He presses the bottle to his lips, the smooth chill of the glass as dear to him as if his mouth was caressing a woman.
The rum has been his savior.
The first night of this—of the shame, the rejection, the alcohol—went the slowest. That night was agony in its purist form. That was the night that he had realized that he was no longer Commodore James Edward Norrington, pride of the King's navy…
…that was the night that he had realized that he was nothing. Not Commodore, not Norrington—not even James. He had become a nameless face, a shadow, a slowly fading story whose beginning, while glorious, could only end in tragedy.
And then that first year had passed, and then the second, and the third—
Five years now since those final, fleeting days of glory in Port Royal
James takes another fast drink of the rum—thoughts of the past stinging even more than the liquor. They've faded though, those images that were once all too sharp and beautiful and dangerous are beginning to dull—thank God. James hasn't given up on Him yet. Try as he might, as much as he wants to, James cannot make himself forget God—
Only a vengeful God could fashion a world so cruel.
The lights of the tavern are low, and they cast a golden hue across the food stained tables. He smiles. Once upon a time, he had danced though ballrooms this color. That was years ago, before he had accepted his commission in the navy, when he had danced debutantes though marble ballrooms, his seventeen year old body not quite filling out the formal evening wear.
Now he dressed no better than—than what? His naval uniform fell apart quite some time ago, the tattered jacket now the only reminder of his past that he can wear. Beneath that, he wears brown beeches and a stained shirt that reeks of the rum he consumes every night
He opens up another bottle.
There is something different about her. There is something in her air, something in the way she walks.
Though she is first and foremost a whore, of that there is no doubt.
But still, the frail, beautiful creature seems to be floating through the tavern. Her skin glows beneath the grime on her face, an angular face, one that would be prettier if she ate more.
But food is expensive, and the young woman hasn't the stomach for much anymore.
Not all that long ago, she was in love.
The young woman wipes away a furious tear at the thought. Her fiancé had promised her a good life, a life of adventure, a life of happiness. He would have become a merchant sailor, they would have sailed the high seas together and made their life, made their way in the world…
But life is a lie.
They were in Virginia when her fiancé died, leaving her nothing but a ship that was quickly commandeered by pirates. They told her that they were owed the ship, that her fiancé had borrowed from them for it, and it was only their right to reclaim it.
Letters to her father went unanswered, and then the second blow – her father was dead.
She wipes away another tear. The loss of her father was even worse than the loss of her fiancée.
She began in Virginia, learning quickly that a woman's body was an easy way to earn a meal. Eventually the pain of intrusion lessened, her tears stopped, and she learned to ignore the knots in her hair and the dirt under her fingernails. Life became a haze of horror and regret, and she drowned it out with rum and sex.
They were all she had left.
Four years she spent in Virginia, then another year at sea with a sailor whom had taken a particular fancy to her.
And now she is here, in Tortuga.
Her sailor is nowhere to be found, and the young woman needs a new petticoat beneath her dress. One night should be enough.
But whose money will buy it?
Her eyes widen as they settle on a man in a tattered naval uniform.
Whores are not James's normal fare. He considers them dirty and beneath him, despite the fact that no one could conceivably be any dirtier than he. Sometimes, however, the nature of the beast claws away at James, demanding some sort of human contact, any contact, and there are those desperate moments where he is wrapped in a strange woman's embrace, loving her simply because she is there.
With a terrified breath, James realizes that this is going to be one of those nights.
The room surrounding him is boisterous, filled with pirates and drunks and whores of every type, but James, ever picky, must discern a woman from the crowd.
There is the large blonde at the bar, with soft flesh and large breasts, but her lips are too red and her laugh is too loud. A trio of redheads is circling the room, each with a dazzling pair of hungry green eyes. And then of course there is Maria, her hair inky black, older than the other girls and not as beautiful, but her voice is rich and despite everything, she can say an intelligent thing or two.
And then there is someone new.
James squints, his vision now permanently poorer from the nights binging on rum, but this girl has never been here before. She is bone thin, her limbs sharp and her face angular. The clothes on her body are ragged, but almost fine. She obviously spends her money on finer wear, which is probably why it seems older. Most women of her ilk prefer bright, garish creations with obscenely low necklines and high hems. This girl's dress is a graying pink, possessed of a low neckline—yes—but the girl is so thin that her breasts could hardly be obscene in any situation. And then there is the way she is walking, a graceful gait that seems out of place here, almost tragic here—
He realizes then that she is walking towards him.
Her faces is becoming clearer, the wide look of her eyes, the fake smile that she has stitched on to her golden skin—skin that begins to turn paler and paler as she gets closer.
The girl is staring at him now.
James squints again, looking at her—and then begins to laugh. He laughs like a man who has just been handed a death sentence, like a man who has lost everything, who has nothing left, not even misery. He laughs and laughs and laughs and the girl begins to panic.
"Stop!" She screams. "Stop laughing!" There are tears on her face, perhaps not a bad thing as they will wash away the dirt.
But James still laughs, his own tears now falling, part hilarity, part misery.
The whore is now sobbing.
James stops; taking in the woman before him, finally understanding the way that life has raped her of all she once was. Of all he once was.
He can't even bring himself to call her Elizabeth.