Disclaimer: Disney owns all, except my original characters. Title inspired by Biffy Clyro - 'Bubbles'.

James Norrington woke, as if he had been in a deep sleep.

No. Not asleep. Dead. He should have been dead. His immediate question was his surroundings. There was a strong smell of a fragrance which he could not quite place in his current lacklustre state. A warming waft of hot food drifted through his senses, along with the smell of the burning wood it was undoubtedly being cooked on. It seeped into his bones; the very pits of his being. He would be grateful of something to eat right now, if he had not felt as numb and weary as he did.

A dull, throbbing pain was beating in his abdomen, with a steady doldrums pace. Maybe this was life on the other side; that unknown world beyond that of the living. Those beautiful smells could be another temptation – in the same way which Beckett had coaxed him back into serving the East India Trading Company – to lead him away from his once honourable nature. For he had been honourable. He knew what was right and wrong. But all that had paled in comparison to the prospect of reclaiming his station.

What if he was in Hell? Lord knows he deserved it for his unforgivable sins. Nothing could absolve me for my past sins. Not even his final act, as an Admiral of the British Navy, could save his soul. All for her. He sacrificed himself, just for her.

The wound.

James threw his hand down to his stomach, ripped open the front of his shirt. His mind entertained the question of where the rest of his uniform was for only half a second. He could think about that in greater depth later.

He searched for a wound, anything, to show where Bill Turner had speared him through, anything to prove it had all been real. His fingers traced a jagged and tender scar just below his sternum. It may have been sore, but it was sealed up. He tried to check for the same mark on his back. He could not. He was too weak to lift himself up from whatever soft material he was lying on. The same pain radiating from his front was pulsing in his spine. He should not have been alive. Turner had sliced through his vital organs, caused instant blood loss. No one should survive such a solid blow.

His vision was clearing. He strained to look about. A room lit by candles, dots of fire, scattered on various tables and other surfaces, so used the wax had dripped and dried, fixing them steadfast where they stood. Mismatched objects scattered around; jars containing unidentifiable liquids; what appeared to be bones of crustaceans clustered in a pile; locked chests and cabinets; objects which he could not even distinguish.

This must be Hell. He had read the Bible, knew what he might have to expect and his current surrounding was extraordinary enough to be anywhere in the normal world. All that was missing was the Hellfire and demons. Yet the warm breeze and the comfortable bed had not been expected. Maybe…not Hell. What if this room was his own Purgatory? God, he hoped not.

Norrington sank back down, wincing from the spike of discomfort the simple move evoked. So, this is what has become of me. Forced to stay bed bound, reliving the pain of being run through over and over. All for her.

Something moved at the foot of the bed, made its way forward to his head and took up residence on a wooden stool beside him. So, he was to be tormented –tortured even – by demons. The fragrance he had smelt before returned, stronger, surprisingly soothing. A face, not as hideous as James thought a demon would be, peered down at him. The face was concerned, also unexpected. He would come to learn what – who - this creature was. For now, however, a metal cup was offered to him and a gentle voice, comprised of broken English, said: ''Ere, drink dis.'

James stared for a while, his brows knitted sceptically. His eyes followed the hand which held the cup, up the arm, the curve of the neck, finally landing on the, still, focused features. Skin like ground cocoa beans, hair like coarse rope. He commanded his eyes to focus but they refused to obey. He was just too weak.

'Drink.' The same voice persisted. The steam rising from the beverage carried with it a waft of something similar to tea, coaxing him to unfurl his brow as it took hold of his senses. The hand guided the cup to his mouth and tilted it up to allow him to drink. At first it stung his dry throat, but slowly a faint alcohol-like burn began to weave its way down into his stomach. He could feel the heat working through every cell in his being; muscles relaxed; cold numbness became welcomed sedation. It even managed to subdue the pain in his torso and back. Eventually the cup was empty. Serenity. Clearly that drink was something much richer than tea; for the first time since waking he felt utterly relaxed.

The cup was set aside and it rattled with a metal clang when it was put down. The figure rose from their seat, the aroma dissipating the moment they moved away. In fact, the entire atmosphere seemed bleaker. James attempted to trace them, but pushing himself up to an angle which would allow him to see properly was impossible in his current state.

The creature was hovering just a small distance away. Was it scowling over the evident damage of his body? No, not scowling, determining the scale of it all. He could just make out the calculating gaze of the figure, as they cocked their head and scrutinised his body. A tentative, narrow-fingered hand found his scar. Just as the soft pads of the creature's finger touched him, James grabbed the hand in an automatic reaction.

But…

His grip faltered. Fingers loosened. His own muscles were betraying him. His hand went limp. Slipped back to his side. Just what had been in that drink? There was no time for an answer. Norrington was led back into the dark; hazy with tiredness and anesthetized with sweet smelling perfume.

x

It would have been easy to assume that he had been poisoned. A part of his mind considered it might be a blessing in disguise, to release him from this limbo he was in. However, the second time James came to, he found himself rather more alert than before. Not just alert. The throbbing in his body had died down, so at least now he could find the strength to prop himself up without grunting in agony. Everything around him was crystal clear. If he wasn't dead, what was this strange place?

James rubbed a hand across his forehead, as he attempted to make sense of it all; it being how he was even alive. He was certain now that he was alive. A beating heart. Working lungs. A – dare he say coherently? – functioning brain. Being alive was all well and good, but he needed answers. Needed to be certain he hadn't lost his mind.

He glanced down. Someone had fixed his shirt, refastened it despite the buttons he had torn off previously. The heavier items of his uniform were nowhere to be seen and besides his shirt his only other clothing was his breeches and boots. Nothing of an unkind nature would be so careful in preserving what little dignity he had. Whoever had been in his presence before he passed out cannot have been a threat to him, as he had first believed.

Norrington suddenly felt hunger tease his empty stomach. He now scoured the room for something to eat, not that it was really his to take. But, as always, if his actions were questioned, he would find a suitable answer. His eyes landed on the table by his head, where the empty cup from earlier still stood. Beside it rested a wooden tray, chipped and cracked at the edges, but solid nonetheless. On it was a bowl with a spoon resting in it, the contents of which was giving out wisps of steam, and beside that a roughly cut piece of bread. His appetite had been anticipated. James reached for the food, set it down on his lap and without hesitation started gulping down large spoonfuls of the soup.

He did not care about manners. No one was there to watch and he was hardly expecting the company of lords and governors. Not expecting her.

Pushing that thought aside for a moment, his mind returned to the voice earlier and the gentle touch which had accompanied it. It had been a woman; that was certain. Someone native to these parts – the hand and blurred face had been black. Or lighter. He could not quite remember. The candlelight might have been playing tricks on him.

'Ye feel bett-ah?'

James started at the voice, instantly feeling the heat rise to his face. He had not even realised anyone had entered the room. At first glance he recognised the hands, clasped together in front of the figure's skirts. Their fingers were narrow, agile enough to fasten his shirt without waking him. His gaze travelled upwards, ignoring whatever womanly wiles rested between the hands and the head. Finally he could put a face to the voice. It was still contorted with concern, but youthful. The dark skin glowed with a deep, orange in the light of the many candles. The chin was small, the cheekbones prominent. The nose, rounded yet narrow, suggested a hint of European blood. Dark eyes were fringed with darker lashes and encircled with a thick application of Kohl and the same makeup was dotted around her brow and -kept, coarse, shoulder length dreadlocks encircled all these components, creating a well formed visage.

She – whoever she was – approached with cat-like silence. He watched her warily, eyes narrow and brow furrowed. She paused at his side, retaining a partial gap between them. She watched intently. She was waiting for an answer. It was only then that the gentleman in Norrington realised he was being highly impolite.

'Yes. Thank you.' His voice was hard, cold, more so than usual. It was not a case of being ungrateful. It was his shame. This woman, a complete stranger, had been so attentive when he did not deserve it. If she knew how low he had stooped… Norrington was distracted when he thought he had heard the woman mutter something under her breath. 'Who are you and where am I?' he asked, his manners lapsed.

She moved a step closer, reaching for the empty cup beside him. 'Up riv-ah,' she replied plainly. Norrington frowned at the ambiguity of the answer. "Up river" could have been anywhere in the Caribbean, assuming he was still among those islands. Without a response to his former question the woman departed, with a slow sweep of her long skirts. Upon her return, she was clasping the cup in both hands as if it were some precious object. It had been refilled. Her voice was quiet: 'To 'elp wid de pain.' As if summoned by her, the discomfort returned, as quickly as a faithful dog. He winced.

He did not wish to be impertinent but the fog surrounding this woman needed to be cleared. As the gentleman of him knew, it would be wrong to pressure her into an answer, but he had a right to have his questions answered. He set the half finished soup aside, next to the drink she had brought in. The pain plagued his every move, luckily not as forcefully as before.

'Where exactly is "Up river"?' his words came across with a hint of scorn. She was oblivious or indifferent to it.

'De Pantano.'

James recalled the name, having possibly glanced over it while scanning Naval charts on board ship. That meant he had somehow reached Cuba. To be honest that was one of the least peculiar aspects of this situation.

'And how, exactly, did I reach Cuba, having been onboard a ship in the middle of the ocean?'

The woman's eyes glittered with laughter; not that Norrington could see what was so humorous. Clearly, he would need to be someone of light heart and he had never had the liberty to be that. 'Of all de tings ye could 'ave ask me,' her smile was coy as she spoke. 'De sea brought ye to me, Admiral Norrington.' Each syllable of his name was emphasised on her native tongue. It had never sounded so powerful…

Oh Lord, no. He did not deserve that title anymore. He had schemed for that position, when he was a man he had never wanted to become. It was all. A. Lie.

Wait...How does she know me?

'De sea knows everyt'in'.' It was no more than a murmur. He hadn't spoken aloud, yet she had given him an answer –albeit, an unfathomable one – to his question. He had no doubt that many more of her answers would be as clear as the dark waters of the Pantano. 'Are ye not curious?' Norrington looked up at the woman. Her lips were still upturned, now with a more wry twist. She had a brow cocked and her eyes sparkled with the many secrets behind them, like the crests of the sea in the midday sun.

'About what?'

'As t' how ye return t' de world of de livin'.'

Norrington believed he did, however, he soon came to question what he would gain from the answer. He doubted any of it would make sense to him and maybe being alive was the most important thing, not how it all came to pass.

Eventually, all he asked was, 'Did you have a hand in it?'

The woman bowed her head accordingly; the adornments weaved into her hair jingled as she did so. 'An' now ye can rest.' She turned to leave, in a gliding manner which was as graceful as her features.

'Wait,' James called after her, in a firm voice.

'Yes?'

'You have me at a disadvantage,' he continued. 'You know who I am, but you have refused to disclose your name.'

'My name?' The woman started twirling the cord of one of her necklaces about her finger, eyeing up Norrington under the curtain of her lashes. She had a teasing look, like a child who was trying to keep a secret although they knew it would eventually burst out. 'I am known as Teuta.'