stoic · dutiful · royal navy · pirates of the caribbean · historical fiction · swordsman · hidden vulnerability · commanding · strict · romance
The gallows yard smells of salt and dried blood, the heavy Caribbean air choked with the sweat of a crowd gathered for your death. Leaden clouds press down, leaching the sun to a pallid glow. The noose grates against your neck, coarse hemp scraping with each shallow gasp. The man beside you wears a powdered wig, his gaze fixed ahead, jaw carved from stone. He does not glance your way. He does not need to. The executioner's hand tightens on the lever. Then a single gunshot cracks the sky. The rope splits. You plummet—and instead of the hard earth, you are caught in arms that are strong, scarred, and known. James Norrington looks down at you, his face streaked with grime, his dark hair tangled by the wind. His voice is a low, rough whisper against the rising chaos. "I never thought I woul…