The Tree of Woe
folder
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,264
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
2,264
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Tree of Woe Part 2
Title: The Tree of Woe
Style: Prose
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: R
Length: Fic
Pairings: None
Warnings: AU, AWE, Extreme violence, Norrington torture, Scottish Accent Abuse...
Authoress: LJ – cassiopaya, GJ – smw006
Characters: James Norrington, Davy Jones, Bootstrap, The Crew of the Flying Dutchman, and Tia Dalma.
Word Count: 1,363
Inspiration: Conan the Barbarian
Dedication: mrs_norrington, spamala97, and lastwordy_mcgee
Summary: James Norrington chooses not to die.
Notes: Part 2! Well, I am done with the violence and it is only going to get better. I promise. I will make poor James’ pain worth it!
Betas: pearly_dreamer and molassesturtle
***
All through the night Norrington was ignored by the crew. His loyal marines, thinking him already dead, kept watch over the still-beating heart of Davy Jones; resolute in the face of their Admiral’s final orders.
James still tied to the mast and his wounds coagulated and crusted over, drifted in an elastic dreamtime. An odd clicking sound, like a clock, kept the circadian rhythm. Still a leftenant, his own commission recently granted, he took tea with Jamaica’s new viceroyalty. Time and place stretched again, like a rubber band, only to snap back into place completely disoriented. Andrew, Theo and he were getting drunk on pilfered wine. It was not a real memory, the three had never been midshipmen together…but the pilfered wine…that was somehow true. And so was puking their guts up on the deck – earning them all a stern caning.
Only Norrington really was vomiting on the deck and the pain dancing at the edges of his non-functioning vision was real as well, but not the result of a caning. After the dry heaves had settled into something like sobs, James found it easier to breathe and drifted back into something akin to sleep.
***
That morning the gulls found him. The clicking blended with the flicker of wings, indistinguishable. At first they flew in to snatch pieces of dried vomit and genital off the deck. Some even pecked at the shellfish growing on the Dutchman; but turned their attention to the Admiral once their curiosity had been satisfied. Embolden by the lack of movement by the man against the mast, they perched tentatively on his head and shoulders. Wings splayed for a quick take-off at the slightest hit of retaliation, the gulls stretched out their necks and worried at the crusted wounds with their beaks.
With the crowding about his torso and feet, one gull flew up and landed awkwardly on his thigh, webbed feet clutching precariously to woolen breeches. Wings fluttering for balance, the gull leaned in to peck at the scabbed stump at the crux of Norrington’s thighs.
James awoke from a dream of courting young Miss Swann with a hoarse scream. The gull flew off him, startled cries echoing. Panting and trembling, fresh blood oozing from his picked scabs, he looked about the deck with his one good eye. Norrington kept seeing something out of the corner of his vision, a speck of white in a deep, dark void. Overhead the gulls circled and called to one another, studying their food.
After a few moments of fruitlessly scanning the deck, the Admiral realized he was going mad. The speck of white was a tiny crab clicking its pincers and James could only see it from the socket that was empty.
He laughed long and hard. The gulls perched in the rigging, waiting for their prey to settle.
***
The wind had picked up, hurrying the Dutchman along towards her fate and the salty spray stung Norrington’s wounds. The sneering face of Mr. Mercer passed before him and the clicking of the little crab droned like a methadone. Young Elizabeth was learning how to plink on the pianoforte and little James was learning to dance from his Welsh instructor.
The Admiral was slumped against the mast and the fight seemed to leak out of him. The knife in his side was slowly tearing apart his muscle and flesh and soon James would be unpinned from the mast. He imagined sliding down the mast to sit on the deck and to rest until death took him. The birds read his mind.
A gull landed on his shoulder and pecked at Norrington’s empty socket. Through the haze of pain from the previous night, James had thought his jaw had been broken, but it had only been dislocated. Quick as a snake and before he could realize what he was about, the Admiral had sunk his teeth into the warm, feathered flesh.
The bird flailed, calling boisterously, and James shook his head like a dog. He broke the gull’s wing and it flopped out of his lock-jawed mouth and onto the deck. In pain, the pitiful creature flapped and hobbled feebly at Norrington’s feet.
Spitting downy feathers off his lips, James felt an incredible sorrow. If he had tears left he would have shed them. What a monstrous thing he had done. Norrington was as incapable of speech as the bird was flight. Very gently, James moved his leg impaled with coral and nudged the gull towards him.
The Admiral’s leg would not support him. He slid down the mast; free of the knife in his side. Light headed, James leaned back against the mast and closed his eye. Trying to breathe deeply proved useless.
Cocking his head at the bird and squinting with his good eye, Norrington slowly used his good leg to coax the gull towards him. It perched on his shin and James felt better. He hoped the damn thing would not wander about the deck and get stepped on. The bird eyed him warily, still hungry, but afraid of the teeth this morsel possessed.
***
There was a bustling about the Dutchman that James could not quite put his finger on. Restlessness among the crew, but no call to quarters ensued. Not the air before battle, but something else. Perhaps a docking..?
Thunk, thunk, thunk heralded the approach of The Flying Dutchman’s captain. Norrington glanced up blearily from the preening gull, its beak reminding him of a crab’s pincer. Jones was chuckling at him, though not unkindly.
“Dinna think I do not admire ye, Admiral, I do. A great deal, in fact. Has not this charade carried on long enough? Do ye not long for death? Are ye…afraid of death?”
James pulled his blistering lips over his teeth and made an inarticulate sound in his throat. The gull followed suit and hissed at Davy Jones, waddling up Norrington’s leg.
“It may interest ye to know Admiral that I go now to parlay at Beckett’s side with the Pirate King. Beckett has quite the fleet gathered about him and with meself at his disposal he shall be nigh unstoppable. I wonder if I should mention to him yer little intrigues about my ship.”
As if he would care that I still lived, James thought. Norrington could not voice his thoughts. He had no spit to lubricate his words, his tongue hot and heavy in his mouth and dry as a stone.
“Did ye know that I was ordered to bring the bonny Mistress Swann to Beckett should I come across her? He seemed verra insistent on having her alive and unharmed.”
Norrington narrowed his eye at Davy Jones and gave him a glare that would have made a midshipman shit himself. Jones was only amused.
“Ye must be burning up terribly in this sun, Admiral. Too bad we of the Dutchman not being mortal men carry no fresh water aboard. I could offer ye a tin of sea water. Yer death would be slow and painful and ye would lose yer mind long before the end. Would ye like that, Admiral?”
James flared his nostrils and if he lacked the class and had the saliva left he would have spit at Jones.
“I have heard a rumor that the bonny Miss Elizabeth travels with the Pirate King. I have no doubt that Beckett will ask for her as a condition of the parlay and I have no doubt that the Pirate King, not being a stupid man, will gladly part with her. I dinna doubt that one day she may even begin to enjoy the attentions of Lord Beckett and I dinna doubt that one day he may actually make her Lady Beckett. Why, she may even come to love him! What do ye think of that, Admiral?”
Davy Jones missed James Norrington’s look of inarticulate rage as he thunked away laughing. The gull cried and shifted uneasily on his thigh as it felt the impotent rage vibrate in his veins. The little white crab darted in and out of James’ sightless eye, clicking its pincers in a quicker tempo; a drumbeat that rallied the Admiral’s failing body.
End of Chapter 2
Style: Prose
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: R
Length: Fic
Pairings: None
Warnings: AU, AWE, Extreme violence, Norrington torture, Scottish Accent Abuse...
Authoress: LJ – cassiopaya, GJ – smw006
Characters: James Norrington, Davy Jones, Bootstrap, The Crew of the Flying Dutchman, and Tia Dalma.
Word Count: 1,363
Inspiration: Conan the Barbarian
Dedication: mrs_norrington, spamala97, and lastwordy_mcgee
Summary: James Norrington chooses not to die.
Notes: Part 2! Well, I am done with the violence and it is only going to get better. I promise. I will make poor James’ pain worth it!
Betas: pearly_dreamer and molassesturtle
All through the night Norrington was ignored by the crew. His loyal marines, thinking him already dead, kept watch over the still-beating heart of Davy Jones; resolute in the face of their Admiral’s final orders.
James still tied to the mast and his wounds coagulated and crusted over, drifted in an elastic dreamtime. An odd clicking sound, like a clock, kept the circadian rhythm. Still a leftenant, his own commission recently granted, he took tea with Jamaica’s new viceroyalty. Time and place stretched again, like a rubber band, only to snap back into place completely disoriented. Andrew, Theo and he were getting drunk on pilfered wine. It was not a real memory, the three had never been midshipmen together…but the pilfered wine…that was somehow true. And so was puking their guts up on the deck – earning them all a stern caning.
Only Norrington really was vomiting on the deck and the pain dancing at the edges of his non-functioning vision was real as well, but not the result of a caning. After the dry heaves had settled into something like sobs, James found it easier to breathe and drifted back into something akin to sleep.
That morning the gulls found him. The clicking blended with the flicker of wings, indistinguishable. At first they flew in to snatch pieces of dried vomit and genital off the deck. Some even pecked at the shellfish growing on the Dutchman; but turned their attention to the Admiral once their curiosity had been satisfied. Embolden by the lack of movement by the man against the mast, they perched tentatively on his head and shoulders. Wings splayed for a quick take-off at the slightest hit of retaliation, the gulls stretched out their necks and worried at the crusted wounds with their beaks.
With the crowding about his torso and feet, one gull flew up and landed awkwardly on his thigh, webbed feet clutching precariously to woolen breeches. Wings fluttering for balance, the gull leaned in to peck at the scabbed stump at the crux of Norrington’s thighs.
James awoke from a dream of courting young Miss Swann with a hoarse scream. The gull flew off him, startled cries echoing. Panting and trembling, fresh blood oozing from his picked scabs, he looked about the deck with his one good eye. Norrington kept seeing something out of the corner of his vision, a speck of white in a deep, dark void. Overhead the gulls circled and called to one another, studying their food.
After a few moments of fruitlessly scanning the deck, the Admiral realized he was going mad. The speck of white was a tiny crab clicking its pincers and James could only see it from the socket that was empty.
He laughed long and hard. The gulls perched in the rigging, waiting for their prey to settle.
The wind had picked up, hurrying the Dutchman along towards her fate and the salty spray stung Norrington’s wounds. The sneering face of Mr. Mercer passed before him and the clicking of the little crab droned like a methadone. Young Elizabeth was learning how to plink on the pianoforte and little James was learning to dance from his Welsh instructor.
The Admiral was slumped against the mast and the fight seemed to leak out of him. The knife in his side was slowly tearing apart his muscle and flesh and soon James would be unpinned from the mast. He imagined sliding down the mast to sit on the deck and to rest until death took him. The birds read his mind.
A gull landed on his shoulder and pecked at Norrington’s empty socket. Through the haze of pain from the previous night, James had thought his jaw had been broken, but it had only been dislocated. Quick as a snake and before he could realize what he was about, the Admiral had sunk his teeth into the warm, feathered flesh.
The bird flailed, calling boisterously, and James shook his head like a dog. He broke the gull’s wing and it flopped out of his lock-jawed mouth and onto the deck. In pain, the pitiful creature flapped and hobbled feebly at Norrington’s feet.
Spitting downy feathers off his lips, James felt an incredible sorrow. If he had tears left he would have shed them. What a monstrous thing he had done. Norrington was as incapable of speech as the bird was flight. Very gently, James moved his leg impaled with coral and nudged the gull towards him.
The Admiral’s leg would not support him. He slid down the mast; free of the knife in his side. Light headed, James leaned back against the mast and closed his eye. Trying to breathe deeply proved useless.
Cocking his head at the bird and squinting with his good eye, Norrington slowly used his good leg to coax the gull towards him. It perched on his shin and James felt better. He hoped the damn thing would not wander about the deck and get stepped on. The bird eyed him warily, still hungry, but afraid of the teeth this morsel possessed.
There was a bustling about the Dutchman that James could not quite put his finger on. Restlessness among the crew, but no call to quarters ensued. Not the air before battle, but something else. Perhaps a docking..?
Thunk, thunk, thunk heralded the approach of The Flying Dutchman’s captain. Norrington glanced up blearily from the preening gull, its beak reminding him of a crab’s pincer. Jones was chuckling at him, though not unkindly.
“Dinna think I do not admire ye, Admiral, I do. A great deal, in fact. Has not this charade carried on long enough? Do ye not long for death? Are ye…afraid of death?”
James pulled his blistering lips over his teeth and made an inarticulate sound in his throat. The gull followed suit and hissed at Davy Jones, waddling up Norrington’s leg.
“It may interest ye to know Admiral that I go now to parlay at Beckett’s side with the Pirate King. Beckett has quite the fleet gathered about him and with meself at his disposal he shall be nigh unstoppable. I wonder if I should mention to him yer little intrigues about my ship.”
As if he would care that I still lived, James thought. Norrington could not voice his thoughts. He had no spit to lubricate his words, his tongue hot and heavy in his mouth and dry as a stone.
“Did ye know that I was ordered to bring the bonny Mistress Swann to Beckett should I come across her? He seemed verra insistent on having her alive and unharmed.”
Norrington narrowed his eye at Davy Jones and gave him a glare that would have made a midshipman shit himself. Jones was only amused.
“Ye must be burning up terribly in this sun, Admiral. Too bad we of the Dutchman not being mortal men carry no fresh water aboard. I could offer ye a tin of sea water. Yer death would be slow and painful and ye would lose yer mind long before the end. Would ye like that, Admiral?”
James flared his nostrils and if he lacked the class and had the saliva left he would have spit at Jones.
“I have heard a rumor that the bonny Miss Elizabeth travels with the Pirate King. I have no doubt that Beckett will ask for her as a condition of the parlay and I have no doubt that the Pirate King, not being a stupid man, will gladly part with her. I dinna doubt that one day she may even begin to enjoy the attentions of Lord Beckett and I dinna doubt that one day he may actually make her Lady Beckett. Why, she may even come to love him! What do ye think of that, Admiral?”
Davy Jones missed James Norrington’s look of inarticulate rage as he thunked away laughing. The gull cried and shifted uneasily on his thigh as it felt the impotent rage vibrate in his veins. The little white crab darted in and out of James’ sightless eye, clicking its pincers in a quicker tempo; a drumbeat that rallied the Admiral’s failing body.