(no subject) [the Dalaverse]

Okay. The letters bit of the OT3. I was a bit nervous about it, as I've never made a serious attempt at the epistolary format, and James' last letter gave me trouble all day long, but I think I've finally beaten it into submission. Though I did a bit of research on Calcutta, don't squint too hard, because the timeline works best if it's a bit fuzzy (Ted and Terry started it!)

Pride

Part I: Letters Sent and Received

Dear Andrew and Theodore,

Please accept my apology for not having written as regularly as I’d promised. I broke my right wrist during our last battle and have only just regained full use of the hand. Yes, Andrew, it’s healing cleanly; no, Theodore, I did not use this as an excuse to have the handsome coxswain dote upon me. I should never have mentioned the handsome coxswain to you in the first place. You know very well that he is married, and I do wish you’d stop teasing me.

‘The battle, James,’ I can hear Andrew sigh. ‘Yes, onto the action!’ Theo will chorus. It has been over a year since I saw you last, but your voices are as rich and clear in my head as ever they were.

It was not so epic as all that, really. We came upon a Company ship, heavy with cargo and riding low in the water, with a French corvette pursuing her. The Dauntless is truly a magnificent ship; you should feel the thunder when she fires a broadside. It was over in an hour, and the captain said I would have been the one to sail the corvette into Calcutta had I not been injured.

The East India Company has invested much here in just a few short years, and Fort William will be a strong, stable defense to protect our trade from the enterprising French. But it is Calcutta itself that would make your eyes go round with wonder. There are buildings just as you would see in London right next to the unfamiliar designs of the natives. And the markets – I have never imagined so much color could exist in one small, crowded space. Merchants of every hue hawking their wares, in all the languages I am able to recognize and many I cannot: gold, spices, silks, tapestries, jewels, images of saints and gods and creatures that look like they may be a muddled mix of both. Theo, you would adore it and touch everything shoved under your nose, purchasing half of it; Andrew, you would clutch your purse tightly and talk him out of buying a lady’s silk fan. I believe I fall somewhere in between. I could only peruse the market nearest the dock for half an hour before I found myself exhausted by the noise, the vibrancy, and the heat. I did manage to find trinkets small enough to send. I imagine you’ll tuck this coin into the hidden pocket of your best coat, Andrew, or perhaps under your pillow, and Theo, I hope the sandstone statue of the heathen goddess is obscene enough for you. The outfit she wears is exactly like the clothing of the Indian women I have seen, except for her jewelry of course. I saw enough bare skin during that week to damn the souls of twenty men, but I was fortunate not to see anything quite so terrifying as that necklace and girdle.

I am afraid I will not be returning to your waters for some time yet, as we are bound for the Caribbean. From all I’ve heard the men say, it only means more spicy food, more foreign tongues, more longing for a cold breeze and a familiar face – or two familiar faces, I should say. My eyes are accustomed to the blaze of the sun by now, but my heart has never quite gotten used to the involuntary solitude.

Keep each other in good company, as you always have.

Ever yours,

James

Gillette,

The latest letter from James arrived today just after you went ashore. I leave it for you, as well as the letter I have written in reply. I could not remember precisely whose turn it was, but in any case, my reply is quite short and you should feel free to add a postscript if you’ve anything pressing to say.

James’ letter is yours to keep, as I have made a copy for myself.

--T.E. Groves

Mr. Groves,

As far as I remember, it was indeed your turn to write. I added only a bit of news and my name.

If you would be so kind as to ask Mr. Rawley to stop borrowing my spare belt, I would be greatly obliged.

Sincerely,

A.H. Gillette

Rawley is neither my ward nor my pet, so you can ask him yourself.

Did you post the letter when we went ashore last night? Mullins says he saw you in your cups at the Dog and Bone, so I was unsure.

Both Rawley and Mullins act as though you tread hallowed ground. Which means the one will listen to you before reason, and the other is a liar. I would never darken the doorstep of such a den of vice as the Dog and Bone, and you know it. If a rumor about my landside habits spreads aboard this ship, I will know where to lay the blame.

Going to tell the captain on me, sir? If I’d failed my lieutenancy exam, I might make a habit of arse-kissing too.

My dear lad, I do not think you need an incentive to put lips to another man’s posterior. Mr. Rawley can certainly attest to that.

Thinking of how it must eat at you, I am almost saddened to say that I have never touched the boy. Green may be your favorite color, but it does not suit you, Andrew.

Don’t you dare bring James into this.

It was you who brought up the name. It is you who cannot let him go. And it is me to whom Rawley, and the most decent amongst the men, turn in friendship, because your heart is brittle ice and you don’t know what it is to truly care.

I’ve no need for friends, not when I am scheduled for a second examination, one I will pass. And when I do so, I will leave you and your childish idling far behind.

Dear James,

To hear you speak of India – wild, exotic, heathen India! – is to feel as though I’ve set foot on its shores myself. Thank you for the gift; I find her more enchanting than any female I have ever seen, necklace of human skulls and all.

I’m afraid we have nothing of such interest to report. Captain Phillips has a cold, and that is about as exciting as it runs on the Kestrel. Oh, and Runt has chased his last rat. I know you were fond of him. I said a few words before giving him a proper sailor’s burial.

My mother has written to ask if you are married yet. I told her you’d married a golden-skinned Indian lass whose dowry was a book of creative positions into which the two of you might twist yourselves for hours. I don’t think she believed me. Is your wrist truly all better? It should be by now, but I know how you get when you've been wounded, you stubborn arse.

Andrew and I are both well, though we are filled with bitter envy of your bright sun whenever it rains. He is ashore at this very moment being interrogated by a handful of snotty old seamen and I am busy wishing him luck. I will leave it to him to relate the outcome. We miss you most dreadfully and hope your time in the Caribbean is short. Do write and tell us if you should happen upon any pirates!

Perpetually, unequivocally, violently yours,

Theodore

I am just adding a bit here before I send this letter off. I am sorry to report that I did not pass my lieutenancy exam, though Lord Marbury was very kind and did say I might return to try again in a few weeks’ time. I don’t think I have ever been so nervous in my life. You weren’t nearly so nervous, as I recall. It must have done me in. In any case, I would like to reiterate what Theodore has said – we miss you, and we wish you well. (And I wish the infamous pirates of the Caribbean far, far away from you, for your own safety.)

Sincerely,

Andrew Gillette

Dear Andrew and Theodore,

It would follow that when I am actually in England, the Kestrel is meandering somewhere off the coast of Spain. I will just leave this quick note to be delivered when you return.

We’ve come back for the new governor of Jamaica, Weatherby Swann, whom Captain Belden has agreed to transport to Port Royal. I met him when he came aboard yesterday and I quite like him. He is already seasick. His young daughter is untroubled by any ailment and seems to think the ship and the crew exist solely for her delight. She reminds me of your sister Mary, Theo, although her hair is darker and she is not so jolly and round.

I will write again soon, either during the journey or when we reach Port Royal. I have heard that it is a nasty, uncouth place, frequently visited by pirates (sorry, Andrew, but I doubt I will be able to avoid them). Hopefully Swann will be able to restore some order, with the Navy’s help.

Your James

Part II: Letters Unsent and Lost

My dearest James,

I have just dashed off a quick letter assuring you that we are doing perfectly well. It is a bald-faced lie. Perhaps things will have changed by the time it reaches you, but at this moment, I am very far from fine. I do not know how Andrew is doing, but I hope it includes much internal suffering.

It was one thing to accept the necessity of your departure. That was painful, but it was right and rational. What Andrew has done to me is so far from the realm of rationality, it isn’t even on the same map. We have agreed to imply in our letters that things are just as you left them, minus your presence of course, but in actuality, we could not be more changed. There is no ‘we’ left, you see, in any sense of the word.

I wish I had the freedom to act upon what I feel. I would refuse to rise from my bed, I would shout, I would weep, I would throw things, I would order you to return and fix matters, I would grab Andrew by the lapels and shake him until he came back to his senses. In my heart I have done all these things and more besides, lived out fantasies I am ashamed of and will not trouble you with on this paper. But my heart, as has been so explicitly demonstrated, counts for the grand sum and total of nothing.

I hate him, Jamie. I hate him for abandoning me now, just when I need him most. I hate him for not needing me in return. I hate him for retreating into his own private little world, while I stumble like a babe through this one, vulnerable to any cruel whim. I hate his smug little face and his self-satisfied voice and the way I taste his skin in my dreams. Sometimes I hate you, because you threw off the balance when you left and caused all this to happen.

That is horrid of me, and I beg your forgiveness even though I no longer intend to send this letter. I am tempted to leave it out so that he might see it, but I’ll be damned if I let him know how deeply he has wounded me. Instead I think I will burn it, quickly now before he retires for the night.

All my love,

Theo

Teddy,

I cannot make my mind quiet tonight, so I resolve to watch you instead. You do not stir when I light a candle, nor when I creep out of bed to retrieve paper and a quill. Your face is slack in sleep, mouth half-open, hands loose above the blanket. If I strain my ears, I can hear the faint whisper of your breath in the interim between Rawley’s snores. I would like to pretend that the shadows beneath your eyes are cast by the poor light, but I know that they are my doing. If I bent over to kiss your cheek, would you wake? Would you blink away sleep and, thinking you had awakened from a much earlier dream, smile at me and pull me against you? Or would you remember all that has transpired and spit in my face? No, I mustn't risk it.

I wish I could explain myself, Teddy – I wish I could make you understand. But if I could do that, I know you would toss my explanation out the window, and I am too weak to resist your particular brand of persuasion.

It was so much easier to pretend when James was here, beside us, between us. I cannot see clearly anymore.

My hand shakes as I write these words, even though I will never let you read them. I am sorry for hurting you. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. Yet I would not take it back, not even if I could, because the thought that I acted rightly may be the only thing that keeps me going.

You think that I don’t love you anymore, or that I don’t love you enough, or perhaps that I never did. It isn’t true. But you will never know that.

How to end this confession when I have already said too much and when you will never see it anyway? Simply, then –

Andrew

Andrew and Theodore,

We should be coming up on Port Royal in a week’s time. There is a strange lull onboard, too much silence, so I am attempting to fill it by writing to you.

It seems to me that walking down a crowded street, neither of you would recognize me, for I feel entirely changed from the boy you knew. It must show on my face – it has to.

Yesterday we came upon the burning ruin of a merchant vessel. A man managed to fish out a scrap of blue and red, enough to tell that she was English, for there was not enough left to determine otherwise, and the dead could not tell us from whence they’d come. We did pick up a single survivor, a young boy named Turner, who still has not spoken a word of what happened. Captain Belden feels it would be inhumane to press him, at least so soon after the trauma, and Governor Swann agrees.

I took one of the boats myself, steering carefully through the wreckage, trying not the bump the bodies. There were so many of them, laid so thick across the surface, that we could not avoid disturbing a few. As we did, we saw that most of them had not met death from drowning. Their lungs filled with water along with their hasty, dirty wounds.

Destruction. Carnage. The work of your pirates, Theo, but there is none of your romance here. I wish to God there had been, for perhaps we could have saved more of the victims.

You of all people would not think me naïve, not when the pair of you have fought beside me. I am sure Captain Belden now thinks me so, and whomever among the men saw me vomit over the side of the boat when we came upon a pregnant woman shot through the belly and the heart. And I do not blame them. I have killed men, I have fired into their vitals and run them through with my blade and seen the life go out of their eyes. But that was in warfare, where even amongst the bitterest of enemies, there are certain rules by which everybody abides. This was without lawfulness, without reason, without mercy, and it sickens me still to think that the men who perpetrated this heinous attack are still at large.

Before we came upon the wreck I boasted to the little freckle-faced girl of my bravery, my mission, but I did not really feel it. I could not, not until I had seen the reality of what I propose to challenge. I cannot bear to look at her now, for it is too easy to see her face among the dead. What if the day should come when I fail to protect her?

I doubt myself without you two here to talk me out of it, no matter if you are only appealing to my vanity, my pride. But I tell you this: no man can doubt my conviction. The savages such as the ones we were too late to intercept should not be roaming the seas unafraid. They will not be, so long as there is blood in my veins and breath in my body. I am sorry, but I do not think I shall be returning to England for quite some time.

I left this ink to dry and now, returning to it, I read over my account with shame. I worry you would think me weak, but even more I worry that my promise will turn out empty if I rely upon words to carry it out. It is action that matters here, in this distant corner of the world, and the first action I take tonight will be sealing this letter and dropping it beneath the waves.

Sincerely,

James Robert Norrington, third lieutenant of the HMS Dauntless, loyal servant of Their Majesties William III and Mary II of England

.::frowns a little, sighs a lot, glows a little. blinks::. Robert, hm.

Well I can say you got the epistolary down quite spectacularly...
now will you please make things better in your own wonderful beautiful smooth classic way?

Or... well, whatever works, really.

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Heh. Give it ten years or so, I'll see what I can do. Thank you :)

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This is beautiful.

Thank you.

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What she said! Also, echoing monkey: Kali! Totally.

I'm a sucker for Groves, especially a Groves who lets me hate Gillette, but ohhhh this one's hurting me. The poor boy! So suddenly and unexpectedly alone. At least James knew he would be alone and was given time to prepare for it. Theodore expected to have the support of his friend and now he's lost someone he can't grieve, and that's not fair at all.

And the unsent letter from James! Ugh, finally I am convinced, a reason for James to hate pirates that feels real, sowing the seeds for a relationship with Elizabeth that doesn't feel forced or obligated.

This is beautiful, Dala. Lovely!

*slobber* Thank you.

~~with his magical penis?~~ I don't know how, either :) Thankee.

The angst! Woe! James has to make them be together again because of the lurvliness of the Norrington/Groves/Gillette yumminess!

Very well written. I am anxious for more.

Thank you :)

*whimper*

It occurs to me that what you've really captured here is how hard it is to grow up without losing what you had in youth, moving from the relationships of children to those of adults is something that fails more often then it succeeds in my experience.

*cuddles them all*

This had damn well better be the set up for something happier soon! *glares menacingly*

Oh and also, I am going to miss everyone here terribly, but you can always visit. It's only a $60 bus to Madison... *g*

I know but ::clings::

And thank you :)

First things first: KALI!!!! Theodore would indeed be much taken with her me thinks. :-)

Now: Damn but these three broke my heart. God, but someone needs too go and thwap some sense into Groves and Gillette. Idiots. At the same time it makes sense that things might fall apart once the trio was seperated.

The final letter is spot on and perfect and... Yeah, perfect.

Gracias *lick*

De nada, mi corazon. *smooch*

Wow.
Just - wow.
Thank you so much for writing this lovely series!

Thank you for following :)

I'm feeling a bit speechless right now. This was just so wonderfully, heartbreakingly gorgeous and *sigh* I've forgotten all me words...

The first set of letters is just so perfect, the way James can predict how each of them would behave in Calcutta, and then the exchange of notes between Theodore and Gillette - sniping at each other so much, it really encapsulates the way people behave when their pride won't let them admit they've done something wrong...

But then *g* you take it all to an entirely higher level with part 2. Theodore's I think I had worked out that would be how he felt - he shows his emotions far more than the others. Andrew's letter, though wrenched my heart out... How can he continue like that? How? Why? Like others have said, I want to just make him see sense & force him to be nice to Theo again. *sniffles*

And then, having already torn my heart out with Andrew's partial confession, you go on to James' unsent letter... and now I'm just a great big puddle of goo on the floor.
" Before we came upon the wreck I boasted to the little freckle-faced girl of my bravery, my mission, but I did not really feel it. I could not, not until I had seen the reality of what I propose to challenge. I cannot bear to look at her now, for it is too easy to see her face among the dead. What if the day should come when I fail to protect her?"
It's already hard enough to watch the bit where James almost dives of the cliffs after Elizabeth, now it's going to be next to impossible...

*does the dance of long feedback joy* Thank you for every word :)

Thank you for every word of your fic(s).

Oh blimey, I just played the forst scene of the film to get a screencap of Hot Rower Guy and I almost cried because I was thinking of James' unsent letter!

*mweep*

Please, make them happy? *offers rum*

It's absolutely gorgeous, and I feel sorry for Theo and Andrew, because they should have had each other to be strong with, but are effectively more alone together than James who is apart from them.

Minor issue - I'm pretty sure Gillette was on board the Dauntless when they delivered the Governor to Port Royal, as attested by this picture (http://img19.photobucket.com/albums/v56/mimesere/potc/prologue_128.jpg) from

mimesere's post (http://www.livejournal.com/users/mimesere/342950.html).

Mmm, that post...*is distracted by teh pretty* Back now. For some reason it never looked like Damien O'Hare in that cap to me, even though he's wearing Gillette's lemon-face. Something about the mouth. Anyway, uh...what in the world can that be?! ::runs away::

Thank you :)

I don't think that is Gillette. He certainly doesn't look like Damien O'Hare to me.

I have a feeling this could (or possibly has?) turn(ed?) into one of those evil spiralling discussions of doom (TM), similar to the age-old "But LOOK! Mr Cotton's in Port Royal! How did he get to Tortuga so fast?"

*giggle* *feels far too geeky for her own good*

That's definitely not Damien O'Hare.

This is kind of like the whole debate on that 'Girls Lie Too' music video, with supposedly has Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow in it. That wasn't Johnny Depp either.

That, that, that. *cries*

Beautiful form, their different writing styles, and particularly James's letters. The rise of his conviction to hunt pirates. Great work!

Gracias :)

*art-related poking*

I love this series. It's beyond brilliant. I'm going to print it and make all my friends read it...
It's just so lovely.

You made me cry at work.

Thank you.

This started so sweetly and simply, and it's evolved into something deep and real. It's a story of their lives, and whether you continue it or not, it could go on forever.

Awp. Tissue? And thank you :)

Wow. I'm having trouble putting my thoughts into coherent sentences, I find. It's quite frustrating, the way reading a piece of really good writing seems to make me almost incapable of writing anything sensible myself. :-)

This series has just hit a new level for me, one which not many stories manage to. I love the way you've woven the first scene of the movie in - it feels natural, not as though the story was somehow grafted onto the movie or vice versa. (*waving hands about* And I'm sure Gilette wasn't really on the ship in that scene. 'S a mirage, I'm sure. The Bermuda Triangle drifted, or something, and Norrington imagined he saw Andrew because he missed him... yeah, that's it.) The next time I watch it (*resisting urge to go put the DVD in right now because my husband would laugh at me*), I expect I'll be hearing faint echos of this story in my mind.

I avoid angst like the plague but I loved this. I really liked the point in each letter where the guys realized that they weren’t going to send their letter. There’s just a bit more realism in writing a letter with the intent to send it and then realizing that you can’t*. And big props for creating emotionally fragile men who are still masculine.

The description in the first set of letters was just fantastic. Not only can James see how each would act in Calcutta, I can see how everyone would act when they receive their gifts. Tear jerker.

All that being said, can you pleeeaase give us some happy navel boys now.

*unless you are a 12 year old Canadian girl and I still claim that it was worth it to get all my words down on paper.

::giggles:: Personal experience, I take it? And thank you :) Happiness eventually...

This is incredible. I love the contrast between what they are willing to tell each other and the things they keep hidden. Poor woobies. *gathers the poor lonely navy boys into a group embrace* *pets*

Thankee :)

Put them back together. Fix them. Pwetty pwease?

I'll just echo what everyone else has said about how realistic the boys sound in their hurt and bewilderment and anger. Letters sent and unsent ring so true. Especially striking was how James was confronted with the horror of piracy. This:

I took one of the boats myself, steering carefully through the wreckage, trying not the bump the bodies. There were so many of them, laid so thick across the surface, that we could not avoid disturbing a few. As we did, we saw that most of them had not met death from drowning. Their lungs filled with water along with their hasty, dirty wounds.

It shows what Disney wouldn't dare.

Excellent writing. :)

GUH

Just...GUH. That hurts.

Oh, this must be fixed! Poignant, sweet and haunting. *sobs for Teddy* James description of the pirate carnage is so graphic. Such raw emotion! *pleads for happy resolution*

ow.

You've got me close to tears, and that DOESN'T HAPPEN. Things don't make me cry.

I guess I'd missed a few installments, so I caught up before reading this one. They're all fabulous, of course. But this. . .this hurt.

And kudos on the epistolary form. It's hard to do, harder to do well, and you've pulled it off nicely; particularly the unsent letters. Again, ouchies. Oh my boys.

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the Dalaverse

January