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Part 1: Anger

-Now-


"Amuse me."

He leaned one unshaven cheek against cold, grimy metal. The only cell in the brig of the black ship is a cage, and the bars feel oddly icy to the touch, wreathed by a faint miasma of smoky mist. He pulled his tattered coat more tightly over his shoulders, and grit his teeth at the slithering, clinking sound the chains at his wrists made as they pulled over breeches and deck. He didn't look up. When he spoke, his voice was flat, mechanical, still raspy from disuse.

"I was born in India."

"I was made midshipman on the Barbary Coast."

"I hate you."

A rich chuckle that didn't fool him in the least—playful with the hint of mirth, or so it seemed, if one missed the underlying hollowness. A grinning, exquisite death mask with painted eyes, wreathed by wild dark hair, framed by bright beads, and barely restrained by a crimson scarf. The slurring voice was too articulate, the purr too contrived. "Now, Commodore. It's not much fun when ye make it so easy, aye? The third is truth, the first two be lies."

The shrug hurt his shoulder and made the scar hidden under the leather neck collar itch. "You laughed."

"I'm beginnin' t'suspect ye of contrivin' t'lose." Dull clanks, a click—that was the lock. A dry squeal that made his teeth ache—the barred door. Rustling cloth—his cue. James opened his mouth.

Then-


Tortuga, the main street, the market square, cleared just for this purpose. Flattering. The Commodore's eyes closed—he acknowledged but didn't appreciate the irony. Someone had thoughtfully constructed a hangman's platform. He sat on the space where the trapdoor should be, his wrists pulled above his head, the chains looped into the noose (bad knot, even for an imitation). The finer leash chain to the collar at his neck was coiled in his lap, his legs shackled whorishly apart to posts. He tuned out the jeers of the crowd, concentrating on deep, even breathing.

A week's growth of facial hair itched.

He had really been expecting projectiles. Strange. Either the citizens of Tortuga thought he wasn't worth a few crab apples and spoiled eggs, or... James risked a glance. Silent men kept the crowd in a semicircle before the platform and a row of chairs. A portly man in a graying vest and black breeches ambled out of the crowd, wandering up to the Commodore. One eye was milky—the other narrow and blue. His voice was rumbling deep, as though from the base of a well. "Commodore." A faint, mirthless smile. "I heard you were quite the bother to catch."

"Where's my ship." A flat question that held a hint of defiant command.

"You can ask your owner, whoever he may be." The man looked with some mild annoyance at the empty chairs. Ten. Plush and carved, likely some effort to transport out to the dusty square. "Maybe he'd even tell you."

"Owner?" A glare that James couldn't suppress even if he tried.

"There's quite the price on your head, among pirates," the man said conversationally, leaning against the platform. "The Pirate Hunter—wanted dead or alive. Far more alive, of course... unbroken, untouched." The round face didn't leer, but it didn't need to.

The Commodore was silent. That explained, at least, why his captives had been almost solicitous. Food, drink, and no rougher handling than necessary. Smirks. The bandages under the collar were too warm.

"Captain Damien," the man gestured with one fat finger as the crowd parted a little to allow a thin man in dour buccaneer clothes, flanked by an impressively muscled first mate, through. The man sat upright in the first chair. Dead green eyes regarded him briefly, thoughtfully, and there was a slight incline of the head. The Commodore returned the nod. Damien was wanted in the Indies and in the Seychelles, for his brutality in sacking port towns, his fussy, disturbing tendency to march the civilians to the harbor and shoot them there, paint the waters red.

"Captain 'Black' Montgomery." A short man with an ugly scar across his lip that pulled it into a permanent sneer. He shook hands perfunctorily with Damien, and sat next to him. This one was wanted for trafficking women. When cornered, he would march his cargo up to the decks, shoot them one by one until the Navy retreated.

"I know them," he said, a little irritably.

"Yes. Pardon me." The fat man smiled. "I forgot. We are, after all, your natural prey."

-Now-


The blind girl balanced basin and soap on her head, chamberpot in hand, towel on the same arm, the last a slender cane that swept the air before her feet in even ticks. James looked up at her—she, at least, couldn't see him. Mixed descent—her coffee-dark skin was a little too pale—and her short straight hair was tawny gold. The scarf across her eyes was of the finest blue Cathay silk—the shimmer was faint but obvious in the swaying lantern light—though she wore a simple tan brown frock and what looked like handmade woven sandals. Bronze bangles around her wrists—four on the left, five on the right, and one, jade, around her neck. James placed her age at thirteen, perhaps fifteen at most. The tiny hand around the cane also held a circle of keys. A beautiful child, startlingly out of place in a pirate ship.

The pot was set gingerly on the ground when the cane tapped the edge of his cage. Fingers traced the tips of keys, selected the correct one, unlocked the cell door. The pot was pushed in, then the basin taken off her head and placed on the ground. She retreated with a little bow, palms clasped before her, and settled on the single chair placed outside the cage, under the lantern.

Today she spoke—James paused in the act of thoroughly washing out his mouth. Her voice was heavily accented, but birdlike in tone. Shy. Very soft. "Youse should play his game, sir."

James remembered, vaguely, how to smile—or at least, his lips curled in the semblance of one. He spat delicately out of the cage door, and rinsed his face. The soap smelled faintly of lemon. Water trickled between the loose shackles on his wrists. Finally, he murmured, "What's your name?"

Her head tilted slightly, and she straightened, then replied, "Aimee."

"Your sister?"

A faint smile. Sisterly affection. "Aymee." The mute girl was the one who brought him food, changed the bandages.

"How did the both of you..."

Aimee put a finger to rosebud lips.

James glanced at the stairway leading up to the next deck.

When he finished, Aimee took away pot and basin, locked the cage. James leaned back against the bars, pressed his shoulder blades between the spaces. Closed his eyes. Contradictions that he was too weary to unravel.

-Then-


Despite himself, James was rather impressed at the amount of money that was being bandied about. The current going price was something he would only be able to make, with some careful saving and investment, over about six or seven years. And of those seated on the ten chairs, only two Captains had bowed out— they watched now with cynical, amused sneers as the fat man called prices and picked out upped bids in a clear, sing-song voice.

Rather distractedly, he wondered where his hat and wig had gone. Mementos of what was likely, to the current crowd gathered here in any level of finery and type of dress, the largest catch of the decade. Commodore James Norrington, the Pirate Hunter. The Navy would likely search Tortuga soon, but he would be long gone, with any one of the hard-faced, grim men seated in a row, all of whom he had managed, remarkably, to have some sort of run-in with at one point. All of whom he had wanted to see hung from his gallows.

Perhaps his hat and wig would be auctioned. After this. The thought made him chuckle, a little harshly.

He resigned the remnant of his life to excruciating pain, and half-lidded his eyes, dredging up a memory of a fierce chase about Montserrat, where he had sunk two of Captain Axel's ships. Perhaps why the man was still in the running, even though James was rather sure that his pickings hadn't been good up till date. One Captain dropped out, turning to spit in disgust on filthy flagstones.

The crowd was silent now, except for the occasional excited murmur, watching, fascinated, as a price was made out for blood. His blood.

One by one, the bidders dropped out. Axel, in particular, snarled, got up, and stalked away into the crowd. James permitted himself a half-smile that received a snort from Captain Montgomery, lounging in his chair. Only Falbie—wanted for the execution of half of Gracetown (James had come so close, two years ago, to sinking his flagship) and Otter (an odd, twitchy man whose hobby was hunting Naval ships—he had come up against the Dauntless and the Interceptor, some years back, and lost—but hadn't been found amongst the survivors).

James tore his eyes off the disgusting auction for a brief moment to look up at the sky. Cloudless night. Pity. If this was to be his last day in the open, he would rather have been able to see the stars. Pick out which way was north, for the last time.

-Now-


"The Pirate 'unter. 'e don't look too good, does 'e now?"

James closed his eyes. Routine. It was as though the fat pirate with the thinning hairline and the skinny pirate with the misbehaving wooden eye could really think of nothing better to say when mopping the brig.

"No he doesn't... hur..." the thin pirate sniggered. "'ere now, 'e's gone t'sleep."

"An' we can't be havin' dat now, can we?" The pole of the mop clanked against the rail, then the tip poked him in the ribs. James bared his teeth in a silent snarl, but didn't open his eyes.

"All chained up, just like a wee dog, aren't we, poppet?" The fat pirate, likely peering at him through the bars. James turned his head away, slightly.

"Not very fierce, chained dogs," the thin one agreed, as rasping sounds told James that the mop was being put back into appropriate uses, the pirates bored with their taunting for the day. "Though one bit me once. When we were at Kingston."

"Aye, well, 'tis a fool that gets too close t'chained dogs. They be chained fer a reason, aye?" The slosh of a bucket. More scrubbing.

"I've seen the Cap'n..."

"The Cap'n's different, idiot. Fey. Not even Barbossa would cross him. Won't rest until he makes ye pay. Even dumb animals can see dat."

"Apparently not Commodores... hur hur..."

"Can't cross what ye don't believe in." The pole clonked against the edge of his cage. "'eh? Yer Grace."

"Ain't a duke. 'Sir' would be more appropriate."

"Naw. Look at him. Straight back, the chin, all dat. Don't he look like the last duke we seen?"

"Ye mean the one the Cap'n said was t'be strung up outside his own house? Hur hur... Wonder if the use o' the apple tree was meta... metafo-rycal. Aye, he does at dat."

"Don't matter what we call him, anyways. When the Cap'n's finished with him."

"... hur hur... oh, bloody hell."

"Must ye always drop yer fuckin' eye?"

James listened to said wooden eye roll about the deck, and the two cursing pirates that chased it. Pulled himself inwards.

-Then-


The counter bids were becoming slower. It looked like Otter was about to win—and the man knew it—high spots on his cheeks. Triumph. James alternated between wishing that all the pirates before him would suddenly suffer heart attacks to wondering exactly what had been done to his ship.

Then there were panicky shouts from the back of the crowd. Flexing aching shoulders, James craned his neck, hope flaring in his breast, even if he knew—from the lack of gunfire, at the very least—that it could not have been rescue. The crowd parted with surprising speed.

There was a smallish procession of some of the more forbidding sorts of pirates James had ever seen, carrying four heavy-looking ironbound chests. At the head of the procession was a lion-bearded man in a wide-brimmed hat, an elaborately buckled belt across his chest, his clothing and hair shaded in white and gray, cold, calculating eyes that swept the crowd severely then rested on the Commodore. There was a faint quirk to thin lips. A monkey dressed a little ridiculously in shirt and vest chattered to itself on the man's shoulders.

Next to him was a strikingly good-looking man, a checkered bandana pulled over wavy brown hair, moustache and beard neatly trimmed, arching an eyebrow at the seated men, a hand on the silver-hilted rapier at his hip. His confident, easy gait spoke to James of a deadly swordsman, dressed for battle-comfort—a white shirt with billowing sleeves, form-fitting pale blue breeches, boots that looked a little suspiciously like marine-issue.

The eyes of the crowd—and the remaining Captains—were, however, on the man seated cross-legged on the foremost chest. A man out of legend. A leather tricorne hat sat atop a red scarf that fluttered in the sea breeze, over a wild mane of dreadlocks. A grinning mask that flashed gold teeth, painted dark eyes that promised much and yet nothing. Fine clothes—an elaborately patterned black coat with silver embroidery, white silk shirt with intricate lace cuffs. A belt over his chest, the buckle set with rubies, a sash at his waist that accentuated slim hips. A worn pistol, a rapier with a gem-studded hilt, soft breeches, bucket-topped boots. A black compass at his side.

Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl.

James was staring quite unashamedly, like any child that just received unavoidable evidence that the stuff of nightmares was threaded with reality. Any denizen of the Caribbean would have heard tales of undead pirates on a cursed ship that occasionally struck at merchant ships and ports. Until now, however, James had merely brushed things off as mad fancies—it wasn't difficult to paint a ship black and fit it with black sails, after all, and use the fears of stupid traders against them. Any reports sent to him about how defences had failed because of undying men had been replied to with stern censures.

He'd even undertaken to go on a patrol himself, once, when it was rumored that a black ship had been sighted near Georgetown. Trapping it in the open sea had been difficult, despite having command of several fine Naval ships, and in the end, it had been too fast for him —despite suffering a remarkable amount of damage.

Sparrow had slipped off the chest, approaching the auctioneer in a rather odd drunken swagger, fingers fluttering, tipping his hat at the now-standing pirates. "'Ey. Are we late?"

"Um... er..." the fat man stammered. "Captain... Captain Sparrow...?"

Sparrow pouted, half turned on his heel, and addressed the man with the monkey with a vaguely uncoordinated wave. "Hector." A note of mild reproach.

'Hector' rolled his eyes. The swordsman stepped between them, one hand stretched out placatingly. "See 'ere, Jack. Ye know it's a wee bit difficult for such as us t'tell time. Seems like the catch still be 'ere, so we can't be too late, aye?"

"So. Are we late, or nay?" Jack waggled a finger under the fat man's nose. Only someone very oblivious would have taken the air of playful mischief at face value—even if one missed the faint note of menace, there was the definite sense of the crew limbering up with little rolls of their shoulders, the chests set on the ground.

"Um..." the auctioneer glanced at Otter and Falbie. Falbie shook his head—Otter's smile was really a nervous rictus. Then he too shook his head, slowly.

"Good men!" Sparrow danced back. "Now, where's the bid at? Seein' as we're all biddin', friendly like, 'ey?" Again that playful grin.

Neither Otter nor Falbie met the next bid, despite it being only a fraction higher than the current going price. Sparrow gestured at the chests, and inclined his head at the swordsman, who nodded curtly. Hector —Hector Barbossa, the famously cruel first mate of a pirate ship that couldn't, shouldn't exist—on the other hand, had ambled up to James. Rough fingers caught his chin and yanked it up, forcing green eyes to meet pale blue ones with surprising strength. A considering glance, then a faint smirk, and a look back at Sparrow, who was hovering over the auctioneer as the chests of gold coins were inspected. "'ey, Jack."

"Aye?" Sparrow didn't glance over.

"Ye know, if ye wanted t'waste money on this scale, I could'a introduced ye t'some pretties in Recife." Barbossa said caustically. "Ye paid far too much for a glorified cabin boy."

James' eyes narrowed.

Barbossa arched an eyebrow. "An' he probably bites." A drawl.

"My money." Sparrow stressed. "Don't ye be fingerin' the goods now."

Barbossa forced James' chin up, and shifted the collar, exposing the bandage, ignoring the growl and the sudden frantic yanks on chains. "Hn. Damaged."

"Mm?" Sparrow was abruptly at Barbossa's shoulder, with a speed that made James jerk back slightly in surprise. "Eh." A glance back at the auctioneer. "Wasn't the notice that went out... I remember the words 'untouched', aye?"

The fat man shook his head quickly. "Oh yes-yes. But that was before we secured him, Captain Sparrow. He tried to cut his throat."

"That so?" Soft. James realized that Sparrow was looking at him, with a lopsided grin. There was a slither of metal and a yelp—the swordsman had his blade leveled at the auctioneer's neck. "Tried t'do yerself in, Commodore? Or 'ave we been... cheated?"

The crowd was edging slowly away, including the pirate captains.

James knew, at that moment, that out of a sense of absolute, savage whimsy from a mythical pirate captain, he held the fat man's life in his hands. It would be too easy to say one word and take some brutal satisfaction in the death of one of his tormentors, of the man whom had only a moment ago rather cavalierly sold him to a slow, painful death, who would probably take a small cut from his blood-price and still sleep easy at night. If he said 'no' he would be human. If he said 'yes' he would be clinging on to an ideal despite being bound and sold in a pirate port, a sense of self that would only make his slide to death even more excruciating. Humiliating.

He grit his teeth, jerked his chin out of Barbossa's glance, and looked away with all the haughty dignity he could muster. "I don't answer to pirates." Disdain.

Barbossa's chuckle was ugly, and James forced himself not to flinch in anticipation of the blow. It didn't come—peripheral vision informed him that Sparrow had caught the other man's wrist.

"'ey now, Hector. Ye wasn't the one who paid for this pretty out of yer cut." Jack patted one thigh. James let out a low hiss of outrage, which made Barbossa snort.

"No 'probably' in it, he definitely bites." Barbossa said dismissively, turning around.

"You weren't cheated, you weren't..." the fat man began to babble. The crack of a gun—and the bulky body toppled slowly, slumping against the chest. A dark pool began to spread. Barbossa lowered his pistol, glanced at Jack, who had raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't like his face."

Jack pursed his lips. "Eh. But I wouldn't like anybody t'think we were bein' unfair. 'Cos we weren't bein' exactly unfair, aye? Not Hector's fault if he took offense at somebody's face, me thinks." He looked at the crowd, which was rapidly dispersing, save for a few nervous people huddled in a group. "S'pose yer the ones who caught the Commodore. Bootstrap, handle it, if ye please."

The swordsman sheathed his weapon, saluted Sparrow lazily, and wandered off to speak to the men. Barbossa sniffed derisively. "Whenever yer done playin', Jack. See ye back at the Pearl. Got an order I'll be pickin' up 'round 'ere." He strode off down the street.

Sparrow watched him go. "Ye'd never figure that one for orderin' books from London."

James ignored him. He did, however, put up as much of a fight as he could with cramped muscles, when the crew began to undo the chains, just out of principle, knowing it was futile. Sparrow hadn't even bothered to stay and watch, sauntering off down the street.

-Now-


The mute girl unlocked the cage, first aid materials in a sling bag at her side, basin and cloth on her head. She was dressed nearly identically as her sister, the face an eerie copy, though the eyes were a deep blue, so dark as to nearly be black. Steps made James turn his head—he blinked when the blind girl walked down the stairs and settled in the chair.

That wasn't normal.

"Aymee, wasn't it?" he grimaced at how low and scratchy his voice was. The mute girl smiled, and nodded. Basin and bag placed on the ground, she squatted and unlocked one wrist shackle to change the bandage. Deft, gentle. The shackle was replaced. James didn't resist—not only did he not feel comfortable with attacking a child, let alone a disabled child, the last time he had made a grab for the keys (careful not to touch the child any more than he had to) he had found that Aymee was far, far faster than she really had any right to be.

The other wrist.

He was pliant under careful fingers. Children. He couldn't hurt children. Disabled children. Either the set up for his incarceration was far more elaborate than he'd thought—for Sparrow to provide a means of feeding and cleaning him up which he would feel very difficult to take advantage of—or it was just sheer coincidence. Certainly they seemed oddly at ease on the black ship, for captives, if that was what they were.

James looked over at Aimee. "Who are the both of you?"

"A promise," the blind girl said softly. "And insurance, sir." This last word was pronounced slowly, as though they had heard it many times from another, but didn't quite memorize the cadence.

"Hostages?" James was surprised to realize he could still feel a flare (if brief, and small) of anger within him.

"No." Aimee said, even as Aymee shook her head. "Consideration."

This time James was prepared for the anger. His lip curled slightly in a snarl. "Pirates." Disgust, indignation. Trading in souls that should be too young to leave their mothers' sides. A dry voice in his head, however, behind the cold revulsion reminded him of slaving practices, condoned by the Crown, carried out by the East India Company.

A cool hand cupped his cheek. Aymee was shaking her head, and smiling. Tawny gold hair bobbed against frail shoulders.

"I think I be choosing the wrong words, sir." Aimee said a little apologetically, her small face scrunched up in the effort of stringing together a sentence in another language. "Perhaps youse ask him the next time?"

It was James' turn to shake his head, making the weight shift about his neck. "No." His brow furrowed in sudden suspicion. "He's asking the both of you to... he's trying to get the both of you to persuade me to.... To play his damned games."

Aymee's smile was sad, even as Aimee shook her head with a wry grin. The bandages under the last shackle was changed. Fingers reached for the collar.

Steps at the stair—both twins turned quickly, getting to their feet—then bowed. Sparrow sauntered down the steps, patted Aimee on the head. "Now, why don't the both of ye run along now?"

-Then-


"'ey, 'ey. Brig." Sparrow said with a note of censure, when the four pirates in charge of dragging their cursing, struggling charge up the gangway began to turn towards the captain's cabin. "Don't think 'e's housebroken enough for the cabin."

James shut out the ripple of unpleasant laughter from the pirates in earshot, and attempted to bite the hand on his shoulder. There was a growl, as the burly pirate pulled back a fist—then a gunshot that made James flinch. A hole had been bored through the man's wrist—but there was no blood, nor even any exclamation of pain. Sparrow gestured vaguely with his pistol. "Cap'n gets dibs, Mister Farrel."

The large man actually cringed slightly, mumbling, "Aye, Cap'n. Sorry."

"You are cursed." James blurted out, horrified.

"Aye, and the moon shows us for what we are," Barbossa wandered up the gangway to Jack's side, an evil grin on his face.

"Sorry. That be his favorite line," Bootstrap said over his shoulder, while directing the loading of barrels and crates up behind his captain. Barbossa snorted. "He's getting a wee bit melodramatic in his old age."

Barbossa turned to Sparrow. "I'm still not allowed t'tie Bootstrap t'somethin' heavy an' drop him over the side?"

"...no." Sparrow smiled brightly. "Sorry. It's bad form, ye know, if me officers do that sort of thing."

"That 'no' took far longer than it should have!" Bootstrap's voice could be heard from the docks.

James' last sight of the sky was partially obscured by furled black sails; his last memory that of the laughter of pirates.

-Now-


"Amuse me."

James turned his face away to study dirty fingernails. "Didn't we already do this today?" Studied insolence.

"Hn." Sparrow adjusted chain lengths at the bars, sauntered into the cage, dodged the kick, and despite James' best efforts at pulling back, ensconced himself on his lap. Fingers caught the collar chain, just below leather, and the pirate waited, with his irritating smirk, until the Commodore had finished his furious attempts to buck him off. Long fingers worked into claws, a hand's breath from the slender frame.

Panting, James closed his eyes, teeth bared.

"Yer not the least bit curious 'bout them?" Sparrow asked conversationally, as he began to undo the buckle. James growled, trying to jerk it out of the pirate's grip, but the hold on the chain was too firm. "'ey now. I asked a question."

"Not curious enough to play your game," James muttered, as the collar was pulled free. He tried to bite fingers that began to work on the bandage, but one hand caught his chin and pulled it away.

"Harmless little game, Commodore. One truth, two lies, one guess." Sparrow said with a little pout. Bandages unraveled. Fingers probed gently at the edge of the angry scar, ignored the snarl and the twitch. "Nasty."

"I'm not about to tell you anything about myself." James hissed, as his neck was washed with a wet cloth, salve applied. Dried. New bandages, and the uncomfortable feeling of restriction over his Adam's apple.

"Stubborn, Commodore. Or d'ye actually like..." A leer, and a tap on his lips—fingers pulled back before he could react with teeth.

James glowered at him. "Oh please."

"Hn." Sparrow unrolled fingers, palm up. James blinked as he saw a too-familiar silver timepiece with a rose pattern on the lid. The palm closed, and fingers fluttered back one by one, like petals. The timepiece was gone.

"Groves." James whispered.

"That the name?" The pirate grinned impishly, with only the faintest hint of cold menace.

"You're insane."

"Some men do say that. Amuse me, Commodore."

James took a deep breath.

"My mother was a merchant's daughter."

"My father was the second son of a Baron."

"I hate you!" This last was snarled.

-Then-


James tugged uselessly and experimentally at the shackles on his wrists again, feeling the ship shift and roll under him. They were on the move, then. The bandages under his wrists to prevent chafing were getting filthy. The brig, chains looped in the bars, loosely enough such that he could lie down, or lean back against the wall and stretch long legs. Not loose enough to stand, though. He lay on his side, half-curled on black wood, deciding to conserve his strength. Sooner or later, when the pirates got careless, he should be able to escape. After all, the leash chain was free, and experience told James that any loop of rope or metal could prove deadly weapons.

More confident than he had been in days, and having forgotten about the fact that his captors were technically undead and likely to be unfazed by strangulation, James began to doze.

He woke with a start when someone kicked the side of the cell, scrambling to his knees, blinking. Sparrow with that infernal grin. "'ey there, Commodore. Thought ye'd like t'know who'd be takin' care o' ye on our little voyage." Fluttering fingers gestured behind him.

James peered. Two small girls, barely out of childhood, identical, one blindfolded in a gorgeous blue scarf. They smiled at him, a little shyly. The blindfolded girl held a basin, the other a bag, and a bowl of what looked like gruel. His gaze snapped back to Sparrow, flashing outrage. "Children."

"Aye, but don't ye be makin' trouble for them just 'cos of it," Sparrow said merrily, wandering back and ruffling the girls' hair. "Well. I'd leave ye all to it, then. See that 'e gets cleaned up."

The loop of keys was passed to the other girl, as the blindfolded one walked forward, guided by the sister. James sat still, violent plans involving loose chains and methods of ingenious escape ebbing away.

-Now-


"'ey." James looked up to see Bootstrap, lounging in a chair, a friendly grin on his face that he decided not to take at face value. "'ow's ye?"

"Fine. Apart from the deplorable state of my accommodations," James replied flatly, after a long pause where he wondered whether or not to ignore the swordsman. Alone in the dim brig save for Sparrow's unwanted visits and the children, he was beginning to go a little stir crazy. Fingers had already felt and counted out the links in the collar chain for the third time.

Bootstrap chuckled, a little apologetically. "Aye, well. No real place t'keep ye, otherwise, what wi' the violence. Few o' the crew have much t'thank ye for."

James frowned. "I don't think I've ever... and besides, all of you are..."

"Undead? Aye, aye. But some things still hurt us fine. Mebbe worse." Bootstrap shrugged. "An' seein' as we be talkin' about 'worse', well, t'wasn't a pretty month we spent wi' Jack pissed over holes riddled in his Pearl. Ye did catch us, fair, but the damage meant we had t'be landbound for a while. An' outside o' damage t'his ship, nothin' riles old Jack more than havin' t'be stuck at port."

James digested this quietly. So he had caught the Black Pearl then, on the sea, near Georgetown, if briefly. And it seemed that the blow to Sparrow's pride and the inconvenience caused was sufficient for the mad pirate to pay a ludicrous amount of money to ensure that he was the means of James' death. Right. It sounded excessive, but James had heard pirates do worse, for less. At least that was one thing cleared up.

"Been t'London, mate?" Bootstrap asked, when the silence began to stretch.

James stared at him.

Bootstrap merely smiled, faintly. As if he didn't really care if James was about to reply with falsehoods, or if at all. "I got a wife an' son there. Sometimes I miss the place."

"Too cold. Too much rain." James volunteered safe answers, a little grudgingly, wondering what the swordsman's motive was, for giving out that little personal tidbit of information. He decided he was, after all, a little thankful for the company. They spoke a little inanely of vaguely remembered landmarks, then there was a bellow from the upper deck.

"'Hoy, Bootstrap! Cap'n be wantin' ye topside."

"Aye, aye." Bootstrap uncurled to his feet. He turned to go, then paused. "'ow long have ye been here, Commodore?"

"I can't really tell, can I?" James said dryly.

"Eh. Think 'tis been a couple of weeks, maybe more." Bootstrap's shoulders squared. "See anythin' funny?"

"You mean outside of undead pirates?"

"Mm. S'pose ye wouldn'a have seen her, what wi' Georgetown," Bootstrap seemed to be muttering to himself. "Thanks fer the chat. Talk t'ye later."

Seen her? Georgetown? James blinked, and reassessed his opinion about the number of insane pirates on the ship.

-Then-


The mute girl fed him thrice a day with what looked like leftovers, and changed bandages. The blind girl brought pot and basin, once a day. In silence, with only shy smiles (and in the mute girl's case, involuntary glances at the steps) when he tried to say anything. In the quiet beyond the occasional visits, James slept, or stared at the crates that he occupied the hold and wondered what they contained. What in the world did undead pirates need stores for? Cannonballs, perhaps, and weaponry. Rum, he'd seen rum being loaded aboard the ship.

Did undead pirates dabble in trade? Seemed to be less risk for better gain, and money had to come from somewhere to fund said cannonballs, weaponry, rum. Some food for those left who were still human.

The train of thought occupied him for a while, then the ship seemed to shake and roll, and there was a muffled, familiar roar somewhere above. Cannonfire. James instinctively edged a little away from the wall, pressed himself against the bars. Rather illogically—the hold was underwater—he was more likely to drown than get blasted to pieces. He examined this thought for a moment, as the stitched wound on his neck ached, laughed softly, wryly, and closed his eyes, not even flinching from the next rumble of return fire. Eventually, there was a measure of peace—though with muted shouts that he couldn't make out, far in the distance. Then steps—he glanced over his shoulder. Pirates were, under Bootstrap's direction, loading crates into the hold.

None of the rush from battle that James was accustomed to showed in their movement or eyes. Mechanical. There was some jostling and the usual complement of ingenious sailor insults, snarls when someone accidentally trod over another's toes. The lack of the aftereffects of a brush with death... ah.

That, more than the shot on the deck, convinced James of the impossibility of his current position.

Captive by undead pirates.

Captive by undead pirates.

Someone kill me now, James rubbed his eyes. It wasn't until he heard the answering, ugly laughs from the sea dogs going back up the stairs that he realized he had spoken out aloud.

-Now-


The girls were silent again, despite any amount of cajoling that James could muster. They smiled when he spoke to them, but were almost clinically efficient. Inwardly, James cursed Sparrow.

He was in the midst of sulking (yes, well, 'brooding' didn't sound any more dignified) when he was suddenly aware that he was being watched. James lifted his head, and looked around, slowly.

There was a child, leaning in the shadows between two crates—James put her age at ten. Silky black hair flowed to tiny white feet and curled on the deck. Her eyes had disturbingly large, ebony pupils. Snow-white skin (too white) was wrapped in a black smock that brushed at tiny knees. She stood with unnatural, doll-like stillness. Expressionless.

James was aware that he had backed himself into a corner of his cage. "Jesus Christ!"

The girl-child tilted her head, and took a step forward. Little feet sank into the deck, then she frowned slightly and seemed to shift back up. Soundless footsteps until she was peering at him through the bars, arms rigidly at her side. James wanted to shut out the sight, but he couldn't.

Finally, she spoke. Solemn, cold. Her voice had an odd reverberation about the cadence. "I still don't like you."

Somewhere in between attempting to clamp down on rising hysteria—there was nothing more disturbing than a ghost child—or attempting to pretend that he was hallucinating, James wondered exactly what he had done to annoy a specter. Shakily, he whispered, "What?"

"Why does he find you interesting?" There was irritation in that childish voice. "You hurt me."

"I did no such thing." The protest was out of his mouth before he could examine it. Outrage that he would be accused of hurting a child.

"George-town." The word was pronounced with a lilt. A child's song. "George-town. You caught us in George-town, and you hurt me."

"Who are you?" James frowned. He had never set foot in Georgetown in his life.

The girl tilted her head, as if trying to decide whether or not he was being difficult, then tiny black lips curled. "You're sitting in me." She sank into the ground. James hissed in shock, then yelped when the little voice sounded again above him. He couldn't have stopped himself from looking up if he tried. The child was seated on the wall, at right angles, the hair still curled about her lap as though gravity was on her side. "So rude."

James' mind made an impossible leap of logic. "You're the Black Pearl."

The lips curled again. "Tell me, James Norrington. Why does my Jack find you interesting?" She stood up on the wall, and began to walk down it towards him, a little hand outstretched. Fingers arched into claws.

Steps from the stairway. The girl turned her head, sharply, then simply vanished. James let out a low moan of relief, and glanced over to see what had saved his sanity.

The fat and thin pirate duo, armed with mops and pail. The fat one was the first one to frown slightly at James' expression. "Wot ye starin' at, yer Grace?"

"'e's white as a sheet." The thin pirate scratched his forehead, then both pirates glanced at each other, mouths in a comical 'o' of mutual revelation. And they began to laugh. James turned stiffly away and stared at frayed breeches.

"Seen somethin' ye didn't want to, yer Grace?" the fat pirate guffawed. "Aye, yer personal ghost story! T'aint that a treat. The Commodore o' the Caribbees, scared o' spirits!" The two men dissolved into cackling laughter.

"Cap'n be wantin' t'know," the thin pirate said, when they calmed down a little, sniffing.

"Aye, ye go tell him. I'd keep his Lordship 'ere company a wee bit longer. Just in case She shows up again an' 'e wets himself. More work for us, that'd be."

James pulled himself inward, to evade the savage laughter.

-Then-


"I'm of a mind to play a wee game with ye, Commodore." Sparrow was cross-legged on a crate, leaning forward precariously.

James ignored him, instead absently probing the keyhole on his right wrist's shackle.

Unfazed, the pirate continued. "Ye tell me three things 'bout yerself, two of which be lies, an' I try t'guess the truth. If I win, ye do what I want. If ye win, I tell ye one thing ye want t'know. How's that?"

"I'm not playing."

"'ey, no sulkin' now." Sparrow's grin was laced into the words. James didn't look up, though he flinched when something clattered against the bars. A pistol. He would recognize the design anywhere—it had been a gift from him to one of the midshipmen aboard the Dauntless, picked out from a gunsmith's selection in Kingston because the midshipman was known to have an obsessive love of cats. And had been next in line for promotion. "It's not loaded, if ye really want t'know."

"Where did you get that?" A soft growl.

"Ye want t'know, ye play the game." Sparrow sauntered over and picked up the pistol. "Ye have t'play anyway, ye know."

"Really."

"Oh aye. 'Cos we be fair close t'Bridgetown, at the moment, an' there be all these wee little Navy ships wanderin' 'bout the open sea, good pickings for bored undead pirates. See, merchant ships don't really bother t'fight back, an' privateers just be runnin' scared."

There was pregnant pause. James grit his teeth and thought of the unnatural speed that the black ship had, and her impressive complement of cannons, and how she could likely dance circles around any warship if she wanted. Worse, if she was boarded—the undead crew...

"What will you make me do if you win?" he asked, finally.

Jack's answering smile was a cat's—cruel, playful, merciless.

-Now-


The fat pirate was regaling his silent, irritable and captive audience with some rambling quips about Macau as he scrubbed the deck, then his tone abruptly became servile, at the sound of steps down the stairs. "Cap'n."

"Ye an' Ragetti finish this later." Sparrow toed the bucket.

"Aye... aye Cap'n." Scurried steps up the stairs. James looked up to the black wall, the last place he had seen the ghostly apparition. Sounds informed him that Sparrow was settling on a crate.

"They tell me ye saw me girl." Faint amusement. "How'd she look like?"

James debated between being disagreeable and learning anything at all that could stop the manifestation from reoccurring. "A child. Long, black hair." More quietly, self-consciously, aware of how it sounded. "She didn't like me."

A dry laugh. "Oh aye. She's the jealous sort. I've spoken t'her, think she won't be givin' ye any more trouble."

"Thanks." The word bubbled out of his throat before he could clamp it down. Sheer, groping relief.

"Aye, don't want her scarin' something I paid so bloody much for half t'death, do I?"

Tight-lipped silence. Sparrow chuckled. "Ye must have scared her an' some, yerself. She don't show the Child t'just anyone. It's her most elemental form, mostly instinct without much reason."

"Scared?" Flat.

"Aye." Enigmatic.

Curiosity made him ask, "What does she look like to you?"

"A gorgeous lass, just this side of twenty." There was a different note in Sparrow's voice. Affection so soul-deep that whatever the undead curse had done to the pirate, it had remained. "Gigglin' an' dancin'. Flirtatious."

"To... to everyone else?"

"She's a crotchety, cacklin' crone t'most of the crew. 'Bout her fifties, t'Barbossa, wise an' stern. Fourties, prudish an' kind, t'Bootstrap."

James gave up attempting to unravel the riddle with which he had just been presented. He ignored Sparrow again. Eventually, boots navigated a wayward path back to upper decks.

-Then-


"Isn't it a waste of drinking water?" James asked, the next time the blind child brought him the basin. Sparrow was lounging against the wall, so disgustingly self-satisfied that his palms itched. He couldn't wash out the salty taste quickly enough. The child's lower lip quivered, where she stood just outside his cell.

"Better than ye pukin' up all over me sweetheart," Sparrow stroked the wall he was leaning against. "That right annoys her."

James shuddered, and he fought down rising bile. Tried not to linger on the bitter sense of violation, the memory of grunts above his head, the helpless anger at being trapped and caged. He washed his face, rubbing under his eyes. He wasn't sure what he would have preferred, at this moment—held thus on this ship, or picked apart in bloody pieces by Otter. No, he was sure that whichever 'owner' could have been willing to pay so much for revenge would also have been more than capable of visiting the basest form of humiliation on his body.

At least Sparrow didn't seem inclined towards physical violence. Though James felt that he could handle that better—wanted it, in fact. The pain would distract him. Better yet, if it could make him pass out.

"Why did you buy me." A whisper.

Sparrow grinned. Feral. "A mad fancy, Commodore. 'Sides, I have all this money an' nothin' really t'spend it on. Bein pretty much undead. Piratically speakin', of course, yer currently the biggest treasure 'round the Caribbees, on our side of the gallows. The auctions be invite only, wi' the startin' bid set out before hand on the notice. So of course it'd be fallin' t'old Jack t'be havin' ye, aye?" Dryly. "If it'd make ye feel less confused at yer predicament, I could arrange for some floggin'."

James' lips thinned, and he shifted to half-turn his back on Sparrow.

-Now-


"Hey."

James opened his eyes sleepily, then shot to a corner with a yelped obscenity. The ghost-child sat cross-legged before him, though her expression was now oddly apologetic, though the quirking lip spoke of mischief. James took a deep breath. Another. His voice, when he spoke, only had a slight tremor.

"Pearl."

"Yes." The child ran a small hand briefly through ebony locks, as if in embarrassment. "Listen. Just wanted to say, I'm sorry for scaring you."

"Um." James blinked, attempting to chase away sleep, the spike of adrenaline from the latest shock to his system, and the sense of surrealism.

"Jack spoke to me, and explained it." A bright smile. "So! I guess I don't like you a little less now."

"... thanks." James said a little cautiously. A thought occurred to him. "If you really don't want me here, you could try convincing your Captain to put me onshore." It was worth a shot.

"Or kill you," she said, with the same cheerful smile. "That'd be safer. You're scary, James Norrington. Who's to say you won't look for a chance to hurt me again?" She reached forward to pat a leg—James flinched at the touch, so cold even through the breeches. "Don't you worry. At the moment, Jack's having too much fun with you to pitch you off the side. As much as I asked him to."

James wondered why he was talking to a gleefully murderous spirit of a pirate ship (that ironically found him scary), in what was probably the middle of the night, judging from the lack of noise from above. "Fun?"

"Oh yes." She pouted. "That's the only good thing about having you aboard that I've seen, so far, Navy. Ever since the curse, my Jack hasn't been quite the same. You've been the first to make him laugh for ten years. Really laugh."

"What?

The little head tilted with eerie fluidity, the spirit deep in thought. "I think you talking back to him in Tortuga did it. Before that, he'd told me he was going to string you up on the mainmast and beat you bloody for what you did to me. Now he's been making excuses whenever I ask him. 'Lemme play a wee bit longer, will ye, luv?'" The childish voice deepened into an uncanny copy of Sparrow's brogue. "Guess I'd stop asking him." Lips formed a little moue of disappointment.

"... uh. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Mischief in the too-large pupils. James rubbed his eyes, chains clinking, received definite notification that he was not only not hallucinating, he was taking the situation far too calmly for his sanity to be above question. Unfortunately, his mind told him that hysterics would likely be counter-productive, and refused to indulge him.

James settled for pointedly not looking at the spirit, fixing his eyes instead on the shackles.

"What does the curse... do? Other than turn them into the undead."

"Well... if you see them in the moonlight, they're skeletons with tattered clothing." The Pearl chattered matter-of-factly, as though describing the route between Port Royal and New Amsterdam. "Oh. And they lose all joy in life. The magic rots out their hearts, if you aren't strong—and even if you are, you won't be able to preserve much of yourself for long. You won't taste food anymore, or much pleasure, pain. Anything. Like living in a gray limbo."

A pause. "Or rather, that's what Jack told me. Little Hells." Quietly. "It changed him. He was never cruel. Now he has to make an effort not to be. It's a temptation, to vicariously experience emotion by forcing them out of the living. And the easiest emotion to invoke is pain."

"What started it?" James blinked, surprised at the spirit's obvious concern.

"Eh, there was this chest of Aztec gold, but it was cursed. Before they knew that, they spent most of it. Now they have to gather all of it back to the chest and pay an equivalent of a blood-price. Don't know how they can do that, since they don't bleed anymore." The ghost-child's brow wrinkled a little as she thought that over. "Tracking down the coins is proving to be a little difficult."

"I'd bet," James said dryly.

"Especially since quite a few of them got melted down," the Pearl said wryly, "So they had to track down the little antiques that the gold in those got formed into. If not for Aimee and Aymee, they'd be looking forever."

"The twins?"

"They're a favor called in by Jack from a friend, to help him locate all the pieces of gold from the chest." The flat tone suggested that this was the extent of information that the manifestation was willing to further.

"How many pieces left?"

"Mm. Twenty-four." The Pearl counted off ghostly fingers for a moment. "Then I'd have my Jack back."

James wasn't too sure. When a man changed, he tended to change for good. He yelped when cold fingers closed on his arm. Serious black eyes stared back at him, then the black lips curled downwards in a grimace. "You don't need to look like that. I know." Pursed lips, now, then a bright smile. "Tell you what. Since you're the first person to have... gotten across to him in ten years. Help me help him remember himself. Before the final pieces are returned. Please?" An almost imperceptible change in tone. "Or I'd make the rest of your stay here very, very uncomfortable." Menace.

Sparrow had said something about the Child being the ship's most 'elemental' manifestation.

Dryly. "I'm not sure how much more uncomfortable you can make me without damaging my sanity, Miss Pearl. And when you want something, usually it's polite to offer consideration." Perhaps his sanity was already being damaged, if he was making deals with ghosts. Spirits. Ship spirits. "Also, it sounds to me like a fairly impossible task, when I'm effectively a... prisoner." The word 'pet' refused to leave his throat.

The ghost-girl bared white teeth for a moment, then she sighed, rocking back onto her haunches. "Pah. All right. Jack has never refused me anything, when I really want it. I can get you free, back to Port Royal, in exchange. Word of honor. As to the latitude you might need..." A faint grin. "Would you like to be—temporarily—part of my crew, James Norrington?"

James considered that. On the one hand, it seemed an impossible task, considering the balance in power and the relationship between himself and the pirate. He also wasn't particularly sure how he felt, morally, about crewing a pirate ship. On the other hand, the thought of being chained in a cell until a mad pirate captain got bored of him and tossed him over the side or had him flogged to death was definitely unappealing.

Deep down, James Norrington knew that he didn't want to die. Not when there was a chance, however slim, to return home without fully compromising his honor.

Besides, the Black Pearl evidently put to port sometimes, judging from the crates in the hold. That meant a potential chance of escape, as a member of the crew... if the pirates made a mistake.

"All right."