But From Thine Eyes

or, Between Love and Hate

Chapter 1

by

Teardrop69

Bloody pirates. Granted, a few short hours ago, they had all been men of His Majesty's Navy. Now, the lot had cast their fate to a different wind. Oh, of course not all of the men had thought it wise to join the mutiny, but those who disagreed with the plan were now either keeping company at the bottom of Davy Jones' locker, or had decided that life as a fugitive was preferable to no life at all, and prudently, if cravenly, kept their silence. His lieutenant was one of the former, and though he'd only known the man a short while, he felt the loss as if they'd worked together for years. He had been a loyal man, and his loyalty had earned him a sailor's burial, premature though it might have been.

The mutineers hadn't even had the decency to challenge him to a fair fight. A sharp blow with a stout cudgel, a broken arm, and a night locked in the brig of his own ship, and suddenly, it was no longer his ship. He was morbidly certain that they'd had this planned for weeks. The convenience of this particular island... he cursed himself for his own inattentiveness, because he was also certain by now that they'd been off the well traveled route for several days.

Why didn't I realize? We hadn't seen another ship for how long? That's the last time I sail with a crew I haven't hand picked, Norrington thought, and then choked on a bitter laugh. If his current predicament was any indication, this was probably the last time he sailed with any crew. The Myrmidon, on her maiden voyage out of London, had been commissioned to replace the Interceptor. She was sleek and fast, and no longer a ship of the Navy. As for himself, he was glumly certain that the title of Commodore meant very little on this tiny island.

Most of his men had returned to Port Royal earlier aboard the Dauntless. He'd stayed behind to wait for the Myrmidon to be readied for the voyage, wanting to be aboard her when she sailed into port the first time. The price one paid for pride. It certainly wasn't the first time that pride had caused him trouble. Was he ever going to learn that lesson? He wondered.

Norrington walked up the spit of sand, taking note of his surroundings. It was a small island, similar to any number of other small islands in the Caribbean; no obvious sign of fresh water, a small copse of palm trees, and ominously free of any sound other than the chuckle of the waves still chasing each other on the sand. No wildlife, then.

Intolerable. A scant day or two out of Port Royal and he was going to die on some miserable, no-named piece of godforsaken dirt. For the first time in months, he thought of Elizabeth Swann—make that Turner, and for the second time since she and Turner had left Port Royal, he was glad she wasn't his. At least she'd be spared wondering what happened, why he'd never returned.

Oh, get a hold of yourself, James. You're starting to sound like some ridiculous self-pitying imbecile. What a parcel of dramatic, indulgent tosh. He rolled his shoulders, and then swore as he jarred his injured arm. He looked down at it, and was relieved to see that at least the flesh hadn't been punctured, although he was fairly certain that at least one of the bones there was broken clean through.

He prodded the arm gingerly, and hissed with the flash of pain. Definitely a break there. He struggled to remove his waistcoat and shirt, knowing he'd never get them off over a splint. He could put the shirt back around his shoulders after. He sighed. His wig and hat were long gone anyway, although there was no telling whether they might yet wash up on his shores. Not that he had to worry about propriety; no one was going to see him out of uniform anyway.

Very well. Norrington walked towards the trees, and began to search. Finally, he found what he was looking for. Lowering himself to the sand next to his find, he pulled the cravat from around his neck. Clumsily, between teeth and his good hand, he managed to tear three strips of cloth, and set them aside. The rest would work as a sling. Glancing around, he noted a few palm leaves that would have to do as splints. Nothing left but to try and set the arm.

Gritting his teeth, he wedged his hand in the V of the two trunks he'd searched out for this purpose. Merciful heaven, just that movement caused white spots to swim before his eyes. Hopefully he had wedged it tight enough; at this point, he could no longer feel his hand, and the numbness worried him more than a little. Sitting in front of the trees, he braced his feet against them, and pulled back on the arm, and then let out a howl. Quickly he tried to set the bones straighter, but his left hand was not his dominant hand, and before he could be certain he'd accomplished his task, a dark wave rushed up to claim him.

*****

Alright. Second try. Again he braced his feet, and again he pulled. This time he could see the darkness swirling at the edges of his vision, but before it swamped him, he felt the bone grind under his fingers. The breath he'd been holding escaped with a small explosion, and the dark swirliness of his vision was replaced by a pulsing red haze.

Sweet bleeding Jesus on the cross. Don't let me ever have to do that again. Norrington warily tugged on his hand, pulling it free from its trap. Slowly, with care not to jounce the injury, he bandaged the arm. Tying knots with one hand was another challenge, and he was very nearly ready to throw the whole mess into the ocean and take his chances by the time he'd finished.

Now then, to take stock of his prison. Oh yes, no doubt about it, he was incarcerated on this islet, no different than if he'd been sitting in a cell in his prison back in Port Royal. At least in a cell, he'd have three squares and a cot. He didn't figure that Cooper would be bringing him meals any time soon. He began to explore, meticulously combing every foot in case he could find anything that might be useful.

Finally he had to admit that his first gloomy assessment of the isle had been accurate. There wasn't a freshwater spring to be found, and though there were several abandoned nests among the rocks near the dry center of the islet, there was no sign of any birds, or any other wildlife for that matter. Discouraged, he returned to the shade of the palms, and sank down against one of the trunks. He let his head fall back against the tree, and closed his eyes.

Where had things gone so terribly wrong in his life? Oh, of course it was easy to say that yesterday evening, after his evening meal, and before the watch changed, his mutinous crew had set him on a new path. But even before that, he'd been dissatisfied. He'd taken this last voyage back to London to bring the Myrmidon back with him, because he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. He remembered thinking at the time that if the Interceptor hadn't been destroyed, he'd have had the fastest ship on the Spanish Main, as well as the hardiest ship, the Dauntless, under his command. He could have been on his way to his coveted goal of ridding the Main of the brigands who preyed along the trade routes. He also could recollect that he'd been convinced that a replacement for the Interceptor was the answer to this problem.

He'd returned to London, and with the skill of oration and sheer determination that had helped him to be promoted to commodore at the age of twenty-nine, he'd convinced his superiors to put the Myrmidon under his command. He'd had visions of an admiralty, or even governor. And now—mirthless chuckle—here he was, governor of his own island, as the saying went.

Norrington's thoughts continued to spin. So when did things change? Elizabeth? Not really. If he were honest with himself, he'd been relieved. Not at first... not when she'd first chosen Turner over himself. Why don't I blame Elizabeth? He pondered. He'd never let anyone see how much he'd grieved after she'd made her choice. In public, he'd always been the consummate military man, not a stray emotion would ever cross his face while he was in front of his men. But he'd grieved. How many nights had he paced his floor, sleep not coming as he'd tried to figure out why Elizabeth would have chosen the life of a poor blacksmith's wife over that of the wife of a commodore?

In the end, he realized that it wasn't the blacksmith she'd fallen for, it was the pirate. Oh, James knew that Turner would never be a pirate in fact, not the way Sparrow was a pirate. For all the things Turner was, he too was a good man. But it was his ability to crave adventure that Elizabeth needed, because it matched her own. Had he realized that, remembered the look on her face as a child when she'd spoken of pirates with more curiosity and awe than fear, he'd have saved himself the heartache. But his pride had been certain that everything he could offer her was worth more than her dreams of adventure.

But later, when he'd seen the harried look in the young blacksmith's eye as she'd convinced him to sail to London as well, a month or so before Norrington himself had left. He'd had his plans in place for a month or so before then, but his own trip had been delayed with one thing or another. Long enough to have watched Elizabeth use every weapon in her not inconsiderable arsenal against her new husband to get her wish, which was to travel. He'd been relieved, to be honest, not to have had that headache. As much as he'd once wanted her for a wife, he was at least candid enough with himself to admit he would have made her miserable.

So not Elizabeth. Before that? Sparrow? No, damnit. That's not it. His thoughts skittered away from that particular subject. But... With a sigh, and he opened his eyes. As he gazed across the water, absently noting the sun dipping towards the horizon, he forced himself to look that idea in the face. Jack Sparrow was out there somewhere, and though he'd heard no stories in the year and a half since he'd nearly hanged the man, he knew that the Black Pearl was still in the Caribbean somewhere. He knew it with a certainty that shook him with its unwavering strength. A day's head start. I think we can afford to give him one day's head start. One day had stretched into a month, then six, and though the men under his command had never brought the subject up in his presence, he knew that they wondered why he had yet to give chase. As he'd wondered.

The main goal he had set before himself. The job of protecting the trading vessels between Jamaica and Mother England, protecting them from the human predators who would stalk, cripple and savage their prey without a thought for mercy or apology. He'd even had visions of sailing into Tortuga, and cleansing that lair of larcenous cutthroats. And first and foremost, top of his list was the Black Pearl. Or had been, before the course of events that had thrust Jack Sparrow into his life, and torn Elizabeth Swann from his grasp in one fell swoop. Lost the swan for the sparrow, and then lost the sparrow as well. How morbidly poetic. He snorted.

"He's a good man," Will Turner had said. And as much as I wanted to deny it, as much as the man was a pirate, and without a question still is, I knew he was right. I despise Jack Sparrow for being a pirate, but somehow, he's still a good man. This paradox lay at the core of Norrington's restlessness. Because if a pirate can be a good man, what's to say that a commodore can't be a bad one? He'd let a criminal go free. Not actively, no. But as they said, a lie by omission is still a lie. And a crime of passivity is still a crime?

Norrington shifted, wincing as he negligently leaned on his injured arm in the process. It's a moot point, anyway. I'm fairly certain that Cooper won't be coming back to place a tombstone that reads "James T. Norrington—Commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy, and a Bad Man" above my head. With a snort of dry laughter, he closed his eyes, and wearily willed himself to sleep.

*****

He didn't bother to walk around his domain this time; he merely returned to where he'd slept, and sank back down, closing his eyes against the sun. He was weary, the little energy he cared to expend was merely to ensure that he didn't have to sleep in his own waste. What a cheery thought. How did I come to this, again? Jack Sparrow? Yes, that's it. His fault. He'd gone over the argument innumerable times already, and though his logical self realized the illogic of this viewpoint, his emotional self irrationally pinned this whole debacle on Captain Jack Sparrow. He didn't have to be logical. He was going to die on this miserable chunk of rock, and no one would know that his final hours were spent blaming his unfortunate end on a bloody pirate. And not even the pirate who had stranded him here.

He shook his head, as if to throw off this line of thought. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. A breeze was good. The Myrmidon could perhaps have pulled into Port Royal today. Not that he was under any illusions that she'd actually headed there after stranding him. Even so, he couldn't hope for anyone to be looking for her; expected she may be, but timetables on the ocean were less than precise.

The wind was picking up, and a loud rumble of thunder startled him into opening his eyes. Bloody brilliant. He was about to get very wet. Bloody brilliant, indeed! Fresh water! He attempted a smile, but only succeeded in causing his dry lips to crack. At least he'd been granted a small reprieve. He grabbed his shirt and set it out beyond the edge of the trees.

Watching the purple and grey clouds approach, he also noted with a bit more concern the lightning flashes. The storm approached rapidly. Although the wind was whipping the palm branches around in a wicked dance, the rain had yet to fall. Rain, damn you! At least give me one chance! He scowled at the clouds above him, roiling darkly.

But it appeared that his plea was not only going to be denied, but denied vehemently. With a crash, a bolt of lightning hit one of the palms a few feet to his left. He could smell it, he felt the ground shake with it, and the sound nearly deafened him. He dumbly regained his composure, and stared up at the tree, which was smoldering. Bits of charred bark were lying around the base of the tree, and several still had tiny tongues of flame. He watched one flicker out, the thin trail of smoke rising from it. Fire. He scrambled over to the other burning shreds of tree, and scraping at the ground, he added bits of old palm branches.

The wind kept taking his breath away, both with its force and its constant threat of extinguishing his small fire. But he persevered, and felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd wanted this fire so badly, because he certainly didn't need it for heat, and had nothing to cook. Perhaps just the idea of it, a bit of civilization, the need for something he could actually control. He continued to build up his fire, using his body to shield it from the wind. He'd barely gotten it to a respectably sized blaze, when the rain began to fall.

Rolling his eyes at the complete irony, and working as quickly as his useless arm would allow, he gathered palm fronds. He held several together with his left hand, trying to keep as much of the downpour from drenching his fire as possible. The warm rain began to run in rivulets down his back, and he looked over at the formerly white shirt that lay not far away. It was getting quite soaked. Excellent.

Despite the shelter he tried to keep over his fire, Norrington still heard the occasional hiss of water splashing onto the burning scraps. But as he'd hoped, the storm was moving quickly, and though he was entirely drenched, his fire was still burning as the rain tapered off. He tossed the branches aside, and went to grab his shirt. Picking up the soggy mass, he raised it to his lips, and began to suck the water out of the cloth. It was warm, and tasted faintly of sweat and sea salt, but it was still fresh, and in his opinion, damn near the best thing he'd had to drink in his lifetime.

*****

He didn't notice that his breeches were hanging loosely about his waist; he didn't think about the growth of beard on his face, and he didn't care about the swelling of his injured arm. He finished throwing more fuel on the fire, and then sat back against his tree. He stared blankly out at the waves, his thoughts circling back over the same subjects repeatedly. The Myrmidon, Elizabeth Turner and Captain Sparrow chased each other in his mind, driving him near to madness. Jack Sparrow, if he hadn't come to Port Royal, the Interceptor would have never been sunk. Elizabeth would be mine. We'd sail aboard the Myrmidon... wait. That's wrong. The Interceptor. Yes, we'd have sailed with the Interceptor, and Elizabeth and I would have rid the Caribbean of pirates. He closed his eyes. That's still wrong. Elizabeth thinks pirates are romantic. And women aren't allowed to sail with the Navy when they are on a mission.

He sat there with his eyes closed for a while, not sleeping, or at least not that he could remember. He listened to the roar of the waves, and the crackle of the fire. He listened to Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Turner arguing with each other in his head. He didn't think much of it when the sounds changed to the whisper of the waves, and the roar of the fire. He didn't bother opening his eyes when Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth Turner turned their raised voices at him, shouting at him ... to move his blasted arse?

*****

"It's just not the way it works, darlin'. Ye don't buy a pirate ship. Ye commandeer one. It's beyond reason." He waved an arm flamboyantly at his beloved Black Pearl. "Ye can't possibly think that me lovely lass would 'ave the same reputation if I'd just pranced into a shipyard and plopped down a chunk o' cash for 'er?"

AnaMaria's eyes flashed.

"Jack..." she began.

"Captain! Captain Jack," He insisted, his dark-rimmed eyes giving her the usual soulful-puppy look she always received when she left off his title.

"Jack. You don't have to sail on the ship. You don't even have to see the bloody thing very often. If buying a ship for Elizabeth and traveling hither and yon with her, playing pirate, is what makes Will happy, why in Neptune's name does it bother you so? After all, you're the one who fronted them the blunt in the first place." It was definitely to her credit that she'd managed to say this with a straight face, and it spoke even more highly of her that she managed to turn to the rail before the huge grin broke across her lovely face.

"That's entirely beside the point, luv. All that swag were just going to waste sittin' there in that cave, after all. I thought they'd take an extended honeymoon, perhaps a jaunt down to Singapore, just for educational purposes, ye understand, and then return to Port Royal, lettin' their good friend Captain Jack Sparrow take excellent care of their fine vessel." He actually looked a mite sheepish at this admission.

"What could you possibly want with another ship, Jack?" AnaMaria looked at him curiously. "The Pearl is your one love; you wouldn't leave her for another."

Jack gave her one of his sweetly innocent smiles. The one that generally earned him a slap in the face at a later date, once the maid... or whore... he'd shamelessly bestowed it upon realized she'd been duped.

"Why, ye were going to captain 'er for me, o' course. I still owe ye a ship, do I not?" He winked at her.

She rolled her eyes. "You were going to give me the Turners' ship? Isn't that just a bit contemptible, Jack?"

He just looked at her, and tilted his head slightly to one side, setting the baubles in his hair to tinkling.

"AnaMaria, luv. Pirate." He tapped his chest.

She laughed helplessly, and gave him a shove.

"And what would I be wanting with a ship named the Sparrow's Song?" She snorted.

He tapped his forefinger against his chin. "That at least shows an exceptional depth in taste, it does. I'll wager that I couldn'a come up with a better..."

He stopped as he noticed a smudge on the horizon. In an instant, his playful manner was gone, and he began shouting orders.

"Who's in the crow's nest? Why didn't they be shoutin' out there was smoke just there?" he growled at his second in command.

AnaMaria looked around. "It were Gunn on duty, Captain. Apparently he's adrift again, sir."

Captain Sparrow grunted. "Find 'im, and toss 'im in the brig. I'll be after wantin' words with 'im once we get an eye on what's what over yonder."

"Aye, cap'n."

Jack was at the helm of the Pearl with a few quick steps, and Gibbs was already there with a telescope. He handed it to Jack, and then waited while he peered through the spyglass.

"Nothin' out there but that little spit o' sand and rock... we've been by it a time or two before, Cap'n", Gibbs stated.

"Aye, but then why the fire?" Jack glanced at his bo'sun. Raising his voice, he called out, "Where is Gunn? I want to know if there's another ship in these waters, and if so, why I don' know about it!"

Gibbs gave his captain a look. "Aye, cap'n."

Jack looked through his scope again, and then swore. "Gibbs! Take a look, there be someone there."

Grabbing the wheel, he sent the Pearl gliding towards the small island. Even as he did, he kept a wary eye on the horizon. If there were a poor swab out there, he didn't get there by himself.

"There's someone there, alright, but if 'e ain't dead now, 'e will be soon. 'E's got flames lickin' at 'is bootstraps." Gibbs looked at Jack gravely. "What be the orders, Jack?"

"Drop the longboat. Hop to it, mateys! If that boat ain't in the water in a trice, some o' ye will be!"

*****

When the flames were extinguished, Jack, with the help of one of his crew, pulled the man down towards the boat, out of the immediate range of the fire. After drenching the burned part of the man's leg with a jug of water they'd brought along, Jack knelt next to the man, and began to take stock. Broken arm, by the looks of it. He ripped the charred pant leg up to mid thigh. Some nasty burns. He looked at the looseness of the clothing, and noted that he could count the fellow's ribs with little trouble. He pinched lightly at the flesh on the uninjured arm, and noted that it didn't slide back to its previous position readily. Starvation and dehydration, as well.

He slipped a hand beneath the chin of the unconscious fellow, and gently turned his head to get a look at the poor sod's face. And then he let out a groan, and AnaMaria gave a soft gasp.

"Put 'im back! Put 'im back!" Jack shouted. He stood up and took a step back.

"What are ye goin' on about?" Gibbs had been standing behind Jack, and hadn't gotten a clear view.

"That's 'im. The Commodore. Norrington. The lad who is bound and determined to 'ave me swingin' at the end of a rope, decoratin' 'is harbor. Put 'im back!" Jack was pacing back and forth between the longboat and the newly rescued, newly identified Norrington. He began to mutter under his breath and gesture with his hands, clearly arguing with himself, and every so often would turn and shake a finger at the commodore. While this was going on, AnaMaria tried without much luck to get some water into him.

"Captain, he's in dire need of some attention, and he ain't gonna be getting it here," AnaMaria stated. "And since we both know you wouldn't be leaving him here, no matter how you might like to, can we get about the business of getting back aboard the Pearl?"

Jack closed his expressive eyes, and let out a dismal sigh. He walked over to the commodore once more; taking in again his haggard appearance, he threw both hands in the air.

"Fine! Fine! Take 'im aboard me ship. And when 'e comes to, and hangs every last one of us, I'm tellin' ye, it'll be on your 'ead, it will!" He didn't even blink at the patent absurdity of this half dead man taking over a full crew of pirates, putting them in custody, and hanging them all from the yardarm, single-handedly.

AnaMaria rolled her eyes, and barked a few short commands at the other two men, as Gibbs pulled Jack aside and tried to calm him down. But Jack's eyes never left the limp form his crew was putting into the longboat. He was fairly certain this was a Really Bad Idea. He was also glumly aware that AnaMaria was right, he'd never have left the man to die here, no matter who he was. Well, I suppose if 'e were Barbossa, I might see my way to forget I found 'im. Jack sighed mournfully, and climbed into the longboat, and began his argument with himself all over again, hands fluttering to punctuate each point he made. A commodore on a pirate ship, and with his permission. This had to be against the Code, he just knew it.

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