scourgeofpiracy | (no subject)

(no subject)

The brig of the Flying Dutchman is not a pleasant place even by the usual standards of ship brigs. Norrington tries to avoid going near it, as much as possible.

Tonight he can't. Some choices, once made, can't be gone back on.

He unlocks the door hastily, with a glance over his shoulder.

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For a long, terrifying moment after plunging into the inky black water, Elizabeth isn't sure what's up or down. When she surfaces, the sight of her friend -- is it too late, she wonders, to call him that -- being stabbed is more alarming still. He slumps to the deck, and she feels her blood run cold.

"James! No!" she screams. "No!"

But her cries won't accomplish anything. It's useless. If she tries to go back now, both their lives will be forfeit. Casting a last anguished look at the scene unfolding on the Dutchman, she turns and strikes out for the Empress with all her strength.

It wouldn't do for them to leave without their captain.

The cry has been given - All hands! Prisoner escape! and all hands corwd into the stern- - too late to prevent the escape, but in time to see the man lying againt the railing.

"The Admiral..." says Koleniko.

"The Admiral's dead?" Clanker says, hardly believing this occurence. "The Admiral's dead!"

The cry is picked up: "The Admiral's dead!"

The Captain barrels through the crowd now, looking less then pleased at this turn of events. Then again -- when does Davy Jones look anything less then malicious?

It sends most of the screw scattering below -- and leaves him alone with the dying man. He comes closer to him, looking down, and then says, his voice like the crashing of waves: "James Norrington, do you fear death?"

Norrington is beyond answering verbally, if he would even have dignified that with an answer.

He is not, however, beyond movement. He draws his sword and he lunges up, stabbing Jones through the place where his heart should be.

The effort takes the last of his strength.

It's the last thing he does.

"Hnnh. I'll take that as a no."

Nonplussed by the man's last action, Jones jerks the sword from his breast as if it were a thorn in his palm; there's not a wince of pain or an ounce of discomfort. He turns the (Turner made) blade over in his hand and considers it a moment.

"Nice sword," he comments to himself, and leaves the cooling corpse behind him. Swords, after all, are far more interesting then dead admirals.

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