Fic: Wreckage
Title: Wreckage
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Word count: 1100 words
Spoilers for DMC: Hell yes!
Characters: Norrington, and slight appearance from others.
Special thanks: To my dear
themadpuppy, for her enlightened advices.
Author's ramblings: This fic had been some kind of therapy for me. One week after seeing DMC, I still can't decide whether I love the movie. Don't get me wrong, it's a great movie, but I'm deeply worried about the holes in Norrington's characterization, and realize I won't know if I loved what they have done with him until I see the 3rd movie. Hence the uneasiness with the movie. I also realized after re-watching the first movie how everybody uses Norrington to their own ends, and this pissed me off, and it shows in the fic. Yet, despite this being a very dark introspection, I also tried to show the change of personality of James Norrington, who appeared not only embittered but also very self-centered in the movie, and, in the end, determined to think only of himself. Is this a way of protecting himself from the hurt he received from the other characters? Only time will tell.
When news of James Norrington’s resignation as commodore reached the people of Port Royal, those who had always disliked him believed he was running away from the consequences, trying to avoid facing his own failure.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Before Sparrow, Norrington had always knew precisely what he was doing, why he was doing it, and never shunned from the outcome, whatever it was. He had control over his own faith, as it should be. He was well aware of his faults, more than anyone, and none more than he was better qualified to choose a fitting punishment. His was decided the moment he realized he was the sole survivor, one last act of control over his life, before all he believed was cast into the void.
Tortuga. The place where all he despised and fought against was. And where he would be powerless, unable to prevent the debauchery and vice.
James Norrington left Port-Royal, and his departure was barely noticed, so engrossed were the people by the upcoming wedding. For one who always served the others before himself, he had then reflected wryly, he had precious few sympathizers. But it was for the best, the former commodore did not want their pity, even less their scorn.
At first, life in Tortuga was not too bad. Sure, upon his arrival, many had tried to kill him or publicly humiliate him, vengeance against what he had done to them, or to their comrades. It kept him busy to fight them, and he had no time to think. But in time, even the worst drunkard tired of the game, as it seemed the former commodore indeed deserved his nickname of “scourge of the piracy”.
And thus James Norrington’s retribution began. Left alone with his thoughts. Days and nights. Nights and days. At first he fought off the bottle; he’d always despised a man who drowned his problems in alcohol. But in the end, the call was too strong. Weak, for he did not eat nor sleep anymore, James was overwhelmed by his feelings, he who always had them in check before.
He lost count of the days, reality did not matter anymore, only the memories. His ship, his men, his friends, lost to the elements, torn away from him by the fury of the ocean. He could do nothing. In but a few hours, James Norrington lost whatever grip he ever had on his destiny. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw the foundering of the Dauntless, and cursed his folly. Time and rum blurred his recollections, but never enough to cast them into oblivion. Soon his feverish mind saw blame and disappointment in Andrew’s eyes, in that one final moment when their gaze met before the wave swept everything away. It was too much to bear.
Eventually, he had to leave the hovel where he lived. Apparently, the crash of the furniture being tossed against the wall, and the inhuman howls coming from his room were preventing the other inhabitants from enjoying their revelries. Or so the “owner” told him, before Norrington gave him the beating of his life. His former self would have been ashamed of trashing a man so, without reason, but he was past caring by now.
Oh sure, in the darkest hours, when he took an almost sadistic pleasure in wallowing in his misery, all pride forgotten, some small part of him still wept for James Norrington, ex-commodore of His Majesty’s Navy. Some small part of him wished for someone, anyone, to come and pat him of the shoulder, and tell him: “It’s alright James, we know you never meant this to happen, come back, we all miss you!” But of course, nobody ever came in this God-forsaken place, nobody came to save him.
When he heard the voice of his former subordinate, this Gibbs, Norrington knew he would soon come. Sparrow. The man who ruined his life. So James prepared to do what he had always tried to before: rid the world of this nuisance. Spitting his misery in Gibbs’ face had kindled somehow the embers of his hate for the pirate, but the fire, the righteous indignation he once felt was gone. Sending the scoundrel to Hell would not bring him his life, nor some sense into his life. Norrington aimed at the pirate out of habit, and was not even surprised when he failed to blow Sparrow’s head off. He lost himself in the general brawl that followed, mourning yet another part of himself.
He could have prevented them from throwing him to the pigs. But he was too preoccupied by the realization he now was a total stranger to himself. The Commodore indeed was no more.
Then she appeared, the angel of his nightmare. If she had showed some true compassion, more than this fleeting pity, perhaps, maybe, he would have been saved from this inner death. It was not to be.
“What has the world done to you, James Norrington?”
He had been a fool, a complete idiot. She, Turner, Sparrow, everyone, they had all used him to their own selfish means, discarding the gullible commodore when he was needed no more. In the end, everybody only thought about themselves, and would grind whatever grist the mill required to get what they wanted. If Sparrow’s kind was a dying breed, then so was he. It seemed there was no place for men of honor in the Caribbean nowadays. Men whose most sacred duty was to protect and serve his fellow-countrymen belonged to another era, when knights fought dragons for the love of a princess. In the end, men like him would be left behind, to suffer, alone and forgotten.
Yes, he had been an idiot. It was about time he was awakened to the harsh truth, he had been blind for far too long. From now on, James Norrington would only serve James Norrington. He would go with the flow, and take all he could wrest from anyone. No more scruples. Faith had been cruel to him, the lesson She had bestowed upon him an hard-learned one, yet Norrington felt he had earned every blow sent his way. This devotion, this self-sacrifice nature he had was a weakness, one that would bring him no reward, no felicity, life had shown him that. Starting today, he would not be defrauded so easily. Indeed, he deserved to be taught the ways of the world. Norrington could blame none other than he for his demise, for his naivety and arrogance had brought it upon himself.
"Nothing I didn't deserve."
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Word count: 1100 words
Spoilers for DMC: Hell yes!
Characters: Norrington, and slight appearance from others.
Special thanks: To my dear
themadpuppy, for her enlightened advices.
Author's ramblings: This fic had been some kind of therapy for me. One week after seeing DMC, I still can't decide whether I love the movie. Don't get me wrong, it's a great movie, but I'm deeply worried about the holes in Norrington's characterization, and realize I won't know if I loved what they have done with him until I see the 3rd movie. Hence the uneasiness with the movie. I also realized after re-watching the first movie how everybody uses Norrington to their own ends, and this pissed me off, and it shows in the fic. Yet, despite this being a very dark introspection, I also tried to show the change of personality of James Norrington, who appeared not only embittered but also very self-centered in the movie, and, in the end, determined to think only of himself. Is this a way of protecting himself from the hurt he received from the other characters? Only time will tell.
When news of James Norrington’s resignation as commodore reached the people of Port Royal, those who had always disliked him believed he was running away from the consequences, trying to avoid facing his own failure.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
Before Sparrow, Norrington had always knew precisely what he was doing, why he was doing it, and never shunned from the outcome, whatever it was. He had control over his own faith, as it should be. He was well aware of his faults, more than anyone, and none more than he was better qualified to choose a fitting punishment. His was decided the moment he realized he was the sole survivor, one last act of control over his life, before all he believed was cast into the void.
Tortuga. The place where all he despised and fought against was. And where he would be powerless, unable to prevent the debauchery and vice.
James Norrington left Port-Royal, and his departure was barely noticed, so engrossed were the people by the upcoming wedding. For one who always served the others before himself, he had then reflected wryly, he had precious few sympathizers. But it was for the best, the former commodore did not want their pity, even less their scorn.
At first, life in Tortuga was not too bad. Sure, upon his arrival, many had tried to kill him or publicly humiliate him, vengeance against what he had done to them, or to their comrades. It kept him busy to fight them, and he had no time to think. But in time, even the worst drunkard tired of the game, as it seemed the former commodore indeed deserved his nickname of “scourge of the piracy”.
And thus James Norrington’s retribution began. Left alone with his thoughts. Days and nights. Nights and days. At first he fought off the bottle; he’d always despised a man who drowned his problems in alcohol. But in the end, the call was too strong. Weak, for he did not eat nor sleep anymore, James was overwhelmed by his feelings, he who always had them in check before.
He lost count of the days, reality did not matter anymore, only the memories. His ship, his men, his friends, lost to the elements, torn away from him by the fury of the ocean. He could do nothing. In but a few hours, James Norrington lost whatever grip he ever had on his destiny. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw the foundering of the Dauntless, and cursed his folly. Time and rum blurred his recollections, but never enough to cast them into oblivion. Soon his feverish mind saw blame and disappointment in Andrew’s eyes, in that one final moment when their gaze met before the wave swept everything away. It was too much to bear.
Eventually, he had to leave the hovel where he lived. Apparently, the crash of the furniture being tossed against the wall, and the inhuman howls coming from his room were preventing the other inhabitants from enjoying their revelries. Or so the “owner” told him, before Norrington gave him the beating of his life. His former self would have been ashamed of trashing a man so, without reason, but he was past caring by now.
Oh sure, in the darkest hours, when he took an almost sadistic pleasure in wallowing in his misery, all pride forgotten, some small part of him still wept for James Norrington, ex-commodore of His Majesty’s Navy. Some small part of him wished for someone, anyone, to come and pat him of the shoulder, and tell him: “It’s alright James, we know you never meant this to happen, come back, we all miss you!” But of course, nobody ever came in this God-forsaken place, nobody came to save him.
When he heard the voice of his former subordinate, this Gibbs, Norrington knew he would soon come. Sparrow. The man who ruined his life. So James prepared to do what he had always tried to before: rid the world of this nuisance. Spitting his misery in Gibbs’ face had kindled somehow the embers of his hate for the pirate, but the fire, the righteous indignation he once felt was gone. Sending the scoundrel to Hell would not bring him his life, nor some sense into his life. Norrington aimed at the pirate out of habit, and was not even surprised when he failed to blow Sparrow’s head off. He lost himself in the general brawl that followed, mourning yet another part of himself.
He could have prevented them from throwing him to the pigs. But he was too preoccupied by the realization he now was a total stranger to himself. The Commodore indeed was no more.
Then she appeared, the angel of his nightmare. If she had showed some true compassion, more than this fleeting pity, perhaps, maybe, he would have been saved from this inner death. It was not to be.
“What has the world done to you, James Norrington?”
He had been a fool, a complete idiot. She, Turner, Sparrow, everyone, they had all used him to their own selfish means, discarding the gullible commodore when he was needed no more. In the end, everybody only thought about themselves, and would grind whatever grist the mill required to get what they wanted. If Sparrow’s kind was a dying breed, then so was he. It seemed there was no place for men of honor in the Caribbean nowadays. Men whose most sacred duty was to protect and serve his fellow-countrymen belonged to another era, when knights fought dragons for the love of a princess. In the end, men like him would be left behind, to suffer, alone and forgotten.
Yes, he had been an idiot. It was about time he was awakened to the harsh truth, he had been blind for far too long. From now on, James Norrington would only serve James Norrington. He would go with the flow, and take all he could wrest from anyone. No more scruples. Faith had been cruel to him, the lesson She had bestowed upon him an hard-learned one, yet Norrington felt he had earned every blow sent his way. This devotion, this self-sacrifice nature he had was a weakness, one that would bring him no reward, no felicity, life had shown him that. Starting today, he would not be defrauded so easily. Indeed, he deserved to be taught the ways of the world. Norrington could blame none other than he for his demise, for his naivety and arrogance had brought it upon himself.
"Nothing I didn't deserve."