position for quite a long time. Every action she took would be clearly scrutinized; thus, she was left to sit back and watch others act, and hope that everything would come up roses.
She hated it. Stella had been directing her own fate since she was thirteen. Now, to realise that she had no hand in anything at all and was completely at the mercy of everyone else... it was loathsome. But there was simply too much at stake—the Greek Fire, her brother, her husband, her daughter, her entire future, and the fates of so many other people who would be forced to live under Beckett's tyranny if he was left to run unchecked—for her to do otherwise.
"'What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide,'" she whispered to herself. It was cold comfort indeed, especially since her hopes of being free and safe and home had just been turned to dust in one of the cruellest ways possible.
When will this be over? she wondered despairingly, as she buried her face in her hands and let the tears fall.
Beckett, knowing that he had gotten one up on Stella Norrington, smiled. Everything was proceeding according to plan.
An hour or so later, he felt the miniscule shift in the air which meant that Mercer had joined him. He didn't bother looking up from his papers. "You were seen, last night," he announced without preamble. "I specifically requested that there be no witnesses."
Mercer was silent a moment, apparently puzzling out the identity of the witness. "She's a cunning creature, sir," he eventually remarked, correctly guessing the only person on board who could have seen him on his errand last night. "I'm certain she's the only one who saw."
"I certainly hope so. Thankfully, it seems that her time spent with Davy Jones has made her much less subtle—she revealed outright that she knew. And while I can order her silence, I have no such recourse should there be other, unknown witnesses with no reason to hold their tongues." Beckett raised his gaze to meet Mercer's. "Sloppy, Mercer. Very sloppy."
Mercer's eyes gleamed an unholy red for a very brief moment. Otherwise, his craggy face remained entirely impassive.
Beckett went on, "Of course, Stella does have a habit of sticking that pointed nose of hers into things best left alone, so perhaps it is not entirely your fault. Nevertheless, it seems that both Norringtons are in possession of knowledge I would rather they did not have. Keep a close eye on her—especially when she is in contact with her husband. I don't want them sharing stories. Shadow her constantly if you must, but the finer details regarding the Heart and the fate of Swann are things I do not want passing between them." Mercer nodded, and Beckett continued, "Eventually, I will want you watching the situation on the Dutchman, but we must make sure Stella is cowed first. Her place is at my feet, not at my back with a knife. So to speak, of course."
"And the Admiral?" Mercer asked. The assassin cum secretary had made no bones about his belief that Admiral Norrington was just as (if not more) dangerous than his wife.
"The Admiral will have his hands full dealing with Jones. I've already ordered his silence in regards to the Heart, so he is the lesser threat at the moment," Beckett dismissed. He appreciated Mercer's cautiousness, but found it unnecessary. The female was almost always more dangerous than the male, and it was Stella they needed to watch out for.
Or so he thought.
"Any word on our friend from Singapore?" he inquired, changing the subject. There was little more to be said about the Norringtons, and it was getting to the time when Sao Feng was scheduled to arrive in the Caribbean.
"The Empress was sighted near Barbados earlier this week," was Mercer's prompt reply. "We can expect a rendezvous within the month."
"Excellent. I look forward to ironing out the finer details of our business arrangement. I am certain it will be... profitable," Beckett commented, looking forward to filling some of the holes in his intelligence regarding the Brethren Court and the Pirate Lords. "The new conscripts should be delivered within a fortnight," he added, moving to the next item on his list. "You'll oversee the crewing of the ships."
"Aye, sir." Mercer's voice was laced with subdued pleasure at the idea of being able to witness and inflict a measure of discomfort on others.
Any commentary on Mercer's subtle sadism would be hypocritical in the extreme, so Beckett ignored it and went on. "Any further whispers of discontent?"
"The usual, sir. They are hard to pin down."
"Because they are nowhere or because they are everywhere?" Beckett asked with an arch of his brow.
"The latter, sir," Mercer replied with a miniscule frown.
Beckett turned back to his papers. "Unsurprising. I did not undertake this enterprise expecting to be liked. Let them hate, so long as they fear. So long as the rabble does as they're told and the grumbling is not heard by important ears, I hardly care what they say of me."
"And if it goes beyond mere grumbling?"
"Then I trust you will know what to do."
James Norrington did not understand how Stella managed to last nearly four months, alone and pregnant and almost constantly under mental assault, on the Flying Dutchman without going stark, raving mad. He was feeling on edge himself, and he'd only been here two weeks with a full squadron of marines, his own cabin and a substantial amount of leverage over the malicious captain. Between the substandard quarters, the barely-human crew, Davy Jones' occasional fits of extremely thunderous musical angst, and the way the ship itself kept diving underwater and popping back up like some kind of demented cork, the ship was a madhouse. Judging by the twitchiness that was running rampant among his men, they all agreed as well.
They were on their way to rendezvous with the Endeavour and deliver the first batch of prisoners, so at least the men would have a chance to reconnect with the world outside the Dutchman. James made a mental note to broach the idea of rotating shifts aboard the ghostly galleon with Groves and Beckett, since some of the marines looked about ready to crack.
Perhaps it was an aura the Dutchman emitted. Many of the ships they hunted down barely put up a fight at all. There would be some exchange of cannon fire, perhaps, but for the most part the minute the ship was sighted the white flag went up. And if the ship didn't surrender immediately upon sighting the Dutchman, the certainly did the moment the crew started swinging over. There had hardly been any fighting at all; they merely hunted down pirate ships, captured them, took the crew prisoner, and plundered and sank the ships. Apparently Jones' reputation (or the fearful aura the ship generated) was enough to take the fight right out of most sailors. And now they had a brig full of pirates to deliver to Beckett, who were faring just as badly on the ship as the marines who captured them—worse, really, since they were prisoners. But the ship seemed to exert a kind of malign influence on all the living people who dwelled there, making them twitchy and fearful—even some of the hardened sailors who had survived the Isla de Muerta and were thus at least slightly familiar with the more supernatural aspects of life at sea. James wasn't sure if this was some kind of paranormal problem, or just common sense. He'd have to ask Stella when he saw her again.
He hadn't been down to the brig since he'd taken her out of it. It made him... uncomfortable to be down there. It really was a miserable area, and thinking of Stella locked down there for months gave him a queer feeling in his stomach. Especially now that the cells—including the one Mrs. Norrington had called home—were packed with pirates. He wasn't sure how he felt about that—about having a space that had been hers taken over by doomed pirates. Of course, there was also the idea that such roommates would inconvenience William Turner the Elder, and that was a more pleasant idea. In the end, James decided not to think about it. Most of the things he Wasn't Thinking About were in or associated with the brig, for that matter—such as William Turner, Stella, his marriage, the fate to which he was sentencing the captured men—which was why he never went there himself. Even when the men were preparing to collect the prisoners from the cells.
James remained on deck, staring off at the horizon where he could just see a smudge that was either the Endeavour or an archipelago of some kind. Since they were actually going to meet Beckett's flagship, he assumed it was the ship. Which was good—they could deliver the cargo and return to the hunt, which would be easier going now that they could dive down below the ocean again. While that particular talent of the ship was strange and creepy, it was incredibly useful for ambushes. And unless they wanted a brig full of drowned men, it was not a manoeuvre they could pull with the cells full of pirates.
All in all, despite his thoughts, Admiral Norrington was in a sanguine mood as the Dutchman sailed up to meet the Endeavour. They dropped anchor and anchored the gangplank as the British sailors brought the prisoners on deck, the shackles clanking cacophonously over the rhythmic march of the marines. Mercer was there on the Endeavour, watching impassively as Norrington directed the prisoners across, following after.
"Good catch," Mercer noted flatly.
"Quite," was Norrington's terse reply. He didn't like Mercer, and had no reason to pretend to like Mercer since Mercer was entirely aware that Norrington didn't like him.
"Lord Beckett is in the stateroom," Mercer said simply.
Taking the comment as an oblique order to report, Norrington went, grinding his teeth all the way. He kept an eye out for Groves, hoping to have some time with his friend before returning to exile, but the Captain of the Endeavour was nowhere to be seen.
Beckett was seated at his desk, as usual, and glanced up as Norrington entered. "Admiral. How was the hunting?" he inquired, setting his quill back in the inkwell.
"Fruitful," James replied shortly. "We sank three ships and captured fifty-seven men."
"Well done," Beckett nodded, looking pleased. "That more than doubles the number of conscripts. It's always pleasant to have one's faith rewarded. How go matters on the Dutchman? I trust Jones has been well behaved?"
"By his standards, his behaviour has been absolutely angelic," James replied dryly. "However, the environment on the Dutchman does seem to take a toll on the nerves of the men stationed there. I believe a rotation of duty might be prudent, if only to ensure that all the men retain their sanity."
Beckett gave him a long, measuring look which James met head on—there was nothing wrong with suggesting a rotation. Eventually, the Lord nodded and picked up his quill, making a notation on one of the papers on his desk. "I will take this under advisement, and deliver your orders the next time we rendezvous," he said blandly.
James ground his teeth together in irritation. This was a good idea, and Beckett knew it. Beckett would, in all likelihood, acquiesce to this request; there was sense in the idea of rotation. But, in his tradition of not letting his subordinates think for themselves, Beckett wouldn't allow it right away. He had to wait, to ensure that everyone knew that nothing happened without his knowledge and consent. In essence, James felt, Beckett was compromising the efficiency of the fleet with this behaviour; however, there was also no reasoning with him, either.
The rest of the report went swiftly, and soon enough James was on his way out of the stateroom, resolved to find Groves and check on the Greek Fire. He had noticed that a solid third of the Endeavour's crew wore tiny blue stars on their collars, so it must have been going well.
As the stateroom doors closed behind him and he turned down the hall that would lead him back to the deck, his attention was caught by a voice he was honestly not expecting to hear. "James?"
He stopped dead, and turned around. His eyes confirmed what his ears told him. "Stella? What are you doing here? I thought you were back in Port Royal."
It was indeed his wife, standing in the corridors of the Endeavour. She looked well enough—she was cleaner and more put-together—but her face still had the same pinched, hunted expression that she had worn on the Dutchman. A moment's more examination revealed the possible source of that look: Mercer was hovering about ten feet behind her, like a malevolent shadow.
James approached her and embraced her awkwardly—due in equal parts to the awkwardness that had recently permeated their relationship, and to her swollen, pregnant belly. He drew away and kept his hands on her shoulders, and Stella looked up at him with a smile that did not in any way lessen the nervous worry in her face. "It seems I am not to return to Port Royal until Lord Beckett has no further need of me," she explained.
He was willing to bet there was more to the story than that, but Mercer was still hovering close to them, and he didn't want to discuss Beckett's motives in his earshot. "Do you know where Captain Groves is?" he asked.
"I believe he's seeing to the... prisoners," Stella replied after a moment's thought, with a peculiar wince.
"Shall we go wait for him topside, then?" James asked, offering his arm.
"Of course," Stella agreed, taking the proffered appendage and leaning heavily on it as James helped her along.
He felt her flinch slightly when they emerged on deck and saw the Flying Dutchman moored to the port side, and the hand on his sleeve trembled slightly. James led her starboard, away from the ship that had been her prison for so many weeks. He noted also, out of the corner of his eye, that Mercer was still shadowing the pair of them, making confidential conversation impossible.
"How go things on the Dutchman?" Stella inquired as they promenaded along the rail.
"Better than they were for you," James replied, glancing over his shoulder. Mercer was still there. "Jones behaves himself, the crew keeps to themselves, and while the marines don't seem to enjoy the ambience of the vessel at least no one has snapped yet." That reminded him of his previous musings. "Do you suppose it possible that the ship generates some kind of... of aura that makes people afraid? I ask because I've been noticing the effect the ship has on the sailors who see it—most of them surrender very quickly—and on the marines, who have been getting twitchier and twitchier. And some of those men were with me at Isla de Muerta, so they are somewhat familiar with the supernatural, which leads me to believe it's something inherent in the ship—"
James forcibly stopped his rambling with a wince, aware that his discomfort with Mercer's close scrutiny and his lingering awkwardness around his wife was making him babble. Said wife was regarding him with a bemused smile that didn't quite mask the deep wellspring of emotion in her dark eyes. The sheer strength of the feeling displayed so openly made him feel uncomfortable, since he was unable to return it (and couldn't even properly call it what it was). Apparently Stella noticed, since her expression smoothed out into polite fondness which didn't hide the hurt lurking below.
She had become much easier to read since her time on the Dutchman. James welcomed the openness, but regretted the circumstances leading to it.
"I'm not certain if the Flying Dutchman has any such air," she replied thoughtfully. "It is possible that because it does so much crossing between life and death and has done so for many years, some sort of feeling does linger. Also, Davy Jones laid a very malevolent curse on the ship, which may also contribute to the overall feeling of the ship. Mostly, I expect it is a well-laid reputation."
James was stuck, however, on something she'd said earlier. "What do you mean 'crossing between life and death'?"
"That's what it does: it crosses between the world of the living and the world of the dead," Stella explained.
James took a moment to digest this new information. It didn't sit very well with him. He could accept a lot about the more expansively paranormal side of life, but somehow the nuances of a ship crossing between life and death rather escaped him. "Hmm," was all he could think of to say. He glanced around again and noticed that Mercer was still there. This sent a shiver down his spine. Was there a reason he was being watched thusly? Did Beckett have some idea that he was one of the leaders of the Greek Fire conspiracy? Was he not trusted? Or was it Stella they didn't trust—was she being watched?
He desperately wanted to have confidential conversation with her—to tell her of what he had learned of the Heart and see what she thought of it, if there was some way they could turn it to their advantage, to get more information about this 'crossing' the Dutchman did, to speak about the hunt for pirates and how he could never go into the brig anymore, to ask about how Governor Swann was doing, how the Greek Fire was doing, and why she wasn't at home. But there was no way to ask any of these things because Mercer was still hovering behind them. He could see his frustration reflected in Stella's eyes, and could only wonder at what she wished to talk about, but there was also fear and resignation underneath the vexation; she knew they were in a state where confidential conversation was impossible.
They stood and stared at each other. The breeze whipped around them, spinning around Stella particularly and wafting her skirts against his legs. James could still feel the chasm between them, gaping and wide and—at least for the moment—impossible to cross. The spouses themselves were clearly willing to try and breach the divide, but Beckett had planted Mercer right between them. For now, they had to remain apart.
It was profoundly unfair.
James and Stella stood together and made self-conscious, superficial conversation for a few minutes, keenly aware of Mercer's proximity, until they were saved by the approach of Captain Theodore Groves.
"Admiral!" Groves called, striding towards them with a grin. "Forgive me for not joining you sooner—we were securing the prisoners. Excellent to see you; you're looking well. And Mrs. Norrington! It's always a pleasure." His smile was a little too bright, and his voice a little too loud, and his eyes kept moving back and forth between the Norringtons and their shadow. It seemed Mercer's closeness made him nervous, as well.
"Captain Groves," James replied, shaking the offered hand warmly. "I'm happy to be back among friends, however briefly."
"Hello, Captain," was all Stella offered, with a wan smile.
Groves and Norrington exchanged meaningless pleasantries about the weather and the tides and the pirates in the waters, constantly aware of Mercer's oppressive presence. Stella eventually excused herself, leaving them to men's talk, and waddled off towards the stern. Mercer followed her, but not before giving James a very significant look and dropping his hand to his pocket, where everyone knew his pistol was kept. The Admiral ground his teeth, assuming that he was being told to be on his best behaviour.
"Wretched man," Groves muttered, once Mercer was out of earshot.
"Agreed," James said lowly. "Clearly, neither myself nor my wife are trusted."
As one, they meandered towards the helm, stopping at the rail after nodding at the helmsman, who had a small star pinned to his hat. In quiet tones they discussed the movement of the Greek Fire, staring out over the ship to disguise the topic of their conversation. There were many on board who wore the star, but even more who did not—this was Beckett's flagship, after all, and many were loyal. They had to step lightly, especially given Mercer's presence.
From there, they moved onto less dangerous topics. Captain Groves agreed that a cycle of marines on the Dutchman would be a good idea, and promised to bring the matter to Beckett's attention later. Admiral Norrington asked about the reaction of the other powers in the Caribbean to Beckett's plans, and Groves informed him that they were pretending nothing was happening, insofar as he could tell. Perhaps Beckett had more information, but he wasn't one to share anything with his subordinates.
"No man is an island," James pointed out in exasperation. "He cannot possibly think to run the armada and manage our foreign policy alone. What does Swann have to say of this?"
"Swann has gone back to England; I don't think he knows, or cares," Groves replied frankly. "He barely came out of his cabin during the entire voyage back to Jamaica—Elizabeth's death broke him, and he left with all possible haste."
"Blast," James grumbled. "And Beckett won't let us do anything on our own—all we can do is obey," he sneered, "and hope he doesn't damn the whole enterprise to hell. Or leave us with a mess that will take years to sort out once everything is over."
"From your mouth to God's ears," Groves quipped glumly.
Admiral Norrington had a few more hours before he was due back on the Dutchman, and after he finished talking with Groves he went in search of his wife. When he inquired to her whereabouts, he was informed that Mrs. Norrington had gone down to the brig.
That surprised him. Hadn't she spent enough time in the brig recently?
Apparently not, as it turned out. He found her down there, among the captured pirates, shadowed by a young midshipman, several sailors, and, once again, Mr. Mercer. Stella moved from cell to cell, offering bandages and hard tack and a few quiet words to those who would accept them before moving on. The majority of the pirates ignored her, or glared at her, or looked like they would cheerfully strangle her, but there were a few who gave her resigned, tired smiles and thanked her for her attention.
When she finished, she took the arm of the midshipman with her and made her way towards the door where he had been hovering and waiting for her, not examining why he wanted to avoid this place and everyone in it. "What are you doing?" he demanded.
Stella looked up at him with tired eyes. "Being kind," was all she said.
James took her hand and helped her up the stairs, trailed by the midshipman and Mercer. "They do not deserve your kindness," he told her coolly. "You don't know them, and they're only pirates."
"They're still men," she replied, with quiet dignity. "They have suffered on the Flying Dutchman, like I did, and will suffer under Beckett's yoke. They deserve what little kindness they will accept from me, and I... owe it to them to bear witness to their fate."
"You owe them nothing," he insisted quietly, trying to keep their conversation at least slightly private.
"Perhaps not. But I cannot close my eyes and pretend I don't see. Not anymore," she murmured, sounding haunted.
James wasn't sure what to say to that, especially since Mercer was still within earshot. He led Stella to her cabin and pointedly shut the door behind them. Though it undoubtedly wouldn't keep Mercer from listening at the keyhole, it at least gave the illusion of privacy.
"He won't like that," Stella noted softly, collapsing into one of the chairs and rubbing her belly. "Beckett wants us separate."
"Why are you still here?" he asked quietly. "I thought you were to be sent back to Port Royal."
"Nothing has changed," said Stella gloomily. "We are still being used as surety for good behaviour—perhaps even more so now." She looked as if she would say more, fixing huge black eyes on him, but as she opened her mouth there came a curt knock on the door. Her shoulder slumped and she called, "Yes?"
To the surprise of no one in the room, Mercer opened the door. "Admiral Norrington, Mrs. Norrington. Lord Beckett wishes you to join him for tea," he announced.
James felt annoyed. Mercer hadn't even waited two minutes before barging in—Beckett really was trying to keep them apart. But there was nothing for it. He helped Stella up and spent the next couple of hours sipping tea and making uncomfortable conversation in Beckett's stateroom.
Before he left, he hung back in the room and waited for Beckett to acknowledge him. It took a few minutes, but eventually the Lord looked up from his desk. "Yes, Admiral? Was there something you needed?"
"Is there a particular reason why my wife is still on this ship?" James inquired mildly.
"Aside from her usefulness to the fleet?" Beckett retorted, equally mild.
"She could be useful from Jamaica," James pointed out.
Beckett sighed a little, and sat back in his chair. "Admiral, how many times are we going to have this discussion?" he asked, as though he were the one being put-upon.
"Until it resolves itself in a manner which pleases me," was James' swift reply. "I would prefer that my wife return to Port Royal and pass the remainder of her confinement there."
"Your preference has been noted," Beckett said, not quite hiding the peevishness in his voice, and looked back down at his papers, implying dismissal in every line of his body.
"And ignored," James surmised, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
Beckett sighed again. "Stella has no problems adhering to the terms of the bargain we struck," he remarked. "She is content to do her duty."
"As am I," James snapped. "However, I fail to recall the part of our bargain which stated that Mrs. Norrington was going to be dragged all over the Caribbean in a delicate condition. If I recall correctly, her duties were to provide wind to the fleet, and she can do that as easily in Jamaica as she can here."
"I prefer to keep her close," was all Beckett said in return. "Stella will remain with me, and serve the Armada from the Endeavour. And that's the end of the matter. Is there anything else, Admiral?"
"You permitted Governor Swann to leave," James insisted. "Why could you not allow Mrs. Norrington?"
"Governor Swann left for England, and intends to retire completely from public life," Beckett replied. "Governor Swann had no ability to control the skies, either, so his... departure is hardly relevant. Are we finished, Admiral?"
James was fuming by now. "You have no honour, sir," he managed to grind out through clenched teeth.
Beckett shook his head condescendingly, as if James were a boy who had failed to learn his lessons. "Honour is hardly relevant in this situation. It's just good business," he said coolly. "I hope this will be the last time we have this conversation. Thank you, Admiral Norrington."
Realising that he'd been very firmly dismissed, and knowing that he was about to lose his temper, James bowed curtly and stormed out of the room.
He found Stella topside, watching as supplies and men were transferred over to the Dutchman. He stood by her and watched as the marines boarded, looking better for their time away from the ship. Stella clung to his arm and stared at the vessel silently, and Mercer was still a looming presence at their backs.
And then it was time. Before he could extract himself and take leave of her, Stella looked up at him and spoke. "What are we becoming, James?"
He wasn't sure what she meant. "Stella?"
"We spend our time with monsters, doing the bidding of monsters," she explained quietly. "Will we become monsters ourselves? I used to think I was someone so virtuous, but now..." she trailed off, then sighed. "What will we become? When this is over, and we are free... what sort of monsters will we be?" she whispered despairingly.
There wasn't anything he could think of to say to that. James merely kissed her hand, bid her farewell, and walked across the gangplank to the Flying Dutchman. But her words stayed with him, niggling at him as they weighed anchor and sailed off.
When this is over, and we are free... what sort of monsters will we be?
A/N part deux: Well, that's it—my return to this fic. Hopefully the next instalment won't take so long to produce; I'm trying to write at least a page a day of this thing. Anyway, I'd like it if you reviewed—I feel out of practise with writing and out of sync with the story, so some feedback would help me.