Disclaimer: Not mine, derr. Originally planned to be part of a multi-chap'd fic I never got around to writing. One day, maybe ... R&R?
The Final Voyage of James Norrington
He was frightened, at first. With Bootstrap bearing down, sword flashing menacingly in the dull light. He heard Elizabeth's cries, felt the weight of the choice before him. There was a second of indecision. Then a second of doubt. Then there was clear-sightedness unlike ever before and he swung his blade to the challenge. And in that moment, that one pure moment before he died, James Norrington knew that at last he had been truly courageous. But then there was a sharp pain – white hot – and his legs gave way beneath him. He couldn't hear the words that came out of his mouth, couldn't feel anything but the horrible burn of Bootstrap's blade through his chest. He felt someone loom over him and the putrid face of Davey Jones came into view, leering at him as he took his last breath.
"James Norrington." The creature's voice echoed as if from a long tunnel. "Do you fear death?"
This time James wasn't scared, and he would never be consumed by fear again. He mustered the last of his strength and plunged his sword into the foul beast's side. Then he turned with hopeful eyes to the starry sky, comforted by their cheerful light in the gloom, and he saw no more of Davey Jones. He saw no more of Bootstrap, of the Dutchman, of the mutants that had plagued his waking life. And secure in the knowledge he had finally done the right thing, James Norrington breathed his last, and slipped away.
Davey Jones winced in irritation as the sharp metal sliced through his flesh. "I'll take that as a 'no' then," he said, grasping the hilt and pulling it out mercilessly. He paused, sword in hand, admiring the balance and lightness of the blade. "This is a good sword," he commented, and turned away.
"Captain?"Accustomed to the title, Davey turned back. "What shall we do with him?" One of the crew had swung down from above and nudged the still warm body of Norrington with his foot.
Jones took in the former Admiral's fine uniform, his grand hat perched atop his near hair, the picture of pride of the English Navy. A nasty sneer crawled over his disfigured face.
"Send him overboard. The fishies'll have a nibble tonight."