Codex - Hurricane [POTC: AWE, Elizabeth/Norrington, original character, AU]

Kate disgraces her heritage; that feeling is there as she bitterly struggles with learning how to swim.

Uncle Jack is patient with what she believes to be disastrous, irrational weakness: perfectly fine with watching the sea, but plop her in the water and instant panic follows. Wet in her eyes sets her perception into overdrive, making it seem as if she should drown the next second, dying all alone with wet pressing all around her and blinding, suffocating. Terror flaws her motions, makes them crude, rough, ugly; panic sends her into a rapid flurry that tires her muscles quickly, setting a persistent aching throb in each one, stamina cut short. Choked, haggard breathing, soaked enough so as unable to tell if she sweats or cries or both; Kate abhors tears though, as much as the whole situation.

Jack is patient, and that is some great comfort; nothing ruffles her younger uncle, this is normal, does not matter if this either breaks or makes her. Jack has her practice in light boy clothes, says it is best to start out with less weight, and more maneuverability than a skirt. Says weight is very important, in that enough of it can and will drag you down, and then regales her with the tale of how he first met her mother. Inanely crafted dress, far too absorbent, corset that shrinks far too much when drenched—had to tear it off to get her breathing, and that’s something to remember Katie, too much weight, ye just focus on tearing it off your person, focus on floating. The human body is tailor-made to float, affirms her uncle. And then he tells her other stories, and always in a calm, level voice instructs her, and Jack is a comfort.

"Ye say you’re a slow pupil? Katie, this here is a sign; if you’re taking long, ‘tis only because you are readying yerself to be a straight ‘n true bullet through the sea," bending down closer, he whispers conspiratorially, "I’d wager ye’ll give the mermaids a run for their money when ye’re full grown."

Yet as she paddles and sinks, paddles and sinks, still kicking all the while, the sight of her uncle waiting with arms wide open dipping in and out of view, waiting for the completion of this practice crossing, Kate fixates on her mother. Her perfect mother, who was only halted in her swimming by an immeasurable weight of a beautiful dress and chaining corset and the searing sun, who wouldd normally glide in light boy clothes. After all, she was the Pirate King, a sailor in her own right, how could she be anything less than that?

(How could her daughter ever hope to be more?)

Kate says naught a word about it to Jack.

&&&&&&

Mocking titles of ‘Pirate Princess’, ‘Pirate Prince’ with too much rum in between have always been tossed around; and as always, Kate has loathed them silently.

Sometimes she dreams of the opposite to her mother: the Navy man. Yet special emphasis on ‘man;’ they were even more particular about gender than pirates. Though sometimes Kate would press on in the fantasy, plan out the method of disguising herself as a man: bind up her eventual breasts—though with the way things are developing, may never be an issue. Hide the eventual monthly leaking, just generally hide away and put off an air of supreme privacy.

Mother would never ever have worn or will wear a wig.

Other times she considers a scholar or a high-society lady, yet Kate knows she could not do anything but sail in some fashion.

&&&&&&

Jack tells her the most about her father, and sometimes during his animated descriptions, Kate wonders crazily if she is not the only one jealous of her mother, overshadowed by a far more serious envy.

If Kate is honest, she’ll admit James Norrington inspired the idea of the Navy. Still, she feels detached from her blood father; she has both Jack and Barbossa more than filling up that supposed hole, and why cause injury when there is none, why work to feel a loss that has been avoided due to circumstance? Yet while she is detached, she can see how unbearably sad her father’s death makes her mother and Uncle Jack be—sometimes, Kate feels that is reason enough not to like him.

&&&&&&

Kate is fourteen, and freckled.

Minute pin-point brown dots all over her cheeks and nose, felt like each day she looked in a mirror they multiplied marginally overnight, a slow invasion of her entire face, no other armada could be as clever. They were unnatural to her reckoning despite the majority’s consensus; they were alien unsightly blemishes that marred the flesh. Even when she was little, she took notice of them, had fervently hoped they would disappear altogether as she grew up. Once, when she was five years old and still not in full possession of all her mental facilities, Pintel and Ragetti had caught her just in time and stopped her from scratching them out, the child not even thinking of the bloody gouge marks she would have left behind. Once, she had tugged on her mother’s dress skirt, worn for some greatly formal meeting of the Court, and asked her if she ever had freckles when she was small. Her mother had answered she could not remember, and returned back to the documents on the table, engrossed in them again. Kate had followed Monkey Jack and Cotton’s parrot out, thinking that if her mother had no recollection, then surely it meant that she had always been in possession of her bare, flawless face from birth and onward; the Pirate King had known not of freckles.

And Kate was unable to picture her mother with gangly limbs on any occasion whatsoever. Or an otherwise flat chest. Or scraggly hair. But a gangly and an unwieldy body were the hardest to imagine; unsure of her own body and feeling generally disproportionate compared to every one else, and so very awkward round boys her own age, Kate avoided them altogether. Such avoidance excluded service on a ship and having to work with some of them; then, they were just crew. In fact, ship work and swimming and sword practice with Uncle Barbossa were the only things that made her remotely comfortable in her own skin.

Still she felt like a fish out of water with peers of vaguely arousing boys and catty girls and with positions in front of a mirror.

The story of the Ugly Duckling is little help either. The thing turned into a beautiful swan, and that is something that Kate can only ever attach with her mother.

And she is quiet as ever.

&&&&&&

When Kate hears how her mother kept a whole swarm of Davy Jones’ men at bay with dual swords, it only spurs her to practice fencing with Uncle Barbossa harder, more frequently—to be ambidextrous. (She has no idea what to feel when her mother tells her that her father could wield two swords as well.)

&&&&&&

Mother has a whole bottle of nectar from the Fountain of Youth. She is puzzled when her daughter refuses, Katherine only explaining "not yet."

Kate knows she is being childish; Jack and Barbossa have drunk it as well; certainly, growing old and dying naturally would be something her mother would never know—but again, childish.

Yet when she tries to picture herself down the line, forever a youthful portrait while more than half of the world wilts and dies, only to be reborn with a whole new batch of faces. And again and again the cycle goes on and she is static—it seems then better to be mad with the rest of the world than sane alone.

&&&&&&

"Elizabeth Swann?"

Kate has mentioned the Pirate King, and she smirks at her companion’s question. She leans further into the bars, green barnacles ragged against her back.

She is nineteen, lightly freckled, a fast swimmer, ambidextruous proportionately bodied, mortal, and trapped in the Dutchman’s brig with one of the crew, some poor Navy man by the look of his clothes, ripped and torn—dear god, the man looks like hell. Certainly still human looking—Uncle Jack had told her about the original Davy Jones’ crew, even his hallucination about himself and his brain all falling out—it just looks like he went through hell. Which he probably did; at least he does not look insane.

"So they’ve heard of her here down below too, huh?" Kate smiles now, teeth showing. "I assume I have your former Captain to thank for that. Speaking of which, he’s where again?" She leans forward eagerly as she sees Navy’s eyes flash, "I’m still puzzling over how the Undead Ferryman can be mutinied against, isn’t he supposed to be all powerful?" Her own eyes flash now. "My mother has never slackened her guard over his damn heart." A little pride there.

Navy man tilts his head, and she knows she has made a mistake; "Your mother?" He asks, quietly.

Kate surprises herself by raising her head, looking him in the eye, "Yes, my mother," she rests her head on her knees, sight faraway, "a fine woman," she admits. Her companion says nothing, just settles more comfortably on his side of the cage.

"She isn’t dead, is she?" Kate snaps up at the question, eyes widened at the man, whose face seems to be stone. He elaborates, "You sounded bitter, and I know you just spoke of her in the present tense, but...." Blue shoulders shrugged. "You seemed bitter."

Kate chuckles. "She’s a picture of health, drunk from the Fountain of Youth for Christ’s sake." The woman shrugs, "It’s just the cliché of the daughter resenting the mother for being accomplished, distinguished—that’s all there is to it." Her smile is a fragile little thing. Her companion remains quiet still, though she cannot shake his look of sympathy. She blows out a sigh, looks away, considering, "Maybe something has happened to my mother’s guard, it’s not like I watch it continually," her eyes drift over the run-down surroundings, "especially now."

"It isn’t Mr. Turner’s heart, it’s—" Navy blows out his own sigh, "I’m uncertain of what it is, and that is clearly worse."

"But you know it’s not the ‘thump-thump?’"

"Yes."

"Well, that’s good to know." Navy arches an eyebrow, and she can’t help but laugh at him.

When she stops, he continues, "He’s weakened, but still in possession of his more supernatural powers—"

"I truly am not looking forward to just waiting for him to catch his breath, then come rescue us, and possibly the whole Underworld along with the Caribbean—"

"I do not recognize the mutineer, though he says we are acquainted...."

"I heard the longer you’re dead, the more forgetful you become; or is that the older you get?"

The man gives her a certain doom-foretelling glare, then moves on, "We may not have to wait for Mr. Turner to have him help us now." He stands up and moves for the iron door. "My esteemed Captain mentioned something about leverage—"

"No doubt from his blacksmith days?" Kate offers up as she helps him pull out a loose plank from the floor, then set it against the frame of the bars.

Navy actually smirks, and as they heave and push, the door soon scraping loose, he remarks, "How much have you learned about your father?" He smiles fondly, "Your mother must speak of him frequently."

Kate just laughs as she races out and reaches for her sword and pistol, tossing her companion his similar things; "He’s not my father; Uncle always joked how mother only accepted his proposal since I was already stirring in her belly and giving her all sorts of mood swings." Though the woman thinks it right not to mention her own belief that sometimes Jack was more half-joking, half-serious. As Kate buckles the weapons to her belt, she glances over her shoulder, wondering if Navy is ready to go and just waiting.

He seems frozen in place, arms still stretched out and grasping his things from the throw, an odd look on his face. And before she can call a query to him, he slowly lowers his arms, pistol and sword each in a hand of their own, placed rigid at his sides. Navy is not looking at her anymore, but down at his own boots, yet Kate feels she can see his mind in deep thought. Then his head snaps up, and for the first time there is a quaver in his voice as he asks, "What was your father’s name?"

She thinks nothing of answering, "James Norrington." When Navy closes his eyes, it looks as if the motion of lowering the lids pains him; he rather looks as if someone has beaten him bloody.

Kate tilts her head; "Did you know him?" When he looks at her, seeming even more pained, she explains, "Since you’ve served a man that ferries the dead, I just though you might’ve met him...." She drifts off uncertainly, a notion having struck her, a small, insidiously growing notion (he seems familiar with mother). The woman stares at him a moment longer; then she heads up the stairs—"We have to go."

&&&&&&

When her mother dives into the raging whirlpool, Uncle Jack jumping in to save her for old time’s sake, failing, and barely escaping with his life, Barbossa’ saving grip. When she holds her younger uncle’s weary head in her lap, her older one staring at the point where her mother vanished, gone to be with her father forevermore—it is then Kate’s hatred is sealed.

A/N: So much for fix-it fic; this ends damn horribly! Dear god, I need a fix-it fic for the fix-it fic! XP Luckily I have another fic on the mental backburner that branches off with a happier ending. ^^; But though the ending’s tragic, I do stick by Elizabeth’s daughter feeling overshadowed by her mother, thus some sort of stormy relationship.