Title: Between Wind and Tide
Author/Pseudonym: Ruby Isabella
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The following is fanfiction based on a property owned by Disney.
Summary: Norrington returns to Port Royal after long absence
Notes: Sequel to "A Windward Tide." Also, you might worry at times that this is not slash, but it is. Really. Cross my heart. Finally, it takes place some years after PotC.
9.
"Three day," Wira'una said as he hung a fresh water pouch from Norrington's neck, bringing his total number carried to two. Norrington glanced toward the ocean, which licked the shore thirty or so feet to his right.
"Cut brush," Aritana said, thrusting a machete toward him, handle first. "Coconuts."
"Keep this way." Wira'una pointed down the spit of shore with an outstretched arm. He lifted the arm, keeping it straight, then made it vertical again. Stay on this course, he was saying. Norrington shuffled his balance on the crutch, adjusting for the weight of the new water pouch.
"You find town no time," Jaci said.
"Three day." Wira'una lifted and lowered his arm again.
Norrington nodded. He hadn't seen the ocean in a year. The wind blew it-- its smell and tiny stings of salt mist--into his face. The jungle had been dark and moist, day and night. The shore was gray and damp in the late afternoon. He lifted his face to the wind.
They were six days--three, probably, if they hadn't been slowed by Norrington's stilted pace--out from the village. He wondered if the travel time that Wira'una was giving him to "town" took his infirmity into account, or was it three days as the able-bodied Indian traveled?
At least they weren't going to kill him. He pulled in a deep breath before tearing his gaze once more from the ocean.
Wira'una lifted his palm. The others, behind him, did the same.
If he could make it the six days back to the village--on his own, after the three men left--then he could get to Jupicahy in the night, they could travel back to the ocean, and then--
His shoulders sank. _Then...nothing._ Where would they go? They couldn't stay on the beach; if their own tribe didn't track them down and kill him-- or both of them--then another would. Or they'd starve to death. Die of thirst. Exposure. Animals. Nor could the two of them continue onward along the shore on the path Wira'una's arm had described. That way was meant for him alone; it led to white men. Civilization. Imprisonment or death for Jupicahy.
Wira'una turned to go and Aritana followed. Jaci alone still held his palm in the air.
"Goodbye," Norrington said, lifting the hand that held both the machete and his belongings. His change of clothes. Medals.
The three Indians disappeared between the green leaves and slim tree trunks of the jungle with the grace and stealth of jaguars. Sure and swift of foot, they would probably make it back to the village in three days. Two.
As he stared at his foot prints--easy to distinguish from the others--he dropped the machete and his blanket-wrapped bundle of belongings to the sand. The last time he'd seen the ocean, he'd stood on two feet.
One-handed, he pulled the water pouches from around his neck and dropped them, too. Then, unfettered by anything but his makeshift crutch, he made his way toward one of the rocks that looked faced the ocean.
He had to leave his crutch on the sand in order to clamber onto it.
***
The sound of the ocean riding against the shore woke his bladder. He shifted on the bed, then sat up. The covers slipped from his shoulders. He set his feet on the floor and pushed himself up.
Too late he realized he didn't have two feet to put on the floor. He collapsed with a yelp.
"James!"
Hands slipped under his arms.
"Doctor!" the same voice called.
"Will," he said. He opened his eyes, saw a shirt in front of him and caught its cloth in his fist. "Will."
"Shhh."
"I'm sorry."
Will backed him against the bed.
"What's going on?" asked Dr. O'Brien, coming into the room.
"It was just a dream," Norrington said as Will folded him until he sat on the edge of the bed.
"I think he's all right," Will agreed, gently prying the fingers from the front of his shirt.
"I don't know what I was thinking." A swatch of clarity began to cut through the fog in his mind. "Sometimes it feels like it's still there, you know?"
"_Are_ you all right?" Will asked.
"Lately it seems like I don't know whether I'm dreaming or not until I land flat on my face."
"Shh. Why don't you lie down? It's late."
He looked up at Will. _Will._ It was strange, though. It was as though he was looking at two people, one superimposed onto the other. At one angle, the man reaching for his shoulders was Will Turner, no mistake, and then half a second later, he wasn't quite. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. His cheekbones sharpened as he reached to nudge Norrington's hip onto the bed.
"What time is it?" Norrington asked.
"Two."
"In the morning?"
"Yes. Lie down."
He allowed Will to arrange him. "Have you been here the whole time?"
"Yes. Here or the parlor." He pulled a blanket from under Norrington's leg. The man who was almost Will flickered over the image of the man who was Will; Will was lean, the man he'd become wore strong, broad shoulders. Together these Wills shook out the blanket before letting it fall over Norrington's body. "Mrs. Southby fixed me a pot of tea before turning in herself. I've been amusing myself with staring at the walls and running business calculations in my head. When I'm not worried sick about you."
"What about Elizabeth?"
"What about her?"
"Shouldn't you go see her? You just got back." He came up onto his elbows.
Will's hand felt warm against his forehead as he used it encourage Norrington to settle back down. "Shouldn't you get some sleep?"
"I'm not tired." But a fuzzy warmth had begun to settle over him like the woolen blanket. He blinked as Will's hand continued to stroke his forehead. His blinks grew slower, his eyes staying closed longer than they stayed open until finally sleep came over him like a wave.
~~~
Hours later, he woke from restfully dreamless sleep. He sat up in bed; the urge to urinate had doubled itself since he'd first woken from his dream of the ocean. This time, however, before trying to get up from the bed, he reached for his crutch.
"Where are you going?"
One lamp and a thin gray light from the room's single window showed Will sprawled cross-armed and splay-legged, in a rounded-back wooden chair at the end of the bed. His eyes appeared closed, but it was certainly his voice that Norrington had heard.
"Thought I'd have a pee."
Will opened one eye, which he used to scrutinize him. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I need to pee." He hopped across the room in search of a water closet.
When he returned several moments later, he found Will on his feet, his hands clasped behind him, and looking toward the doorway with an inquisitive expression that had the appearance of being too hastily put on, as though he hadn't wanted to be caught pacing the room.
"Sit down," he said, stepping back to clear a path to the bed.
"I'm fine," Norrington said. Still, he set his crutch against the wall and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, where he succumbed to Will's concern in the form of a palm against his forehead.
"See? Fine."
"You're warm."
"No warmer than you." An old familiarity crept up on him, causing him to place his hands firmly down on either side of him in order to resist putting them on Will's hips. Their relationship had ended well before Norrington had sailed brashly out in the name of the King; he had no claim to Will's hips. No right to lay his head against Will's chest and hope that Will would rub his scalp to soothe him. "Where's O'Brien?"
"Sleeping, I expect." Will stretched. His back made a soft popping noise. "The sun's barely out," he added.
"It's barely been out all week."
"How's it feel, being back?"
"I could ask you the same."
Will dragged the chair over. "I think I heard Mrs. Southby moving about. Maybe I can sweet talk her into breakfast."
Norrington's stomach grumbled agreeably at the suggestion. He laid an arm across it self-consciously.
"And after that...." Will said.
"And after that, we'll go see Elizabeth."
Will scrubbed his face with his palms. "James, I know you--"
"No. I'm sorry. It's my fault. If I had known, really, I never would have-- Surely you must understand...." His chest tightened as he listened to the words coming out of his mouth; none seemed adequate. He had been about to marry the man's wife for God's sake--never mind how Will had felt about the idea the first time he'd proposed it, all those years ago. "For your career," Will had said in a flat voice. "Well, yes, isn't that what marriage was invented for?" had been Norrington's response, and it had been met not with a headshake of disgust, no, nor a passionate argument about the rights and wrongs of the world, but with a hurt in Will's eyes that Norrington had at the time mistaken for fear that Norrington would leave him once he'd taken a wife.
Will peered over his hands at him.
"It's not her fault, you know," Norrington pushed on. He curled his hand around the arm of Will's chair. "It's mine. The blame all falls on me. Again. As usual."
"No. James--."
"Will. Please. It's not her fault."
The chair scraped the floor as Will stood and turned his back to Norrington.
"Breakfast," Norrington said, needing to smooth the situation over. "And then we'll--no, you; I don't need to go--you'll go see Elizabeth. And everything...everything will be fine."
Will nodded without looking at him.
~~~
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Will asked as they walked side-by-side up the road.
"I've survived a bit more than a mile's walk."
Will seemed to search the street ahead with his gaze.
"I'm fine," Norrington said finally. "No fever. No chills. I'm fine."
Will clasped his hands behind his back. "Fine."
They walked on in silence. The gray sky looked as though it was considering allowing the sun to break through; at the very least, it wasn't raining. Even the puddles in the street had lessened. Soon, Elizabeth's white fence shone in the distance.
Norrington bent his free arm behind his back. Hand-clasping while walking was out of the question for him, but the simulation of it was enough to settle the nerves that had begun to poke at him. They hadn't yet reached the house and already he felt like a superfluous appendage. He wished he'd gone back to the idea of having Will go see her alone.
"Where are you going?" he asked, pulling himself to a halt. Will had walked past by the entrance to Elizabeth's walkway.
"To see Elizabeth."
"But she's--"
A door opened at the house, catching both their attention. Norrington wrinkled his brow as a middle-aged man in a brown and green coat stepped onto the porch. Who was this, he wondered.
The man spotted them at the end of the walkway. "Mr. Turner! You're back."
"Hello, Mr. Young," Will called. "How's Mrs. Young? "
"Good, good. And you must be the Commodore Norrington bloke everyone's been speaking about. Quite an adventure you had!" By this point, Mr. Young had met them at the end of the walkway. He thrust his hand forward.
Reluctantly, Norrington took it.
"Horace Young. A fine pleasure to meet you, Comm--"
"Mister," Will said, leaning in.
"Mr. Norrington. Yes."
"Pleasure," Norrington said, relieved to have his hand back.
"Off to town?" Will asked.
"Mrs. Young, in expectation of sunshine this afternoon, has decided to clean house."
"Ah. Well, on your way," Will said. He laid a hand on Norrington's back to turn him away.
"Will, where _are_ you going?"
"What?"
"Elizabeth!"
"Yes, let's go see her."
"No! She lives here. It's your house. Weatherby bought it as a wedding present."
Will's brow creased. "Yes, this is the house. But it's not mine anymore."
"Have you gone mad? Not-- Yes it _is_. I was just--"
"No, I sold it."
"What? What do you mean?" He jerked his head toward the parlor window; perhaps she was watching out it. If so, what was she thinking?
No, if she was watching, she would have come running out.
"James, after Elizabeth.... I...." His shoulders rose as he took a great breath, then sank as he pushed the air back out. "I didn't have need for a whole house, so I sold it to Mr. Young."
"After Elizabeth what? What the devil are you talking about? After she what?"
"After she died."
"Have you gone mad? She-- She's not dead, Will. She's very not dead."
"James...."
"She's not."
"Yes, she is. She--"
"No. Listen. I just--" He motioned toward the house, looked at it. "Oh for God's sake she said _you_ were dead. What is this, one of Shakespeare's plays?"
"Are you all right?"
"No, I'm not. She said.... She said that when you heard about my shipwreck, you got up a crew and--"
"I did! But she was....already gone by the time we got news of your wreck."
"She said she sent for that scoundrel Sparrow and that even he couldn't talk you out of it. She kissed me, right here, just yesterday." His finger was cool where it poked his lip. "She is not dead."
"James--" He reached for his arm.
"No! I was in her house. I--I sat on her sofa, slept in the guest room. I ate meals with her, meals cooked by Estrella."
Will's eyes softened. He caught Norrington's arm gently. "Estrella died of cholera."
"No! I was there!"
Will clutched his him as he pulled back. "I can show you. You don't have to believe me, but I can show you."
"Show me what? Come inside and I'll show you." He pulled in the direction of the house. "I'll show you. Elizabeth! Estrella?"
Will's grip was firm.
Norrington's voice weakened. His chest heaved.
Will said, gently, "Come on."
Author/Pseudonym: Ruby Isabella
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The following is fanfiction based on a property owned by Disney.
Summary: Norrington returns to Port Royal after long absence
Notes: Sequel to "A Windward Tide." Also, you might worry at times that this is not slash, but it is. Really. Cross my heart. Finally, it takes place some years after PotC.
9.
"Three day," Wira'una said as he hung a fresh water pouch from Norrington's neck, bringing his total number carried to two. Norrington glanced toward the ocean, which licked the shore thirty or so feet to his right.
"Cut brush," Aritana said, thrusting a machete toward him, handle first. "Coconuts."
"Keep this way." Wira'una pointed down the spit of shore with an outstretched arm. He lifted the arm, keeping it straight, then made it vertical again. Stay on this course, he was saying. Norrington shuffled his balance on the crutch, adjusting for the weight of the new water pouch.
"You find town no time," Jaci said.
"Three day." Wira'una lifted and lowered his arm again.
Norrington nodded. He hadn't seen the ocean in a year. The wind blew it-- its smell and tiny stings of salt mist--into his face. The jungle had been dark and moist, day and night. The shore was gray and damp in the late afternoon. He lifted his face to the wind.
They were six days--three, probably, if they hadn't been slowed by Norrington's stilted pace--out from the village. He wondered if the travel time that Wira'una was giving him to "town" took his infirmity into account, or was it three days as the able-bodied Indian traveled?
At least they weren't going to kill him. He pulled in a deep breath before tearing his gaze once more from the ocean.
Wira'una lifted his palm. The others, behind him, did the same.
If he could make it the six days back to the village--on his own, after the three men left--then he could get to Jupicahy in the night, they could travel back to the ocean, and then--
His shoulders sank. _Then...nothing._ Where would they go? They couldn't stay on the beach; if their own tribe didn't track them down and kill him-- or both of them--then another would. Or they'd starve to death. Die of thirst. Exposure. Animals. Nor could the two of them continue onward along the shore on the path Wira'una's arm had described. That way was meant for him alone; it led to white men. Civilization. Imprisonment or death for Jupicahy.
Wira'una turned to go and Aritana followed. Jaci alone still held his palm in the air.
"Goodbye," Norrington said, lifting the hand that held both the machete and his belongings. His change of clothes. Medals.
The three Indians disappeared between the green leaves and slim tree trunks of the jungle with the grace and stealth of jaguars. Sure and swift of foot, they would probably make it back to the village in three days. Two.
As he stared at his foot prints--easy to distinguish from the others--he dropped the machete and his blanket-wrapped bundle of belongings to the sand. The last time he'd seen the ocean, he'd stood on two feet.
One-handed, he pulled the water pouches from around his neck and dropped them, too. Then, unfettered by anything but his makeshift crutch, he made his way toward one of the rocks that looked faced the ocean.
He had to leave his crutch on the sand in order to clamber onto it.
***
The sound of the ocean riding against the shore woke his bladder. He shifted on the bed, then sat up. The covers slipped from his shoulders. He set his feet on the floor and pushed himself up.
Too late he realized he didn't have two feet to put on the floor. He collapsed with a yelp.
"James!"
Hands slipped under his arms.
"Doctor!" the same voice called.
"Will," he said. He opened his eyes, saw a shirt in front of him and caught its cloth in his fist. "Will."
"Shhh."
"I'm sorry."
Will backed him against the bed.
"What's going on?" asked Dr. O'Brien, coming into the room.
"It was just a dream," Norrington said as Will folded him until he sat on the edge of the bed.
"I think he's all right," Will agreed, gently prying the fingers from the front of his shirt.
"I don't know what I was thinking." A swatch of clarity began to cut through the fog in his mind. "Sometimes it feels like it's still there, you know?"
"_Are_ you all right?" Will asked.
"Lately it seems like I don't know whether I'm dreaming or not until I land flat on my face."
"Shh. Why don't you lie down? It's late."
He looked up at Will. _Will._ It was strange, though. It was as though he was looking at two people, one superimposed onto the other. At one angle, the man reaching for his shoulders was Will Turner, no mistake, and then half a second later, he wasn't quite. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. His cheekbones sharpened as he reached to nudge Norrington's hip onto the bed.
"What time is it?" Norrington asked.
"Two."
"In the morning?"
"Yes. Lie down."
He allowed Will to arrange him. "Have you been here the whole time?"
"Yes. Here or the parlor." He pulled a blanket from under Norrington's leg. The man who was almost Will flickered over the image of the man who was Will; Will was lean, the man he'd become wore strong, broad shoulders. Together these Wills shook out the blanket before letting it fall over Norrington's body. "Mrs. Southby fixed me a pot of tea before turning in herself. I've been amusing myself with staring at the walls and running business calculations in my head. When I'm not worried sick about you."
"What about Elizabeth?"
"What about her?"
"Shouldn't you go see her? You just got back." He came up onto his elbows.
Will's hand felt warm against his forehead as he used it encourage Norrington to settle back down. "Shouldn't you get some sleep?"
"I'm not tired." But a fuzzy warmth had begun to settle over him like the woolen blanket. He blinked as Will's hand continued to stroke his forehead. His blinks grew slower, his eyes staying closed longer than they stayed open until finally sleep came over him like a wave.
~~~
Hours later, he woke from restfully dreamless sleep. He sat up in bed; the urge to urinate had doubled itself since he'd first woken from his dream of the ocean. This time, however, before trying to get up from the bed, he reached for his crutch.
"Where are you going?"
One lamp and a thin gray light from the room's single window showed Will sprawled cross-armed and splay-legged, in a rounded-back wooden chair at the end of the bed. His eyes appeared closed, but it was certainly his voice that Norrington had heard.
"Thought I'd have a pee."
Will opened one eye, which he used to scrutinize him. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I need to pee." He hopped across the room in search of a water closet.
When he returned several moments later, he found Will on his feet, his hands clasped behind him, and looking toward the doorway with an inquisitive expression that had the appearance of being too hastily put on, as though he hadn't wanted to be caught pacing the room.
"Sit down," he said, stepping back to clear a path to the bed.
"I'm fine," Norrington said. Still, he set his crutch against the wall and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, where he succumbed to Will's concern in the form of a palm against his forehead.
"See? Fine."
"You're warm."
"No warmer than you." An old familiarity crept up on him, causing him to place his hands firmly down on either side of him in order to resist putting them on Will's hips. Their relationship had ended well before Norrington had sailed brashly out in the name of the King; he had no claim to Will's hips. No right to lay his head against Will's chest and hope that Will would rub his scalp to soothe him. "Where's O'Brien?"
"Sleeping, I expect." Will stretched. His back made a soft popping noise. "The sun's barely out," he added.
"It's barely been out all week."
"How's it feel, being back?"
"I could ask you the same."
Will dragged the chair over. "I think I heard Mrs. Southby moving about. Maybe I can sweet talk her into breakfast."
Norrington's stomach grumbled agreeably at the suggestion. He laid an arm across it self-consciously.
"And after that...." Will said.
"And after that, we'll go see Elizabeth."
Will scrubbed his face with his palms. "James, I know you--"
"No. I'm sorry. It's my fault. If I had known, really, I never would have-- Surely you must understand...." His chest tightened as he listened to the words coming out of his mouth; none seemed adequate. He had been about to marry the man's wife for God's sake--never mind how Will had felt about the idea the first time he'd proposed it, all those years ago. "For your career," Will had said in a flat voice. "Well, yes, isn't that what marriage was invented for?" had been Norrington's response, and it had been met not with a headshake of disgust, no, nor a passionate argument about the rights and wrongs of the world, but with a hurt in Will's eyes that Norrington had at the time mistaken for fear that Norrington would leave him once he'd taken a wife.
Will peered over his hands at him.
"It's not her fault, you know," Norrington pushed on. He curled his hand around the arm of Will's chair. "It's mine. The blame all falls on me. Again. As usual."
"No. James--."
"Will. Please. It's not her fault."
The chair scraped the floor as Will stood and turned his back to Norrington.
"Breakfast," Norrington said, needing to smooth the situation over. "And then we'll--no, you; I don't need to go--you'll go see Elizabeth. And everything...everything will be fine."
Will nodded without looking at him.
~~~
"Are you sure you're up to this?" Will asked as they walked side-by-side up the road.
"I've survived a bit more than a mile's walk."
Will seemed to search the street ahead with his gaze.
"I'm fine," Norrington said finally. "No fever. No chills. I'm fine."
Will clasped his hands behind his back. "Fine."
They walked on in silence. The gray sky looked as though it was considering allowing the sun to break through; at the very least, it wasn't raining. Even the puddles in the street had lessened. Soon, Elizabeth's white fence shone in the distance.
Norrington bent his free arm behind his back. Hand-clasping while walking was out of the question for him, but the simulation of it was enough to settle the nerves that had begun to poke at him. They hadn't yet reached the house and already he felt like a superfluous appendage. He wished he'd gone back to the idea of having Will go see her alone.
"Where are you going?" he asked, pulling himself to a halt. Will had walked past by the entrance to Elizabeth's walkway.
"To see Elizabeth."
"But she's--"
A door opened at the house, catching both their attention. Norrington wrinkled his brow as a middle-aged man in a brown and green coat stepped onto the porch. Who was this, he wondered.
The man spotted them at the end of the walkway. "Mr. Turner! You're back."
"Hello, Mr. Young," Will called. "How's Mrs. Young? "
"Good, good. And you must be the Commodore Norrington bloke everyone's been speaking about. Quite an adventure you had!" By this point, Mr. Young had met them at the end of the walkway. He thrust his hand forward.
Reluctantly, Norrington took it.
"Horace Young. A fine pleasure to meet you, Comm--"
"Mister," Will said, leaning in.
"Mr. Norrington. Yes."
"Pleasure," Norrington said, relieved to have his hand back.
"Off to town?" Will asked.
"Mrs. Young, in expectation of sunshine this afternoon, has decided to clean house."
"Ah. Well, on your way," Will said. He laid a hand on Norrington's back to turn him away.
"Will, where _are_ you going?"
"What?"
"Elizabeth!"
"Yes, let's go see her."
"No! She lives here. It's your house. Weatherby bought it as a wedding present."
Will's brow creased. "Yes, this is the house. But it's not mine anymore."
"Have you gone mad? Not-- Yes it _is_. I was just--"
"No, I sold it."
"What? What do you mean?" He jerked his head toward the parlor window; perhaps she was watching out it. If so, what was she thinking?
No, if she was watching, she would have come running out.
"James, after Elizabeth.... I...." His shoulders rose as he took a great breath, then sank as he pushed the air back out. "I didn't have need for a whole house, so I sold it to Mr. Young."
"After Elizabeth what? What the devil are you talking about? After she what?"
"After she died."
"Have you gone mad? She-- She's not dead, Will. She's very not dead."
"James...."
"She's not."
"Yes, she is. She--"
"No. Listen. I just--" He motioned toward the house, looked at it. "Oh for God's sake she said _you_ were dead. What is this, one of Shakespeare's plays?"
"Are you all right?"
"No, I'm not. She said.... She said that when you heard about my shipwreck, you got up a crew and--"
"I did! But she was....already gone by the time we got news of your wreck."
"She said she sent for that scoundrel Sparrow and that even he couldn't talk you out of it. She kissed me, right here, just yesterday." His finger was cool where it poked his lip. "She is not dead."
"James--" He reached for his arm.
"No! I was in her house. I--I sat on her sofa, slept in the guest room. I ate meals with her, meals cooked by Estrella."
Will's eyes softened. He caught Norrington's arm gently. "Estrella died of cholera."
"No! I was there!"
Will clutched his him as he pulled back. "I can show you. You don't have to believe me, but I can show you."
"Show me what? Come inside and I'll show you." He pulled in the direction of the house. "I'll show you. Elizabeth! Estrella?"
Will's grip was firm.
Norrington's voice weakened. His chest heaved.
Will said, gently, "Come on."
