for the Mistaken Identity Challenge
“Elizabeth, darling, light of my life-” She rolls her eyes at his choice of endearments. “There’s someone here I think you’ll be very pleased to see!” My God, she thinks, could he trill his words any more obviously? This potential suitor must be hideous indeed, for Daddy to talk him up so. Her temper flares.
“Daddy, we’ve already been here for four hours, most of which I’ve spent in trivial conversation, if one could call it that, with heavily paunched men twice my age whose idea of being clever is making mortifying jokes about my childhood! What next?” Yet, ever the dutiful daughter, she trudges into the drawing room after him to see… well, nothing, quite frankly, apart from the draperies.
“What fresh hell,” she mutters to herself.
“I had hoped you’d be rather more enthusiastic about my return,” murmurs a dry, sardonic voice from the vicinity of her right elbow. Elizabeth shrieks and whirls around, her hands instinctively raised into claws, emitting a battle cry that sounds like “Hrrwaaugh!” Standing beside her, arms clasped behind his back, a stray lock of hair (no doubt having tumbled from his queue) falling endearingly over his eyes, is James.
“James!” She squeals in equal parts delight and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were another stuffy whiskery old man I’d have to chat up for Father’s sake.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says ruefully, rubbing a hand over his jawline. “Although I’m not so sure the whiskery bit isn’t true.”
“Oh, James, I’ve missed you so,” she exclaims. Without further ceremony, she flings herself into his arms. “You wicked man, don’t ever leave for that long again! Six months you were gone. I thought I should die of the loss!”
James holds her tightly despite all sense of propriety, marveling at the difference six months has wrought in Elizabeth. She is practically a woman now, and a fine one at that. She has become a thing of beauty and more dear to him than gold.
“Tell me,” he says, smiling, “do you greet all your father’s associates and potential suitors with such a display of ferocity?” She has the grace to blush and smile prettily at him, batting the long eyelashes it seems she has just acquired for the purpose of flustering him. “Of course not, James. Only the people who matter get to hear my battle cry.” She squeezes his hand in her small one, and James thinks he might be in love. Well, it’s either that or indigestion.
Elizabeth Swann is the ocean, tempestuous and cruel, and though James is drowning in her depths, he still begs for rain, for he feels parched and beached and lost at sea. His world shatters and is trodden upon by pirates wearing ridiculous kohl on their eyes and steel-makers who forget their places. Most especially he is trodden on by beautiful women in delicate shoes who take no notice of the crunching noise his heart makes when they say two words: “It is.” That’s all it takes. James Norrington has been gravely mistaken in his assessment of Elizabeth Swann. He has hoped, nay, believed, that she could be trusted with the care of his heart. He has deluded himself that she would have returned his affections in time, had it not been for the pirate (she was ever too curious about dangerous things, he reflects). He has told himself that when she looks at the blacksmith it is merely infatuation in her eyes, that she will come to her senses and see the error of her pirate-riddled ways. That she will not harm him. Yet this is where her heart truly lies. Not with him, and his heart shatters. James does not know this woman standing before him at all. This is not his Elizabeth. He has been blind- his Elizabeth has already been consigned to the depths of this strange woman’s ocean, and James has thrown his heart away on a lie.
“Daddy, we’ve already been here for four hours, most of which I’ve spent in trivial conversation, if one could call it that, with heavily paunched men twice my age whose idea of being clever is making mortifying jokes about my childhood! What next?” Yet, ever the dutiful daughter, she trudges into the drawing room after him to see… well, nothing, quite frankly, apart from the draperies.
“What fresh hell,” she mutters to herself.
“I had hoped you’d be rather more enthusiastic about my return,” murmurs a dry, sardonic voice from the vicinity of her right elbow. Elizabeth shrieks and whirls around, her hands instinctively raised into claws, emitting a battle cry that sounds like “Hrrwaaugh!” Standing beside her, arms clasped behind his back, a stray lock of hair (no doubt having tumbled from his queue) falling endearingly over his eyes, is James.
“James!” She squeals in equal parts delight and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were another stuffy whiskery old man I’d have to chat up for Father’s sake.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says ruefully, rubbing a hand over his jawline. “Although I’m not so sure the whiskery bit isn’t true.”
“Oh, James, I’ve missed you so,” she exclaims. Without further ceremony, she flings herself into his arms. “You wicked man, don’t ever leave for that long again! Six months you were gone. I thought I should die of the loss!”
James holds her tightly despite all sense of propriety, marveling at the difference six months has wrought in Elizabeth. She is practically a woman now, and a fine one at that. She has become a thing of beauty and more dear to him than gold.
“Tell me,” he says, smiling, “do you greet all your father’s associates and potential suitors with such a display of ferocity?” She has the grace to blush and smile prettily at him, batting the long eyelashes it seems she has just acquired for the purpose of flustering him. “Of course not, James. Only the people who matter get to hear my battle cry.” She squeezes his hand in her small one, and James thinks he might be in love. Well, it’s either that or indigestion.
Elizabeth Swann is the ocean, tempestuous and cruel, and though James is drowning in her depths, he still begs for rain, for he feels parched and beached and lost at sea. His world shatters and is trodden upon by pirates wearing ridiculous kohl on their eyes and steel-makers who forget their places. Most especially he is trodden on by beautiful women in delicate shoes who take no notice of the crunching noise his heart makes when they say two words: “It is.” That’s all it takes. James Norrington has been gravely mistaken in his assessment of Elizabeth Swann. He has hoped, nay, believed, that she could be trusted with the care of his heart. He has deluded himself that she would have returned his affections in time, had it not been for the pirate (she was ever too curious about dangerous things, he reflects). He has told himself that when she looks at the blacksmith it is merely infatuation in her eyes, that she will come to her senses and see the error of her pirate-riddled ways. That she will not harm him. Yet this is where her heart truly lies. Not with him, and his heart shatters. James does not know this woman standing before him at all. This is not his Elizabeth. He has been blind- his Elizabeth has already been consigned to the depths of this strange woman’s ocean, and James has thrown his heart away on a lie.