The Harp that Once
The Harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled
So sleeps the pride of former days
So glory's thrill is o'er
And the hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The Harp of Tara swells
The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks
To show that she still lives
The Heart that once beat high for praise
"James Norrington. Do you fear Death?"
What a stupid question, he thought. I'm lying here on the deck of the Flying Dutchman, impaled and going to die, and here is Davy Jones waving those damned tentacles and asking if I want to become one of his crew. I've seen what it's cost those who accepted that offer and how he runs his ship. I've seen enough Death to know that I don't care for what you offer.
There are worse things than dying, Jones; I've already sunk to the depths as far as I have any intention of going, up to and including selling my soul to Cutler Beckett.
I. Will. Not. Go any further down that road.
Period.
Elizabeth is free of you now. I may not live to see the end of this mess but I've done what I could. I may not be that arrogant young officer I used to be but now I could look myself in the mirror and know there was something left of him, after all. As for you and your offer, not in this lifetime.
Norrington reached up with the dregs of his strength and thrust his sword into the heartless chest of Jones, knowing he could not kill the creature but the attempt would make his feelings very clear. He slumped back and let the darkness in.
