A/N: So, I guess it's been a year since this was last updated. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen, haha... I was focusing on my original fiction for a bit and I did write three books since then so at least I was doing something writing related? Anyway, here is chapter three, long overdue, and as always, I own nothing.
Norrington hadn't thought he'd ever sail aboard the Black Pearl again. As much as he hated to admit it, she really was a beautiful ship. She soared over the water, her black sails taut in the wind like the wings of a bird and he thought he could feel her speed through the soles of his boots. It reminded him of his time spent chasing her aboard the Dauntless. When he'd seen the storm, he hadn't thought the Pearl would be able to evade it. He'd thought he could catch her before the storm was upon them.
The memory made him close his eyes in shame. All those lives lost. The Dauntless, lost.
The flash of lightning. The roll of thunder.
"…and then she rose up out of the sea, not a mark on her and not a more welcome sight there ever was," Gibbs went on, bringing Norrington back to the present. He blinked against the bright horizon and grimaced. As they stood on the fo'c'sle, Gibbs had taken it upon himself to regale Norrington with the details of their battle with Davy Jones at Shipwreck Cove. But Norrington was only barely listening.
"'T'weren't Davy Jones controlling her anymore, as I'm sure Beckett probably thought, neither, but Will. And I can tell you, as soon as Beckett lost his unwitting ally it was all over for him."
Norrington had already heard bits and pieces of the story on his travels to Tortuga so he'd known what to expect. Either way, he found himself tensing at the confirmation of Will's survival and he had to force himself to relax. Elizabeth had chosen and it hadn't been him. Norrington always prided himself on his honor, an asset which he had earned and then thrown away, and now tried to regain. As much as it hurt, as much as he could never forget Elizabeth's cry or her kiss on the night that he'd died, he had to let her go.
"Something's wrong," Norrington murmured.
"And the entire fleet, musta been about three hundred ships, turned tail. What?"
Norrington straightened, pushing off the rail. Above him, the sails rippled. A man was coming down the ratlines. "We're going in the wrong direction."
Gibbs stuttered but Norrington ignored him as he made his way back toward the quarterdeck where Jack stood at the helm. Now that they'd left Tortuga, now that the attack on Essequibo had faded somewhat, Norrington wondered what on God's green earth had possessed him to seek out Jack Sparrow for help. The man most likely to run away as soon as any form of danger presented itself.
He might have had better luck pleading his case with that snake, Barbossa.
"Essequibo is to the south, Sparrow," Norrington said. And felt instantly foolish, realizing he was trying to act like an officer of the navy. Which he no longer was.
Jack continued to stare at the horizon, lips moving faintly as if he were deep in thought about something.
"Sparrow." Jack could hear him, that much Norrington knew and he certainly hadn't sought out the pirate to play his infuriating games.
"Captain," Norrington hissed.
Whatever reverie Jack had been enjoying, he instantly snapped out of it. "Oh, Admiral. Didn't see you there."
Completely insufferable.
Normally, Norrington would remind Jack that he was no longer in the service. At least, not insofar as he could be considered an officer anymore, what with recent circumstances. Yet Jack insisted on referring to him as admiral, which irked him about as much as Jack's insistence on being called captain.
"Essequibo is to the south," Norrington reiterated. "As the last known whereabouts of Jolly Roger, it only makes sense if we sail to the south. Yet, according to the position of the sun" – had Sparrow really thought he could trick him so easily? – "we are, in fact, sailing north."
Jack looked taken aback at that. He glanced again toward the horizon, shielding his face with his hand. "Oh. So we are."
Norrington really needed to learn not to expect anything different by now. "Why?'
Jack sighed as if only now realizing that he wasn't fooling anyone. He took a step away from the wheel. "Admiral," he said, solemnly. "I've not been fair to you."
Now it was Norrington's turn to look shocked. The feeling was instantly replaced with suspicion. What was Sparrow up to now?
"We are not, in point of fact, sailing for Essequibo. Our freedom from Jolly's wrath, in actuality, lies to the north." With a flourish, Jack pulled out his compass and Norrington had to force himself not to roll his eyes. With the air of one opening a chest to reveal a priceless treasure, Jack lifted the lid.
"Sparrow," Norrington breathed in warning for the compass' needle spun wildly, not slowing nor halting. "You're running away."
Jack snapped the compass shut. "That's such a one-sided way of seeing things."
"You are. You're running away. Just like you tried to outrun Jones. Just like you tried to outrun me."
"Succeeded," Jack said. "I succeeded in outrunning you."
Norrington's patience snapped. He drew his sword and pointed it at Jack's chest. "You and I both have the misfortune of sharing the same predicament. You may have escaped the law, but your own actions caught up in the end. It was sheer luck that gave you compatriots loyal enough to spring you from the Locker, though Lord only knows why. But luck can only take you so far. Jolly Roger does not strike me as the type of creature to let such a slight as yours go unanswered. He will hunt you to the ends of the earth and when he catches you, who will save you then?"
"I thought you would have learned by now." Jack pulled out a pistol and leveled it at Norrington's face. "If you wish to survive, you'll worry more about your own luck, savvy?"
Jack's aim and gaze were unwavering but when the pain finally did come, it came from behind, a skull-jarring thud that sent the horizon racing toward him.
Blackness met him halfway there.
Recent events must have addled his brain to make Norrington ever think that trusting a pirate would be a good idea. There was certainly plenty of time to mull it over in the brig. The stench of the bilges was thick in the air. The ground surged beneath his feet. With each movement of the ship, the lantern on the other side of the ill-fitting door cast a sliver of light into the room.
There was no point in trying to escape. His sword was gone. Even if he could get out of the cell, there was nowhere to go. He was only surprised that he hadn't awoken in a longboat and been set adrift. As it was, his head throbbed and when he probed it with a hand, he felt a sizable lump there. It was an embarrassing situation and yet he couldn't help the bark of laughter that forced its way out of his throat. It really was a terrible idea. He'd known it from the moment he'd first conceived the plan. Jack Sparrow was selfish and a coward. The only thing Norrington had accomplished was giving Jack ample warning, enough so that he'd know to run away.
Which begged the question, where? He had no doubt Jolly Roger would pursue them relentlessly. And what, then, would become of Norrington?
"Judging by the look on your face, I assume I'm interrupting something."
Norrington scowled.
"Ah. That's better."
The Pearl dipped and Norrington had to hold onto the bench to keep himself centered. Jack tottered drunkenly but that was usual for him.
"You're probably asking yourself 'What is to become of me now that my only savior has decided to save his own skin instead of mine?' If you hadn't so rudely begun to wave your sword about, I'd have told you."
Norrington said nothing.
"My compass," – not this again – "is not broken. Disregarding the fact that it does not point north nor is currently pointing to what either of us want most. Fortunately, I know what that thing is and due to its…properties…is unable to be detected by my compass."
"Another treasure hunt?" It was truly terrifying the number of treasures or mystical objects that seemed to litter the Caribbean.
"A sword," Jack elaborated. "Said to be made of pure gold and yet stronger than steel. Owned by a Spanish conquistador known as something or other El Patron."
Norrington lifted a brow, dubious, but at least Jack wasn't talking about running away from the problem entirely. "So history repeats itself."
"There's no call for insults."
Norrington leaned forward but it seemed that bringing up Jack's failure to retrieve the Dead Man's Chest in a timely fashion yet again would be a waste of time. "This sword will stop Jolly Roger?"
Jack took a step forward and removed a key ring from his sash. "The sword will stop Jolly Roger."
The door swung open and Norrington's irritation had to wait. He emerged onto the weather deck, blinking in the watery sunlight. It had been several days since their departure from Tortuga and they had sailed farther north.
In the distance, a mere speck on the horizon, was the dark silhouette of an island.
So he knew where he was going at least.
Jack relieved Gibbs at the helm. "Trim gallants and topsails. We're heading into dangerous waters."
Norrington leaned over the rail to get a better look at the island. There was something about it that left an unsettling feeling in his stomach.
Raven's Cove was a graveyard of ships dashed against the rocks during storms and fog. Rotten hulls protruded from the surf and towering masts held up tangles of broken spars, rigging, and tattered canvas. Moonlight shimmered in rivulets among the debris and the still water rippled with the Pearl's passing. The last remnants of the setting sun outlined the horizon and the western edge of the island in gold.
Norrington's skin prickled as the chill set in. It reminded him partly of Isla de Muerta, but colder somehow, more ominous. Whereas the island of death had hinted at the thriving pirate lair within, a cavern filled with gold, this place seemed no more than a dead, inhospitable rock.
"Wasn't always like this," Jack said as he gently guided the Pearl with miniscule movements of the wheel. "Used to be a pirate community, a haven for those just tryin' to live. Until Beckett and his ilk." He gave Norrington a meaningful look.
Norrington had heard of Raven's Cove. He'd been a captain at the time, still possessing the youthful sense of honor and ambition that served him well in the navy, though he was not so inexperienced that they were not tempered by reality.
"Twenty ships?" Norrington said, quirking a brow at the young midshipman who had delivered the news.
"Aye sir, and well-armed too."
"Hmm. Thank you, Mr. Kelly," Norrington said, dismissing the boy. It irked him the kind of power Beckett was gaining as of late. And what sort of cargo required that the East India Company hire twenty ships to keep it safe?
"An expedition to Raven's Cove," Captain Bailey told him later. "It's naught but a single British colony, though overcome by all manner of filth. Perhaps a visit from the king's men will straighten them out."
"I have no doubt it will." But another word occupied Norrington's thoughts, the other reason for the voyage to that dank rock. Treasure. Something Beckett was very eager to get his hands on.
Word of what had transpired at Raven's Cove had never left its shores, it seemed. Norrington had to assume that Beckett had never found what he'd been searching for or his power would have been far greater. And here, the water was a maze of sunken ships.
"Reef all and drop anchor. From here, it's the longboat." Norrington had wondered when Jack would give that order. The debris had been spaced reasonably far from them but closer to shore, there was so much of it, maneuvering would be all but impossible.
His gaze fell on the tattered remnants of the British colors, worn almost to gray. But there were other ships too, even more broken, and a few flags among them that had also faded to gray. But he could tell from a glance that they had once been black.
The sense of unease Norrington had felt upon first catching sight of the island only increased as they rowed ashore, careful to avoid the broken vessels and nudging away smaller debris with their oars.
Raven's Cove was as bleak up close as it had appeared from afar. Norrington was surprised that anyone could have lived here once. The shore was mostly rocky and rose to sheer cliffs around most of the island. Ravens flew overhead and their caws broke the deathly stillness of the air.
"Look alive," Jack said to those who had come ashore – Norrington, Gibbs, Marty, and himself. "Island's just as cursed as Jolly albeit not so friendly." He made no more warning than that.
Norrington hesitated on the shore. Lord only knew why he was putting himself through this. But in the end, he didn't have much choice.
"After you, Mr. Norrington," Gibbs said and he felt the slightest bit of gratitude that this man at least had forgone to call him by title. He was reminded of when the two of them had served in the navy together, however brief. Gibbs had never been his favorite person – he'd been drunk most of the time and was more superstitious than ten sailors put together – but at least he'd been honest. Until his desertion, anyway.
"Sparrow is unusually cooperative," Norrington said as they walked uphill and away from the shore and the single dock that had nearly rotted through.
"Aye," Gibbs said. "Don't know whether to be worried or pleased considerin' the circumstances. One'd think all this would end after the business with Davy Jones."
"One would think," Norrington murmured. He'd thought he was over it but there it was, that slight tremor, the smallest of tenses as if he were expecting a blow, the way his skin went warm and then cold in quick succession. He could still feel the water in his throat, the suffocating weight of the ocean, and still even feel the cold burn of steel pierce his heart.
"What did he mean when he said this island is cursed?" Norrington asked, breaking out of the memory. He was no stranger to curses now, having seen more than his fair share, but the growing number of them in the Caribbean was really getting out of control.
Gibbs made a noise that was like hesitation and unwillingness and maybe hinted that he didn't actually know as much as he let on. "If ya can call it cursed," he said finally. "I'm sure ya saw those sunken ships on the way in."
Norrington ignored the sarcasm and Gibbs' pointed look.
"'S not the first time Jack's paid a visit to Raven's Cove, but I pray it'll be the last. Ever since the massacre…" He shuddered. "Let's just say some of the townsfolk elected to stay."
That certainly did not bode well.
Norrington kept his wits about him, glad that Jack had decided to return his sword, though the pirate had no doubt been reluctant to do so. Though what good a sword would do when faced with the undead remained to be seen.
There were skeletons in the town. Bones bleached white from the sun, scraps of cloth clinging to their frames, some of which were only held together by fleshy ligaments. Others were no more than piles of bones, picked clean by the ravens and whatever other animals had come across the corpses. The smell had long since faded but Norrington found himself raising a sleeve to his nose all the same.
Had Beckett done this? There had been a time when Norrington would never have doubted the honor and integrity of his countrymen, a time when he would have balked at the mere mention of such an atrocity. To kill soldiers in battle was one thing but this…these people had been innocents. Only he had seen Beckett's ruthlessness for himself, the shackled rows of men, women, and children being lead to the gallows, some for no crime greater than that of association.
Norrington mulled over the possible scenario, that the townsfolk had defended the treasure, that Beckett had ordered them cut down, an image that was prevalent now that he was walking among the aftermath of that long ago fight.
For the first time since Norrington had learned the fate of the Endeavour, he was truly glad that Beckett was dead.
A rattle of bones broke Norrington out of his thoughts and he tensed but it was only Jack plucking an old bottle from the grip of a skeleton huddled at the side of a well.
"Ol' Ned. Knew 'im. Wondered where he'd gone." Jack tipped the bottle and not a single drop came out. "Drunk 'imself to oblivion from the looks of it, the sorry sod."
Norrington, who'd once drowned himself in drink, could understand the despair that might have infected the sole survivor.
The ground in several areas began to glow red. Jack immediately dropped the bottle and it hit with a hardy thunk before rolling a little ways away. Without thinking, Norrington drew his sword, Gibbs' warning still fresh in his ears. Everyone else followed suit, drawing sword and pistol, shifting so they were all facing different directions.
"Captain?" Gibbs called.
"That won't do, Gibbs. Nothing will."
Still, they held their ground as the red glowing spirits began to rise, becoming transparent figures, those of men and women, eyes dark as the surrounding night, emanating an eerie red glow.
Norrington tightened his grip on his sword.
The ghost nearest him, a man with his hair tied back, a tricorn on his head, and nearly his entire jaw missing, raised a sword in his direction.
They were silent, all of them. Not a single footstep, not a scream, not a ringing of swords as they attacked. There was, however, a coldness which spread across Norrington's body like ice wherever the ghosts touched. His sword cleaved straight through a body, proving its state of incorporeality. For an instant, for a single instant as sharp and clear as the sting of a blade, he thought the effect would work both ways.
It didn't.
The ghost's sword felt just as real as any. As real as the sword which had pierced his chest and ended his first life. And when it entered his chest, he stood frozen as first a pressure and then a dull ache began to radiate out from his center. He staggered back but did not fall. It was difficult to breathe only until he realized he did not need to. It hurt, though. Very much.
When they both realized what had happened, Norrington reached up to pull the sword from his chest but as his hand closed around it, it dissipated and reappeared in the ghost's hand.
The ghost obviously had not anticipated this and Norrington saw the shadow of shock in the barely perceptible contours of its face. A reflection of his own. Though it should not have come as a surprise.
"You died once and the curse revived you and now you will never die again."
Norrington recovered fast. Taking advantage of the situation, he lunged, swiping his sword through the ghost which made no effort to defend itself. The sword passed clean through and the ghost dissipated in its wake. In fact, all of the ghosts did, leaving Norrington, Jack, Gibbs, and Marty standing in a perplexed group, weapons out but no longer with any enemies to defend against.
"Was that supposed to happen?" Marty said, not daring to turn and look at the others.
"I'd wager they'll be back soon enough," Gibbs said.
And sure enough, they were. Only this time they did not charge and there was no sign of a weapon among them. They just stood there. Watching.
"Why don't they attack us?" Gibbs' voice was tense, making Norrington wonder if the man would have preferred to be attacked rather than stared at by the horde of red glowing spirits. Norrington had to admit it was unnerving.
"Something tells me they have bigger things to worry about," Jack said and Norrington spared him a glance, but Jack didn't notice, his gaze riveted on the ghosts.
"Jack Sparrow," said a voice. It was a woman's voice, soft, a melodic accent that Norrington couldn't place, and it echoed strangely in his ears.
Norrington turned, sure by now that turning his back on the red ghosts wouldn't offer disastrous consequences.
"Mara!" Jack exclaimed. "You look…well."
The ghost who had spoken offered a wry grin. The first thing Norrington noticed was that unlike the angry spirits that had attacked them, this one seemed as if she were made of mist, the contours of her body, the folds of her dress appearing and disappearing as the mist shifted. The second thing he noticed was that most of her left arm was missing and there was a dark slice across her throat which could not fail to draw the eye to the evidence of her demise.
"And you are still alive," Mara said. "And here I thought you must be dead for you've not visited in some time."
"Really? In that case, I am here to rectify that mistake. Might I just say you're lovelier than ever. And the garden's doing well, I see." He indicated a garden bed empty save for the twiggy remains of dead things. "Could do with less security."
"These spirits were cursed to protect the treasured weapons from intruders. Rage is all they know."
"My condolences."
The spirit took steps forward and dismissed the red ghosts with a wave of her hand. They faded into the night. "They tell me one of you bears the curse of Jolly Roger."
Was that why the ghosts had ceased attacking them? With the danger past, Norrington sheathed his sword. "You know of Jolly Roger?"
"Know him?" Mara laughed, a hollow, watery sound. "He is the one who did this." She gestured at her missing arm, brought a finger up to trace the deep mark at her throat.
Norrington found his muscles relaxing. He hadn't even realized how tense he'd been. So Beckett hadn't murdered them all. For some reason, this revelation brought some amount of relief.
Still, there was something not quite right, the memory of a fleet flying the EITC flag. "What of Lord Beckett?" he asked. "He came here, didn't he? About six years ago?"
The ghost's face soured. "The esteemed Cutler Beckett." She made the name sound like a curse. "He came here, yes. And met Roger at our shores. They fought. Our deaths were merely the consequences of their conflict."
So Beckett had been responsible after all. Just not the only one. Norrington didn't know why he was so disappointed.
"But that is not the tale you came here for," Mara said.
"We're looking for your treasure," Jack said before Norrington could say anything and he cast the pirate a look that was half shock and half irritation. Right, just tell the ghosts who were cursed to guard the treasure that's exactly what you're after. "A certain sword in particular. A certain…golden sword."
"You seek the sSword of El Patron." She didn't let on what her feelings about that were. "You are too late. The Sword of El Patron along with a cache of other cursed weapons have already been taken from this place."
"You need better red ghosts, mate."
"Taken?" Norrington said.
"Aye." Mara's hollow gaze fell on him. "Taken by your own Cutler Beckett."
