James Norrington knew he was dying

Even so, his fingers persisted in retaining their death grip on the piece of hull he was floating on, as if they had a wish for life all their own. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he had found himself in the water. Hours, days, an eternity. If he were the sort of man who enjoyed gambling, he would have considered making a wager on eternity.

Certainly, his mouth was as dry as an eternity, and the salt encrusting his lips made the thirst all the worse for it. It burned like tiny needles in the wound on his leg, as well, where he thought he had been hit by something. Something sharp and hot and wicked that had knocked him to the deck, just before the whole sky had gone and blown up.

Though, upon reflection—and he had had hours, days, an eternity to reflect—it hadn't been the sky, but the ship that had blown up. Bits of metal and wood and canvas and men flying upwards, the actual sound of the cannon that had hit them resounding almost like an afterthought the next moment.

They had seen nothing in the fog, not until it was far too late, and not even after, really. He knew whoever it was had been either very very good or very very lucky to have fired upon them so precisely. Taking out their stores of powder and most of their ship in one terrible broadside.

After he himself had gone tumbling, grey smoke, grey sky, grey fog spinning, until he had finally smashed into an even greyer ocean, the rest had made even less sense. There had been fire and screams, flashes of light, a scarlet mist spreading out over the waves, or perhaps across his vision, and then his hands had somehow found this piece of shattered hull and hauled him up onto it and hadn't let go since.

Not that he could blame them. This tiny slice of worm-holed and fire-scorched wood was the only familiar thing left to him, all that remained of the ship he had come to know if anything even better than his childhood home. Without it, he knew he would have succumbed already, sunk down to the depths that every sailor respected, if they didn't actually fear outright.

Somehow, he managed to lift his head a little, but he could see nothing still but grey. Nothing but fog and the endless waves. If the sun was out there, if another ship was out there, then one would never have known it. It was like he had somehow found himself in another world entire—one where land and life and hope were but an illusion.

Exhausted, he let his head fall again and closed his eyes. Dimly, he realized that he was shivering, that he had been shivering for some time now. Cold. It was too bloody cold. The Caribbean shouldn't be this cold. But then it had turned cold just before the other ship had come upon them, hadn't it? The Captain had even remarked on it, turning to look at him as he said something about the wind taking an odd turn, about a strange feel to the air... and then... and then...

He opened his eyes once more and looked at those determined fingers, boneless white now and seeming to belong to a stranger, and he could have sworn there actually was frost forming on the edges of the timbers, that his fingernails were turning faintly blue. It made him wonder if all those old impossible tales were really true, after all, and he was about to fall off the edge of the world. To spill over into a realm of ghosts and madness.

Or, perhaps, he was there already...

There was a sudden splash somewhere in the fog, the faintest rattling sound, and then he saw a shadow move. Saw a huge dark wall looming up over him, and belatedly recognized it as the hull of a ship. One made of wood as worm-holed and worn as the piece of good English oak he was lying on, but painted a dire black, instead. And there were black wings in the fog, as well, drifting high above him. Tattered ribbons of sails he would have sworn moved almost with a life of their own.

And he didn't have to see the flag high above them to know. To suddenly remember what he had seen as his world had torn itself apart and he had found himself in the sea, gasping for air, grasping for purchase on what little remained of life.

Black ship. Black sails. Black flag.

But he couldn't keep his eyes open, couldn't fight anymore, even as something bumped into his refuge. As from some distant place, he felt his fingers being pried loose from their grip—pop, pop, pop, did he really hear that sound or just imagine it? had they actually broken his fingers?—and then sensed himself being lifted free. Only to be set down again, not altogether gently, into something that rocked and carried him away.

But he couldn't find the strength left to care. He just lay there and shivered and shivered, as he finally heard the voices of his rescuers, his captors, his fate. One voice cutting over the rest with the ease of long command, long-practiced threat—a coldly pleasant and yet oddly pleasurable voice, almost nearly cultured, a gentleman's voice caught up amongst the company of cutthroats.

"An what have we here then, lads? A tender pearl plucked from the cruel heart of the ocean, or a pretty leftenant tendered up by the sea this day for our own amusement?"