scourgeofpiracy | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's not the first time he's found himself, in dreams, in a place that's lost to him in reality. That time was in the office that now belongs to Cutler Beckett, but in this dream...

...in this dream, he's aboard the Endeavour, whole and undamaged and there as she'll never be again.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'I see.' Quietly, as he studies Norrington. 'One of yours, once?'

"The Endeavour." His voice is low, and he's not meeting the other man's eyes. "The finest ship in the fleet. Once."

'A beauty.' There's a touch of compassion in the words, a sentiment echoed in the way he brushes the fingertips of one hand along the spines of the books on the nearby shelf. 'They seldom build them so well, nowadays.'

A few steps move him closer to the stretch of windows at the very stern of the ship. The view through the glass is hazy, as if the Endeavour is shrouded in fog.

'Why am I here, Mister Norrington?'

"I... don't know", Norrington admits after a moment. "Perhaps the ship was empty."

'And you thought to make her less so?' A slight lifting of the shoulders, almost a shrug. 'Perhaps. I suppose it is true that of all those who might be aboard, I am one of the least likely to cause you grief by virtue of my very presence.'

He tilts his head back a little, as if in thought.

'I am not your enemy, sir. Quite the opposite, in fact. Though I cannot entirely say that I am your ally.'

"I have no true allies, sir", Norrington returns, voice sombre. "Not any more - save perhaps one. But I have enemies enough that one less is welcome."

The commodore's mouth twists wryly. 'Then you may consider me an...interested party, shall we say. It is a position I have held often enough in the past.'

He moves away from the fog-wrapped window, a pace or two nearer to the captain's desk. There are papers spread out across the desk, marked charts and navigational maps and scraps of parchment with calculations, rosters, accounts, everything necessary for a voyage. None of the markings are clear, though -- looking at any piece of paper for too long only makes the writing waver and blur.

'I believe that when last we spoke, quite some time ago, we were interrupted shortly after I had asked you a question. Do you recall the substance of that conversation?'

"How could I forget?" he asks, voice still low as he glances over at the desk. "Captain Sparrow was the interruption, as I remember."

'Indeed, he was.' Said dryly, though his expression does not change. 'He forestalled an answer then. And though you are under no real obligation to answer now, the question still stands.'

A beat of silence. Then two.

'Was it really the only game available?'

"No real obligation but my own", Norrington says quietly. "And the simple answer is... it was the one that presented itself."

A single nod, more of acknowledgement than agreement.

'Your options were rather limited at the time,' he says. 'And so you took the decision and accepted the consequences. From what I know of you, Mister Norrington, you are quite adept at doing so -- and in many respects it is a worthy character trait. But nevertheless, even if you accept the consequences of your actions, you have no guarantee that they will be what you expect.'

"Is that so." Norrington looks up at him, finally. "I'm already, let's say... considering if I might have made other choices. And coming up rather short, in the circumstances."

The commodore gives him a look reminiscent of a schoolmaster faced with a recalcitrant pupil.

'Do elaborate, Mister Norrington. I may be many things, but omniscient is not one of them.'

"I made a promise, to a certain lady of our mutual acquaintance", Norrington tells him. "And while I could, perhaps, extricate myself from the current situation... I doubt I could do the same for her father."

'Ah.'

Quietly, more of an exhaled breath than an actual word.

Then:

'And how do you intend to assist him?'

"In any way I can." His voice is sober. "I told Elizabeth I would protect him, if it's in my power."

The commodore does not reply for a long moment. He seems to be weighing Norrington's words; one can almost hear the delicate sound of a settling balance in the silence.

'Your current employers -- our current employers, for that matter -- know the cards in your hand, and they likely have a far better idea than you do of precisely how those cards may be played in any given situation. There may come a moment where your only recourse will be to change the rules of the game as best you can...if it is in your power to do so.'

Norrington looks at him carefully.

"Changing the rules... an effective strategy, where it's possible. Would you have any suggestions, sir?"

'None as concrete as I would like,' he admits, with a slight shake of his head. 'It will very likely depend on how matters progress from here on out. But one thing to keep in mind is that in a game where all of the players are mercenaries, every action is reckoned in terms of prices to be paid or prizes to be won...and as such, a move that takes neither into account can come as quite a surprise, strategically speaking.'

He places a hand on the top-most navigational chart on the desk. At his touch, the blurred lines resolve themselves into a sharp, perfectly drawn map of the Caribbean waters nearest to Port Royal -- a map that Norrington could almost certainly draw with his eyes closed.

Norrington considers this, giving the map a cursory glance - because yes, he does know it like the back of his hand.

"I shall remember that."

And he will.

The map remains clear and perfectly drawn as Commodore Lyon lifts his hand, and proceeds to adjust the cuffs of his dress coat. 'A sensible man once said -- or rather, will say -- that corporations have neither bodies to be punished nor souls to be condemned, and therefore they do as they like. But that alone does not make them invulnerable...and it certainly does not make them immortal.'

It is at that moment that the faint clang of a ship's bell rings out, the echoes drifting into the cabin from somewhere in the heavy mist that surrounds the ship.

Dark, inscrutable eyes meet Norrington's. 'I believe you have the watch, Mister Norrington.'

Norrington doesn't look away.

"I believe you're right. Go well, Commodore."

He touches his hat in a small, polite half-salute.

'Go well, Mister Norrington. And I wish you good fortune, in your endeavour.'

The ship's bell tolls again, more loudly this time. And as the echoes fade away, he is no longer there.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only