Norrington!
So, my novel sucks right now, and instead I've been writing "Pirates" fanfiction. So far, nothing longer than five pages, but, hey, anything that keeps my hand in.
These are just three little Norrington-centric vignettes, in order of increasing size (and, probably, quality).
"Drowning"
Though he had survived bodily, the hurricane off Tripoli had left James Norrington to drown. Disgraced, enraged, he’d been lost in the black, empty waters of shame. Those cold currents stole his breath and made him forget his own name. He lay at the bottom of that sea, hoping for death. But his lungs ached for the bright world above and he began to push his way out of the murky deep. The sea parted around him and he emerged in front of Lord Cutler Beckett’s desk, Davy Jones’ accursed heart pulsing between them, and he breathed a triumphant breath.
* * *
"Requiem"
The news of Jack Sparrow’s demise spreads across the Caribbean like a plague. How it has been transmitted, when all those who witnessed the event are still disappeared to parts unknown, is a mystery. It is almost as if Sparrow had a mystical bond with the wind itself, as if the sharp tempest that blew through Port Royal last night was a mourning howl, a wild requiem for that mercurial, untamable soul.
When Beckett hears the news, the satisfaction in his eyes is somewhat tempered by the lingering desire for Sparrow’s unique compass, and the knowledge that it will now never be acquired. He is, undoubtedly, disappointed that he did not get to wring the last drops of revenge from his vendetta against Sparrow. But Beckett is a reasonable man, and he clearly sees the event as a success, all things considered, and at dinner he toasts Captain Sparrow with a cruel smile playing on his lips.
Governor Swann seems outwardly indifferent when he is informed, saying only, “It would’ve been the French disease if not this,” but there is a telling solemnity in the silence that follows.
And as for James Norrington? He feels only regret. Strangely, he does not regret losing the opportunity to execute Sparrow himself. Instead, he endures a moment of grief for the end of an era, the end of a legend, the end of the only chase he’d ultimately wished to pursue.
* * *
"The Hanged Man"
One dim afternoon in Tortuga when the clouds are hanging in the sky like a condemnation, James, considerably more than half-drunk, staggers into a sail shop and buys himself a length of rope. He spends the last of his money on a passably clean room that he selects primarily for the exposed beams of its tall ceiling.
He locks the door and fashions the rope into a neat noose. He can see it as clearly as if it has already happened: He will drag that chair to the middle of the room, beneath that sturdy, dark length of oak, and he will affix the rope around it. Standing on the chair, he will settle the noose around his throat, and once he has composed his thoughts, he will step off the chair and hang by the neck until dead. Afterwards, his body will swing slowly from the beam, twisting idly in the draft, the rope creaking softly, until the innkeeper’s wife discovers him in the morning.
But when it comes time to execute his plan, James finds himself suddenly immobile. Dim afternoon bleeds into murky night as he sits on the bed, fingering the rough cord. He reminds himself that he has nothing more to live for. No dignity, no prospects, no love left in his heart for anything or anyone, least of all himself. What more could he want than a short drop and a sudden stop?
The midnight revelry of Tortuga rages on as the night deepends, and still James cannot find the courage to go through with his plan.
He has contemplated the mechanics of hanging many a time. A man does not condemn scores of pirates to death without considering their final moments. The roster of men he’s executed has kept him up at night more than once. But now James is not thinking of the men he has sent to the gallows, but of the one man he has never been able to hang.
The sky outside the window turns pale with approaching dawn. As the soft morning sunlight spreads across the floorboards of his rented room, James realizes that this was nearly another one of Jack Sparrow’s insidious victories. If he died here, he would never live to see Jack Sparrow swinging from that softly creaking rope. Jack Sparrow has already succeeded in taking everything else from him; he will not have James’ life, too. A pride he didn’t know he still had burns in his chest, and he wants cast his precious rope into the harbor. But this, too, would be a mistake. So James isolates one strand of the sturdy rope, cutting it to length with his knife. He ties it around the third finger of his left hand as a reminder of the one thing he has left to live for.
These are just three little Norrington-centric vignettes, in order of increasing size (and, probably, quality).
"Drowning"
Though he had survived bodily, the hurricane off Tripoli had left James Norrington to drown. Disgraced, enraged, he’d been lost in the black, empty waters of shame. Those cold currents stole his breath and made him forget his own name. He lay at the bottom of that sea, hoping for death. But his lungs ached for the bright world above and he began to push his way out of the murky deep. The sea parted around him and he emerged in front of Lord Cutler Beckett’s desk, Davy Jones’ accursed heart pulsing between them, and he breathed a triumphant breath.
* * *
"Requiem"
The news of Jack Sparrow’s demise spreads across the Caribbean like a plague. How it has been transmitted, when all those who witnessed the event are still disappeared to parts unknown, is a mystery. It is almost as if Sparrow had a mystical bond with the wind itself, as if the sharp tempest that blew through Port Royal last night was a mourning howl, a wild requiem for that mercurial, untamable soul.
When Beckett hears the news, the satisfaction in his eyes is somewhat tempered by the lingering desire for Sparrow’s unique compass, and the knowledge that it will now never be acquired. He is, undoubtedly, disappointed that he did not get to wring the last drops of revenge from his vendetta against Sparrow. But Beckett is a reasonable man, and he clearly sees the event as a success, all things considered, and at dinner he toasts Captain Sparrow with a cruel smile playing on his lips.
Governor Swann seems outwardly indifferent when he is informed, saying only, “It would’ve been the French disease if not this,” but there is a telling solemnity in the silence that follows.
And as for James Norrington? He feels only regret. Strangely, he does not regret losing the opportunity to execute Sparrow himself. Instead, he endures a moment of grief for the end of an era, the end of a legend, the end of the only chase he’d ultimately wished to pursue.
* * *
"The Hanged Man"
One dim afternoon in Tortuga when the clouds are hanging in the sky like a condemnation, James, considerably more than half-drunk, staggers into a sail shop and buys himself a length of rope. He spends the last of his money on a passably clean room that he selects primarily for the exposed beams of its tall ceiling.
He locks the door and fashions the rope into a neat noose. He can see it as clearly as if it has already happened: He will drag that chair to the middle of the room, beneath that sturdy, dark length of oak, and he will affix the rope around it. Standing on the chair, he will settle the noose around his throat, and once he has composed his thoughts, he will step off the chair and hang by the neck until dead. Afterwards, his body will swing slowly from the beam, twisting idly in the draft, the rope creaking softly, until the innkeeper’s wife discovers him in the morning.
But when it comes time to execute his plan, James finds himself suddenly immobile. Dim afternoon bleeds into murky night as he sits on the bed, fingering the rough cord. He reminds himself that he has nothing more to live for. No dignity, no prospects, no love left in his heart for anything or anyone, least of all himself. What more could he want than a short drop and a sudden stop?
The midnight revelry of Tortuga rages on as the night deepends, and still James cannot find the courage to go through with his plan.
He has contemplated the mechanics of hanging many a time. A man does not condemn scores of pirates to death without considering their final moments. The roster of men he’s executed has kept him up at night more than once. But now James is not thinking of the men he has sent to the gallows, but of the one man he has never been able to hang.
The sky outside the window turns pale with approaching dawn. As the soft morning sunlight spreads across the floorboards of his rented room, James realizes that this was nearly another one of Jack Sparrow’s insidious victories. If he died here, he would never live to see Jack Sparrow swinging from that softly creaking rope. Jack Sparrow has already succeeded in taking everything else from him; he will not have James’ life, too. A pride he didn’t know he still had burns in his chest, and he wants cast his precious rope into the harbor. But this, too, would be a mistake. So James isolates one strand of the sturdy rope, cutting it to length with his knife. He ties it around the third finger of his left hand as a reminder of the one thing he has left to live for.