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[scourgeofpiracy]

There's an office in Port Royal that James Norrington used to know as well as his own house.

He hasn't been there in months, in the real world. So it's really no surprise that he dreams himself back there, once in a while. That he dreams he never fell from grace.

He's sitting behind the desk, papers in hand.

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The large window of the office looks out to the bay, a normal, familiar scene.

Also familiar is the sight of the three ships at anchor there- the Dauntless, the Interceptor II, and the Worthington. Their sails are furled, but their flags and banners can be seen waving gaily in the ever constant ocean breeze.

Three ships, for the Commodore to command. Three ships for one specific purpose.

There is a chill in the afternoon tropical sunshine, cutting through the dream.

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The sails catch his eye, outside, and he gets up and walks to the window for a better look... which turns into a long look.

It's not as if he'll ever see them again, outside the dream.

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One moment, the bay is calm, the ships safely at port, sunshine and gentle breezes.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
The next, shadows and storm have overtaken the scene. The familiar buildings of the town are overtaken by waves, wrack and ruin. The three ships are tempest tossed, winds howling and rattling the windows of the office-
Nothing beside remains.
But inside is untouched except for the chill of the grave, seeping past his uniform coat into Norrington's bones.

"Sir, I exist."

"With respect, sir, did you think you could hold on to your happy and false memories, even here?"

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Norrington doesn't turn, not wanting to see what he knows is behind him.

"Here, at least", he says wearily. "But perhaps not."

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"Perhaps not, indeed."

From the corner of his eye, Norrington dimly see the figure standing next to him, looking out the window as they once had looked out over the railing of the Interceptor II.

("Commodore Norrington, the storm -- the ship, sir, she won't take it! We've got to turn back!")

(Two of the injured sailors emerge from the cabin in the surgeon's wake, carrying between them a smaller, blanket-wrapped figure that is gently laid down on the deck.)

The midshipman's lips twitch wryly.

"But you do happen to be alive, Commodore. You do not have to dwell with the sea and storm and dying for all of enternity. So it would be remiss of our duty to let you forget, wouldn't it be, sir?"

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"Don't call me that", he says sharply. "I've no right to it now. And I don't think... being forgotten is a thing you need worry about."

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"Aye-aye, sir. Yes sir, and right away, sir." He snaps a salute, bitterness leeching into his words.

"Too bad you cannot have thought to do that before you dragged us all along on a suicidal mission to try to save your pride and rank, Commodore. Or do officers give a care to the men who must follow them, even to the depths of hell itself?"

Somehow, even at the distance from the port to Norrington's office, the screams of men being swept from the Worthington and tossed into the sea can be heard over the howling of the wind.

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Norrington shudders, eyes closing uselessly.

"There was no turning back. If I could have done anything else..."

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"If's after the fact do not account for much, Commodore."
Theirs not to make reply
Hollow sounding footsteps move around him, circling, pacing.
Theirs not to reason why
"For only the living get 'if only's', and other people are stuck with the consequences of your own bad decisions, sir. The dead know what is happened and done, for they have no hopes and wishes of changing it."
Theirs but to do and die.
The howling of the wind and roar of the waves increases, as if just outside the window, along with the cracking of splintering wood, the snapping of tearing sails, and the screaming of doomed men.

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"You all died well", he says softly. "The bad decisions were none of yours... wherever you are, surely it's better than this?"

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There is no warning, none at all-

Norrington is grabbed, turned, and slammed back against the windows, ice-cold hands grabbing ahold of his uniform coat. Green eyes blaze in a pale, washed out face, inches away from his.

"If I were anywhere else, do you think I would be here speaking to you??"

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Norrington has no choice but to face him now. Face it, what he did.

"And when you leave me tonight?"

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I go back. Back to the Interceptor, sir." He laughs, bitterly, letting go of Norrington and taking a step back.

"Can ships die, and haunt as ghosts do? Since they are here as well, I would think so, Commodore."

"Aye, they can haunt, and if we cannot touch the world of the living, we can still make sure that the living cannot forget us. Ever."

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Green eyes fix on him, and Norrington doesn't look away. He owes the young man this, at least.

"And I say, I will not. Not while my mind is still my own."

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The midshipman eyes him, shoulders back, and chin up stubbornly.

"See that you do not, Commodore."

Then maybe he fades away, maybe he does not. Norrington has no time to notice as the waves crash in-

crash through

the walls of the office. He remembers this, does not he? The freezing cold water, the storm tossing one about until you did not know which was was up, naught but a plaything for the elements-

Did he survive the hurricane? Or had everything after it been just an instant twist of a dream as the water sucked him under-

I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

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He does remember, yes.

And for a good few moments, even after he wakes gasping and sweat-drenched in his own bed at Milliways, he's not sure whether he lived or died, that day.

Perhaps he wishes it had been the latter.