Crimson Hell
by Animated Crime
The copyright for all characters, names, and places of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise referred to herein belongs to the Walt Disney Company. No copyright infringement is intended by this work. The author of this work derives no profit from the Internet publication or distribution of this work.
The full moon sailed serenely through the sky, lighting the craggy black rocks of the Isla de Muerta with an eerie blue glow. The cavern mouth yawned ominously out on the open waters, its entrance guarded on either side by treacherous spires of stone. Commodore Norrington watched that small stretch of foggy water intently, occasionally glancing up at the blackness of the cave. He tried to overcome the comforting rock of the boat beneath him that dulled his senses. Every fibre within him was tensed with anticipation of the attack. The waiting was exhausting.
Norrington waited like that for what seemed like hours, at first putting up with the whispered comments of the Marines in the boat around him, then losing patience and silencing them with a hiss. He cursed the army's wretched lack of discipline.
At last, his patience grew thin, convinced that Jack Sparrow had misled him entirely, had perhaps even alerted the confounded pirates to the ambush that lay at the mouth of their rat-hole. He turned and stared back at the Dauntless for a few minutes, until he could see Lieutenant Gillette's spyglass trained on him. He gave Gillette the signal that they were going in. The message registered, and Gillette began to flail his protest. Scowling, Norrington remembered how spineless Gillette could be, and that he, like Lieutenant Groves, put too much store in the word of Jack Sparrow. As did the soldiers.
"We're going in," Norrington murmured to his men. He glared back as they gave him dismayed looks, and they began to row towards the nearest lip of rock which would take them into the gaping maw. Stepping off, he turned to make sure that all the crimson-coated men followed. They all did, bayonets lowered, except for the two who had sat right behind him in the boat. They were too busy bickering in increasingly loud whispers.
"The commodore wants us to go in and attack cursed pirates who can't die!" breathed one of them, obviously terrified. Murtogg.
"You're telling me you believe all that nonsense you heard from that loony in the pub about the Aztec curse?" scoffed the other. Malloy – no, Mullroy. "I suppose you believe in faeries too?"
"Of course I believe in faeries! Me mother-"
Norrington interrupted sharply, "Be silent and take your positions!"
"I wonder why the commodore's not afraid of immortal pirates..." murmured Murtogg as he took his place behind the rest.
"That's why he's the commodore and you're not!"
"Silence!" Norrington snapped.
The quiet of the creeping Marines was soothing to the commodore's taut nerves. Perhaps things would go as planned, for once. He silently called for a halt as the soldiers reached a steep stone embankment, preventing their progress. He and the senior among the Marines, a Corporal for whom he held some measure of respect, climbed to the top and peered over it.
A fabulous sight greeted their eyes. The room spread out before them was literally heaped with gold and jewels. In the centre of the room, beneath a bright shaft of moonlight, lay a great chest – undoubtedly the fabled chest of Cortès. However, upon the carpet of gold stood near thirty pirates in the gloaming, just outside the circle of dim moonbeams that made the gold of the cave glitter. Beside the great chest stood a man who was undoubtedly the mutineer pirate Jack Sparrow had spoken of. Captain Barbossa held the pirates enraptured with some harangue about them all suffering too long and having to endure all manner of things. Norrington paid no attention to the ragged criminal's crude speech, for he had spotted Jack Sparrow in the shadows beside Barbossa. The commodore's eyes narrowed. The traitor would pay with his life in the gallows if it were the last thing Norrington did. Of all sins, treason was by far the most despicable.
He also noticed Will Turner, his hands bound, standing in the shaft of brilliant white light amidst the circle of pirates like some sort of virgin sacrifice to a tribe of savages. The image was revolting for a multitude of reasons. The commodore briefly turned his head aside, catching a glimpse of the bright crimson of his companion's coat in the corner of his eye. He turned back to survey the logistics of the cavern for his ambush.
"Funny, they don't look like cursed pirates, do they?" Norrington heard the faint whisper from the trench behind him.
"That's because they're not. They're just normal pirates whom we're going to poke with our wee bayonets until they're dead, stupid."
"But if they are cursed...we'll all be dead, won't we? Because we can never win. They're sent straight from Hell - to take us there."
The voices were in grave danger of being overheard. Norrington whirled around and bared his teeth at the two exasperatingly talkative army men. From their sheepish expressions, they obviously understood what he was threatening to do if he heard another word. He turned back to the battlefield.
The commodore was jolted out of his strategising by Barbossa's harsh order. "Gents, take a walk!"
Norrington had no time to ponder the meaning of this cryptic statement. The pirates were starting to move towards his men. He gestured to the commander of the army unit, who led his men quietly around the sides of the embankment in the pattern most likely to surround the pirates before they knew what was happening. The commodore brought up the rear, pulling out his flintlock as quietly as he could.
"What's that?" a pirate with a wooden eye gasped stupidly, pointing at a bayonet driving towards that very eye. "Ambush!" his bald companion screamed. The sound of cutlass and sabre unsheathing rang clearly through the musty air.
As an automatic reflex, Norrington shot the nearest pirate in the head, drew his sword, and began bellowing commands. His shouts were echoed by the voice of the corporal. Long muskets fired deafeningly, drowning them both out. Bayonets and swords scraped. Pirates cried out and gurgled as blades and shot sang through them. The ambush was working. The ruffians were falling, as trees in a hurricane.
The difficulty was that they got up again. Norrington could have sworn he had severed the jugular on that one. But the pirate rolled over and slashed a rusty cutlass at his ankle, forcing the commodore to leap backwards for fear of being brought down. And although he had made many deep wounds in his foes, as his bloody court sword attested, Norrington was never able to keep them down.
More disturbing was the fact that his forces had evidently lost the element of surprise. The soldier ranks were beginning to sustain heavy losses. Many a crimson coat flashed before the commodore's eyes as its hapless owner fell. Pirates who had been disarmed were even attacking fully armed Marines with their bare hands. Wisely, the army commander ordered the men to regroup near one of the entranceways.
Unfortunately for Norrington, a solid line of pirates stubbornly remained between him and the group. He tried to manoeuvre himself so that they would not back him up against a wall. He found himself stepping uphill, towards chest, Barbossa, Sparrow, and Turner. Glancing back, he saw Barbossa's crudely amused expression as he kicked gems in the face of wincing Sparrow, who was clumsily parrying the older pirate's heavy blows to try to get at either the chest or Turner. Norrington did not have time to understand what the incompetent pirate was trying to do.
Turner himself was struggling against the two pirates who were holding him. The boy was probably itching to leap in on the action. He did not realise what kind of a fool he was being. Yet the commodore was glad some mad impulse had caused him to bring Will Turner's perfectly balanced, folded steel sword instead of his conventional blade. He did not mind that the ceremonial filigree was being massacred with use – his usual sword would have sheared in a moment under the weight of the much sturdier cutlasses and sabres. Turner had done his work well, for the sword withstood the test. Even so, Norrington performed more acrobatics than usual to avoid having to use his delicate blade for parrying. Every time a cutlass came down on it, the sword groaned ominously.
Now and again, the commodore caught a glimpse of the duel between Barbossa and Sparrow. He studied it as best he could, storing away knowledge of the pirate captain's tactics for use later, when he would confront the criminal and run him through. Between Sparrow and Barbossa, the latter was certainly the better fighter. He had Sparrow on the run. Norrington was certain Sparrow would flee. Turner had knocked over one of his captors and was close to freeing himself from his bonds. Yet the two pirates had drawn their blades. Rash, very rash, thought the commodore.
A shot recalled his attention to the main fray. A scraggly-bearded pirate was staggering backwards with a severely wounded head. As he watched, the moonlight caught the pirate and shone down upon him. Before the commodore's disbelieving eyes, the scoundrel's flesh melted into decay, revealing bleached bone fluttering with tattered rags. The skeletal face bore the same comical expression as the pirate had had mere moments before, only now it froze Norrington in place with shock.
Of course he hadn't believed the superstitious ravings of half-mad Jack Sparrow. How could they be true? But they were, and the thought coaxed the crimson-coated soldier's haunting words back to his mind: We'll all be dead, won't we? He heard the corporal yell for retreat. The army men did not need any order. They ran for their lives.
The commodore blinked away the mesmerising horror. Cutlasses were upon him. His fighter's survival instincts kicked in, and he leapt back, dodging as many slashes as he could and parrying the rest. The pirates advanced, beginning to encircle him. Norrington saw an opening and ran, his feet slipping on the damp, loose gold and jewels beneath his feet. He went down once, and scrambled to his feet, face to face with the filthy devils. Their rotten brown teeth glinted in the glow of the treasure as they pressed him back.
Suddenly, Norrington felt his shoulders collide with the cold stone of the cavern. Colour drained from his face. Pirates surrounded him, and there was no escape. He fought the valiant battle of a cornered beast of prey, lunging out at his enemies and retreating into the wall again. He kept provoking them, hoping they would end his life quickly and honourably, if any death at the hands of a pirate could be honourable. In the moonlit backdrop, he saw flourishes of crimson as the last of the panicked army fled the cave. He caught the corporal's half-apologetic, half-fatalistic look as the soldier followed his troops out.
The commodore was alone with more than a score of undead cutthroats. Most infuriating, however, was the fact that they did not seem to want to kill him.
"C'mon li'l popinjay! Put away that li'l knife before you 'urts yourself!"
"Sodding fop. I want 'is fancy coat!"
"What's say we strip 'im?"
"That's no way to treat a Navy officer! I say we 'ang 'im and string 'is carcass up as a warning to the redcoats not to mess with us!"
Jeers and catcalls followed each of Norrington's lunges. He focused his attention on keeping the pirates' grime-crusted, groping hands off him with a series of well-aimed stabs.
Finally, the commodore could bear it no longer. Why would they not run him through? "Cowards! You will all hang for this!"
The crowd let loose with peals of laughter and the most raucous jeering Norrington had ever heard in his life. They pressed in closer, brandishing their blades and leering. In an instant, they were all piling on top of him, forcing his blade from his hand and capturing his wrists behind his back. This was just too much.
"Avast!" a cold, harsh voice uncannily echoed through the cavern. Strangely, the ruffians became instantly motionless.
"Back you scum, for Cap'n Barbossa!" The voice of the huge, glistening black pirate was no kinder. Brutal savage, the commodore thought. The pirates complied, grumbling amongst themselves. In the parting of foul-smelling bodies, a tall, dishevelled figure appeared. The black plume in his enormous hat stuck up crazily like a banner. But the face was weathered and stony, the eyes piercing assassin's daggers.
Those dagger-eyes alighted upon the captive. They widened with mock delight, and a sinister smile twisted the bristle-fringed lips. "Aah, welcome to our humble abode, Commodore!" The pirates made various exclamations of sadistic glee at the emphasised word. "This is indeed a pleasure!"
Norrington flinched at the pirate captain's words, which were tortured nearly to death by a thick, vulgar Cornish accent. The commodore concluded that this creature was nearly as much of a bottom-feeder as the negro savage he kept as first mate. And yet, what loyalty this Captain Barbossa commanded among his men! That in itself was unsettling. Beneath the pirate's steely resolve, the band of pillaging thugs around him would become a disciplined, unstoppable force which would follow their Captain to the end of the world. The military man in Norrington could not help but admire Barbossa's charisma, although his aristocratic upbringing held nothing but disdain for the moor-bred villain.
Barbossa turned to the pirates gathered around. "Back to the battle, y'scurvy sea-dogs! You've no time to play until every last one of those meddlesome redcoats meets Davy Jones! Slaughter the milksops like the hogs they are! Begone with you, flea-bitten mongrels!"
Reluctantly, the pirates released their prize and skulked off towards the cavern mouth, goaded on by the towering first mate. Norrington took the opportunity to leap for his sword and wrestle it from the gangly, crippled pirate who was trying to make off with it. Barbossa watched, making no attempt to stop him. The commodore got fully to his feet, following Barbossa's every movement with his blade. Barbossa advanced, and Norrington stepped back, his foot colliding with something soft. Glancing down, he saw the dull, blood-soaked coat of one of the dead Marines. The white of his own stockings and garters, too, was splattered with old crimson now fading to sickly brown.
"Not so pretty now, are we, Commodore?" leered Barbossa, striding steadily forward into the moonlight. Norrington's eyes widened as the pirate's skeletal face grinned into plain view. Because we can never win. They're sent straight from Hell. "You'd better watch behind you: the walls haven't been kind to y'tonight."
Norrington glanced behind, seeing another wall looming at his back. Before he could retreat further, Barbossa lunged at him, arms open wide, impaling himself on the razor-edged Turner blade. But that did not slow the demon.
"Aarrr!" the fiend cried, pulling himself forward on the blade and baring horrid teeth. Norrington tried to steady his grip on the hilt, but he could not keep his hand from shaking. He cursed himself bitterly for his weakness, but the terror would not subside.
The mouldering jaws opened in strident laughter. "You'd best not be frightened of me, Commodore James Norrington, pride of the King's Navy. I'm naught but a cursed man!" Barbossa gazed into his victim's eyes. "Prepare to meet yer kindly Christian God!" he whispered.
Pulling himself together with the fear-blinded determination of one who has nothing to lose, Norrington hauled his sword out of the captain's ragged chest and swung it around wildly in an arc to Barbossa's neck in a decapitating stroke.
The commodore was almost knocked off his unsteady feet as the air rang with the impact of Barbossa's cutlass against his straight blade. The folded steel shuddered but did not break. Norrington gave silent thanks to the accursed Turner and leapt into action, distancing himself from Barbossa – luring him out of the moonlight – and then engaging with his foe.
Imminent danger, as well as the more normal appearance of the shadow-enshrouded pirate captain, helped to take the edge off the commodore's fear. The duel began in earnest. While Norrington could run circles around Barbossa with his quick, well-schooled cuts, thrusts, and subsequent retreats, Barbossa used deadly technique himself, sweeping at Norrington's legs and wrists with the long, relaxed, crude strokes he had used against Sparrow. Whatever thieves' den he had practiced hacking off heads in, the monster had learned well. It was all the commodore could do to keep the pirate's blade from meeting its mark.
Try as he did, Norrington could not penetrate Barbossa's exasperatingly casual defences. He went for the eyes, the throat, the shoulders, the wrists, the chest, the knees, the ankles – nothing would ever be open when his sword approached. Glancing occasionally into his opponent's eyes, he noticed they were filled with sadistic mirth. He angrily realised Barbossa was merely toying with him, tiring him out. It was working; Norrington's chest was heaving and his breath was coming in great gasps which never seemed to bring enough air in. There was only so much stamina in him for mortal combat.
The commodore decided to make a true retreat this time, one he desperately needed. Not daring to turn his back on Barbossa, he slashed viciously forward to force his opponent to recoil, and then backed as quickly as he could over the precarious footing of crimson-stained jewels.
Unexpectedly, Barbossa hurtled towards him, shoulder-first, knocking him flat on his back over a particularly prickly pile of treasure. The commodore lay panting, his sword pointing straight up at the pirate captain. Barbossa cocked his head to one side and looked at Norrington in what seemed like bewilderment.
"Valiant efforts, Commodore. First class, or whatever they say in yer prudish Navy. But y'do realise, don't you, that all this is in vain? I'm immortal, or hadn't y'noticed? Y'do realise you should have escaped while I gave you the chance, instead of hacking away at me like some deranged William Turner?"
As the comment did not merit a response, Norrington merely cast Barbossa a baleful glare beneath his dark eyebrows. He suppressed the voice within him that said Barbossa was right, and concentrated all his loathing on the pirate captain.
The effect was lost on moonlit Barbossa, who had spied the commodore's hat, which had tumbled off in the awkward fall. Triumphantly, he skewered the expensive felt creation with his sword. Carefully, almost lovingly, he removed his old hat and replaced it with the gilt-trimmed tricorne. "How do I look?" he asked rhetorically, a dreamy, almost childlike expression on his face.
"Like a murderous, thieving, mutineer pirate!" spat Norrington.
"Aye. But no, I meant the hat..."
So the creature was impervious to insults as well. Yet Norrington should not have been naïve enough to believe that the likes of Barbossa had any honour to offend. Now that he had time to think, he took a moment to damn his wretched helplessness and forced himself to devise another plan.
Norrington made sure Barbossa was still preening, then he looked around the cavern, expecting to see nothing and yet holding a vague hope of seeing something he could use to his advantage. All he saw were piles of crimson-smeared gold and the chest shining in its eerie loneliness. Wondering where Turner and Sparrow had slunk off to, he condemned them both as complete scoundrels who were all too glad to leave the necessary battle wounds to others than to finish the fight themselves, whichever side they were on. He expected as such from Sparrow, but he had thought Turner had some sense of decency...
The few seconds it took for the commodore to cogitate thus were seconds too many. His seasoned instinct saved him once again by sending him rolling out from under the killing slash of Barbossa's curved blade. Arching his back painfully, he flipped his feet under him and furiously attacked Barbossa, a flurry of blows raining down on the captain. Barbossa was somewhat startled by his adversary's ferocity, stepping back against Cortès's chest. Norrington managed to hit the pirate's cutlass off course to the left, exposing throat and breast to the shining folded steel blade.
Knowing another stab to the heart would not work, the commodore made a snap decision to aim for the neck. He swept his sword in as strong an arc as he could. The blade crunched on bone, and sliced through. Either the vertebrae were more resistant, his blade was duller, or he was weaker than he anticipated, for he had only severed the rotting neck two-thirds through before Barbossa's skeletal hand curled around his right wrist and held as fast as an iron shackle.
With the other hand, he grabbed Norrington's chin and drew it close to his own face. "Don't forget, Commodore," the undead monster snickered while his captive struggled, "with you dead, I can take yer fleet as well as yer hat! And maybe Port Royal too. There's no end to the possibilities!" He checked himself. "Wait, if Jack Sparrow has sunk that Interceptor of yers, y'don't even have a fleet, do you? You're hardly even worth killing." The pirate let out another hyena laugh.
Then, something felt terribly wrong. Norrington swallowed hard in dread. Distantly, as though it were happening to someone else, he felt an excruciating, fiery pain in his ribs. It crept up under his breastbone and on to his heart. The death cry that left him was a mere echo in the dark. He had always imagined that his final moment would be a glorious martyrdom, a test of courage and resilience that he would meet unwaveringly. It was not supposed to be like this. All the victim knew was pain and desolation, screaming and writhing on his murderer's wicked weapon like a worm. The commodore's mind, unable to connect to the pain and terror that enfolded it, kept repeating the same epitaph. ...to take us there...to take us there...
A rivulet of crimson appeared at the corner of his mouth and dripped to the gold below.
As if in a dream, Norrington's darkening eyes saw the gold and black hat fly off Barbossa's head, and a gold glint zip by in a ricochet off the prickly treasure pile behind him. A singular medallion of Aztec gold plopped unceremoniously into the water at the far end of the cavern. The rugged pirate's murderous rictus melted into extreme irritation, and the skeleton whirled around, withdrawing the killing blade in one rapid motion.
Norrington heard himself gasp and choke, but all was a delirium of crimson blood pouring fast from his ruined body. Through it all, a cotton-wrapped feeling of cold metal pressed against his back.
The commodore slid down the side of the ornate chest of Cortès, his vacant stare following Barbossa as the servant of Satan ducked and dived into the water after the lost gold disc. Another skull medallion flew through the air in the space Barbossa left behind him. That did not matter to the dying man. His chest convulsed, his hands grasping for life upon the rim of gold and in the great pool of blood in which he now lay. The fingers of one hand met with something hard and jagged, and he clasped it. A pressure shoved him clear of the coffer.
Suddenly, numbness overcame him, and his mind went as clear as the sea breeze. I am dead, he thought. And disgraced. He vaguely wondered why he could not think of his family. His late father, a strict and haughty Baronet of Suffolk, his distantly demure mother, his caring nurse, his three elder brothers, and his sweet little sister were but players in a half-forgotten tragedy. Nor could he think of Elizabeth, the fair young woman who had agreed to give him her hand in marriage. He could think of nothing but bloodstained crimson coats. His hand began to release the cold disc it held.
A singularly uncultured voice penetrated through the commodore's thoughts. "Wait," it was saying, "I'd hold on to that if I were you, savvy?"
Norrington looked up from the bewitching blood-soaked gold upon which he lay, not entirely registering what he had heard. The sight above was truly wondrous. A figure was silhouetted against a glorious halo of white-blue light, standing over him, imperious and majestic. In that moment, he allowed himself a faint glimmer of hope that he had perhaps reached Heaven, after all.
"It's the curse what's keeping you alive, mate," said the figure.
What? This time, the speech, the despicable and unidentifiable, mockingly crass accent registered. The commodore's lip curled weakly. "Jack Sparrow..." he rasped. "Bloody Jack Sparrow!"
The figure grinned, reflected light glinting off his metal-studded teeth. "Captain Jack Sparrow, actually-"
"Why of all the cowardly, conniving, treacherous..."
Sparrow frowned and sneered down at Norrington. "Your gratitude is overwhelming, most gracious Commodore. I just saved your lacy, frilly, white-powdered life." The pirate kicked at Norrington's pigeon-wing wig for emphasis.
"I can't imagine why," replied the Commdore sincerely. He struggled to rise, his clasped hand slipping beyond the twilight border of shadow and beneath the rays of the full moon. The sight stopped him abruptly. Rotting bones stuck out from his bloody white cuffs, and between them he could see the grinning skull of an Aztec medallion staring back at him. His free hand grabbed for the putrid collection of bones, but it, too, melted to a skeleton in the moonlight.
Norrington looked up at Sparrow once again in horror. "What have you done to me?"
The commodore's tone must have been frightening, for Sparrow began to look cornered. "I didn't do anything. You stole gold from the heathen-cursed treasure pile." The pirate met Norrington's accusatory glare. "I might have helped a bit." He backed up a step. "But I did save your life," he reminded.
Pulling the loathsome bones out of the moonlight until they became the familiar hands which belonged to him once more, Norrington asked frigidly, "Why?"
Hesitating, Sparrow fixed his gaze on a point on the ground just short of Norrington and made a few mute gestures, mouth agape as if to speak, and then he lapsed into silence, pondering helplessly. Finally, he raised his eyes to those of his old nemesis. "Because...I feel for you, mate. The whelp Will Turner ran off wif' your girl, you lost your pretty boat to the worst pirate you've ever heard of, your redcoats turned their little red tails on you and ran, and you got pitted against an immortal undead mutineer pirate in a battle you couldn't win, and, worst of all – Barbossa took your hat! Now I myself am very attached to my hat, so I know exactly how you feel."
"Bloody pirates," Norrington snarled, but somehow he could not manage to pour any venom into it. He ran his hand over the gaping wound on his side, and then hastily pocketed the pirate gold. A once enemy had just saved him from a horrible death. He forced the corners of his mouth down into an indignant frown. With effort, he resumed his usual aloof, aristocratic monotone. "You've no idea how I feel. In fact, you're wearing it."
"What?" Sparrow grunted. Norrington gestured upwards, and Sparrow's eye caught the pointed brim above his forehead. "Oh, that, I thought I'd-"
Norrington's hand found his sword hilt half-buried in gold.
Sparrow checked himself. "-just keep it for you so Barbossa wouldn't get it," he finished.
The blood-coated sword point brandished in front of Sparrow's nether regions.
"Here you are, mate!" yelped the pirate, dropping the somewhat battered tricorne onto Norrington's head and leaping back as though from an explosion.
"Thank you, Mr. Sparrow," the commodore said coldly, rising to his feet and adjusting the tricorne. With sudden remembrance, he looked over to where Barbossa had plunged into the murky groundwater. There was no sign of the pirate captain; only a small monkey sat near the water's edge, grooming itself.
Sparrow's eyes widened. "Monkey!" yelled the maladroit swashbuckler, Shooting the simian and causing it to fall off its perch. The monkey got up and ran away, turning from animal to monster in the glowing stripes of moonlight.
"I am immortal, now, as that creature?" asked the commodore.
"Well, as close as you're like to get, mate."
Norrington ran his finger over the lacerated hilt of his sword as he held it. He felt nothing of the gilded metal's pleasing smoothness. Instead, he felt a stinging pain as the sharp furrowed scars which now crossed it cut into him. Not having expected to feel it, he could not catch himself before crying out.
"Those Aztec gods know their work, don't they?" leered Sparrow.
"How is the curse lifted?" demanded the commodore.
Sparrow grinned even more broadly. "I can't be telling you that just now, can I?"
"Why ever not?"
The grimy pirate took out the antiquated, single-shot pistol Norrington remembered from so long ago. "Because this bullet has Barbossa's name on it. So I've got to wait for the opportune moment, when he's here to claim it."
Before the commodore could speak, Sparrow was off like an arrow into the caverns in the direction of Barbossa's escape. The pirate's flesh, like the monkey's, melted and regenerated in the milky, banded light.
So he, too, is cursed, thought Norrington, sheathing his sword in resignation. Cursed. Now truly alone, the commodore had a chance to reflect on the full import of his situation. He was a nightmarish monster, straight from the black abyss, frightening to behold. Never again could he show his face in Port Royal, or he must live in terror of the light of the moon. To return to England from whence he had come eight years ago would be a greater disaster, for he would bring evil to his eminent family. And Elizabeth, how could he go back to her? Her love had been conditional at best, and she could do nothing but reject him in such a state. Not that he would ever feel her touch again. That was the other difficulty. He would nevermore touch nor taste anything.
Why, indeed, had the wretched pirate saved him? To condemn him to an inescapable purgatory of ostracised numbness, devoid of friends, family, and pleasure for eternity.
Yet since when had that meant everything? Was he such a simple hedonist, to live merely for the pleasures of food and wine and a woman's touch? The ambitious opportunist in Norrington uncharacteristically leapt to the pirate's defence. No, Jack Sparrow had given him a great gift, a gift he would not allow Sparrow to take back. He was immortal. What more could a commander ask for? Battle without loss, or starvation, or disease, or death. He could face any foe, even the dreaded Captain Barbossa, without fear.
No matter the power of the threat, he would challenge it – single-handedly if need be, so as not to unduly waste lives – and live to serve and protect his country another day. To battle against not only pirates, but the savages of the colonies, Spaniards, Dutch, and French who dared threaten the people he loved or stand in the path of England's imperial conquest. To face them and live to taste the glory that was sweeter than any savoury dish in the world. His eldest brother's land and titles would mean nothing compared to the name of James Norrington.
Numbness was maddening, but like all things he would become used to it in time. He moved the medallion to a safer place in his torn blue coat, over his heart. While he carried it, neither Jack Sparrow nor that meddlesome Will Turner could take this gift from him. He would spill as much blood as was required to in order to keep it safe.
How to make his bold dreams a reality? No matter how useful, a monster would never be accepted by civilised society. Norrington would have to hide from the moonlight as long as he lived, which, he reminded himself, was an exceedingly long time. At least only Jack Sparrow knew, and he would not be believed. It would be a hard, lonely life, but he was ready for it if it would give him the chance to bring victory to fair England. He could honour and defend those he loved – yes, even Elizabeth – that way at least.
Before he could do anything, however, the commodore had to escape from this Godforsaken cavern. After a brief search, he discovered a trunk of fine ladies' clothing, somewhat stained with the blood of a fallen soldier. It was not what he was looking for, but it would do. Norrington pulled on a pair of gloves. They were painfully small, and bunched up halfway to his elbows, but they covered his hands and wrists thoroughly to their dishevelled cuffs. Next, he took up the skirts of a dress, which looked achingly like the one Governor Swann had given his daughter to wear at the commodore's promotion ceremony, and tore a long strip off. He dipped the fabric in the pool of blood he had made on the jewelled floor and wrapped his face and throat tightly so that only his eyes barely showed. A terrible wound would be an adequate excuse to cover his face for now. After all, he could hardly be expected to escape an entire den of bloodthirsty pirates unscathed, could he?
The commodore ran to the mouth of the cavern in the tracks of Sparrow and Barbossa before him, feeling neither fatigue nor the pain of his fatal wound, nor anything for that matter – not even the gold beneath him, which made it very difficult to balance. Consequently, he fell numerous times, but he did not check his pace until he was well out of the cave and into the dark, watery corridor beyond. The path lay strewn with crimson-coated stragglers, their throats cut.
Emerging into the bright glow of the full moonlight, Norrington searched the horizon for the Dauntless. Dismayed, he spotted it, a tiny white triangle nearly a league away. Nothing else was in sight but waves and battered spires of rock. He had to get back to his ship.
Several deep boot-marks were etched into the muddy floor, heading towards the sea. As the waves withdrew from the rocky shore of the Isla de Muerta, Norrington could see that they continued on beneath the water. Now he understood what Barbossa had said: "Take a walk." After all, the dead no longer needed to breathe.
Attempting to suck in air out of habit, the commodore waded out into the water. He clutched his hand tightly around the end of his scabbard to seal the sword against the water as best he could. He knew his pistol would be useless after the brine touched it, but he kept it for the extra weight. Down he strode into the deep. It was a strange world of dimness and quiet, for no rush of blood could be heard in his ears. Fish stayed well away from him, but Norrington himself did his best to keep his distance from the numerous hammerhead sharks. They circled, never quite far enough away for his liking.
The commodore quickly discovered that marine marching was a very inefficient mode of locomotion. Hours had passed, and he had seen no sign of the Dauntless above. The ocean floor kept descending, now more than a hundred feet from the surface. He began to wonder how well a skeleton floated if it dropped its weights.
Something ahead on the ocean floor caught Norrington's attention. At first, he took it to be a wreck, but it was moving. Towards him. He could soon make out clearly what it was: more than a score of skeletal pirates, marching back towards shore. They looked disorganised and disgruntled. Several of them were missing limbs, some of which were crawling along behind them to catch up. An enormous shoal of sharks circled above them near the surface. There had evidently been an encounter, Norrington thought with caustic amusement.
But the state of the pirates showed the commodore what sharks were capable of doing, even to the living dead. He dove into a mound of sand as the pirates passed, bickering with one another and waving their gradually rusting swords menacingly at each other's heads. They took no notice of him or the plume of sand he had disturbed, and he waited until they were out of sight.
Norrington quickly discovered that it was not only the presence of sharks that had caused the pirates to turn back. Beyond the spot where the pirates had come from there was a sheer drop to the deep ocean. Out of reach, about two hundred yards away, was the broad keel of the Dauntless. The sight was at once as lovely as the Caribbean sunrise and very disheartening. His men had done well to flee out of reach of a submarine ambush – although fleeing had always been something Gillette was good at. However, he could see no way of getting back on board unless he could float.
The situation required a quick decision, for the ship was moving away rapidly. It was now two hundred yards away and gaining speed. It must have caught an early morning wind. Norrington hastily dropped his pistol and pushed off upwards, swimming as hard as he could.
Water rushed through his bones almost ineffectually. He was dragged down and hit the ocean floor, left hip first, with a thud. In dismay, the commodore drew his shining court sword. He tried dumping his sword belt and scabbard, but he was not light enough. He dared not take off any of his rent clothes, for fear of someone seeing him: the moonlight still shone dimly in the wee hours. Swearing an uncharacteristically ill-bred oath, he plunged the blade itself into the sand, silently promising to return for it later when he rid the seas of these damnable pirates.
It was still a gargantuan task with his coat dragging him down, but Norrington managed to reach the surface, and swam like a madman for his ship. His imperviousness to fatigue helped in this endeavour, and at last he made contact with the curving, wooden side of the Dauntless. He grabbed for one of the loose mooring lines, praising the sloppiness of the crew for once in his life, and began to haul himself up. Surprisingly, no water clung to him; he emerged completely dry. His gloved fingers wrapped around the rail of the main deck, slipped, and then held again. Relieved, he hauled himself up.
A dozen bayonets closed in around Norrington's throat, and a shaky pistol positioned itself between his eyes. The commodore froze.
"Now!" screamed the voice of Gillette, and four of the most burly Marines grabbed their ship's commander, intending to hurl him over the side and over the oceanic cliff into the deep sea. "Stop! Stop!" Norrington yelled. "It's me, Commodore Norrington!"
Norrington thanked Heaven that his claim caused the army men to hesitate long enough for their Corporal to order them to put him down. They dumped him unceremoniously on deck, not quite believing his somewhat absurd statement. The commodore did not really care at this point, he was simply glad to be aboard ship once more, and to know that Gillette and the level-headed, if unrefined, Corporal were still alive.
"It's all right," Norrington spluttered. "Keep your guns trained on me if you must, just don't give me back to the sea."
The commodore was slightly surprised that they took him up on his offer not to lower their muskets. But there was hardly anything he could do about it. He realised he had lost his hat underwater, and in panic felt the top of his head. Luckily, the wig of white horsehair still tied with a solitaire, while unkempt, remained there. He kept his chin well down, since the wrapping had started coming undone at his throat, until he could fix it without anyone seeing.
A shadow was cast on him as someone approached. "W-who are you?" demanded a terrified Gillette, levelling, or trying to level, his pistol at Norrington's head once more.
"I already told you, Lieutenant Gillette. I am Commodore James Norrington, senior naval officer of Port Royal."
"Th-that's impossible," stammered Gillette, both frightened and suspicious. "Commodore Norrington is dead. Corporal Wilkins reported it. You are a deceitful pirate, and the sea shall have you!"
Norrington turned his wrapped face on the corporal. "Did you see him die?"
"No," stated the corporal sternly. "But he could not have lived, not even with his skill with the blade. He was outnumbered and surrounded, with his back to the wall."
"Yes, I was. Yet Barbossa called off his minions. He wanted the Dauntless more than he wanted me. He challenged me to a duel, a duel which I escaped." Norrington inwardly winced at the lies he would have to tell if they questioned him further on what happened in the cave.
"You escaped a duel with the undead captain, Sir?" The corporal was incredulous. The soldiers began to mutter amongst themselves. The commodore smiled behind his wrapper at the army commander's concession.
"I am glad you understand that I am telling the truth about who I am."
"Oh, I knew, Sir. I would recognise that voice anywhere. The same can't be said about Lieutenant Gillette, I'm afraid. He's rather thick."
Gillette threw his nose in the air at Corporal Wilkins, stuffing his pistol back in its holster. Then he turned to his superior officer. "Of course I knew it was you, Sir. But I had to be extra careful. We have been chased by pirates, after all."
"Your diligence is admirable," said the commodore dryly as Gillette and Wilkins helped him to his feet. They both grimaced a bit in surprise as they held him. I undoubtedly feel strange to them, he thought grimly.
"Fetch the ship's doctor!" yelled Gillette, having accidentally stuck his hand into the fatal gash on Norrington's side, making the superior officer flinch. "The commodore's terribly wounded!"
"No!" barked the commodore, unsuccessfully fighting down panic. "I'm perfectly all right!" The doctor would want to examine him more closely...
"But this, Sir!" Gillette was pallid as he took a closer look at the bloody tunnel Barbossa's blade had bored, ragged and dirty with sand from the ocean floor.
"And your face, Commodore." The corporal's tone was calm but urgent.
The doctor was running up from below at full speed. Norrington desperately tried to think of some distraction. He looked at the white-faced Gillette.
"Doctor," he roared desperately in the most commanding voice he could muster, "the lieutenant is in shock, and needs immediate treatment!"
"But Sir-"
"There is no time!" Norrington bellowed, throwing Gillette into the doctor's arms and chasing them both below. He closed the hatch behind them, and turned, winding up face-to-face with the corporal.
"Commodore, what's going on?" he demanded in a none-too-subordinate tone. "What are you hiding? How did you escape?"
Hastily, Norrington tucked the loose end of the face wrap into his bloodstained cravat. He brought back the monotone. "You will not speak to me that way, Corporal Wilkins. How I escaped is immaterial – needless to say, it required all my skill with the blade."
"And yet you do not seem to have one, Sir."
"I was disarmed."
"Your sword belt, too, Sir?"
Norrington had never been a good liar. Nor had he had time to make up a credible story. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand. He decided to change the subject. "Enough. Where is Governor Swann?"
"Still in your cabin, Sir. We wanted to be sure that the threat had completely passed before letting him out."
"Very good, Corporal. Where is Miss Swann?"
"In there as well, Commodore."
The commodore was not entirely sure he wanted to see Elizabeth, but anything was better than more questions. He made his way over to the cabin. The moon had almost set, thank God.
As he approached the cabin door, he heard an awful pounding behind it. He took up the key from the corporal, and opened the double doors. They swung outwards, and with them fell Governor Swann, flat on his face. He looked up at Norrington in indignant rage. "What is the meaning of this, Commodore! Why have you consistently refused to let me out when I heard no sounds of clashing or 'huzzah!' or 'arrr!' indicating a battle?" He took another look at Norrington. "And what have you done to your face?"
Before the commodore could speak – and that was just as well, for his explanation would have been woefully inadequate – the Governor interrupted with an afterthought. "I assume Elizabeth is with you, is she?"
Norrington started, as did the corporal. "You mean she's not here?"
"No, she climbed out into one of the boats, presumably to join you in your swashbuckling adventures," Governor Swann spat accusingly. Then he softened an iota. "I know she can be a handful, but you really should take better care of her if you're going to be her husband, Commodore."
"I'm not going to be her husband, Your Excellency," growled the commodore. He turned to the corporal. "Where the devil is William Turner?"
"Not going to be her husband, why I never..." glowered the Governor. "Breaking off the engagement, after you practically cut off your right arm to convince me to let you marry her!"
"If you please, Your Excellency, we can discuss this later when Elizabeth is found. But until we find her, you will be silent or you will go back in there!" Norrington gestured at the open cabin doors.
"Is that a threat?"
The corporal intervened, rescuing his commander. "We don't know where Turner is, Sir. He isn't here, that's for sure."
"Then there's only two places he can be," remarked Norrington. "Either he's still on the Isla de Muerta, or he's decided to flee like the coward he is." He turned to face the poop deck. "Groves!" he called up. "Your spyglass!" The lieutenant descended obediently and handed over the glass. The commodore peered through, and was momentarily blinded by the rapid tropical sunrise. He searched the sparkling waters for the ship with black sails.
"There she is." The Black Pearl. A small, dark shape on the far side of the distant island, hiding, waiting.
Groves, always the first to question his commander, looked inquiringly at Norrington. "Sir, why exactly must we concern ourselves with that pirate ship?"
The commodore replied, "The Black Pearl would be long gone by now in pursuit if Mr. Turner and Miss Swann had fled. They are still on the island."
"Then go and get her!" bellowed the Governor.
This was his chance. The first labour of the undead hero. "I shall, Your Excellency." He saw the army men's melancholy looks. "Of course, I can't risk the Marines again, so I shall go myself and get them out by stealth."
"Are you mad? That's suicide!"
"As you said, Your Excellency," the commodore explained bitterly, "I should take better care of my wards. I failed once; I must do what I can to make things right."
"Fine words, my boy, but they won't help my daughter."
Norrington turned to order himself a boat, but the Governor intercepted him. "I've had enough of your arrogance, Commodore. You are not at liberty to ignore me." Then, to the commodore's utter astonishment, he ripped the wrapping off Norrington's face.
"Your face is fine, Commodore. Why is it wrapped in bloody..." he examined the fabric between his fingers "...skirts?" He looked down at Norrington's hands. "And why are you wearing ladies' gloves, which are far too small for you? A new fashion in the Navy?"
The crimson-coated guards snickered behind them. Norrington was at a loss, feeling exposed beneath the Governor's fervent glare. The Governor may have been contemptible when it came to battles or seafaring, but he was terribly good at seeing through words...and people. Unfortunately, the corporal was also giving him the same penetrating stare.
Unable to answer, he shouted to his sailors, "Ready about! We're heading back to the island." The sailors knew better than to groan, but the soldiers made up for it. "Anyone who disagrees with me can follow us beneath the keel. Hard alee!"
The army men shut up immediately with the terrible threat and got out of the way of the scrambling sailors.
"You're not getting out of it that easily, Commodore." Norrington shuddered as he heard the Governor's irritating voice once again. "I want to know what's happened to you. Something did happen, did it not, in that cave?"
"Groves!" shouted the commodore in exasperation, now too leery of the corporal to trust him. "Come here!" The lieutenant, ever obedient, came down for the second time from his perch on the poop. "Let us escort His Excellency to the cabin for his protection – hostilities may ensue at any moment."
"Hostilities! You confounded lunatic-"
"You must remember, Your Excellency, that I command this ship. If you do not obey, you may find yourself in the brig."
The Governor was flabbergasted. "I'll have your commission for this!" Norrington shoved him into the cabin. "I'll have your head if you don't bring back my daughter, James Norrington!" Groves duly locked the door. The commodore wondered how he could get Wilkins's keys away from him.
This damned curse was making his life miserably complicated. Norrington had just locked up the Governor of Jamaica, against his will, without just cause, and threatened to throw him in the brig like a common criminal. The commodore's dreams of fighting gloriously for England looked rather feeble in comparison to the Hell he was going to pay when they returned to Port Royal. Perhaps he would be decommissioned – it was in the Governor's power. He had never scrubbed decks in his life, and he was not looking forward to starting now.
I have to find Elizabeth.
Strangely enough, Elizabeth found him. It was twilight by the time the Dauntless came back within sight of the cave entrance on the Isla de Muerta. While the commodore was below deck finding himself a sword, some proper gloves, a wide-brimmed tricorne to replace his lost one and shade his face, as well as a steinkirk to cover the rest of him from the throat up, before moonrise, Gillette, restored to 'health' by one of the doctor's vile-smelling and usually incapacitating brews of laudanum, weakly announced that there was a boat approaching. In it were Elizabeth and Will Turner. They hauled the boat up and the two passengers clambered aboard. Norrington kept a wary watch for the Black Pearl in case Elizabeth and Turner had been spotted. They had apparently left Jack Sparrow on the Isla de Muerta.
Before Norrington could protest, Corporal Wilkins had let Elizabeth in to see her father in the cabin. Reviling himself for being too slow in seizing the keys, the commodore did his best to stay hidden while still in earshot. It was a difficult balance, and he had to deflect some more awkward questions from his crew, mostly concerning why he was hiding under the quarter deck stairs, with increasingly nasty threats. He knew he was losing their respect and hated himself for it.
"...but Jack's still in there with Barbossa, Father! You've got to make him see reason!"
"Making the commodore see reason these days is no easy task, Elizabeth. He's gone off his block."
"We need to get Jack out of there!"
"He went in there to lift this Aztec curse that makes the pirates immortal. I assume he's done it?"
"No, we couldn't! Will tried – he's the only one who can do it, Father, but I'll explain that later – and it didn't work! We need all the pieces of pirate gold, but we're missing one."
"Missing one, eh..." The Governor trailed off. Norrington did not like Governor Swann's thoughtful tone at all.
"Yes, and the reason we came back is that Jack said-"
The commodore burst into the cabin in a fury. He was not going to let this happen. "Miss Swann, I did not give you permission to be in here!"
"James! What are-"
"Commodore Norrington, this is most irregular." The Governor's voice carried an edge Norrington had never heard to it, one that abruptly reminded him that Weatherby Swann had been the second son of a Duke back in England, and the King's next of kin. At that moment, the family resemblance to George II seemed particularly poignant.
"If you do not leave now, Miss Swann, I shall be forced to remove you." Outside the window, the moon was rising.
"You may get away with speaking to me that way, because this is your ship, Commodore, but you will never speak to my daughter that way."
Hardly knowing what he was doing, Norrington reached for Elizabeth's wrists and caught them by sight, twisting as she struggled. She cried out, more in rage than in pain, and bared her teeth up at him. Her feet kicked at him, but the pain was fleeting and he held her fast. He could feel no warmth, nor softness in her flesh.
"Consider your options, Commodore," said the Governor with disturbing smoothness. "Release her now, or lose everything." He stepped slowly towards the now-trembling officer. "Is your secret really worth all this?"
Dumbly, Norrington released Elizabeth. He did not believe that he had just hurt her, without even thinking. How could he? His mind was reeling.
Elizabeth turned to stand by her father defiantly, shaking with violation and white-hot rage. "What is wrong with you, Commodore? Have you lost your mind, as my father says? Or are these your true colours? Is all you ever wanted me for to complete your stack of accomplishments, and use me like a whore? Tell me it is not so."
Although Norrington had been half-expecting them, he did not predict how much her words would hurt. He did not respond, and shrank back into the moonlit window, feeling the last shards of his life shattering before him and showering him with pain and despair. He stood rigidly, awaiting whatever would come.
Governor Swann, pushing his daughter behind him both to protect her and to hold her back, approached. His expression softened to an almost paternal mien. "Let us end this madness." The commodore cringed.
Gently, the Governor took one of the gloved hands. The commodore did not resist. Carefully, the lord pulled off Norrington's crisp white glove and pulled the exposed hand out into the square of moonlight cast from the window. Instantly, the immaculate flesh gave way to rot and bare bone. True to form, the Governor could not help but recoil and turn up his nose. But he still held Norrington's wrist tightly. Elizabeth looked somewhat surprised and – perhaps Norrington was merely being hopeful – even slightly ashamed. It did not help, though. He could not stand them staring at the putrid, monstrous carcass he had become.
"Now you realise, I hope-" the Governor's words were breathlessly measured, "-that it is a true curse, not an opportunity. You cannot make something so evil a slave to your ambition, Commodore. It will enslave you. You can never hide your true nature, and you will only destroy yourself trying. You need to give that gold to me, so we can lift this curse." A crimson ruby glittered in a ring on his hand.
Something within Norrington snapped. How could that man read him so easily, like a damnable book? "No!" he roared, tearing the glove from Governor Swann's grip and drawing his sword. "To the brig, both of you, or God help me I'll be the last thing you'll ever see!"
He drove them out of the cabin and towards the hatch. By sheer luck, Will Turner had fallen asleep on the forecastle, after proving he was not a eunuch to the Marines on watch by downing several stiff drinks, and not even Elizabeth's yells awoke him.
The corporal trained his musket on Norrington and cocked it to fire, but the Governor waved him aside. All the commodore could see was the flash of crimson coat as he disappeared down the ladder behind father and daughter.
He kept driving them savagely, at sword point, until they met with the cold, black bars of the cells of the brig. He opened the largest one for them. Amidst fiery protest from Elizabeth, Governor Swann grabbed her hand and dragged her in. "He will kill you, Elizabeth; he's gone mad!" the Governor was trying to make her understand. "Let him try!" was her angry reply. "Why are you just letting him do this?"
Norrington pulled out the heavy, black, iron key and locked the cell. He could not bear to see his two captives any longer, so he hastily clambered up the ladder back out onto deck. Even the Governor knew he was a monstrosity. There was nothing left of his ambitions now.
"If you dare attempt to harm me, Wilkins, I'll give you both a traitor's and a mutineer's punishment, consecutively. Killing me might be significantly more difficult than you think. It will, for example, take more than that one shot."
The commodore made his way to his quarters unhindered, scarf still thoroughly covering his face. He locked himself in, and then tore the wretched thing off. Although he needed no air, it still seemed asphyxiating. The moonlight streamed through his hollow jawbone and cast a hideous shadow on the wall behind. His grinning image in the glass was too horrible to behold. Digging through his drawers, he found what he had been longing for. He held the bottle of dark, somewhat murky liquid up to the light. Its shadow was somehow fitting beside the skeleton head. He uncorked it with his teeth – why not? – and took a huge swallow.
The rum tasted less substantial even than water. What was left of his tongue could just barely feel the suggestion of wetness as it flowed past. Apathetically, he watched as it flowed out between his ribs, through the jagged break that Barbossa had inflicted. It spilled out over his breeches, staining the rich dark blue fabric with rum as it had been stained with blood.
Numbness brought on by the curse had at first been maddening; however, instead of growing accustomed to it, he was now tormented by it. His lust for sensation was growing, wildly, beyond his control. To have felt the rapid pulse of Elizabeth's heart through her wrists, the salty kiss of the sea breeze, or the rich wood of the Dauntless's railings, he would have given anything.
In desperation, he cleaved his left hand off with his sword, yearning to feel even the loving bite of the steel. He cried out from the severing impact, but it was gone in a brief, white-hot flash. Then the hand lay there, disconnected to its arm, but still fully functional. He wiggled the skeletal fingers one by one, and they responded. In resignation, he put the severed hand back in place, and the bone fused as if nothing had happened.
He had never fully understood what torture this curse could be. All thoughts of glory, of England, of family, of those he loved were consumed by the fires of lust for taste, for touch. All the forbidden meats and liquors he dreamed of tasting, all the barbaric things he longed to do to a tender lady... His sense of honour cruelly flagellated the desires back into the abyss of his soul, as the captain's daughter had once flogged the impertinence out of him as a Midshipman, bound to the mast, fourteen long years ago. In spite of himself, he felt a certain kinship with the miscreant Barbossa. Oh, to taste even an apple after being deprived like this. And Barbossa and his men had suffered like this for years. But they could not even end their misery, for they were immortal. And now so was he. Until the curse should end.
What could they do, for their eternal lives? Nothing but seek the Aztec gold, piece by piece, killing all who stood in their way. Any thought of the greater good and those they loved were mere luxuries swept away in the wake of this torturing lust that only got worse with each passing moment. We can never win. They're sent straight from Hell – to take us there.
He had the final piece.
"Elizabeth." The Governor was sleeping restlessly and Norrington did not want to wake him. "Elizabeth," he whispered again at the bars. He was still nervous speaking to her, even now.
She turned away from him scornfully, crossing her arms. But he knew she could hear him. "Elizabeth, I could never ask you to forgive me for all I have done." She turned her back completely on him. "But I need your help. And if you ever want this to stop, you will help me."
"What makes you think I would ever help you again?"
"Because I want to lift this curse, before I get any worse. And believe me, Miss Swann, I am getting worse by the minute."
"The curse never seemed to bother Jack."
"Well then perhaps..." he stared intently at the mouldy floor, "Mr. Sparrow is made of stronger fibre than I." The admission turned his world inside out. He had no pride left. Even anger was gone. All he could feel was sadness at the thought of what a pathetic creature he had become.
Elizabeth was silent for a while. As Norrington was turning to leave, she said simply, "Go talk to Will. See if he'll help you. You'll need him to lift the curse, and he might be more inclined than I to show you charity."
Charity. The word stung worse than his severing blade. "As you wish, Miss Swann." He handed her the key to her cell through the bars and took off up the ladder. "Farewell, Elizabeth," he whispered back as he climbed through the hatch, closing it behind him.
Moonlight streamed on his unclothed face, but he no longer cared. Gillette, seeing him from the quarter deck, yelped and ran for the corporal. The crimson coats on watch stared at him, gaping and unable to steady their guns enough to shoot. He made his way over silently to the forecastle, and slowly climbed the stairs.
Turner was sleeping with one arm hanging over the railing, his head upon it, mouth slightly open. A skeletal hand shook him.
"Mr. Turner," he called sternly. "William," he repeated, more softly.
The young blacksmith yawned and rolled over slightly onto his back, opening one bleary eye. Then, he gave a great start and grappled for his sword, which he had been lying on. He backed himself up against the ship's railing and held his sword out threateningly at Norrington.
"It's all right, Mr. Turner. I have no intention of harming you." He looked at the sword point at the tip of his torn Roman nose. "Please, Mr. Turner, you'll have no need of that."
"Norrington, is that you?" Will was only half-believing.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Turner. Most unfortunately."
"You're cursed – really cursed." Turner broke out with a half-suppressed laugh of relief. "So Jack Sparrow was telling the truth, after all. I never would have believed you would steal pirate gold."
"I did not steal," snapped the commodore. He hesitated, for he was loathe to tell his rival that he owed a life debt to a scoundrel such as Jack Sparrow. No more lies, he told himself severely, the cat of his propriety brandishing again. "I was dying, and Mr. Sparrow made me inadvertently take it, to save my life."
"Jack Sparrow wanted to save your life?" Turner was incredulous.
"If you think I would admit to something like that were it not the virgin, Gospel truth, think again."
"What do you want, then?"
"I need you to lift the curse. As Mr. Sparrow indicated, I indeed have the final piece."
A flash of innocent pity, perhaps the most unbearable of all the commodore's trials thus far, spread across the man's young face. "All right, let's do this." He clasped Norrington's skeletal hand, wincing a bit at the sound of the bones crunching together. "But I'll need your blood, and cover."
"Not to worry, Mr. Turner. It shall regrettably take more than Barbossa's cutlass to stop me this time."
"All clear, Mr. Turner. Sparrow and Barbossa are still duelling. I can't imagine why, but they are, after all this time. No sign of the other pirates."
Turner looked somewhat ashamed in the reflected light of the treasure trove. "Well, we were supposed to get your piece...a bit faster than we did...I sort of, well, nodded off..."
Norrington bowed his head in comprehension, still marvelling at cocky Sparrow's tenacity. As he watched, the two immortal enemies circled each other. Barbossa tried to break off the fight, it looked like for the hundredth time, but Sparrow rushed in for the attack, skewering Barbossa through the throat. Barbossa yawned, putting down his sword for a moment to stretch and letting Sparrow grab it and stab him with both swords at once.
"I really don't know why y'even bother at this point, Jack. Have y'got nothing better to do?" he asked lazily.
Turner was surging ahead. Norrington grabbed him by the shoulder. "It seems that Mr. Sparrow is not sufficiently holding Barbossa's attention. I'd better intervene and draw him off. Cover, as you say."
The commodore reached into his blue coat and drew out the wickedly grinning heathen gold medallion. Drawing his sword, he stroked the blade harrowingly across his shadow-draped left palm. Dark, dead blood welled from the laceration onto the thirsty gold. He pressed the shining crimson coin into Turner's hand. "Good luck. And thank you."
Nimbly, Norrington leapt down from his vantage point and into the knee-deep jewels. He drew his sword, and sized up Barbossa. The haggard Captain had his back turned, but the commodore could tell he was wearing a very familiar hat, and wielding a finer blade than he had been using before.
Barbossa turned, allowing Sparrow to stab him fifteen times in the back. The pirate captain paid no attention. He looked up at the moon, and then down at the rotting corpse that had once been Commodore Norrington.
"I knew you'd come back, Commodore. I left you drowning in a sea of yer own blood, apparently only to be saved by the pest named Jack Sparrow, the bane of yer existence." The Cornish accent bored into Norrington as it had before, but for some reason the vulgarity did not matter so much any more.
Barbossa threw back his head and laughed his harsh, grinding laugh. "Then you found out that life like this ain't all it's cracked up to be. Unslakeable lust can break any man, even one so proper as yerself.
"So why'd you come back? Y'know you can't break the curse without the blood of Bootstrap Bill Turner, or didn't you know? Are y'here for treasure, or for revenge?"
"I'm here for my hat," the commodore replied sardonically. He lunged swiftly at Barbossa, who enthusiastically took up the fight with his new opponent.
"At least y'fight better than Cap'n Jack Sparrow," commented Barbossa, ignoring Sparrow's ineffectual slashes at his back. He re-gored the wound he had made the last time they fought, making Norrington grimace and retreat. "My boys got the hat and sword for me, y'know, from the bottom of the sea. They took a walk out to look for you. I was getting impatient, y'see. Then y'were kind enough to turn up. You know I want the curse lifted as much as you do, Commodore. Just imagine...to be able to taste just one more bite of apple again..."
The undead Norrington fought with an inexplicable fury, as though hacking at Barbossa would bring on the tastes and sensations he craved. Hurry, William Turner! the last vestige of the human Commodore Norrington left unconsumed by lust screamed within him, before it, too, caught fire.
"How's that wound of yers doing, Commodore?" Barbossa's question turned his attention back to the job at hand. "I understand it's going to be quite excruciating when the curse is finally lifted. That is, for the few moments you will have left to live. Y'lost an awful lot o' blood before yer knight in shining armour and beaded braids came to rescue you."
Norrington clenched his teeth and said nothing. Barbossa stepped to one side as Sparrow thundered past in a tired, bellowing charge, eventually imbedding his sword in a crack in the wall. He yanked at it a few times, then decided to disappear. But Turner had nearly made it to the chest, and the pirate captain had still not seen him.
"You do realise that by not accepting death in the first place, you have condemned yourself to death after tacking on a sentence o' torture?"
The commodore aimed an irate kick at Barbossa, sending him flying into the water. The pirate simply set off laughing once more. "I shall enjoy watching you die in agony, Commodore!"
Enraged, Norrington stood over the prostrate form of the pirate. He lowered his sword to Barbossa's throat by force of training. Smiling, Barbossa grabbed the end of it and yanked.
Caught off guard, the commodore lost his balance and toppled, Barbossa tackling him to the ground. The pirate dropped his mocking mask of indifference entirely and flew into a rage. "Where is it, y' scurvy cur! Where is it?" As Norrington tried to kick him off, the pirate captain searched him over ten, twenty, thirty times. He was a man possessed.
"It's here," called out a young voice from the end of the cave. Both combatants looked over to see Will Turner, holding three gold discs above the great chest of Cortès, blood oozing from a gash on the hand that held them. He dropped two, poised to drop the third, his eyes on Norrington's, waiting.
"Captain...Jack...Sparrow, if you're there," the commodore gasped, the full weight of Barbossa still pinning him down. "I need to know... Will I die if the curse is lifted?"
The pirate's voice emerging from the darkness behind Will startled the combatants. "Don't know, mate. I guess you'll just have to find out." He was holding his hat down in front of him. Norrington barely made out something concealed behind it. "But is this life really what you want?"
"Is this death really what you want?" Barbossa was on his feet, edging away from Sparrow. To Norrington's astonishment, he seemed frightened. He was preparing to flee for his life.
The undead commodore thought of the pain, the terror, the humiliation of the writhing death he had narrowly escaped. And what of potentially losing all chance of making amends for all that he had done as a blindly ambitious and lust-driven demon? It was as Barbossa said, a death sentence after two long days of torture.
Yet, he could not live any longer like this. Soon he would be exactly as Barbossa was now, an utterly desperate and depraved creature, the few last remnants of his life destroyed. And what of Barbossa, the other pirates, and Sparrow who had once saved him? Must they endure this existence any longer? How many more had to die for this curse? The cursed ones would never stop pursuing their goal of liberation, at whatever cost.
And there was a chance for life again, a chance to taste the sweet flesh of an apple once more.
He suddenly realised that whatever his choice, it made no difference. William Turner would drop the medallion, no matter what. His once rival was merely giving him the courtesy of waiting for him to be ready. He closed his eyes in fear. "Just do it, Turner!"
A gold disc fell, flashing with crimson in the moonlight.
A shot flew from a hidden pistol, Barbossa's back welling crimson.
A scream died in the bleak night, sending Norrington hurtling into crimson Hell.
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