PRINCIPLES OF COMPROMISE
- Dis/Claimer-
. Chapter Six .
Evening was fast approaching at only half passed six. A chilled breath of wind wisped over a field of chairs facing the recently occupied grave of William Turner, and from within her hollow core, a shiver crept all over Elizabeth’s skin. The tiny hairs stood on end as her eyes stared transfixed into despair and helplessness.
At the back of this mass seating arrangement, Commodore Norrington bid the last lingering guests good evening with a sad, forced smile. As they left, his eyes scanned the empty field before falling on Elizabeth once more; she had not moved since the end of the ceremony. Concern and sympathy began to ache within him at the site of her, and it propelled him to go to her.
He was silent and respectful in his approach, finding a seat beside her in the full face of dusk’s glowing light. Her rose still lay delicately but protectively in her lap as she remained motionless and unresponsive. He thought of her gleaming form turning to cold stone, staying in this place forever to mourn the loss of Will. He knew she would do it if she could. Nevertheless, he looked forward, stifling a sigh.
“Every man must do two things alone,” he said in a low voice, capturing a bit of attentiveness in Elizabeth. Her eyes lifted as he continued, “He must do his own believing… and his own dying.”
Her eyes glazed over. “How inappropriate,” she said suddenly. Norrington became uneasy, his intentions of comfort beginning to backfire already.
“I apolo-“
“He wasn’t alone.”
Elizabeth’s face wore a thick scorn of hatred and sorrow, and he now regretted coming, believing he had only caused her more heartache. He had no response. He just wanted to leave despite the rudeness of the idea, but when his eyes bravely caught her face once more, he saw that her scorn had turned watery. Her eyes were still open as if ignoring the tears spilling out of them freely.
“Perhaps this situation would be more bearable if I knew with whom the responsibility lie,” she said angrily, her face twisting momentarily. It relaxed again, turning sullen. “That is my only wish.”
Norrington drew a deep breath. “Concerning the circumstances of a fate so undeserving of him as well as you, you shall have your wish granted to the best of my abilities.” His tone had been light, sincere. He looked over at her, her eyes possessing an ounce of admiration, hope, and life.
“Thank you,” she managed softly.
He saw no reason for her thanks but said, “It is something to which I feel obligated. Fate has done you a cruel injustice, Elizabeth. It owes you a second chance at life.”
“It owes me that which I cannot have,” Elizabeth said, staring back into oblivion. “Happiness.”
“A depravity all must suffer,” he replied bleakly, “including those most unworthy of it.”
Elizabeth felt her body numb briefly again, but a warmth was trying to rekindle somewhere inside of her. She held his words in high esteem, very much content with the new man he had become. The old James Norrington would have never spoken with her on the level of comfort they shared now. It was gratifying in that moment where only they existed, the darkness enclosing them. She found his eyes, but he looked down at the rose in her lap.
“Memories are all you have now. They are your only defense,” he said gently. “Why not deceive happiness and think only of the days you smiled?”
She did smile, weakly, though it was enough for James. Elizabeth looked down at the rose, her fingers pinching the stem between the thorns. Norrington stood with her, following her up to Will’s grave. His coffin was almost entirely hidden beneath an assortment of flowers left by the many mourners, and then Elizabeth slowly raised and released hers – the only red rose in the pile. Her hand recoiled hesitantly. After a few moments, Norrington stood straight again.
“Elizabeth.”
She forced herself to look away and over at James. He held out a handkerchief, and she slowly took it, bringing it to her eyes. She wiped away the trails the tears had left for the passed several hours before smiling sadly up at Norrington briefly.
“The dinner is about to begin,” he told her. He raised his arm. “May I?”
Elizabeth lowered the handkerchief before stepping beside him and accepting his escort. They smiled at one another, the long walk now a little more tolerable as the emerging stars watched them leave the field.
x x x
The atmosphere of the dinner at Fort Carlisle was, of course, dismal. Mourners were beginning to rise from the tables and mingle, but Elizabeth remained seated, murmurs and chatter snaking around her. She tried her best not to acknowledge them in the company of her father, Lord Beckett, James, and the minister at the end of the table. She requested Norrington to sit with her, and her father obliged out of respect. He remained with her as he father left with the minister, a protectiveness about his posture.
Beckett watched the two carefully from across the table. Elizabeth discreetly pushed her food around with an empty gaze, and Norrington looked over at her as if to say something.
“Miss Swann,” – Norrington and Elizabeth looked up at Beckett as he lowered his wine glass and stood – “I was wondering if I might talk with you in private later this evening.”
She hesitated, glancing over at James. Finally, she nodded, rising. “Of course.”
“I can’t now, I’m afraid,” he said, Norrington now standing, too. “I have a matter to tend to. But if you would be so kind and punctual as to meet me at the field in an hour?”
Her eyes narrowed. “The field?” Why there?
“Yes.”
She didn’t know what to think. Why would he have her meet him at Will’s burial site? She was suspicious, though her face did not show it as much as Norrington’s did. Although she felt against it, she saw a twinkle in Beckett’s eye that drew her in.
“I will meet you there.”
Beckett smiled. “Wonderful. In an hour, m’lady.” He bowed slightly before walking away. Elizabeth and Norrington exchanged looks, both convinced that something was wrong.
“I’m coming with you,” Norrington said, still looking after Beckett as he walked out of sight. Elizabeth wrapped her arm around his uneasily, and Norrington led her away from the table.
x x x
Half asleep, half awake, and half bored, Jack’s mind roamed itself inside and out.
Elizabeth.
A splash off the battlement.
A pirate’s kiss.
A roaring fire.
And a bottle of rum.
He smiled, head lolling back and forth on the wall.
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me…”
His smile faded, realizing that he was in fact not on his ship with rum in his hand as he and his crew sailed off after another treasure. He was stuck in this ruddy prison cell with some straw.
And a few late night visits from Elizabeth…
And that useless piece of paper Will had left him…
His eyes opened, and he searched his pockets, finally retrieving the wrinkled parchment. He scowled and opened it, looking at the message with some difficulty in the dim light.
You have your freedom. Always keep it with you.
Jack smirked. Bugger…
His hand found the key amongst the jumbles of odds and ends in his hair, and he looked at it with a frown. Will was bloody mocking him from the grave. This key was his freedom, was it? If he kept it with him, he could just-
Jack’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the key and over at the lock. He lifted the key in front of his eyes, realization dawning on him.
“Bloody hell!” he hissed, jumping up on his knees and pressing his face against the iron bars. He tugged the key through, positioned it inside the lock, turned it, and the door eased away from the wall less than an inch. Jack stared, mouth agape.
I take back everything pestiferous I ever said against your good name, Mr. Turner.
x x x
The air was biting cold, and the gentle winds only made it worse. Elizabeth clutched her coat closer as Norrington helped her out of the carriage on the edge of the road next to the field. She shivered as she looked out over the mass of chairs for any sign of Beckett.
“Do you see him?” Norrington asked.
Her eyes caught sight of a figure far away standing at Will’s grave. Her body tensed.
“There,” she said, moving forward.
“Should I come?” he asked.
“No. But wait for me.”
Norrington nodded. A gust blew into Elizabeth’s face as she walked towards the grave for a second time that evening. As she got closer, the questions in her mind concerning Lord Beckett’s purpose of meeting in this spot vanished. The figure was not Lord Beckett; it was someone else. Someone she recognized. Someone that should not be there.
She stopped five feet behind him in disbelief. “Jack?” In the silence, she stepped up beside him, seeing the figure’s profile to be none other than his. Jack did not look up.
“How did you get out?” she asked quietly.
Jack looked over at her as his hand dived into his pocket. He held up Will’s key. “I have my freedom,” he said proudly. “Always keep it with me. Besides, had to pass by and pay the man my last respets.” Elizabeth’s mouth opened slightly as she took the key from Jack in amazement. She gave a short laugh.
“Jack… you can’t leave now,” she said realistically, meeting his eyes. “You have no ship in port-“
“My means of escape have been more limited in the past,” Jack said.
Elizabeth chose not to argue, figuring he had been right. “Jack, Lord Beckett is on his way here, and if he sees you-“
“So that’s why you’re here? Meeting dangerous men to discuss topics unknown to you?”
Elizabeth shrunk a little under his gaze but put up a defense. “It’s not as if I’ve never done that before.”
“And what’s preventing me from skipping town right – now?” he asked demandingly, stepping up to her. “I wouldn’t be the only thing that’s missing.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at the comment, but her train of thought ceased as Jack reached out and touched her neck, slowly caressing the base of it. She was shocked by the sensation it gave her until it registered. She grabbed his hand, feeling around her own neck frantically.
“The pearl-“
“Oh! So you’ve noticed.” His tone was sarcastic. She gave him a sharp glare, but it turned guilty. She hadn’t looked at it once all day.
“Where is it?” she asked.
A torchlight touched the side of Elizabeth’s face. She gasped, seeing that Beckett’s carriage had arrived. Her heart raced, hoping he had not seen Jack. She whipped around to him, but his face was still hard.
“Why don’t you ask him?” Jack suggested.
Elizabeth knew the legend surrounding black pearls. She had heard it at a young age – along with many other outlandish tales - from Mr. Gibbs when he used to be an honest (but drunk) sailor of the fleet. Suddenly, fear poisoned her.
She looked up at Jack, shaking her head. “No.”
“Oh yes, Lizzie,” he murmured bewitchingly close to her ear. “Yes.”
Elizabeth felt a surprising surge rush through her at his closeness, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Jack then dashed away; the light was coming closer. Elizabeth felt breathless as he fled from her, her thoughts hashed. Beckett had the pearl. How? Had she-?
Her face fell.
The prison.
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