James and the Journey
gold borrowed from Disney, silver spun by Blacklabel

Grey skies and drizzle were not unusual conditions when sailing the Irish Sea, but on such an already dismal day, made dark more by the burial ceremony than the clouds, they did naught to console the younger brother of the deceased military man. Despondent was the lad as he stared silently ahead and anywhere but at the white sailcloth wherein he knew his brother's empty cask lay. Lieutenant Brian Douglas Norrington had been an upright man—a gallant officer of the King's Royal Navy with a smile as bright as the white of his uniform. To think of him lifeless, just laying there… young James shuddered, not wanting to think of it at all.

Instead, he considered the weather.

It was a touch of cruelty that on a day when the sun would've most warmed him, James was made to sit under an overcast sky unforgiving of the chill that pervaded his weary bones. Cruelty had been keeping with him, it seemed. The entire voyage, from London's foggy dockyards in an upward arc to the bitter Irish Sea, had been unkind to him. For three very long days the sun had not shone down once to warm him. By the toll of the twelve bells that signaled the start of the ceremony he'd not wanted to commence at all, James was cut by the cold.

So bleak it was, he thought, so very bleak.

Guilt crept under his skin to tinge it and he forced the impudent thought from his head. The very audacity of bemoaning the weather when it was that his dearly departed brother would never again see the sun shine! It was not fair, James chastised himself, to fret over such frivolities in such a situation.

The rest of the congregation, those there on behalf of mourning his brother's passing, were rapt with the words that droned from the mouth of the mariner's chaplain. "…and pray thee that the Lord Our God be with him yet aft that hour has long been passed…"

Fore he glanced at the uniformed man standing with the Bible open o'er the death shroud. The Lord's gold cross upon the red vellum burned hot under James' gaze. It seemed to him, as did the words he'd just heard, a mockery.

If the Lord Our God had been with my brother in the first place, he thought, Brian would not have had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

"…for what good is God…"

"What good is God indeed," he muttered.

Scowling, James looked to his trembling hands where shook the open book of hymns. The staves of music quivered, black inked notes dancing dots before his eyes. It was not long until they, and the printed words of sorrow, blurred. A swift wave of nausea roiled in his stomach and, swallowing hard, he snapped the book shut.

It was at that moment that the chaplain's words faded away. The slow tap of heels on deck forced James' gaze up and he blanched upon seeing his brother's superior approaching him. What the protocol for such an occasion was he did not know. Bristling at the thought that they had all neglected duty of preparing him for such, James clenched his jaw and stood on his hesitant feet to greet the Captain with a wavering salute.

Captain Jensen of the HMS Godspeed stopped before him. Staunch as the starch white of his uniform, the commanding officer hesitated. It was then that James saw the man had something in his hand. He watched as the captain pinned the badge on his coat. Were the sun in the sky the medal would have shone but it was not and so the Seal of Honour was as lackluster as James felt.

"Honour, young James," said a voice not as sharp as a commanding officer should sound, "is what Lieutenant Brian Douglas Norrington lived to uphold, and died to sustain. That honour, on this day, he passes to you."

It was with that that the man returned his salute and turned abruptly on his heel to bark an order to the six lines of redcoats flanking the quarterdeck. Snapping to attention, they startled James as much as the next command did. He watched, unable not to, as both front lines of the squadron clicked their muskets and fired into the air. The loud report of the muskets hurt his ears but James did not cover them. The second line's tribute shook him but he refused to tremble. The third and final shot saw the grate under his brother's death shroud released. The heavy sack of sail dropped through it. It was when he heard the splash that the sting in James' eyes stung worst of all.

Long after most of the mourners had shuffled by to pay respects and offer condolences, James sat staring out at the calm water that was as grey as the sky. He stared out to sea—the sea that had claimed his brother—and he found, with a thumping heart, that he wanted nothing more than to leap over the railing. To the depths of the ocean, he thought, to the depths of the ocean I will plunge to take back what she's taken from me.

Unfortunately, however, young James' feet were all the more hesitant.

Carry me to the ledge, he willed them.

Their heels slid apart.

I must dive to the depths of the sea, he pleaded.

Ankles, rebellious, crossed resolute.

James frowned down at them. Truth be told, he was quite put out by their reluctance to aid him in his quest. All he wanted was the sea to give back what she'd taken. All he wanted was to plead the sea recede her grey waters that had come between he and his beloved, belated brother. All he wanted, he thought, heart hammering, was…

Out from the ship rose a grey swell. It washed in silence. Then all was once more still.

All he wanted, he thought, rue in his retrospect, was useless. It was death, not the depths, that had separated he and his brother. It was death brought on by stinking rotten pirates that had taken them all from him.