Disclaimer:  If they're playing in my mind more than in their creators, why can't I own them?  I bet their creators are getting more than five hours of sleep a night . . .then again, their creators aren't watching over two rambunctious brothers all day either . . .

AN:  I just found out today that my grandmother has hepatic sarcoma—cancer of the liver.  While already having a high fatality rate, she also has cirrhoses caused by hepatitis c that she acquired from a blood transfusion when she was younger.  This means that my little brothers will be in my care all day, so updates might be slower in coming.  My other grandmother broke her hip and is in rehabilitation.  My father is on call to be shipped out to Bosnia or anywhere else that they decide he should go—such as Iraq.  I'll still write, though—this is getting to be almost like a lifeline in a world that keeps getting steadily darker.

A Taste of Misery

Part 15

Norrington's footfalls echoed in his ears as he bolted down the corridor, past a few shocked faces, his mind running over the events in his office again and again, trying to determine when Almorte had slipped out, knowing that it had been too long, too bloody long . . .

His boot slipped and he skidded around the corner . . .

And right into the female pirate.

"Brig.  Now."  He didn't waste any more time on words as he continued his dash, hearing more running footsteps fill the hall behind him.

"What's . . .happened?"  Will had drawn his sword, and Norrington saw the same hard glint in his eye that had been present earlier that morning and three years ago at the gallows.

"Alsworn . . .disappeared."  Norrington slowed as they approached the stairs to the small jail.  "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see Jack."  It was Ana-Maria who answered him, her sword also in hand.  Norrington drew his as well.

"Commodore, you don't think he . . .?"  Elizabeth had caught up with the small group.

"M'lady, you should not run in your condition, and yes, I think he would have."  Norrington motioned the others back and proceeded with cat-like caution down the stairs.

The first thing that caught his eye was the open and empty cell.

The second was the crumpled man lying against the opposite wall.

"Oh, good Lord . . .Brian."  Norrington rushed over to the young man, gently turning him over.  "Oh, Brian . . .you shouldn't have been a part of this, lad."

The young redcoats blond hair was matted and dark with his own blood.  The right side of his face was a bloody mess, with the eye swollen shut and the nose obviously broken, and it seemed likely that his cheekbone had been fractured, though it was difficult to tell through the blood and the swelling.

As Norrington watched, fresh blood slid down the young man's face and dripped from his hair.

"Dead men don't bleed . . .oh, God . . .Elizabeth, I need you to stay here with him, see if you can get someone to fetch a doctor.  Keep him warm.  Give him someone to talk to if he comes around."  The Commodore grabbed her wrist when she would have protested.  "Elizabeth, he needs someone.  Please.  For me."

"All right, Commodore.  I'll help him."  She knelt down as Norrington stood abruptly, wiping his bloody hands on his coat jacket before picking up his sword again.  "Commodore Norrington . . .bring Jack back.  Please."

"If I can, Elizabeth."

"Where would he take Jack?"  Will stood uncertainly in the center of the small brig, staring around as though the walls could answer.

"He can't have taken the man far—he still has to be in the fort."

"Commodore, where could a man remain hidden for any length of time?"  Ana-Maria stood at the foot of the stairs, impatient.

"Not anywhere in the main fort.  There's dozens of storage rooms where he could be safe, at least for a short time, and we don't have the time to search each one."  Norrington glanced between Will and Ana-Maria.  "He's been playing mind-games with Sparrow.  Do you have any idea where he might take the man?"

"None."  Ana-Maria shook her head to emphasize the word, frustration evident on her face, before turning to gaze at Will.

"Don't look at me.  I'm a blacksmith, not a tactician."

"A blacksmith . . .Sparrow met you when you were working, did he not?"

"That's one way of putting it."  Will remembered the duel with Jack very vividly.

"There was a forge here, before Brown built his shop in the port proper . . ."

It was a slim lead, a one-in-a-million shot, but it was all they had, and at the moment none of them cared.  They simply needed to act.

The three were up the stairs and following Norrington's lead before Elizabeth could even wish them luck.

Praying silently, she turned her own energy towards finding help for the badly injured young man who clung to life in front of her.