A continuation of "Minor Fall," by the wonderfully talented Elske. For the record--this is not plagiarism; I do have Elske's permission to be writing this, and I acknowledge that "Minor Fall" is completely and utterly hers, and that this is technically based on it. As she put it, it's "fanfic of fanfic." Sort of. Standard disclaimers apply.
For those who have not read "Minor Fall:" Go read it. Seriously. But if you aren't going to read it, the premise is that Gillette and Norrington are (were?) lovers, but Gillette is caught, convicted of sodomy and sent off to India, and Norrington, in despair and loneliness, marries Elizabeth (who is single for some reason we have yet to determine. Will ran off to be a pirate or something.) It is horrifically angsty, beautifully written and makes everyone who reads it cry. This is a continuation.
Featuring RadicallyLiberal!Elizabeth (or Nymphomaniac!Elizabeth, if you prefer), Shakespeare!Norrington (otherwise known as Lysander James) and IrishLiterary!Gillette (a.k.a Pirate!Gillette.)
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The sea breeze was warm as it drifted past the cabin door. Gillette, curled miserably on the bed, paid it no mind. Three months... three miserable, lonely months. He'd never been away from his love that long...never for more than a week at a time, not since they'd first met, and that had been *ages* ago...eight years? Nine?
It hadn't sunk in yet, the harsh realization that he was never going to see Lysander again. He still woke every morning expecting to find himself in Norrington's arms, still expected to turn corners and see his lover's stern, proud, aquiline face, warm green eyes smiling down at him. Three months, and still he was in denial.
Perhaps realization would sink in when he first stepped off the dock onto Indian soil. While aboard the ship, he could close his eyes and imagine he was back aboard the Dauntless, standing behind and slightly to the right of Norrington, as always. Ships were familiar to him...he had met Lysander aboard a ship...
India was foreign. He had never been to India before, nor had Lysander. He recalled his first trip alone to a foreign land...he had been a mere sixteen years old, torn abruptly from his mother and comfortable life in the countryside of Toulon and sent to England. He had never learned to speak English. He had been utterly lost there, drowning and alone, and when he had joined the Navy at his father's command, he had considered throwing himself overboard and ending it all, a literal drowning to end a figurative one.
And then he had met Lysander. Lysander had saved him from suicide, from loneliness, had taught him English, protected him from the constant jeering and mocking of the other crewmen...they had risen through the ranks together, Gillette always one step behind and content to be there. Lysander had never deserted him, never disappointed him or let him down.
Lysander never took care of himself properly unless Gillette was there to make him eat and sleep. Good lord, he'd probably starved to death by now. Was Lysander pining for him back in Port Royale, as Armand pined for him now? Surely...surely he hadn't *forgotten* him...
Oh god no. Gillette buried his face in the thin pillow and bit back a strangled sob. No...no, Lysander wouldn't forget him...what had put the idea into his head? Lysander would never...
Crashes and cannon fire from the deck jerked him from his daze, and he seized his saber from the table and rushed out to investigate.
Pirates. Bloody *brilliant.* At least these appeared to be mortal, though it was a bright, sunlit day and there didn't seem to be any casualties littering the deck. Nobody seemed to have been killed or even injured at all. And, leading the pirate brigade--dear god, no.
Jack Sparrow.
"That man is the *last* bloody thing I bloody need right now," he hissed to himself, between clenched teeth. And, though he tried to conceal himself in an out-of-the-way alcove, the bastard was heading right for him, while everyone else was distracted by the unearthly shrieks of the cutlass-swinging pirate wench in her trousers and half-open shirt.
"What do you want?" he demanded. Sparrow grinned roguishly.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Lieutenant. That is who you are, isn't it? Norrington's pretty little lieutenant? I remember you, y'know, or I think I do...could be wrong..."
Gillette sighed. "You're right. It's me."
"I knew it!" Sparrow clapped his hands gleefully. "So, where's the good commodore? If he's still a commodore. Has he been promoted again?"
Gillette lowered his head. "Leave me be, pirate. I've no inclination to discuss this with you."
"He's not here?" Sparrow frowned, uncomprehending. "You mean you actually...go places without him?"
"Stop!" Gillette clenched his fists, drawing in a sharp breath against the sob that threatened to escape him. "Leave me alone!"
Comprehension dawned at last. Sparrow nodded at him, infuriatingly sympathetic. "You were found out, then?"
"Yes," Gillette whispered. "Yes, we were found out. And I won't talk about it."
"Where have they sent him to, then? Back to England?"
"They haven't sent him anywhere," snapped Gillette. "He wasn't implicated in any of it. It was just me...they accused me of homosexuality, because a few of the other officers had noticed that I...don't make a habit of courting women. And they couldn't prove it, but when one of the other lieutenants was accused of fornication, they took it as an opportunity to round up everyone who'd been accused of any sort of sexual deviance, court-martial all of us and convict us whether we were guilty or not. The commodore wasn't ever accused--a few suspected him, but Elizabeth vouched for him. Nobody vouched for me."
"Tough luck, mate." Sparrow clapped his shoulder sympathetically. "Now, have you been exiled from Jamaica for life, or can you go back and reclaim your fair commodore?"
"Go back?" The idea had never occurred to him as a serious possibility. He dreamed of being back in Port Royale, in Lysander's bed, but never had he considered actually going back..."How would I go back?"
Jack spread his arms patronizingly. "Come on, love. You're a bright young lad; you can figure something out."
"How? I can't turn the ship around, and I've no way to get back on my own...not without a ship..." Gillette bit his lip. "I'd give anything to go back," he whispered. "I would *kill* to see him again. Anything to be back with him..."
"You don't have to kill anyone, mate." Sparrow flashed him another metallic grin. "You'll have to hand in your uniform and turn pirate, and you'll have to work like a slave, but I can take you to him. We're turning and making for the Caribbean in a week. Play it right, and maybe you can come with us."
"Turn *pirate?*" Gillette recoiled. "I--I couldn't--James would never...never forgive me for it."
"I imagine he'd forgive you if he knew you'd done it for him. I'll bet he's pining for you. He wouldn't want you out here, all alone, hundreds of miles away from him, would he?"
"What do you want me for?" Gillette folded his arms, clenching his fists hard against the rising, desperate wish to agree to Sparrow's outlandish demands and sail off to Lysander and the Caribbean. "Why do you want me to come with you?"
"I never said I particularly wanted you to. I merely presented it to you as a possibility. An opportunity. Think about it, love. It's your one chance to go back and live happily ever after with your beloved commodore. You could be...what's the word... incognito about it, change your name, adapt your look a bit, and live there in disguise, and never have to leave him again."
"Oh god..." Gillette exhaled tremulously. "Oh god. But...why would I have to turn pirate?"
Sparrow's grin widened slowly, and he lifted the wig from Gillette's head in one smooth motion and cast it overboard. "There's no way in hell I'm having an officer contaminatin' my ship, love. The uniform goes, or you stay."
Gillette clenched his fists hard, drawing blood where his nails dug into his palms, and hung his head. He drew in a shaky breath, and gave a short, sharp nod. "I'll do it," he whispered.
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Ah, the opportune moment to end the chapter. And I won't post another until I get a fluffy RST Norrington/Gillette fic, another chapter of "Rant" or another chapter of "One Night More." The Muse has spoken!
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse, channeling Christy Mahon.
For those who have not read "Minor Fall:" Go read it. Seriously. But if you aren't going to read it, the premise is that Gillette and Norrington are (were?) lovers, but Gillette is caught, convicted of sodomy and sent off to India, and Norrington, in despair and loneliness, marries Elizabeth (who is single for some reason we have yet to determine. Will ran off to be a pirate or something.) It is horrifically angsty, beautifully written and makes everyone who reads it cry. This is a continuation.
Featuring RadicallyLiberal!Elizabeth (or Nymphomaniac!Elizabeth, if you prefer), Shakespeare!Norrington (otherwise known as Lysander James) and IrishLiterary!Gillette (a.k.a Pirate!Gillette.)
---------------------------------------
The sea breeze was warm as it drifted past the cabin door. Gillette, curled miserably on the bed, paid it no mind. Three months... three miserable, lonely months. He'd never been away from his love that long...never for more than a week at a time, not since they'd first met, and that had been *ages* ago...eight years? Nine?
It hadn't sunk in yet, the harsh realization that he was never going to see Lysander again. He still woke every morning expecting to find himself in Norrington's arms, still expected to turn corners and see his lover's stern, proud, aquiline face, warm green eyes smiling down at him. Three months, and still he was in denial.
Perhaps realization would sink in when he first stepped off the dock onto Indian soil. While aboard the ship, he could close his eyes and imagine he was back aboard the Dauntless, standing behind and slightly to the right of Norrington, as always. Ships were familiar to him...he had met Lysander aboard a ship...
India was foreign. He had never been to India before, nor had Lysander. He recalled his first trip alone to a foreign land...he had been a mere sixteen years old, torn abruptly from his mother and comfortable life in the countryside of Toulon and sent to England. He had never learned to speak English. He had been utterly lost there, drowning and alone, and when he had joined the Navy at his father's command, he had considered throwing himself overboard and ending it all, a literal drowning to end a figurative one.
And then he had met Lysander. Lysander had saved him from suicide, from loneliness, had taught him English, protected him from the constant jeering and mocking of the other crewmen...they had risen through the ranks together, Gillette always one step behind and content to be there. Lysander had never deserted him, never disappointed him or let him down.
Lysander never took care of himself properly unless Gillette was there to make him eat and sleep. Good lord, he'd probably starved to death by now. Was Lysander pining for him back in Port Royale, as Armand pined for him now? Surely...surely he hadn't *forgotten* him...
Oh god no. Gillette buried his face in the thin pillow and bit back a strangled sob. No...no, Lysander wouldn't forget him...what had put the idea into his head? Lysander would never...
Crashes and cannon fire from the deck jerked him from his daze, and he seized his saber from the table and rushed out to investigate.
Pirates. Bloody *brilliant.* At least these appeared to be mortal, though it was a bright, sunlit day and there didn't seem to be any casualties littering the deck. Nobody seemed to have been killed or even injured at all. And, leading the pirate brigade--dear god, no.
Jack Sparrow.
"That man is the *last* bloody thing I bloody need right now," he hissed to himself, between clenched teeth. And, though he tried to conceal himself in an out-of-the-way alcove, the bastard was heading right for him, while everyone else was distracted by the unearthly shrieks of the cutlass-swinging pirate wench in her trousers and half-open shirt.
"What do you want?" he demanded. Sparrow grinned roguishly.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Lieutenant. That is who you are, isn't it? Norrington's pretty little lieutenant? I remember you, y'know, or I think I do...could be wrong..."
Gillette sighed. "You're right. It's me."
"I knew it!" Sparrow clapped his hands gleefully. "So, where's the good commodore? If he's still a commodore. Has he been promoted again?"
Gillette lowered his head. "Leave me be, pirate. I've no inclination to discuss this with you."
"He's not here?" Sparrow frowned, uncomprehending. "You mean you actually...go places without him?"
"Stop!" Gillette clenched his fists, drawing in a sharp breath against the sob that threatened to escape him. "Leave me alone!"
Comprehension dawned at last. Sparrow nodded at him, infuriatingly sympathetic. "You were found out, then?"
"Yes," Gillette whispered. "Yes, we were found out. And I won't talk about it."
"Where have they sent him to, then? Back to England?"
"They haven't sent him anywhere," snapped Gillette. "He wasn't implicated in any of it. It was just me...they accused me of homosexuality, because a few of the other officers had noticed that I...don't make a habit of courting women. And they couldn't prove it, but when one of the other lieutenants was accused of fornication, they took it as an opportunity to round up everyone who'd been accused of any sort of sexual deviance, court-martial all of us and convict us whether we were guilty or not. The commodore wasn't ever accused--a few suspected him, but Elizabeth vouched for him. Nobody vouched for me."
"Tough luck, mate." Sparrow clapped his shoulder sympathetically. "Now, have you been exiled from Jamaica for life, or can you go back and reclaim your fair commodore?"
"Go back?" The idea had never occurred to him as a serious possibility. He dreamed of being back in Port Royale, in Lysander's bed, but never had he considered actually going back..."How would I go back?"
Jack spread his arms patronizingly. "Come on, love. You're a bright young lad; you can figure something out."
"How? I can't turn the ship around, and I've no way to get back on my own...not without a ship..." Gillette bit his lip. "I'd give anything to go back," he whispered. "I would *kill* to see him again. Anything to be back with him..."
"You don't have to kill anyone, mate." Sparrow flashed him another metallic grin. "You'll have to hand in your uniform and turn pirate, and you'll have to work like a slave, but I can take you to him. We're turning and making for the Caribbean in a week. Play it right, and maybe you can come with us."
"Turn *pirate?*" Gillette recoiled. "I--I couldn't--James would never...never forgive me for it."
"I imagine he'd forgive you if he knew you'd done it for him. I'll bet he's pining for you. He wouldn't want you out here, all alone, hundreds of miles away from him, would he?"
"What do you want me for?" Gillette folded his arms, clenching his fists hard against the rising, desperate wish to agree to Sparrow's outlandish demands and sail off to Lysander and the Caribbean. "Why do you want me to come with you?"
"I never said I particularly wanted you to. I merely presented it to you as a possibility. An opportunity. Think about it, love. It's your one chance to go back and live happily ever after with your beloved commodore. You could be...what's the word... incognito about it, change your name, adapt your look a bit, and live there in disguise, and never have to leave him again."
"Oh god..." Gillette exhaled tremulously. "Oh god. But...why would I have to turn pirate?"
Sparrow's grin widened slowly, and he lifted the wig from Gillette's head in one smooth motion and cast it overboard. "There's no way in hell I'm having an officer contaminatin' my ship, love. The uniform goes, or you stay."
Gillette clenched his fists hard, drawing blood where his nails dug into his palms, and hung his head. He drew in a shaky breath, and gave a short, sharp nod. "I'll do it," he whispered.
----------------------------------------
Ah, the opportune moment to end the chapter. And I won't post another until I get a fluffy RST Norrington/Gillette fic, another chapter of "Rant" or another chapter of "One Night More." The Muse has spoken!
Ave atque vale,
--Jehan's Muse, channeling Christy Mahon.