The short journey spent rowing back towards the ship was one that Theo spent lazily allowing questions to drift through her mind. She had just about enough energy to think of them, but not enough presence of mind to consider their potential answers. A movie set. That was the first coherent thought that drifted to her. It was a movie set. It had to be. But why would they send an old fashioned wooden row boat filled with actors, rather than a speedboat and a medic? They had to have them at the ready, should one of the actors fall overboard or something.
And why were the actors so committed to their roles so as not to tell her the truth? Unless they had, and she was so delirious that she hadn't comprehended it. Or was she mistaken entirely, and she'd somehow drifted (quite literally) across a group of re-enactors? She stared at 'Captain Norrington' for a few long moments through narrowed eyes. She'd seen the films many times - more times than she cared to admit. Perhaps it was from being a Navy brat, but she'd spent her teenage years utterly obsessed with the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy. This was the Norrington actor, she knew it was. That, or a damn good lookalike. Impossibly good.
His brow furrowed under her scrutiny before he bristled and looked away. Whatever the case was, it made no sense. Had she been some random sailor, she might understand the entertainment that lay behind maintaining this charade, but these circumstances were hardly an ideal set-up for a prank.
Lucidity came and went as they were winched back up to the ship, but every time her eyes threatened to flutter shut, Norrington would address her - with questions, with statements she could barely make out. He didn't really expect answers; at least she hoped he didn't, for she wasn't capable of giving them, but she suspected the questions were aimed at keeping her awake. The jerking motion of the boat being pulled up to the deck of the brig was doing nothing to help the nausea she was fighting, though, and when her eyelids began to close for the fiftieth time, Norrington confirmed her suspicions.
"Miss, you must stay awake until you've spoken to the ship's physician," he said sternly "He may not be able to sufficiently assess your condition if you're unconscious."
"If I keep my eyes open, I'm going to vomit," she mumbled, clutching at the side of the boat.
"Then by all means feel free to do so, but stay awake."
It was difficult to tell if he'd intended to be funny, but she breathed a short, thin huff of laughter all the same. She'd long released his coat sleeve as her hostage, but she was near enough to him in these close quarters to be aware of his moving. It wasn't until she felt his hands on her, though, that she found stirring worth her effort - one hand fumbling for where her knife would've been under normal circumstances.
"You cannot walk, I'll have to carry you onto the ship," he explained.
He was grimacing at the thought, but there was no disgust on his face to suggest it was anything personal - more to do with the awkwardness of the situation, if she had to guess. But it wasn't an idea Theo liked. Getting onto a ship full of strangers, and having the first impression she'd make be that she was too weak to even hold her own weight? It didn't seem like the brightest idea.
"I can walk," she disagreed "Jus'…Just help me up."
He gave a long-suffering sigh, like he was dealing with a toddler who was insisting on completing a task that they weren't actually capable of. But he offered no argument. Maybe he was just happy to let her prove herself wrong. Gritting her teeth, she accepted the hand he offered and was surprised by the strength with which he helped her to her feet, seeming to take on more of her weight than she did. The world spun around her, but she stubbornly wrote it off as the swaying motion of the rowboat beneath their feet, suspended in the air as it was.
Norrington stepped onto the deck first and then guided her up after him. Feeling like she was balancing precariously on her legs more than actually standing on them, she opened her mouth to thank him once she'd cleared the gap between the skiff and the brig - and she might've thanked him successfully, she wasn't sure, for her balance failed her not a split second later and she was crumpling to the floor.
"Christ," she grumbled, trying to get her hands beneath her to push herself back up before her vision had even cleared itself of the black spots it was now filled with.
Norrington had apparently expected this, though, grabbing her by her upper arms to slow her fall so she didn't slam unceremoniously into the wood beneath their feet. Squinting around the deck, she noted that they'd drawn quite a crowd of onlookers, all men dressed in similar costumes, staring at her like she was a damned mermaid.
"Are they makin' another film?" She croaked, taking them all in through narrowed eyes.
The men stared at her like she'd just started speaking in tongues, their brows furrowed as a few exchanged looks that could only amount to 'what the fuck?'.
"Where's the cameras? The crew?" She pressed.
"…This is my crew," Norrington answered her second question only, frowning at her as he lowered himself to a squat so he could regain her attention "What is your name, Miss?"
Oh great. He was still keeping up the charade, then. She couldn't remember the actor's name, truth be told, but she didn't make that point known. It would be a bit like asking "Okay, but where's Johnny?". As he questioned her, he shrugged off his black coat, embroidered sparsely with golden thread here and there, draping it across her like it was a blanket. She presumed it was to protect her from any more exposure to the sun, but she couldn't help but notice how he kept his eyes almost too deliberately fixed on her face as he did so. What, had he never seen a knee before?
"Theo - er," she squeezed her eyes shut, taking a moment to remember her full name - absolutely not a good sign "Theodora Byrne. D'you have a phone? Somebody you can ring to help me? A…a medic on the set?"
"Have you a husband that we might look for?" He ignored every question in favour of asking his own, and a ridiculous one to boot.
She couldn't help it - she laughed.
"Captain, she's clearly suffering from sun fever - she's delirious," one of the men behind him stepped forward slightly as he spoke.
"Yes, thank you Groves," he sighed, exasperated with either his colleague or the situation in general.
Captain? No, he was a Commodore - and later an Admiral, during At World's End. So…was this a prequel movie? Well, it had to be given that he was here at all. It would be hard to put him in a sequel, given that he was dead at the hands (er, claw-slash-tentacle) of Davy Jones.
But whatever the case may have been, given the way he frowned at her he was committed to his own brand of method acting. But that didn't mean all of them had to be.
"Groves?" She peered up at the man.
He faltered before bowing his head briefly in greeting "Do…er, do we know one another, Miss?"
"You did the voice of Cullen in Dragon Age, right? I loved those games."
Great, now they'd all gone from looking bemused to looking downright concerned. Groves gaped at her like a fish, but it was 'Norrington' who saved him from answering, sighing heavily "She's delirious - be it from the sun, or from whatever ordeal cast her into the water."
Theo stared at him in disbelief, but there was no room to argue when he turned his attention to her and spoke with grave sincerity.
"Miss Byrne, I am Captain James Norrington, you are aboard the HMS Interceptor. You may take my quarters to afford you some privacy-"
Now it was her turn to sigh heavily, quickly losing any and all patience with this act.
"-and I shall sleep elsewhere," the mistook her sigh, and apparently took great offense at what he thought she'd assumed, his voice turning momentarily stern "Groves, find the physician and…apprise him of the situation before bringing him to the great cabin. I shall take Miss Byrne there now and find her something more suitable to wear."
"This isn't funny," she mumbled.
She might have put up more of a fuss, were it not for nausea now swelling stubbornly in her chest - as if there was any doubt that she'd managed to get heat stroke during her day of drifting.
"I quite agree," Captain Norrington replied drily.
He rose to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. It took a good few tries, dizziness and weakness fighting one another to be first place pain in the arse - although the sunburn was a strong second, and she grunted in pain when he wrapped a hand around her upper arm to try to help her stay upright. As she stood his jacket slipped from her person and he rushed to grab it before it hit the ground, draping it over her once again. Theo might have helped him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do with the black spots that formed in her vision.
Inhaling sharply, she tried to blink them away but it was of no use. The last few details she was aware of was Norrington barking a "Harris, some assistance" and the pain of another set of hands awkwardly coming to grasp one of her badly sunburned arms before the world gave way to nothing.
So…not a movie set. That was Theo's first thought upon waking up. Okay, so that wasn't strictly true - her first thought was "what a fucked up dream". The unwelcome realisation that it wasn't a movie set came when she opened her eyes. Not a dream, either, apparently. She was in a bed, in a room - the captain's quarters, judging by the windows that lined one side of the room. It was daylight outside - broad, bright daylight. She must've slept through the night.
Somebody had dressed her while she was unconscious - something that made her heart pound with panic at first, until she realised they'd put the shirt she now wore over the clothes she'd already had on. It was uncomfortable, the saltwater had made the fabric unforgiving, but it was better than imagining herself unconscious and naked in front of strangers. Strangers who thought themselves eighteenth century privateers, no less.
But they were not actors. Of that much she could be reasonably certain. Or at least if they were, they weren't the same ones from the fabled Disney franchise. After all, this went far beyond a mere prank. This was grounds on which she could sue them, if they neglected to take her to an actual hospital on the grounds of maintaining this charade for the sake of a 'gotcha' moment on the special features bonus DVD. So what possibilities did that leave? Either they were speaking the truth - doubtful - or they were all collectively barking mad, and engrossed in the exact same delusion as one another, like some bizarre maritime cult.
Neither was a promising prospect, and both left her with questions. How did they look so much like their on-screen counterparts, if they really weren't them? Maybe it was her own sun-addled delirium. Maybe the one who had introduced himself as James Norrington would enter soon and he'd have, oh, bright green hair and an oddly shaped birthmark in the middle of his face. The rest of it could all be explained away. Everything around her looked authentic, sure, but she wasn't exactly a historian. As long as it was a step above "primary school nativity play" in terms of quality, she'd likely believe it.
The one "possibility", if it could even be called that, that left her with too many questions that absolutely could not be answered - not beyond vague hand waving and "the fairies", at least - was that this was all really happening. That she'd been catapulted into a fictional historical world based on a goddamn theme park ride. The thought was disturbing enough to spur her into action…even if that action was painfully slow.
Dizziness, nausea, and general discomfort warred for first place in terms of what was going to be the biggest pain in her arse, but she shoved them stubbornly aside to push herself up in the bed, wheezing with the effort it took. Once she was sitting up straight, she paused and watched the door for a few moments. She could see the blurry silhouette of a guard standing outside them through the mottled glass panels in the doors, but she half expected her movement to bring them all in. When it didn't, she threw the bedcovers back and set about the arduous job of rising to her feet, throwing her bare legs over the side of the bed.
It took a few false starts, most of which had her swaying back onto her backside with a grunt. The mattress was much less forgiving than the ones she was used to. Finally she managed it, though, and then she was walking stiffly over to the desk on the other side of the room. The stiffness wasn't just from pain or fatigue, either - something had been applied to her burns (which meant she was pretty much covered in the stuff). It was a strange sort of paste - she'd been unconscious long enough for it to dry, but it remained tacky to the touch. Aloe, she guessed, but with something else. Lifting a hand to her nose, she sniffed the back of it. Honey? Great. She'd been glazed. It was a good thing she hadn't slept much longer, she might've awoken skewered above a spit.
When she finally finished staggering towards the desk, she all but fell into the chair behind it. Whatever concoction covered her limbs would probably stick to the chair and give her movement away - but so would passing out beside the desk, for that matter. At least this way she had a chance of finding something worthwhile first.
The desk was neat and orderly in a way that bordered on alarming - not least because it bolstered his claims of being a military man. But hey, you didn't have to be a soldier to like things tidy. She recognised some of the equipment laid on the desk, navigational tools, charts, and such. Alongside them, laid out carefully and deliberately, were quills, an inkwell, and a penknife. She didn't hesitate in pocketing that - even if it took some fighting with the shirt so that she could even get to the pocket of her shorts. Doing so gave her another win, though - her wallet was still there, undisturbed. There was nothing in it of any use, but it was still comforting to have.
Not allowing herself to pause for thought, her gaze constantly flitting back to the man stationed outside the door, she continued to take stock of the desk. She could think on its contents later, but the time in which she had to go through it was almost certainly limited. The only other thing on its surface was a book - a novel, Robinson Crusoe. How fitting.
Next, she turned her attention to the drawers - but all three of them were locked. Either he did not trust his men…or he did not trust her. There wasn't much room to be offended, considering her current actions. Sighing heavily, she leaned forward on the desk, resting on her elbows. The room had been steadily swaying around her ever since she'd stood up, and in a way that seemed not entirely due to the fact that they were at sea. After a moment or two of deep breathing and internal cursing at herself to get it together, she lifted up the heavy brass sextant lined up among the other tools on the desk.
It looked real to her eyes - well, genuine. In her day - nowadays - all of these tools had been made obsolete by technology, but her father had still insisted on learning the old ways, too. Technology could always fail. Knowledge and experience were less prone to doing so. She could recognise most of these tools in some form of another, but again, she was not a historian. Replicas, antiques, and genuine artefacts all looked alike to her. Sure, she could probably spot the difference if she had a bit of guidance on the matter, but she hadn't seen fit to pack an antique dealer into her pockets along with her wallet. Fuck.
All she could really conclude was that either the men were committed enough to their delusions to use the genuine tools fitting for the time…or whatever technology they did use was not to be found in this room. The venture hadn't been entirely fruitless, though. She now had a knife, and a clue as to their level of commitment to this charade. That commitment was high enough for her to know she had to play along.
As if heralded by her conclusion, she spotted movement outside of the door in her peripheral vision - the man stationed outside stepped aside, and then a figure was approaching the door. Fuck. There was no time to race back to the bed. He'd either see her blurry shape through the glass, or he'd catch the tail end of her movement. Or, more likely, he'd interrupt her halfway through the part-stagger, part-shuffle it took to move.
Her heart's stubborn climb into her throat did little to help her dizziness, but she thought quickly and grabbed the book from the desk, opened it up a few pages in, and leaned back in the chair. When Captain Norrington walked into the room, she lowered the book and looked up…partly because not doing so would make the act look even more like an act, but also because she wanted to see if he really did look like, well, himself. Her heart sank. He did.
When he entered, he looked towards the bed first and then his brow furrowed, alarm flitting across his face before he spotted her at the desk.
"You should be abed, Miss Byrne. You've had quite the ordeal."
He said it exasperatedly, like she was an unruly toddler who refused to comply with her bedtime. The most she knew about talking all posh and proper came from movies - Austen adaptations, Lord of the Rings, the like. It was hardly a background in Shakespearean theatre, but it would have to do.
"You, er," she cleared her throat before forcing herself to speak with more confidence, despite the way her voice scratched with every word "You have my apologies, Captain Norrington. For the inconvenience, and for my behaviour earlier. I was…out of sorts."
He inclined his head "There is no need."
Well. That was that, then.
"Do you need assistance?" He continued, gesturing to the bed.
A thinly veiled order if she'd ever been given one. Rising on shaky legs, she did what she could to stifle her amusement as he pointedly averted his gaze until she was back in the bed, covered by the bedclothes.
"Now that you're lucid, perhaps you can explain how we came to find you adrift on the ocean in such a…state of undress," he seemed painfully uncomfortable with that detail.
"I can't recall," she murmured.
She didn't know where they were, so she couldn't come up with much of a cover story. Somewhere hot, is what the stuffiness of the room told her. The caribbean? She was sure Norrington would say so. Still, she didn't want to make up some crossing from Ireland to here, and find out that here was a world away from where she had been headed. Selective amnesia was the way to go…for now. Even if he didn't believe it.
Lips thinning, he nodded and then all but marched over to his desk. Theo watched him from behind her hair, trying her utmost to show no reaction as he paused and very deliberately straightened the sextant she'd been inspecting. He then picked up the book before bringing it to her bedside, handing it to her at arm's length.
"You can read?" He asked as she accepted it with a murmur of thanks.
Unsure of what else to say, she nodded. He hid the bulk of his reaction well, but she could tell in how he peered at her that he viewed this as a significant piece of information.
"You may keep the knife, too - for now," he said archly after a moment's pause "…If it will put your mind at ease regarding your safety here. But I must warn you that if you try to use it, either on my men or on myself, you'll be spending the remainder of our journey back to Port Royal in the brig."
She had the grace to blush, then, but hoped it didn't show through the paste that had been liberally applied to her burnt skin. Or through the burns themselves, for that matter. Had she really wanted to gain his trust, she'd have returned the knife then and there. But self preservation won out against forming any kind of bond, and so instead she bit down on the inside of her cheek and bowed her head. Port Royal. They were headed to Jamaica, then - or so he said.
"Thank you, Captain Norrington."
His reaction was equal parts reassuring and troubling. Either he didn't plan on her having any cause to use the knife (and trusted her enough to only use it with just cause)…or he didn't think she could do anything worthwhile with it in such an event, anyway.
"The ship's physician will wish to see you now that you're awake. I shall send him up, then you may eat…and perhaps after that, your memories will have returned to you."
His eyes burned into hers as he finished his sentence, and lingered there for a few more moments before he turned back towards the door. Theo returned it, toeing the line between defiant and scared. But a little fear would be fitting in this situation, anyway. He'd be more suspicious if she wasn't scared at all. But he knew she wasn't telling him everything - she could see it on his face. Luckily, her present state seemed to help him resist the urge to really interrogate her. For now.
When he left the room, he closed the door behind him - and she gave it another few moments before she released her ironclad grip on her panic. Chest heaving, she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle any noises that threatened to spill out and she staved off sobs. She could not panic now. Now, she had to keep her wits about her. She had to wait until they docked - until she could see where they would dock. Closing her eyes, she forced her breathing to level, despite how oxygen starved she felt. When you panic, you get stupid.
Maybe she would luck out. Maybe it would be a modern town, full of lovely, sane people, and she could seek out help there. Or maybe (and the more time went on, the more she felt that this scenario was the most likely one) it really would be Port Royal, the one from the movies, with Orlando Bloom and Keira Knightley, and she'd find herself in a whole new world of shit - one that would have her pining for a return to her little piece of driftwood out on the ocean. Sharks didn't ask any questions. Sharks didn't burn people at the stake of witchcraft. Was that still a thing during this period? She felt like it was still a thing.
But she had no desire to find out.