Summary: Prequel to Fallen Behind. "And, speaking of Sparrow, the pirate had likely just been condemned to an even slower death because of his attacker's unanticipated change in targets." James Norrington discovers that things have gone drastically wrong in the fight for the key to the chest of Davy Jones. One-shot. Takes place during DMC. Dark Will. Rated M for gore.
A/N: Not going to lie, Fallen Behind is one of my favorites that I've written. I can't believe it's been over a year! Also, Jesus Christ, this got so much darker than I originally meant it to be. I'm so sorry, Norrington!
Death Never More Welcomed
The mill wheel crashed violently into a tree, throwing their bodies towards the side of impact. James Norrington collided with Will Turner painfully, then fell to land atop a disoriented Jack Sparrow. Each of the men moaned, waiting for their heads to stop spinning. Turner somehow managed to keep his hold in his original position, his grip strong on the old wooden frame.
"Get off o' me." Sparrow huffed, shoving the shoulder of the man atop him.
James willingly obliged the pirate's request, too disoriented to do otherwise. He felt around for his sword, his other hand pressed to his forehead as his eyes blearily tried to focus on the landscape around them.
Sparrow staggered to his feet, briefly grasping onto the wheel for support. The key dangled from where it swung in his hand, clattering against the wooden frame. At the sound, Turner slithered down from his position near the top of the wheel, his feet seeking hold of the solid ground.
"This is your last chance, Jack." The blacksmith's apprentice warned dangerously. "Give me the key."
"No." The pirate refused his request.
Turner let out a battle cry, swinging at Sparrow, who's own sword rose in defense.
James's stomach lurched as he tried to sit up, the movement of the duel before him not helping to steady his vision at all. He closed his eyes for a long moment to get a hold of his senses, listening to the clanging of swords.
When he opened his eyes again, the sounds had faded a little and both men had disappeared. He managed to get to his feet, ducking out from within the wheel. He brushed his unruly brown hair from his face, listening to the noises of the duel to determine where the others had vanished off to. He frowned, realizing that it sounded like they'd gone back the way they had come from.
James froze as a cry of pain reached his ears, followed by an outraged,"What are ye doin'?!"
Sparrow.
Something was going horribly wrong. The former commodore knew it by the sound of the pirate captain's voice.
He found himself oddly worried for the man's safety, though they'd always been anything but friends. Enemies, rivals, but never friends. The island had grown unnaturally silent, save for the brushing of the undergrowth against his clothing as he raced through the trees, towards where the shout had come from. It was a bad sign, adding to his unease.
James had to come to a halt, however, to check he was on the right track. For a few moments, he heard nothing more than his own heavy breath and the roaring of his blood in his ears. He spat out hot saliva and wiped at his sweating forehead, his sword hanging lamely at his side as he waited for his body to silence enough for him to hear what was going on around him more clearly.
Slurch!
His brow furrowed in confusion at the sound. He hadn't heard that one before; not that he recalled, anyway. What could possibly be making that noise?
Then his ears picked up the sounds of someone thrashing against the trunk of a tree; the sliding of fabric on wood, the pained gasps as freedom did not come. The sound of vomiting made him shudder.
"Stop." A weak, familiar voice coughed. "Jus' take the bloody key an' kill me. That's what ye want, innit, William?"
Slurch!
"W-why is this necessary?"
James wanted to turn around, to rush back to the beach. He didn't know what Turner was doing to Sparrow, but the noises and pleas of death were enough to stifle the curiosity. But...he couldn't return to Port Royal without the heart of Davy Jones, which meant he would have to somehow get that key into his own possession. And that meant approaching Turner.
He swallowed, continuing through the trees. He almost didn't spot the belts strapped to one particular tree, the weapons and bloodied objects laying strewn across the grass. His breath caught in his throat and he froze, staring at what appeared to be a human organ.
"S-Sparrow?" He stammered, horrified.
"What are ye doin' 'ere?! Go!" The responding voice was high pitched with fear and pain, but it was indeed Jack Sparrow's. "He's gone bloody mad!"
A wild-eyed, bloodied-handed Will Turner glared at him around the tree. That alone was enough to send James racing back the other way, fearing for his life.
But he heard the pursuing footsteps like thunder in a storm.
He had made a dreadful mistake in revealing himself. The blacksmith's sudden rage had shifted from Sparrow to him. And based on what he had seen and heard, it was a deadly mistake indeed. If he couldn't get away...He was sure to die if he could not escape, like Sparrow had been unable to.
And, speaking of Sparrow, the pirate had likely just been condemned to an even slower death because of his attacker's unanticipated change in targets. Though he never thought he would, he found himself pitying the pirate; he would bleed to death in the aftermath of being half-gutted by someone he had once thought of as a friend and ally.
The trees were neverending.
The sounds of lapping waves were far away.
The pursuing footsteps grew closer faster, as did the realization that he would not make it to the beach in time to be saved.
James Norrington was a goner; he had no chance of survival.
He gasped for breath as he struggled to keep running, but he was slowing down and was unable to keep up with the pace he wished to. Hands clutched at the back of his jacket, throwing him down to the ground.
Will Turner loomed over him.
Only one thought went through his mind: He should have hanged the young man following his rescue of Sparrow at the gallows a year ago.
Now, he was paying for not doing so.
Oh, the irony.
His opponent stabbed his sword downwards toward his abdomen, but James was quick to slap it aside with his own. He would not go down as easily as Sparrow had.
"I'll make it faster if you don't fight back." Turner told him, his voice something almost harsh.
He opened his mouth to reply, but words refused to come. How had the blacksmith's apprentice turned to such violence?
The younger man knocked the former commodore's sword aside, sending it rolling across the dirt of the tropical forest floor.
Everything seemed to slow down. James stared helplessly as Turner brought his crimson-stained sword down in his stomach and ripped it up to the edge of his chest. He couldn't help the shriek of agony that escaped him, his unsteady gaze watching as blood soaked into the front of his clothing.
The other man pulled his sleeves up and crouched down beside him, tearing the ruined halves of the shirt aside. Though he knew what was to come, James was still beyond horrified when his killer reached a hand inside the gash. He felt a deep pain within him as something was torn free.
Slurch!
One of his many inner organs slipped from within him, flying through the air as Turner tossed it over his shoulder. James felt like he was going to be sick.
Several other intestines and entrails were torn from his body, thrown to the wild grass that covered the ground. His blood overflowed from the slit in his abdomen, streaming down his sides.
He wanted it to end.
And Sparrow was still alive out there somewhere...Oh, God, Sparrow...That poor man.
The air was suddenly squeezed from one of James's lungs and he coughed, the crimson liquid flowing from the back of his throat and over his lips. Rrrrip! He was wheezing, suddenly, the air refusing to return to his lung as it was torn completely free from his body.
"HELP!" He wasn't sure how he managed to get the single word past the blood in his mouth and the uneven gasps of his breath. It tore at his throat, the lone word rendering it raw.
But all he was sure of is that he wanted someone- anyone- to put an end to his misery, a stop to Turner's unnecessary slaughter. He had never felt such a horrible pain before. The sooner it ended, the sooner he was put to rest, the happier he would be.
It was his other lung that went next, his breath all but gone.
He gasped for air to no avail.
Blackness edged his view as what remained of his body began to shut down.
His mouth opened wide in one final scream that never came.
He watched through darkening vision as Turner wiped his hands on the grass, retrieved his sword, and climbed to his feet. He watched the blacksmith's apprentice vanish into the trees, his back being the last thing he saw before his eyesight faded completely and his other senses went numb.
James Norrington was thankful he could no longer feel anything.