PotC fic: "The Old Man of the Sea" (1/2)

[bedlamsbard]

Title: The Old Man of the Sea
Author: bedlamsbard
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: James Norrington/Tia Dalma
Warnings: Violence
Recipient: thegiantkiller
Request: "What would the world look like if all the oceans suddenly dried up? Focus on Norrington and/or Tia Dalma; Jack, Will & Liz peripheral at most."
Summary: ”Tell them about the day the sea died,” Tia Dalma says firmly. Post-DMC, AU. Slight spoilers for AWE.
Author’s Notes: With thanks to limmenel and cupiscent, who, amazing people that they are, betaed for me. For the apocalyptothon



Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
“I have watch and ward to keep
O’er Thy wonders on the deep,
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!”
~ Rudyard Kipling, “The Last Chantey”

The Old Man of the Sea



Rain scatters the ground. Elle turns her face up to it, licking at the drops that gather at the corners of her mouth, and then shrieks as something slimy drops down the back of her blouse.

“You little rat!”

John takes off running, cackling like a fiend, and Elle goes after him, bare feet slipping on the wet grass. She skids to a stop just as John runs into their father.

James swings John up onto his hip, grinning. “Go help your mother,” he says to Elle, ruffling her hair fondly. To John, he says, “Let’s put the nets out, shall we?”

“Okay,” John says, sucking on his thumb.

Elle curtsies prettily, spreading her skirts out to either side before scampering away. She can hear her father’s laughter ring out through the thick tangle of mangroves, over the gentle slopes of the fields below.



“Strong storm,” her mother says, gathering Elle into her lap.

Her father looks up at the roof. Elle can see him judging the strength of the weathered timbers, smoke-black and hung ‘round with dried herbs and stranger things, tools of her mother’s trade. “I think we’ll survive,” he says finally. To John, “Don’t eat that,” taking the delicate piece of bone out of his son’s hand. “What’s this for, Tia?”

Her mother snags it neatly. “A love charm,” she says. “For Becca.”

“I thought you didn’t do love charms,” James says, amusement in his voice.

“It’s not a love charm if he already wants her,” she informs him, lowering her lashes devilishly. “Just…encouragement.” She smiles, dark lips drawing back from clean white teeth.

Becca says her mother’s teeth used to be black, back when she was still Tia Dalma the swamp witch, still cursed, but Elle doesn’t remember it, doesn’t think she’s ever seen it. As far as she remembers, her mother’s teeth have always been as white as the deep streak in her father’s hair. “Papa,” she says sleepily, turning her face away from her mother’s shoulder.

“Yes, baby?” James says, shifting John on his lap.

“Tell me a story?” Elle asks, and adds, “Please,” belatedly when James raises his eyebrows.

“What sort of story?”

“Tell us about the pirates!” John says, jerking abruptly awake in the way he does.

Elle glares. “I don’t want to hear about the pirates,” she says. “You always want to hear about the pirates. You’re boring.”

“Am not!”

“Tell them about the day the sea died,” Tia Dalma says firmly.

“But I don’t want –”

“Papa, will you show us your scars?” John asks, sleepy again.

Elle sees her father’s shoulders draw together, abrupt and awkward, the way she’s seen him do before like it’s more reactive than anything else. “I don’t really think it’s necessary –” he begins.

“Show them,” Tia Dalma says. “Let them know what the Englishman will do.”

James bites his lip so hard he nearly draws blood, but he moves John off his lap – “Go over to your mother,” he says fondly, and John crosses the floor to take up residence on the floor against Tia Dalma’s legs, where Elle only kicks him once out of habit – and undoes the ties on his shirt, pulling it up over his shoulders.

Elle’s father’s skin is very dark, but not the way her mother’s is; dark and golden and sun-streaked. She’s seen the marks on his back before, but it’s fascinating every time, the way the thick white ridges separate across each other, a pale crisscross of damage that stands out from all of James Norrington’s other scars.

“Tell us the story,” Elle says, because someone has to, and she’d rather it be her than her brother.



Lord Cutler Beckett is nowhere near as good as his word, Norrington thinks clearly, cheek pressed against the smooth wood of the post. There’s a marked strain in his arms – it feels like he’s been waiting forever. The ropes are cutting badly into his wrists and the sea-laden wind is raising goosebumps on his bare back, but the worst part is the waiting.

He’s shaved. He’s shaved and he’s trimmed his hair and he’s dressed in clean clothes, something that’s not a bad facsimile of military uniform. He thinks maybe he’ll go somewhere else – the colonies in America, maybe, or one of the Empire’s many outposts in Africa or Asia. Maybe back to England. He won’t stay in the Caribbean.

Norrington has a pardon with his name and the king’s seal on it, and he’d thought that would be enough, but clearly not. Instead Beckett has decided that while Norrington isn’t guilty of a hanging offense, he does need to be made to understand a point, and for that a flogging should suffice. Norrington has faced worse since he joined His Majesty’s Navy – he’ll take being flogged over undead pirates or cursed seamen any day – but that’s different. This is Beckett and nothing else, Beckett doing his damnedest to tie Norrington to him with chains that get stronger by the day.

He presses his cheek into the wood of the post, feeling the sea on his bare skin. Except for the cold wind – unusual for the Caribbean, but it reminds him of England, of the shipyard – it’s an illusion, because he’s on land, not shipboard.

He keeps his eyes open when the first blow falls, and he notices when the tears start running down his cheeks.



The wind comes in the night, stealing the breath from men’s lips, and Norrington can hear it from his cell next to the barracks – not his old room in the fort, but appropriate for a younger officer. He lies on his stomach with no shirt on and listens to the wind shake the fort walls, rattle shutters and panes of glass in their settings, steal anything not nailed down, like the men who live by it.

It sends the sea roaring against the rocks, down in the docks where the ships are anchored. He is a seagoing man; he doesn’t need to guess to know the damage that will be there in the morning. The navy will be decimated by this night’s work, more than anything Sparrow or Jones could have done even given a year and a full fleet. It hurts to think of, because he has always been a staunch patriot, a true believer in crown and country even after Jack Sparrow destroyed everything he loved, but his heart is given over to the navy, to his men and his ships. They don’t deserve what the sea is giving them and he half-fancies that it’s his own fault for selling his soul to Beckett for the sake of a piece of paper with his name and the king’s seal – bargaining away the freedom of the seas for his own sake.



“Commodore –” The title comes with an immediate hesitation following the stumbled syllables. He still holds the rank, he supposes; Beckett had said something about giving him his commission back. He’d earned that rank, at least; he hadn’t bought it like he has so many other things.

Norrington puts a shirt on before he goes to the door, wincing at the feel of the smooth linen against the damaged skin of his back. He does up the laces as he crosses the tiny room; he’ll have his pride at least.

It’s Gillette. He looks relieved to see Norrington reassuringly human, although the expression passes quickly from his pale face, and says, “Sir, the sea –”

“I know, the ships at dock,” Norrington begins, and is startled to see Gillette shaking his head.

“No, sir, the sea. You have to see, sir, I can’t –” He stops abruptly, looking helpless.

“What about the sea?”

“It’s –” He waves a hand, evidently unable to vocalize his thoughts properly. “Well, sir, it’s just – it’s gone.”

Norrington remembers the wind in the night, the sound of the ocean descending on Port Royal. “The sea can’t just disappear,” he says, even though he’s seen stranger things in the past two years.

“I don’t know how else to explain it, sir,” Gillette says. He’s recovering quickly, professionalism falling over him like a blanket, and Norrington nods.

“I’ll be out shortly, Lieutenant,” he says. “Just let me dress.” He almost shuts the door, and then freezes. He doesn’t have –

“Lord Beckett ordered me to bring these, sir,” Gillette says, motioning behind him. A pair of Marines haul up a sea chest – not Norrington’s old one, the one lost somewhere at the bottom of the Caribbean, but a new one, wood freshly polished and the metal fastenings gleaming – and Norrington stands back so they can put it in the room. They salute sharply before disappearing down the hall.

“I’ll wait, Commodore,” Gillette says, and Norrington nods, shutting the door. It takes him a moment to get up the strength to cross the room, but when he does he flips up the lid of the sea chest with the very tips of his fingers, watching them mark up the shining lock.

Naval clothes. Good ones – fine quality, and new. Even better than the ones he’d lost, battered by weeks at sea and stained by saltwater and blood. He pulls the jacket out with fingers that start to shake as soon as he sees the gold trim and nearly drops it, because Beckett has him now for certain. He’s tied Norrington to him with more than words on a page – more than lies and spilled blood. Badly shaken, Norrington puts the jacket down on the bed and kneels to dig through the rest of the chest, wondering what else he’s been bought with. Boots, more clothes, a new wig – there’s a wooden box in the bottom, long enough to take up the length of the chest. He lifts it out.

It’s not his sword, not the one he turned over to Swann when he resigned his commission. The realization is oddly comforting. The maker’s mark on the hilt is familiar, though, and Norrington can’t help but smile, testing the balance – perfect, of course, but then, Turner’s work very nearly always is. It’s a little like having an old friend at his side, not the searing guilt that the rest of the chest encloses. It’s enough that he can start breathing normally again and go to dress, taking special care with the jacket he doesn’t deserve – a little overlarge, but then he’s lost weight since the last time he was fitted for a new uniform. Beckett must have taken the measurements from his last promotion. The man can’t read minds after all, even if he knows how to manipulate them.

Dressing takes very little time. Norrington buckles the sword on last and adjusts the set of his wig in the handspan of looking glass set in the lid of the chest, then opens the door.

“Com – Admiral,” Gillette corrects, eyes widening.

Norrington gives him a thin smile with no sincerity at all in it. “Lead on, Lieutenant,” he says.



The sea is gone.

As far as the eye can see, bare land stretches, covered with the dead and dying forms of sea life, thick waves of drying salt. On the beach below, townsfolk are running out with wide eyes and eager hands, grasping weakly flapping fish up with triumphant shouts. The children are frolicking among the mess of a world destroyed.

Inside the fort, navy men and Marines are staring blankly, filling the walls with barely an inch to spare. Gillette pushes his way through, uniform speaking for him, and men are distracted enough that they don’t notice Norrington’s uniform – the damning uniform.

Up here, he can see for miles. The day is clear, sun shining brightly with no water to reflect off of, and all he can see is destruction. Far off, he can see something white that must be sails – ships trapped on the ocean when it fled. The harbor below the fort is a wreck of broken spars and tangled sails, rigging tying the ships together. The sailors on board are all perched on the masts, staring.

Only the landsmen are delighted.

“Lieutenant –” Norrington says in a strangled voice, but he doesn’t know what to finish it up with. Has he done this? Somehow, selling Davy Jones’ heart for his own broken honor – is the sea taking her revenge on him for his betrayal? The cuts on his back burn at the thought, like a memory.

Gillette must be reading his face better than Norrington can read his own thoughts, because he says immediately, “Aye, Admiral,” and turns away, shoving at the crowds of seamen. “Here now! Back off, you lot!”

They still can’t spare an eye for Norrington, and he goes through the crowd unnoticed.

“Is Lord Beckett –” Norrington begins.

“He came over from the Governor’s palace afore dawn, sir,” Gillette says. “He’ll be in your – in the commander’s office, then.”

Norrington nods. He remembers the way – as if he’d forget – but Gillette keeps with him nonetheless, one pace behind as is proper.

He remembers a day, some two years ago, when it was Will Turner in his place. He’d come with an axe then. Norrington rather wishes he had an axe, but all he has is one of Turner’s best swords, Gillette, and a uniform he doesn’t deserve.

“Commodore –” Governor Swann begins – Beckett’s joke to have him here, undoubtedly, some way of mocking him, letting him see what little power he still has left. Norrington can see Swann’s eyes widen when he sees the jacket.

“Ah, Admiral Norrington,” Beckett says, amusement playing over his face. “How good of you to join us –”

Norrington draws the sword in one smooth motion and buries it in an inch of hardwood and paper, half a foot to the left of the gash left by Turner’s axe. It stands perfectly upright, quivering, and he can hear Gillette’s quick intake of breath, the snap of Swann’s mouth shutting abruptly.

“Have you done this?” he says in a low, dangerous voice. “With what I gave you – have you done this, Lord Beckett? Is this your idea of a joke? Of punishment?”

Beckett stares at the sword. “What a waste of good steel,” he says, and reaches for it.

Norrington is faster than he is. He snatches the sword back and holds it out, point at Beckett’s throat – dulled a bit, but the edge on the blade is still as good as it ever was. Behind him, he can hear Gillette holding back the Marines on duty as they all go for their weapons. “Answer me,” he says. “Did you do this?”

“Put that down,” Beckett says, all amusement gone from his voice now. “I made you, I can unmake you –”

“I can unmake you,” Norrington tells him, “and I think that’s a bit scarier, don’t you?”

Beckett doesn’t say anything, but his eyes fix on Norrington with an expression of absolute hate.

“Did you do this?” Norrington asks again, pressing forward. A bead of blood appears just beneath Beckett’s chin, rolling down to stain his lacy jabot. “Did you do this?”

“You must be mad,” Beckett says. “No.”

Norrington stands there with his heart hammering in his chest, sword still against Beckett’s throat. “Who?” he says. And then, “How?”

“Do you honestly think I know?”

“I think this is your fault,” Norrington says. He pulls the sword back and wipes the point on the shoulder of Beckett’s jacket before sheathing it. “And I don’t think you’ll be able to fix it.”



“Get me ten men who can ride and eleven horses,” Norrington says to Gillette, striding away from Beckett’s office – from his old office.

“Yes, Admiral,” Gillette says and hesitates. “Ah – they’re Marines –”

“I don’t care if you get me naval officers or Marines or just talented blacksmiths,” Norrington says. “Get me men who can ride.”

Gillette snaps off a salute. “Yes, sir!” and hurries off.

“Sergeant,” Norrington calls, and the Marine hurries down the stairs toward him.

“Admiral!”

“Find me Lieutenant Groves,” he orders.

“Yes, sir!”

“Admiral Norrington,” Beckett says, leaning over the rail, and Norrington turns around to glance up. “You appear to be taking an awful lot for granted.”

When Norrington was still just Captain Norrington – before his promotion, before Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl, before a hurricane and before finding himself lower than the lowest scum in Tortuga – he would never have done this. But he’s not and he isn’t, not anymore; Jack Sparrow and Cutler Beckett and yes, Norrington himself, have made him what he is today. So he shades his eyes with one hand and says, “Lord Beckett, all things considered, you put me here. You deal with what I choose to do in this situation, or you replace me.”

Beckett looks like he’s considering this. The Marines on guard stare off into the sky, expressions studiously blank. Surprisingly, it’s the Governor who speaks.

“Admiral Norrington,” Swann says, coming up beside Beckett but staying studiously away from him. He glances briefly at Beckett, then continues, “You have my full permission to engage in whatever provisions you feel necessary in order to investigate this…occurrence.”

Norrington snaps off a sharp salute, triumph rising through his veins. “Of course, Governor,” he says, meeting Beckett’s eyes. He smiles.


go on to part two

Comments

[elessil.livejournal.com]

You deal with what I choose to do in this situation, or you replace me.”

*LOVES* A strong Norrington, with a conscience, who doesn't put up with it. Wonderful. Reading onwards now.

[bedlamsbard.livejournal.com]

Norrington just isn't Norrington without a strong moral center, and he's so good at it. Thank you!