(Author's Note's – Well, this was a long time until an update. Sorry y'all, I rewrote this about three times, mostly the beginning. Thank you, thank you, thank you to my lovely reviewers!

I feel somewhat safe saying that I originally intended the rest of the story to take place in Port Royal, but an idea hit me today which I think much improves opportunity within the story. I won't say where, but let me assure you this tale is about swing a bit toward the strange, the bizarre, and the downright crazy.

Still enraged about Belle? Well, she's about to meet her just rewards, starting in this chapter, and even more in the next! This is a bit short, but I wanted to update, since I won't be around until Monday or so. So, without further ado, Chapter 10: In which James realizes something, Laura drinks rum, and a Marty-Stu appears along with a Mary-Sue cliché!)

James Norrington was sitting in his cabin, rooted to his chair and moved almost to tears by a simple pencil sketch.

Laura Bell, on the Eve of her Spinsterhood, June 20th 1720

The night before his promotion ceremony – he remembered the wreck of nerves he had been, coming to her door and falling at her feet, begging for help, counsel and comfort. He confided he planned to propose to Elizabeth the next day, careless of what she might have felt for him.

God, if he had only looked a little closer, maybe he would have seen the sadness in her eyes that day, because it was very clear in this picture.

She must have drawn it after he left, he concluded. She had paid extraordinary to every flaw in her face, every stray hair, everything that made her plain and imperfect. He could see the circles under her grey eyes, the indents on the bridge of her nose where her spectacles normally rested, and a trail where the tears had dripped down her face.

He knew now she loved him, James Norrington, and always had. Before they left from Port Royal, he had taken the liberty of taking her sketches.

What does a man do in such a situation? James was as one petrified, rooted to his chair in the terrible realization. All his life he had fallen on Laura when his heart was broken, speaking bitterly of being ignored where his devotion ought to have earned him more. And she had sat through it all, for God knows how long, uncomplaining in her devotion. She was quiet and unspectacular, and because of this he had ignored her. He had wronged her, so terribly.

Who had been her comfort when everything went to nothing? She never came to him, or Nathan or Theo. How had she bourn it in silence? How could she go on, when every day brought new proof of the impossibility of her love?

He had wronged her, again and again. He had tormented her, he had kissed her and left, he had paraded with Belle before her. And in her hour of need he had abandoned her. Were things too far gone to make them right?

James Norrington stood, stepping out onto the small promenade at the back of his cabin, divested of uniform coat, hat and wig, letting the wind blow him through and wondering just where on the wide, starlit sea Laura was.

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Far and away, Laura leaned over the taffrail aboard the Black Pearl, hit by a wave of nausea.

"Ye all right, luv?"

"A little dizzy, Captain Sparrow."

"Well, don't fall overboard."

"I will be very sure not to, sir."

Captain Sparrow leaned on the rail, next to her, and offered a half-drained bottle of rum.

"Fine," she grumbled, taking the dirty glass with a ginger touch, wiping the mouth with a grungy kerchief which had been quite clean on her arrival two days ago.

Captain Sparrow took note of the monogrammed JN on the kerchief, connecting the dots between the kerchief, the ring, the Commodore and his captive, Miss Laura Bell.

Perhaps there was more to the woman beside him than met the eye. With a slightly wandering eye, he surveyed her again as she contemplated the amber liquid, teetering between the improper and the necessary.

Miss Laura Bell, so far as he could tell, was a woman of her mid-twenties, who epitomized the word plain. If he were drunk enough, he might have the grace to call her decent, but the resulting hangover would most definitely label her ugly. Everything about her was unremarkable, so much so that her unremarkability actually became remarkable. Her dress had been neat, but like her kerchief was now grimy, and thanks to a tangle with the stove in the galley, had been torn, discolored and burned almost beyond recognition – the right sleeve burned clean off, replaced by the cleanest bandage on the Pearl from elbow to shoulder. She had disposed of the shreds remaining of her lace mitts, wrapping her hands with strips torn off the tattered hem of her gown. Parts of the bodice which had been destroyed she repaired with sailcloth, but despaired of the skirt, and thus let it hang like a rotting curtain over her single intact petticoat. Blue strips similarly kept the hair out of her eyes, and in tolerable order, at least for her. Laura Bell didn't seem too happy with the arrangement of her dress, but when he'd tried to play the gentleman, and offer, she had given him one of the coldest glares he'd ever been favored with accompanied by the politest refusal.

She was alternatively stupid and savvy, honest with a smart streak. If she'd been able to conceal her motives he'd almost have no idea what to do with her, he'd pinned her down to her desires and that was that.

As if finally deciding, Laura raised the bottle to her lips, eyes shut and wincing at its sharp taste. With a gasp, she dropped it, empty, clutching her stomach.

"Strong stuff, Captain Sparrow."

"Better than anythin', luv."

Another wave of nausea swept over her, and she again lost her entire stomach.

"Not for the faint'earted, Laura."

From the tone in his voice, Laura could have sworn he was laughing at her.

What she said in response was not real English, but what she meant was something along the lines of, "It is certainly not for me."

"Ye'll start ta like it when ye see the water in a week or so."

"I think not."

"Ye got a stick up yer arse, if ye don't min' me sayin' so, luv. Much like yer Commodore."

A moment later Laura joined the legions of women who had slapped Jack Sparrow across the face.

Laura was a little tipsy, else she swore to herself that would never have happened, though he had deserved it. She needed some time to herself on this ship, but she might have well sought peace in her ballroom during the summer season. There was someone in every corner of the decks, someone with a leer or a chore for her to do, She could either aspire to Heaven or Hell – to the highest of the rigging, or the bowels of the bilges, and she could not face the sunless prison below. Her only option was the heights, which she knew herself to be terrified of.

Gathering her skirts and her courage, she worked her way to the foremast shrouds and began her ascent, willing herself to keep calm even when she lost her grip for a frightening instant. Over a drawn out half hour, she made her way to the highest point where she could keep her balance comfortably. Facing the east horizon ahead, Laura watched the sun fade over the far horizon, keeping her eye out for James.

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The Black Horizon made her smooth way through the dark waters on which the sun had already set, almost invisible in the darkness save to the trained eye. Her crew went about their evening chores in grim efficiency, and her Captain, Alexander St. John, renowned for his daring exploits, fearsome intelligence, fencing skills and charming tenor paced the quarterdeck, anxious.

He needed to find Laura Bell, for she held the Cross of St. John, a legendary artifact that belonged in the hands of his family. With the Cross, he could finally break the curse. Many long years he had been searching, but now his torment seemed finally to be near an end. Soon, he would finally be free.