Christmas Fic is Finished
So, uh, this went in a completely unexpected direction. Prepare yourselves.
Title: Jurassic Hall Red Rose Hall. 3/3
Characters: Norrington, Beckett, Mercer, Barbossa, Elizabeth, and Gov. Swann.
Pairings: Meh, none really. Implied Meckett if you want it. If you don't want it it's just Mercer and Beckett bickering like an old, drunk, married couple.
Rating: PG maybe PG13.
Summary: The above mentioned characters are back in England heading to the old Norrington manor house in order to retrieve a much needed map. While there they get snowed in and strange things begin to happen. Oh, and Mercer and Beckett spend most of their time there helping themselves to Norrington's extensive liquor collection.
Notes: It's really just my excuse to write Mercer and Beckett drunk. And taking the piss out of everyone. Also, I know cheese on toast didn't exist back then, or most likely didn't exist, but I don't really give a flying fuck now do I?
It's Disney - historical accuracy died a slow painful death years ago.
Also. Part one was prettty punny if I do say so myself.
Warnings: Character(s?) death. Yes.
Part I
Part II
Mercer watches as Sir eagerly strips the wet, bloody clothes off and dumps them in a pile in the middle of the floor. He quickly shivered and pads over to the bed.
'The night is long and full of terrors,' Sir says as he finally collapses and pulls the covers up. 'I read that somewhere.'
The clerk shrugs and tries to pull off his boots. They are wet from the snow and slipping in his hands. After a minute his gives up and collapses backwards on the bed, feet dangling off over the edge. 'So tired,' he mumbles. His eyes close and he can feel Sir poking him with his feet through the covers. It's goose feathers in the eiderdown, he numbly thinks. Goose feathers.
'At least take your clothes off,' Sir grumbles. 'You're wet and cold and I don't want to be wet and cold. If you leave them on sleep somewhere else.' He huffs and burrows himself deeper into the blankets. Mercer waits a minute, gathers strength, then pushes himself back up. He gives his boots another tug then realises he forgot to unlace them. A sheepish look to Sir but his eyes are closed.
Beckett wakes and it's dark in the room. And cold. The fire has burned low and Mercer is awake, standing at the window wearing only breeches. His shirt is damp and hanging over a chair.
'What're you doing?' Beckett mumbles as he tugs the blankets closer and moves over to where Mercer had been sleeping. The bed is cold. He shifts back to his original spot. Now that bit is cold too. He huffs. 'Mercer?'
'Watching the snow, sir.'
'Why?'
'Because there's something out there.' He leans against the edge of the window, out of sight for anyone looking in. The lord frowns and sits up, making sure to keep blankets around him. 'Moving between the trees and the village.'
'Following us?'
The older man shrugs. Who knows. Maybe it came with us from the Caribbean. Maybe it's been here always. Maybe the Admiral's family brought it with them. His father was a general in the army in India. If you want dark things that haunt the night...
'I woke up about an hour ago,' he explains in the wake of Beckett's silence. 'I swear something was at the window watching us. But I only caught a glimpse. Corner of the eye.'
'What did it look like?'
And oh the room is still. So very still. Beckett feels that if he moves he'll break some protective spell. He'll draw attention and they both would die. So he sits and doesn't move, barely breaths, feels his toes and fingers going numb. Mercer is in profile and looking as hawkish and evil as ever.
'You know,' Beckett murmurs. 'You really do look the part of a murderer.' His clerk smirks. He says, Thank you, sir. It's something I've been trying to attain for all fifty odd years of my life. And I don't know what it looked like. I want to say white and I want to say black. Maybe steel blue. It was a sensation more than a look.
'They know you're up,' Beckett says. 'Come back to bed. It's cold and you're my portable heat source, remember?'
When Mercer finally climbs back under the covers his skin is chilled and his breath comes out in small bursts of cloud. The fire is dead, the candle beside their bed run well and done. Beckett pulls the covers over their heads and they huddle in the dark and grin and feel like fifteen year olds. Mercer says in a whisper, Pulling the covers so you can't see them doesn't mean they can't see you, sir. Beckett laughs, burrows himself against his clerk once he's warmed up, and replies, Stop ruining my childhood myths.
The next morning sees a fine, thin snow drifting down soft and gentle. Elizabeth says that this is a relief after the hard, torrid storms they've been having. Silence greats her but she takes it as consent. Breakfast is a thick gruel with a bit of honey on top. Governor Swann sighs, Ah, bless the inn keeper's wife, and licks the honey spoon. Mercer pokes his meal and mutters that he's not sure he trusts food at the moment. Considering. Everyone stops eating.
'Thank you for that.' Beckett growls, shoving his bowl away. 'Though I take consolation in the fact that I didn't eat the blood pudding.' Mercer glowers. Tasted fine, he grumbled. 'You can add possible cannibalism to your list of sins.'
'Not the worst, I grant you, sir.'
Elizabeth coughs. 'Then what's your worst?'
Mercer smiles, 'not one I'm about to tell you.' He reaches down and pulls up a flask from his boot. 'Now, we need to meet these doctors and see to the pirate. I'm assuming we want him alive?'
When they find him the innkeeper looks sheepish and apologises before they ask. He says he sent his lad out but the doctor was several towns over attending to a difficult pregnancy. Midwives apparently aren't to be trusted.
'We're sorry but there's nothing to be done.' He says. They all glance over to the pirate who continues to sleep near the fire. His leg is swollen and looks wrong, a monstrous growth. Beckett is reminded of a fungus that once grew on the oak trees near his home when he was a boy. He would cut them off with a toy sword till his father told him to stop. It makes them worse, his father had said. If you cut them open. They spread faster.
From Barbossa’s leg drips blood, thick and dark and gathering in a small pool on the floor. Elizabeth is frantic, she says, We have to save him.
‘He’ll lose the leg,’ her father replies. ‘And no one here can do it.’
Beckett nudges Mercer, You amputated someone’s leg once, right? Mercer glowers, He died, sir. Not the odds we’re looking forward. Is there a local horse doctor?
‘There’s Jimmy.’ The innkeeper frowns. ‘’Spose we could give it a try. Lad,’ he turns to his son. ‘Go out and bring back Jimmy. Tell ‘im we ‘ave an amputee but he’s human. Off you go, lad.’
An hour later, once breakfast settles Beckett orders a bottle of Scotch, whatever the house has, and pulls Mercer to a table near Barbossa. Mercer grins at the bottle and says that he and Sir are doing horrible things to their bodies and Beckett snorts and says that he doesn’t much care at the moment. He glances to Barbossa,‘Think he’ll live?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’ Mercer takes the bottle from Beckett, opens, and sniffs it. He makes a face. ‘You won’t want this, sir. I’ll have to -‘
Beckett steals the bottle back with a glare, ‘I’ll have my half, thank you Mr Mercer.’ He pours himself a glass, sips, coughs, and ignores Mercer’s amusement. He mutters that it could strip the lining right out of his stomach. In retaliation his clerk snatches the bottle and says that he told sir, but sir didn’t listen now’a did he? He pours them both a glass. They drink them, wincing. He pours them another.
‘Mercer?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have we been at all sober in the last few days?’
Mercer thinks about it. Drinks more scotch. Shakes his head and grins a feral cat grin. Beckett decides he likes it. The feral cat grin. It reminds him of something he can’t think of at the moment. But it’s dark and lecherous and smells of cheap London gin.
Governor Swann joins them at the table with a pint of ale. ‘Don’t like this,’ he says. ‘Something wrong with the feeling here.’
Mercer shrugs, Small villages in winter can be weird. Especially when foreigners show up. Tend to be uppity about that.
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Beckett adds. ‘We’re paying for everything and moving on as soon as we can.’
‘Could hang us,’ Mercer mutters darkly and pulls out a deck of cards. ‘Cards, sir?’
Beckett tutts testily, ‘Not everywhere is that god forsaken village in the colonies.’
The days eases into itself quietly. Elizabeth keeps vigil near Barbossa along with her father. Mercer and Beckett investigate the bottom of the scotch bottle and are contemplating wine when Mercer suddenly announces that Norrington’s still absent and he doesn’t trust the bugger so he’s going looking. He staggers up then glares at the scotch bottle, managing to look personally affronted by the object. Beckett looks depressed but sighs and stands.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The older man meanders towards the stairs and Beckett shuffles along after him, bumping into one or two chairs on his way. He declares, as he watches his clerk go up the stairs, that By Jove, Mercer, You’ll Be The Death Of Me.
The hall is long and thin and Mercer traces the wall with his fingers as they walk along till he finds a doorknob. He fiddles with it till it opens to an empty room. The curtains were peeled back and the window was white with snow and blinding sun. The light seeps into the hall and Beckett swears he sees something move towards the back. Mercer goes to close the door but his lord stops him, shakes his head. No, no, wait. Leave it open. They move to the next, open, empty. Blinds closed. Beckett strides in and pulls them open revealing snow and snow and snow and sun and a lone tree.
‘Could have sworn there were more houses around us last night.’ He mutters as he re-joins Mercer who is standing in their room looking concerned.
‘Someone’s been in here. The bed’s made wrong.’
‘The innkeeper’s wife?’ He pauses. Frowns. Realises they’ve never seen a wife or any other staff other than the man and his son. ‘And how do you know it’s made wrong?’
‘I made it this morning, sir. After you went down for breakfast. I turn the sheets differently.’
They’re standing in the doorway with the light of the room before and the dark of the hall behind. Beckett shivers, takes Mercer’s arms, says We should go back. Norrington’s not up here. Something was shifting at the corner of his eye but when he looks it’s gone. He pulls Mercer’s arm again. Let’s go.
They come downstairs to find a wiry, grey man laying out saws near Barbossa who is stretched out on one of the tables.
‘When I was a lad I dreamt of a green fairy.’ Barbossa said when he saw the two men enter. He grins, eyes disjointed and blood shot. ‘It was in a box. Like,’ he waves his hand feebly. ‘Like I am now. A glass box. Because, because ah wanted tah be that. Ye know. That free thing on the outside of the box. Was a wossname.’ He shudders, ‘and now’s it’s dark. Fuck me.’ He slips back into something like sleep. The grey man, Jimmy, sighs. Blood loss. They all know and nod.
Mercer bars the front door and tells Elizabeth to watch the stair case door. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he says when she asks. She nods, doesn’t ask what. Beckett and Governor Swann are ordered to hold Barbossa down as Jimmy saws. The lad is mopping up bed and his father making sure the pirate gets one last dram of whiskey. ‘For good luck, love.’ He explains to Elizabeth’s look.
The sun is setting when the doctor begins. Barbossa screams, somewhere outside, something else screams. They are silent but for the blood on the floor, the saw cutting sinew and bone, the screams, and the ticking mantel clock.
By the time Jimmy finished and binds Barbossa’s leg Mercer and Elizabeth have dozed off, resting against their respective doors. The sound of washing up wakes them and they look about, half awake, dazed. The clock reads two in the morning and Beckett looks pale, ill. He sits down and the innkeeper puts a pint in front of him. He says, you did well, son. Not an easy job. Elizabeth sags down to the floor, burying her face into knees and arms. They rest. They doze. They drink. An hour passes. Two. Barbossa slumbers.
Beckett wakes to a hand on his shoulder and Mercer motions - Quiet, sir. The room is dark, biting. The main fireplace is out and Barbossa is shivering in blood and sweat. Mercer moves to put a blanket on him then motions to the front door. Beckett looks and sees darkness. Then, there, just there, is darkness within the dark. A shadow against the night. The lord stands, fingers going for one of the doctor’s saws as he continues to watch the door. Mercer moves about waking people, quietly, quietly. He wakes the lad who begins to wail and is then promptly knocked out. Beckett gives him a Look and Mercer mouths, ‘I hate children’.
The room sinks deeper into the frigid night air, breaths are ragged and giving off puffs of air. Frost clings to windows and outside it snows. Elizabeth reaches for a fire poker. There is a knocking on the door. Short, sharp.
‘Miss Swann?’ Norrington’s voice drifts through the wood. She freezes then lowers the poker. ‘Miss Swann, someone, it’s rather cold out.’
Barbossa makes a gurgling sound, shifts, sleeps on. Mercer shakes his head as Elizabeth begins to move to the door. They wait in silence. Beckett sees the shadow against the shadows move away. Then the door shakes, thumps against the frame. Nothing for a second. Then a second shudder as something slammed against the wood. The innkeeper looks grim and picks up a small hand axe.
The door cracks at the fourth shaking, the fourth slamming, rocking. It cracks and the room becomes even darker. No moon shining off crisp snow. No looming of the forest. No dull embers in the hearth. Darkness. Hairs standing on end and Beckett feels the too familiar breath on the back of his neck. He shivers, turns, nothing. Then again. And again. Something around him but nothing. He hears Elizabeth scream. Governor Swann cry out, ‘Elizabeth? Elizabeth? Are you? Where are you?’ No response.
Something grabs him, slams him forward over the table, wrenching his arm back, out of the socket, and he can hear someone screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Then it stops and his arm is limp at his side. He wants to feel it, to feel the sharp, excruciating pain of heat and bone through flesh, and the warmth of blood on cold skin. He wants to feel it but instead is only aware of Mercer pulling him somewhere. The darkness seems darker. Governor Swann yells. The innkeeper curses. Mercer is holding him tight, close, careful about the injured shoulder.
Beckett asks, ‘how did you know which side it was?’
Mercer replies, ‘I checked.’
Somewhere someone says ‘Oh bloody Jesus and his cousin the Baptist, fuck me.’
And Beckett can only laugh.
At some point someone lights a candle. They find Barbossa on the floor. The doctor huddled in the corner with the boy, still unconscious. The innkeeper looks grim, Beckett pale and in pain, Mercer murderous. Governor Swann is holding Elizabeth and Norrington is huddled in the corner. Elizabeth is the first to see him and she pulls from her father’s arms.
‘James,’ she whispers and she approaches him slowly, one hand palm up and out, the other holding the poker. ‘James, it’s me, Elizabeth.’ His eyes are squeezed shut, she touches his hand. The room begins to chill. Top down cold. ‘James? It’s all right, you’re safe now.’
Underneath tangled hair Norrington smiles, eyes still shut. His head jerks to the side, an unnatural control over the motion. He coughs, hacking and deep chested, and continues to smile. Elizabeth can see her breath. The candles are flickering. Suddenly it goes dark again and someone is laughing. A coughing, hacking, laugh. Uncontrolled. Mercer sets Beckett down in a chair and tries to find the other side of the room when something grabs him, feet out from under and he lands on his back. There’s a pain through his abdomen and he is dragged up then back down and nothing.
In front of her Elizabeth can see the dark shape of Norrington, still huddled in the corner but fingers moving, dancing in the night. She wants to cry. She wants to scream. She wants to make it all go away. I know him, she thinks. I know this man. I grew up with him. I know him, this isn’t him. But, it might be. She thinks, What if I can save him? Behind her someone is crying. She notes, distantly, that it’s Beckett and Odd, she thinks. I didn’t think he could cry. In front of her Norrington is laughing and smiling and waving his hands around, his fingers plucking at invisible strings in the air. When the boy begins to scream she can’t stop herself. Her hand plunges forward and Norrington stops, mid giggle, with fire poker jammed up into his lungs. He coughs. The candles flicker back. The light from the moon sneaks in through fogged windows. He coughs again. There’s a bit of blood down his chin. She can smell his death. She thinks, I never want to be this close to a dying man again. Norrington looks at her, eyes unfocused, uncertain. He whispers, Elizabeth? His fingers are lose around the poker, staining themselves red. There is more blood on his lips, his chin, thin strings of it slipping from his mouth. He’s pissed himself. She thinks, Isn’t that natural? She wants to ask some who would know but all she can see of Mercer is closed eyes, uncurled hand, Beckett’s back as he kneels next to his clerk. She notices that there is a lot of blood. She doesn’t think why. Her father stands listlessly in the middle of the room. He’s staring at nothing and eventually slowly sits himself down. He continues to stare at nothing.
After a long moment and Norrington’s eyes are closed, his body still, she slowlystands. ‘We should bury him.’ She says to the room, to the floor, her feet, Norrington’s bowed head.
‘Burn him,’ Beckett whispers. His back is still to her. ‘Just in case.’
Silence is the consent and as the sun rose they filed out to clean, crisp snow. By the barn they build a small pyre. They heap on straw and the smoke smells of clover before they lay the body on it. Beckett holds his arm to his side and looks listlessly ahead. Elizabeth tries to not stare at the bone jutting out from his flesh. If it was clean it would all be so pale white. The white bone, the white skin, the white snow, the white everything.
Above them the sun glimmers, gentle and soft, in the winter sky. The forest is dark and behind the village. Standing tall, cold, black and dead. Someone asks, What do we tell everyone? Beckett blinks, registers the voice but not the name. He shakes his head, ‘Don’t know.’
Eventually they returned to the house. To the bloody floor and the shaking doctor. To the unconscious pirate, the almost dead clerk. Beckett sits down next to Mercer as Jimmy tends to his arm. He asks, ‘is there anything?’
‘His stomach was,’ the doctor doesn’t finish the sentence.
They all sit in silence. And outside it grows cold. When Beckett is stitched and bandaged he wanders outside to stare at the encroaching leaves and branches. Inside the doctor is doing his best for a man who is almost not a man anymore. Beckett breathes out, he can see his breath, it’s a burst of fog then nothing. It’s cold, even with the sun, even with his coat and a blanket pulled around him. He thinks, I wish I had never heard of Davy Jones. I wish I had never heard of Jamaica, of Tortuga, of the Pearl, of chests of Aztec gold and ancient love letters. He knows night will fall and whatever they are may come for them again. It may snow again, he knows. And if it does it will be cold, it will be silent, it will be thick and deep and beautifully pure white and in it they will all sleep.
--end--
Well then. Um. Yes. It's over. Definitely went a way that I did not in the least bit expect. So, yes.
Title: Jurassic Hall Red Rose Hall. 3/3
Characters: Norrington, Beckett, Mercer, Barbossa, Elizabeth, and Gov. Swann.
Pairings: Meh, none really. Implied Meckett if you want it. If you don't want it it's just Mercer and Beckett bickering like an old, drunk, married couple.
Rating: PG maybe PG13.
Summary: The above mentioned characters are back in England heading to the old Norrington manor house in order to retrieve a much needed map. While there they get snowed in and strange things begin to happen. Oh, and Mercer and Beckett spend most of their time there helping themselves to Norrington's extensive liquor collection.
Notes: It's really just my excuse to write Mercer and Beckett drunk. And taking the piss out of everyone. Also, I know cheese on toast didn't exist back then, or most likely didn't exist, but I don't really give a flying fuck now do I?
It's Disney - historical accuracy died a slow painful death years ago.
Also. Part one was prettty punny if I do say so myself.
Warnings: Character(s?) death. Yes.
Part I
Part II
Mercer watches as Sir eagerly strips the wet, bloody clothes off and dumps them in a pile in the middle of the floor. He quickly shivered and pads over to the bed.
'The night is long and full of terrors,' Sir says as he finally collapses and pulls the covers up. 'I read that somewhere.'
The clerk shrugs and tries to pull off his boots. They are wet from the snow and slipping in his hands. After a minute his gives up and collapses backwards on the bed, feet dangling off over the edge. 'So tired,' he mumbles. His eyes close and he can feel Sir poking him with his feet through the covers. It's goose feathers in the eiderdown, he numbly thinks. Goose feathers.
'At least take your clothes off,' Sir grumbles. 'You're wet and cold and I don't want to be wet and cold. If you leave them on sleep somewhere else.' He huffs and burrows himself deeper into the blankets. Mercer waits a minute, gathers strength, then pushes himself back up. He gives his boots another tug then realises he forgot to unlace them. A sheepish look to Sir but his eyes are closed.
Beckett wakes and it's dark in the room. And cold. The fire has burned low and Mercer is awake, standing at the window wearing only breeches. His shirt is damp and hanging over a chair.
'What're you doing?' Beckett mumbles as he tugs the blankets closer and moves over to where Mercer had been sleeping. The bed is cold. He shifts back to his original spot. Now that bit is cold too. He huffs. 'Mercer?'
'Watching the snow, sir.'
'Why?'
'Because there's something out there.' He leans against the edge of the window, out of sight for anyone looking in. The lord frowns and sits up, making sure to keep blankets around him. 'Moving between the trees and the village.'
'Following us?'
The older man shrugs. Who knows. Maybe it came with us from the Caribbean. Maybe it's been here always. Maybe the Admiral's family brought it with them. His father was a general in the army in India. If you want dark things that haunt the night...
'I woke up about an hour ago,' he explains in the wake of Beckett's silence. 'I swear something was at the window watching us. But I only caught a glimpse. Corner of the eye.'
'What did it look like?'
And oh the room is still. So very still. Beckett feels that if he moves he'll break some protective spell. He'll draw attention and they both would die. So he sits and doesn't move, barely breaths, feels his toes and fingers going numb. Mercer is in profile and looking as hawkish and evil as ever.
'You know,' Beckett murmurs. 'You really do look the part of a murderer.' His clerk smirks. He says, Thank you, sir. It's something I've been trying to attain for all fifty odd years of my life. And I don't know what it looked like. I want to say white and I want to say black. Maybe steel blue. It was a sensation more than a look.
'They know you're up,' Beckett says. 'Come back to bed. It's cold and you're my portable heat source, remember?'
When Mercer finally climbs back under the covers his skin is chilled and his breath comes out in small bursts of cloud. The fire is dead, the candle beside their bed run well and done. Beckett pulls the covers over their heads and they huddle in the dark and grin and feel like fifteen year olds. Mercer says in a whisper, Pulling the covers so you can't see them doesn't mean they can't see you, sir. Beckett laughs, burrows himself against his clerk once he's warmed up, and replies, Stop ruining my childhood myths.
The next morning sees a fine, thin snow drifting down soft and gentle. Elizabeth says that this is a relief after the hard, torrid storms they've been having. Silence greats her but she takes it as consent. Breakfast is a thick gruel with a bit of honey on top. Governor Swann sighs, Ah, bless the inn keeper's wife, and licks the honey spoon. Mercer pokes his meal and mutters that he's not sure he trusts food at the moment. Considering. Everyone stops eating.
'Thank you for that.' Beckett growls, shoving his bowl away. 'Though I take consolation in the fact that I didn't eat the blood pudding.' Mercer glowers. Tasted fine, he grumbled. 'You can add possible cannibalism to your list of sins.'
'Not the worst, I grant you, sir.'
Elizabeth coughs. 'Then what's your worst?'
Mercer smiles, 'not one I'm about to tell you.' He reaches down and pulls up a flask from his boot. 'Now, we need to meet these doctors and see to the pirate. I'm assuming we want him alive?'
When they find him the innkeeper looks sheepish and apologises before they ask. He says he sent his lad out but the doctor was several towns over attending to a difficult pregnancy. Midwives apparently aren't to be trusted.
'We're sorry but there's nothing to be done.' He says. They all glance over to the pirate who continues to sleep near the fire. His leg is swollen and looks wrong, a monstrous growth. Beckett is reminded of a fungus that once grew on the oak trees near his home when he was a boy. He would cut them off with a toy sword till his father told him to stop. It makes them worse, his father had said. If you cut them open. They spread faster.
From Barbossa’s leg drips blood, thick and dark and gathering in a small pool on the floor. Elizabeth is frantic, she says, We have to save him.
‘He’ll lose the leg,’ her father replies. ‘And no one here can do it.’
Beckett nudges Mercer, You amputated someone’s leg once, right? Mercer glowers, He died, sir. Not the odds we’re looking forward. Is there a local horse doctor?
‘There’s Jimmy.’ The innkeeper frowns. ‘’Spose we could give it a try. Lad,’ he turns to his son. ‘Go out and bring back Jimmy. Tell ‘im we ‘ave an amputee but he’s human. Off you go, lad.’
An hour later, once breakfast settles Beckett orders a bottle of Scotch, whatever the house has, and pulls Mercer to a table near Barbossa. Mercer grins at the bottle and says that he and Sir are doing horrible things to their bodies and Beckett snorts and says that he doesn’t much care at the moment. He glances to Barbossa,‘Think he’ll live?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’ Mercer takes the bottle from Beckett, opens, and sniffs it. He makes a face. ‘You won’t want this, sir. I’ll have to -‘
Beckett steals the bottle back with a glare, ‘I’ll have my half, thank you Mr Mercer.’ He pours himself a glass, sips, coughs, and ignores Mercer’s amusement. He mutters that it could strip the lining right out of his stomach. In retaliation his clerk snatches the bottle and says that he told sir, but sir didn’t listen now’a did he? He pours them both a glass. They drink them, wincing. He pours them another.
‘Mercer?’
‘Sir?’
‘Have we been at all sober in the last few days?’
Mercer thinks about it. Drinks more scotch. Shakes his head and grins a feral cat grin. Beckett decides he likes it. The feral cat grin. It reminds him of something he can’t think of at the moment. But it’s dark and lecherous and smells of cheap London gin.
Governor Swann joins them at the table with a pint of ale. ‘Don’t like this,’ he says. ‘Something wrong with the feeling here.’
Mercer shrugs, Small villages in winter can be weird. Especially when foreigners show up. Tend to be uppity about that.
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Beckett adds. ‘We’re paying for everything and moving on as soon as we can.’
‘Could hang us,’ Mercer mutters darkly and pulls out a deck of cards. ‘Cards, sir?’
Beckett tutts testily, ‘Not everywhere is that god forsaken village in the colonies.’
The days eases into itself quietly. Elizabeth keeps vigil near Barbossa along with her father. Mercer and Beckett investigate the bottom of the scotch bottle and are contemplating wine when Mercer suddenly announces that Norrington’s still absent and he doesn’t trust the bugger so he’s going looking. He staggers up then glares at the scotch bottle, managing to look personally affronted by the object. Beckett looks depressed but sighs and stands.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The older man meanders towards the stairs and Beckett shuffles along after him, bumping into one or two chairs on his way. He declares, as he watches his clerk go up the stairs, that By Jove, Mercer, You’ll Be The Death Of Me.
The hall is long and thin and Mercer traces the wall with his fingers as they walk along till he finds a doorknob. He fiddles with it till it opens to an empty room. The curtains were peeled back and the window was white with snow and blinding sun. The light seeps into the hall and Beckett swears he sees something move towards the back. Mercer goes to close the door but his lord stops him, shakes his head. No, no, wait. Leave it open. They move to the next, open, empty. Blinds closed. Beckett strides in and pulls them open revealing snow and snow and snow and sun and a lone tree.
‘Could have sworn there were more houses around us last night.’ He mutters as he re-joins Mercer who is standing in their room looking concerned.
‘Someone’s been in here. The bed’s made wrong.’
‘The innkeeper’s wife?’ He pauses. Frowns. Realises they’ve never seen a wife or any other staff other than the man and his son. ‘And how do you know it’s made wrong?’
‘I made it this morning, sir. After you went down for breakfast. I turn the sheets differently.’
They’re standing in the doorway with the light of the room before and the dark of the hall behind. Beckett shivers, takes Mercer’s arms, says We should go back. Norrington’s not up here. Something was shifting at the corner of his eye but when he looks it’s gone. He pulls Mercer’s arm again. Let’s go.
They come downstairs to find a wiry, grey man laying out saws near Barbossa who is stretched out on one of the tables.
‘When I was a lad I dreamt of a green fairy.’ Barbossa said when he saw the two men enter. He grins, eyes disjointed and blood shot. ‘It was in a box. Like,’ he waves his hand feebly. ‘Like I am now. A glass box. Because, because ah wanted tah be that. Ye know. That free thing on the outside of the box. Was a wossname.’ He shudders, ‘and now’s it’s dark. Fuck me.’ He slips back into something like sleep. The grey man, Jimmy, sighs. Blood loss. They all know and nod.
Mercer bars the front door and tells Elizabeth to watch the stair case door. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he says when she asks. She nods, doesn’t ask what. Beckett and Governor Swann are ordered to hold Barbossa down as Jimmy saws. The lad is mopping up bed and his father making sure the pirate gets one last dram of whiskey. ‘For good luck, love.’ He explains to Elizabeth’s look.
The sun is setting when the doctor begins. Barbossa screams, somewhere outside, something else screams. They are silent but for the blood on the floor, the saw cutting sinew and bone, the screams, and the ticking mantel clock.
By the time Jimmy finished and binds Barbossa’s leg Mercer and Elizabeth have dozed off, resting against their respective doors. The sound of washing up wakes them and they look about, half awake, dazed. The clock reads two in the morning and Beckett looks pale, ill. He sits down and the innkeeper puts a pint in front of him. He says, you did well, son. Not an easy job. Elizabeth sags down to the floor, burying her face into knees and arms. They rest. They doze. They drink. An hour passes. Two. Barbossa slumbers.
Beckett wakes to a hand on his shoulder and Mercer motions - Quiet, sir. The room is dark, biting. The main fireplace is out and Barbossa is shivering in blood and sweat. Mercer moves to put a blanket on him then motions to the front door. Beckett looks and sees darkness. Then, there, just there, is darkness within the dark. A shadow against the night. The lord stands, fingers going for one of the doctor’s saws as he continues to watch the door. Mercer moves about waking people, quietly, quietly. He wakes the lad who begins to wail and is then promptly knocked out. Beckett gives him a Look and Mercer mouths, ‘I hate children’.
The room sinks deeper into the frigid night air, breaths are ragged and giving off puffs of air. Frost clings to windows and outside it snows. Elizabeth reaches for a fire poker. There is a knocking on the door. Short, sharp.
‘Miss Swann?’ Norrington’s voice drifts through the wood. She freezes then lowers the poker. ‘Miss Swann, someone, it’s rather cold out.’
Barbossa makes a gurgling sound, shifts, sleeps on. Mercer shakes his head as Elizabeth begins to move to the door. They wait in silence. Beckett sees the shadow against the shadows move away. Then the door shakes, thumps against the frame. Nothing for a second. Then a second shudder as something slammed against the wood. The innkeeper looks grim and picks up a small hand axe.
The door cracks at the fourth shaking, the fourth slamming, rocking. It cracks and the room becomes even darker. No moon shining off crisp snow. No looming of the forest. No dull embers in the hearth. Darkness. Hairs standing on end and Beckett feels the too familiar breath on the back of his neck. He shivers, turns, nothing. Then again. And again. Something around him but nothing. He hears Elizabeth scream. Governor Swann cry out, ‘Elizabeth? Elizabeth? Are you? Where are you?’ No response.
Something grabs him, slams him forward over the table, wrenching his arm back, out of the socket, and he can hear someone screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Then it stops and his arm is limp at his side. He wants to feel it, to feel the sharp, excruciating pain of heat and bone through flesh, and the warmth of blood on cold skin. He wants to feel it but instead is only aware of Mercer pulling him somewhere. The darkness seems darker. Governor Swann yells. The innkeeper curses. Mercer is holding him tight, close, careful about the injured shoulder.
Beckett asks, ‘how did you know which side it was?’
Mercer replies, ‘I checked.’
Somewhere someone says ‘Oh bloody Jesus and his cousin the Baptist, fuck me.’
And Beckett can only laugh.
At some point someone lights a candle. They find Barbossa on the floor. The doctor huddled in the corner with the boy, still unconscious. The innkeeper looks grim, Beckett pale and in pain, Mercer murderous. Governor Swann is holding Elizabeth and Norrington is huddled in the corner. Elizabeth is the first to see him and she pulls from her father’s arms.
‘James,’ she whispers and she approaches him slowly, one hand palm up and out, the other holding the poker. ‘James, it’s me, Elizabeth.’ His eyes are squeezed shut, she touches his hand. The room begins to chill. Top down cold. ‘James? It’s all right, you’re safe now.’
Underneath tangled hair Norrington smiles, eyes still shut. His head jerks to the side, an unnatural control over the motion. He coughs, hacking and deep chested, and continues to smile. Elizabeth can see her breath. The candles are flickering. Suddenly it goes dark again and someone is laughing. A coughing, hacking, laugh. Uncontrolled. Mercer sets Beckett down in a chair and tries to find the other side of the room when something grabs him, feet out from under and he lands on his back. There’s a pain through his abdomen and he is dragged up then back down and nothing.
In front of her Elizabeth can see the dark shape of Norrington, still huddled in the corner but fingers moving, dancing in the night. She wants to cry. She wants to scream. She wants to make it all go away. I know him, she thinks. I know this man. I grew up with him. I know him, this isn’t him. But, it might be. She thinks, What if I can save him? Behind her someone is crying. She notes, distantly, that it’s Beckett and Odd, she thinks. I didn’t think he could cry. In front of her Norrington is laughing and smiling and waving his hands around, his fingers plucking at invisible strings in the air. When the boy begins to scream she can’t stop herself. Her hand plunges forward and Norrington stops, mid giggle, with fire poker jammed up into his lungs. He coughs. The candles flicker back. The light from the moon sneaks in through fogged windows. He coughs again. There’s a bit of blood down his chin. She can smell his death. She thinks, I never want to be this close to a dying man again. Norrington looks at her, eyes unfocused, uncertain. He whispers, Elizabeth? His fingers are lose around the poker, staining themselves red. There is more blood on his lips, his chin, thin strings of it slipping from his mouth. He’s pissed himself. She thinks, Isn’t that natural? She wants to ask some who would know but all she can see of Mercer is closed eyes, uncurled hand, Beckett’s back as he kneels next to his clerk. She notices that there is a lot of blood. She doesn’t think why. Her father stands listlessly in the middle of the room. He’s staring at nothing and eventually slowly sits himself down. He continues to stare at nothing.
After a long moment and Norrington’s eyes are closed, his body still, she slowlystands. ‘We should bury him.’ She says to the room, to the floor, her feet, Norrington’s bowed head.
‘Burn him,’ Beckett whispers. His back is still to her. ‘Just in case.’
Silence is the consent and as the sun rose they filed out to clean, crisp snow. By the barn they build a small pyre. They heap on straw and the smoke smells of clover before they lay the body on it. Beckett holds his arm to his side and looks listlessly ahead. Elizabeth tries to not stare at the bone jutting out from his flesh. If it was clean it would all be so pale white. The white bone, the white skin, the white snow, the white everything.
Above them the sun glimmers, gentle and soft, in the winter sky. The forest is dark and behind the village. Standing tall, cold, black and dead. Someone asks, What do we tell everyone? Beckett blinks, registers the voice but not the name. He shakes his head, ‘Don’t know.’
Eventually they returned to the house. To the bloody floor and the shaking doctor. To the unconscious pirate, the almost dead clerk. Beckett sits down next to Mercer as Jimmy tends to his arm. He asks, ‘is there anything?’
‘His stomach was,’ the doctor doesn’t finish the sentence.
They all sit in silence. And outside it grows cold. When Beckett is stitched and bandaged he wanders outside to stare at the encroaching leaves and branches. Inside the doctor is doing his best for a man who is almost not a man anymore. Beckett breathes out, he can see his breath, it’s a burst of fog then nothing. It’s cold, even with the sun, even with his coat and a blanket pulled around him. He thinks, I wish I had never heard of Davy Jones. I wish I had never heard of Jamaica, of Tortuga, of the Pearl, of chests of Aztec gold and ancient love letters. He knows night will fall and whatever they are may come for them again. It may snow again, he knows. And if it does it will be cold, it will be silent, it will be thick and deep and beautifully pure white and in it they will all sleep.
--end--
Well then. Um. Yes. It's over. Definitely went a way that I did not in the least bit expect. So, yes.