UPDATE!
I need to hear your voices on this! Having just seen Dead Man's Chest, I'm tempted to twist this story to comply with that plot. I can go either way, but I need you all to review and vote on it! I could also write both versions of the story with the same introduction. If you want an idea of what either plot would involve, simply email or IM me on AIM.
Email: a guitar untuned
Have at it!
The pirate, thoroughly drenched and bedraggled, made no move to correct Norrington's addressing him with out Captain prior to his name. He was unconscious, his skin pale in a manner that might have been cause for concern had Norrington not possessed certain dislike for the man.
The last time he had seen this distasteful creature, he had been positioned behind the man that had robbed him of a wife. A wife he still had a rather boyish affection for, truth be told.
Jack Sparrow. He was aware of a particularly bad taste in the back of his mouth. -But he knew Elizabeth's affection's for the rascal.
"Where is the surgeon, Henry?" he questioned
"Here, sir."
It was a sharp, directed voice that announced the arrival of the newest addition to Norrington's crew.
Dustin Peterson was a short, yet powerful young man, swift of hand. His eyes, though enlarged slightly by a pair of spectacles, were sharp, adding to his skill. He pushed past the two sailors that had fished Sparrow out of the sea and knelt beside the him, instantly pealing the man's shirt back slightly and setting an ear to his chest.
"He's inhaled a lot of water, sir," murmured Peterson, working his palms into Sparrow's midsection, applying a great deal of pressure. When the pirate turned to one side, expelling copious amounts of water from his lips, Peterson continued to examine, pealing the shirt off entirely to reveal a length of cloth, wrapped crudely about his abdomen. Using a small pair of scissors from his medical bag, he cut away the cloth, now recognizable of a sorry excuse for a bandage.
"-And he's been injured."
His hand came away from Sparrow's skin coated with red.
Norrington nodded, moderately interested.
"It's not a sword wound - Splinters of wood, see here?"
The wound was only just bellow his lungs; A lucky man, Sparrow was. Peterson winced, prodding at the wound. Sparrow visibly flinched.
"I can't clean it here- He needs to be restrained. I'll have to get a better idea of how grievous the wound is."
Norrington nodded- "You may treat him in the brig - where all prisoners are contained, Mr. Peterson," he stressed the word prisoner. "He will be in prime condition for the gallows, Mr. Peterson. Is that understood?"
Peterson, a mite too compassionate towards even the vilest of scallywags, glanced to him for a fraction of a second, and Norrington was sure he registered in that amber eyed gaze a hint of defiance.
Disgust, even.
"Is that understood, Mr. Peterson?"
"Crystal, sir."
