Lord Have Mercy
Lord have Mercy
Characters: Beckett, Norrington and Groves
Disclaimer: I am not now and have never been the owner of POTC
Rating: PG
Warnings: Do not feed the kracken or the monkeys. Always keep your hands to yourself and… oh? Actual content warnings? None that I can think of.
Summary: Emo Norrington is thinking about suicide.
Author’s Note: Just a strange little story about jumping overboard. Yes, and don’t do that either!
The moon was hidden by dark clouds, trapping the heat between sea and sky, with little breeze to alleviate the crew of the Endeavour. Her sails were slack as she weighed in the still waters: lapping against her, black and gleaming, like the gateway to another world.
The magnificent flagship stilled, the only sounds the sea and the air and the regular whistle that signalled the changing of the watch; to James their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud and far away at the same time, like the sounds one hears underwater. Lieutenant Groves also seemed slightly blurred; his eyes dark like the water under the ship’s lanterns. “Sir,” tense, proper, unsure.
“You look tired, lieutenant,” James’ tone is friendly, though again to him his own words seem unfocused. “And I cannot sleep. Why don’t you get some rest?”
“Sir, I-”
James’ mouth seizes up for a second, the edges painful. “That’s an order, lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” He is outlined under the lights for a moment, white stockings and blue coattails appearing unnaturally bright, causing James to squint before the figure vanishes below deck.
The punishment for any officer who abandons his post is death. James has known this since the age of ten - he has seen one swing from the yardarm, even. Yet he wishes for death, not disgrace, now and not later. Still, his shoes are planted firmly on the deck - unmoving - his eyes watchful, from perhaps habit alone. Only a fool would attack the Endeavour in such waters - yet perhaps for a second James wished for such a fool: a ghostly Jack Sparrow to blow the Endeavour and her admiral to pieces. He fled from the thought, moving over to gaze into the watery blackness.
Cutler’s dreams were fevered, the heat oppressing him even on the open sea. His soft cotton nightshirt is sticky with sweat, he reaches for the buttons at the neck, clammy fingers sliding over them to no effect. The hammock swayed only slightly - how he longed for shore and his large, comfortable bed. He rubbed his eyes and called for his valet - cold water to wash his face in - to wet his throat and cool his brow.
Simmonds comes with the bowl in both hands and Cutler’s embroidered dressing-gown thrown over one arm. He has trouble getting out of the hammock, his legs dangling, swaying, before he stumbles to the floor. The servant puts the water down and wraps the Chinese silk around Cutler’s shoulders and then places the water on the table. Cutler dips his fingers in, swirling them around and sighing as the water tingles, carelessly splashing it upward, striking his face and hair, letting it trickle gloriously down his neck.
He wipes his face with the proffered cloth and wraps the gown tighter about him. It was pale grey shot with blue and silver-turquoise flowers, its folds rippling like the smooth surface of a stream, reflecting the candlelight. Cutler passes his hand over his now damp forehead and shoves his feet into slippers. “I’m going up for some air.”
James stares into the sea fearfully, acutely aware of how close it is - how easily he could let himself fall and how wrong it would be to do so. Was he not already so damned the suicide would make little difference to God? Or was release only an illusion - did greater torments lurk under those waters?
A breeze stirs, and Cutler, emerging, closes his eyes for a moment, feeling both hot and cold at once; silk and cotton fluttering around his legs and he feels very conscious of his state of undress. Yet the wind is so welcome and the air so clearing that he cannot go back to bed just yet. His hair is ruffled by the air, provoking a sense of release, a fleeting night-time liberty - unconscious of the sailors aloft, the men on night-duty.
Do it. The impulse - failure, dishonour, shame - calls for death. The sea calls to James, the voice of oblivion in its soft sounds, so loud on a quiet night. He looks: no one. One leg over the side and his shoe falls with a splash, swallowed, making him grip the railing, startled. He looks again: no one. The other foot is easier now that he has decided upon a course of action.
“Norrington?” comes a voice; the name sounds so alien suddenly, as though he had thought himself already one of the nameless dead - beyond all voices and answers.
“Stay back,” he warns as the figure emerges. A light-haired creature in a silvery robe that billows in the breeze; and this is so strange to James’ - so unexpected - that he almost lets go.
Cutler blinks at his admiral, unsure of what to do or if Norrington even recognises him. The man’s face is rigid, unhinged, and as the moon appears from behind a cloud he glimpses the wildness of the familiar features, haunted and inexplicable.
He feels cold suddenly and hugs his shoulders, the wind no longer soothing, but chill. He shivers and rubs his knees together. Perhaps because he feels so exposed himself, waking from dreams of death and hearts beating alone and unsupported by flesh or even soul; like a child waking from a nightmare and calling, wide eyed, for his nurse, he can’t leave, compelled to stay by some strange urge to safeguard another.
“Don’t…” his voice is gentle, not the voice of command but of one man to another.
To James the figure in its silvery robe seemed illusory - the product of conscience or imagination. “I must,” he replied. “You cannot understand… I have betrayed… I…”
“Betrayed what? Whom have you betrayed?”
“E-l-lizabeth… my duty… my…”
Cutler sneered. “And have they served you well, then? Does Miss Swann deserve this tribute? Will she care?”
James let out an anguished gasp. The creature’s fingers close on his arm, its golden hair tossed by the wind. The sails creak above them. “You cannot drown yourself. Why must you sacrifice when she has not?”
“I… I…” but there was no answer, only the waves below.
“You have everything that…”
“It’s worthless, don’t you see?” James spits out the words, his hands now slippery with sweat. Cutler takes an involuntary step back. James blinks back tears.
“No.” Silence, and then: “Forget them. Forget her…” comes the whisper, “you are worth infinitely more than them. Now climb back over the side.” And the voice was so sure, so certain of itself, the voice of God speaking through His silvery angel - so comforting in its command that he obeyed, conscious of the absence of his right shoe as his foot touched the deck, sheathed only in its silk stocking.
The night obscured the face of the angel as James knelt before it. “Forgive me, Lord, for doubting your mercy.”
Cutler, long used to being addressed in such ways, put a hand on James’ cheek. “Of course you are forgiven, admiral. Now get up and be about your duties.” I need some bloody sleep. He turned to leave.
“Will I see you again?” And then he realised exactly what Admiral Norrington thought he was.
“Perhaps…” he answers thoughtfully, before disappearing into the night.
~*~