A one-shot centring around Norrington's death aboard the Dutchman. Told from his point of view, without dialogue. This was an attempt to do the Commodore more justice than the script-writers did.
None of the characters that appeared in the two Pirates of the Caribbean movies are mine, but the property of Disney, et al. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.
It was surreal, well beyond madness, this ship he was on. The creatures who walked the deck were like parts of the sea come to life. In no way could they be called men or anything close to that. How had he come to be in such a place? A self-deprecating smile slid across his face. Oh he knew very well how he'd come to this place, but knowing the path did not make having walked it any easier. Nothing seemed easy, least of all what he was about to do.
Lord but it smelled too heavily of brine on this ship. Wrinkling his nose, he made his way cautiously down the steps toward the Dutchman's brig. The survivialist part of him was nagging, telling him that what he was doing was stupid. Madness. Suicide. For a moment, he paused, listening for any sound of an approaching creature. Nothing but the unsettling, constant creaking of old timbers. Not fully reassured, Norrington continued on his way. This was not about making up for past mistakes or attempting to regain favour. It was about serving others. Others, not himself.
They watched him suspiciously, as though he could not be trusted. Another pause, to exchange terse words. Then he took another step toward the irreversible, the heavy iron key rattling dully in the lock as he turned it. There was no time to spare, no moment to waste. He was the last to start back topside, lingering despite all sense to speak three words that confirmed his complicity with the pirates. With her. They weren't seen or delayed in the silent movement to the cursed ship's taffrail, which only increased his trepidation and, in turn, his interest in getting them off the ship as swiftly as possible.
She was the last one left, the rest of her crew having made their way over the taffrail and down the ropes holding the Dutchman to the elegantly-strange Chinese ship. She dared to speak of forgiveness, how he could never earn it. Inwardly, he felt a twinge of regret. Could she not see past the folly and failure, to the intention that always had been honest? Apparently not, but in the next breath she offered escape where she could not, or would not, offer good favour. What was one without the other?
From behind them, a challenge. They had been spotted. His sword was in hand before he was fully aware of it - the last, inexorable step remaining toward finality. His decision was made. There was no going back. One last exchange of words, a kiss that he should have enjoyed long before now, then he turned away, unable to meet her gaze again. The enemy was approaching, a barnacle-encrusted abomination that had once, years ago, been a man. The sight of it solidified his resolve, he would not become like that.
Orders were useless but he snapped them anyway. It was sword drawn against sword drawn, but there was no arguing or settling something that had no ability of independent thought. Nothing could stop the creature's mindless shouting, not even the pistol that he pulled from his belt. From behind, he heard her call out. Despite knowing better, despite the danger in taking his eyes off his foe, Norrington glanced back. She would never make it. His arm came up jerkily and there was the sound of a shot. The rope connecting the Chinese ship to this cursed floating hulk was severed. That, perhaps, was the most difficult action he had ever undertaken.
It was also his last. The creature's sword slipped through the layers of linen as if they weren't there, passing on through skin and muscle and past bone. It happened in the blink of an eye, before he was even aware of it. No time to think or react, then the deadly blade was through and through. For an instant, he stayed on his feet, but his sense of balance abandoned him in the next instant. He fell but felt neither the sensation of falling nor the abrupt jolt of impact on the deck.
Shadows loomed above him, carrying with them rumbling voices. He could see the distorted faces, yet his vision danced and clouded with a hazy sort of mist. Was this what it felt like? There was a weight in his hand, his sword. Much like the one that spitted him clean through his midriff. What an inglorious way to end, really, run through by a walking...
Fear. Death. Did he? He blinked and summoned the last of his waning strength and consciousness. Of course he feared death, but he wasn't going to end a slave to the supposed lord of the seas. The slim, well-crafted blade - a gift from an era long past - sprang up as if of its own bidding, piercing the hideous creature that dared pose such a question to him.
Suddenly, it was cold. His limbs felt completely leaden and he sagged against the deck, the last of his spirit exhausted. She had talked of redemption, of forgiveness, but in truth he had never required it. Not from her. Least of all from her.
The blazing afternoon sun was warm against his upturned face. His dark blue coat absorbed the heat, sending steady trickles of perspiration down his back. It mattered little, for he was at sea, aboard his dear Dauntless. A freshening breeze whispered down from the north, filling the main course. A perfect day. His gaze fell from the pennant fluttering at the masthead and he took in the activity on the weather deck. His officers and crew, going about their usual tasks. He smiled. This was home.