(no subject)
Title: Symphony: Third Movement
Series Number: 3/?
Pairing: Norrington/Elizabeth
Rating: R
Notes: Thanks so much to my wonderful, beautiful, brilliant BETA and fellow Norribeth enthusiast niankhsekhmet!
The cool breeze flowed up from the slush and slur of the endless waves upon the sandy beach. The small gusts coaxed the leaves upon the branches into a slow, sultry dance. Emerald stems and pink colored flowers swayed and writhed under its gentle caress. Each fresh new bud smelled sickly sweet. Each dainty petal hummed with the sound of busy bees, carrying bright yellow pollen on their hind legs. Every blossom frothed with dewy cream.
And amongst this tantric flow of nature, sat a flower in her own right. A newly made quilt lay flattened beneath her, the woman's back resting comfortably against the solid base of a peach tree. The shade flickered with the leaves' ever shifting locations. The leather-bound book in her hand was illuminated by the sudden flashes of sunlight that soon became hidden by moving spots of shade. Elizabeth sighed, licked her finger, and turned the page.
The scene was calm, gentle, and genial in all states of mind. No element of worry or preoccupation resided within the Governor's orchard. And it was there that Elizabeth sought relief from her father's recent eccentricities and the hectic fret and fervor over her upcoming wedding to Commodore Norrington. In the orchard, only the bees spoke, only the flowers whispered. There was no haste, no rush, no need to shove everything into one quick single event. Elizabeth relished in its slow pace. How greatly it differed from her life as of late.
However, Norrington, on the other hand, had no time for such careless liberties as Elizabeth Swann did. For the past two weeks he had been hounded by gentlemen of the aristocracy about his upcoming marriage, jeered by his fellow officers at the fort, winked at and grinned to by townspeople of the lesser classes. And atop all that, he still had a job to uphold, a town to protect. Maps and papers of all ilk had been thrown upon his desk requiring his attention. Naval drills and ship repairs had all removed him from the social scope. James found it remarkable when we would find a moments rest in the day, and even then she haunted his thoughts. Elizabeth. With her creamy skin, her sweet rosy smile, her amber eyes that sparkled with mischief; the feel of her soft cheek, the taste of her warm kiss.
Yet at long last Norrington came upon a cool, sunny afternoon in which he found that he had free time. It was a rare thing to be cherished, and rather than spend it reading or playing music, he chose to spend it with the one who so occupied his thoughts, choking his mind off from all else. And so James came to the Swann household without invitation, hoping against hope that his bride-to-be would be there, somewhere.
He went in through the garden gate, hands clasped behind his back. He twiddled his thumbs nervously, his expression blank and searching; a little lost boy. The sea breeze welcomed him and wrapped him in its gentle embrace. The flowers bowed to him in his wake. The leaves danced happily for him, so glad were they that he had come to keep them company. ---And he was quite startled to see that Elizabeth was there, so conveniently beneath the tree, without him having to search at all for her.
"Elizabeth?" he asked, taking a small step forward and craning his neck slightly to see her face. Of course it was she. He did not need to ask.
Elizabeth gave a sudden start. Her heart leapt into her mouth and she pressed a hand to her heaving bosom. Smiling, she looked up at her betrothed and set down her book. "Goodness, James. I'm sorry, you gave me a fright."
"My apologies, Miss Swann."
"No, no. You need not worry." Politely she added, "Please, sit."
Following her wide, sweeping gesture, James lowered himself onto the quilt with a tasteful lack of grace. She laughed at him momentarily, bringing a grin to his face. How beautiful she was. She outshone all of the flowers about her, outshone even the sun itself that hovered above them.
"What are you reading?" James stated more than asked, picking up her book from the grass beside the quilt. Carefully he flipped through it. His brows shot up. "Hamlet. You've excellent taste, Elizabeth, but I knew that...we've already discussed it." Quickly he added, "This piece of literature, I mean to say. ...We have discussed it."
"Yes. We have. The literature."
"Of course."
"Yes."
A long pregnant pause occurred, followed by the two of them attempting to speak at once, erupting into a short burst of laughter.
"After you."
"No, after you, James. I insist."
"No truly, Elizabeth I-"
"No, please, I am far more interested in what you have to say."
James twittered a moment, hesitating. His stomach rumbled and lurched. "All right. Might I...be so bold as to ask you...which passages you like best in Hamlet?"
Elizabeth's lips began to curl quietly in the corners of her mouth. But she could not have helped it. Soon the tiny simper grew into a wide smile, her cheeks suddenly ruddy and bright. "Of course. I have always been fond of Hamlet's confrontation with Ophelia. The raw emotion is simply brilliant."
"Yes," he whispered in reply. "Would you...Would you recite it to me?" Elizabeth smiled once more. "I simply enjoy hearing the sound of your voice." She fumbled her expression suddenly. Quickly she flipped through the pages. Her stomach sunk and fluttered.
"Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day..."
How rich and sweet her voice was, like a sprite's, or a siren's. It beckoned James, called for him. It begged him to sit closer to her, run his hands through her hair, touch her lips with his own. To devour her, drown her in his devotion. To feel the curves of her fine hip, the swell of her young breast
Series Number: 3/?
Pairing: Norrington/Elizabeth
Rating: R
Notes: Thanks so much to my wonderful, beautiful, brilliant BETA and fellow Norribeth enthusiast niankhsekhmet!
The cool breeze flowed up from the slush and slur of the endless waves upon the sandy beach. The small gusts coaxed the leaves upon the branches into a slow, sultry dance. Emerald stems and pink colored flowers swayed and writhed under its gentle caress. Each fresh new bud smelled sickly sweet. Each dainty petal hummed with the sound of busy bees, carrying bright yellow pollen on their hind legs. Every blossom frothed with dewy cream.
And amongst this tantric flow of nature, sat a flower in her own right. A newly made quilt lay flattened beneath her, the woman's back resting comfortably against the solid base of a peach tree. The shade flickered with the leaves' ever shifting locations. The leather-bound book in her hand was illuminated by the sudden flashes of sunlight that soon became hidden by moving spots of shade. Elizabeth sighed, licked her finger, and turned the page.
The scene was calm, gentle, and genial in all states of mind. No element of worry or preoccupation resided within the Governor's orchard. And it was there that Elizabeth sought relief from her father's recent eccentricities and the hectic fret and fervor over her upcoming wedding to Commodore Norrington. In the orchard, only the bees spoke, only the flowers whispered. There was no haste, no rush, no need to shove everything into one quick single event. Elizabeth relished in its slow pace. How greatly it differed from her life as of late.
However, Norrington, on the other hand, had no time for such careless liberties as Elizabeth Swann did. For the past two weeks he had been hounded by gentlemen of the aristocracy about his upcoming marriage, jeered by his fellow officers at the fort, winked at and grinned to by townspeople of the lesser classes. And atop all that, he still had a job to uphold, a town to protect. Maps and papers of all ilk had been thrown upon his desk requiring his attention. Naval drills and ship repairs had all removed him from the social scope. James found it remarkable when we would find a moments rest in the day, and even then she haunted his thoughts. Elizabeth. With her creamy skin, her sweet rosy smile, her amber eyes that sparkled with mischief; the feel of her soft cheek, the taste of her warm kiss.
Yet at long last Norrington came upon a cool, sunny afternoon in which he found that he had free time. It was a rare thing to be cherished, and rather than spend it reading or playing music, he chose to spend it with the one who so occupied his thoughts, choking his mind off from all else. And so James came to the Swann household without invitation, hoping against hope that his bride-to-be would be there, somewhere.
He went in through the garden gate, hands clasped behind his back. He twiddled his thumbs nervously, his expression blank and searching; a little lost boy. The sea breeze welcomed him and wrapped him in its gentle embrace. The flowers bowed to him in his wake. The leaves danced happily for him, so glad were they that he had come to keep them company. ---And he was quite startled to see that Elizabeth was there, so conveniently beneath the tree, without him having to search at all for her.
"Elizabeth?" he asked, taking a small step forward and craning his neck slightly to see her face. Of course it was she. He did not need to ask.
Elizabeth gave a sudden start. Her heart leapt into her mouth and she pressed a hand to her heaving bosom. Smiling, she looked up at her betrothed and set down her book. "Goodness, James. I'm sorry, you gave me a fright."
"My apologies, Miss Swann."
"No, no. You need not worry." Politely she added, "Please, sit."
Following her wide, sweeping gesture, James lowered himself onto the quilt with a tasteful lack of grace. She laughed at him momentarily, bringing a grin to his face. How beautiful she was. She outshone all of the flowers about her, outshone even the sun itself that hovered above them.
"What are you reading?" James stated more than asked, picking up her book from the grass beside the quilt. Carefully he flipped through it. His brows shot up. "Hamlet. You've excellent taste, Elizabeth, but I knew that...we've already discussed it." Quickly he added, "This piece of literature, I mean to say. ...We have discussed it."
"Yes. We have. The literature."
"Of course."
"Yes."
A long pregnant pause occurred, followed by the two of them attempting to speak at once, erupting into a short burst of laughter.
"After you."
"No, after you, James. I insist."
"No truly, Elizabeth I-"
"No, please, I am far more interested in what you have to say."
James twittered a moment, hesitating. His stomach rumbled and lurched. "All right. Might I...be so bold as to ask you...which passages you like best in Hamlet?"
Elizabeth's lips began to curl quietly in the corners of her mouth. But she could not have helped it. Soon the tiny simper grew into a wide smile, her cheeks suddenly ruddy and bright. "Of course. I have always been fond of Hamlet's confrontation with Ophelia. The raw emotion is simply brilliant."
"Yes," he whispered in reply. "Would you...Would you recite it to me?" Elizabeth smiled once more. "I simply enjoy hearing the sound of your voice." She fumbled her expression suddenly. Quickly she flipped through the pages. Her stomach sunk and fluttered.
"Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day..."
How rich and sweet her voice was, like a sprite's, or a siren's. It beckoned James, called for him. It begged him to sit closer to her, run his hands through her hair, touch her lips with his own. To devour her, drown her in his devotion. To feel the curves of her fine hip, the swell of her young breast