|Sequel to "Tómas"
Overall rating: PG-13
Category: slash, adventure, humour
Other characters appearing: Lord George Cutler Beckett, Lt. Greitzer, Lt. Groves, Will Turner plus cameos by Prince Frederick of Prussia and Voltaire
Feedback: very welcome. Good or bad.
Author's note: I thought that "Tómas" was the weirdest story I've ever written. Well, I was wrong.
Summary: There is nothing that a leprechaun wouldn't do for his treasure, so all is not lost for James Norrington.
It was an impressive sight. The size of a sixth rate frigate, the Flying Scotsman emitted an eerie green glow, and she parted the water without a sound. The figurehead was missing, and somebody had painted "under new management" on the hull. Gillette's heart skipped a beat - was it possible? Had his search finally come to an end? But as much as he craned his neck and narrowed his eyes, he couldn't see anybody on deck.
An anchor was dropped, dragging along the sand and then finally digging into the ground, bringing the ship to a sudden halt. Once it had stopped swaying and the whirled up sand had settled, invisible hands lowered a rope ladder.
"Finally we can leave," Henry said.
"What? That is your means of transport? The Flying Scotsman?" Gillette couldn't have looked more confused if Henry had explained to him that Lord Cutler Beckett had decided to join the Royal Navy.
"Of course. Didn't you know? Every seaman knows the legend. When you drown, you'll be ferried to paradise."
Gillette wrinkled his nose; he was insulted.
"How on earth am I supposed to know that? I can't pay attention to every yarn spun by sailors. That aside, our kind doesn't die. And even if we should die, we'd certainly travel with more style."
"Tómas, don't be such a snob. You've been looking for the Flying Scotsman, now you've found her. Be grateful and stop whinging."
Gillette gestured towards the rope ladder. "Time for your last journey, gentlemen."
None of the men moved, and Gillette began to get impatient.
"What are you waiting for? Captain's welcome?"
"Sir, we have to pay the ferryman first," Henry explained. "He won't allow us on board unless we give him a coin. But we don't have the money to pay him."
Having said that, Henry looked wistfully at Gillette's pot of gold. Gillette immediately sat on it, stretching his arms out protectively.
"Oh no! Absolutely not! Not my gold! Never!"
Voltaire elbowed him in the side.
"Don't be such a miser, Tómas," he said. "It's only gold, after all."
"Only gold? Only? What would you know about it?" Gillette looked very desperate, and patted the pot lovingly. "A leprechaun's gold is the proof of his skill. Without my gold, I am nobody!"
Voltaire put his hand on Gillette's shoulder.
"My dear cousin, I think freeing all those good men from the webbed clutches of the mermaids and exposing Robert the fairy's evil business prove far more skill than filling a pot with gold. And don't you think your captain would rather see you helping these men than polishing your gold all day? Certainly he didn't fall for you for your business sense."
Gillette took a few coins out of the pot and looked at them. Voltaire was right; James Norrington wouldn't have hesitated even a second to help a soul in need. Much time had passed since they'd last met, but no matter how the years aboard the Flying Scotsman might have changed his captain: of that Gillette was sure.
He dropped the coins back in his pot and addressed the waiting men.
"Gentlemen, each of you will take one of these coins - one! - climb up that rope ladder and then Godspeed."
Henry's smile almost split his face.
"Thank you, sir! You've always been my favourite officer!"
"Much good that does," Gillette grumbled, and looked away while coin after coin left his pot. The men lined up, and one by one climbed up the rope ladder. Henry was the last, and when he reached the railing, he turned around.
"What about you, sir? Don't you want to come aboard as well?"
Before Gillette could answer, the rope ladder was reeled in.
"You're still breathing, Mr. Gillette. I'm afraid you're not allowed aboard," a voice said regretfully. "I only ferry dead men. My apologies, I'm very sorry."
* * *
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|THE FLYING SCOTSMAN 15/18
by Molly Joyful