Obviously Insane

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February 10, 2008
The girl is obviously insane.

In the last ten minutes, that's the only solid fact that James has been able to grasp. It's just his luck to die and be faced with an endless Hell of this girl talking non-stop. She barely even pauses to take a breath, which is something that might fascinate him if his head didn't feel like it might explode and his chest didn't burn. Instead, he just finds it bothersome.

Until recent years, his life was respectable and honest. Surely that has to count for something. Not even Sparrow would likely deserve an afterlife trapped with this curly-haired moppet. Oh, but the thought of Sparrow stuck with her as she goes on and on about planes and magic almost makes him smile. It's more of a grimace, because he feels too miserable to actually smile, but it distracts him from whatever she's talking about now.

The blanket she gave him when he woke up is warm, but it does little to answer the question of why she had undressed him. He's not naked, fortunately, since he has no intention of marrying this girl due to sullying her reputation, but the top of his uniform has certainly been removed since he arrived in this place. She claims that it was due to his injuries, yet he isn't sure if she can be trusted, not when she's insane and sounds as if she's lying even more than Sparrow. His hands are still dirty, though the blood on his torso has been cleaned, which he finds odd.

He also isn't sure where the wig came from. It's lying at his feet, at least, and not making his head itch, but he's still curious why it was with him. He doesn't remember wearing it before everything becomes confused in his mind, not that he can remember very much about that event at all. Regardless of the things he's seen recently, he has little use for tales of sea creatures and haunted ships. The fact that this girl is talking about magic while waving around a stick is unsettling, to say the least.

Perhaps she'll stop talking if her lips were otherwise engaged. It's a random thought, and he's initially horrified that his mind has gone to such places considering the circumstances. But he is a man, after all, and there's not been anyone warming his bed since he began courting Elizabeth. Even after she left him, he had entertained the hope that she'd come to her senses and realize that Turner didn't deserve her. Instead, he's the one who died and Turner's likely breeding a dozen brats as foul and loathsome as he is.

At least, he thinks he's dead. He remembers facing death and accepting it, if little else. There's a large wound on his chest that confirms his belief. Yet he's here now talking, well, listening, and he can feel warmth and knows that his feet are cold. There are other indications that he's alive, including the realization that he's staring at the girl's lips and considering acting very improperly if she doesn't stop talking soon. It's a sign of his recent past that he's actually hoping she fails to become quiet, he decides. It's easy to blame piracy for his less respectful urges.

She is now talking about research and a sword, or perhaps she's always been talking about that. He tuned her out shortly after she began because her words were making little sense to him. There was no logic at all in her claims of being from the future or somehow causing him to be brought forth from the past, which is what she'd started rambling about as soon as he stated his name. Her home is unfamiliar, and much too tidy for Tortuga. There's a possibility that she's keeping him in Port Royal, but the brief glimpse outside the window shows gray skies and rain.

"Madam," he finally interrupts, "you talk too much."

"What?" She blinks at him and gapes in a way that makes him wonder if anyone has bothered to inform her of that bad trait in the past. She frowns then, and he's again distracted by her full lips as they curve downward. "I am trying to explain what might have happened, Mr. Norrington. Do you not care how you've somehow managed to travel centuries into the future?"

There she is with the crazy talk again. God, he hopes she never meets Sparrow, or the world surely won't be safe. Two people suffering from insanity would likely take over the world. "Madam, at the moment I only care about the fact that you're constant chatter is making my head throb and that my feet are cold."

"Oh." She waves her stick in the air, and his eyes widen as a rolled up cloth floats in the air towards her. "Here. Socks. They're my best friend's, but Harry won't care if I let you borrow them. I've already given you a potion for your head, but I doubt it works very well yet seeing as you were brought here by magical means."

"Magical means," he repeats dumbly, staring at the bundle she just tossed him. Socks, she calls them, and they're warm and obviously meant for his feet. They're unfamiliar to him, though the concept is similar to the more familiar stockings that are part of his uniform. He tightens his grip on the socks and looks up at her. His gaze lingers on her lips for a moment before he focuses on her eyes. "You're not insane, are you?"

"I certainly hope not," she says as she arches a brow and looks at him as if he's daft in the head.

"Madam Hermione, forgive me," he murmurs, reaching up to push his hair away from his face. He looks at her steadily and prepares himself to concentrate on her words instead of her lips. After all, kissing can wait. "Explain to me again, please. What's this about a sword?"