"Lieutenant Gillette," the tone of voice was sharp, but no more than expected given the circumstances. Gillette quelled the urge to fidget, fixing his eyes at a point on the wall slightly above his commanding officer's head.

"Sir, I..."

A cutting motion of the commodore's hand stopped him from proceeding further and emerald eyes met troubled brown as Norrington stood, frustration creating a furrow between his brows. "I've heard your apologies once, Lieutenant; there is no need to repeat yourself." He paused, giving the young man time to digest what he said before moving on to the crux of the matter, "I have read your report, and you have been disciplined appropriately," another pause, a pair of heartbeats long, and a softening of the tone, a forced smoothing of the commodore's features, "no answers you give me now will cause that decision to be altered. Lieutenant—Andrew—I would like to know why you acted the way you did."

The younger man remained ramrod-straight, his face as impassive as possible, betrayed only by flickering hazelnut eyes. The commodore sighed and turned to open a corner cabinet, speaking over the clinking of glasses and splash of liquid, "I'm asking you as your commanding officer, but not because the information will be passed on; I'm asking you because I see it as my job to know the men I work with," he turned, holding two glasses of mahogany-coloured liquid fire, and handing one to Gillette he added, "I'm asking because it was out of character for you, Andrew."

With the second use of his first name, recalling times when a dark haired senior lieutenant introduced his newly-arrived red-haired colleague to the questionable delights of Port Royal's dockside taverns, Gillette's resolution crumpled. Norrington waved him into a chair and regained his own seat as the lieutenant sipped nervously at his drink, wondering where to start.

"You recall, sir, that I spent a few years aboard the Resolution, stationed in the Mediterranean?" A slight, graceful dip of Norrington's head was enough encouragement for the younger man's voice to strengthen as he continued, "We had to put in once or twice at an Egyptian port, sir. Have you ever ended up in Egypt, sir?" A small shake of the head, and a smile which said 'no matter, tell me', "Well sir, it's one of those strange countries, like much of North Africa: very old, and of course I imagine you've heard of the pyramids and the pharaohs; who hasn't? Of the educated classes, I mean..." he drifted off, whether out of embarrassment or from having lost himself in the tangled telling of his tale neither man was certain, but a gulp of rum restored his voice, "Well, it was Sparrow's eyes, sir. That kohl; I know it's not unusual for a sailor to use it against the sun, it just brought it all back, sir." Norrington's frown reappeared, but spoke of a lack of understanding, a missing connection, thus drawing further information from his lieutenant. "There were all these pictures, wherever we went in that country, sir: all their old gods, and pharaohs, all of them with that kohl, and we used to laugh a bit about it, sir; you know how boys can be; but then we took a wrong turn on the way back to the docks one time, and we came across a group of mystics, and..." his tale stopped abruptly; he swallowed the remainder of his drink in one shuddering gulp.

Silence stretched as the commodore finished his drink at a more refined pace. Placing the empty glass on the desk in front of him, his eyes spoke of a desire to understand, an eyebrow quirked upwards in a wordless request.

"They wore kohl, sir," was the grim reply, "and if he wore a few less layers of clothing, sir, our Captain Sparrow would not have looked out of place among them. Sir."

Norrington nodded; with no desire to push his lieutenant to the point of resentfulness, he dismissed him, thanking him briefly for sharing such an incredibly personal tale. As the door closed, he allowed himself a moment of sympathy for the other man; after all, he now knew what had led his officer to behave in such an irrational manner and abandon the flagship to a pirate and his apprentice. Pouring another measure of rum into his glass, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he was unlikely to find himself in a similar situation. The day a sheep tried to commandeer one of his fleet would doubtless coincide with the next blue moon.