The Awakening

By Jenthegypsy
Presented to Felaine (who wanted happy Norrington) on December 20, 2005 in the Secret Santa Fic Exchange.
This is a sequel to Hereswith's story Consequences..

He took great care to close the door gently behind him and to deposit his shoes just inside, on the small rug reserved for such purpose. He removed his coat, folded it with steady calm, and laid it across the back of a nearby chair. His hands, acting of their own accord, set about smoothing slight creases from the fabric and straightening hem edges.

"I would have married you, James."

Her words ripped through his heart. Again.

His hands betrayed him then, jerking the carefully arranged coat from the chair and flinging it into the wall with such force that the polished buttons were left flecked with bits of paint. His wig followed, as did a small volume of poetry that had come blindly to hand in that flash of temper. The strangled cry that he made, but did not hear, tore through the otherwise empty house, rousing birds that had taken roost under the eves for the night.

Inhaling deeply, as though that simple act would restore order to his troubled heart, James stood staring at the result of his momentary lapse of vigilance. He vaguely recognized the need to remove the remnants of that display before Mrs. Gilbert arrived at first light. No need to give the staff further reason to extend him their knowing and sympathetic glances.

Turning on heel, he crossed into the sanctity of his study. Forgoing the lamp, he collapsed into one of the high backed chairs and sat in utter silence, willing the cool darkness of the room to bank the fire that burned within him.

She would have married him; loved Turner, but married him all the same.

She would have married him, but now would not, for he had released her from her promise. He had set her free to marry the boy. The blacksmith. The pirate.

James had been the picture of grace and decorum in his new role as jilted fiancé, in his humiliation before his men and the governor. Before the infuriatingly smug Sparrow who had, for that one fleeting moment, seemed genuinely sorry at this particular turn of events.

She would have married him.

"Damn you!" He spat out the words and was startled by the bitterness that they left upon his lips. Lips that had never once kissed the woman who had so thoroughly ensnared his heart. Lips that had said nothing more romantic to her than a stammering, "You have become a fine woman, Elizabeth."

Turner had found the courage to say what James could not: I love you. Simply that. Perhaps it was himself that he should be damning. With a sigh of realization, he bowed head into hands and thought no more.

*

Some time later, mind painstakingly set to rights, James strode past the aftermath of his outburst and slowly mounted the stairs, hands loosening cravat and unfastening shirt buttons as he went. He removed both articles, dropping them in a heap beside his bed.

Double doors, centered on the wall just beyond the bed, opened to a small balcony that overlooked the sea. He moved to stand near the railing, absently noting that the gathering fog hid all at anchor in the harbor, save the topline of the Dauntless. If he allowed himself, he could imagine that the Interceptor slept in her berth under that protective blanket instead of drifting to the four corners of the world in a million splintered pieces.

If he allowed himself, he could imagine that Elizabeth loved him.

He turned away from the harbor and the fog, intending to finally acquaint himself with the bottle of very fine French brandy that the governor had given him on the occasion of his 32nd birthday. Instead, James found himself in an alcove off his dressing room, farthest from the sea, gazing down at the trunk of dark, polished wood that sat there. A small smile of pleasant memory played along his mouth as he ran one hand over the time-worn grain.

"Well," he murmured, "here you are, all but forgotten…." There was a groan as the hinges protested the disturbance and the lid slowly yielded to his insistence.

*

It had become more difficult to slip away from the Governor's mansion undetected in the days following the Unfortunate Incident Involving Miss Swann And That Pirate, as it had come to be known, but difficult meant no more to Elizabeth than impossible meant to Jack Sparrow; it was just not a concern. And so it was that she found herself sitting in the sand of the small horseshoe bay just west of the harbor, contemplating the sea and James Norrington. He had been so angry when he left her this evening, had spoken to her so harshly, storming away from her without even turning to bid her good evening.

"I would have loved you," he had said, the edge to his voice cutting her like a fine blade. "Not wisely, perhaps, but far too well."

His words burned deep within her, causing her skin to prickle with a sudden heat that defied the cool night breeze. How dare he speak to her in such a manner! How dare he insinuate....

Elizabeth was suddenly aware of a faint pounding coming from the far end of the bay; a harder edged, more rapid rhythm than that of the waves rushing to shore. She scooted back into the shadows along the tree line, and stood to mark the approaching sound, which grew louder with alarming speed.

It burst out of a retreating tendril of fog halfway down the beach, a great dark shape eating up the distance with huge rolling strides. She watched, entranced, as the beast came nearer to her vantage point, its breathing in rhythm with its movement, head tucked, neck arched, mane and tail streaming in the wind of its own passage. A narrow strip of white running from forehead to muzzle, along with its massive size and dark color, identified it as the Spanish stallion belonging to Captain Gerard.

The animal gradually began to alter course, swinging into a wide arc, turning away from the advancing sea. It was only then that Elizabeth became aware of the man.

He rode as though he were a part of the stallion; legs and seat fused to sides and back. She gaped, realizing that there was no saddle, and only the lightest of bridles, with the reins held loosely near the withers. They were now moving in wide circles, touching the foam of the rising tide on one side and the loose sand near the tree line on the other. Elizabeth watched in amazement as the horse grew accustomed to the varied footing and the man let the reins slide from his fingers.

He opened like a sail unfurling, leaning backward, arms flung wide, head thrown back, the very image of freedom itself. His hair was dark, and kept very short, but the shirt that he so brazenly wore half-open, billowed in the breeze like the horse's mane. As they passed, Elizabeth could see that his eyes were closed and that there was a look of rapture on his face.

His face.... She waited for them to come round again. He looked so very familiar.

"James!", she gasped, before realizing that she had spoken aloud. The stallion seemed to stop in mid-stride, as James scooped up the reins and sat upright in one smooth motion, the two turning as one to face the voice from the shadows.

To Be Continued...

~.~

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