Title: A Chronicle of the Heart

Author: Lady Eigh (ladyeigh@yahoo.com)

Pairing: James Norrington/Will Turner

Rating: PG,  for fight scenes and aftermath

Category: Romance, some angst

Warnings: mild mention of het, death (but not one of the boys)

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, they belong to Disney and I have simply commandeered them for the duration.

Notes: Thanks to Hergerbabe for the beta.

 

No Magic Words – A Chronicle of the Heart

 

March 1, 17_____

Attended a gala at the Governor's Mansion this evening, a celebration for the first anniversary of the marriage of his only child.  Master and Mistress Turner served admirably as the hosts and guests of honour.  Elizabeth grows ever more beautiful, her smile lights up a room and her marriage seems to have given her much to smile about.  Will was also luminous.  He is still ill at ease in the circles of the Swann family but his pure skill with forge and flame has won him great acclaim.  I believe he is more confident now that he is known as more than the son-in-law of the Governor of Port Royal.  Indeed, he has had commissions for blades from as far afield as London and Paris. 

I must confess to having no small part in this.  I have written to colleagues far and wide and also to others of my acquaintance raving of the master sword maker who resides here.  I could not bear the look on his face any longer; he was ashamed of his trade, feeling himself below his wife.  No man who is loved as deeply as he is should feel thus, especially not this man who would risk life and limb for all to whom he is devoted. 

I always enjoy those times I am invited to dinner at the Turner residence.  Theirs is a small home to be certain but it rings with laughter and joy, their happiness seems to have penetrated the very walls of the parlour and kitchen and most especially the bedchamber.  They are still as giddy as newly weds together and both talk of the other constantly when apart, I can only pray that this never ends.  My sentiments are my own and my heart is filled with joy at theirs.  It is enough for me, for now.

Commodore James Norrington, Commander – Port Royal, Caribbean.

Commodore Norrington closed his journal and ran a pensive hand over its fine grosgrain cover.  Only here in his rooms did he feel confident enough to allow his heart room to surface.  Only here with his uniform hung neatly away and his powdered wig in its case.  Only here where he could be James, a man rather than an officer.  His house had a view of the bay, his chamber facing the sea where only the most eagle eyed of mast men could have seen in.  There was a fresh breeze that night, heavy with the scent of night jasmine and redolent with the cries of the birds.  He had opened his shutters wide to allow as much air as possible into the room. 

James Norrington had gone to sea at 13, joining the fleet as a midshipman and reaching the rank of lieutenant by passing his examination on the first attempt.  For all that he now commanded the military forces on land as well as at sea he knew one thing for certain, he had brine in his veins.  The sea had called him and he had answered.  Deep in his soul where he would never confess it, he knew that was why he had allowed Sparrow to leave from the battlements.  They were too similar for his comfort.  Both men of the sea, both devoted to their own rigid codes of honour and both wishing only the best for the Turner family.  The pirate had declared that the Pearl was his freedom; the first time that he had climbed to the fighting top as a child he had felt the same exhilaration.  He could see for miles, the air was clean and the wind had battered at his pre-pubescent frame.  From that moment on he knew that it would take an enormous shift for him ever to be a land man again.

The moonlight cast its beams over the water of the bay.  It was rippled by the breeze but no more.  The sky was clear and the stars gleamed in their patterns.  James had never believed in the more mystical aspects of the night sky, instead finding joy in them when he used the pinpoints as signposts to his path.  Navigating by sextant, compass, depth log and telescope as he had been taught.  His star was Polaris, the keystone of his path and his route.

He saw the stars clearly in Port Royal; there was no British fog to block his view.  But even this clarity left a miasma in his path.  He knew what his heart's fondest wish and it was not a worthy marriage to a fine woman.  He had sublimated his own desires to conform to society’s demands, but all his good intentions had gradually faded away as Turner had grown.  He had been a curious and lonely child, frightened of his new surroundings and uncertain of the Islands, but he was the half drowned waif no longer.  James’ appointment to the rank of Commodore had placed him under a magnifying lens and the gentry of the Caribbean had begun to question his single life.  With enhanced rank and pay he could no longer truly claim that his life could not accommodate a wife, as had been his prior excuse.  He had managed to have two extremely private affairs with men who also wished to remain out of the public eye; he had even disguised himself and sought out companionship.  These assignations merely scratched a metaphorical itch, sometimes at the risk of a physical one; James wanted a permanent partner, someone to trust and spend his land time with, someone who could stir his heart and soul as well as his loins.  He knew, however, that deep inside he had already chosen his ideal partner and all others would fall short, and so he was alone – dependant on friendship and lonely for love.

Lost in reverie James had finally begun to doze, feet on the hearth and head lolling against the sides of the chair.  The flickering firelight had cast shadows around the room, turning his brandy to liquid fire, gleaming bronze and reminding him anew of his hopeless desires.  He had watched William at his work in the forge, gaping inelegantly as the flames of the fires had glimmered on sweat-dampened, tanned skin and dark curls that had escaped from the leather scraps that he tied it with.  Chocolate eyes that shone with delight as raw iron and steel became the beautiful blades that had spread his fame far and wide.  His mind full of pleasant pictures, James slept.

It was the bell that woke him.  A military man never slept deeply, a part of him always alert to the possibility of being roused to action.  A glance out of the window showed him that it was still mostly dark, false sunlight beginning to shine in the sky.  It was before dawn stations and he knew that only the night guard would be awake. 

James quickly secured his hair at his nape and dressed swiftly, donning the bare bones of his uniform; breeches, stockings and shoes with a fine lawn shirt and his blue coat.  He snatched up his already primed pistols and the fine Turner blade that rested on his desk and ran for the door.  Captain Gardner of the Marines was waiting for him as he exited his front door.

“Attack Sir.  No cannon fire, but there are skirmishers in the streets.”

“The Fort?”

“Intact thus far.  I have placed defenders at the gates.”

“The Governor?”

“Secure.  This seems to be a raid on the merchant quarter.”

The two set off at a fast clip towards the beleaguered area of the town.  Port Royal was an ever-expanding centre of commerce.  More and more quality merchants had joined the community, it had grown rich and some had grown complacent. 

There were fires burning in the town, some of the raided businesses had been deliberately set alight whilst others had caught as candles were dropped and lanterns smashed in the melee.  There were red-coated marines and blue-jacketed sailors taking back control in the streets, dragging raider corpses into untidy piles and comforting those who were wandering around in advanced panic.  The moans of the injured and the indignant squawking of those who had lost nothing but money mixed with screaming children and soothing mothers in a cacophony of sound.  Norrington and Gardner took in the entire hubbub around them with sweeping gazes, notarising and cataloguing as both had been taught.  Their immediate seconds saw them and rushed to report.

“Commodore, Captain.”

“Lieutenant Gillette, current situation?”

“The raiders appear to be pirates sir but they were specific in their attacks.  There has been no widespread looting or pillage.  Specific businesses and artisans have been targeted.  As far as we can judge only those who have taken deliveries in the last week and those who generally have goods of value available.”

“The butcher’s bill?”

“Still being calculated sir but a rough estimate of 15 raiders and 3 military men with some 7 civilians dead.”

“Injured?”

“Still being assessed, sir.”

With a sharp salute the Lieutenant wheeled away into the throng of people that milled through the streets.  There was a sharp odour of burnt flesh in the air, animal and human, its sickly-sweet perfume drifting on the smoke that turned the new dawn to muted grey.  The devastation looked familiar to those who had lived and served in Port Royal during the last pirate raid but James knew for certain that the Black Pearl was not the progenitor of this attack.  Captain Jack Sparrow was many things but he was no tyrant or warmonger and he would never harm a hair on the head of the Turner family.  The Pearl that had struck at the Port had been under the command of the dreaded and heartless Captain Barbossa, not the devious and mischievous Captain Sparrow; no, the mastermind behind this assault was someone else, perhaps even someone new.

Commodore Norrington and Captain Gardner were strict taskmasters who drilled the men under their command until they could function without direct supervision for every eventuality.  Their subordinate officers were in control and organising the streets again.  They had teams of civilians forming chain gangs from the wells and troughs, passing buckets to extinguish the flames that still raged in spurts.  Townsfolk from other parts of Port Royal had also been roused by the bell and had come to offer aid.  They came with fresh buckets and new brewed coffee as well as renewed limbs for the rescue and clean up crews.  All was quickly beginning to come to order, too quickly for James’ peace of mind, he was certain that there was something he was missing.  Then it came to him, in the entire melee, in amongst the fighters who had taken up arms he could not see his beloved or his wife.  He knew without doubt that Will Turner would not have sat idly by whilst his home or the homes and livelihoods of his friends and neighbours were under attack.  Mistress Turner was also a fair hand with a blade and if she had not fought she would certainly have been out on the streets, imposing order single-handedly.  For all that she was now an artisan’s wife she was still the Governor's daughter and had been trained to take charge, taught all she would need to run a large household or even a fort.  No, James was certain that their non-appearance on the streets of the town had some sinister meaning.  He had left the party with them, depositing them at their abode with a firm promise of supping with them the day after, bowing to their insistence that he cease his increasingly hermit like ways and join them and the rest of the populace in having fun and celebrating life. 

He kept scanning the streets, looking for signs of them in vain.  The swarm of bodies had not abated and had indeed increased since his arrival on the scene.  Suddenly he was assailed by a tugging on the finely frogged edge of his coat.  In shock he looked down into the grime and smoke covered face of Master Turner’s newest apprentice in the forge.  It took him a moment but he recovered himself and quickly sank to a knee to look at the boy face to face.

“Matthew?”

“Yes Sir.”

The child was sniffing in distress, tear tracks forming clear paths through the dirt on his cheeks.  His eyes were reddened from a combination of smoke and where he had been rubbing them with his hands, fists that were also stained with the ashes that the attack had left.  James kept his voice low, soothing the disturbed boy as best he could.

“Where are Master and Mistress Turner, Matthew?  Have you seen them?”

“They’re in the forge.”

“Do they need assistance?”

The youngster sniffed again and nodded vigorously to his question, obviously too upset to answer in any clear way.  James grew even more concerned at this, realising more and more that his friends were in need of aid.  They had only recently taken on the lad who had been orphaned by a virulent fever that had spread like wildfire through some of the outlying villages of the Islands.  The Turners had offered him more than an apprenticeship, they had offered him a home.  He was a member of their small family, cared for and loved as a child should be.  Master Brown had been a lecherous lout who had become an increasingly drunken sot as time had gone on.  He had treated his immensely talented apprentice as virtual slave labour, taking all the credit and monies and leaving him to sleep on a rough and filthy pallet in the corner of the forge, often starving and scavenging for food from the other businesses that were nearby.  All those around knew of the situation and tried their best to help the willing and cheerful boy.  James had heard that it took a town to raise a child; in William Turner he had evidence.  He himself had become involved when one of the more respectable local madams had sent him a very polite note requesting him to take tea with her.  She had feared for the fate of the boy who seemed to grow ever thinner as he grew taller, his future beauty had been evident in his frame and face and the lady was concerned that his guardian would do nothing to keep him safe from the human filth that wandered the streets, indeed she was most concerned that the intoxicated blacksmith would encourage the indecent intentions of those whose eyes followed the slender youth who ghosted through the streets of the Port.  The then Captain had understood her concerns and echoed them himself, she was not the first to drop whispers in his ears about the state of the rescued waif.  It had taken those in the know only a brief period of time to realise that Master Brown was unsuitable to care for Will, but in the same short time his natural talent with metal had become apparent and so it was deemed better to leave him where he could learn the trade and hope that those who watched him surreptitiously would keep him safe until he passed his apprenticeship and journeyman periods and became a true Master in his own right.

As these memories had circled in his mind James had taken Matthew by the hand and headed off for the Turner forge, a sturdy building that was marked by a hanging sign decorated in an anvil and crossed swords.  Master Brown now made horseshoes and ploughshares, and mostly made them only when his former apprentice was too busy to complete the orders.  Four marines had fallen in with the Commodore and his small companion as they headed for the Turner home. 

March 2, 17_________

I sit now at the bedside of my dearest friend and try to comfort his devastated heart.  I must here relate the situation in which I now find myself. 

Matthew took me to his home, crying all the way although trying his hardest to be grown up in the aftermath of the attack.  The forge had borne some of the brunt of the assault.  The main door had been hacked apart, pulled from its hinges and smashed with hammers and axes.  The Turners' dog had been slain and its body lay in the doorway, broken and twisted.  The ass also was dead, a long dagger resting through its chest.  The tools that Will had collected with care and passion were scattered hither and thither on the flagstones of the main workshop.  The raid had had one target, the fine blades that generally hung from every exposed area of the walls.  Most were gone, the heaviest and longest only snatched by the marauders; they had left the finer blades that needed a talented hand rather than brute strength to wield.  It seemed easier to focus on the almost sacrilegious manner in which those weapons had been treated.  I have spent many an hour of my time in the forge, watching Will bend and mould iron and steel with raw muscle and delicate hand.  He often talks when he works; holding conversations with his wife and myself when we are there, otherwise he talks to Matthew as he teaches him, patiently, the secrets of the metal.  Elizabeth told me once that she spent an illuminating afternoon peeking in on her husband as he struggled with a special order sword and dagger set.  He had pleaded with the fire, with the steel and with his tools.  Asking them always to work with him and not against him.  She confided that this made her love him even more.  His honest and forthright soul meant more to her than all the courtly airs and graces she had met in her youth in England.  Elizabeth cannot abide a fraud or a liar.

I am meandering on paper just as much as I am within myself.  Yet, I must write here what has happened for I cannot speak of it aloud but must still organise my thoughts to cohesion and clarity.

The forge door was destroyed, dog and ass both slain and abandoned on the floor.  The heavy weapons were gone and the tools scattered, some taken but most thrown down by men who had no idea how to use them.  The most horrifying sight was to come.  There were two bodies on the floor, huddled together in a slowly spreading pool of blood.  Both held weapons, Elizabeth the light weight sabre and main gauche that her loving husband had forged as a wedding gift – swearing to teach her the tricks she would need to wield them properly and her husband a heavier hand and a half bastard blade that he had forged as a demonstration piece after reading of them in a historical volume borrowed from the Governor's shelves.  He was clothed merely in the soft cloth breeches, barefoot in his shoes with a thin shirt thrown over his naked shoulders.  Elizabeth was strangely dressed in a similar fashion to her husband in breeches and shirt although she had taken a moment to secure her hair in a plain braid before coming to the defence of her home and livelihood.  They had evidentially been roused from their marital bed by the disturbances and had thrown on the nearest garments to hand.  I have seen Elizabeth in men’s attire before, indeed I provided her with a marine’s uniform on the Dauntless but these were her husband's clothes, snatched up to cover herself as she prepared for a fight. 

It is strange to write these words.  The images are indelibly inscribed in my mind yet some seem almost hidden by a veil that takes them from my sight.  The pictures are static and motionless, their colours faded and I cannot imagine fully the smells and sounds that should accompany them. 

Matthew would have rushed to their sides were it not for the speed of the Corporal who had accompanied me.  Greaves is a good man and a loving father and he lifted the boy to take him away from the sight.  It was a wise decision, Matthew will be forced to live with these memories for the rest of his days, and there was no need to make a bad situation any worse. 

I went to them.  I knew what I should find there.  The cooling bodies of my two dearest friends, the one whom I loved and the one to whom I proposed, not that these are at all the same individual.  Instead I found a miracle.  Elizabeth Turner was indeed slain but by some happenchance, her husband yet lived on.  His breathing was shallow and his wounds leeched blood slowly onto the flagstones but he was alive.  Private Gibbs ran for a surgeon and the others spread out to leave me some privacy.  I should I suppose feel some embarrassment or distaste that all those under my command should know of my attachment to these most loving people but even now I cannot bring myself to this.  I will never be ashamed of the friendships they have gifted me.  I will never allow any to sully their names or pass snide and judgemental comment on them, I have not permitted it thus far and I will not allow it in the future.  This is my solemn vow.

When the doctor arrived we gently rolled the pair apart.  Mistress Turner had died quickly it seemed, taking a blade to the heart.  It is of scant comfort to me and shall be of less to William but we can at least be certain that she felt no lingering pain in her last moments, indeed she was most likely gone before the stroke had finished falling and before she hit the floor.  Master Turner is a different matter.  His body has many wounds, some shallow and others deeper.  Some may have been inflicted as a torture, perhaps to question him for money or other weaponry.  However, he has been left alive.  Until he rouses and can answer questions we cannot be fully certain. 

The Governor has not taken the news of his daughter’s death well and has been sedated by his private physician.  He has however already stated that he bears no ill will to the widower.  Indeed, before succumbing to the drugs he offered his home to the injured man.  I have countermanded that suggestion with one of my own and so William is currently bedded down in the guest chamber of my home.  He has never felt at home in the mansion, finding it cold – despite the overwhelming warmth of welcome he had received there over the passing of time.  On the other hand he has spent time in this place, both before and after his marriage.  His wife once took it into her head to spring clean the forge and the home connected, he fled to my parlour for refuge and between us we drank a fine canary and bemoaned the strangeness of women. 

Matthew has been taken in by Corporal Greaves for the moment, at least until it is determined if his Master will be able to continue his training.  Elizabeth has been washed and dressed by her former maids and lies on a bier in the coolness of the cellars below the mansion and William sleeps on, bandaged and bound.  I do not know if he shall awaken.  I do not know if he is aware of his beloved wife’s death.  All I can be certain of is this; I will be by his side for as long as I can be and for as long as he wants me to be.  I am his; however he needs until all the seas run dry.

Commodore James Norrington, Commander – Port Royal, Caribbean.

#########################################

It had been a strange three months since the mystery attack on the townsfolk of Port Royal.  Commodore Norrington returned the salute he received as he descended the gangplank from the Dauntless to the quayside.  Lieutenant Gillette was waiting for him at the foot of the bridge, a serious expression on his normally mobile face.

“I am glad to see you sir.  We had heard reports…”

James quirked a small smile at this.

“Yes, always reports.  I was injured by a falling pulley array but it merely knocked me insensible for a time.  Any and all rumours of my greater injury or demise are mistaken."

“We are all very glad to hear it, sir.”

“Any news?”

“There have been reports of three looted merchantmen in the last fortnight.  They were all taken suddenly and with needless loss of life.”

“The cargoes?”

“Widely varied sir.  From different sources and travelling on different lines.”

The two officers fell into step with each other as they strode away from the dock, heavy uniform coats swirling with their every move.  James had other thoughts on his mind as he walked through the narrow streets.  For all his blasé tossing aside of the accident, it had startled him.  He had thought his time gone when the carved oaken block had plummeted to the deck, catching him on the back of the head during its path.  His fine powdered wig was indelibly stained with his blood, something he had hidden away, unsure of what it meant.  Bitter experience had told him that scalp wounds bled freely but he had never seen so much loss in one who had not succumbed to the injury.  His life had flashed before his eyes as he fell to the holystoned deck and he had felt different ever since he had recovered his senses lying in his bunk.  In all honesty he could say that since his recovery he had never felt more alive.  His usual aches and pains had eased and climbing the rigging for a better view of the surrounding seas had left no rope marks in his hands.

All these thoughts fled from his mind as he realised where his path had taken him.  As was all too common, when he allowed himself to wander he came to the Turner forge, now newly repaired and re-opened for business.  His Lieutenant had followed on, saying nothing and merely watching his superior officer's back as he walked.  The Commodore pulled his shoulders back and exhaled sharply as he realised where he was. 

“Lieutenant…..”

“I shall go and process the reports, Sir.”

“Thank you, Gillette.” 

With a sharp salute the junior officer turned away and made for the central Fort, papers held securely under one arm.  James watched him leave, grateful, as always, for his discretion, then turned back to the plain wooden door that was now the only barrier between himself and his target.  That being the only physical barrier far apart from the vast cultural shift that his desires demanded. 

As he stood and pondered the door it swung open on well-oiled hinges and a cheeky face peered around the edge at him, smiling upwards.

“Hello Commodore.”

“Hello to you as well Matthew and how are you this fine day?”

“Good.”

“Are you the blacksmith today?”

“No.  Master Will is here.”

“Well, can I come in and see him?”

The boy debated this quietly in his head for a moment, his master’s desire for a quiet afternoon competing with the fact that this was not a client but a friend.  James waited patiently as the child held an internal debate that only ended when a lower and older voice came from inside.

“Matthew?”

“Coming.”

James was left looking at an open doorway, the child having run back into the interior at his master’s call.

“Is there anyone there?”

James pushed the door further open and started to enter but was brought up short as he did so.  As he walked over the threshold he felt a tremendous buzzing in his head, as though he had again been hit by the flying tackle that had wounded him on board ship.  From inside the forge came a ringing clang at that moment and he shook aside the sensation as he moved quickly towards the sound.  The noise had evidentially been caused as the Master Craftsman had dropped the heavy hammer he had been wielding and it had clattered against the anvil as it fell to the floor.  He had both hands clamped to his temples and his eyes were closed.

“Are you alright?”

At the cultured tones that enquired after him Will opened his lids and made eye contact with his friend.  Both men gasped then as their mutual pains subsided.

“I believe I am fine, James.  That was most strange.”

“Indeed it was.  I do not think that I have ever felt the like.”

Matthew was stood between the two men, looking between them in puzzlement.  Then he shrugged and decided that this was obviously another strange grown-up issue that he would understand when he was old enough.  That settled he looked at his master and fixed on what he hoped was an appealing look.

“May I go and see Thomas please Master Will?”

Will leant over and picked up the lump hammer from where he had dropped it, placing it back onto the anvil with care before coming out from behind its solid iron barrier.  He wiped his damp palms on the leather apron he wore and mused on his young apprentice’s request.

“Well.  Have you swept the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Have you read your lessons for the day?”

“Yes.”

“Have you completed the cipher that you were set?”

“Almost.”

“And the final and most important question.  Have you washed your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Then you may go.  Remember to be here for dinner.”

“Thank you Master Will.”

The child burled on the spot and headed for the still open door almost bouncing into James’s legs as he passed.

“Sorry Commodore.  Bye Master Will, Bye Commodore.”

With a final flurry of energy the twirling scamp left, closing the main door as he passed and leaving the two men alone.

“He seems well.”

“He is recovering.  He has days when he cannot bring himself to smile or talk and then there are times like today when it seems as though nothing has happened at all.”

“And how fares his generous master?”

This was harder for the artisan to answer.  He delayed his answer as he came further away from the anvil and his tools, shedding his heavy leather apron and hanging it neatly away on its assigned hook.  James watched him closely as was his wont.  Will had always been slim but now seemed almost gaunt; too much flesh had been carved from his frame in his grief.  He was bare muscle and sinew over a fine bone structure that was all too apparent. 

“How do I fare?”

“Yes.”

“I miss her James.  If it is at all possible I miss her more now than I did on the day that I awoke.”

The officer bowed his head in acknowledgment of his friend’s grief and reached out to him, placing a hand on his shoulder in the only physical comfort that society would allow him to give.

“Can I be of any aid?”

“You do so much already, James.  I cannot take any more of your time.”

“It is my time to give.”

“Then I thank you for it.”

James withdrew his hand and walked towards the living quarters of the establishment, giving the blacksmith the privacy and time he needed to settle his emotions.

August 5, 17_____________________

The summer heat has struck hard in Port Royal this year.  Tempers are short and Captain Gardner and I have started sending small patrols out onto the streets as a visible presence. 

Life continues on much as it has for the last few months.  We have had no success in catching the ship that masterminded the raid that resulted in the death of Mistress Turner.  I cannot help but think that finding them and bringing them to justice would aid Will in his recovery.  He is still too thin and quiet for my best thoughts and I am not alone in this.  The same concerned citizens that came to me when he was a starving and abused waif have come to me again, concerned now that he will not survive the loss of his wife.  When I am in Port I insist on his joining me for some meals, and he repays the compliment, providing a meal after we spar. 

Will is the most remarkable swordsman I have ever had the privilege to spar with.  His footwork is immaculate and his blows clean and surgical in their accuracy.  It is only when he is distracted that I have any chance of disarming him, but he is still all too often distracted.  I fear that there is a part of him that longs for death, I fear that if her were ever seriously challenged he would not fight to the best of his skill but would allow his opponent to take him and allow him to rest again with Elizabeth.  I am at a loss how to stop this.  I would give anything and everything to prevent such an occurrence but I cannot keep him perpetually safe. 

I know that he has other close friends who warn him of something similar.  Who write him missives that come by multiple hands, passed through brothels and bars to reach him.  Letters that tell him to be safe and to live.  I am certain that he will not deliberately seek his death.  He will not emulate his late wife’s lucky plunge from the Fort battlements or fall into the sea whilst inebriated as the now late and unlamented Mr Brown did not so long ago.  No, he will not seek his death but if it were to find him I do not think it would find him an unwilling lover.

Commodore James Norrington, Commander – Port Royal, Caribbean.

#########################################

The winter storms had passed over again, rain had swollen the rivers and creeks to full depth and the fields and gardens were green with new life. 

Christmas had been a bittersweet time, for all the joy of the season was tempered by the lack of the sweet soprano who should have sung alongside the choir.  However, the cold had passed and the arrival of spring had started to raise the spirits of all the inhabitants of the Caribbean.  James was sitting in the window seat of his office overlooking the bay, watching the sails as the ships arrived and departed, meditating on the time that had gone and the time that was still to come.  A sudden pain in his head lifted his attention from the view and he turned to its source, a smile on his face.

“Come in and welcome.”

Will entered the office and nodded to his friend, placing the substantial sword box he held carefully on the cluttered desk before making his way to the officer’s side.

“Good afternoon to you as well.  How fares the navy?”

“Tolerably well.  The ships still rest atop the water and the sailors atop the ships so I feel that my part has been completed.”

“Excellent news Commodore.  I am sure that all will be most gratified to hear that nothing has sunk at anchor.”

“How fares blacksmithing?”

Will pulled a slight face and shook his head.

“The smithing itself is fine.  Indeed all the orders I have on the books have been completed so I felt justified in bringing this latest commission myself.”

James stood and walked back to his desk to eye the box that lay there.  He gestured to it with a small nod of his head.

“It is complete?”

“To your exact specifications.”

Will opened the boxes two clasps and pushed aside the lid to reveal the pale blue velvet lining of the carrying crate.  He lifted the exposed blade carefully and held it out to his friend, briefly showing the same routine that he had displayed to the Governor when handing over the last ceremonial weapon he had made for this man.

“The tang runs to the whole hilt so there will be no risk of it shearing.  It is a double blade of Damascus steel, specially tempered for strength and flexibility.  The basket guard is designed for your hand and for your fighting style.  I do not think it would suit anyone else as well.”

James twined his hand around the hilt and brought the blade up to the guard position in front of his face.  It was a perfectly balanced weapon, as he had expected from a Turner sword, but it seemed more than that.  Generally he felt the need to train with a weapon before it felt truly comfortable, this was different.  From the instance his palm and fingers gripped the hilt it had seemed an extension of his arm.  The basket curled exactly around his knuckles and the sweet point was at the precise point of his thrust.

“This is extraordinary Will.  I have neither held nor seen its like before.”

“I am pleased that you are pleased.  You have been at times my sole support over this last time and I could think of no other way to adequately express by gratitude.”

“I would tell you that no gratitude was necessary but for this blade I would be made a liar.”

James returned the blade to its case with inordinate care, such a weapon deserving of all the respect it could be given.  He closed the clasps securely and then looked again to the tanned face of his companion.

“Would you care to join me to dine this evening?”

“Thank you.  I would appreciate that.  What time should I wait upon you?”

“Shall we say eight o’clock?”

Will nodded in acknowledgment and bowed slightly.

“I shall take my departure then and see you later on this evening.”

“I look forward to it.”

“As do I.”

February 10, 17_________________

Will presented me with the most incredible gift this day.  A sword that is so perfectly made for me it is as though it grew from my very arm.  Its balance and making are utterly flawless and I am taken aback by the very thought of it. 

Will is joining me for the evening meal and I am glad of it.  He grew ever quieter this winter season but has lately seemed to be more of himself.  It is as though he were emerging from hibernation, from a chrysalis composed of his grief and melancholy.  He will never be the same boy that he was, I remember the impetuous youth that stormed the Fort when Barbossa sacked Port Royal, flinging a hand axe into the middle of the tidal charts that we were studying and demanding an immediate response.  He is more measured now, but no less passionate.  His dedication to a cause can be absolute but is tempered by experience and I find myself pleased by the changes.  He is even more attractive to me now than he was then.  His brilliance and ardour melded with his strong moral core and upright nature is as a siren call to me.  I can only hope that whatever may come he will remain my friend. 

I have had no lover since the attacks on Port Royal.  My heart is taken utterly and cannot be returned.  The sea can be a harsh mistress and so I have taken her as mine, completely and fully.  My soul is kept in the keeping of my secret heart and my duties by the brine.  Will told me once that he knew his place, between Captain Jack Sparrow and me, defending his friend against impossible odds.  I cannot help but echo his words.  I know my place and it is here, between the man who rests in my heart and all that would harm him, now and always.

Commodore James Norrington, Commander – Port Royal, Caribbean.

Will dropped the fine leather covered journal to the desktop from where he had lifted it.  He had been startled by the headache that always told him his friend was near and was ashamed to look around to him, even knowing that doing so would ease his pain.

“Will?”

The blacksmith turned to the officer and gazed at him with dampened eyes, the pain receding as he did so.

“I am most sorry to have disturbed you in such a manner.  Please be assured that I shall never…”

James’ voice tailed away as Will held up a hand to stop his speech.

“There is no disturbance and I take no offence.  You are my dearest friend in the world and nothing shall ever change that.”

He gestured towards the innocuous book that lay on the polished surface.

“You have a talent with words that I do not.  My talent lies in my hands and in my skills to twist and mould metal.  I had not the words and so I attempted to have a blade say what I could not.  I will miss Elizabeth until the seas run dry but my heart is not closed.”

James stepped further into the room and faced his love. 

“Are you certain?”

“I am certain of nothing in this world except the nature of my own heart and the knowledge that I feel for you as I have felt for no other man I have ever met.”

James took a final step and stood before his friend.

“Then this is my place.”

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The End