Pirates Of The Caribbean Fan Fiction ❯ Master of the Sea ❯ Chapter 2

Title: Master of the Sea

Author: Hurricane Islandheart
Summary: This divergence picks up after the end of Dead Man's Chest with the rescue of Captain Jack Sparrow from Davy Jones's Locker. However, Jack finds himself quickly ensnared in yet another trap of Jones's design, and this time he's accompanied by Will Turner and James Norrington. Jones is not taking the loss of his heart to Cutler Beckett lightly, and his plans for these three men include making them pay dearly for allowing it to fall into Beckett's hands. Meanwhile, the crew of the Black Pearl is not taking the loss of their recently-recovered captain and good friend well. With Barbossa at the helm, they set out to find any means possible of getting Jack and Will back without losing their own lives in the process. While undertaking this endeavour, they discover that the Aztec gold may not have been the only curse on the Black Pearl.

Adult Content Advisory: This story contains excessive violence, extreme sexual situations, aberrational behavior, drug use and other elements which most parents would consider too strong for viewing by their children and may be upsetting to some adult readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Credits: Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Dead Man's Chest (2006), and At World's End (2007) are copyrighted to Walt Disney Pictures and distributed under their Buena Vista label. The CotBP story was written by Ted Elliot, Terry Rossio, Stuart Beattie and Jay Wolpert; DMC and AWE story were written by Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio. The Pirates of the Caribbean: Jack Sparrow series (written by Rob Kidd and illustrated by Jean-Paul Orpinas) is copyright 2006 to Disney Enterprises, Inc. The Pirates' Guidelines (by Joshamee Gibbs), Bring Me That Horizon: The Making of Pirates of the Caribbean (by Michael Singer), and The Art of Pirates of the Caribbean (various artists) are copyright 2007 Disney Enterprises, Inc. The Pirate Primer: Mastering the Language of Swashbucklers and Rogues (by George Choundas) is copyright 2007 to George Choundas.

 

Chapter 2

 

Norrington froze for a moment then hurried back out of the cell as Jones commanded. He trembled visibly and wrapped his arms around himself as the captain closed the bars on the cell and locked the door. Jones gestured silently for Norrington to follow him, then started toward the back of the cabin; Norrington quickly obeyed.

 

Jones led Norrington up to a concealed door near the huge pipe organ. He drew it open and motioned for Norrington to enter. “As much as it probably surprises Mister Turner,” Jones commented, “I do not always fall asleep at my pipe organ.” He glanced back toward the alcove where he knew the other two could hear him.

 

Norrington stepped through the doorway and found a narrow staircase that led down into the lower deck. The foot of the stairs ended in a bedroom. He walked ahead of Jones into the small bed chamber and looked around. Ornate, iron-clad lanterns gave a warm, yellow light to the room. The room was furnished sparsely with a desk, a chair, an ancient-looking bed and cluttered shelves - all were encrusted with a thick layer of plant and animal life, just as the rest of the ship was.

 

“Have a seat, Mister Norrington,” Jones said. He indicated the chair in front of the desk, then walked to the bed and sat down. He pulled his boot off of his foot and dumped it out; Norrington noted that the captain's foot was no more human than the rest of him. The former commodore greened slightly as he sat gingerly in the ancient wooden chair.

 

Jones eyed up the seaman. “I can read the heart and mind of every man who sails the seas,” he began. “You appear to think that you don't belong here. How is it that you ended up a pirate?”

 

The dark-haired man glared at the floor as he spoke. “Jack Sparrow,” he said simply. “My life was perfect, until I met Jack Sparrow.”

 

“Ah, so Mister Sparrow extended his influence to you as well,” Jones sneered. “What did he offer you? Glory? Cursed treasure?”

 

Norrington continued to glare at the floor. He muttered under his breath and his expression twisted bitterly.

 

“Speak up, Mister Norrington!” Jones snapped. “You'll answer my questions regardless of whether or not you want to.”

 

Norrington cleared his throat. “He saved my fiancee twice,” he said more clearly. “We first met because he saved her from drowning; he later helped save her from a crew of cursed pirates.”

 

Jones sat back in surprise, his eyes widening. He steepled his tentacled hand against the claw on his opposite arm and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “You don't say,” he finally commented. He removed the pipe from his mouth. “And this act of thoughtless and probably self-serving charity on the part of Mister Sparrow encouraged you to become a pirate?”

 

“Hardly,” Norrington spat. “Elizabeth was the only thing I lived for then. At the time, I was Commodore James Norrington. I had everything I ever wanted and ever would need. I could have had anything else in the world. But I lost my precious Elizabeth to Sparrow's compatriot - a blacksmith's apprentice named William Turner.”

 

Jones sat back, intrigued. He pulled open a concealed drawer in the foot of the bed and withdrew a tall, narrow bottle. He handed it to Norrington. “Continue,” he instructed.

 

Norrington sniffed the bottle warily and found that it contained a fine rum. Despite his reservations, he couldn't resist taking a large swig from the bottle. He told Jones in bitter detail of how he'd left Port Royal to pursue Sparrow across the seven seas, at the cost of everything he'd ever accomplished in his life. The rum was nearly gone by the time Norrington finished his tale. “A 'rum-pot deck hand what takes orders from pirates' - that's what he called me,” Norrington said bitterly. “Me - the pride of my family. Me - a commodore in the British Navy. Me - one of the wealthiest and most respected people aside from the governor in Port Royal - a 'rum-pot deck hand what takes orders from pirates'.” He paused and drained the last few swallows from the bottle of rum. “No, Captain Jones, I do not feel like I belong here,” he stated.

 

The Dutchman's captain stood and walked over to stand in front of the disgraced sailor. “It seems I just might be able to help you out, Mister Norrington,” he said. “By the time I'm finished with you, you'll feel very much like a part of the Flying Dutchman.”

 

Norrington shook a little and shrunk back in the chair. “Wh-what do you mean?” he asked. His eyes darted nervously around the room in search of a way out, but he already knew there wasn't one.

 

“Come now, Mister Norrington, you know better than that,” Jones said. He ran his hand along the side of Norrington's face and under his chin, allowing the long tentacle finger to trail behind. “There is no escape from the Flying Dutchman - even Turner and Sparrow only won themselves a temporary reprieve. As you're well aware, they're back on this ship.”

 

Norrington shuddered and tried to lean away from the cool wetness of the captain's hand. He found himself quickly encircled by the claw-like arm and drawn to his feet. Jones carefully settled the joint of the claw under Norrington's chin, effectively clasping the man's face.

 

“Take your clothes off.” The order was spoken quietly but was firm and non-negotiable.

 

A choked whimper escaped from Norrington's throat and with shaking hands he unfastened the buttons on his shirt and breeches. He carefully removed his boots and worked his way up, shedding clothing as he went. He glanced at Jones as he grasped the edge of his shirt. “I need...that is, it's...I have to pull my shirt over my head to remove it,” he stammered.

 

Jones silently released the former admiral's face from his grip. Norrington quickly pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it onto the pile of clothes at his feet. He visibly trembled as he waited for the captain to make the next move.

 

The aquatic captain's face twitched into a slight smirk as he eyed up the naked and shaking sailor. “You're afraid,” he commented. “You're afraid of what I might have in mind for you, and your own mind is making it worse by imagining various things on its own.”

 

“I-I am, Sir,” Norrington admitted. He looked at the ground, ashamed that he couldn't conceal his fear and that he couldn't stop the tremors that were wracking his body. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as Jones slid the claw-like arm around behind him again.

 

Jones nudged the man forward, and with halting steps Norrington let the captain guide him to the far side of the room where a large, wooden chest sat against the wall. The chest was water-tight with resin and had a heavy lid on it. Jones lifted the lid and revealed a dark interior full of water. The sea captain looked back at Norrington and prodded him toward the chest. “Climb in,” he said.

 

Norrington closed his eyes briefly and fought down a lump that he felt rising in his throat. He didn't like the look of the dark water, and as he considered the prospect of climbing in, he realized that the chest was the right dimensions to serve as a deep, watery coffin. If Jones were to close the lid on him, he'd find himself with little or no air to breathe, surrounded by sea water and solid wood. Jones tapped his claw foot impatiently on the floor, which startled Norrington out of his musings.

 

Fighting against a desperate urge to flee, Norrington carefully stepped into the chest and lowered himself into a reclining position. He glanced nervously at the tentacled captain as the water level rose from displacement and reached up to the brim of the chest, leaving Norrington to strain to keep his face above the water line. He gasped as the captain's tentacled hand suddenly wound around behind his shoulders.

 

“Easy, then,” Jones said. His voice had shifted from a cold and crisp commanding voice to a soothing, melodic voice. The captain lifted Norrington's shoulders gently so that they rested against the side of the chest and placed Norrington's head well above the water. “Let yourself relax; close your eyes.”

 

Norrington took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. He closed his eyes and tried to will his limbs and muscles to relax. He tried to erase the thoughts of where he was and what was happening to him from his mind, tried to think back to an earlier time when he would have been in a warm bed with soft silk covers by this point and tried to move his thoughts away from a creaking ship made of tortured souls and sea life. Very slowly, he became aware of the gentle floating sensation in his limbs and body as the salt water buoyed his weight.

 

Then, suddenly, there was another feeling surrounding him. At first he wasn't quite sure what he was feeling, thinking that perhaps he'd simply shifted a bit much and that the water was stirring underneath him; then he felt a slippery weight circle around his ankle and realized that there was something else in the water with him. Without thinking, his eyes flew open and he surged upward out of the water.

 

Jones was instantly on top of him, holding him down. Water splashed over the edge of the chest as Norrington instinctively fought against the pressure, but a warning click from Jones's claw arm brought Norrington back to his senses.

 

“I...there's...something in here!” Norrington gasped. He twisted his body uncomfortably in an effort to contort himself away from the wet something that was crawling in the chest.

 

“Yes, I know that!” Jones snapped impatiently. “That's why I put you in there! Now lie still and do as I said.”

 

Norrington huffed a ragged breath and forced himself back into the reclining position. He tried to relax again but found it impossible; his limbs were tense and his muscles taut with nervous energy as he settled in the water again. After a moment, the sliding, slippery sensation returned; to his horror, he realized that there was actually more than one of the unseen things on his body, and they all trailed the same creepy sensation. Norrington clenched his teeth and pursed his lips tightly, but a strangled whimper still escaped. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force his breathing into a regular pattern.

 

It was only when he heard movement near the bed that Norrington realized that Jones had moved away from the chest. He heard a dull clank of glass and then the thumping sound of Jones's footsteps as he walked back to the chest. Heavy glass was pressed to his lips, and Norrington cracked one eye open to see the captain holding a second bottle of rum in his face.

 

“Drink,” Jones instructed. “It'll help you relax.”

 

Norrington obediently opened his mouth and swallowed the large mouthful of rum that was tipped out of the bottle. He sighed as the liquor coated his mouth and throat, spreading warmth as it went down. The sailor readily took the next drink that was offered to him, then reached out of the water to take the bottle himself and hungrily down it. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed the taste and feel of rum in the days that he'd been without it. He supposed he must have become addicted at some point, but at the moment that fact didn't bother him - the rum made it easier to momentarily forget his misery and discomfort.

 

He let the bottle drop to the floor alongside the chest, then settled back into the water. He closed his eyes and let his mind go blank; it was one of the reasons he'd taken to drinking, he remembered - when life hurt too much to think, the rum allowed him to go without thinking for a while. He was vaguely aware of the creeping things sliding further over his limbs, across his torso and around his back, up and down, exploring the entirety of his body, but he couldn't make himself care. He couldn't make himself risk Jones's dangerous claws or anger, and he couldn't even make himself think about the future. He felt his eyes getting heavy and let himself slide into the blissful haze that preluded sleep.

 

Jones noticed Norrington nodding off and prodded him awake again. “Open your eyes, Mister Norrington,” Jones instructed. “You're nearly done in there.”

 

Norrington blinked and looked at the captain, then looked toward the surface of the water he was reclining in. He realized that he didn't feel the slimy movement anymore. “Sir?” he asked.

 

“One moment more, Mister Norrington,” Jones replied. The captain was tumbling a large seashell in his hand and was only giving half his attention to the man in the chest of water. “We'll still need to make use of that water before you can get out.”

 

Norrington watched Jones tip the open end of the shell toward the floor, and ever so slowly a thin sheet of glistening film began to drip toward the floor. When a large square of the transparent material had run out of the shell, Jones quickly severed it on the shell's edge and held it carefully in his hand.

 

“Tilt you head back so that you're facing the ceiling,” Jones told him.

 

The sailor quickly complied. He leaned back against the side of the chest and tilted his face skyward. He tried to follow what Jones was doing out of his peripheral vision, then realized that the captain was moving toward him again anyway.

 

“This will feel stifling for a moment,” Jones warned. “The water will activate it, though, so there's no reason to panic.” As he said it, he settled the thin film over Norrington's face, covering him from ear to ear and from forehead to chin.

 

The film that had seemed transparent before suddenly became opaque, and all Norrington could see was a dazzling, pearly whiteness. He tried to close his eyes against the glare, but found them stuck open as the film settled onto his face. Worse yet, he realized, he was unable to breathe; the film was completely blocking his nose and mouth. Before he could worry any further on those details, however, he felt himself pushed fully under the water. The film seemed to cling tighter yet, and he began to struggle to keep conscious thought.

 

Norrington reached up to pull the film away from his face and found nothing but skin under his fingers. He realized with a feeling of dread that he was also unable to clear his nose or mouth, as there was nothing physically seeming to block them anymore. He worried that something must have gone wrong and reached up to alert Jones to his trouble, only to find his hand brushing long wooden planks - with a sinking heart, Norrington realized that Jones must have closed the lid of the chest.

 

Despite the captain's instructions, panic began to set in. He pushed desperately against the lid, hoping to lift it, but found no give at all. He ran his hands along the edges of the chest but likewise found nothing that moved or gave way.

 

“What are you looking for?” The small voice from the bottom of the trunk startled Norrington, and he gasped involuntarily. He winced, expecting to feel sharp pain as his lungs filled up with water; instead, he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He exhaled carefully and looked around.

 

This is crazy, he thought. I...I'm not dead. I'm not drowning. And...I'm hearing things.

 

“We're down here,” the voice said again. “There's a shelter for us on the bottom of the chest; we took refuge here when you started flailing around.”

 

Norrington looked toward the voice in disbelief. “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you?” Then his eyes widened in shock as he realized that he'd spoken out loud under the water.

 

“We help out Captain Jones,” the voice said again. Norrington focused on the source of the sound, and as his eyes adapted to the darkness he made out a small shape peering around a ledge in the bottom of the chest. “I don't think that humankind has a word for us yet,” the voice continued. “We don't see many humans where we're from.”

 

“You're from the bottom of the sea, then,” Norrington said. “Humans have explored very near the rest of the world.”

 

“Yes,” the voice replied. “We're very much like those that humans call 'snail'. Captain Jones has us clean things from the human world for him.”

 

“I see.” Norrington carefully drew up his knees to his chest so that he was curled more comfortably, then let himself settle on the bottom of the chest. “I suppose that's what I am to Davy Jones now,” he said. “I'm one of the 'things' that he collects. We can't become the derelict souls that man this ship, or we're no more useful to him than they are; nor can he let us die and sink down to the Locker.”

 

Just then, the lid to the chest opened again and the yellow light from the captain's room flooded into the water. Norrington blinked and shielded his eyes with his hand; he could make out Jones's silhouette looming above the chest.

 

“Well, then, come on out.” Jones's voice reverberated through the water as he spoke. “It seems you've finally adjusted and settled down.”

 

Norrington hesitated slightly, then unfolded his legs and shakily stood. Water ran from his mouth as he started to speak and he coughed a bit; then he realized he was breathing the air as easily as he'd been breathing the water. “S-sir?” he asked.

 

“The Flying Dutchman submerges on a regular basis,” Jones said. “It's how we're able to sneak up on our prey. You need to be able to breathe both above and below the water, just as the rest of the crew does.”

 

“It was...it was that film you put over my face,” Norrington said. “The stuff that came out of that shell.”

 

“Yes, it's a handy concoction, isn't it?” Jones replied. “Derived from the finest magic combined with knowledge of the sea.” He thumped across the room to the shelves and pushed aside a clump of seaweed. Underneath, a large tin glinted slightly in the wavering lamp light. “This is for the rest of your body,” he said. “It'll keep you from feeling the effects of the sea; most humans don't hold up too well when exposed to water for great lengths of time.”

 

Norrington took the tin that was presented to him and carefully removed the lid. Inside, he found a thick, green-hued ointment. He touched it gingerly and rubbed it between two of his fingers; it had the texture and consistency of a fine skin cream and smoothed easily over the finger tips.

 

“Rub it into your body,” Jones instructed. “Make sure you're careful to cover everything - the ointment will only stay green until it's absorbed; you'll look no different afterward.” As he spoke, he knelt down and picked up Norrington's discarded clothes. He carried them to the chest that Norrington had just vacated and dumped them into it.

 

Norrington glanced at the ointment then looked down the length of his body. “E-everything, Sir?” he asked.

 

“Everything that you don't want to shrivel and rot off,” Jones replied. He leered at Norrington, then chuckled when the man grimaced nervously and looked nauseous.

 

“Un-understood, Sir,” Norrington replied. He dipped his fingers into the ointment, then starting between his toes and with the bottoms of his feet, he meticulously rubbed it into every inch of his body. He worked his way up his legs and torso, then around his shoulders, neck and face. Norrington closed his eyes to ensure that even his eyelids were covered as he worked the cream into his face and massaged it through his scalp and hair. As he worked down the back of his neck, he realized that no matter what angle he approached it from, he was unable to reach all of his back.

 

Jones, who had been carefully watching the sailor the entire time, saw that Norrington had finally realized the predicament. He gestured toward the bed. “Lie down on your stomach,” he said. “I will apply it to your back - you'll never be able to reach the entire surface by yourself.”

 

Norrington nodded nervously and handed over the ointment, then walked over to the bed. He carefully arranged himself face down on the mats of seaweed that made up the bedclothes. He couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability that was overcoming him again, especially when Jones's cold fingers pressed into his shoulders and began to spread the cream across his back. Against his will, his heart rate and breathing quickened.

 

Jones smirked. He leaned down close to Norrington's face; the tentacles that comprised his beard brushed lightly against Norrington's five o'clock shadow and stroked along his neck. “You know what I'm in the position and authority to do, don't you?” he asked.

 

“Y-yes, Sir,” Norrington replied. He exhaled heavily and tried not to whimper again at the touch of Jones's tentacles.

 

“I take it you have experience, then?” Jones queried.

 

“Not directly,” Norrington said quickly. His eyes traveled away from the captain and focused on the seaweed beneath his face. “It's...not unheard of in the Navy,” Norrington explained. “Sometimes willingly, sometimes punishment for new recruits who got too uppity...off the official record, of course. I never was part of either faction.”

 

“Yes, you seem the type to not give trouble to your superiors. You're virtually unknown on the seas as a troublemaker; in fact, if it weren't for the predicament you've put me in, you wouldn't be on my ship.” Jones paused and pulled back slightly. “That said, I feel the punishment is due.”

 

Norrington bit back a gasp as he felt the captain's fingers slide lower over his back and over his tailbone. The long tentacle finger trailed behind the others and left a moist trail that caught the air currents in the cabin; Norrington shuddered involuntarily. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force his mind to go blank; instead, it jumped back to another place and time.

 

Norrington looked up to see the regal figure of his father absorbed in conversation with one of their close family friends. He couldn't quite make out what it was they were discussing, but he figured he would be uninterested in the conversation anyway. It was probably business again, or perhaps talk about how to best get young Norrington into the field early.

 

Around them, brightly colored flags flapped in the breeze, and sturdy canvas tents decorated in a variety of gaudy colors and accessories hawked attractions and foodstuffs. It wasn't Norrington's first time to such a fair, but something in the air seemed different this time. Perhaps it was the fact that he was old enough to appreciate the business aspect of the fair as well as the entertainment factor, or maybe it was just the beautiful weather and blue sky that promised so much.

 

A group of giggling girls, a bit older than Norrington himself, exited one of the nearby tents just then. Norrington's father and his friend paused in their conversation as the girls walked past, totally oblivious to the mens' presence.

 

“Can you believe it?” one of the girls asked. “Married on my eighteenth birthday! I'm so excited...I wonder who it's going to be?”

 

“You didn't even tell her you were looking,” another girl exclaimed. “And she knew that your father has asked you about it without us even telling her! Oh, I'm going to go ask my father for money so that I can have her tell my future too!”

 

Norrington glanced at the tent that they'd come out of. A painted sign in front of it proclaimed fortune telling; an elderly woman in mismatched, hand-me-down garb stood in the entrance to the tent. She noticed Norrington looking her way and caught his eye.

 

“You have an interesting destiny before you, my boy,” she said. “Would you like to find out about it?”

 

Norrington glanced up at his father questioningly. His father glanced between the old woman and his son with a bemused smile on his face. He pressed some coins into Norrington's palm and nodded in the direction of the tent. “Fairs are for wasting money,” he said. “Go ahead and entertain yourself with the old gypsy - Mister Donnelly and I will be walking about.”

 

The boy closed his hand around the coins and nodded. “Yes, Father,” he said. He headed to the fortune teller's tent.

 

Discomfort turned to pain, and Norrington instinctively lurched forward against the bed. He cried out, then bit his lower lip to stifle the sound. His chest heaved as the long, muscular appendage pressed deeper into his body and stretched him further still. Norrington pressed his face into the bed to smother his vocalized pain.

 

“Ah, ah, Mister Norrington,” Jones warned. His facial tentacles wrapped around Norrington's chin and lifted his face upward. “I want to hear you and be sure that you're learning your lesson properly.”

 

Norrington grimaced as one of the smaller tentacles teased at the corners of his mouth, trying to make the teeth release the lower lip. He groaned; even without Jones's admonition, he wasn't able to restrain his voice any longer. The groan became another cry of pain, this time louder, as the Dutchman's captain renewed his efforts.

 

Norrington sat in front of the fortune teller's table and watched the old woman as she gazed intently on a crystal ball in front of her. He looked at the orb, trying to determine exactly what it was that one could possibly see - he could see reflections from the tent around them, the distorted appearance of the ball's stand and the table underneath it, and the whitish sheen of the crystal itself - nothing else. The woman folded her hands before her face and studied Norrington for a moment. “You have a complex and adventure-filled destiny before you, my boy,” she began.

 

“Tell me another one,” Norrington scoffed. “The way things are going around here I'm likely to wind up a merchant, peddling goods for the East India Trading Company.”

 

“No, no,” the woman replied. “I see a military future ahead of you...ships. The Royal Navy. A sword belonging to a Commodore being presented to you.”

 

Norrington was now listening more intently. “I'm going to be a Commodore?” he asked. He didn't want to believe what the woman was telling him; he knew these people had reputations as swindlers, but at the same time the idea was compelling. Despite his father's reservations, he'd discovered a love for the sea and wanted nothing more than to make it his life.

 

The woman took a deep breath and sorted through some cards on her table. Norrington noticed that they were all face down, showing decorative backs that didn't give any indication of right side up or upside down. She shuffled them about in a loose pile for several minutes, then pushed the stack toward Norrington. “Choose a card,” she said.

 

The boy hesitated for a moment then reached toward the table. He'd intended to simply grab the card closest to him, but something seemed to pull his hand further in; he let it hover for a moment before grasping the edge of a card that was barely peeking out of the pile. He withdrew it and turned it face up on the table.

 

“The Chariot,” she breathed. “I should have expected nothing less.”

 

Norrington studied the figure driving a golden chariot illustrated on the card. He had a powerful, regal bearing and looked like he could command the world. His steeds were proud and balanced and his garb was fine and formal. “What does this mean?” he demanded.

 

“It means you can expect great things in your life, my boy,” the old gypsy said. “But you must stay true to your character. You must always do what is right. That is what the task of the Charioteer is - discipline, honor, pride.” She continued to explain the card to him.

 

“And if I do this?” Norrington asked. “If I stay true to the honorable path...if I always do what is right, no matter what...?”

 

“Great things...” the gypsy said. “Great things will befall you.”

 

Norrington's eyes flew open as one of the smaller tentacles near his face forced his lips apart and invaded his mouth. He tried to pull his head back, but the other tentacles held him firmly in place. Norrington felt his stomach turn at the slick texture and the taste of raw fish and sea water. He gagged as the tentacle pushed further in.

 

Jones tilted his head back to look into the man's eyes. “If you know what's good for you, you'll relax your throat,” Jones said. “Otherwise, it'll only get worse.”

 

Tears pooled at the corners of Norrington's eyes and spilled down the sides of his face as he moved his tongue carefully and flexed his jaw to swallow. He fought down the urge to vomit and allowed the wet appendage better access.

 

“That's better,” Jones commended. “I expect total obedience on my ship, Mister Norrington.”

 

Norrington let out a strangled cry as the thick tentacle stretching his anal muscles began to twist and curl inside of him. He choked on the tentacle in his mouth briefly and tears ran down his face. The in and out sliding motion in his backside was beginning to create a heated friction, despite how moist and smooth the tentacle had seemed, and his breathing was staggered as he struggled to take the one in his mouth. He was suddenly horrified to find the muscles in his groin beginning to tighten as his body began to respond to the ministrations.

 

“No,” Norrington thought desperately. “No, this can't be happening to me. This can't be the fate that I was promised.” He tried to close his mind again and tried to will away the sensations starting to wrack his body, but he already knew it was too late. It was far too late to save his purity of heart and mind, and now it was too late for his body as well.

 

Norrington stood outside the gypsy's tent and gazed blankly around the fairgrounds. He knew vaguely that he was looking for his father, but his mind kept traveling back to what the old woman had told him. He'd given up all of the money that his father had given him, but he considered the lengthy conversation with her to be worth it.

 

He now wanted more than anything to convince his father to let him join the Royal Navy. He would be a Commodore! Even if the gypsy were just guessing, he knew that with hard work and dedication he could make it come true. The power, the wealth and the honor would be his for the taking.

 

Something the gypsy had said later in their conversation nagged at him, though. She had admitted that even she didn't have a good image of the situation, because it spanned a length of time instead of just one incident.

 

“I expect that your father would find it uncouth for me to mention such things to you,” she began, “but you must guard your purity. I see no wife or children for you as your career ascends. The spirits tell me, however, that it is because you must remain pure and untainted. Your purity is for one whom you will get to know over years - nay, over a decade. This one will earn your love, your respect and your honor. This one is who will claim your purity.”

 

“Do you know who she is?” Norrington asked eagerly. “Is she someone I know? Is she from a wealthy family? Is she beautiful and kind?” A thousand questions ran through his head regarding the traits of an ideal wife.

 

“I cannot see,” the gypsy said. “And neither will the spirits say. It is only the warning and the result.”

 

The words faded out of Norrington's mind again as he saw his father walking toward him. He quickly hurried to his father's side and drew himself up straight to begin a conversation that he'd had before but that he now had a renewed resolve to continue. “Father, I think that I should like to join the Royal Navy,” he said.

 

Norrington fisted the bedding and arched his back as the climax forced an involuntary shudder through his body. Tears continued to run down his cheeks, but he no longer cared. It wasn't worth trying to save pride or honor with this captain - even when gentle, he was cruel and unforgiving, just like the sea. Norrington slumped down on the bed in exhaustion.

 

Jones leaned down close to Norrington's face again. “I own you, Mister Norrington,” he said quietly. “Remember that at all times. You answer to me, and me only.”

 

Norrington nodded weakly. He let his mind go blank for a few moments as Jones sat up and moved off of the bed. He was only vaguely aware of the sounds Jones made as he moved about the small room. He was briefly aware of his world suddenly spinning crookedly and an odd sensation of falling even while still feeling the firm bed underneath his body.

 

When he was next aware of his surroundings, he found himself opening his eyes to the same bed and walls. He rolled over onto his back and noticed that Jones was conspicuously absent; the room was silent save for the usual creaking of a ship and the rich, eerie sound of Jones's pipe organ playing on the deck above him. Norrington sat up slowly and held his spinning head in his hands as he tried to come to terms with the events of the day.

 

As his head cleared, Norrington noticed that his clothing was hanging on the wall near one of the lamps, slowly drying in the soft, amber glow of the flame inside the lantern. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then stood unsteadily. He started to walk forward, then stumbled and fell sideways against the bed; he realized that he must not have been out that long, because the alcohol was still affecting his movement. He thought about retrieving the clothes and putting them back on, but upon realizing that he wasn't entirely sure if Jones was done with him, he decided against it - the temporary pseudo-comfort it would give would not be worth stirring the captain's anger.

 

Norrington sat back down on the bed and pulled the blankets up around himself. He huddled in the woven seaweed for several moments, until the music from the organ stopped; he looked up just as the door to the room opened again and Davy Jones walked back into the room.

 

Jones eyed Norrington critically for a moment, then retrieved the clothing from the wall and tossed them to him. Though they were still damp, Norrington took them gratefully and pulled them under the blankets with himself.

 

Jones waved to him to put them on. “Go on and get dressed,” he said. He walked around to the other side of the bed and slid a long, flat wooden box out from underneath it.

 

Norrington shifted his body to try to see what the captain was doing while at the same time still putting on his clothes. He watched as Jones pulled a long, dark coat and a small metal tin out of the box and then closed it and slid it back under the bed.

 

“Here,” Jones said. He handed the coat to Norrington. “It's been around the seas for many a year, but it's well-made and should fit you well enough. It'll help stave off some of the cold when we move into colder seas.”

 

Norrington reached for the coat and held it up before himself; the actual material was leathery and was black with age; what had appeared to be a colored print was various small flora and fauna settling themselves on the outside of the coat. He gingerly put his arms into the sleeves and settled the coat around his shoulders. Norrington had to admit that it did fit fairly well for not being tailored to him, and with the bottom of the coat swinging around his knees, it helped keep his body heat closer to his skin. The coat went well with his black leather boots and despite the encroachment of sea life did not smell any worse than the rest of the ship.

 

Jones opened the tin and carefully drew out a small, black stick with one of his smaller tentacles. The appendage curled delicately around the stick and raised it away from Jones's body. The captain rounded the bed and stopped in front of Norrington.

 

“This is for lining your eyes; a number of peoples around the world use it to help protect their eyes from the sun. You'll need it as well, for the regions that we're going to be traveling the most; I'm sure you've noticed that our friend Jack Sparrow has already taken to lining his eyes.”

 

“Yes, I noticed,” Norrington replied dully. He held his head upright and waited for the captain to make the next move.

 

Rather than handing the kohl to Norrington as the sailor expected, Jones leaned forward and gently raised the tentacle holding the stick. Norrington stood frozen, half from shock and half from nervousness as the captain carefully traced underneath Norrington's eyes.

 

“Close your eyes,” Jones instructed.

 

Norrington did so, and after a second felt a gentle pressure on his eyelid as the kohl was moved across the lid and down to the corner of the eye. Jones then did the same for the other eye and then stepped back.

 

“You may open your eyes again,” Jones said.

 

Norrington slowly opened his eyes and looked toward the Dutchman's captain. Jones was busy tucking the kohl back into the tin, which he snapped shut and tucked into his own jacket.

 

“I'm done with you for today,” Jones said brusquely. He walked to the door and opened it, then gestured for Norrington to lead the way back out into the main cabin. “After you, Mister Norrington.”

 

Norrington looked at the floor as he quickly moved to obey the captain's request. He wasn't looking forward to facing either of the other two right away, especially since he still hadn't sorted out his own emotions regarding what had happened to him. He sighed heavily as he and Jones approached the makeshift cage and finally lifted his eyes to look at the two still on the other side of the bars.

 

Jack and Will, who had watched Norrington and Jones approach initially out of idle boredom, now both sat up and stared at them. Neither was quite sure what to think about Norrington's makeover, or even why Jones might have done it to him.

 

Jones opened the door to the cell and Norrington automatically entered. He latched the door securely behind Norrington and tucked the key into his tentacles. “Since Mister Turner knows where I keep my keys anyway,” Jones commented snidely. He turned away from them and headed out the main door toward the deck.

 

Norrington avoided Jack's and Will's eyes as he settled himself into the unclaimed bottom hammock. He turned over on his side and faced the wall, hoping that the other two would ignore him, though he knew subconsciously that he could not get that lucky.

 

“So, your first act of piracy is kidnapping, and your second is stealing my eyeliner style,” Jack commented. “I'm afraid that you, my friend, have earned the 'worst pirate ever' title that you were so wanting to grant to me.”

 

“Oh, bugger off!” Norrington snapped. He flipped over onto his back and stared up at the bottom of the hammock above him, where Jack was reclining. “I'll have you know that Captain Jones put the liner around my eyes - and even if he hadn't, I'm quite sure that no one can own a way to put makeup on.”

 

“Yes they can,” Jack insisted. He rolled over and peered over the edge of his hammock at Norrington.

 

“No, they can't,” Norrington replied.

 

“Can.”

 

“CAN'T!”

 

“Would both of you just quit?” Will finally demanded. He shouted over both of their voices to be heard, then lowered his voice as they paused to listen to him. “You're both acting like two year olds.”

 

“All three of you idiots shut it!” Jones said. He clumped back into the cabin and approached the bars. “Or I'll have the bosun close your mouths for you.”

 

He unlocked the door to the cell and opened it again. “It's running on evening, but there are still hours enough in the day to take care of some necessary duties,” he said. “Sparrow, follow me.”