If Only
This is the story of a man who never won. He succeeded, at points; was admired, by some; lived, for a while; and loved very badly.
At the beginning of his life, everything seemed set for a graceful journey. Born to respected parents, raised in a strict-yet-loving environment, competent in the tasks assigned to him (but not too much) and well able to continue his slightly mediocre existence without trouble.
Then he fell in love, and it all went to hell.
On the surface, it should have been just another step in the life of a man destined for ordinariness. He knew the girl since she was young, she was the child of good parents, pretty and with witty conversation. The only slightly odd thing about her was the streak of wildness about her, but he loved that too. More, perhaps, than a man of his position should have.
He didn't tell her he loved her, of course, because that was not the done thing, and James Norrington lived by what the done thing was. He never stepped outside the rules, not even to help a friend, and was utterly, utterly devoted to doing what was right.
Or at least he was, until he fell in love with Elizabeth.
It seems unfair, that a good man's tale should be besieged with such tragedy, that one who gave himself to helping others should receive no comfort from the gods. If only they had not twisted their thread quite so: if only they had not had her faint, not have her fall, if only they had not sent such winds, if only the pirates had not come, if only he had escaped from the ship a little earlier, if only, if only, if only...
So he loved, as a good man loves: quietly at times, with passion at others, and he lost as a good man loses: with grace, quickly soured by disappointment. And he died as all great men wish to die: with the kiss of his love still hot on his lips, and the knowledge that he was protecting the only precious thing left to him.
Her scream as he shot through the rope, the pure despair that ripped through her throat, that was not in the normal standard of what men wish for, but something private just for him: an acknowledgement, of some sort, with which he could fool himself for those last few precious seconds that if only things had been slightly different, she would have been happy to be his.
So the good man lost, in the end. Skewered on a drunkard's weapon; so ignoble a death. The lady he loved off to another's arms, the navy he lived to serve used only to destroy, and the knowledge that the world he had spent so long defending now amounted to nothing.
A good man, he was, with some glimpses of greatness and destiny, but never truly breaking free of the life he started with. A common tragedy, told in muted accents, for which few tears were shed.
But without him, there would be no epic tale to tell.