"No additional shot, no extra powder, a compass that doesn't point north--" The commodore jerked Jack's sword out of its sheath, and smirked nastily. "And I half expected it to be made of wood. You are, without a doubt, the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

"But you have heard of me." Jack smiled brightly, inwardly wondering where he'd heard the name Norrington before. It was eerily familiar...he knew he'd heard it somewhere...

He contemplated it all the way down to the brig. He knew that name. The commodore's face was familiar, too...the defiant jaw, improbably green eyes. Where had he met Norrington before?

It hit him with a jolt. "Lysander!" he exclaimed, head snapping up.

Commodore Norrington, retreating down the corridor, stopped sharply and turned. "What did you say?"

"Lysander," Jack repeated, blinking in surprise. "I remember you."

Lieutenant Gillette glanced between the two of them, brow furrowing in confusion. "Sir? What's he talking about?"

"Nothing," said Norrington sharply. "Lock him up."

"Oh, don't tell me you don't remember," said Jack, grinning wickedly. "Long time ago, wasn't it?"

"Don't talk nonsense." Norrington fixed him with a furious gaze. Behind Gillette, he clenched his fists furiously at his sides. Jack winced. Those were no longer the fists of a hysterical seven-year-old. They were powerful, white-knuckled and angry. He did not bother to make eye contact as Gillette locked the cell.

As the guards left, Norrington remained, striding up to the bars and gripping them furiously. "How dare you," he hissed, "bring that up in front of my lieutenants?"

"Oh, come now." Jack grinned. "Old friends' reunion, eh? Couldn't wait. And my, how you've grown. So, Sander, how have your midsummer nights been?"

Norrington gritted his teeth. "Don't you ever," he snarled, "ever call me that again."

"Sandy, then? You seem to remember me well enough." A question tugged at the back of Jack's mind, a worrying one, but he knew it would infuriate Norrington if he were to ask. Not that that concerned Jack in the slightest. "What happened to your father?" he asked, lowering his voice respectfully. "I never found out."

Norrington released the bars contemptuously. "He was injured," he said, his eyes darkening. "He lived, but he lost an eye."

Jack winced. "My condolences," he said. Norrington turned to leave.

"Save your condolences," he spat. "Father would have been insulted by them."

Jack watched him leave without another word. He wondered what else had happened to transform Norrington from the fiery little boy he'd once met to the cold, bitter man he saw now. He hoped it hadn't been entirely his fault. He didn't need that on his conscience as well.

I'm aware of the slight inconsistency, where I made it seem like Jack went straight from the original confrontation with Norrington to the brig. We'll write it off as poetic license.

Ave atque vale,

--Jehan's Muse