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This Ragged Wound
BY: Briony*** Commodore Norrington eyed his unwanted
guest with a strange
combination of pleasure and fury. It twisted his gut into a knot of pain and his lips thinned. "What in Hell are you doing here, Sparrow?" he gritted out between clenched teeth. The pirate swaggered forward with a grin. "Only returnin' that dressin' gown I so ruined on me last visit wi'ya." He tossed a heap of dark green damask on the bunk with one of those inane flourishes of his hand. "I thought green a much better colour for ya, luv," he smiled. Norrington watched him with narrowed eyes. "How by all that's holy did you get onto my ship." "Oh, y'know. Pirate." Jack smiled again, very sweetly, his head cocked to one side, dark eyes dancing in the light of the lamps. He swayed with the ship's roll easily, balanced on the balls of his feet. To Norrington's eyes, the stance was oddly akin to that of a fencer. A threat. A hot thread of anger sizzled up his spine. How dare that scum come sneaking into his cabin, onto his ship in the middle of the night? Sparrow stood there smiling at him as though this were some midnight rendezvous in a moonlit garden. The anger grew into a small fire in Norrington's brain. "I am well aware of your despicable reputation, Sparrow. And I am not rum-addled at the moment." "Ahhh." Jack's eyes turned a shade darker, if that were possible, lit from within by some trick known only to Satan and Sparrow himself. In the depths of them was a challenge and Norrington was heartily sick of Jack Sparrow's challenges. Ever since the dressing gown `incident' he had burned under his mask of command, too aware of his crew's snickers and gossip. He couldn't to this day rightly explain what had ever made him commit such a series of insanities. He had trusted Sparrow, a foolish gesture he was not likely to repeat. He had over-indulged in spirits before noon, a fault he lay entirely at the pirate's bootshod feet. Worst of all...ah, much worse indeed. He felt his face flushing crimson. How could he have done such a thing? And with Jack Sparrow? The thought alone was mortifying beyond reason, but for half his crew to have guessed the truth of it, after finding him, bound and gagged, naked in his own bunk, was a humiliation that James Norrington was very sure he would never, ever forget. Or forgive. He glared at Sparrow, who was watching him, calculating and yet, still his eyes were filled with dark promise. That promise sent a rush of something like rage, but much more volatile through the Commodore. "Do you seriously think I could even begin to contemplate..." he began. Sparrow laughed softly. "Oh, I can guess wha' yer contemplatin', luv. Why d'ya think I'm here?" "You bastard!" Through the mist that was threatening to overcome him, Norrington's thoughts raced swiftly. There were but a handful of men aboard the Dauntless. More importantly, his devious and all-too-knowing Lieutenant Gillette was nestled in his own cabin just next door with a bottle of good brandy and no head for it. Damn Sparrow! The man must have eyes in the back of his head or the Devil's own prescience to know how close to alone they would be this night. He would not, could not endure another round of the gossip and titters that he heard near every day behind his back. Jack was still laughing. "Yeah, tha's true enough, mate. But to what end is referrin' to me admittedly low origins?" His grin flashed in the lamplight. Norrington strode over to where he stood, looking down into those wicked eyes. A strange hesitation pulled at him, his gaze wandering down to the smiling lips. The man's confidence, no, his arrogance, was insupportable. He leaned forward and felt Sparrow shift, his face upturned. A small voice in his head kept whispering, murmuring such things in time to the gentle heave of the ship that his face grew hot again. Those lips were too close, too tempting and the hum in his brain was becoming a hot red fog. He crushed them into his own, felt them part, Sparrow's arms sliding up around his neck. For a brilliant, heated moment, they swayed together with the Dauntless, locked into a wet, whirling chasm, fueled by fury and desire. Norrington cocked the pistol he had lifted from Sparrow's sash to his throat. "The swordbelt, if you please." Jack's eyes widened. "Y'know, yer goin' about this all wrong." James smiled down at him coldly. "Am I? Come, come man. The swordbelt." Jack's fingers pulled at the thick leather, his eyes never leaving Norrington's. "That were a nice lift, Commodore. You'd make a right decent pickpocket wi' a bit o'practise. An' what, pray tell, is yer name? I can't be poppin' in t'see ya and keep callin' you`Commodore'. `S'not very friendly-like." "The sash and waistcoat, please." Sparrow arched a eyebrow. "Far be it from me t'question the teachin' and logic of His Majesty's Navy, but I do think you've a strange idea of pillow talk." Norrington pushed the gun against his throat a little harder. "All right, mate. `Owever you want it. `Tis rather a wet blanket, you `olding a pistol an' all. And me own pistol, at that." The ragged sash and waistcoat dropped to the floor. James pulled Sparrow in front of him roughly, the pistol firm against the back of his neck. "Now march." "Oh, I see. Ye've a mind t'take our business elsewhere." "Step smartly, Mr. Sparrow." "Captain. Captain Sparrow," he sighed mournfully. "Shut up and walk." It was but a short trip down to the lower deck and the brig, where he pushed Jack inside and locked the door. "Now, really, Commodore! This is a mos' distressin' turn of events. Or `ave you a mind to conclude our affairs down `ere. Not nearly as comfortable, y'know. James walked a few steps out of sight of the cage where Sparrow was complaining and leaned his head against the hull. His breath was coming hard and fast and he could feel the pulse hammering in his temples. Once and for all, he would put this bloody pirate in his place, no matter what else might happen this night. He leaned down to open one of the chests in the corridor, drew something out and returned to the brig. Jack was gripping the bars but backed away at the pistol's motion, as Norrington unlocked the door and pulled it shut behind him. "You suprise me, Commodore. I mean, there's a perfectly good...oh..." his eyes were wide, fixed on the flogger in Norrington's hands. "Now wait jus' a minute, luv. I don't mind a few games, but tha's somethin' I never really were excited by, if ya follow my meanin'." James' face was icily calm. "We can do this here and now, alone. Or I can rouse my crew and have you lashed to the rigging and let the Bo'sun use the leaded cat on you. It's your choice." Sparrow was still, watching him with wary eyes. "And I suggest you remain quiet, unless you want to force your demise a little sooner than dawn when you will hang from my yardarm." Jack smiled softly, but there was no humour in his eyes. "Commodore, this is truly not th' reception I had expected." "Then you mistook the situation rather gravely." James' answering smile was like cracked ice. "Now, unless you wish to hang in bloody rags, I suggest you remove your shirt." The pirate's eyes were so dark, the whites gleaming in the dim light, a strange look in them; the ever-present wariness, surprise, a grudging respect. And more than fear, perhaps a touch of hurt. James couldn't be sure and he did not care. His brain was alight with a white fire and he felt almost giddy. Jack tossed his shirt to one side and stood with his weight resting on one hip, chin lifted and challenge in his eyes. "Face to the wall, Mr. Sparrow." There was a febrile thrill to James' voice that he himself did not recognise. He was drunk on the power of finally having the opportunity to give back all the pain and humiliation he had suffered at Sparrow's hands. "I have long wanted to return to you..." Norrington felt himself grinning as he spoke with a wild, unfamiliar brutality. Sparrow's eyes narrowed dangerously. "...many missives..." His lip quirked up in a flash of gold. "Don't you dare!" Norrington hissed through his teeth. "Turn around." There was a moment when the Commodore wondered if Sparrow would charge at him, or dissolve into more of his babbling. But the pirate's eyes were unreadable as he slowly turned his back, leaning against the hull, his forehead resting on his right arm. James eyed the expanse of golden skin laid out before him with a tearing kind of hunger, pulled his arm back and let the first blow land squarely. He was gasping with the heat rising in his blood and lashed out with all his considerable strength over and over until he was panting. His eyes were glittering; punch-drunk with fury, he slowed down, measuring the blows, watching the marks begin to form, first pink, then red, then darker still. His arm felt free as a swinging pendulum, a fiery joy ringing through it along with the ringing in his ears as he continued to swing. The welts were nearly black, blood beginning to well where they crossed each other again and again. The mermaid tattoo on Sparrow's shoulder wept scarlet tears and all the hot words in James' head channeled down into his arm. He would make that damned pirate cry out and he laid a brutal blow that curled around the narrow waist. He saw the rise and fall of Jack's ribs, but still he made no sound. Determination flooding him, feeding the beast that was clawing at his gut, he saw nothing but the blur of his own arm as another burst of fury exploded against the pirate's flesh. James' stopped, panting, that hunger, still unsatisfied, ripping through him. Sparrow had not moved, although his left hand was clenched into a white-knuckled fist, his face pressed against his right arm. He was perfectly still and his silence was a slap in the Commodore's flushed and sweat-drenched face. Norrington felt as though he were caught up in a spiteful dream, dizzy, as he landed a final blow across the blood-streaked back, dropped the whip and, in two steps, was breathing down the pirate's neck. "If I can't wring a cry from you that way, I'll find another." he growled, yanking the laces at the back of the pirate's worn breeches. He pulled at them hard until they slid free of the narrow hips. The tang of blood and sweat in his nose sent James into another paroxysm of giddy rage and his hands shook as he dug into Sparrow's pocket, knowing too well that he would find the small, high-shouldered bottle of sweet oil waiting there. His fingers pulled at the lacing of his own breeches. "If this is what you came here for, I will be happy to oblige you." His voice was a vicious darkness that contrasted the white heat in his brain. The oil was warm from lying so close to Sparrow's flesh and slid over his own, soft and wet as a kiss. He thrust home brutally hard and felt the pirate shudder and slide his legs a little apart to brace himself. He was encased inside that tight heat and pushed again. The silence was a flame and he grabbed hold of the black hair, yanking Jack's head back to expose his throat and bit down hard. He felt the answering quiver of pain but still that silence ate at him as he ground himself against the wounded back, blood smearing his shirt. His fingers twitched upon that long lovelock, twined with a red ribbon that had faded to pink, such a damnable affectation, and wound it round the pirate's throat, pulling hard as he thrust again and again, until Sparrow was jerking like a puppet with his movements. The fury poured out of him in a great rush, one hand still pulling hard on that lock of hair twisted round the slender neck, the other digging into the sharp hipbone. Sparrow's fingers scrabbled at his own strangling hair as he gasped for breath, then fell away limply. Norrington fell back a step and watched as Sparrow sagged and slid down to the deck, disheveled and undone, his face still pressed against one arm, so still, save for the sudden gasps of breath that seemed to shake him to the core. A great wash of reliasation poured over Norrington and he, too, sank to sit against the hull, too overcome to speak. Oh God! Oh God, what had he done? How on earth could he have ever have done this? His fury had melted away, leaving behind an icy cold that filled him, made him shiver uncontrollably. He did not know himself. He was James Norrington, Commodore, a fine seaman, a credit to his King and country, a good man. He was not capable of this. Horror, guilt and self-loathing threatening to drown him and he rested his head on his knees, struggling to contain himself. The pirate never moved until James, finally smitten with compunction, reached out to raise his head. His lashes were wet, the kohl around his eyes smeared and streaked, but there were no tears. His lip was bleeding. "Jack?" Norrington faltered. How do you speak to a man you have just beaten and...he couldn't bear to even think the word. He turned the pirate's face towards him, thumb moving gently over the bitten lower lip. "Why didn't you cry out!" he moaned. "Why? I would have stopped." Jack's eyes were still lowered. "I know," he whispered. His hand fell away from Sparrow's face, his throat closing and he sat back as the silence dragged out between them. "James. It's James," Norrington murmured shakily. "Ahhh. Good name. Strong." Sparrow moved beside him, pulling himself up to sit, his head still bowed. "Well, James," his voice was straining to maintain its cocky lilt. "I must tell ya, you've one `ell of a right arm." James rose and held out a hand. "Come." He helped Jack unsteadily to his feet and, stopping only to retrieve the pistol and Sparrow's shirt, led him back to the spacious cabin. He went to the cabinet and fetched them both a drink, then busied himself with the basin and water pitcher. His mind had gone curiously blank, as though all that raging heat had torn a hole in it. "Please. Sit down." Jack sat down on the bunk, long fingers idly playing with the heap of green damask crumpled on it, uncharacteristically silent, as James gently washed the blood away. Sparrow's back was scored with dozens of angry weals, some still weeping droplets to redden the water as Norrington rinsed out the cloth. Thank the Good Lord, bad as it was, they weren't the brutal lacerations of a cat. "You'll heal. There won't be any scars." Jack glanced at him over his shoulder with those fathomless eyes that said worlds and nothing, and drank in silence. Norrington poured out a measure of the rum into a fresh cloth and paused. "'S'ok, luv. I'm ready fer it." It hurt to watch how Sparrow shuddered when the liquor hit the welts, but he never moved or made a sound, just as he had the whole time below. What kind of steel was he made of, that he could remain so stoic? James himself felt anything but stoic at the moment. He finished and watched Jack pull on his shirt, longing for just a second, to run his hand along that sleek, golden side, before it disappeared beneath the worn linen. Sparrow made swift work of rearranging his effects and glanced up once only, while retying the swordbelt. Norrington was staring dully at the lamp, fingering his empty glass. "Have another drink, luv. It'll help," his voice was soft. "Y'know, James, ye've the makin' of quite a pirate, you do." James' head snapped up, a whole host of automatic rejoinders on his lips, but they died away to nothing. He simply looked at Sparrow, found he could not meet those eyes and heaved a sigh. "Tis you that is the pirate." He glanced up to see Jack's grin. How could he smile like that when his eyes shot fire across the small space between them? "Scallywag I may be, an' what'ere else you want t'call me. But never, ever have I debased the act o' love." "And you expect me to believe that?" Norrington cried, stung. "Believe what you want, matey. It's the truth." Sparrow's eyes were distant and went soft in the dim light. James bit his lip and let the silence and the swells rock them. "What? You're remembering something." "Aye. `Twas a long time past. We were off the coast o'Cartagena. Took a Spanish ship comin' inta the port. Well-loaded, lots o' spoil. No trouble really." Sparrow's eyes were deadly dark. "There were a girl. Couldn'a been more n'fifteen or so. Fresh as a daisy an' just as sweet. I found 'er first, so I `ad first dibs. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it." The silence swelled like a rising wave. "And?" James whispered. "The crew weren't of a like mind," he said shortly. Norrington masticated on that for a moment. "What happened? he ventured, half-afraid of the truth in Sparrow's eyes. Jack looked sidelong at him, through the tangle of his hair. "I put a bullet in `er `ead when I was sure she'd bleed t'death." "Oh." It was a gasp of understanding and of pain. The silence rose and fell and rocked them gently. "Jack?" "Yeah." "I'm..." "Don't say it. Jus' don't. I don't want yer pity or yer sorries or yer guilt. `Tis done. You `ave t'live wi'it.." "So do you." He stood and reached out towards a lock of hair, curling in a ringlet across Sparrow's shoulder. The pirate turned, quick as a cat, and threw the pile of green damask at him. "I've a mind t'see if I were right." James held the soft folds of material with trembling fingers, then pulled the dressing gown on, all too aware of the dark eyes, lit by a rapacious hunger watching his every move. He was numb with guilt. "Ahh, Y'see. I was mos' definitely right in this. `Tis a much better colour for ye, luv." Jack breached the distance between them in one step, his smile dangerous, almost sharklike. "Now, ye know how it feels, don't ya?" James looked at him, wide-eyed. "T'take what ya want and the hell wi' the consequences. T'feel that burn inside that don't let go." Suddenly, Jack grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a brutal kiss that opened his split lip and spilled blood and something much darker between them. James gasped and melted into it, helpless against his own confusion and Sparrow simultaneously. Jack sprang back towards the window, his black eyes like flame, his lips curved into that deadly, bloodstained smile. "Twas a most interesting evenin', Jimmy. But for now. Ta!" He slung out of the window and slid down the rope that had bourne him up earlier, the grappling hook dug deep into the sill. Norrington watched him drop down into the longboat, sat watching long after the dipping oars had disappeared from the moonlit water. He spent the rest of the night until dawn lit the window, pondering the great Truth that Anger doth indeed bear bitter fruit. Two miserable days later, a plain-sealed missive was delivered to him with a package and he damned Gillette's smirking countenance as he handed it over. He put both on his desk and waited, panting throughout the very long hours until he had retired and was at leisure to read. He opened the package first, fingers trembling on the twine, and gasped as he lifted the stiletto out of its straw cocoon. It was nearly twelve inches long, the blade as narrow as a girl's finger and deadly sharp. Such a lovely thing it was, Damascene steel, the black blade inlaid with swirling gold. And wound round the golden hilt was a lovelock, a long curl of black hair beribboned in faded red. Norrington held it to the light for a moment, staring stupidly at that pallid ribbon before the significance of the gift broke through and he pulled in a long, sobbing breath. An assassin's weapon, beautiful and deadly. A wasp of a weapon, meant to be used in the dark, by stealth and deceit. His eyes burned and blurred as he pried open the folded thick paper and read: This ragged Wound that men call Love, is ringed `round with glasse. It pulses with the heated Bloode of Joy by Pain surpafsed. Such bruised and aching font of Wante, such Pleasure turned to Hate, It breathes cold Fyre in the bones where two such poles may mate. When the hande has lost its gentle touch and grown so cruelle and hard Love may endure but will be changed by Tendernesse so marred. And eyes may lye and mouths may kiss and linger, lying still, But deep within that fired heart where pleas became Brute Wille, The Knowledge of such forced Love will ever lie between Thee and me, a wretched mark, burned fast although unseene; And so hath rasied such doubts, such Feare and such Sorrow deep. Remember, Love, thy heart is mine, and that I vow to keep. Beware, cruel Heart, how thou mayest use thy body stronge and fayre For blades may kiss as well as lips and thereby make a payre. JS And James, Commodore Norrington, wrapped in his green damask guilt, bent his head down onto his desk and wept for what he had lost, never having known that he had gained it, and for what might he might never again enjoy. FIN Here is the modern version of Jack's poem: This ragged wound that men call love, is ringed round with glass. It pulses with the heated blood of joy by pain surpassed; Such bruised and aching fount of want, such pleasure turned to hate. It breathes cold fire in the bones where two such poles may mate. When the hand has lost its gentle touch and grown so cruel and hard Love may endure but will be changed by tenderness so marred And eyes may lie and mouths may kiss and linger, lying still But deep within that fired heart where pleas became brute will, The knowledge of such forced love will ever lie between Thee and me, a wretched mark, burned fast, although unseen; And so has raised such doubts, such fear and such sorrow deep. Remember love, thine unkind heart is mine, and that I vow to keep. Beware, cruel heart, how thou mayest use thy body strong and fair For blades may kiss as well as lips and thereby make a pair. No, it isn't a proper sonnet, but was written listening to John Barleycorn. |
