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jas_norrington's Journal

Created on 2006-08-06 04:33:23 (#10846813), last updated 2006-09-26

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Basic Info

Name:	Jas. Norrington
Website:	James Norrington

Bio

FULL NAME: James Christopher Norrington
AGE: 34
BIRTHPLACE: Yorkshire England
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
MARITAL STATUS: Single
HEIGHT/WEIGHT: Tall/Heavy?
EYES/HAIR: Green/Brown
CURRENT LOCATION: Port Royal

There was no time to fetch the midwife from town due to the unexpectedness of the labour, and as he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows Captain James Thomas Norrington of the Royal Fleet assured his anxious sister-in-law that he had,in fact, done this before. "Although," he’d continued in a bright-enough tone, "That was ten years ago with the Dago’s goddamned shot exploding over my head – decking pitching us about like pebbles in a pail. I don’t suppose this’ll be harder without all that hullabaloo, eh?" Night was well into dawn when the babe was born; a bright-eyed boy with wisps of dark hair like fairy locks; and Cathay did not name him Reginald (as her husband would have demanded had he not been away to London Town) but James instead, after his sea-faring uncle who for them had done so much and whom she loved dearly.

As little James grew older, it soon became apparent that his namesake had been an appropriate one. Any toy was immediately rendered worthless if it could not float, and though he had never even been to the coast Captain Norrington remarked early on that his nephew already had the hungry, restless demeanor of a sea-starved sailor – oft when the boy should have been studying, he would catch James staring out the window so intently, as though he searched for white sails against the purpled dark of the moor – waiting for a smooth oak hull to come plunging through the heather, violet petals scattered to the wind in its wake. He demanded in all earnest to hear every story his uncle had to tell about life on the rolling main, from the mundane to the unbearably intrepid, and inquired after the captain constantly when he was away. He kept track of his uncle’s progress (information he received from the slow-coming but constant stream of kind-hearted letters) upon a map on his wall, and asked for each new Navy List as it was released, eager to learn the names of all the ships and everything else imaginable about them, from the number of guns to the number of wooden nails holding each vessel together. As such it was no surprise when, at the ripe old age of seven, he began asking for a commission in His Majesty’s Navy.

His father, General Norrington, who was a bitter man by cause of his familial status (he would not inherit), disapproved greatly of James’s ambitions, and refused. No son of his was to be a common tar; and although James’s mother Catharine wanted very much for her youngest to pursue his aspirations, she did not dare dispute her husband’s decision or make any advances that might upset his temper, which was, more often than not, violent and unpredictable. James did eventually get his wish, but it was not under the happiest of circumstances. In the summer of 1698 his mother, along with his favourite aunt, Josey, perished in a carriage accident – and James took his loss hard. So hard, in fact, that his uncle offered to take him into the service under his wing on account of his concern for the boy,who, though already quiet to begin with, was now more shy and withdrawn than ever. The General had always planned for the boy to hack out a career in the Redcoats as he and his middle son had done – though that son was ultimately more successful and more popular than ever his father would be – instead of waffling through the clergy or lazing about on his arse like his oldest boy, Charles, and despite his objections his brother Captain Norrington remained steadfastly pigheaded; in the end there was no doubt he felt some lofty obligation to his deceased wife and gave his consent – figuring also he had one less squalling brat to concern himself with. Good King George would be feeding him, now, and he was none the worse for it.

All the better for the boy James. From the moment he laid eyes on the forest of spars at the Royal Shipyards at Portsmouth, it was as if a light had gone on inside him. He took to sea as a fish does (as it so happens) to water; or perhaps as a bird to the air; and<, upon the clean-scrubbed decks of his uncle’s beloved Pallas, he never felt so at home. He missed his family – mostly his mother, of course, and his oldest sister, Martha, who was favourite of all his siblings – but made friends easily, and had no trouble in the keeping of them. As he grew older and (quickly) rose up in the ranks, this same loyalty bled up in the veins of the men under his command; to them he was a fair leader; stern and by the book, but with a wry and benevolent sort of wink about him that they could appreciate.

In 1712, his 24th year, he was assigned by the Admiralty to escort the newly appointed Governor of Britain’s capitol of the West Indies to his post in Jamaica. James had since earned his lieutenancy and was eager to advance to the position of Captain and acquire his own command, however small, and accepted his orders with a grateful sort of desperation that his superiors silently noted and laughed about later – they all of them remembered those times with fondness; the prospect of having one’s own ship dangling like a carrot in front of one’s nose almost inhumanly possible to bear. Youthful eagerness aside, little did James know he was soon about to have his first brush with Destiny.

She came in the form of an adolescent child – the daughter of his charge, Weatherby Swann. Her name was Elizabeth, and James had not met such a spirited girl since his boyhood in Yorkshire; like his sisters, there was a certain spark and intelligence about the girl, who was constantly devouring books and demanding stories of even the lowliest lubber – soon enough she had a good many of the men wrapped ‘round her littlest finger. Though he could not say the same applied to himself, James recognised the restlessness in her and endeavored to keep her entertained, teaching her the names of each line and every sail from the decking up and how to calculate longitude and what the weather gauge was – viz., he treated her as he would any middie, which seemed to work out just fine for the both of them. At least, it did until Swann specifically asked him to stop. (This was where the trouble started. Although James had grown up in a family full to brimming of women (of headstrong, lively women, no less) he could not imagine how to talk to a girl – a female girl – and around her he found himself feeling stiff, and old, and awkward, and he did not like it.)

Destiny arrived once more that voyage when the Dauntless happened upon the shipwreck of an unfortunate merchant vessel, still aflame and surrounded by goods and wooden guts. There was only one survivor: a thin, soggy boy of about thirteen. Some scoffed when James appointed young Elizabeth guardian over their maroon, but he trusted her to do her duty – which she did, with the utmost seriousness; endearing her to him further, though he suspected she was rather horrified by the prospect.

His handling of the incident in addition to the successful delivery of Port Royal’s new governor earned him a post-captaincy, just as James had hoped, and the following years passed by in a blur of oak and canvas and snapping lines that were all his own. He tried, and thought his attempts were rewarded with relatively successful results, wooing Miss Swann, whom he found himself increasingly attached to. He could not lie to himself and say he was in love with her – no heavy sighing; no lingering glances at Government House or pilfering one of her lacy gloves to moon over during church – but he admired her very much, and wished they might be friends. Martha (whom he wrote to every fortnight) advised him to propose soon, before another man could swoop in and take her (suggesting also that such a gesture may warm her to him) and James gladly took her counsel to heart, and proposed to her upon the day of his promotion to Commodore in the summer of 1721.

Of course, we all know how that turned out.

Since the events of Barbossa and the curse of the Black Pearl, James’s luck has not improved. After chasing Jack Sparrow all across the Seven Seas and failing so completely at catching him, he has since revoked his commission, deeming himself unworthy of such a position, and disappeared so deep into the woodwork that no-one could find him.

Of course, we all know how that one turned out, too. Poor James.

There is nothing particularly remarkable about James Norrington. He is just a man, like any other, although much has changed in the last year; where once duty and honour were everything to James, other, darker emotions – revenge and a base, annoyingly persistent will to survive – have taken their place. He is constantly at war with his own mind, both disgusted and delighted with the newfound realisation that he does not have to care for anyone but himself. Bitter and more cynical than ever, it seems he has lost all hope in everything he once held dear – which, too, is lost to him. The loss of his crew and his beloved Dauntless haunts his dreams and comes to him in waking nightmares, and he is much shamed by his failure.

Yet, in spite of all this, he has not turned cruel. At the bare bones he remains kind-hearted and as fierce and courageous as any lion, and wants very much to have something to protect, to care for, and to take pride in. (This does not mean he expects any such thing to come his way, even if he wishes it were so.)

However, this isn’t to say James isn’t above acting like one of the pirates Elizabeth worships. He will not kill in cold blood, of course – he is not so arrogant as to believe he has the jurisdiction to make such decisions, contrary to popular belief – but he will lie, cheat, , or beg in order to restore any semblance of his old life. (He has convinced himself he wants the Commodore back, but there are times he isn’t so sure.)

James is, in a word, big. His height (6’1”) allows him to tower over most men of his time, and his shoulders are broad and muscled from years of swordplay and practical seamanship – all in all helpful for projecting a commanding figure. His features – beneath the relatively recent scruff of beard, grime of dirt and who-knows-what-else – are handsome in the classic sense: straight nose, tranquil brow, and a strong chin frame startling sea-green eyes, and a thin bow of an expressive mouth. His hands are rough and constantly stained with tar; nails ragged; grimy where they aren’t bit down to the quick, and his teeth, although they remain unspoilt, are always dirty.

The ex-commodore wears what remains of his uniform – he’s having a little trouble letting go – and whatever else he can find that isn’t too threadbare or suspiciously stained. The wig (which he hated) has finally fallen off its last leg, and James wears his tangled hair in a messy tail at the back of his head, usually tied with a bit of twine, or a ribbon if he’s feeling saucy. Big (anachronistic) pirate boots are on his feet, which he guards with his life and a cruddy but reliable cutlass at his side, decidedly not fashioned by one Willam Turner, Blacksmith.