Admirable Lies
Title: Admirable Lies
Author:
saime_joxxers
Rating: PG
Pairing: James/ Elizabeth
Disclaimer: The usual, with fries on the side. I came up with the explanation I use for James's alive-ness, but I didn't even invent THAT. I just twisted it to my own (and hopefully other Norrington fans') advantage. ^^
Warnings: A bit of violence, and maybe some kissing. Nothing much to worry about.
Summary: “The word ‘just ’implies that there is nothing more to something than what meets the eye. That it is exactly what it appears to be. And… that’s not James Norrington.” She paused a moment, staring deeply at him. “The question is: Who is James Norrington, then?”
A/N: I already had this part typed up when I posted the first one... but I don't have the third part typed up yet, so I probably won't be able to post it quite as soon afterwords. Unless I work really hard. xD But I'll do my best not to take too too long.
Beta Reader: Teh amazing
tammsla
He stood once more beside the river, swearing as he had sworn every time before that it would be the last. His spade was stuck in the dirt behind him, the sand caked to his wet clothes a testament to his work in extricating the chest from the ground where it had been buried. It hadn’t been difficult to remember the exact location, for though James had left no sign or direction to its whereabouts it was hardly a thing he could forget. Even if he wished to do so, it was engrained in his mind forever. He pushed off the heavy stone lid and gazed ruefully down at the familiar leering faces of the Aztec gold coins. There was a time when they had not been a part of his life, and he wished that it could be so again.
He longed for redemption. For a clean slate. For just a brief reprieve from the living hell he had condemned himself to. In some ways, it was so very attainable. All he needed was to drop the coin into the chest with a small amount of his blood and the curse would be lifted. But there were other matters, other deeds that would remain with him forever. Some ghosts would never leave, and others would only fade with time. Taking that first step in the right direction was only the start of a long journey.
James slid the small knife from his belt, and pressed it to his left palm, adding to the latticework of white scars already marring his hand. One more cut, one more permanent reminder of his failures. But this would be the very last time he would have to brand himself a pirate, for he would be a pirate no longer.
The reddened coin fell from his hand to meet its brethren inside the chest, and James gasped. Suddenly liberated from the curse, he was overwhelmed by a deluge of sensation, each one familiar but seeming brand-new. The warmth of the sun on his back, the gentle kiss of the wind through his tousled brown hair, the scents of the island; misty floral perfumes mixing with the salty sea brine and the distant smell of smoke, all carrying a unique beauty that had somehow been lost in familiarity but was now making an overdue comeback.
He couldn’t help but laugh. The chuckle swelled in his throat, building and escalating until it became a fantastic overflow of joy he was powerless to check. He was filled with the pleasures of simple things, like the gritty sand beneath his toes, the spray of cool water as the wind shook left-over raindrops from the broad leaves of the trees and spattered them against his face.
Simple pleasures reminiscent of hope.
xxxx
James had hoped to outrun the hurricane. It had been a fool’s chance; blinded by his need to catch Sparrow, solely devoted to that one aim, he had determined to risk it. The Dauntless, pride of the English Navy, had found itself thrust into the midst of the most wrathful storm James had witnessed in his years of service. It raged about them, buffeting the vessel with torrential rains that attempted to drown all the men even when they weren’t being plunged beneath the gigantic waves that crashed continually down upon them. Norrington felt nothing, more cut off from his men than he ever had been before.
The drumming of the fat, heavy drops of water did not beat his shoulders like fists as it did to the others on deck. He felt no pain as the hurricane whipped the sea against his face, no stinging of salt in his eyes. He was stuck in an unnatural sort of calm, unable to feel desperation if he tried; his fear rooting only in the knowledge that he was now completely sidetracked from his mission. That Sparrow would be getting away. Unable to die, there was no adrenaline racing through his veins, and it took him a moment to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation as the ship groaned beneath him, reaching her limits as the strain of the storm began to take its toll.
He was too confident, too secure in his own safety to completely realize that others had not his advantage. That everyone around him would simply drown, while he survived to see yet another day. A sharp pain clawed at his heart, a belated emotion that was accompanied by the knowledge that the terrible cracking and splintering of wood around him was a death sentence to his men.
‘A captain always goes down with his ship’, he mused bitterly as water poured in over his head, smothering him in an all-encompassing blackness. And he did go down; further than anyone could ever comprehend. Burdened with the Aztec curse, he sunk beneath miles and miles of crushing water, hardly able to move through the powerful currents. He was tossed about like a leaf beneath the sea; he droned on for an eternity, unable to feel, but able to feel entirely too much.
He didn’t know how long he was beneath the waves, but when he finally opened his eyes and let himself observe his surroundings he was confronted with one of the worst visions of his life. With a face as blue as his uniform, the swollen body of the late Lieutenant Gillette was his only companion on the desolate shores. The crew had undoubtedly all perished; yet James had cheated death.
Death had its way of repaying such slights.
xxxx
Though slightly fatigued from his efforts in reburying the chest, James was anxious to leave the small nameless island. He wasted no time in finding the skiff he had hidden in the thick underbrush and dragging it out. To the north lay the fantastic cliff he had scaled. The south was more of a sloping hill that led down to the water’s edge, hedged in on either side by a wall of thick forest that covered most of the island’s plateau. Remaining from his last visit, a veritable road paved with logs stretched out before him, offering an easy route on which he could pull the small craft along to reach the water.
It took a good part of two hours to make ready to set sail, gathering what edible provisions he could from the bountiful forests, as well as filling up his canteen with fresh water from the spring. He checked over the hull, the sails, assuring himself that every inch of the boat was seaworthy before setting out on the half day’s journey to the nearest port, where he could catch a large ship to whichever destination he chose. He needed no charts, only the sun and the stars as his guides as his vessel cut across the glittering waters.
For once, every road was open to him. James Norrington was considered a dead man, and surely such news would have already reached the far corners of the empire. Either he could prove that news wrong, or take on a completely new identity and leave the legacy of Norrington where it fell. He could return to the Navy, take up his post, and be the feared scourge of the piracy once more… or he could slip quietly into oblivion as just another man. There were so many decisions to make, and as he sailed up to the dock, bathed in the orange-gold light of the sunset, he knew that he stood at the crossroads of his life.
He stopped by his old apartment, and entered it for the first time since signing on with Cutler Beckett.
He knew what road he had to take.
xxxx
“It’s the road I have to take, Governor, and I’m afraid that no amount of words will dissuade me.”
“You can’t blame me for trying, James. It… just seems a shame.”
“It is a shame.” In those barely audible words rested the weight of hundreds of wasted lives. The statement was spoken with sense of finality meant to herald the ending of a conversation that had never needed to exist, that James had been attempting to dodge since the moment it had begun. Resigning one’s commission was not supposed to be a philosophy discussion, yet Swann had somehow managed to turn it into just that.
However hard the Governor had tried to convince Norrington that it hadn’t been his fault, James knew that he was guiltier than anyone could ever comprehend. Not waiting for the older man to try to make another stab at conversation, he turned to leave, as he had been meaning to do for the last half hour. He had nowhere to go, but anywhere was better than the office that had once belonged to ex-Commodore James Norrington.
“There’s nothing I can do?” the Governor inquired, taking a few steps towards the retreating man.
James stopped in his tracks for but a moment. He didn’t look back. “Just forget about me. That’s the only thing you can do.”
Shrugging his hands deeply into the pockets of his overcoat, and tilting his hat over his face so that its shadow obscured his face, James stepped out into the bright sunlight and stalked hurriedly away from the concerned gaze of his old friend. He shifted his haversack over his shoulder, acutely aware of the broken man he had become. Acutely aware that of all the men on board the Dauntless, he was the last one who should have survived.
He was a wreck, and he knew it. He hadn’t eaten for at least a day, and hadn’t managed to get a decent night’s sleep for a considerably longer period of time. He felt miserable, but he did not go out of his way to remedy the situation. Indeed, James had broken the curse so that he could experience all the misery he so rightly deserved. And he fully intended his penance to fit the crime.
“James?” The voice that had once set his heart aflame now doused his spirits in frigid water. He didn’t stop walking, instead picking up his pace to try to escape. “James, is that you?”
Eliabeth had always possessed a stubborn streak, which persisted despite Norrington’s evident aversion confronting her. The sound of her footsteps quickened in response, and she drew up beside him, grabbing his arm. She scowled, and flicked his hat from his head to get a better look at his face. After a moment of scrutinizing his haggard features, for it seemed she was experiencing some difficulty in recognizing him without his wig and uniform, she smiled rather sorrowfully. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For the loss of your ship. It’s terrible-“
“Captain Sparrow still lives.” James interjected dryly, pushing her hand off of his arm.
“What?” Her feigned surprise sounded almost genuine. She was well practiced in deceit, after all.
“That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?” Norrington demanded, not trying especially hard to mask the bitterness that lingered in his flashing green eyes.
“Why would you think that?” She inquired quietly, shifting her weight between her feet.
“Please answer my question, Miss Swann. I am in no mood for games, and I have pressing-“ he paused, searching for the right word to fill the space that ‘duties’ would have occupied, “-matters to attend to.”
After a moment’s silence, Elizabeth hung her head. “I was… curious,” she admitted, folding beneath his acidic stare.
James nodded resignedly and knelt down to pluck his tri-cornered hat from the cobblestone street where it had fallen. He replaced it on his head, covering up his short, tousled brown hair. Unable to meet her gaze lest she discover the level of pain and grief that pulsed through his body, for the eye was indeed the window to the soul, James ventured one last question. “And are you not glad that I have failed in apprehending him?”
“I am,” she said with a sigh, “if you want the truth. Captain Sparrow is a good man.”
On most other occasions, James would have retorted with the fact that the ‘good man’ was also a pirate. But he had not the heart, as the pretty young woman who stood before him had already shredded it to ribbons. “I’m sure he is, Miss Swann,” he offered sardonically, finally flicking his gaze upwards to light on her eyes for just a brief moment. Searching for something, for anything that could possibly resemble remorse or affections, he stepped away disappointed.
“Commodore?”
He pressed on towards the docks.
“Norrington!”
James reluctantly stopped walking yet again, and turned to face Elizabeth one last time. “What is it you want from me, Miss Swann? Tell me, and I will do my best to oblige.”
“I just- well, wanted to wish you luck with your… matters.”
“And you with yours, Miss Swann.”
James managed to reach the docks without another interruption.
xxxx
The breeze streamed in from the east, promising rain before the day was out. Judging by the clouds themselves though, little more than that.
The dreary morning rays of the sun seemed to fit the mood of the day perfectly. Weak, watery light shone down upon the citizens of Port Royal, causing them to wonder what the cause of such unusual weather could be. Had someone angered God? Was the King himself laying on his deathbed? Nearly every ill omen known to man sprung up in the worried conversations between neighbours. Such stories spread through the lower and middle classes like wildfire, invoking fear; the aristocracy just hid their apprehensions better.
Personally, James took a less superstitious view of the world. A man of reason, he naturally assumed that even the sunny Caribbean had its cloudy days. He’d been around long enough to see his fair share of them, and not once had he found the desolations of the inhabitants to be justified. It was so curious, how immediately the general populous jumped to the conclusion that the slightest negative change to the way of life was a consequence of some grievous sin. Often enough, what people didn’t do mattered so much more than what they did. The silence of the headstone before him was a testament to the truth of that statement.
‘Governor Weatherby Swann’, it read, followed closely by a series of meaningless numbers describing dates that no one really cared about. Numbers wouldn’t bring him back. It didn’t matter when he died, or that he had barely reached a half-century old when he was taken. What mattered was that, ‘beloved father and governor’ or not, his face wasn’t to be seen again on this earth. What mattered was that he was gone. What mattered was that Norrington hadn’t saved him.
xxxx
James couldn’t get anything to matter to him any more.
He felt completely hollow, and he strove to fill that void with a mixture of rum and guilt. Nothing seemed to remain long enough in the hole to make a difference, but the vile drink and the blazing emotion were easiest to obtain, so they were the logical choices for drowning his sorrows. And what better place than Tortuga to wallow in self-pity? It was cheap, it was dirty, and no one asked too many questions as long as the bills were paid.
He hadn’t originally intended to remain there long, but time seemed to have different plans. His guilt thrived in the unfamiliar territory; long stifled beneath his iron will, his emotions roared to life, the negative ones feeding off of his less than immaculate surroundings and taking over. Revenge. Anger. Bitterness. Shame. Never allowed much headway before, they took advantage of James’s weakened state, consuming him. Without the will to escape from the metaphoric mire, Norrington was but a shell of the man he had prided himself in being.
Without the will to live, he simply existed. Days, weeks, months rolled by, and at each step, he only sunk in deeper. At first, it had just been a drink before he went to bed, an aid to help him sleep through the night. He would work at odd jobs around the city, or occasionally on one of the less piratical ships as a deckhand for a week or two. But the longer he was there, the more help he needed in sleeping. The more help he needed in sleeping, the more he sought in the daytime, until he had frequented the local taverns enough that his face was recognizable by the barkeeps. Until he didn’t even need to speak before a bottle of rum was handed him.
Not that the face that was recognized was anything like the face those at Port Royal would have known. It wasn’t the face of a Commodore, the proud, noble expressions of an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, but the face of just another scallywag. His parents would have been ashamed. Anyone who saw him would have been ashamed.
Downing another swig of rum, James winced as the pungent liquid seared his throat. His head felt packed and heavy, as if someone had deliberately jammed rags in through his ears in an attempt to muddle his thoughts. Unfortunately, it was not an unfamiliar bleakness. He sighed profoundly, squeezing his eyes shut against the bedlam that raged around him. He was not yet drunk, but it was only a matter of time.
Already the noise was pounding at his ears, threatening to send him spiralling into a ferocious migraine if he didn’t do something soon. Either pass out from the drink, or move to somewhere decidedly quieter. Seeing as he had an almost limitless supply of rum right in front of him, he opted for the former option, as he did most nights his melancholy was too powerful to bear. Inevitably, he would regret it the next morning, when the light was garishly searing and he was unable to do anything except reflect on the nature of his hopeless situation, but it would be at least a momentary reprieve.
He was wearing his old jacket. It seemed only fitting that the formal uniform should be dragged through the mud with equal vehemence as the rest of his miserable life. Fumbling for his pocket in the darkness, for there seemed no good reason to open his eyes and remind himself of the appearance of the dingy tavern, James fished out a coin. By the feel, he was nearing the bottom of his funds, and would dearly need to pick up another job if he wanted to continue this frivolous lifestyle without delving into his savings. He groaned audibly, but wondered if it would not be for the best.
He was living proof that the idle mind was the devil’s playground, and perhaps a distraction other than drink would do him good.
xxxx
If gloomy days were punishment, why wasn’t every single sunrise hidden by thunderheads? Why not blot out the sunset with a hurricane? Why wasn’t every picnic poured on, and each afternoon stroll darkened with haze? Because gloomy days weren’t so much a punishment, as a reminder. ‘This is what life could be like, every day, all the time’ it seemed to imply. ‘Be thankful that it’s not.’ A threat, perhaps, a strategy so that the sunny days were not taken for granted, or even just a natural part of life… whatever days like this were, they weren’t punishment. However, it was inevitable that days without sun lacked cheer, and when cheer was lacking, guilt thrived like a parasite.
Maybe that was why he was here now… he needed to feed, fuel, and stoke his guilt like a blazing fire. Without it, his heart would become like ice, cold and unfeeling. He would be free from pain, but he would also be free from everything that characterized a decent human. No, he needed to be raw and venerable. Bleeding freely, willingly, so that the importance of his greatest errors and triumphs were not allowed to become stagnant and dull with time. Some things were never meant to be forgotten, and visiting the grave for the first time engrained that on Norrington’s mind.
He knew that really, the bare patch of grass before the granite slab was of little true importance to the Governor’s legacy. Weatherby had never accomplished anything great on the exact location of his grave. His body was not even buried there; James assumed it was resting somewhere on the bottom of the ocean. This site held significance solely for the sake of the living. Cemeteries around the world were only really there for the comfort of those who had yet to die and be buried there themselves. They provided a place for those still trying to come to terms with their memories and their sorrow to do so with the acceptance of society. If a man began to cry at a gravesite, it was condoned, but anywhere else, and he was condemned.
James was as close to tears as he had been in a very long while.
xxxx
If he were any lesser man, the very irony of the situation probably would have reduced him to tears.
James Norrington, scourge of piracy, was serving as a deckhand on the Black Pearl, under the command of Captain Jack Sparrow. He wanted to laugh, to scream and shout and rail against the skies, but all he could justifiably do was blame himself and those around him. Not to mention scrub the deck as he had been commanded. Though his talents would undoubtedly have been better used at the helm, or even amongst the rigging, it seemed to please Sparrow to have him on his knees like a dog, swabbing down the filthy planks of his equally filthy ship. Jack hadn’t seemed to really believe that Norrington would obey, but when James signed on to do something, he completed it to the best of his ability.
Even when it meant slaving through the night.
Armed with only a bucket of seawater and a scrubbing brush with harsh, stiff bristles, James wasn’t expecting anything grand to come of his backbreaking labour. It wasn’t, and would never appear to be anything but a dingy pirate vessel. Norrington wasn’t holding any fanciful ideas that he would somehow be rewarded. He just worked. The constant, rhythmic motion of his body was soothing despite the strain on his muscles, which were beginning to cramp.
Applying as much pressure as he could to the brush, he struggled against the grime, striving to pry it away from the stronghold it had taken some time ago in the grooves of the worn planks. Tensed with the strain, the tendons in his powerful arms stood out like knotted ropes, working furiously in tandem with those in his back to scrub in the most efficient way possible. He had deserted his shirt long back, content enough with basking in the moonlight that he had once hidden so vehemently from.
He glowed brightly, the thin sheen of sweat on his pale skin illuminating him like a ghost. He was surrounded everywhere by glitter, the silver light pouring from the sky gifting every drop of water around him with new life. Reaching the bow, James stood back to observe his handiwork. He leaned with his back against the rail, arms resting along it. For just a moment, the deck of the pearl was a sea upon the sea, gleaming and beautiful even as the other deckhands trod upon it uncaringly. None of them even noticed what they were stomping on, except for one, who made her way over to him.
For a moment, James toyed with the idea of leaving, of slipping down below deck to take up his hammock and avoid the very painful encounter he knew was to come if he remained. Elizabeth Swann, as his own personal siren, was drifting ever closer to him. A sizable part of him wished with all his being that she would just leave him alone. It wasn’t necessary to kick a man when he was down. But she drew closer, and though she had not opened her mouth to speak, her song entranced James.
He recalled what he had told her that afternoon, and felt suddenly exposed. Without his uniform as a barrier between them, he was simply a man and was subject to all the vices that men were susceptible to. ‘There was a time when I would have done anything for you to look like that while thinking about me,’ he had told her. It was true, for the most part. He still would have done anything.
She drew up beside him, agonizingly close as she leaned against the rail in much the same manner as he, the sleeve of her jacket just brushing against his fingertips. “You’ve done a good job,” she offered, her tone somewhat apologetic. Apologizing for what, James could not fathom. His shirt was clutched in her fist, but she made no move to hand it to him.
Inclining his head slightly as recognition of her compliment, James sighed heavily and let his head loll back on his shoulders, pointing his face up to the stars. He didn’t meet her contemplative gaze, or give any inclination that he noticed her eyes running with surprise over his lean, muscled frame. She obviously hadn’t expected a seasoned naval officer to have a body beneath all the layers of brocade.
After a long while, she turned away, visibly flustered. She repeated a sentiment she had already established in an attempt to detract attention from her steadily reddening face. “Very fine work indeed, Mister Norrington.”
“Yes, well I suppose it is JUST Mister Norrington now, isn’t it?” he said after a while.
“What do you mean?” She asked, recoiling from his cutting words as if struck. She turned to him, head cocked slightly as she stared up into his face. Perhaps she was looking for the James she had once thought she’d known, trying to see past the beard, and the unkempt hair. She met his eyes, but was only more puzzled by the strange light of persistent affection, nestled between the bitterness and resentment, that flickered there.
“Lieutenant Norrington. Captain Norrington. Commodore Norrington.” He got louder and more firm at each recitation, squaring his shoulders and assuming an appropriate stance as he spoke. “One hardly expects one’s life-long work to be torn away so suddenly. That is what I mean, Miss Swann. I am just Norrington. Simply James.” No titles, no flashy additions. Just a man.
“Perhaps not.” Her words were quiet, barely a whisper. The wind threatened to carry them away, but somehow they reached his ears even through the creaking of the rigging and the lap of the water against the side of the ship. He did not respond, unsure if she had meant for him to hear what she had said. But then she continued. “I don’t think that-“she started a bit hesitantly, but soon regained the footing she needed to continue. “- I don’t think that you could ever, really, be just James.”
His curiosity got the better of him. “And how do you figure that?” he demanded.
“The word ‘just ’implies that there is nothing more to something than what meets the eye. That it is exactly what it appears to be. And… that’s not James Norrington.” She paused a moment, staring deeply at him. “The question is: Who is James Norrington, then?” She took a step forward and put her hand to the side of his face.
Their eyes were locked for a moment. Unable to look away, James felt lost in her gaze, his heart ready to burst from his chest at any moment. A myriad of uncontrollable, unexplainable emotions tore through his veins, more powerful than any adrenaline he experienced during a battle. Her honey eyes glittered, unreadable, conflicted... and beautiful. Who was James Norrington?
“I… don’t know.” The words were out before he could stop them. The moment they left his lips, he regretted it. He stared down at the deck. “Thank you for bringing my shirt.” Even before he was fully aware of his actions, James snatched his blouse from her hands and tugged it over his head. Something between them shattered by his action, and Elizabeth sprang away as if realizing how close she had truly been to him for the first time.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. “Sleep well.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he responded dryly, before stopping and turning back for just a second. “But I’ll try.”
xxxx
The former Governor of Port Royal had probably been dearer to him than most members of his own family. Even before Norrington had expressed interest in Elizabeth Swann as a wife, Weatherby had already begun to act in a fatherly manner towards him. Although the older man seemed so initially different from Norrington in his child-like view of the world, he also proved himself to be well grounded. Beneath his cheery exterior and almost chronic optimism, the Governor had revealed in himself a wisdom that few had the fortune to discover. He became a pillar of support for Norrington through the difficult times, as well as a kindly listening ear to a young naval officer who had never been able to share his troubles with another soul, before or since.
That was perhaps why he had been standing just outside the black iron fence surrounding the small memorial for nearly ten minutes, rather than going in and kneeling before it like most people. This touch of death was one of the most personal he had encountered, and it took guts to face it. Out of all the men he had seen fall, this instance hurt as much as a knife to the heart. He wasn’t just grieving on behalf of Elizabeth, but rather honestly feeling the loss of a true friend and mentor. And to some extent, that loss was his fault. He hadn’t done anything, and now others were paying dearly as he was for that inactivity.
Placing a slightly trembling hand upon the gate, James resolved to enter. It took only a few steps to reach the tombstone. As he neared, he could see that even the vibrant scarlets and yellows of the flowers rested upon the stone seemed lifeless. He doubted that his offering would be any different. Reaching into the folds of his black coat, he produced a velvet box, and held it a little awkwardly before him as he knelt down on one knee. He cleared his throat, and averted his eyes from the stone to the ground.
“ I’m afraid that I- uh -I’m not very good at things like this. But I never-“ his voice gave out momentarily, and he bit his lip, fighting past the choking emotion that threatened to strangle him completely. He managed to regain his composure, and continued. “ I never gave anything back to you, though you offered me so much. So, though I suppose it’s too late, I just wanted to let you know that… I think you helped this hopeless case about as much as anyone ever could.” Blinking to moisten his eyes, which suddenly felt much too dry for comfort, James opened the box to display a gleaming golden medal that the governor had first presented to him at the promotion ceremony those few years ago. Back when his love for Elizabeth was like a dream yet to be fully realized, and the curse of the Aztec gold was still a superstitious legend.
“It’s not much,” he acknowledged, “but- well, there’s nothing else.”
xxxx
There wasn’t anything else he could have done. No other options.
His actions were completely justifiable. Absolutely warranted. Without a shadow of a doubt, he had done nothing wrong.
Then why did he feel so horrible?
The sickening, constant beat not his own perpetually haunted him, dogging his every step. His pulse thudded out of sync, almost erratically, as if rebelling against the proximity it was forced to keep with the unnatural heart that writhed and pounded within the hidden pocket of Norrington’s jacket. Though the fish men had broken off their pursuit days ago, James still wanted to run, as hard and as fast as he could away from the [i]Flying Dutchman[/i], from Davy Jones… and from himself. But a guard held his arm and all but dragged him into the room where Beckett sat. Only once the door was barred and Mercer hovered protectively at his employer’s side was James released.
Few words were needed between them.
James had traded a heart for a life.