Awake
Fanfiction: Pirates of the Caribbean, pre-CotBP
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Despite the fact that everyone knows James Norrington belongs to me, I'm not allowed to claim ownership or rights over him or anyone else or make any money off of them. But I am allowed to play with them like toys, and while this right is still open to me, I shall exercise it to the full extent of my ability.
A/N: Written for the Father's Day prompt on the Broken Compass Forum. The prompt word was 'wake' and the fic was to contain the word 'father'. Somehow the plot bunnies mangled it and the word is now 'awake'.
Endless thanks to SirenoftheStorm for the very helpful beta and ensuing discussion, without which I would have posted this in the form of a raving, sleep-deprived little first-draft ficlet written at three in the morning, rather something that actually makes sense. R&R?
Everything in him screamed for sleep. His bones burned, his muscles ached and a pounding pain echoed like gallows drums behind one eye.
Everything in him screamed to stay awake. Mad demons fought somewhere in his head in vivid flashes of red, a snarling, tangled spasm in his blood. He would not sleep.
Sometimes, through the haze, he imagined that the sky was lightening, that somewhere in the east, a pale disk of light was growing, that his torment was at an end. But the night stretched on.
Voices. Voices sang in the darkness, speaking in the low contented thrum of the rigging, whispering in the ill-adjusted flutter of the sails, in the few seconds before the helm was tipped alee again with an automatic motion of his hand. His father's voice, softer than in real life, lower, pleased for once. His mother, crying.
Madness. How could he go on? How many days since he had slept?
'Two days, two nights,' breathed the logical part of his mind.
'Enough to die,' despaired the part that dreamed only of sleep.
Sleep. There was more magic in that word than in all the legends of old combined. Sleep, just the whisper of it, set his breath to deepening, stole over his eyelids, claimed his thoughts.
Awake. That was the only word permitted in his mind. Awake, awake, awake. There could be no other thoughts, for he knew himself by now, and he knew any stray and idle concept would fade into dreams and darkness. But the world slept, and if he strained his ears, he imagined he could hear the snores of the crew, safely wrapped in hammocks, darkness and dreams of lovely women. He was the only one on deck, the only hand that held her true through the long night. This thought rang through him and he stood straighter, trying to peer over the tall helm at the blackness that surrounded him.
Dark, empty, vast night; that was all that could be seen, that and the bright lights high above that he steered by. The ship swung as the stars did, as he marked their position and adjusted course, rattling the compass in the binnacle every hour, by the glass.
He spared a glance; in the wavering lantern light he could see that the sand had drained to the bottom of the glass. He gave it a final tap, then turned it on its' head. Another hour gone before the sun. He wondered if he would last, if any boy of eight could serve before the mast for two days and man the helm for two nights without even the whisper of sleep.
He would, though, or die trying. His father had never told him what was expected of him, had never asked him if he was tired or if he could go on. And yet he knew. He knew that there must always be a man at the helm, that the ship must always be guided and guarded. He knew that he must go about his duties in the day and do them well. And he knew he could not sleep, not until he was told to go and do so. He would neither complain nor question, not even with his eyes. Expression, emotion – that was for the weak, for those who wished respite from the hand dealt them. No man had a right to complain about his lot, not even with his features, not even as a boy. There was no other man to stand beside him, no one to catch him if he staggered, no one to relieve him the whole long night. He was alone, never questioning the motives that guided his father, his captain, to give no other man a watch, to set him alone at the helm and go off to his cabin with no more words than, "Helmsman, do your duty," to ward away the night. How long he was to stand here, how long he would be driven to command this queen of the waves through the treacherous darkness, he did not know; his father had never told him. There had never been an option of 'if you grow too tired'. He was expected. He was commanded. He would not break. Awake.
Stone cold he stood in the darkness, peering over a helm rather taller than he, shivering, expressionless. The glass was half empty. Awake, awake, awake... The darkness gathered, thickened, danced with sleep behind his eyes, night so strong he could taste it on his lips with the blood he'd bitten there to stay awake. Awake. Darkness. Wind and water, sails and hull. Whispers. Voices. Lights.
The last grains of sand filtered down through the narrow stem. Another hour past, then. He turned the glass and the sand's downward trickle began again. How many hours 'til the dawn? Could he really have only flipped the glass but four times since the night began?
Awake, awake, awake. It chanted in his blood, but before long he felt the word change, change and twist into sleep.
No! He would not fail! He would stand here sleepless until the world burned, he himself perished, or his Captain bid him go. There was no option of defeat. He had been taught to loathe the word and all things connected. Failure here was a fate worse than death.
Awake, awake, awake...
'If you slept for an hour, or even half a glass, who would know?' What voice was this that hissed and sputtered in his ear like a guttering candle? It made so much sense...A little sleep, the better for the morrow. He would not have to know...If I stay awake any longer I shall die...
Then die then, and be done! I will not face him if I fail! He will not accept my excuses! I was given a task, and my Captain did not ask me if I was tired, if I was fit, if I felt I could go on. I was expected to. And I will.
Armed with this grim truth, he returned his gaze to the unchanging blackness around him, adjusting the wheel ever so slightly. The sails flapped on, whispering and muttering, murmuring like dead souls. A comet sparked in the sky; he did not know if that was a good sign or a bad. The ship sailed on, threatening the blackness with the creak and sway of her lanterns.
His very soul burned and ached with the need of sleep. Yet his mind chanted, awake, awake, awake... He would die, he would fall down and die here for lack of sleep like a man without water. He couldn't see, the world spun eerily. Was that light he saw or only his own deadened eyes? Was that the sun coming out of the sea, or only the demons hissing in his brain? Sounds changed and broke upon his ears. The wood felt cold and yet very hot beneath numb fingers. He staggered like a drunk, shook the last grains of sand from the upper dome and turned it, the glass slick in his un-nimble fingers. Another hour toward the dawn.
Somehow he held her true through the dark and the screaming, fighting with himself, digging splinters beneath his nails in gripping the helm, tearing his lip to a bloody mess in an effort to stay conscious, half-dreaming of seeing pride in his Captain's eyes where there had only before been contempt, contempt for a bumbling boy who never could seem to be quick enough in mind or body to do his father proud. He walked in dreams, even as his half-lidded eyes remained on the stretch of dark waters ahead and his hands turned the glass automatically, a spin every hour, a turn of the helm, a whisper in the sheets, phantom men in the lines, dreams of being an Admiral like his father, dreams of sleep.
They found him there in the morning, still awake, glazed and bowed, too tired to keep the triumph from his features, but formal still in voice. He would never remember the Admiral's words, but he would always remember his face, his tone; not pleased, not affectionate or approving, cold, and stern and emotionless. But there was no contempt there, no disgust, no condescension or displeasure and shame turned on the boy the Admiral refused to refer to by anything but their surname. Cold and uncaring. The way it should be.
He smiled as he staggered on his own numb feet down the hatch toward the sleep that was already taking him as he walked, closing his eyes so that he stumbled into things like doors. He had triumphed. He had gained the chill in his father's voice. And he had won the best of prizes: sleep.
The boy was out faster than he had thought possible, lost in weary rest, too tired to dream, too tired even to grin his triumph in his sleep.
James Norrington awoke, dirty and hungover and exhausted, in the darkness of the belly of a ship with black sails and wondered how the devil it had all gone so wrong.
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