Tyger, Tyger
5. An Epilogue
by
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted:9/20/2009
Dedication: To William Blake, whose poem I am finally done picking at for fanfiction purposes.
Note: I actually wrote an ending that actually feels like an ending! Is this a month of blue moons? Have the seas turned to blood? I'm sure tomorrow's weather forecast will let us know. Because I am a history nerd now and then (although I blame this one on Neil Gaiman) I make references to the Hatian revolutionary figure "Mackandal" because he is cool. Look him up in Wikipedia; you'll see what I mean.
Summary: The final installment in the "Tyger, Tyger" series. Do be kind and read the previous tales first.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave.
Originally Posted:9/20/2009
Dedication: To William Blake, whose poem I am finally done picking at for fanfiction purposes.
Note: I actually wrote an ending that actually feels like an ending! Is this a month of blue moons? Have the seas turned to blood? I'm sure tomorrow's weather forecast will let us know. Because I am a history nerd now and then (although I blame this one on Neil Gaiman) I make references to the Hatian revolutionary figure "Mackandal" because he is cool. Look him up in Wikipedia; you'll see what I mean.
Summary: The final installment in the "Tyger, Tyger" series. Do be kind and read the previous tales first.
There was nothing particularly interesting about the small island, except that it had a very handy naturally-formed harbor on one side, sheltered and able to conceal one or two smallish rigs, giving their crews relatively easy access to shore.
The island itself had a couple of freshwater springs, some fruit trees, and a some wild fowl. It was, in short, a good pit stop for a ship such as the Black Pearl.
If only the damned rain would stop.
The storm had appeared just as much of the crew had been prepared to step ashore to refresh their water supply, and perhaps some fresher foodstuffs. And it was still pissing down now, hours later. Jack knew his crew well enough: they would wait out the rain before heading ashore. If only because, at the moment they could barely even see the shore.
Thus, it was little wonder that no one spotted the other ship approaching until it was very close upon them, and by then, there was no mistaking the Fleetwing, which slowed to a stop alongside the Pearl as if for a very close-in broadside, but neither ship had their guns out. All of the remaining crew on the Pearl promptly stopped whatever they were doing and simply stared. It seemed for a few long moments that there were no other sounds in the world except the rain and the sea. In the ominous quiet, a few men muttered oaths or prayers. Captain Jack Sparrow, on the other hand, was smiling wickedly.
Soon, Gibbs was at his elbow. "Cap'n, It's—"
"I know well who it is, Joshamee," Jack purred, eyeing the men aboard the Fleetwing and wondering if anyone else had noticed what was missing yet...
"Do ye, now? You heard well as I the Fleetwing went missin' two months ago, caught in a storm near Hispaniola!"
"I heard the rumor." The captain waved a hand dismissively. "I still know exactly who it is, the clever bastard." His grin was far too bright, but he made a point of hiding it with a scowl before he approached the rail and shouted, "Ahoy, The Fleetwing."
A tall figure, dressed in a fine coat that might have once been remotely naval before a particularly wicked tailor saw fit to make it more piratical as well as overall easier to maneuver in, leapt into the Fleetwing's rigging and leaned out over the water toward the Pearl. Though the man wore no hat, wig, or other sign of office, there was no question: the ship belonged to him. He called back, "Ahoy, The Black Pearl."
Gibbs made a low choking noise, mirrored by several other men who also recognized that deep, posh, and unmistakably commanding English baritone.
Jack felt his heart flutter in his chest and had to repress the urge to proposition James right then and there. God, that man's voice... Jack cleared his throat. "I note a distinct lack of British, Naval, or British Naval colors aboard your decidedly British Naval Ship, Commodore Norrington!"
A susurrous of surprise and unease went up through the rest of the crew, who only now recognized Norrington, but now also realized that Jack was correct: the flag flown by the Fleetwing was not one that anyone recognized: black, with a tiger in profile depicted in simple lines of white, except for its barely-noticeable green eye.
"That is well as it should be, Captain Sparrow. I am no longer an officer, let alone a commodore, and this is no longer a Naval or a British vessel; it is only mine, and I am her captain." There was a touch of almost piratical satisfaction in his voice as he said it. Then, his usual mocking air made an appearance: "I take it then that news of our raids have not yet reached these waters, then? Are they still considering us lost?"
An audible peal of laughter rose from Norrington's crew.
Leaning on the Pearl's railing, Jack was smiling hard enough that it almost hurt. "Aye. To a storm far worse than this one. I suppose ye seek to make berth here, ay?"
"With your leave, Captain Sparrow. You have my word that myself and my crew mean you and yours no harm. I would have us meet on genial terms."
"Quite a change, then, from the last meeting of our two ships, Captain Norrington."
"A lot of things are quite changed. Perhaps I can tell you more of it. Permission to come aboard, Captain?"
Jack shivered slightly, and not because he was cold and wet. "Aye, Permission to come aboard."
Gibbs reached out and tugged his sleeve, muttering uncertainly, "Jack?"
"Trust me on this," Jack muttered back. Then, to James he called, "Alone for now, if you please, Captain Norrington, or else we might doubt your peaceful intentions."
Norrington turned to his crew, exchanging words with his first mate. Then he seized a rope and swung across the gap between the two ships. The pirate crew, gathered behind their captain, abruptly scattered out of the way just before the ex-navy man landed.
James' coat was indeed a creatively butchered version of his old uniform, and no longer pristine: the blue darkened with exposure to smoke and gunpowder, the white lapels now gray, and the gold filigree removed almost entirely just from sheer rough-treatment. The garb underneath the coat was more practical than before: two leather baldrics with pistols and his ever-present Turner-made sword, a grey waistcoat and breeches over a cream-colored shirt, and a pair of tall leather boots that Jack recalled having seen worn by James before, long ago in Tortuga. James' hair was pulled back in a queue, tied with black velvet ribbon, and he had a neatly trimmed beard along the edge of his jaw. All this said, it was his roguish, wicked smirk that remained the least naval thing that James wore.
James straightened up as he let the rope swing back across towards the Fleetwing. His gaze had fixed on Jack from the first and did not waver now. The ex-commodore bowed slightly. "Captain Sparrow," he greeted, his voice calm and his cat-green eyes bright with amusement.
Jack nodded. "Captain Norrington." He was grinning broadly now, in a manner that rather confused most of his crew.
When James held out a hand, Jack shook it without hesitation.
"Took you bloody well long enough, you deranged bastard. Come on, then," Jack growled, releasing James' hand only to grab his forearm, dragging him towards the main cabin, but then changing course, heading instead for the captain's cabin.
James' eyebrows raised. "I told you, and you agreed with me: if you could come up with something other than blackmail..."
"And I did, didn't I?"
"Exactly; so what do you have to complain about, really?"
"Oh, I'll show you exactly what I've had to complain about, Jamie..."
As the door to the captain's cabin snapped shut, a muffled and frustrated-relieved-irritated exclamation of "Six bleeding months!" by Jack could just barely be heard by the nearest crewmen, followed by what sounded disturbingly like the Scourge of Piracy laughing. The door locked audibly.
The Black Pearl's crew stared.
"Did Jack just—"
"Aye," Gibbs interrupted, knowing where this was going. He sounded resigned.
"And with—"
"Aye."
One of the more perceptive sailors mused, in a lighter tone, "How long has he been duncarring the commodore, d'you think?"
Gibbs hesitated, thinking it over. Finally, he grimaced. "Lookin' back, I suppose it must've been goin' on for over a year, now. Plenty of us 've known he's had some affair of a sort since then." He took a much-needed swig from his flask. "I just wish I could say I was more surprised by who it seems to've been with."
A long pause followed, as the crew stared at the door to the captain's cabin.
"So we're safe from the Scourge?" one of the younger crewman asked.
"Aye. As ever we were, it looks like," Gibbs muttered. "It's about time he left the bloody navy."
That earned him an even more eagerly curious audience.
Sighing, Gibbs began to explain his past experience with a rather uncannily sharp naval lieutenant in Hispaniola.
James was content, caught up entirely with catching his breath after being thoroughly ravished by Jack Sparrow, the feel of the far-too-decadent silks on the bed beneath them and the pleasant warmth of Jack's body against him, the swaying of the ship, and the sound of the rain pouring down outside.
Elated, he used the arm he'd draped across Jack's waist to pull the pirate closer, taking in the way his scent mixed with that of sea, storm and sex. James felt more at home here and now than he could ever recall feeling at any other time in his life. With a silent sigh of contentment, he nuzzled Jack's hair. "What are you thinking of now, Jack?" his voice was idle, teasing.
"That I can't believe it took me this long to finally get you onto the Pearl," Jack muttered, his voice far too satiated to convey the petulance he had intended, and also muffled by the way his face was tucked against James' shoulder. "And that six months was a too long bloody time." He used his legs, already tangled with James', to bring more of his skin into contact with his lover's.
With a soft laugh, James let his eyes fall half-open to look down at him. "I missed you, as well, Jack." His fingers tangled in Jack's wild hair, idly exploring the various beads, braids, and trinkets therein.
Jack murmured contently, shifting to drape himself across James' chest, looking rather like a cat in a sunbeam. He may also have called James something like "insufferably smug" but it was with affection.
"Well, I did manage to get here on time, in spite of the weather and your less-than-clear directions; add that to the rather spectacular show of welcome from my most enthusiastic lover, I would say that some small modicum of smugness is quite understandable for a man in my position," James mused.
Jack smirked against James' skin, chuckling silently.
Feeling it, James smirked as well. "And your crew was too shell-shocked to shoot me on sight, which was a pleasant bonus."
"Mm." Sitting up reluctantly, Jack glanced over his shoulder toward the doorway. "The crew... should be fine," he mused, not sounding entirely convinced himself.
"Between the two of us, we can at the very least confound them into acceptance, I'm sure. The only real question would be how to best time it."
Jack contemplated this, distracted a little on occasion by the way James' fingers continued to explore his hair. "I don't like it, but I suppose we should step out soon, if only to be sure they'll not either mutiny or start taking shots at yer ship."
With a derisive snort, James sat up on his elbows. "We have time. This storm won't be letting up soon."
"Aye," Jack muttered, sounding perfectly petulant this time even as he started to get up.
James caught his arm before he could stand, and whispered a low promise in his ear that made Jack shiver. With a departing nibble along the shell of Jack's ear as well as a light nuzzle of the side of his neck, James pulled away and got to his feet, picking up his hastily discarded clothing.
"I'll hold you to that," Jack murmured, his voice rough.
James smirked as he pulled on his breeches. "I have no doubt."
Of all the potential welcomes James had expected to receive from Jack's crew, this was not one of them.
Below deck, in the galley, he found himself being stared at with awe and occasional glints of something akin to respect. Also, there were a large number of them, pressing in rather close. Confused by the lack of visible malice, James felt the sudden urge to flee.
Finally the youngest crewman, a lad with dark skin who wore the most deeply awed look, asked, "You met Mackandal, Captain Norrington?"
James's eyebrows raised and he glanced at Jack, who looked equally as startled. James returned his gaze to the young man and nodded slowly. "Briefly, yes. May I ask who told you that?"
"That'd be me, sir."
James startled a little, turning to stare at the older, slightly portly gentleman with a mixture of shock and confusion. Then his brow cleared and he found himself giving a small, restrained smile. "Ah, Mr. Gibbs." He took a step closer. "You look well. I'm glad." He held out his hand.
Gibbs shook it. "I could say the same for yourself, lad. It's about time you had the sense to turn pirate."
With a laugh, James shook his head, folding his hands behind his back in habitually commodorial fashion. "Not quite pirate. Rather like Captain Raimond, I am still a bit too stiff and honest to earn that title."
"You stole a ship of the fleet and told the navy to bugger off at the same time; I reckon that's close enough to pirate for us," Gibbs countered.
James bowed his head, smirking. "Thank you."
Then the rest of the crew began raining down questions on him: about Hispaniola, about stealing the Fleetwing, and about the raids he had been on thusfar. None asked him about his past as the Scourge of Piracy; for now, it did not matter; for now, he was only a man who happened to be a bit of a legend, and this was their chance to pull stories from him. It was to James' benefit, also, that the more they heard of his stories, the more they thought him an alright man.
Flustered and bemused, James answered as best he could, as their continued attempts to press in closer caused him to slowly back himself into a corner, which did not make him feel better. He was not sure exactly how he ended up leaning back with his spine resting against Jack's shoulder as the crew cornered him, but the contact helped drain away some of the slightly embarrassed tension and near-panic that had filled him.
From where he leaned against the bulkhead, Jack smirked vaguely at the hunted look on James' face. The sheer number and confounding lack of anger of the Black Pearl's crew had set the proud ex-commodore on edge. Jack wrapped an arm lazily around James' waist, hooking his thumb under the belt at James' hip, and James felt himself relaxing into the subtle-looking embrace, letting himself lean back against both Jack and the wall behind them. His head cleared and he found himself actually enjoying himself towards the end of the crew's interrogation, his dry wit earning a few laughs.
When, at last, he was left in peace, James exhaled heavily and turned to glance over his shoulder at Jack. "Your crew are nearly as mad as you are."
Jack snorted. "Hardly."
"Not individually, no, but as a swarm... yes, yes they are."
"Alright, I'll concede that." Jack stood up straight, resting his chin on James' shoulder. "How about yours, Jamie?"
With a sigh, James admitted, "I should, in all likelihood, report back to them, if only to assure them that I am not dead." He glanced sidelong at Jack. "Perhaps I should let them try to interrogate you."
Jack frowned. "Before or after we get to your cabin? I seem to recall a little promise made not too long ago..."
"After. I'll not have them test my patience."
"Permission to come aboard, then?" Jack inquired idly.
"Always, Jack."
"Promise, Jamie?"
"On my word as a gentleman."
"Well, now, seeing as you're actually brigand, these days..."
"And by my ship. Satisfied?"
Jack chuckled. "Never."
"Neither am I."
"And the dance continues," Jack murmured.
"Hmm?"
"Mating dance, love. We've been at it for ages."
"Ah, I see." He sounded amused.
"Which is it this time, James? Have I caught you, or have you caught me?"
James pressed back against him a little further, and leaned the side of his head against Jack's mass of hair. "Both. As always."
After considering for a moment, Jack smirked. "I suppose so."
"Do you think the world is ready for us?" James mused.
"Not in the least, love, not in the least."
In years to come, tales would be told of a pair of fierce captains—sometimes both were called pirates, sometimes it was said that only one was a pirate, depending upon who told told the take—who worked in fearful symmetry, working together to terrorize ships carrying human cargo and pirates whose cruelty went beyond the lines laid out by the Code.
In some tales, told almost exclusively in piratical circles, the men were lovers: a pair of fearful, but handsome creatures who had seized upon each other as no others would dare. They were both of a rare breed of man, full of fire and brilliance.
The golden age of piracy has come and gone. The ship with black sails, and the ship with a tiger on its black flag, have both been lost to the depths in battle, but none can say for sure that their captains followed them.
Their fates, their endings, remain unknown. Some questioned whether such bright flames could ever die out, others questioned how it could have possibly lasted. Whispers persist of fires fed by the Aqua de Vida, and of the pirate captain's ability to find whatever it was he most wanted in the world with a compass that, so far as most could tell, did not seem to point north.
Every now and again, the living descendants of Elizabeth Swann and William Turner will meet, seemingly by accident, a pair of mysteriously familiar men who stand close together and smile like tigers. They tend to appear at only the most opportune of moments, claiming to be friends of the family, bearing strange gifts and even stranger tales of distant lands and adventures past and present, as they have tonight.
The taller, more proper-seeming of the two interrupts the tales with witty commentary, and mocking corrections. His eccentric companion's stories grow only more outlandish with each correction, until he starts to insinuate that the both of them are over a hundred years old, despite neither of them looking forty.
It is the taller one who tells the tale of the Turners' ancestry, back to Elizabeth Swann and William Turner. He tells of a terrible Aztec curse, a clever pirate determined to get his ship back, an honorable commodore of the British Navy made the victim of unrequited love, and how the two young lovers came to be betrothed. Then, however, the tale wanders, to the clever pirate visiting his young friends and coming into an unexpected accord with the commodore, who proves less proper than he seemed. Then he tells briefly of the two men's exploits in battle, once the commodore left the navy. He tells of the two men sitting down and talking about the future one night, and deciding that even with piracy in inexorable decline and their freedom at sea more and more impossible to maintain, they wanted to see that future.
One of the young Turner girls asks what happened then, what the two men did.
"It wasn't what they did, love," says the more eccentric man. "It was what they found, and what the sea was kind enough to offer them."
"I remember this tale from when I was a boy. My cousin told it to me," says the girl's father, his brow furrowed in consideration. "Something about a magic compass and the fountain of youth."
The two strangers, friends of the Turner family, exchange a glance that speaks volumes, though only they could read the words.
The taller man smiles at Mr. Turner, the smile making pale green eyes look bright and oddly cat-like. "Yes. That is how some of the tales go."
"So they did it? They'll live forever?" the little girl asks, resembling her ancestor Elizabeth quite closely.
"Now, Emily," her mother says, softly chastising.
The man with the jet-black eyes gives a gold-edged grin, tapping an octagonal box that hangs from the belt at his waist. "They're around, love, and Jack Sparrow will continue to be, so long as there's a horizon to chase, I can promise ye that."
"And James Norrington will too, I've no doubt, so long as there's hunting to be done and a sea to sail upon," the other man adds, almost absently, but his smile is warm.
Emily glows with contentment.
As the two men leave that night, after Emily has gone to bed, Mr. Turner stops them before the door quite closes behind them. He pushes it open again and stands on the threshold, his voice nervous as he calls, "Sirs? A word, if I may?"
They turn in unison and look at him expectantly, standing on the top step of the Turners' front porch.
"My cousin, who told me the tale, said two men had visited his family at home..." He seems to hesitate, the sight of the two men in the moonlight, standing close together and looking so knowing and amused—it seems that his fanciful thought might be plausible, that they might truly be...
"Aye, lad. That was us. We keep an eye out for your lot, when we can," Jack says, his gold teeth glinting in the moonlight as he smiles.
"Elizabeth and William Turner were our family, in affection if not in blood," James explains.
"Their children called us their uncles," Jack adds.
"We now have no other kin, as you can surely understand."
Mr. Turner stares at them, his brow furrowed in bemusement even while his eyes remain wide in awe, but not quite in disbelief. "I... thank you?"
"No worries, lad. Mayhap you'll see us again. We'll be around."
Mr. Turner watches them go: the tall, proud man who walked like both a statesman and a warrior, and the wicked man who swayed like an extraordinarily graceful drunkard. Turner wonders what force of nature, divine or devil, could have wrought such men as them: beautiful and terrible, like a fire burning bright.
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? And what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
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