Fic: Circling Fate (Part Three)
Title: Circling Fate (Part Three)
Author: artic_fox
Rating: PG13
Pairings: James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann (Norribeth)
Summary: Elizabeth will be the death of him, but he thinks perhaps he is already condemned. Four part fic, going from pre-CotBP through to AWE, through the eyes of James Norrington.
Beta: A huge thank you to commodore_lydia for her absolutely invaluable help!
Author's Notes: Although it does follow canon, I have taken a few liberties, so forgive me for those. My other Norribeth fics found in the norribeth archive here. Feedback appreciated. Concrit welcomed.
Previous:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
The fact that he ends up on Sparrow’s Black Pearl is the real irony, but it makes him feel better to have his feet on a deck, and sails over his head, even if they are black.
What doesn’t make him feel better is Captain Jack Sparrow himself, and the fact that James now must sail under his peculiar brand of command. He has fallen a long way from being the Scourge of Piracy in the Caribbean, to a mere deckhand, but what else would he do instead?
He tries to be as insubordinate as possible, an act of futile defiance, but finds it frustrating that his attempts are ignored, and he is left to stare across the water at the horizon. So he relents - he gets down on his hands and knees and swabs the deck. Elizabeth is his horizon anyway, and one he shall never reach.
---
Sparrow calls her Lizzie, and this shocks James; as if the pirate is talking about another person entirely, until he looks at her and realises perhaps he is. She has long lean legs, which he can appreciate (he has always imagined it so, even under those layers and layers of skirts she constantly wore), and he likes her hair unpinned. But she is still Elizabeth, whether she is Lizzie, or Miss Swann, (or even Mrs Turner, although she is not yet apparently and James is glad for that at least). Even if he wants to, he cannot hate her - she could send him into the depths of hell, amongst the fire and brimstone, and he still couldn’t hate her.
Aboard the Black Pearl, Elizabeth sleeps below with the crew. She steadfastly refused the offer of Sparrow’s cabin (which pleases James no end - he has seen quite enough of their innuendo and subtle mind games, thank you very much). Therefore James stays in the hammock beside her, a silent protector, guarding her from any harm. He doubts she appreciates the sentiment, but he does it for his own peace of mind more than anything. He would not forgive himself if something were to happen to her, even if she is not his responsibility anymore.
When Sparrow takes the Letters of Marque, James’ interest is piqued. Jack does not seem to value them, but James does. They represent all he has lost, and all he could newly regain.
---
Elizabeth will be the death of him, with her charm and her smile. And he cannot help but smile back, even though he wishes he could let her know how she has hurt him, or the pain she has caused. It is not her fault that she loves another - it is more James’ fault that he cannot let go. But his heart is held tight; the ropes around it are taut and strong, and his fingers are too large to untie the knots she has made.
He gets drunk under the stars on his rations of rum. It does not help him forget her; especially not when she sits and observes him from her position on the stairs. The moonlight is bright, and she is illuminated like an angel.
“Do you believe we will find a chest? A heart?” James asks, sitting beside her. Her body is heavy against his shoulder, and he thinks of a time when she held his arm on the decks of the Dauntless and promised him the world. But the Dauntless is now at the bottom of the ocean, and so are her promises.
“I don’t know,” she is truthful to him; more so than to Sparrow, who she simpers at during the daylight hours. The pirate has a touch of fortune about him that James envies; that irrepressible way of getting exactly what he wants, even at the expense of others.
“Do you believe Sparrow?” His question is simple, and double-edged. Do you believe a pirate?
“I have no choice but to.” The tone is mournful.
James raises an eyebrow, and says nothing more.
---
Elizabeth throws him the compass the next morning. He has not had a chance to examine it until now - not since he has learnt the truth of what it really is. The last time he touched it was in Port Royal when he was a freshly promoted Commodore, and he passed it off as valueless and broken.
A compass that doesn’t point north.
It is a particularly fine compass really, he admits, studying it. It is not like others of crude workmanship that he has found aboard pirate vessels during his previous travels. It has a smooth surface, inlaid with gold paint, and fits snugly in his palm. It has been well cared for, kept safe, cherished.
But still, James eyes it warily. What he wants most perhaps, is not something tangible, but something deep inside that he cannot explain. He is full of contradictions and puzzles, just like buried treasure without a map, or a chest without a heart.
Slowly he opens it; waiting with bated breath for the answer of what he wants most; but knowing full well he will not be surprised by the outcome. He wants many things in life; things that he has lost and will probably never regain, but there is always one thing above all else.
The dial spins for a moment as if disorientated on its axis - surprised by a changed authority over it. After all, it has been under Elizabeth’s jurisdiction for the journey thus far, and she is their heading towards the chest - wherever that may be. The sun sets every evening without the view of land, but James almost thinks maybe it is better to sail the seas with pirates, than to sink alone on solid ground.
The needle slows. Stops. Does not waver.
It points to her.
Of course it does, and James possibly is even a little relieved. He has spent so long wanting Elizabeth, that he does not know what it is like not to want her.
“James?”
She is looking at him with brown eyes, wide like the day she kissed him in the rain and ran off, and he feels like he has been staring at her retreating back ever since.
He snaps the lid shut.
“Elizabeth?” There is no need to call her Miss Swann now. After all, the boundaries of propriety are decidedly gone.
She sidles up beside him, lithe like a cat, leaning against the railing.
“And what is it that you want most?” Elizabeth asks, her neck tilting back just so, and his throat feels suddenly tight. She should know, yet she still asks and James wonders if that is innocence, naivety or even blindness. A year feels like a long time for Elizabeth Swann, but it has been a lifetime for James.
Against all better judgement (which he has decidedly been lacking in lately), he opens the compass lid, and offers it to her. It pains him to do it, to rub salt in the wound, but he has suffered enough, and this time she can suffer with him.
“What I want, Elizabeth?” There is bitterness in his voice, a tone that he has adopted permanently now it seems. “It is nothing I can claim.”
He forces the compass into her hand, daring her to look, and wishing he could force her out of his heart as easily.
---
James goes below decks, into the darkness, amongst the powder kegs, the rum barrels, and cannons. There is a niche against the wall, and he sits on the hard boards, knees apart.
He knows she has followed him; there are footsteps on the ladder and a soft thud when she reaches the bottom.
“James, I’m sorry.”
She crawls up beside him, far too close, and they are side by side on the floor pressed together in the darkness. A year ago, he would have scorned such impropriety, but it is funny what time and circumstances will do. A year ago, she would have been wearing a cream gown with pearl buttons down the back, and he would have watched her out the corner of his eye.
Now instead, he stares shamelessly at her, gaze unfaltering, taking in all that is this new Elizabeth. Thirstily, he drinks up her loose unkempt hair, the frayed sash tied about her waist, the ill-fitting shirt and waistcoat that bravely attempt to hide what is underneath; the worn, patched breeches.
“What are you sorry for?” he inquires flatly. James has a sudden need to hear the words from her mouth.
She wrings her hands. His eyes are adjusting to the dim light, and he sees the short dirty nails on long fingers.
“For everything.”
He raises an eyebrow, and lets out a snort of indignation. “That’s a very broad apology, Miss Swann. Would you care to elaborate?” There is a fire in her eyes, and he is trying to draw it out.
“Don’t be like that, James.” She is keeping her temper for now.
“Be like what? Bitter? Angry? Humiliated?” James sneers, really warming to his subject, “After all, what right would I have to be any of those?” The words are laced with sarcasm, and they fall heavily between them. He feels like he has been rubbed raw, like the rope burns he used to get on his hands as a midshipman, but he feels this rawness everywhere. It crawls under his skin.
The hull of the Pearl creaks, the only noise breaking their terse silence. Finally, Elizabeth speaks.
“There is a warrant out for both of us. Will too.”
James is not surprised. “I figured as much.” He desperately wants some rum, if only to settle the itch in his fingers.
“Don’t you care?”
He turns to her, raising an eyebrow, motioning down to his battered coat stiff with salt and dirt. “I think I am past the point of caring, don’t you Miss Swann?” The itch is getting stronger, and he feels her shoulder pressing gently against his own.
“On the contrary” she asserts, “I think you care a great deal.”
“But caring won’t change anything. You can care as much as you like, but you don’t always get what you want.” His words are sharp and he knows she feels his full meaning.
But Elizabeth is wise and says nothing, gaze intent on her hands, twisting the knotted bandage that is wrapped around her palm. James can see the edge of her scar there - the one from Isle de Muerta, and he fights the urge to press his lips to it.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, and this time he accepts she means it. There is a tremor to her voice that he has not heard all these years, even after all the things they have both seen. “If there had been a way not to hurt you, James, I would - ”
“It does not matter now.” He silences her quickly. “I am…. resigned to my fate.” He’s not really, but just doesn’t want her apologies or excuses. There is enough salt in his wounds without her tears to add to the sting.
She opens her mouth, perhaps to offer reassurance, but closes it again. There is nothing further to say. Neither the East India Company, nor the Royal Navy look kindly on his actions - nor piracy for that matter - and James has crossed so far over the line already that he may as well ignore it completely. He cannot hang twice, after all.
Their silence is companionable for a few minutes more.
“Jack says we are not far away.”
“How does he know that, if he doesn’t know where we are going?”
Elizabeth shrugs and smiles, a sweet expression tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’s a pirate.”
James cannot help but roll his eyes. “He’s an idiot.”
“He’s lucky!”
“Yes - lucky to be alive.”
“He’s a good man, James!” He loves how his name rolls off her tongue like it is the most natural thing in the world.
“He’s the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of.”
“But you have heard of him!” There is a tease in her voice, and he likes this sudden level of familiarity between them, the sliver of shared memory whispering between them.
“He’s a drunkard.” James replies flatly.
“Well…” she is momentarily lost for a retort, “- well, yes.”
“A rum-soaked, smelly, wobbly-legged pirate.”
She laughs, and it is a delightful sound. “If that is a pirate, then what does that make you, James?”
He shrugs, for there is no answer. He is stuck between two worlds, and has no place in either.
“You are a free man, James. Or as free as an outlaw can be.” Elizabeth smiles softly, bemused at the contradiction.
He looks at her, knowing that she doesn’t understand. Not really. This is not liberation; not to him.
“Freedom?” He gives her a wry smile before his mouth twists in bitterness. “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.”
At this, she moves to him: her body pulls in closer to his, and her small hand finds his in the darkness. It is cool and soft, and her fingers curl around his instinctively, fitting perfectly. It reminds him of their dances in the Governor’s ballroom; her joyous laughter and his two left feet. Her card was always full, but she would always save the last double without him having to ask.
Her fingers entwine with his own and his heart soars, and aches at the same time. James cannot help but linger on the swell of her bottom lip, the dark amber of her eyes. He is aware she is very near; he can feel the barest of breath lingering on his cheek, and it is warm, and sweet, and it takes all he has not to kiss her.
But she is not his, and he will not claim her. He is not a pirate.
“Oh, James,” she murmurs sadly, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her hand reaches for his face; her fingertips are smooth against his rough skin, and he suppresses a shudder, but leans into them nevertheless.
“You are a fine man, James Norrington. Too fine for me.”
She kisses his forehead. Her lips are warm and yielding, and he wants to tell her that it is not enough; that whatever she gives will never be enough. If he was a weak man, he would take and take and take, and give nothing back, just like Sparrow says, but he is too honourable for that despite everything. But he knows he will always dream dreams where he could possess her body and soul, and yet would forever wake up still wanting more.
James always will be left wanting more.
Elizabeth stiffens, sensing perhaps that she is on dangerous ground. Maybe there was a flash of desire in his eyes that he could not control, for he always very nearly loses control around her. He wants for her kiss him, like she did when she was nineteen and tasted of oranges. Right now she is looking at him as if she might, gaze intense and fierce, lips parted, breath shallow. It is a look of unspoken words, and mute acknowledgements. Conceding that perhaps things could have been different for them. Under other circumstances, they may have even been happy together.
But she doesn’t kiss him, and he is surprised to find that he respects that.
When they go above decks later, the sun is bright, and the wind is strong. James stands at the prow of the ship, watching the water smash steadily against the dark boards of the hull. This cannot be his destiny; to sail under Jack Sparrow for the rest of his life. There is only one thing he wants almost as much as he wants Elizabeth, and it is sitting inside Sparrow’s coat pocket.
The Letters of Marque are only papers really, ink and parchment, stamped and sealed. It is what they represent that is important, and what they promise that appeals to James most of all.
---
The island is long white sand, and a flooded sandbar. James follows diligently, a plan forming in his mind.
Elizabeth seems confused, and the wind is even stronger when they reach the dunes. He watches her pace, brow furrowed, and smirks at her stubbornness.
---
X marks the spot, except there is no X, only sand and James starts digging. If there is a heart in the chest, and Sparrow is telling the truth, that will makes things very interesting indeed.
His shovel hits something solid, and they are on their knees, hands scrapping at the sand, grit under their fingernails.
The chest is bigger than he expected, especially as it supposedly only contains something as small as a heart. But James knows better than most that only in physicality is a heart small, but that it can encompass so much more.
It is then that William Turner emerges, a black mark on James’ horizon. Elizabeth runs to him; clings to him, and kisses him, and James remembers now why he left Port Royal to chase Sparrow in the first place. He cannot look - must cast his eyes away as the lovers embrace; the ferocious and familiar gnaw of jealously eating at his belly.
James has known it all along, really, that he cannot have her, and never will. But it is only now that it hits him, like a sharp slap in the face, a sword to the gut.
He is resolved.
Turner has somehow conveniently procured the needed key from the Dutchman, and falls heavily to his knees, moving to unlock the chest, knife in hand.
A valuable commodity; a chest with a heart, James thinks. Combined with the Letters of Marque, a priceless tool of negotiation, indeed.
Sparrow and Turner draw their swords, and James follows. After all, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.
---
James manages to pull himself to his feet, his head still spinning violently. He is disorientated until he spots the longboat. It is empty and drifting, looking surprisingly calm despite all the chaos around them.
He seizes his chance.
The Letters are smooth in his hands, and he cannot help but feel a surge of euphoria. Sparrow called it the dark side of ambition, but James can see only the light. How can it be darkness to want to return to the side of the good and the just? It is fine for some, satisfied to live as outlaws when all is lost. James prefers redemption - a swift return to what he knows and all that he believes in. Protect and honour, serve and obey. These are things he understands.
There is dirt at the bottom of the boat that wasn’t there before, and James is no fool. Sparrow is busy, distracted by sea creatures, and it is exactly as James suspects.
The heart itself is small and sticky, surprisingly hot against his wet hands. It beats a slow rhythm, a faltering march rather than a rapid staccato. He stashes it inside his coat, next to his own heart, its sickly tempo out of time with his.
The creatures keep coming, their barnacled faces scowling, and arms swinging. They are uncouth fighters and James knows that he and Elizabeth, Turner and Sparrow are still outnumbered. If anyone is to escape, something must be done, and soon.
There is a fierce clash of swords, and they are almost backed up against the boat now. Turner is slumped over the side, and James is not sure how he missed that development but can guarantee it had something to do with Sparrow and the oar he is wielding.
“We’re not getting out of here!” he hears Elizabeth yell beside him, and he turns to see the first genuine fear he has ever seen on her face. He cannot let her die here, not like this, on an island with the blacksmith and the pirate captain, slain by creatures even he cannot describe.
“Not with the chest!” James replies, because it is true and she knows it. “Into the boat!”
He will draw them off - it is the only chance.
“You’re mad!” she shouts, realising what he intends to do. He almost wishes she would tell him to stop, not to do it, but Elizabeth knows as well as he does that this is their only chance. He may escape with his life, and with the heart, but on the other hand he may not. Either way, James has nothing left to lose by running, and nothing to gain by staying.
Their eyes meet, his green against her brown, and he wonders briefly, oddly, if their children would have had his eyes or hers. But that was a different life; one that James will never have.
“Don’t wait for me,” It is an order, rather than a request.
And then he turns, running, chest under one arm, and his sword in the other. James can almost feel her eyes burning into his back, and he wonders if this is how it will end.
All his life he knew he would die for Elizabeth Swann, the woman on whose rocks his life had been both anchored and shattered simultaneously. He can run from her, but he will never escape her.
---
He is a man with two hearts, but his emotions are bare.
The island is a forlorn place, especially at night. The sandbar floods with the steady tides, and the wind shifts the long grasses, but there is nothing other than that. It takes him a mere twelve hours to acquaint himself with its geography; mapping the landscape in his mind. He wonders if perhaps this is his Locker - his purgatory. He is not dead, but certainly does not feel alive under the starless sky, surrounded by miles of only sand and ocean. He may have the heart of the seas in his hands, but it is no use to him here, and in taking it he prays he has not condemned to the watery depths the only person he has ever truly loved.
The night is long and silent, and gives him ample time to think; to cast a timeline, or imagine the domino effect of what his actions have started. Would Sparrow by now have realised his betrayal? Or would he still be happy under false impressions, with that confident swagger in his step?
And what of Elizabeth?
Elizabeth.
Lying on his back, under the trees, he spots a singular star in the sky, and wishes on it.
The next day, in the midday sun, he knows he cannot wait any longer. There is life and there is death, and for once he chooses to live.
He starts building a raft.
---
Fourth and final part to be posted in a couple of days. Feedback is wonderful, and inspires me to write more. Love to know what you liked/didn't like/best lines, etc. Thank you for reading.
Author: artic_fox
Rating: PG13
Pairings: James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann (Norribeth)
Summary: Elizabeth will be the death of him, but he thinks perhaps he is already condemned. Four part fic, going from pre-CotBP through to AWE, through the eyes of James Norrington.
Beta: A huge thank you to commodore_lydia for her absolutely invaluable help!
Author's Notes: Although it does follow canon, I have taken a few liberties, so forgive me for those. My other Norribeth fics found in the norribeth archive here. Feedback appreciated. Concrit welcomed.
Previous:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
The fact that he ends up on Sparrow’s Black Pearl is the real irony, but it makes him feel better to have his feet on a deck, and sails over his head, even if they are black.
What doesn’t make him feel better is Captain Jack Sparrow himself, and the fact that James now must sail under his peculiar brand of command. He has fallen a long way from being the Scourge of Piracy in the Caribbean, to a mere deckhand, but what else would he do instead?
He tries to be as insubordinate as possible, an act of futile defiance, but finds it frustrating that his attempts are ignored, and he is left to stare across the water at the horizon. So he relents - he gets down on his hands and knees and swabs the deck. Elizabeth is his horizon anyway, and one he shall never reach.
---
Sparrow calls her Lizzie, and this shocks James; as if the pirate is talking about another person entirely, until he looks at her and realises perhaps he is. She has long lean legs, which he can appreciate (he has always imagined it so, even under those layers and layers of skirts she constantly wore), and he likes her hair unpinned. But she is still Elizabeth, whether she is Lizzie, or Miss Swann, (or even Mrs Turner, although she is not yet apparently and James is glad for that at least). Even if he wants to, he cannot hate her - she could send him into the depths of hell, amongst the fire and brimstone, and he still couldn’t hate her.
Aboard the Black Pearl, Elizabeth sleeps below with the crew. She steadfastly refused the offer of Sparrow’s cabin (which pleases James no end - he has seen quite enough of their innuendo and subtle mind games, thank you very much). Therefore James stays in the hammock beside her, a silent protector, guarding her from any harm. He doubts she appreciates the sentiment, but he does it for his own peace of mind more than anything. He would not forgive himself if something were to happen to her, even if she is not his responsibility anymore.
When Sparrow takes the Letters of Marque, James’ interest is piqued. Jack does not seem to value them, but James does. They represent all he has lost, and all he could newly regain.
---
Elizabeth will be the death of him, with her charm and her smile. And he cannot help but smile back, even though he wishes he could let her know how she has hurt him, or the pain she has caused. It is not her fault that she loves another - it is more James’ fault that he cannot let go. But his heart is held tight; the ropes around it are taut and strong, and his fingers are too large to untie the knots she has made.
He gets drunk under the stars on his rations of rum. It does not help him forget her; especially not when she sits and observes him from her position on the stairs. The moonlight is bright, and she is illuminated like an angel.
“Do you believe we will find a chest? A heart?” James asks, sitting beside her. Her body is heavy against his shoulder, and he thinks of a time when she held his arm on the decks of the Dauntless and promised him the world. But the Dauntless is now at the bottom of the ocean, and so are her promises.
“I don’t know,” she is truthful to him; more so than to Sparrow, who she simpers at during the daylight hours. The pirate has a touch of fortune about him that James envies; that irrepressible way of getting exactly what he wants, even at the expense of others.
“Do you believe Sparrow?” His question is simple, and double-edged. Do you believe a pirate?
“I have no choice but to.” The tone is mournful.
James raises an eyebrow, and says nothing more.
---
Elizabeth throws him the compass the next morning. He has not had a chance to examine it until now - not since he has learnt the truth of what it really is. The last time he touched it was in Port Royal when he was a freshly promoted Commodore, and he passed it off as valueless and broken.
A compass that doesn’t point north.
It is a particularly fine compass really, he admits, studying it. It is not like others of crude workmanship that he has found aboard pirate vessels during his previous travels. It has a smooth surface, inlaid with gold paint, and fits snugly in his palm. It has been well cared for, kept safe, cherished.
But still, James eyes it warily. What he wants most perhaps, is not something tangible, but something deep inside that he cannot explain. He is full of contradictions and puzzles, just like buried treasure without a map, or a chest without a heart.
Slowly he opens it; waiting with bated breath for the answer of what he wants most; but knowing full well he will not be surprised by the outcome. He wants many things in life; things that he has lost and will probably never regain, but there is always one thing above all else.
The dial spins for a moment as if disorientated on its axis - surprised by a changed authority over it. After all, it has been under Elizabeth’s jurisdiction for the journey thus far, and she is their heading towards the chest - wherever that may be. The sun sets every evening without the view of land, but James almost thinks maybe it is better to sail the seas with pirates, than to sink alone on solid ground.
The needle slows. Stops. Does not waver.
It points to her.
Of course it does, and James possibly is even a little relieved. He has spent so long wanting Elizabeth, that he does not know what it is like not to want her.
“James?”
She is looking at him with brown eyes, wide like the day she kissed him in the rain and ran off, and he feels like he has been staring at her retreating back ever since.
He snaps the lid shut.
“Elizabeth?” There is no need to call her Miss Swann now. After all, the boundaries of propriety are decidedly gone.
She sidles up beside him, lithe like a cat, leaning against the railing.
“And what is it that you want most?” Elizabeth asks, her neck tilting back just so, and his throat feels suddenly tight. She should know, yet she still asks and James wonders if that is innocence, naivety or even blindness. A year feels like a long time for Elizabeth Swann, but it has been a lifetime for James.
Against all better judgement (which he has decidedly been lacking in lately), he opens the compass lid, and offers it to her. It pains him to do it, to rub salt in the wound, but he has suffered enough, and this time she can suffer with him.
“What I want, Elizabeth?” There is bitterness in his voice, a tone that he has adopted permanently now it seems. “It is nothing I can claim.”
He forces the compass into her hand, daring her to look, and wishing he could force her out of his heart as easily.
---
James goes below decks, into the darkness, amongst the powder kegs, the rum barrels, and cannons. There is a niche against the wall, and he sits on the hard boards, knees apart.
He knows she has followed him; there are footsteps on the ladder and a soft thud when she reaches the bottom.
“James, I’m sorry.”
She crawls up beside him, far too close, and they are side by side on the floor pressed together in the darkness. A year ago, he would have scorned such impropriety, but it is funny what time and circumstances will do. A year ago, she would have been wearing a cream gown with pearl buttons down the back, and he would have watched her out the corner of his eye.
Now instead, he stares shamelessly at her, gaze unfaltering, taking in all that is this new Elizabeth. Thirstily, he drinks up her loose unkempt hair, the frayed sash tied about her waist, the ill-fitting shirt and waistcoat that bravely attempt to hide what is underneath; the worn, patched breeches.
“What are you sorry for?” he inquires flatly. James has a sudden need to hear the words from her mouth.
She wrings her hands. His eyes are adjusting to the dim light, and he sees the short dirty nails on long fingers.
“For everything.”
He raises an eyebrow, and lets out a snort of indignation. “That’s a very broad apology, Miss Swann. Would you care to elaborate?” There is a fire in her eyes, and he is trying to draw it out.
“Don’t be like that, James.” She is keeping her temper for now.
“Be like what? Bitter? Angry? Humiliated?” James sneers, really warming to his subject, “After all, what right would I have to be any of those?” The words are laced with sarcasm, and they fall heavily between them. He feels like he has been rubbed raw, like the rope burns he used to get on his hands as a midshipman, but he feels this rawness everywhere. It crawls under his skin.
The hull of the Pearl creaks, the only noise breaking their terse silence. Finally, Elizabeth speaks.
“There is a warrant out for both of us. Will too.”
James is not surprised. “I figured as much.” He desperately wants some rum, if only to settle the itch in his fingers.
“Don’t you care?”
He turns to her, raising an eyebrow, motioning down to his battered coat stiff with salt and dirt. “I think I am past the point of caring, don’t you Miss Swann?” The itch is getting stronger, and he feels her shoulder pressing gently against his own.
“On the contrary” she asserts, “I think you care a great deal.”
“But caring won’t change anything. You can care as much as you like, but you don’t always get what you want.” His words are sharp and he knows she feels his full meaning.
But Elizabeth is wise and says nothing, gaze intent on her hands, twisting the knotted bandage that is wrapped around her palm. James can see the edge of her scar there - the one from Isle de Muerta, and he fights the urge to press his lips to it.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, and this time he accepts she means it. There is a tremor to her voice that he has not heard all these years, even after all the things they have both seen. “If there had been a way not to hurt you, James, I would - ”
“It does not matter now.” He silences her quickly. “I am…. resigned to my fate.” He’s not really, but just doesn’t want her apologies or excuses. There is enough salt in his wounds without her tears to add to the sting.
She opens her mouth, perhaps to offer reassurance, but closes it again. There is nothing further to say. Neither the East India Company, nor the Royal Navy look kindly on his actions - nor piracy for that matter - and James has crossed so far over the line already that he may as well ignore it completely. He cannot hang twice, after all.
Their silence is companionable for a few minutes more.
“Jack says we are not far away.”
“How does he know that, if he doesn’t know where we are going?”
Elizabeth shrugs and smiles, a sweet expression tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’s a pirate.”
James cannot help but roll his eyes. “He’s an idiot.”
“He’s lucky!”
“Yes - lucky to be alive.”
“He’s a good man, James!” He loves how his name rolls off her tongue like it is the most natural thing in the world.
“He’s the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of.”
“But you have heard of him!” There is a tease in her voice, and he likes this sudden level of familiarity between them, the sliver of shared memory whispering between them.
“He’s a drunkard.” James replies flatly.
“Well…” she is momentarily lost for a retort, “- well, yes.”
“A rum-soaked, smelly, wobbly-legged pirate.”
She laughs, and it is a delightful sound. “If that is a pirate, then what does that make you, James?”
He shrugs, for there is no answer. He is stuck between two worlds, and has no place in either.
“You are a free man, James. Or as free as an outlaw can be.” Elizabeth smiles softly, bemused at the contradiction.
He looks at her, knowing that she doesn’t understand. Not really. This is not liberation; not to him.
“Freedom?” He gives her a wry smile before his mouth twists in bitterness. “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.”
At this, she moves to him: her body pulls in closer to his, and her small hand finds his in the darkness. It is cool and soft, and her fingers curl around his instinctively, fitting perfectly. It reminds him of their dances in the Governor’s ballroom; her joyous laughter and his two left feet. Her card was always full, but she would always save the last double without him having to ask.
Her fingers entwine with his own and his heart soars, and aches at the same time. James cannot help but linger on the swell of her bottom lip, the dark amber of her eyes. He is aware she is very near; he can feel the barest of breath lingering on his cheek, and it is warm, and sweet, and it takes all he has not to kiss her.
But she is not his, and he will not claim her. He is not a pirate.
“Oh, James,” she murmurs sadly, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her hand reaches for his face; her fingertips are smooth against his rough skin, and he suppresses a shudder, but leans into them nevertheless.
“You are a fine man, James Norrington. Too fine for me.”
She kisses his forehead. Her lips are warm and yielding, and he wants to tell her that it is not enough; that whatever she gives will never be enough. If he was a weak man, he would take and take and take, and give nothing back, just like Sparrow says, but he is too honourable for that despite everything. But he knows he will always dream dreams where he could possess her body and soul, and yet would forever wake up still wanting more.
James always will be left wanting more.
Elizabeth stiffens, sensing perhaps that she is on dangerous ground. Maybe there was a flash of desire in his eyes that he could not control, for he always very nearly loses control around her. He wants for her kiss him, like she did when she was nineteen and tasted of oranges. Right now she is looking at him as if she might, gaze intense and fierce, lips parted, breath shallow. It is a look of unspoken words, and mute acknowledgements. Conceding that perhaps things could have been different for them. Under other circumstances, they may have even been happy together.
But she doesn’t kiss him, and he is surprised to find that he respects that.
When they go above decks later, the sun is bright, and the wind is strong. James stands at the prow of the ship, watching the water smash steadily against the dark boards of the hull. This cannot be his destiny; to sail under Jack Sparrow for the rest of his life. There is only one thing he wants almost as much as he wants Elizabeth, and it is sitting inside Sparrow’s coat pocket.
The Letters of Marque are only papers really, ink and parchment, stamped and sealed. It is what they represent that is important, and what they promise that appeals to James most of all.
---
The island is long white sand, and a flooded sandbar. James follows diligently, a plan forming in his mind.
Elizabeth seems confused, and the wind is even stronger when they reach the dunes. He watches her pace, brow furrowed, and smirks at her stubbornness.
---
X marks the spot, except there is no X, only sand and James starts digging. If there is a heart in the chest, and Sparrow is telling the truth, that will makes things very interesting indeed.
His shovel hits something solid, and they are on their knees, hands scrapping at the sand, grit under their fingernails.
The chest is bigger than he expected, especially as it supposedly only contains something as small as a heart. But James knows better than most that only in physicality is a heart small, but that it can encompass so much more.
It is then that William Turner emerges, a black mark on James’ horizon. Elizabeth runs to him; clings to him, and kisses him, and James remembers now why he left Port Royal to chase Sparrow in the first place. He cannot look - must cast his eyes away as the lovers embrace; the ferocious and familiar gnaw of jealously eating at his belly.
James has known it all along, really, that he cannot have her, and never will. But it is only now that it hits him, like a sharp slap in the face, a sword to the gut.
He is resolved.
Turner has somehow conveniently procured the needed key from the Dutchman, and falls heavily to his knees, moving to unlock the chest, knife in hand.
A valuable commodity; a chest with a heart, James thinks. Combined with the Letters of Marque, a priceless tool of negotiation, indeed.
Sparrow and Turner draw their swords, and James follows. After all, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.
---
James manages to pull himself to his feet, his head still spinning violently. He is disorientated until he spots the longboat. It is empty and drifting, looking surprisingly calm despite all the chaos around them.
He seizes his chance.
The Letters are smooth in his hands, and he cannot help but feel a surge of euphoria. Sparrow called it the dark side of ambition, but James can see only the light. How can it be darkness to want to return to the side of the good and the just? It is fine for some, satisfied to live as outlaws when all is lost. James prefers redemption - a swift return to what he knows and all that he believes in. Protect and honour, serve and obey. These are things he understands.
There is dirt at the bottom of the boat that wasn’t there before, and James is no fool. Sparrow is busy, distracted by sea creatures, and it is exactly as James suspects.
The heart itself is small and sticky, surprisingly hot against his wet hands. It beats a slow rhythm, a faltering march rather than a rapid staccato. He stashes it inside his coat, next to his own heart, its sickly tempo out of time with his.
The creatures keep coming, their barnacled faces scowling, and arms swinging. They are uncouth fighters and James knows that he and Elizabeth, Turner and Sparrow are still outnumbered. If anyone is to escape, something must be done, and soon.
There is a fierce clash of swords, and they are almost backed up against the boat now. Turner is slumped over the side, and James is not sure how he missed that development but can guarantee it had something to do with Sparrow and the oar he is wielding.
“We’re not getting out of here!” he hears Elizabeth yell beside him, and he turns to see the first genuine fear he has ever seen on her face. He cannot let her die here, not like this, on an island with the blacksmith and the pirate captain, slain by creatures even he cannot describe.
“Not with the chest!” James replies, because it is true and she knows it. “Into the boat!”
He will draw them off - it is the only chance.
“You’re mad!” she shouts, realising what he intends to do. He almost wishes she would tell him to stop, not to do it, but Elizabeth knows as well as he does that this is their only chance. He may escape with his life, and with the heart, but on the other hand he may not. Either way, James has nothing left to lose by running, and nothing to gain by staying.
Their eyes meet, his green against her brown, and he wonders briefly, oddly, if their children would have had his eyes or hers. But that was a different life; one that James will never have.
“Don’t wait for me,” It is an order, rather than a request.
And then he turns, running, chest under one arm, and his sword in the other. James can almost feel her eyes burning into his back, and he wonders if this is how it will end.
All his life he knew he would die for Elizabeth Swann, the woman on whose rocks his life had been both anchored and shattered simultaneously. He can run from her, but he will never escape her.
---
He is a man with two hearts, but his emotions are bare.
The island is a forlorn place, especially at night. The sandbar floods with the steady tides, and the wind shifts the long grasses, but there is nothing other than that. It takes him a mere twelve hours to acquaint himself with its geography; mapping the landscape in his mind. He wonders if perhaps this is his Locker - his purgatory. He is not dead, but certainly does not feel alive under the starless sky, surrounded by miles of only sand and ocean. He may have the heart of the seas in his hands, but it is no use to him here, and in taking it he prays he has not condemned to the watery depths the only person he has ever truly loved.
The night is long and silent, and gives him ample time to think; to cast a timeline, or imagine the domino effect of what his actions have started. Would Sparrow by now have realised his betrayal? Or would he still be happy under false impressions, with that confident swagger in his step?
And what of Elizabeth?
Elizabeth.
Lying on his back, under the trees, he spots a singular star in the sky, and wishes on it.
The next day, in the midday sun, he knows he cannot wait any longer. There is life and there is death, and for once he chooses to live.
He starts building a raft.
---
Fourth and final part to be posted in a couple of days. Feedback is wonderful, and inspires me to write more. Love to know what you liked/didn't like/best lines, etc. Thank you for reading.