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"Your name is still well-known to the people in this country. You are a legend, and so you must go by another name until you can safely leave again, do you understand?"
James nodded mutely as they wove their way through the crowded docks. It was not how he had pictured returning to England. In fact, before his death aboard the Flying Dutchman, he had never thought he would live to ever see England again. Funny, how it was only through his death that he would return "home."
Home.
For the last fifteen years (of his first) life home had been wherever he had been stationed, and he had never looked back. People had whispered about his past, about his family back in England, but he never gave anything away. They talked about his poor mother who had not seen her son for years, and of sisters desolate of his company, and young brothers who had such a fine example of a gentleman and an officer to look up to. James had only smiled politely and excused himself from the conversation as soon a socially acceptable. The truth was that he had been an only child, and he had received word before his promotion to Commodore that his mother had passed away - quietly, in her sleep. His father, himself a decorated and well-respected Admiral, had been killed in the line of duty barely a year after James had set sail for Jamaica.
England hadn't changed.
But it was no longer home.
Upon their return to England, Samantha had led him through the crowds, still talking. "It's been less than a decade since these people have heard of you - since your disappearance and death - but you're not wholly unrecognisable."
"Thank you, I'm aware of that."
She cast him a glance out of the corner of her eye, amused at his mocking tone. "I'm just making a point, James," she reminded him.
He shouldn't have been surprised that she had housing in London - quite elaborate housing at that - but he was. The few years on that lonely island had left him with the impression that material possessions were not high on her list of priorities. Now, after nearly a decade, he still wasn't sure he quite understood his 'teacher' but he knew that she had a habit of collecting items from every period of time and collating them in her own personal museum.
Returning back to her housing after an evening out on the town, Samantha stopped him on the stone balcony in front of the entrance. "This is where we part," she told him, with no small amount of sadness in her voice.
It was not unexpected, and she had spoken of their separation from the moment she had bartered their passage on a passing merchant vessel back from the Caribbean. But the reality of it was far harder to comprehend.
She cupped his face in one of her hands and smiled sadly. "I have taught you everything I can. I have nothing left to teach."
"So soon?" It wasn't a plea.
She nodded her head. "It was going to happen sooner or later," she told him. "You don't need me any more. You haven't for a while. The only thing I can do for you now is point you in the direction of others who can teach you something more than I can offer." She slipped a piece of paper into his overcoat pocket and patted it gently. "Not all of our kind will issue a challenge on sight. Some have grown tired of the constant fighting and want to teach instead of kill - unless challenged themselves."
James looked out over the gardens. "Like yourself?"
She shrugged. "I have a desire to survive, but to be the instigator of a challenge is not in my best interest. I am a fair swordsman, but by pure bad luck of gender, the odds are not always in my favour - even if I have the benefit of surprise and the choice of time and location."
He nodded. When they first began, James had been more than a fair swordsman, but through sheer years of practice, she had been able to beat him on every occasion. As time passed, he increased in skill, and through superior strength and stamina, he could defeat her now given enough time. "And so where will you go?"
"Home, most likely," she admitted. "It's where I always go when I have no where else to be." She joined him at the railing, following his gaze out into the distance.
She found his hand and pressed a key into his palm and smiled. "This house is yours to do with as you wish, James. I have no need of it anymore." She leaned up and brushed his lips with her own, the ghost of a kiss - quiet and fleeting - before pulling back.
"Don't lose your head, James," she said quietly, walking away back towards the entrance of the house. Her footsteps echoed into the silence, steady and even.
Fic. Breaking Storm (POTC/Highlander) // PG13ish
* * *
He stayed in London for another decade after she left.
It was for comfort, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the idea that he was not going to age; he was afforded the opportunity to live through the ages, travel all around the world and see the most incredible sights. But it all needed to sink in, settle.
He had never met another Immortal, with the exception of Samantha, and when the time came for his first challenge he was startled. The Buzz, the sign that he had been told was the calling card, the warning chime, of another Immortal presence found him while he was walking the abandoned docks in the early hours of the morning. He went there often, called by the sea, as only men who had spent years on it could be called.
When his opponent appeared out of the shadows, he looked ordinary - like any other man he might have passed on the street during the daytime. He shouldn't have been so surprised.
They exchanged pleasantries, and when his opponent drew his sword, James felt the familiar calm that he had always felt when called to do his duty. He had been a soldier, an officer, and a feared throughout the Caribbean. James Norrington had been a scourge upon the pirate population, just as the pirates themselves had been a scourge on the civilised world. He didn't feel fear.
Trepidation, yes. But not fear.
The metallic clang of steel on steel crashed through the empty silence of night. Slow at first, as they each gaged the other. The rhythm was comfortable, he decided, and he began to push forward the attack. He was unrelenting, and led the duel with a ferocity he had not felt in years. He was faced with a threat and he would win.
James Norrington did not like to lose.
He lost track of the time, and their location had changed - moving from the docks to the abandoned streets - but the Game went on. He thought of nothing else, noticed nothing else, but his opponents steps, the way he defended. He looked for the opening, the one single mistake that would be made.
His opponent never even realised his mistake, the one split second when he adjusted his stance and left himself open to the fatal blow. There was no room for hesitation and the ease of how he parted his opponent from his head was not lost on James. It was over in a heartbeat, and the body fell backwards onto the cold, dark street with a dull thud; the sword clattered to the ground beside it.
At first he felt nothing.
Then it hit him, like lightning. He felt caught in a storm, unable to move, think. Unable to breath in the sheer violence of the swirling winds and flashing light. It was as though he was being held underwater and trying to fight his way up from air. And that was just the beginning.
He felt it course through his veins, violently, unexpectedly.
The Quickening.
Pain wracked his body and when it was all over he collapsed to the ground on his knees. His breaths came out in ragged gasps.
Around him, the silence resumed it's claim on the night.