The Oldest Story in the Book
Chapter 18
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: Hold on tight, here we go.
Norrington stood at the gate, wondering why this always made him nervous. It was just a headstone, after all, and a grassy plot. And he felt his departed's presence almost daily. He couldn't put his finger on why this felt so different.
He turned the daisies over in his hands. She had always loved daisies. He wished he'd had the opportunity to give them to her more often in life. It seemed a waste to be trying to make up for it now, after she was gone. But he had to try. He owed her that much.
He found his way to the grassy plot on a hill overlooking the sea. It was the sort of view she had always enjoyed. He had taken some comfort, the day they had buried her, knowing if this was her final resting place it was in a place that would have pleased her.
He placed the flowers by the headstone, running his fingers over the red marble. She had always liked red. He forced himself to connect it with the color of her flaming hair instead of the red he had seen staining her front...
The whole thing had been a hassle, purchasing her headstone. Her father had wanted to pay for it, as had her brother and just about everyone else who had ever known her, but he had been insistent upon doing it himself. He had more money than they did. It was only right. And then he had more suggestions for epitaphs than he knew what to do with.
His final decision stood out in white on the stone. "You can complain because roses have thorns, or rejoice that thorns have roses." Whether she was willing to admit it or not she had always liked roses.
He pushed the memories out of his head. This was about her. She would tell him to remember the happy times. She would chide him for wallowing in grief, something she always referred to as a pointless activity. He could almost hear her now. 'Remembering is different from wallowing in grief. I want you to remember me. I want you to laugh and smile, even at my expense, as if I were right next to you.'
He could well believe she was there now. At that moment her presence was almost palatable. She had always said she would haunt him. She had joked about how much fun it would be.
And then there was the guilt. She would never approve of the guilt he constantly felt eating at him. Try as he might he couldn't outrun that. She would tell him it wasn't his fault in that voice that always seemed to cut straight to his heart.
"I miss you," he told the marble. "I can't believe it's been year since you left me. It doesn't feel that long. It's as if I were with you yesterday. I'm sorry I don't visit more often. I'm busy and..." He stopped. That wasn't right. It wasn't what she would have wanted from him. She would know he was lying, by omission at least, and demand the truth."All right, it still hurts. I try to outrun you but you do haunt me so. Every time I see our darling...it hurts. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I'm glad to have a reminder of you in our child. Grateful that you gave me that. A piece of the both of us. And I'm grateful for the time we had together. It's just that, you know, I wish I could have seen you one last time. I'll never forgive myself. I know what you would say. You would tell me it wasn't my fault, that you yourself told me we had to be separated. It still hurts." He pressed down on the tears he felt rising in himself. It wouldn't be right, a Commodore sitting around weeping in a graveyard. He needed to stick to his plan. Say what he came here to say, even though it felt ridiculous. She knew what was going on. She had to. She always seemed to be with him. Just over his shoulder, just out of site. He often felt that if he just turned quickly enough he might catch site of her. No, say what he meant to say.
He opened his mouth to blurt out what he'd come there to say, and instead found Shakespeare falling from his lips. She'd loved it when he quoted Shakespeare.
"Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,
sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this."
He paused here, clearing his throat. "You always loved Romeo and Juliet, much as you hated to admit it. Loved hearing me quote it to you. Even when I told you it was sappy and melodramatic. You always said it was the moral behind the story that counted." A smile graced his lips, remembering his resistance and her gentle insistence. "Not your favorite passage, but it fits." He cleared his throat again. He had to stop getting distracted.
"My children send their regards. I haven't seen Emmie recently, she's following her calling to the sea, but I think it goes without saying that she would want me to pass along her regards. I still haven't told Ethan that she is his sister. You'd lecture me for that as well, no doubt. I'll do it soon. I promise. They get along wonderfully, at any rate. Oh, and I took Ethan sailing last month. I imagine you would have enjoyed seeing it. He's hardly a competent sailor. I mean, he is only fourteen. He's hardly old enough to be. But he tries so hard. The crew enjoyed him. I'd like to think you'd approve of the way I'm raising my children."
He picked at the grass, trying to think of the best way to put into words what should come next. "I have a confession to make, my darling Maggie," he finally sighed. "Ever since I saw Emmie, my mind has strayed toward Pearl. I did tell you that Emmie came alone, didn't I? Well, with Jack. But then you'd know that. He certainly spent enough time paying his regards to you. I'm afraid the old sea dog was quite in love with you.
"Pearl refused to come, apparently, although she sent her respects. Emmie said Pearl was convinced it would be a bad idea, putting herself into my path so soon after your death. And if I'm honest with myself I'd have to agree. Emmie was angry, of course. She didn't understand, I think. You would have set her straight, if you'd been here. I welcomed the chance to see my daughter, at any rate." He paused. "I'm rambling, and avoiding the point. I know what you would tell me. That I'm a widower and I've always loved her and it's only right that my thoughts turn to her. That you wanted me to be with her. But the fact is, Pearl gave her blessing for us to marry, and she still felt betrayed. And to me it still feels like betraying you. Besides which, I'm not certain anything has really changed. She's still a pirate and I'm still a Commodore. I wish you were here. You always had such calm, good sense. I saw things so much more clearly when you worked through them with me." He glanced up at the harbor and the sinking sun. "I should get back home. I set our son to reading 'Jason and the Argonauts'. He'll read straight through supper unless I rouse him. I shall visit more often, I promise. And bring you more flowers. And I know you'll be with me, and Ethan. He says sometimes he feels you as strongly as I do. I thank the heavens you were with us long enough for him to remember you. I love you, darling. Rest well."
The trip home was short and easy, a pleasant enough walk with the cool evening breeze kicking up one last time before the sun set.
He walked up the drive and nearly called out to his servant as he came in, but stopped short of doing so. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. There were no servants in sight, despite the fact that at least a small underling should have been watching for guests. His first thought was that perhaps the Sparrows were in town playing tricks on him.
Still, better safe than sorry. He carefully scanned the marble foyer. Toward the dining room something on the floor caught his eye. He moved silently to examine it. It was blood, his experience told him, splattered over the floor. Most likely a gun shot wound judging from the splatters.
The good news was that there wasn't too much blood, and no other material. Whoever had been shot--probably the door servant--was most likely still alive. This couldn't be the Sparrows then. They wouldn't attacked unless jumped, and his servants as well as the pirates were quicker with swords than guns.
Norrington moved further into the house, carefully listening. He thought he heard movement in the library, the room his son should be in. His heart beat too fast as he drew his sword an peaked into the room.
Mrs. Beardson, the head house keeper, Mr. Donovan, the door servant, and Mr. Trackdon, the servant who usually looked after Ethan, were all tied firmly and left sitting in the room, fighting their bonds.
He approached Mrs. Beardson first, removing the gag from her mouth. "They took him, Sir!" she said immediately, speaking in hushed tones. "They just took your son. If you hurry you may catch them. He was giving them a fuss. Please, Sir, hurry."
He looked up at the two men, who were both nodding enthusiastically. "Donovan, you all right?" Norrington asked, eyes falling on the blood leaking from his shoulder.
The man nodded enthusiastically, tossing his gagged head toward the rear access to the room. "They took him toward the back, through the kitchen, Sir," the maid whispered. "Go fast."
"I'll be back for you soon," he promised, rushing toward the door with sword in hand.
The sound of a scuffle met him as he approached the kitchen, as well as the sounds of muted cries.
"Hellcat, ain't he?" a gruff voice asked as Norrington approached.
"What do you expect o' a Commodore's bloody son?" another asked.
"Come boy, you have to know manners and what not. Be a proper little hostage and behave yerself."
"And quit kickin' me!" the second voice cried.
Norrington couldn't help but smile as he peaked around the corner. Four pirates held his bound and gagged son, two of which were busy just keeping the struggling boy under control. In the confined space taking them down shouldn't be a problem, he mused.
"Let's just hurry it up, will ya?" the pirate being kicked asked. "I ain't much happier 'bout bein' in a Commodore's house than I am about bein' turned into a baby sitter."
"Then allow me to relieve you of your duties," Norrington suggested, stepping smoothly into the room and leveling his sword at the attackers. Later he would wonder where the blatant bravado had come from. Perhaps he had pirates on the brain just a bit too much.
Ethan's eyes widened at the sight of his father, a triumphant grin twisting his lips around the gag. Pride bloomed in Norrington at his son's reassurance at his mere presence. "Release him and leave and I promise to be lenient," he said.
"Well that's a mighty fine offer," the first pirate, obviously the leader, said as his cronies laughed. He was a nasty looking man with a limp and eye patch. Something about him tickled Norrington's memory, but the Commodore was too focused on his son to worry about that. "Let me give you one," the man continued. "Run yourself through with your sword and I promise you a quick death."
Norrington's eyes narrowed. Was the man serious? The pirates grinning madly behind him seemed to think so. "Release him," he ordered again.
"I take it that's a no," the main pirate said. "Just as well. Most fun for us." With that he drew a pistol and fired.
Norrington dove to the side. Unfortunately one of his cohorts saw this and kicked a table directly into his path. Seeing this he tried to twist into the fall. As soon as he began, however, he felt a rough contact with his left temple. The bullet had nicked him. As he tried to fight off confusion he continued to fall. Unable to concentrate his head contacted hard with the table and the world went blank.
Author's Note: Hmm. Well, I'm feeling mean today. I killed off Maggie and gotten Ethan kidnaped. I'm all kinds of evil.
For those of you plotting revenge, I'm hiding in a cave. This cave has only one entrance, and I've hired 15 Will impersonators and 15 Jack impersonators and a few Norringtons just to be on the safe side to stand out front. If any of you can get past them you're totally heartless and I'm doomed anyway. Hmm. Maybe 14--some of them may have some, you know, special duties to attend to in the cave with me.
On a more serious note, those of you in need of more Maggie can find a new target. Pendragginink has taken an interest in Maggie and asked if she could write her. Sort of a fanfiction based on my fanfiction. I happen to be incredibly complimented. Anyone interested can write and harass her. She has some great ideas, she just needs to get moving. You may write to her at pendraggininkyahoo.com. But don't forget to review. I'll even take a flaming angry letter. Honestly, if you're upset over me killing off my character I'll be nothing but complimented. And I don't know what you expected. I told you one of them had to die and I'm not going to kill off my own main character. Well, I might, but not now.
Chapter 18
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: Hold on tight, here we go.
Norrington stood at the gate, wondering why this always made him nervous. It was just a headstone, after all, and a grassy plot. And he felt his departed's presence almost daily. He couldn't put his finger on why this felt so different.
He turned the daisies over in his hands. She had always loved daisies. He wished he'd had the opportunity to give them to her more often in life. It seemed a waste to be trying to make up for it now, after she was gone. But he had to try. He owed her that much.
He found his way to the grassy plot on a hill overlooking the sea. It was the sort of view she had always enjoyed. He had taken some comfort, the day they had buried her, knowing if this was her final resting place it was in a place that would have pleased her.
He placed the flowers by the headstone, running his fingers over the red marble. She had always liked red. He forced himself to connect it with the color of her flaming hair instead of the red he had seen staining her front...
The whole thing had been a hassle, purchasing her headstone. Her father had wanted to pay for it, as had her brother and just about everyone else who had ever known her, but he had been insistent upon doing it himself. He had more money than they did. It was only right. And then he had more suggestions for epitaphs than he knew what to do with.
His final decision stood out in white on the stone. "You can complain because roses have thorns, or rejoice that thorns have roses." Whether she was willing to admit it or not she had always liked roses.
He pushed the memories out of his head. This was about her. She would tell him to remember the happy times. She would chide him for wallowing in grief, something she always referred to as a pointless activity. He could almost hear her now. 'Remembering is different from wallowing in grief. I want you to remember me. I want you to laugh and smile, even at my expense, as if I were right next to you.'
He could well believe she was there now. At that moment her presence was almost palatable. She had always said she would haunt him. She had joked about how much fun it would be.
And then there was the guilt. She would never approve of the guilt he constantly felt eating at him. Try as he might he couldn't outrun that. She would tell him it wasn't his fault in that voice that always seemed to cut straight to his heart.
"I miss you," he told the marble. "I can't believe it's been year since you left me. It doesn't feel that long. It's as if I were with you yesterday. I'm sorry I don't visit more often. I'm busy and..." He stopped. That wasn't right. It wasn't what she would have wanted from him. She would know he was lying, by omission at least, and demand the truth."All right, it still hurts. I try to outrun you but you do haunt me so. Every time I see our darling...it hurts. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I'm glad to have a reminder of you in our child. Grateful that you gave me that. A piece of the both of us. And I'm grateful for the time we had together. It's just that, you know, I wish I could have seen you one last time. I'll never forgive myself. I know what you would say. You would tell me it wasn't my fault, that you yourself told me we had to be separated. It still hurts." He pressed down on the tears he felt rising in himself. It wouldn't be right, a Commodore sitting around weeping in a graveyard. He needed to stick to his plan. Say what he came here to say, even though it felt ridiculous. She knew what was going on. She had to. She always seemed to be with him. Just over his shoulder, just out of site. He often felt that if he just turned quickly enough he might catch site of her. No, say what he meant to say.
He opened his mouth to blurt out what he'd come there to say, and instead found Shakespeare falling from his lips. She'd loved it when he quoted Shakespeare.
"Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire,
sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this."
He paused here, clearing his throat. "You always loved Romeo and Juliet, much as you hated to admit it. Loved hearing me quote it to you. Even when I told you it was sappy and melodramatic. You always said it was the moral behind the story that counted." A smile graced his lips, remembering his resistance and her gentle insistence. "Not your favorite passage, but it fits." He cleared his throat again. He had to stop getting distracted.
"My children send their regards. I haven't seen Emmie recently, she's following her calling to the sea, but I think it goes without saying that she would want me to pass along her regards. I still haven't told Ethan that she is his sister. You'd lecture me for that as well, no doubt. I'll do it soon. I promise. They get along wonderfully, at any rate. Oh, and I took Ethan sailing last month. I imagine you would have enjoyed seeing it. He's hardly a competent sailor. I mean, he is only fourteen. He's hardly old enough to be. But he tries so hard. The crew enjoyed him. I'd like to think you'd approve of the way I'm raising my children."
He picked at the grass, trying to think of the best way to put into words what should come next. "I have a confession to make, my darling Maggie," he finally sighed. "Ever since I saw Emmie, my mind has strayed toward Pearl. I did tell you that Emmie came alone, didn't I? Well, with Jack. But then you'd know that. He certainly spent enough time paying his regards to you. I'm afraid the old sea dog was quite in love with you.
"Pearl refused to come, apparently, although she sent her respects. Emmie said Pearl was convinced it would be a bad idea, putting herself into my path so soon after your death. And if I'm honest with myself I'd have to agree. Emmie was angry, of course. She didn't understand, I think. You would have set her straight, if you'd been here. I welcomed the chance to see my daughter, at any rate." He paused. "I'm rambling, and avoiding the point. I know what you would tell me. That I'm a widower and I've always loved her and it's only right that my thoughts turn to her. That you wanted me to be with her. But the fact is, Pearl gave her blessing for us to marry, and she still felt betrayed. And to me it still feels like betraying you. Besides which, I'm not certain anything has really changed. She's still a pirate and I'm still a Commodore. I wish you were here. You always had such calm, good sense. I saw things so much more clearly when you worked through them with me." He glanced up at the harbor and the sinking sun. "I should get back home. I set our son to reading 'Jason and the Argonauts'. He'll read straight through supper unless I rouse him. I shall visit more often, I promise. And bring you more flowers. And I know you'll be with me, and Ethan. He says sometimes he feels you as strongly as I do. I thank the heavens you were with us long enough for him to remember you. I love you, darling. Rest well."
The trip home was short and easy, a pleasant enough walk with the cool evening breeze kicking up one last time before the sun set.
He walked up the drive and nearly called out to his servant as he came in, but stopped short of doing so. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. There were no servants in sight, despite the fact that at least a small underling should have been watching for guests. His first thought was that perhaps the Sparrows were in town playing tricks on him.
Still, better safe than sorry. He carefully scanned the marble foyer. Toward the dining room something on the floor caught his eye. He moved silently to examine it. It was blood, his experience told him, splattered over the floor. Most likely a gun shot wound judging from the splatters.
The good news was that there wasn't too much blood, and no other material. Whoever had been shot--probably the door servant--was most likely still alive. This couldn't be the Sparrows then. They wouldn't attacked unless jumped, and his servants as well as the pirates were quicker with swords than guns.
Norrington moved further into the house, carefully listening. He thought he heard movement in the library, the room his son should be in. His heart beat too fast as he drew his sword an peaked into the room.
Mrs. Beardson, the head house keeper, Mr. Donovan, the door servant, and Mr. Trackdon, the servant who usually looked after Ethan, were all tied firmly and left sitting in the room, fighting their bonds.
He approached Mrs. Beardson first, removing the gag from her mouth. "They took him, Sir!" she said immediately, speaking in hushed tones. "They just took your son. If you hurry you may catch them. He was giving them a fuss. Please, Sir, hurry."
He looked up at the two men, who were both nodding enthusiastically. "Donovan, you all right?" Norrington asked, eyes falling on the blood leaking from his shoulder.
The man nodded enthusiastically, tossing his gagged head toward the rear access to the room. "They took him toward the back, through the kitchen, Sir," the maid whispered. "Go fast."
"I'll be back for you soon," he promised, rushing toward the door with sword in hand.
The sound of a scuffle met him as he approached the kitchen, as well as the sounds of muted cries.
"Hellcat, ain't he?" a gruff voice asked as Norrington approached.
"What do you expect o' a Commodore's bloody son?" another asked.
"Come boy, you have to know manners and what not. Be a proper little hostage and behave yerself."
"And quit kickin' me!" the second voice cried.
Norrington couldn't help but smile as he peaked around the corner. Four pirates held his bound and gagged son, two of which were busy just keeping the struggling boy under control. In the confined space taking them down shouldn't be a problem, he mused.
"Let's just hurry it up, will ya?" the pirate being kicked asked. "I ain't much happier 'bout bein' in a Commodore's house than I am about bein' turned into a baby sitter."
"Then allow me to relieve you of your duties," Norrington suggested, stepping smoothly into the room and leveling his sword at the attackers. Later he would wonder where the blatant bravado had come from. Perhaps he had pirates on the brain just a bit too much.
Ethan's eyes widened at the sight of his father, a triumphant grin twisting his lips around the gag. Pride bloomed in Norrington at his son's reassurance at his mere presence. "Release him and leave and I promise to be lenient," he said.
"Well that's a mighty fine offer," the first pirate, obviously the leader, said as his cronies laughed. He was a nasty looking man with a limp and eye patch. Something about him tickled Norrington's memory, but the Commodore was too focused on his son to worry about that. "Let me give you one," the man continued. "Run yourself through with your sword and I promise you a quick death."
Norrington's eyes narrowed. Was the man serious? The pirates grinning madly behind him seemed to think so. "Release him," he ordered again.
"I take it that's a no," the main pirate said. "Just as well. Most fun for us." With that he drew a pistol and fired.
Norrington dove to the side. Unfortunately one of his cohorts saw this and kicked a table directly into his path. Seeing this he tried to twist into the fall. As soon as he began, however, he felt a rough contact with his left temple. The bullet had nicked him. As he tried to fight off confusion he continued to fall. Unable to concentrate his head contacted hard with the table and the world went blank.
Author's Note: Hmm. Well, I'm feeling mean today. I killed off Maggie and gotten Ethan kidnaped. I'm all kinds of evil.
For those of you plotting revenge, I'm hiding in a cave. This cave has only one entrance, and I've hired 15 Will impersonators and 15 Jack impersonators and a few Norringtons just to be on the safe side to stand out front. If any of you can get past them you're totally heartless and I'm doomed anyway. Hmm. Maybe 14--some of them may have some, you know, special duties to attend to in the cave with me.
On a more serious note, those of you in need of more Maggie can find a new target. Pendragginink has taken an interest in Maggie and asked if she could write her. Sort of a fanfiction based on my fanfiction. I happen to be incredibly complimented. Anyone interested can write and harass her. She has some great ideas, she just needs to get moving. You may write to her at pendraggininkyahoo.com. But don't forget to review. I'll even take a flaming angry letter. Honestly, if you're upset over me killing off my character I'll be nothing but complimented. And I don't know what you expected. I told you one of them had to die and I'm not going to kill off my own main character. Well, I might, but not now.