My first attempt at fanfiction in… a long time.
Disclaimer: All characters used here are owned by Disney. I'm not making any money off this.
Summary: Warning, deathfic. Norrington's done something horrible. He faces the gallows (yes, clichéd, I know). Post CotBP, pre DMC. An alternative fate for Norrington to that seen in the movies.
Warnings: Deathfic, but nothing gory.
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James Norrington looked at his knees. His expression, were anybody there to see it, would have spoken of his entire life; at once stony and strong, yet telling of echoes of regret and self-hatred.
He felt the chill of the cold room without his jacket. Stripped of his rank and finery, he sat alone in the cell in his shirt and breeches, wishing for warmth or comfort in any form.
His now long brown hair tied behind him, he sat on the cold wooden bench and wondered, how had his life gone so wrong? From a promising young officer to the shame of the royal navy. From a man of noble lineage to a cowardly murderer. A jealous and callous bane on society, with no more right to his freedom than the most evil of men. To take a life in battle was almost acceptable, to take a life in anger was not. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands he cursed his short temper and momentary weakness.
He heard a sound at the opposite end of the corridor to his cold and draughty condemned cell. He raised his eyes for a moment, craning his neck and straining his ears. On hearing nothing more, he resumed his vigil of his knees. There was another sound, distinctive this time, a large heavy door opening and swinging back on its hinges. Then the sound of the guards marching towards him, flat-footed, booted steps, accompanied by the resounding sound of finer shoes on the damp stone floor. Once again he raised his head, to find two guards at the bars of his cell. Between them was the uniformed and dignified figure of his former comrade Gillette.
"May we have a little privacy?" he asked of the guards, who quickly complied.
Gillette stepped up to the bars, looking through at his shamed superior. With his hands behind his back and an indifferent look upon his face, he surveyed the very different man to the gentlemen he once followed. With an equally indifferent look upon his face, Norrington stared back, and wondered what he cold have to say.
"I have come for a reason" said Gillette with an air of forced calm. "It is the opinion of many of your officers, that you have indeed committed a brutal and wicked act. You may be deserving of your fate, purely on the grounds of that act, and so we officers shall not come between you and the gallows."
Norrington nodded, never breaking his eye contact with Gillette.
"However" he moved his hands to rest them on the bars "We are not entirely convinced that your soul is completely damned" his expression softened "Sir, we must yield to the opinion of the court. But our own opinions say that you were a noble and honest man. Our time under your command was not a waste, and we believe that your actions were, as the French would say, a crime of passion. Sir, we salute you as our commanding officer" he said as he stepped back "And pray for your soul as our friend."
Norrington stayed in the same position for a moment, his expression intact. Then slowly he shifted his weight backwards and clasped his hands in his lap. Gillette seemed sincere in his speech. Well meaning even. He decided maybe some gratitude would be fitting to any man willing to ask for forgiveness on behalf of his soiled soul.
"I thank you, Gillette. I thank you and any of my men who, if not forgive me my crime, may look past them one last time and see what I always strove to be."
Gillette nodded sadly, and saluted, as Norrington stood to do the same. Both men looked sullenly at one another for a moment. Then the guards returned. With a sad final glance, Gillette left escorted by the guards.
Alone once more, Norrington sat back down, leaned against the wall, and waited, unable to remember the point at which he fell asleep.
Norrington awoke in the middle of that night. He lay curled up on the cold stone floor, trying to gain warmth from what little stone there was. Cold and feeling almost naked in just his breeches and thin cotton shirt, he lay in the dark until he tried to move. His attempts to sit up only succeeded in triggering painful cramps in various muscles unaccustomed to resting on such an unforgiving surface. He struggled for a second before falling back to the stone. Unable to move because of painful muscle cramps and unable to sleep because of the guilt, he did what he suddenly thought he should have been doing the whole time. He prayed. He prayed for his soul, and for the soul of the man he'd killed. But most of all, he prayed for an end to the shame, the guilt. He knew he deserved it, all of it, and more. But he also knew he couldn't take the guilt much longer. Worse than any physical pain was the agony reliving what he'd done in his mind, hearing the scream, smelling the blood. In his passion, he had not run, standing his ground and mutilating the body, screaming in the heat of his temper, little caring for the evidence that had encrusted his once perfectly-white uniform. He begged for the images to leave him, for him to have his last few hours on earth away from this torment, hoping for mercy of any kind. But the thought of having killed somebody unarmed and undeserving meant he had no respite.
Quietly at first, and for the first time since he had become an officer in the King's Navy, he began to cry as he lay in the lonely dark, eventually preferring to stammer out The Lord's Prayer, one of the few comforting things he learned in his childhood that he had carried with him through his years at sea. The images kept replaying behind his eyes, and they burned from tears. Eventually he openly wept for his foolishness in destroying the one thing he'd valued above his pride, his commission, and his life – his honour.
He was still in much the same position when the sun shone in, blood red, through his barred window. The birds began to call a little in the morning air, and the world around began to awake. He didn't hear the guard open the door over the sound of his quiet sobbing. He didn't hear them enter his cell, and was unaware of their presence until they hauled him to his feet, and even attempted to let him have some final dignity by giving him a clean shirt before dragging him out into the dawn sun.
He squinted as he was taken outside. The sun felt strangely warm on his face, even in its early state. He squinted against the sun to look around his position, about to be dragged into the middle of the fort. He could just see the gallows, the hangman standing ready for him, the rope ready tied. A terrifying silhouette against a gorgeous bloody sky.
As he came into the view of the crowd, he felt the first items thrown at him. Some kind of rotten vegetable or fruit, he didn't care. That kind of thing was frowned on at public hangings, with the authorities preferring the crowd to reflect their own dignity as best they could, but nobody seemed to be stopping it this time. Norrington wondered why, before disregarding it as unimportant compared to the main event. Further towards the gallows, somebody hit him with a rock squarely on the eyebrow. Blood trickled into his eye, mingling with the saliva the rest of the audience was now spitting at him.
At the foot of the gallows, he shocked himself. He smiled, a sad smile, but one filled with relief. He was about to die, and all he could think about was the release death would bring. His stay before execution had been short, but he had no desire to have it prolonged further. It was nearly over. He let a tear trickle down his face. He was ready. Ready to die, ready to leave this earthly torment behind and meet his maker to take whatever fate his soul was to be dealt. He deserved it.
He mounted the stairway to the gallows with little help. The charges were read, and he raised his head to look around the baying crowd. Scowls and hatred met him, more spitting and angry red faces and betrayed eyes of those who believed he had been in Port Royal to protect them. Every persons' face was a picture of anger, except for a sparse few towards the rear of the crowd. As the noose was placed around his neck and tightened, he saw there Gillette and his other officers, standing dignified with heads high. He made eye contact with every man of them. And they saluted their past superior, respecting his previous dignity and integrity, as God's mercy was wished on his soul and the trap door opened.
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Author note: If I receive interested reviews, I may post the story of what Norrington did. It's just as short, and probably quite predictable. But still.
Bye for now :)