#help i spent too much time learning about 18th century English sailing for this fic

[wolveria]

At World’s Beginning - Ch 1

Pairing: James Norrington x Mermaid!OC

Series Summary: When a man dies, it's of the common belief he ought to be afforded the well-earned dignity of an eternity of peace. There's to be no more strange business with dread captains and monstrous Krakens and bloody thrice-Damned pirates.

When a man dies, the story of his life is ended. For better or for worse, the ink is dried and the book is closed.

...except when, as the unfortunate case may be, said man dies on a cursed ship that decides it's not done with him quite yet.

or

James Norrington's death is only the beginning of his problems.

Chapter Warning: Major Character Death (temporary)

AO3

“It’s too late to earn my forgiveness.”

Even now, after all that had transpired and all the hurts and injuries he had accumulated, she could wound him far deeper with words than any edged steel ever had.

“I had nothing to do with your father’s death.”

Regardless, he should have prevented it. He knew that, and his next words reflected it.

“But that does not absolve me of my other sins.”

And they were many in the counting. More than could warrant forgiveness. Or redemption, for that matter.

“Come with us.”

Those three simple words ignited a flame of hope he dared not warm himself with. Her eyes could almost make him believe.

“James, come with me.”

Do not make me dare to hope, he thought, heart pounding painfully in his chest. Do not be so cruel as to allow me to believe you ever cared for me the way I care for you.

But his traitorous heart made him believe, for an instant, that Elizabeth was asking because she could not bear to leave him behind. That there was a small part of her that truly wished for him to leave the ship, leave this empty life behind, and go with her into her world of lawless freedom.

“Who goes there!”

James pulled Elizabeth behind him and craned his head upwards, drawing his sword as he met eyes with the cursed sailor who had shouted the warning. He watched for a few seconds more and then vanished.

They were out of time.

“Go. I will follow.”

“You’re lying.”

Of course he was. If it was the only way to get her off the Dutchman, he would tell a thousand lies. Skew a thousand truths. He just wanted her to go. But she wouldn’t. The one time James wanted her dispassion and disinterest, she would not grant it to him.

James turned to the woman he had once wanted more than any honor, any commission, any damned medal or title. His heart weighed with the sorrow and the guilt that were the culminations of his actions. If he had not made so many errors and lapses in judgement, if he had lived a more honest life… would she have looked at him like this much sooner? Would they have ever had a chance?

She stared back at him, molten brown eyes in the dark, willing him to come with her. Silently pleading he would listen.

Why? he wondered morosely. Why do you look at me that way now, when it is far too late?

“Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth,” he intoned softly as he stared deep into those wide eyes. “…but never joined.”

He did then the one thing he had never been brave enough to attempt before. Too bound by propriety and chained by decorum.

James leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss. It was a bittersweet thing, more bitter than sweet as its only purpose was to say farewell. He sensed his time was running short, and he was afraid, so afraid, and maybe this way… this way, a piece of him would go with her.

He pulled away and studied her face as if memorizing lines on a map—the shape of its slopes and curves, committing to memory the dark waters of her eyes. Elizabeth couldn’t seem to look away, as if she was seeing him clearly for the first time. Perhaps, she was.

“Go, now,” he ordered her, facing back toward the ship where he knew reinforcements would be coming any moment. For a moment he heard no movement from her, and he wondered if she would simply refuse to leave without him. But then he heard her climb onto the railing and then onto the rope, and something within him relaxed.

The respite was brief as a shadow separated itself from the darkness. The crewman had come to investigate.

James pointed his sword at the man, low and steady, ready to defend Elizabeth’s retreat with his dying breath.

“Back to your station, sailor,” he commanded, voice ringing out the way it used to when he would give orders to his own men. Back when he had men to command.

The crewman seemed perplexed as he watched Elizabeth shimmy down the tow rope. He looked between her, and James, and then back again, lifting an arm to indicate his confusion.

“No one leaves the ship,” he murmured in a low, raspy tone. James’ sword was now directed at the man’s misshapen face, and he noted there was an orange starfish bordering his right eye. James suppressed an involuntary shudder.

“Stand down. That’s an order.”

When was the last time anyone had followed his orders without question or complaint? Davy Jones, he thought, when James had ordered him to tow the Empress. How the good captain would be amused to see what was transpiring now.

“That’s an order,” the man muttered to himself, drawing his eyes down to stare at the object in his hand. It looked to be a wooden pike, or a spear, and James couldn’t imagine where he had gotten it. Then he looked up, his gaze more focused as he trained his pale, unnerving eyes over James’ face.

“Part of the crew, part of the ship. Part of the crew, part of the ship.”

His voice grew bolder with each repeat of the mantra, and James had to fight the urge to not retreat as his voice rose in volume.

“Part of the crew, part of the ship! Part of the crew, part of the ship!”

“Steady, man!” James ordered, but it did no good. A frenzy had taken hold of Jones’ crewman, and he shuffled forward, pale and unnatural and terrifying.

“Part of the crew, part of the ship! All hands! Prisoner escape!” he shouted so loudly there was no doubt he would be heard. James pulled out his double-barrel flintlock and pointed it at the sailor’s chest

“Belay that!”

“James!”

He turned at the sound of Elizabeth’s scream, no more able to resist it than the tide can the moon. His mind was embroiled in panic at thought of her recapture. Jones had taken them prisoner this time; next time, he would ensure there was no escape.

It was when Elizabeth began to crawl along the rope, toward him instead of in the direction of safety, that he made his decision. He spared one last glance at the cursed sailor to be sure he had enough time to act, and then turned back to Elizabeth and the tow lines that still tethered her to him.

Grief crumpled his features as he he aimed his pistol upward and pulled the trigger. The resounding boom sounded like a funeral cannon.

The tow rope snapped, dropping Elizabeth and the rest of her crewmates into the sea.

Safe. She will be safe now.

James turned back to the sailor who had sounded the alarm, raised his sword… and paused, confusion overcoming him. All the air seemed to have spilled from his lungs, vanished along with the strength in his limbs. It was really quite puzzling.

As he slid to the floor, his back braced against the railing, he thought he could hear Elizabeth crying his name.

The Dutchman crew came for him now, slowly moving forward from the shadows.

“The admiral’s dead?” one of them asked. Was he? He couldn’t really tell. Why couldn’t he move? Why did his bones feel so heavy, his hands full of lead, and his eyelids the heaviest of all?

As the crewman began to whisper that he was dead (“the admiral’s dead!”), James decided he should investigate the matter for himself. He lowered his eyes and was mildly alarmed to see the pike the sailor had been carrying was now embedded firmly through his sternum.

He raised his eyes again when he heard a sound, as dreadful as it was familiar.

Thump-clack. Thump-clack. Thump-clack.

James heard the cursed crew yell something else, but he was having difficulty focusing. What were they saying? It didn’t matter, nothing mattered, because now the cruel captain of the Dutchman was crouched beside James, and his monstrous face filled his entire world.

“James Norrington.”

His name was spoken almost softly. Respectfully. He focused on Jones’ face. It was quickly becoming the only thing he could see.

“Do you fear death?”

It was difficult to breathe. His lungs could only pull air in jagged spurts, disobedient as he willed them to expand and contract. As air became slowly denied to him, James realized that he did fear death. He was completely terrified. He did not want to die.

But he would never, ever give Jones the satisfaction.

James found his ability to speak was long past, so he answered in the only way he could: he thrust his sword into Jones’ chest, feeling the steel blade cut through the flesh with sickening ease. His fingers slipped from the grip and his vision of Jones’ baleful face receded into darkness.

A pair of eyes, the color of dangerous, capsizing icebergs, was the last thing James saw.

A pair of eyes, stormy as the waters of the Northern Sea, was the first thing James saw when he opened his eyes once more.