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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Grégoire de Fronsac/James Norrington, others later.
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: PotC/Brotherhood of the Wolf crossover; post-movie for both. Am following the general history of 1766 in New Orléans, when the city was turned over to the Spanish amid protests by its mostly French citizenry, but am not sticking strictly to the timeline, so slight AU in respect to that. Supernatural aspects.
Summary: It’s not a healthy place to be.
***
Sagging wood houses, fainting in the hot rotting steam that passed for air. Roads that crooked around buildings the way a woman’s finger did, inching a mesmerized customer nearer to her hungry, cold eyes. A bundle of rags flipped over to become a faceless corpse, gorged rats staring out of its eye-sockets, and a rock looming inexplicably in the middle of the road became a dead horse, festering and maggot-infested. The streets were empty aside from the beggars humped on the corners, but screams echoed in every direction and fearful shadows danced behind every window.
James Norrington, only barely of Her Royal Navy, pulled his cloak close to him and ducked his face deep into it in the forlorn hope that somehow the thick fabric would protect him from the sickness ravaging New Orléans. In private, he found himself thinking more and more often that the city itself was a disease, a crouching spill of humanity’s waste edging the bend of the river.
The loud creaking, heavy and slow and erratic, warned him. He hustled himself up against a building—in most of the city, nothing resembling a footpath had been laid besides the roads—just in time to avoid the latest wagon of the dead. As it passed by him, it hit a stone and the whole conveyance rattled dreadfully; a corpse was jolted up only to flop backwards, arm falling towards him and eyes rolling in a mockery of a plea.
“Oui, they like the living still,” snickered the yellow-faced driver, and it was only then that James realized he’d gasped and flinched.
Thankfully, the wagon clattered on and he could resume pretending that he was merely going about his business, away from such foul sights. Unfortunately, there was no blast of sea spray and no leap into the wind awaiting the end of his journey. There was still his ship, but it was chained to the harbor and its men were either senseless with fever or secretly drinking themselves into a similar state. For once, he was returning without the heart to discipline them.
Dark was descending and he found himself moving more slowly, straining to make the crazed shapes and shades into comprehensible objects. James drifted into the center of the road where the light was better; since yellow fever had gripped the city, the traffic after daylight had begun to fail had fallen to nearly nothing. But that was not to say there weren’t still dangers, especially for a foreigner such as himself. The French colonists hated their new Spanish governor and they were still smarting from their losses in the recent war. For that matter, so were the Spanish, but even if they were devoid of any human feeling, they should have seen the wisdom in not provoking—
--no. There was no point in holding such grudges, James firmly reminded himself. However true or untrue they might be, they would do nothing to help him with his current dilemma. It would only be wasting energy better spent on other endeavors.
And if he were honest with himself—if he were allowed to be honest with himself—he was beginning to suspect his motives for conserving himself did not entirely spring from practicality. He’d been tired and frustrated, and had had good reason to be, but now his fatigue rode his bones and crept into his eyes to blur his sight in ways that he absolutely couldn’t afford to let progress. His skin seemed to drench and burn in alternate versions of hell.
No, that was because it was high summer and he kept himself closely wrapped in his cloak. He was stifling himself to keep from breathing in the foul air. That was all.
He was only a few minutes from the dockyards, but James turned away at the last moment. Not because he dreaded delivering the bad news, but because as the only healthy officer left, it fell to him to acquire provisions from the city. The Spanish had been persuaded to that much by the proximity of the British fleet in the Caribbean.
Would that he could send word to them, and find some way of escaping this city, but that was impossible. So James did what he could, tracking down crumbs like the faint shouting he could hear. Some merchant was desperately advertising his foodstuffs, hoping to draw the few able people still wandering the city.
When James arrived at the cracked-pane storefront, he discovered to his surprise that someone had actually beaten him. The man had his back to James, but it was a strong, broad-shouldered back without the shuddering, terrified stoop all the others seemed to have adopted. A thick tail of blond hair hung between his shoulderblades, and when he turned at James’ footsteps, he presented a rough, handsome face and eyes that were still capable of sparking, though they were as tired as James felt. He had been speaking the local Creole patois to the storekeeper, and as he stepped aside to make room for James, he made an extravagant bow: French, and recently arrived. “M’sieur. The plantains are spoken for, but you are free to choose from the rest.”
A marked accent, but of a higher class than James was used to encountering, and very good English. “Thank you.”
He received a raised eyebrow for his curt reply, but the other man kept his peace. James cast a brief glance over the poor selection, unwilling to look too closely at the flaws he knew he’d have to buy. The storekeeper, seeing how much James was considering, eagerly suggested an outrageous sum as if it were only a pittance. And considering the circumstances, it would be, but James still protested. “That’s twice what I’d pay for the highest quality.”
“Sir, you find some other man can serve you, I lower the price. Otherwise, no.” The man grinned and showed a jagged line of broken teeth.
“You find someone to spend that money on, then you’d need it,” the Frenchman suddenly interjected. He was genially smiling, but somehow his lean forward conveyed an air of irresistible force. Then he added a comment in rapid French that had the storekeeper bursting into cackling laughter.
Considering the look James received, it wasn’t hard to determine the nature of that comment. But then the storekeeper offered half-price, and James had to swallow the sourness in his throat. His men needed the food if they were to have any chance of recovering.
When the Frenchman began gathering up James’ purchases, he almost stopped the man, but a sudden, shocking wave of dizziness overtook him and he was too preoccupied with stark terror. By the time he’d calmed himself, they were already yards from the store.
The other man had his hand casually under James’ arm, but was studying him with detached intensity. “So…what would a British captain be doing in New Orléans? If the place is bad for Spaniards, it’s not heaven for you, either.”
“Misfortune.” James shook off the hand and straightened, moving very slowly so he wouldn’t touch off another spell. He felt at his throat and brow, then had to make himself stop before he grew hysterical. “A hurricane forced us into port just as the fever was breaking out, and the governor won’t permit us to leave.”
“I see.” The man handed back some of the food James had bought. “I am Grégoire de Fronsac, also a victim of mischance. Is your ship near?”
After three mental recitations of the calculations used with the octant, James rejected the suggestion of fever. His mind was clear enough, so most likely he was suffering from heat exhaustion. He loosened his cloak and took a step, then in a fit of frustration ripped it completely off. The heavy cloth made a reasonable impromptu carry-all for his purchases. “Commodore James Norrington of the Interceptor. It’s about five hundred yards this way…and I should have thanked you sooner. I apologize.”
“Oh, no need.” Grégoire smiled again, and this time his humor was wholly bitter. “I used to be at Court; I understand perfectly.”
“Still, thank you,” James insisted.
With a shrug, the other man acquiesced. Their conversation on the way to the ship revealed that de Fronsac was a naturalist of sorts and had been on the last leg of a tour down the Mississippi when he’d become trapped in New Orléans by the quarantine. He’d survived a yellow fever epidemic some years ago and thus was impatiently biding his time until he was allowed to leave the city. He did know something of medicine, but when pressed, he couldn’t offer much advice besides what James had already been doing: resting his men and plying them with whatever fresh, clean water could be obtained.
“It’d be better if you could get them off the ship and into the air,” Grégoire said. They’d left the food in care of a gaunt-faced Groves who moved like an arthritic old man, and were now walking along the docks. Fronsac had his lodgings nearby, and James felt obliged to walk the man to them, given the help he’d provided. “But I suppose you can’t persuade Governor Ulloa to give up that much to the English dog.”
“No.” A bit stung, James tightened his voice. The shrieking that pervaded the city was slowly growing louder and he hunched his shoulders against its nerve-rasping pitch.
Grégoire shot him a thoughtful look, then softly laughed. “I’ve drawn enough English blood for my country. It’s a name people use, signifying little.”
Somewhere quite close, a scream shuddered into the sky and split James’ answer. He whirled about, hand on his sword, and then he heard the footsteps. Frantic, stumbling, interspersed with crashes as whoever was running collided with obstacles in the way.
Oddly enough, Fronsac hadn’t looked. He had stopped, a peculiar expression on his face, and had cocked his head towards the noise. Then, without a word, he took off for a nearby stack of crates. The man bounded up them in mere seconds and was disappearing over a rooftop before James could even blink.
But there was no time to pay attention to that, because the footsteps had suddenly ended in a flurry and a chilling shriek. James sprang into motion and raced around the corner only to jerk back, flinging up his arm to block the spray of blood. He staggered back and unsheathed his sword, trying to clear his sight.
The body on the ground was what he saw first. Half-shadowed, half-lighted in the eerie dim glow of dusk, it was dressed in the uniform of a Spanish soldier, but its face was nothing but a horrific parallel set of gashes. Dark gleaming stuff was pooling around it.
Second was a whisper moving behind him; James whipped around just in time to see something blurry and white and pointed snapping together in front of him. He slashed up with his sword, but cut no resistance—he’d missed. Whatever it was, it was impossibly fast. And it’d gotten behind him again. He cursed and spun, smacked something fleshy and hard with his elbow and then twisted to barely avoid being crushed.
Then the smell hit—decay, overwhelming decay. Thick and choking and acrid, it knocked him backwards with the force of his coughing. He saw the shadows shift and snapped his sword in a wide arc to the side.
But it’d been a feint; something heavy slammed into his other side and he went down, his sword knocked clattering across the street. Blows stomped at his shoulders and chest, sending deep shocks of pain ripping through him. The white sharp things gnashed at his arm and only pure panic got him yanking that limb away in time. He threw himself up and grabbed behind the growling, found his hands full of coarse rough fur that burned his palms when the thing bucked and roared, but he held on anyway and struggled to keep the snapping from his body.
“Norrington! Laissez—let go and roll left!”
Let go--were they mad? If he did—
--then a tremendous heave of the creature made it a moot point, since it flung him into the side of a building. He came down on a pile of debris that was mostly soft, but the parts that weren’t drew blood from his jaw and hands and knees. Shaking his head, James groggily sat up to clearly see for the first time the gigantic wolf that’d been trying to kill it. Or rather, he saw its jaws gaping wide and coming for his throat.
He threw up his arms just as the shot rang out. The wolf jerked, snarled into a thrashing slump that sent it sliding within inches of James. It twitched and gurgled, one yellow eye rolling malevolently up to watch him as he threw himself away. James scrambled to his feet and then promptly collapsed against a doorway, lungs suddenly burning with every pant. His heel stepped on something that rattled; he bent to retrieve his sword and had a difficult time standing up again.
When Fronsac dropped down beside him, he nearly bashed his blade across the other man’s face. “Good God!”
“Are you bitten?” the other man asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, but roughly and rudely patted down James, ignoring the feeble attempts James made to brush him off. Then Fronsac stepped back and stared at the wolf. “Only bruises. Good…that one’s too big.”
“Too…too…” James gasped, wondering if Grégoire had become a little unhinged. It happened occasionally on long sea voyages, so he wouldn’t be surprised if it happened during long trips inland in unsettled country.
But then his skin crawled and he caught his breath, something telling him not to breathe. He looked back at the wolf, which had just whined its last, and then he jabbed his nails into the wall behind him.
The moon was not quite full, but it still threw down plenty of light on the corpse. Enough for James to see that, though hairy, it was decidedly human. “Dear God.”
“You’d better hope he isn’t concerned with this one,” Fronsac snorted, though he seemed rather shaken as well. He tucked his gun back into his belt and started to take James by the arm. “Come—” cocked head again, listening to distant cries in…Spanish “—come on. It wouldn’t be wise to be found here.”
“No…no, it wouldn’t.” James took one step and then he felt something twist deep inside of himself. It hurt.
Then it didn’t, because he was passing out.
***