On revient toujours a ses premiers amours.
ETA: A sad little norribeth fic.
Guh.
I am cruel and evil. I should be made to listen to Britney's music for the rest of my life. But I can't help myself. I'm an angst sap. Lots of love to my French Proverbs and sinister_beauty's Sleepless for inspiring me. And of course Don Juan de Marco, the sexiest Johnny Depp movie.
Rating is a hard PG-13 or mild R. And the warnings are a plenty: angst, death, gore, unrequited love, affairs, ambiguous consent.
Summary: Elizabeth does not grow to love him, and his love for her makes him careless.
On revient toujours à ses premiers amours.
One always returns to his first loves.
~*~
Elizabeth was lying by his side, in his bed, a bed she did not belong in -- this much Norrington knew because when he kissed her and ran his hands over her body, she kept those beautiful brown eyes closed and when he caught a tear rolling down on his fingertips, he didn't believe her when she said that it was nothing. No, this was wrong, so very wrong. It was wrong to have her skin feel so good sliding against his -- hers so pale and white and delicate like rose petals, a scent that lingered about her like something beautiful and radiant that he could only hope to absorb.
She closed her eyes tightly, the wrinkles creasing at the corners, and he knew that though they had been intimate for the last hour or so, with explorations and gasps and moaning and her sweet naivety and innocence, she had not blossomed into her full adult beauty yet, but rather retained the stubbornly childish way of hers. It was wrong because he knew that she belonged to Will, that she gave her heart to Will long before Norrington had even seen Elizabeth as a potential wife.
He had thought that his wedding night would end peacefully, both of them curled toward each other, hand in hand, and skin against skin against skin, maybe her leg thrown over his waist, his arms tucked around her stomach, and how he would whisper whatever words, because it wouldn’t matter, into her ear and she would just nod and nod until finally falling asleep in his arms.
But he knew that with the way his words of, "I love you", glanced off of her like light thrown from water that he would never hear those words repeated. Her eyes had drawn away from him when he spoke them and she shied away, so far away, on the opposite side of the bed with the words, "Good night James," from her lips.
She didn't fall asleep, and he knew this because he didn't fall asleep either. He knew deceit was wrong too, but pretended to fall into a slumber because he knew that she wouldn't until she thought he did. And then there were the tears, the crying, the gentle shaking of the bed, the way her hair rustled against the sheets, and the way she gripped her pillow and pulled the covers so tightly around her, and he knew, knew for certain that he was unwanted, that he was the unwanted man in her bed because her heart still leapt and yearned for another.
He wanted to reach out to her, to place a hand on her shoulder, and comfort her, hold her and hug her, kiss her softly on her cheeks until those tears dried and she was smiling again, but he worried that his advances would be unwelcome. It was not his arms that she wanted around herself, and it pained him still, to listen to her pain and know, oh most certainly know, that he was the one that had caused it, took something that was not his take, and that no matter what he would continue to do, it would not get better.
He should have let her go. He stared at the ceiling, eyes drifting to one spot of blackness to another spot, and eventually, bless her soul, her breathing stilled and relaxed. He didn't fall asleep that night, couldn't, instead he churned over the thoughts and thoughts. The way he hurt her, though unintentionally, made him feel like a demon was crawling about in his own skin, made him hate himself for his emotional neediness and his stupidity for not having known. He would have rolled around and tossed in bed, but that would have woken her, so he didn't -- kept as still as a guard watching the night until the first scatterings of light hinted around the window curtains.
He wondered if he should leave her there and wake for the day, perhaps let the fresh air and sun hit his face and clear his mind, but some deep troubling thought weighed heavily and he knew that love meant not hurting the loved one, and he had disobeyed that great law, and it would muddle and cloud his day like some dreary overcast of clouds. No, perhaps he should not wake up. But what would Elizabeth want?
Glancing guiltily her way, he felt almost ashamed to have the privilege of knowing that gentle curve of neck and shoulders so well, the way the muscle and bone would work beneath the skin when she moved. But what did Elizabeth want? After having known her for so many years, did he really know this woman who was now his wife until death? Would he ever know her? Would every smile he received from her be tainted by another sadness?
She stirred and turned onto her back. He saw the confusion on her face and then the meeting of the eyes, and for a flicker she looked so lost and lonely that Norrington felt it was not only her heart that he had broken. "I'm sorry Elizabeth," and even the words seemed too weak to his ears.
She breathed a shudder, looking toward the ceiling away from his half-revealed figure, blush crawling onto her cheekbones, and mumbled, "There is nothing for you to apologize for," and even those words sounded weak, and he wondered if they were going to live in a cruel mythology of lies.
There was a silence, and then he said so softly, "I know."
Elizabeth's breathing hitched and she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. Her mind seemed to run through lists and lists of possible replies, but she was left with nothing and so resorted to meeting his eyes.
This was wrong, he felt it more truly now. Wrong to be talking about another man in their bed the night after their wedding, wrong to feel so intensely jealous and yet so maddeningly conflicted. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I won't ask any more of you."
And then he did one of the most painful things he had ever done in his life, he told her she could have her choice of rooms and he wouldn't not stop her if she returned to Will as long as she kept discretion. He said this all as though he were stone on the outside, but he was only love and pain on the inside. He could no more pressure a woman to sleep with him than to dishonor her.
He walked away, closing the bedroom door behind him. Only one night.
~*~
But of course they found out -- the townspeople and society ladies with flapping mouths and stretched ears for gossip. And of course, he, James Norrington, Commodore of the Royal Navy and fine upstanding gentleman of the law, would defend his wife's honor and so thus challenged the blacksmith Will Turner for spreading such malicious rumors.
The boy was fierce and passionate but deadly sharp with the blade, and Norrington gave a fight to settle future rumors but he knew the ending to this fray. He took one last look at Elizabeth, and that was the fatal distraction that Will used to his advantage, and when the blacksmith's sword was pulled out, thick with the dripping gloss of red, James fell to the ground, hearing the distant gasp of Elizabeth.
And the pain was there, so very there and almost alive like a raging fire, but he only noticed that she rushed to him, and he didn't know why, didn't care why anymore, because it was more than a blessing to have her there, so close and so close. And he saw the tears in her brown eyes and only for the barest flicker of a moment did he look to Turner to see if he understood, and Will understood and withdrew, backing away and away, but James didn't see any more of that because his eyes never left Elizabeth's, and for some dying plea of a dying man, she held him in his arms -- the first of many years.
"I love you," he whispered to her.
"I'm so sorry, James."
"I know." He reached a weak hand to her face and felt the wetness on his fingertips. The last few moments blurs together, but the world consisted of Elizabeth and no one else. She pressed her lips softly onto his. Tragic that it was his first and last for his one life, but he managed a smile before his sight blurred and closed his eyes.
~*~
Guh.
I am cruel and evil. I should be made to listen to Britney's music for the rest of my life. But I can't help myself. I'm an angst sap. Lots of love to my French Proverbs and sinister_beauty's Sleepless for inspiring me. And of course Don Juan de Marco, the sexiest Johnny Depp movie.
Rating is a hard PG-13 or mild R. And the warnings are a plenty: angst, death, gore, unrequited love, affairs, ambiguous consent.
Summary: Elizabeth does not grow to love him, and his love for her makes him careless.
On revient toujours à ses premiers amours.
One always returns to his first loves.
~*~
Elizabeth was lying by his side, in his bed, a bed she did not belong in -- this much Norrington knew because when he kissed her and ran his hands over her body, she kept those beautiful brown eyes closed and when he caught a tear rolling down on his fingertips, he didn't believe her when she said that it was nothing. No, this was wrong, so very wrong. It was wrong to have her skin feel so good sliding against his -- hers so pale and white and delicate like rose petals, a scent that lingered about her like something beautiful and radiant that he could only hope to absorb.
She closed her eyes tightly, the wrinkles creasing at the corners, and he knew that though they had been intimate for the last hour or so, with explorations and gasps and moaning and her sweet naivety and innocence, she had not blossomed into her full adult beauty yet, but rather retained the stubbornly childish way of hers. It was wrong because he knew that she belonged to Will, that she gave her heart to Will long before Norrington had even seen Elizabeth as a potential wife.
He had thought that his wedding night would end peacefully, both of them curled toward each other, hand in hand, and skin against skin against skin, maybe her leg thrown over his waist, his arms tucked around her stomach, and how he would whisper whatever words, because it wouldn’t matter, into her ear and she would just nod and nod until finally falling asleep in his arms.
But he knew that with the way his words of, "I love you", glanced off of her like light thrown from water that he would never hear those words repeated. Her eyes had drawn away from him when he spoke them and she shied away, so far away, on the opposite side of the bed with the words, "Good night James," from her lips.
She didn't fall asleep, and he knew this because he didn't fall asleep either. He knew deceit was wrong too, but pretended to fall into a slumber because he knew that she wouldn't until she thought he did. And then there were the tears, the crying, the gentle shaking of the bed, the way her hair rustled against the sheets, and the way she gripped her pillow and pulled the covers so tightly around her, and he knew, knew for certain that he was unwanted, that he was the unwanted man in her bed because her heart still leapt and yearned for another.
He wanted to reach out to her, to place a hand on her shoulder, and comfort her, hold her and hug her, kiss her softly on her cheeks until those tears dried and she was smiling again, but he worried that his advances would be unwelcome. It was not his arms that she wanted around herself, and it pained him still, to listen to her pain and know, oh most certainly know, that he was the one that had caused it, took something that was not his take, and that no matter what he would continue to do, it would not get better.
He should have let her go. He stared at the ceiling, eyes drifting to one spot of blackness to another spot, and eventually, bless her soul, her breathing stilled and relaxed. He didn't fall asleep that night, couldn't, instead he churned over the thoughts and thoughts. The way he hurt her, though unintentionally, made him feel like a demon was crawling about in his own skin, made him hate himself for his emotional neediness and his stupidity for not having known. He would have rolled around and tossed in bed, but that would have woken her, so he didn't -- kept as still as a guard watching the night until the first scatterings of light hinted around the window curtains.
He wondered if he should leave her there and wake for the day, perhaps let the fresh air and sun hit his face and clear his mind, but some deep troubling thought weighed heavily and he knew that love meant not hurting the loved one, and he had disobeyed that great law, and it would muddle and cloud his day like some dreary overcast of clouds. No, perhaps he should not wake up. But what would Elizabeth want?
Glancing guiltily her way, he felt almost ashamed to have the privilege of knowing that gentle curve of neck and shoulders so well, the way the muscle and bone would work beneath the skin when she moved. But what did Elizabeth want? After having known her for so many years, did he really know this woman who was now his wife until death? Would he ever know her? Would every smile he received from her be tainted by another sadness?
She stirred and turned onto her back. He saw the confusion on her face and then the meeting of the eyes, and for a flicker she looked so lost and lonely that Norrington felt it was not only her heart that he had broken. "I'm sorry Elizabeth," and even the words seemed too weak to his ears.
She breathed a shudder, looking toward the ceiling away from his half-revealed figure, blush crawling onto her cheekbones, and mumbled, "There is nothing for you to apologize for," and even those words sounded weak, and he wondered if they were going to live in a cruel mythology of lies.
There was a silence, and then he said so softly, "I know."
Elizabeth's breathing hitched and she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. Her mind seemed to run through lists and lists of possible replies, but she was left with nothing and so resorted to meeting his eyes.
This was wrong, he felt it more truly now. Wrong to be talking about another man in their bed the night after their wedding, wrong to feel so intensely jealous and yet so maddeningly conflicted. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I won't ask any more of you."
And then he did one of the most painful things he had ever done in his life, he told her she could have her choice of rooms and he wouldn't not stop her if she returned to Will as long as she kept discretion. He said this all as though he were stone on the outside, but he was only love and pain on the inside. He could no more pressure a woman to sleep with him than to dishonor her.
He walked away, closing the bedroom door behind him. Only one night.
~*~
But of course they found out -- the townspeople and society ladies with flapping mouths and stretched ears for gossip. And of course, he, James Norrington, Commodore of the Royal Navy and fine upstanding gentleman of the law, would defend his wife's honor and so thus challenged the blacksmith Will Turner for spreading such malicious rumors.
The boy was fierce and passionate but deadly sharp with the blade, and Norrington gave a fight to settle future rumors but he knew the ending to this fray. He took one last look at Elizabeth, and that was the fatal distraction that Will used to his advantage, and when the blacksmith's sword was pulled out, thick with the dripping gloss of red, James fell to the ground, hearing the distant gasp of Elizabeth.
And the pain was there, so very there and almost alive like a raging fire, but he only noticed that she rushed to him, and he didn't know why, didn't care why anymore, because it was more than a blessing to have her there, so close and so close. And he saw the tears in her brown eyes and only for the barest flicker of a moment did he look to Turner to see if he understood, and Will understood and withdrew, backing away and away, but James didn't see any more of that because his eyes never left Elizabeth's, and for some dying plea of a dying man, she held him in his arms -- the first of many years.
"I love you," he whispered to her.
"I'm so sorry, James."
"I know." He reached a weak hand to her face and felt the wetness on his fingertips. The last few moments blurs together, but the world consisted of Elizabeth and no one else. She pressed her lips softly onto his. Tragic that it was his first and last for his one life, but he managed a smile before his sight blurred and closed his eyes.
~*~