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The staff gathers in the entry hall just past midday, as requested, their faces a careful arrangement of courtesy and dread, each standing as though rooted to the polished floorboards beneath them. James stands at the base of the staircase, one hand resting on the balustrade while the other remains neatly clasped behind his back. He looks at each of them in turn, at his steward who has served him for nearly five years now, the housekeeper who is nearly as old as the estate itself, and the cook, who has always made sure to have his favourite meals waiting for him upon his return from the sea.
They are all silent. Waiting.
James clears his throat, and the room stills further. They know what’s about to happen. All of Port Royal is aware of his fate.
“You are dismissed from service as of this afternoon,” he proclaims, and the words fall with finality. His voice is steady, but lacking in the presence it used to possess. “Full wages through the month will be provided, along with letters of reference to aid you all in finding your next place of employment. I…I am sorry.”
The housekeeper’s mouth opens slightly, as if she wants to say something, then thinks better of it and closes it once more.
“This house,” James continues, “is no longer requiring staff. And I cannot in good conscience retain you for a post that no longer exists.” He hesitates, then lifts his chin. “I want to thank you, each of you, for your loyalty and your discretion. I truly am grateful for the dedication you have given both to me and this home.”
The steward bows his head in response, and the cook’s lips press together in a tight line. The housekeeper, Anna, nods solemnly. They are good people, all three, still shielding his dignity even as his life collapses into pieces around him. Not a word of judgement had been uttered as misfortune after misfortune had collided with his perfect life, not when his engagement to Elizabeth had been broken and certainly not when he had begun to receive midnight visits from the pirate responsible.
“I ask,” James adds, “that you do not inquire after me once you are gone. I will most likely no longer be in Port Royal. I…wish you all the very best.”
He steps aside, and for a moment, no one moves. Then the steward inclines his head, murmurs, “Sir,” and gestures for the others to follow. The front door opens with a gentle groan of its hinges, announcing the staff’s departure.
The cook brushes past him with a curtsy and eyes shining with unspoken words. Anna, however, stays behind, something clearly on her mind. Only once they are both alone does she dare speak, approaching with a few short steps.
“Commodore Norrington, do take care of yourself. You must promise me,” she implores, and James gives her a smile that does not reach his eyes.
“I am no longer Commodore—”
“Promise me, sir. As a last request.”
James’ lips part as if to argue, to correct her again, but the look on her face silences him. It’s not the look of a servant addressing a master, but something older instead. Almost a motherly sort of defiance. It’s the same expression she wore the day she found him pacing in his study after Elizabeth had chosen another, after his pride had begun to crack, quietly and irrevocably.
He bows his head. “I promise,” he says, though it rings hollow between them.
Anna searches his face, her lined features softening. She lifts a hand and, after a brief hesitation, pulls a small leather pouch from the pocket of her apron. It’s placed into his grasp and James accepts it, silent and curious.
“Good,” she murmurs. “This is…in case the sickness becomes worse. Please, take it. I am only sorry that I will not meet them, but I trust they will be in excellent care.” She closes his fingers around the pouch, sealing it into his possession, then turns and walks away without another word.
The door closes.
James is alone.
Too caught up in his own fate to think on the meaning of Anna’s words, he turns and slowly walks back into the heart of the house. The silence is immediate and complete. Even the ticking of the longcase clock in the hall seems muffled, as though it, too, is mourning his departure before he has properly left.
He pauses by the parlor, looks at the furniture one last time and presses a hand to his abdomen. It’s a gesture without thought, one developed from a persistently unsettled stomach, a nausea that seems to grow worse by the day.
James attributes it to nerves. Or maybe to the ache of a lost sense of self.
What else could it be other than the exhaustion of being untethered from his purpose? To feeling this lingering burn of shame? It is a sickness that feels like it will not pass. He is convinced. It clings to him like salt after a storm out at sea, persistent and sour and impossible to ignore.
He moves to the hearth and sinks slowly into the armchair nearest the fire, the pouch he’s been given still clutched in his hand. James sets it on the side table, eyeing it with suspicion now that he has a moment to think before he has to vacate the estate. The leather is old but well-oiled, the string wrapped neatly around it tied in a careful bow. His housekeeper has always been precise like that.
A wave of that irritating dizziness comes over him suddenly, robbing him of the chance of one last glass of brandy. James leans forward, elbows on knees and palms pressed to his eyes as he wills it to pass. His stomach twists again, violently, and the bitterness rises in the back of his throat.
Perhaps it would be best if he just walked off the pier into the sea.
James steps aboard a small weather-beaten merchant ship instead, with nothing but the rapidly-fading uniform he had refused to return and a tattered pack stuffed with some possessions he had not the heart to part with.
The vessel is bound for Tortuga, a wretched nest of villainy and decay he has no desire to set foot in, but his options are as narrow as the gangplank he just crossed. The very name of Tortuga sends a shiver down his spine. It’s a haven for pirates, scoundrels and the lowest of the low, a far cry from the order and discipline he once thrived in. But Port Royal no longer welcomes him, and whatever future he had there has slipped into the shadow of his disgrace.
If the sea is to be his only refuge, then so be it. He will go wherever it takes him, and whatever awaits him beyond that, he will face it, even if it’s only a bitter end.
James doesn’t look back as the ship begins to drift from the docks, sails rustling as they catch the wind. The port he had once called home falls behind, away from those he has not even bid farewell to. There’s no point, after all, in wasting precious time with people who would not even come looking for him. It is for the best that he slip from their lives as quietly as dusk falls. Unnoticed. Unmissed.
Just like that, his former life fades into the distance.
The sea is as unforgiving as he feels. Vast, endless and empty. James stands on deck, hands braced against the railing, feeling the saltwater whip across his face. The wind tugs at his coat, but it’s not enough to distract him from the gnawing discomfort that’s settled deep in his stomach. The nausea, his dreadfully persistent companion, comes and goes in waves, and each time it recedes, he feels weaker. His body, like his life, is betraying him.
He hasn’t told a soul about the sickness. The days spent doubled over, the headaches and the growing sense of dizziness are all his to suffer in solitude. His own personal misery.
The captain, a grizzled man with eyes too sharp to be trusting, doesn’t ask about this apparent seasickness, anyway, nor does he ask about the uniform. He won’t, as long as coins fill his pocket. Besides, it’s clear enough that James is a man who’s running from something. The crew doesn’t speak to him much, either, save for the necessary orders that are barked at him now and then when an extra pair of hands are needed on the rigging.
James doesn’t mind the silence. He is not here to make friends. He is here to disappear.
The journey to Tortuga drags on, every sunrise bleeding into the next until time itself seems to rot at the edges. The days blur together, each one as hazy as the last. James continues to feel the sickness move through him like an unpredictable tide, sometimes a gentle pull and sometimes a brutal crash of waves. It grips him with the cruel intimacy of something that knows exactly where he is weakest.
Anna’s parting gift, which he has discovered is a blend of dried herbs, sits by his narrow bunk, untouched. It’s an accusing presence, and James deliberately does not even look at it as he groans pitifully, as if accepting it and making use of it would be admitting that there is something so wrong with him that even his former housekeeper had felt compelled to arm him with medicine.
And, oh, there is definitely something wrong with him. It’s not just nausea. It can’t be. But whatever the nature of this illness, it escapes him. He tries to compare it to other illnesses he has suffered in the past, but none of them had ever been as cruel as this one.
On the fourth night, after a day of suffering a headache that refused to fade, James finally succumbs to the ache and boils the herbs. His hands are weak and unsteady as he follows Anna’s written instructions, cursing the moment he didn’t ask her if she is aware of what’s happening to him. The ship feels colder now, even with the blanket he’s draped over himself in his tiny quarters.
The tea smells of mint and ginger, a scent that seems to embrace him and beckon him to drink. He does, slowly, with a heavy sigh. The bitterness coats his tongue, but something in the warmth of the liquid eases the tightness in his stomach, just a little. He closes his eyes, feeling it settle deep within him. A hand presses against his stomach, and for this single moment of peace, it does wage war against him.
But peace is fleeting. It always is.
As the hours wear on, sleep proves just as elusive as it had been for days now. His body is restless, twisting and turning, as though it cannot settle into any position or any comfort. The ship rocks in time with the rhythm of his thoughts and the dizziness creeps back in, stronger than ever. His breath is shallow, slipping out with irritated huffs as he stares at a bottle of rum he’d bought off the captain.
It’s so tempting to stick his lips against the bottle and guzzle down its contents, to let a drunken haze finally allow him some blissful sleep and to let everything dissolve into forgetfulness. But his stomach protests far too much to even consider it.
Damn it.
Damn it all!
Inexplicably, he finds himself cursing Jack’s name in the middle of the night.
Jack, who showed him how to dance under the moon without a care in the world. Jack, who made ruin seem like adventure. Jack, who left a trail of chaos so wide that James could not stop himself from falling headfirst into it.
The man is responsible for each of his miseries. Why not this one too?
Somewhere beneath the deck, the ship creaks as though agreeing with him.
By the time the ship reaches Tortuga, James is a frayed thread stretched taut. One wrong tug and he will unravel completely, barely holding on to his composure. The fatigue still has not left him, though he has tried his very best to hide it behind a façade of indifference. His shoulders remain straight, his jaw set, but every movement costs him more than he can afford.
The crew, as unobservant and uninterested in him as they are, remain blissfully ignorant of the storm brewing inside him. They see nothing more than a quiet man in a weathered navy uniform, and do not look any further.
When the ship finally pulls into the harbour, James doesn’t feel any of the relief he thought he would. There is no comfort in the chaos of Tortuga, only more uncertainty and another battle to push through.
The bustling port, with its laughter and shouting and drunken revelry, strikes him like a slap in the face.
He is not ready for this, to step onto this unforgiving land with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.
But step he does.
One boot hits the dock. Then the next.
He walks forward, head high, as if he still wears the authority he once commanded. There is no destination, no allies to turn to and no plan to rely on. Only the weight of his past and the sickness twisting quietly in his gut.
Even so, James moves forward.
The days go by impatiently as James tries, and fails, to carve out any semblance of life in Tortuga. Each morning greets him not with promise, but with the hungry ache of survival. The island, wild and untamed and an absolute mockery of society, offers guarantees of purpose. It is a place where men go to lose themselve, to drown their regrets in rum and cheap women, not a place to start anew.
To James, it is a prison of his own making.
The merchant ship, still docked while it gathers supplies and allows the crew some shore leave, feels like the last tie to a life he once knew. But even that is slipping through his fingers. The captain doesn’t seem to care whether James stays or goes, as long as he pays, and James’ money is running dreadfully short, considering how every meal he buys himself inevitably gets coughed up again.
His possessions are sold off, too, in exchange for food and lodging, but even that is coming to an end. He does not even have his wig anymore, traded off for a bowl of watered-down stew that had lasted all of ten minutes in his belly.
There is not much else to do but waste away as the days pass, feeling the weight of his empty stomach and his even emptier heart.
He tries to get to work, prompted into action after the merchant ship has sailed off. He needs it, he tells himself. Some means of survival and to keep himself going.
At first, he seeks out the tavern owners, offering to work for food and a roof over his head, but his demeanour and old uniform puts them off. James stands out, after all. Here, even the most common sailors have learned the art of bluntness, but James cannot shed the remnants of his former life, be it speech or clothes.
“Yer not wanted here, not with how many necks you’ve sent to the noose,” the barkeep tells him after the third attempt. “Go back to Port Royal where you belong. We’ve no room for the likes of ye.”
That comment stings more than it should. More than he cares to admit.
He turns to the docks next, thinking maybe his former seafaring experience could be of use. A sailor needs his hands, his strength and his wit to weather a storm. But the men who work the wharfs aren’t interested in a former commodore who looks sickly and pale, as if he might faint at the first sign of rough seas. They laugh at him, even go so far as to try to humiliate him.
“Look at this one, eh? A man of rank, he says! Too delicate for the ropes, I reckon! Piss off!”
Another rejection.
James’ stomach churns again, forever reminding him of this sickness he is convinced will be with him until the grave, sooner or later. The nausea has no mercy for him, and his nights, spent sleeping in whatever dry crevice he can find, are filled with tossing and turning. The only reprieve comes in the form of the occasional sip of rum, or so he had thought. Even that turns against him now. The taste is wretched, taste buds urging him to spit the vile liquid out before he can even think about swallowing it.
It isn’t long before he finds himself sitting at the edge of the docks again, staring out at the horizon with a dull empty gaze. The sun beats down on him, but he doesn’t move. He hasn’t moved in hours.
He watches the men go about their business around him: drunk sailors stumbling from one tavern to the next, pirates shouting obscenities at each other over dice, women calling from the street corners with promises of warmth and comfort for a price. They are all part of a system James doesn’t understand. They survive in a world without rules, without order. And he…how does he fit into all this?
He doesn’t. He never will.
The nausea returns, almost like an old acquaintance whose company no one enjoys, and James stumbles to his feet, clutching his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s the sickness or the weight of his own despair pulling at him, but either way, he knows he’s no closer to finding anything resembling a life here than he had been when he first arrived.
His vision blurs, and the familiar taste of bile rises in his throat.
As the sun dips lower in the sky, the light dimming on another failed day, James leans over the railing of the dock and stares into the dark water below. For the first time, he wonders if perhaps he’s beyond saving, if this sickness is nothing else but a sing that there’s no longer a place for him in this world at all.
The question lingers as the night falls.
Would it be better to drown in this madness or keep fighting a battle he no longer believes in?
Tortuga has no answers for him, and neither does restless sleep.
Still, he endures. For what? He cannot say, but the next breath comes anyway.
And then one morning, the nausea and sickness are miraculously gone.
James awakens to an unfamiliar clarity that feels almost unnatural in its suddenness. His head is no longer heavy with the neverending promise of fever. His body, once frail and trembling, is free from the gnawing discomfort of fatigue that’s held him captive for months. The transformation is so stark it feels almost like waking from the dead.
The sun spills into the grimy, dimly lit barn he’d chosen for the night. His clothes, now worn and stained, no longer feel heavy on his limbs, and his beard, though still itchy and wild, does not feel as bothersome as it once did.
It’s a fleeting moment of grace, though he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, James feels the spark of something like hope, or the possibility of it, at least. A man like him, even broken and disheveled, can’t help but see a chance when it stares him in the face.
He sits up, stretching his limbs, then runs a hand through his unkempt hair before tying it back. A deep breath, and then another. The hunger in his gut is sharp, appetite returned to him. It’s a silly thought, but having awoken with such renewed energy brings with it a flicker of the commodore he had been before tragedy had struck. He had thought that version of himself gone, but maybe he can find something to cling to once again, even here amidst the muck.
With a groan, James pushes himself off the haystack he’d claimed as a bed and forces his feet into his boots. The stench of the taverns still hangs thick in the air, and the faint hum of the market outside calls to him with its promise of breakfast. It’s been nearly a month now since the merchant ship sailed off, but Tortuga hasn’t become any easier to navigate. The raucous energy of the island grates on him, but today…today it feels different.
Today he has the strength to stand without stumbling. Today he’ll try again.
First stop: the docks.
Maybe the men there will see something in him now that he’s no longer bedridden, somehow able to look past his former rank now that he’s able to blend in better. He still carries the weight of his old uniform, even if it’s ragged and mismatched.
The last time he had tried this, he’d been mocked and laughed away, jeers cutting deep. But that had been before, when weakness had him walking on unsteady legs. Now, he stands a little taller and he holds himself differently.
Approaching the wharf, James scans the busy men working the ropes and unloading cargo, their faces lined with years of hard labour, their eyes empty from too much rum and too little rest. The first few he asks ignore him, some with grunts and others with flat silence, but James persists, motivation fuelled by hunger. He offers himself up like a man with something to prove, despite knowing, deep down, that he’s still a stranger in this world.
Finally, one of the dockhands takes pity on him. “You’re not a sailor anymore, are ya?” the man grumbles, his voice raspy from years of shouting orders.
“No,” James answers, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He decides to keep details to himself. “But I’ve worked ships before. I can handle cargo, rigging, anything you need.”
The old man looks him up and down, his eyes lingering on James’ pale face and the almost desperate look in his eyes. He mutters something under his breath, then motions to the stacks of crates and barrels that have yet to be moved.
“We need help unloading that ship over there. You make yourself useful without whining, and we’ll feed ya. Maybe even toss you a few coins for a job well done.”
James doesn’t waste a second. He walks over to the ship and gets started. It’s rough, and he has lost a lot of his strength in the last few weeks alone, but he is hungry and motivated and ridiculously pleased to not be feeling the pressure of illness pressing down on him.
He finds a rhythm quickly. Shoulder, lift, carry, drop. The crates slowly form a gowing stack on the docks, then again in the warehouse. His muscles tremble under the weight, and his grip slips more than once, but James grits his teeth and pushes forward. Whatever frailty remains from his sickness is drowned beneath the sheer will to survive.
The men around him barely give him a second look once it’s clear he can pull his own weight. To them, James is now just another pair of hands in a place that always needs more. There’s a strange peace in that anonymity, a kind of freedom he had not known he could appreciate.
As the day wears on and the sun dips toward the horizon, James falls into a sort of physical trance, a flow of movement and effort. His back aches, his knuckles are raw and there’s a deep weariness chewing on his limbs, but it’s a different kind of weakness now, belonging to a body that has been put to hard use and not left to waste. It’s honest and earned.
When the last crate is stacked and the ship is ready for departure, the old dockhand presses a few coins into James’ hand and nods toward a nearby stall.
“Go get yerself a meal. And come back in the morning if you want more work.”
James nods in return, mumbling a thank you that goes ignored. The coins feel heavy in his grip, not from their weight but from what they represent. A chance, and a future, however small.
He purchases a simple bowl of broth and bread, rich and savory against his previously empty stomach. As the first bite of food crosses his lips, James feels warmth spread through his chest and, with it, something he has not felt in a long time.
Dignity.
For the first time in months, it seems the world might yet have a place for him. It’s a fragile feeling, a spark against a hurricane, but it’s something.
And, for now, something is enough.
He works, he eats, and he regains his strength. James begins to earn his place with the dockhands, his presence no longer questioned and his name slowly spoken without disdain. Very nearly, he feels a sense of routine and belonging, until he starts noticing that he’s gaining weight.
It’s not the fact that his body is changing that’s the issue. That had been expected. After weeks of scraping through survival, nourishment was bound to leave a mark. Rather, it is how it is changing that brings forth concern.
The weight has gathered uniquely in his stomach, concentrated in a way that defies natural recovery and swelling up into a small but firm bump that strains against his belt. It pushes outward stubbornly, pressing into the fabric of his shirt-
James finds himself staring downward in disbelief, knuckles resting against the curve. His first thought is gluttony, that in filling his belly after almost starving, his body is simply overcompensating. But that doesn’t feel true. The rest of his body is just as thin, his ribs still visible and his arms still lacking the fullness of true recovery, and there is no give to his stomach. It’s hard and defined in a way that excess food isn’t, and his insides twitch as if they are alive with a will of their own.
Odd, but not something terribly alarming. James gets up and continues with his day. The thought lingers in the back of his mind like a splinter he can’t quite reach, but for now, there’s work to be done and routine to maintain. Questions can wait.
He tries to ignore it, burying the unease beneath calloused hands and aching muscles. He pretends it’s just a trick of his imagination, or even a phantom worry conjured by exhaustion and hunger finally being satisfied..
But when the firm bloating remains, growing almost day by day no matter how much or little he eats, oblivious to the physical exertion… James knows this is something more.
It isn’t softness or fat. It’s growth, deliberate and unyielding and entirely out of place.
An improbable suspicion begins to curl in the back of his mind, taunting him in the middle of the night.
It comes to him in a nightmare, flashes of large bellies and tiny socks for tiny feet.
The thought is ridiculous, and James almost laughs at himself for letting it take root.
It can’t be.
It’s impossible. It has to be. Some men are able to carry, but he is not one of them.
James tells himself that as he lies awake on the straw, one hand curled protectively over the firmness of his abdomen, heart pounding in rhythm with a fear he refuses to name.
Just until morning, he thinks. Just one conversation. Then this madness will be over.
As the sun rises, the island’s bustling port is still waking up, the air thick with the scent of salt and sweat and bad rum. The distant call of fishermen mingles with the first shouts of tavernkeepers evicting overdue patrons. Tortuga is its usual chaotic self, but James isn’t here for drink or cheap promises from the women that linger in the market’s shadows.
He needs answers. Real ones, instead of the conjectures of a tired mind.
The question is where to turn. There are many women here, and some, he knows, hold more knowledge than others. There’s one in particular he seeks. A doctor, or something close to it. She is a woman of…dubious reputation, no stranger to the dark alleys of Tortuga, but her knowledge of herbs and the body is unmatched. She has helped many sailors when their wounds or their ailments prove too much for rum or time to cure.
As long as one has the shillings for it.
Always, the coin. There’s no mercy or kindness in this corner of the world.
James finds her in a small tucked-away shop near the edge of the marketplace. The door is ajar, a faint smell of smoke and unfamiliar herbs floating through the space. Her name is Cecilia, a woman with a sharp tongue and hands capable of both saving and breaking, depending on her mood. When she spots him standing in her doorway, she squints at him, her eyes sizing him up as she looks up from her writing.
Her voice cuts the stillness. Dry. Unimpressed.
“What are you here for?” she asks, without a greeting.
He takes a deep breath, still unsure how to frame this problem of his, but he knows there’s no turning back now.
“I’m…unwell,” he says, his voice rough with the words he’s only just allowed himself to admit. “I need your help.”
Cecilia raises an eyebrow, her gaze flicking over him with all the care of someone examining a stray dog. “An examination’s not cheap. Can you pay?” Her fingers drum the table, already impatient.
“Y-Yes. Yes, I can pay.” Only just barely.
She sighs, as if the entire ordeal is one that requires a great amount of effort, and holds out her hand.
“Sit,” she says, only after the silver coins have been placed in her palm.
With some hesitation, James does. He watches her as she turns to mix a few dried herbs with practised hands.
“Many come to me. They’re all got their reasons. You, though? You look like a man running from his own skin, and it is no fever that’s got you twisting, is it?”
The words hit like a whip. James doesn’t answer immediately, staring instead at the counter where Cecilia’s hands continue to move with surgical precision.
“Tell me what you feel,” she orders, looking at him over her shoulder.
“I…I don’t know how to explain it.” James shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under her gaze. “I’ve been ill. Quite ill. But…it’s more than that. I thought it was just a bad stomach illness, something I’d caught but would get over. But I…have not. And my stomach…it is swelling up in a strange way.”
Her eyes narrow, though there’s no judgment in them.
“Swelling, you say? Let me see.” She steps toward him and motions for him to stand. Once again, James does as is instructed. The air in the room feels heavy as her fingers hover over his stomach, her touch light but deliberate.
He is praying to whatever deity might be listening that she does not find what he fears she might.
Those bony fingers press lightly against him now, tracing the curve of his abdomen. Her brows knit together, as if she’s feeling for something in particular instead of just examining him now. Each touch feels like it reveals more than it should, more than he’s likely ready to face.
“Hmm” she hums thoughtfully, moving her hands in a way that clearly suggests she’s trying to make sense of something, her mind already several steps ahead.
James has never felt so damn nervous, and he doesn’t dare say a word.
Then, without warning, she gestures for him to remove his shirt. James hesitates, then does so, the rawness of his vulnerability suddenly more evident than ever. The woman doesn’t seem to care about his discomfort, her fingers now inspecting the swelling with quiet precision.
The prodding becomes a little stronger, focused on his lower abdomen. Cecilia mutters to herself all the while, as if the answer to his problem is just one touch away. As the silence drags on, James almost swears he feels something shift inside him.
Squinting at his stomach, Cecilia concludes the examination by stepping back and allowing him to pull his shirt back on.
“Well,” she says, her tone shifting to something more serious, “I’ll tell you this much. That is no common illness. There’s only one thing that causes a belly like that.”
James freezes, something cold crawling up his spine.
“What… What do you mean?” His voice feels weak, the words sticking in his throat like stones.
Cecilia meets his gaze with a sharpness that feels like the weight of a thousand truths crashing down on him all at once. “Pregnancy. You’re with child.”
For a long moment, everything goes still. His mind refuses to process it, despite the suspicion fluttering around in his mind since the night before. He laughs a low disbelieving chuckle that doesn’t even sound like it belongs to him. “Pregnancy? What madness is this? Y-You jest. Surely.”
But Cecilia doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even flinch at his reaction.
“Don’t take me for a fool, lad,” she says. “It’s not common in your fancy ports and fancy towns, but out here? In pirate ports and pirate ships? Happens a lot more than you think.”
He stares at her, incredulity still clouding his thoughts. Something in the certainty of her words, however, helps him face the reality of what’s happening to him.
“Impossible,” James mutters, shaking his head and staring down at that little swell like it might burst open to reveal its contents at any moment.
“No. Very possible. You’re not the first man to carry a child,” Cecilia says, words heavy with finality. “And you won’t be the last. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I-I…I don’t know,” he says, his voice shaking. “I never planned… I-I know that some men can carry, I just never thought that I… Oh, God.”
Cecilia’s expression softens through the firmness in her eyes. “Not many plan for things like this, lad. You’ll figure it out, if you want to keep it.”
“... If I want to keep it?”
“You’re a little far along, but there are…options if you don’t want to carry the pregnancy to term.”
“I-I see.”
“Think on it,” Cecilia continues, showing a flicker of empathy. “But don’t wait too long. Time’s not on your side.”
“R-Right.” James swallows, his heart pounding in his chest. “I need to be… I need to be sure.”
“Then be sure. But don’t wait until your belly is heavy and you start feeling contractions.”
The word alone makes his stomach twist. He hadn’t even let himself imagine that far. Good lord. That is most certainly not something he wants to think about right now.
“Do you still get morning sickness?”
“O-On occasion? Not as strong as before…”
Cecilia looks at him once more, taking in how pale he’s become. Something James doesn’t catch is muttered under her breath before she turns away, going to one of the many shelves and pulling down a small vial of something that looks familiar. “Take this,” she instructs, handing it to him. “It’ll ease the discomfort. If you decide to get rid of it, keep in mind that the price is double what the diagnosis cost.”
He takes the vial from her hands, the cold glass sending a shiver through him. The mention of more money goes over his head, impossible to take in when he fully recognises what’s been handed to him.
The shape. The texture. The faint, dry scent.
Dried ginger root.
Just like what Anna had given him before his departure.
She had known.
James stumbles away from the small shop, his mind a tangled mess of confusion and shock. Cecilia’s words, sharp and unrelenting, still echo in his ears. You’re with child. He can’t seem to escape them, no matter how tightly he clenches his fists or how fast he walks.
And even if he could, it wouldn’t erase the impossible truth that sits between his hips.
His heart pounds in his chest as he walks, each beat a frantic drum signaling retreat. He needs distance. From the shop, from Cecilia and from the truth. From himself, maybe. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, struggling to face the reality of this strange impossible thing growing inside him.
Everything around him becomes a blur, fading into the background like a fevered dream. James keeps moving, his legs carrying him without conscious thought. His body feels disconnected from his mind, like his muscles are working on instinct alone, as if trying to outrun what his mind refuses to accept.
A child.
The word feels strange as it sits in his chest, almost like stones that sink deeper and deeper with every step he takes. It feels foreign, like it belongs in someone else’s story. Not his. He can’t make sense of it. Can’t make sense of any of it. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to men like him.
And it sure as hell isn’t supposed to happen with someone like Jack Sparrow.
The name alone sends a jolt through James’ already quivering frame. It hits with tremendous force as he ducks into a side-alley, gasping like a drowning man.
James has barely thought of him, not properly, since leaving Port Royal. What would have been the point? The war between them had been fought and lost, and James had been made to leave everything behind with his tail between his legs and…
And with a babe in his belly.
He stumbles, catching himself on a nearby post as his breath comes in sharp bursts and his pulse thrums loudly in his ears. He manages to brace himself against the wall, willing his thoughts to slow down and give him some mercy. As dizziness seizes his mind, James is left to lean his forehead against the rough stone wall, wishing for just one moment where his thoughts aren’t racing ahead of him, demanding answers to questions he can’t even begin to ask.
The world is spinning and the ground feels too loose beneath him.
Everything is too much.
There’s momentary regret, swirling along the mix of dread and anxiety that rampages in his heart. “What-ifs” begin to emerge, simmering low beneath the panic, and James allows himself a selfish moment to entertain them.
Perhaps he had been too hasty when he had ended things with Jack. Perhaps he… Perhaps he should have kept him by his side, so they could discover this together. Perhaps if he hadn’t pushed him away, this wouldn’t feel so terrifying. Or so lonely.
That thought, however, is fleeting, and quickly cast aside.
Their relationship had never been one of partnership . Not in the least. It had been volatile and reckless, a collision of bodies and heat, more addiction than affection. They had met in bed time and again, offering each other temporary escape in the form of tangled limbs and a false sense of comfort. Nothing more.
It had been lust, not love. It had needed to end, before James lost what little remained of his dignity.
Before he could begin to actually care for the pirate he’d been meant to hang.
Damn it all.
What would Jack even say if he found out?
Would he laugh? With that wild chortle of his? The very same one that makes everything feel like one big joke? Or would he make some absurd comment about fate or destiny, dismissing it with a wink and a swagger?
No.
He’d walk away, most likely, as if nothing has changed. Because in Jack’s world, nothing ever really changes, just shifting tides and different ports.
But this has changed. Everything has changed!
James’ stomach churns dangerously, the threat of bile tingling in the back of his throat. He can’t stop thinking of what’s inside him. This thing that should not be there, feeding off of him and making him so terribly and horribly sick.
He doubles over and vomits, retching into the dirt and wishing he could purge out this problem and be rid of it just like he is being made to get rid of his breakfast.
Nothing is ever that easy. Not for him.
He hates the thing inside him, James decides. He hates it with a passion so hot it nearly burns through his chest. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural. It shouldn’t be there. But it is. And no matter how much he tries to deny it, that fact doesn’t change.
The salty taste of bile lingers in his mouth as he wipes his lips, pressing his back against the cold stone of the alley. The sounds of the port come crashing back to him, but his thoughts still remain deafeningly loud, screaming with every ounce of confusion and dread that gnaws at him from the inside out.
Logic calls to him, offering up the option of marching back over to Cecilia’s shop, shoving the rest of his shillings in her face and demanding she get this thing out of him, but his legs do not move. He simply stands there, eyes squeezed shut, trying to collect himself.
An hour slips by before James finds he is able to move again, though each step feels like dragging himself through deep, clinging mud.
When he finally does, it’s in the opposite direction of Cecilia’s shop, as though the very idea of returning there might cause his legs to buckle beneath him.
He walks, instead, toward the wharf, his mind settled on a singular, desperate goal. Pretend.
If he doesn’t look down at his midriff, everything can be the way it has been for the last few weeks. His world can become, once again, work and food and sleep.
A stiff nod is offered to his employer in greeting, forcing a mask of normalcy over his features. Then, he strides toward the first pile of crates stacked high by the warehouse, waiting to be loaded onto the next ship bound for somewhere James has not bothered to remember.
He bends, hands sliding beneath the coarse edges of the nearest crate, the grain of the wood biting into his skin. Muscles strain as he hoists it onto his shoulder with a movement born of habit.
But there’s a sick feeling that rumbles at him from within, a worry that is dull and insistent.
James adjusts the weight on his shoulder, trying to shake it off, to silence the voice in his mind that has begun to whisper, What if doing this hurts it?
And then, sharper, crueler:
Good. Let it hurt. Let it go away. Let it end here on the dock where no one has to know and I don’t have to choose.
That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? A clean answer to a tangled problem. It wouldn’t cost him a single shilling.
But the thought leaves him cold. So cold his skin prickles beneath his shirt. The very idea makes his stomach twist, and his grip on the crate falters. Suddenly, it feels twice as heavy.
God, just move, James. Do the work. Keep moving. Nothing’s wrong.
He tries to ignore it, he really really does, but his mind is not listening or cooperating. James’ body, still holding the crate awkwardly, is no longer responding with the fluidity he’s used to. His muscles twitch, his legs feel like they’ve been filled with sand and all he can think about is the little thing in his belly who has not asked to be there any more than he has asked to carry it.
Damn it all!
James drops the crate with a loud crash against the dock, earning some startled looks. He doesn’t care, though. In fact, he barely even notices them, staring instead at the mess he’s made as his chest heaves with each ragged breath.
What is he doing? He can’t focus, can’t settle his thoughts long enough to figure out what his feelings are regarding this…this pregnancy.
There’s not much else to do but turn and flee before he gets told to pay for the damages he’s caused.
That night, James does not return to the place he’s slept the past few weeks. He avoids the barn and the beach, choosing instead a different path. It carries him deep into the jungle under the cover of darkness, guided by moonlight.
It’s a clearing he’d found not too long ago, hidden away and surrounded by thick ferns. It’s overshadowed by a jagged rocky wall, providing a natural shelter that, considering the abandoned supplies hidden in a crevice, has kept more than just himself safe in the past. A perfect place to lie still and disappear into the night sky.
James sets up a makeshift camp, and stretches out on his back, arms tucked rigidly at his sides and body stiff with uncertainty.
His thoughts tumble in a thousand directions, and the stars glitter indifferently above him, proof that the world continues with its path regardless of how much he feels like he’s drowning or how much he tries to stop himself from thinking about it. His body, once so sure and confident, now feels foreign to him.
It’s strange, lying here in the dark, so afraid of something happening under his own skin Afraid of what it means.
So unlike himself.
Cowering.
And James Norrington does not cower.
Not from pirates. Not from shame. Not even from disgrace.
Every misfortune has been faced with his head held high, and this should be no different.
With trembling hands, James sits up and slowly pulls up the hem of his shirt. The cool night air brushes against his skin, feeling like a whisper against him, gentle and curious. His fingers hover the stretched skin and, for a moment, they hesitate, as if unsure of what to expect.
He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, and lets his fingertips gently touch the curve of his abdomen for the first time since learning of his passenger. The sensation is strange, distant yet real, now that he knows why his stomach feels taut. The contact is soft, but as he holds his breath, that sensation inside him returns.
A flutter. Barely there, but unmistakable. A movement he realises he’s been feeling for a while now, mistaking it for his insides shifting around on their own.
James freezes, his heart leaping into his throat.
It’s like a ripple in a still pond, a tiny movement that feels so out of place, yet so alive. It’s real. This isn’t a fever dream or a hallucination.
He’s carrying a child.
His hand shakes as it lingers there, almost as though he’s afraid to acknowledge it, to fully accept the truth of what will emerge from his body should he let the months crawl by.
Another flutter. This time, it’s more pronounced, practically a greeting. James can’t help the soft gasp that escapes his lips, the awe replacing the terror almost in its entirety. There’s life in him, a small someone who is growing and changing and connected to him in ways he does not quite grasp.
“...Hello,” he says softly, as if speaking too loudly could startle them. He feels a little foolish, speaking to his stomach, but he has been alone for so long that having someone to talk to, even if it’s someone who cannot answer him, is a relief to his troubled heart. “You are… You are very unexpected. I haven’t the slightest as to what I’m supposed to do with you but I… I will do what I can to take care of you until you’re here.”
James does not realise what he is promising until he has said it, but it feels right. He can’t run from this. The world he’s known is already gone, shattered beyond repair by his own actions. There is no turning back. If he wouldn’t have been accepted in his disgrace, he definitely wouldn’t be while pregnant.
But maybe that doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe all that ever mattered is this moment and this promise.
He is not ready for this, and does not think he has it in him to be a father, but he can try his very best to bring this child safely into the world. All he needs to do is find some way off this blasted island.
Green eyes stare back up at the sky, and James lies back down. The fluttering in his stomach has ceased for now, but he pulls down his shirt anyway, hoping that by doing so he is keeping the child safe and warm.
For tonight, he won’t think of Jack or earning money or figuring out what he is supposed to do with all this. He’ll just focus on the one thing that matters now, the life he carries inside him.