Rags of Time
Part 2
by
Full headers in Chapter 1
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it. Claim no ownership and make no money. I just like to play with them. Sorry!
Sparrow was lost somewhere. Five days and nights with hardly any sleep had suddenly claimed him, what with the pain and tugging and stitching and strapping and all. His body was heavy and stiff, and his mind couldn't keep a grasp on consciousness. He slipped in and out, catching words and lights and sounds that didn't seem to make sense, and suddenly he was lifted from the chair he'd collapsed in. He couldn't lift his head—saw the toes of his boots drag across the floor. He supposed he was being taken back to the brig, and for all the relief he'd expected to feel at that there was a tug to his mind—as though he were being taken away from some important task before he'd finished.
But he was lifted higher, and was too high and didn't understand. But before his slow panic could take hold, his body was lowered horizontally onto canvas, and he supposed he was being laid in a hammock. The world beyond his closed eyes rocked back and forth, as though confirming his theory. An exasperated voice he didn't recognise caught his swaying attention.
"But Commodore, I must protest, this is most irregular!"
"Lieutenant, the man is helpless and restrained." That was Norrington, Sparrow realised, sounding firm and patient. His voice became quiet. "We are not dealing with your average pirate here."
Sparrow smiled at that. Or at least, he felt a smile. His face didn't seem to respond. The voices became quieter still, as the two men moved closer together.
"Lieutenant, this man is notoriously capable of escaping. For one, I do not trust him alone in the brig, even in his weakened state. And secondly, a night in the brig may worsen his condition significantly—he has open wounds. Given his history and previous—involvement—with certain high-standing citizens of Port Royal, his execution must be handled with care. You remember what happened the last time we tried to hang him?"
"Yes sir, of course."
"Well, then, how will it look if we hang him while he can hardly stand? Can you imagine what Miss Swann, and therefore the Governor, will have to say?"
"Well, yes. I suppose—if he appears pitiful, certain acquaintances of his may feel more inclined to take pity upon him."
"Precisely." Norrington paused. "I also feel somewhat indebted towards him in some way for saving Miss Swann's life, on at least one occasion... Besides, Lieutenant, are we not to be judged by how we treat the least amongst us...?"
Sparrow at some point had realised they were discussing his sleeping arrangements, and, happy that the sound the new man had made in reply appeared to be reluctant agreement, he let the world and words slip beyond him, and allowed sleep to claim him.
Norrington's eyes twitched, trying to hold on to sleep despite the strange noise.
Hommmm...... Hommmmm.
Sparrow sat cross-legged on the floor of the cabin by the commodore's bed, forearms resting on his splayed knees and fingers curled in elaborate knots as far apart as the manacles allowed. The bandages and strapping covered most of his torso; his face was serene, mouth lax. He cracked open one eye, looked at Norrington. Still nothing. He closed his eye again.
Hommmmm.....
He heard Norrington suddenly sit up in bed, the sheets rustling as they bunched together around his waist.
"What in the name of all that is holy are you doing, Sparrow?" the commodore hissed, keeping his anger restrained. He blinked his eyes against the lamplight.
"Meditatin'," Sparrow replied petulantly, keeping his eyes closed. "Hommmm...."
"Meditating!" Norrington sounded exasperated. "What do you mean, meditating?"
"Meditating! For the pain," Sparrow said, as though it was obvious. "Now hush, you're puttin' me off. Hommmm..."
Norrington threw himself back down onto the bed, making it creak. He rubbed his eyes with the base of his palms. Whatever had possessed him to think it had been a good idea to keep Sparrow in the main cabin to recuperate, chained to the ceiling bolt or not. His eyes opened at that thought, and he sat up again.
"How did you... the bolt you were chained to?"
Sparrow shot him a mischievous look and grinned, face reanimated.
"Pirate," he said, flapping his fingers in the air so the manacles clicked, and then returned to his previous stance and countenance.
"How could I possibly forget," Norrington said, after a pause.
"Hommmm....."
He flopped back down onto the bed, raking his hands through his hair.
"Sparrow, can you not at least go into the next cabin where your hammock is so I don't have to hear you?"
"Hommmm..... Captain, if you please. Hommmm...."
"You know, I could just have you returned to the brig!" Norrington sat up again, glaring down at the pirate. Sparrow looked at him, feigning shock.
"Now now, Commodore. You don't have to resort to threats. It's just that I'm in so much discomfort, see, and meditatin' is the second best way I know to control it."
"And what, pray tell, would be the first?" Norrington said slowly through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, rum o' course."
Norrington's glare became a full on scowl at that. Sparrow smiled back at him, almost sweetly. In the lamplit cabin he could make out the shine of the inside of his lip, the brassy glow of his gold teeth.
"There is a bottle of rum in the chest by the door," he said, trying to control his irritation.
Sparrow leapt to his feet like a whippet after a hare, and was upon the chest and in it in the time it took Norrington to collapse back to his bed. He covered his eyes with his hands, and tried to remember at which point this had seemed a good idea. Sparrow made a triumphant yelp and practically waltzed back toward the bed.
"Thank you, Commodore Norrington, you are indeed a fine man." Sparrow uncorked the bottle with his teeth and began to drink like it was water.
Norrington felt Sparrow sit down on the bed, and quickly lifted his head to protest. In the lamplight he saw again the shine of Sparrow's lips, how they surrounded the mouth of the bottle with a tiny trickle of rum rolling down through the neat hair of the man's tailored beard. His throat worked at swallowing large mouthfuls, taut tendons creating a valley where his collarbones met. Finally he brought the bottle down and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, turning it over to lick the stray rum it had collected. His tongue snaked around a knuckle, chasing the essence of the spirit.
Sparrow's face became loose as he let the rum sink in; he could practically feel it seeping into his blood. He seemed to shrink slightly as his body relaxed, his head sagging forward. Braids brushed over his shoulder, colourful trinkets caught the light. His arms were bronze, not as dark as the skin on his hands but bronze like caramel. Norrington suddenly remembered the toffee Cook used to make for him and his sister to dip apples in when they were children; the heat and sweet smell of hot sugar. He wondered if Sparrow's skin would taste like caramel too.
And banishing that sudden ridiculous thought he lifted himself to his elbow, laid on his side, meaning to get rid of the man back to his hammock.
"Tertullian," Sparrow said quickly, just as Norrington had opened his mouth to speak, but instead made him catch his breath in confusion.
"What?" he managed.
"T'was Tertullian. Earlier. What I said 'bout freedom. He said it first." Sparrow hadn't raised his head, but let it hang forward with forearms resting on his knees.
"Oh," Norrington said. He did remember sitting in chapel as a child, then, the cold old church smell. What was it about this man that made him remember forgotten things?
Sparrow sat up stiffly and took another long drink from the bottle. He turned to Norrington as he lowered the bottle, looking strangely sad. Norrington met his gaze and held it as Sparrow held the bottle towards him, tipping it invitingly. The commodore considered it for a moment, then sat up in bed and took the bottle, taking a mouthful.
"And where did you learn about early Christian philosophy?" he asked, handing the bottle back.
"Oh, jus' here and there." The man sounded weary, unwilling to invent his usual explanatory stories. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, turning towards Norrington.
"Here and there. Indeed." Norrington watched Sparrow take another long drink. "What are you doing on my bed?"
"Mmm? Oh, jus' this and that." He lowered the bottle, resting it against his thigh. "I've not seen you without that nasty wig o' yours before. You look pretty, with your shiny hair..."
"Sparrow," Norrington pulled himself up to sit straight, trying to instill some formality and authority into this strange situation and suddenly aware that he was naked under his nightshirt. "I have no idea what you think you are doing or what you hope to achieve, but I can assure you no good can come of you sitting on my bed drinking rum when you are supposed to be recuperating, awaiting execution, in the next cabin."
"Ah, but I knew you was missin' me in here all on your own." Sparrow grinned slowly, and Norrington could almost see the rum begin to loosen him, in more ways than one. He cleared his throat, and attempted his most authoritative tone, which was not easy as he still could not stop thinking about his own nakedness beneath two thin layers of linen.
"I can assure you, Mr. Sparrow, I was certainly not missing you. If you are trying to imply that I harbor unnatural feelings towards you then you are sorely mistaken."
"Ain't nothin' unnatural about feelings, mate. S'all we got to base our thinking on, and what with thinkin' bein' our most natural and only way of making our way through the world, how can the basis for such things be unnatural?"
"You make less sense in direct proportion to how much alcohol you have imbibed, Sparrow." Norrington leant forward to take the bottle from him, and had to tug it free. Sparrow almost pouted.
"No, mate, t'is the rest of you all that makes no sense till I have imbibed it." His eyes widened suddenly, searched the ceiling of the cabin, and having found the thought he was chasing, returned to Norrington's gaze, looking like a child desperate to tell of an achievement. "It's like when you're dreamin', but you don't know you're asleep, and you wake up but you're still dreamin' seeing as you haven't woke up at all but are still sleepin'. But you don't know it as you're sleepin' still, see?" He leant closer and pointed a waving finger at the commodore, who wondered why the pirate seemed to have become so inebriated so quickly.
"How do you know you're not dreamin' now, luv?" he asked, as though imparting a sacred secret.
"I can only hope I am, for it is the only situation in which I would accept the fact you are in my bed." The connotations of the ways in which that statement could be misinterpreted didn't occur to Norrington until he'd already said it, and he hoped Sparrow wouldn't notice. But the man cocked his head to one side as his body seemed to slip in the opposite direction, his finger drawing drunken circles in the air.
"Hang on..." he began. "You just said—that you'd hope to have me in your bed only in a dream... So you've dreamt of me in your bed?"
"No, of course not," Norrington said scornfully, but the pirate didn't seem to hear. He was looking at the floor, considering something with a vague grin plastered on his face. He suddenly clapped his hands together.
"Oh! I've made your dream come true then, luv, how lovely!"
"You are not listening, Sparrow, that is not what I said and is utter nonsense, you are drunk and weakened by—" But Sparrow was grinning madly and almost bouncing on the bed.
"But it explains everythin'! Why you took me aboard, why you don't want to hang me—" The man suddenly giggled and brought his fingers to his mouth with a clink of manacles, causing Norrington to pause at the unusually girlish noise.
"You are drunk and you are being an imbecile," Norrington almost growled, his annoyance rising, which only seemed to entertain the pirate more and brought even more laughter. "Stop it, stop this—this rubbish!"
Sparrow's head flopped back as he laughed harder, catching his breath in his throat. Norrington felt a panic rising in him, one he had not felt in many, many years, wordless and terrifying: of being exposed, caught out, found out...
He lunged forward suddenly, shouting, grasping one of Sparrow's wrists below the manacle and gripping hard, shaking him out of his humor. Sparrow's head lolled forward, silenced, and eyes dark and deep, gazing up at Norrington, suddenly still and barely aware. Norrington froze, having leant forward on his knees and leaning over the pirate's lax body. His grip loosened, the anger in his face fading to confusion and concern.
"I did not expect you to become so drunk so quickly," he said gently, sitting down on his heels and releasing the man's arm. "If you are heard by my men on deck they will burst in here, and I will have no choice but to hang you—they would think you were trying to murder me in my sleep."
Sparrow's eyes narrowed and mouth tensed. "Forgot I hadn't eaten. Rum went straight to me head. Sorry, luv," he said insolently, the tilt of his head meaning he was anything but.
"I did have some food brought in for you, but you had passed out," Norrington said, angry that he felt he had to defend his actions.
"Oh, I ain't ate for days, luv," Sparrow said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"So they didn't feed you either, then," Norrington sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Which you didn't think to tell me. Why would you, indeed."
Norrington got up and went to the next cabin, returning with a plate of bread and fruit. He placed it on the bed beside Sparrow and pulled over a chair to sit on.
"All for me, luv? How kind." Sparrow broke the bread open and began to eat, washing down every few mouthfuls with gulps of rum. Norrington watched him eat, resting his chin on his hand. There was a deep dread forming in his stomach, seeping up into his chest and occasionally bursting in panic around his heart. He'd felt it ever since he'd seen Sparrow tied to the mast of that ship, frowning in concentration against the lash. The compassion and pain that had overwhelmed him at the sight had shocked him. In his tired state, he actually acknowledged it now. It was something worrying; dangerous and very stupid.
Breadcrumbs became caught on the rags of fabric wrapped around Sparrow's wrist. He noticed them, and practically inhaled them, twisting his arm, inspecting the cloth for any stray morsels. Norrington found it endearing, suddenly, and smiled despite himself, making a small sound.
Sparrow looked up and saw him watching, smiled back and winked, returning his gaze to the food in front of him. He picked up a plum, tossed it in the air and caught it, performing some sleight of hand trick that made it momentarily disappear, only to reappear in the palm of his other hand. He began to eat it, licking juice from around his mouth. Norrington screwed his eyes shut and covered them with a hand, rubbing his forehead.
This was a ridiculous situation to be in. Sparrow should be in the brig, not sitting on his bed eating fruit and drinking rum. He should be hanged in two days upon their return, not participating in some mad escape plan concocted by a commodore of His Majesty's Royal Navy. So why was he? Why had Norrington allowed this to happen, and why was he unwilling to put it right?
Because it felt right this way, he realised. This is what his heart told him to do. And that was disturbing.
Sparrow had stopped making a noise. Norrington parted his fingers and looked through them, saw the pirate staring back with another plum half way to his mouth, still with eyebrows raised and lips parted.
"You all right, mate?"
"No," he sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "No I am not. I do believe I may be losing my mind. How else can I explain this insanity?"
Sparrow continued munching on the fruit, smirking.
"Don't worry, luv," he said, mouth full of juice and flesh. "I have that effect on people."
Norrington groaned quietly.
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