Chapter V
Feminine Wiles
Firstly, I apologize. This chapter took me entirely too long to write. At school I was suddenly bombarded with assignments (whoever said that seniors had it easy was a liar) and for the last week practically all of my free time was spent practicing for various theatrical and choral events. Plus, this chapter was just plain difficult to write. The variety of emotions it's full of is downright insane, and the fact that James seems to contradict himself every ten seconds doesn't improve matters much. Long story short, I took my time with this installment because I wanted (as usual) to avoid any OOC-ness that may occur, which, with a chapter like this, is apt to happen.
A Not-Entirely-Necessary Note:
Y'know, one would think that someone as sensible as Norrington would realize that alcohol is most definitely not the solution to his problems and that it, in fact, only makes them considerably worse. However, going by what I've gathered from his character, I get the feeling that he would turn to drinking after all he's been through – it numbs the pain brought on by his poor, guilt-ridden psyche. Never mind the hangover he'll most likely endure the next morning because he, for the most part, can handle physical pain and (at least, in my opinion) he feels like he deserves it. Honestly, this has nothing to do with the following chapter; it's really just meant to make you think (that, and I couldn't get the bloody thought out of my head). Just consider this little note (and any that may follow) to be a "deleted scene" from my essay. :-)
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He had slept with a woman.
He had slept with a woman who was neither his wife, nor even his lover.
Worse yet, he had agreed to it. No force had been necessary – he had willingly shared a bed with a complete stranger, a prostitute, a woman he barely knew and cared little for.
Dear God, what had he become?
Nervous and trying desperately to ignore the warmth of the body next to him, he looked over at her.
She had yet to wake. Thank God. Now he could leave without any confrontation. There would be no discussions concerning the previous night – morning – for he would be gone before her eyelashes began to flutter, never to see her again.
Of course, that was an impractical thought – Tortuga wasn't that large an island – they were certain to cross paths sooner or later. Well, if ever they did then he would avoid her gaze, even turn in the opposite direction if it came to that. It was cowardly but effective – perfectly suitable for the shameful debaclehe now called his life.
How low he had sunk that he had come to fear confrontation with a prostitute, that he was willing to sneak off while she was sleeping just so he would not have to endure her company for another minute. It all seemed so exorbitant, this preparation, this apprehension…she was a whore – not a demon-spawn that was secretly machinating how to efficiently assault him.
And if she was a succubus masquerading as a woman?
I could easily overpower her, he thought as he took in her attenuated frame, though he doubted (and prayed) that it would not come to that. She was so terribly thin, he observed, recalling how sharp the bones of her shoulders had felt through his coat. And that face with its poor skin stretched so tightly…razor-sharp cheekbones…sunken eyes…it was a painful sight to behold.
Normally harsh features were relaxed in sleep, leaving but a few flakes and streams to serve as vestiges of her maquillage. She appeared younger, somehow, in this calm, natural state, and once again he found himself pondering her age. She could not have been much older than he – possibly even younger… Whatever her age, one thing was certain: Even with her face so pinched and gaunt he much preferred her this way. She was quite attractive like this – not in a physical sense, of course, though her visage had improved a great deal with a day's rest (her lips weren't quite so wide, and her nose wasn't large at all – slightly long, yes, but slender). No, she was appealing now because of the sudden…softness…that had enveloped her.
She was not waltzing about with that saucy gait of hers, or narrowing one brow whilst arching the other in scrutiny; she was not forcing herself on him or hurling a scandalous remark his way. For once she was silent – a most becoming trait, in his opinion. She was also…smaller, it seemed, once stripped of that tawdry affair she called a gown, almost hidden beneath his coat. Tiny wisps of hair had escaped her braid and now hung about her starved face, billowing gently as she breathed. It was almost…endearing.
He hadn't realized that he had been watching her until she slung her arm over him. Startled, he jerked away from the still-sleeping woman. Dozens of panicked thoughts racing through his mind, he forgot the narrowness of the bed and fell backwards, hitting the floor with a hiss of pain.
He winced as he lay on his back, trying to gather the wind that had been knocked out of him and having a mental rant that he refused to voice. There was no hope of leaving unnoticed, now, for Jou-Jou (or whatever her name might be today) had undoubtedly been roused by the commotion his cowardice had caused.
Sure enough, when at last he looked up, he saw, through a thick haze, that the blurred outline of a tousled, distinctly female face was peering down at him.
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Her head tipped to the right, her eyebrows arched, and she stared down at the prone man on the floor, thoroughly perplexed.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine," he muttered curtly. The fact that he was anything but was quite visible. More than likely, he was regretting their agreement. At the moment, she couldn't find it in her to feel annoyed at his churlishness, not with the knowledge that she would now be dead were it not for him.
"Would y'like me t'help you up, or are y'content t'stay there on th' floor?"
"No."
His voice had become worn, feeble, and somewhat lost…and also just a little bit frightened – frightened because he could not find his way.
"James?" she called softly.
When he turned his head away from her, she knew that whatever truces that had formed between them that morning had been forgotten and that in their place stood an imperviable barrier.
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"James?"
She appeared to enjoy saying his name. He recalled, briefly, that morning when she had voiced it with a small trace of fondness. Now she was only bewildered and perhaps a little bit put out by his frosty tone. No doubt she was wondering why, after their armistice, he was being so hostile?
Last night he had been intoxicated. Last night his mind had not been functioning properly, it's wheels stiff and caked in rust from lack of use. Last night, tormented by sickness and exhaustion, he had seized the opportunity for a moment of rest. Last night mistakes had been made – mistakes that he had no intention of repeating.
She was staring at him, her dark eyes boring into him as if piercing through his flesh to see find and devour his soul.
He was overreacting, exaggerating the situation. Of course… She meant him no harm, had no incentive to attack him, let alone feast upon his soul (and what remained of that had been polluted long before he met her). There was nothing left to take from him, now…and yet he continued to recoil every time she looked his way, still convinced that that within that reedy frame there lurked a secret miasma that she would unleash upon him the moment he let his guard fall. It would curl itself around him, deceptively sweet and tender as it seeped into every pore, ingraining itself into his person until, at last, it consumed him completely. And then, when all was said and done, he would become something even darker and more execrable. He would truly be a wicked man, and things such as morality and honor would no longer matter.
For this alone there was no reason to trust her.
Yet neither was there a reason not to. After all, this was a fabrication of an addled mind; it certainly could not constitute as a reason to distrust her.
She had insulted him – when first they met, no less.
It was all in her own defense, however. And had his plan not been to belittle and anger her in the hope that she would leave?
But she was forever throwing herself at him: a wink here, a libidinous smile there…always hinting, suggesting, teasing…and the way she pranced about with that scandalously low bodice, flaunting whatever assets she could, her hungry features alive with reds and blacks…
Though now it seemed as if she had finally realized that the man did not "protest too much" but that he truly thought of her advances as a repellant.
He sighed heavily as his tower of confusion grew to staggering proportions, barely hearing her inane chatter through the cacophony blaring inside his head.
"You're havin' second thoughts about this," she stated, her voice encumbered with regret of her own.
He didn't answer, instead choosing to scowl moodily at the dull, scuffed floorboards.
"M'sorry," she murmured. "I didn't think it'd upset y' this much –"
"I'm not upset," he snapped, glaring sharply at her.
She in turn narrowed her eyes, penitence giving way to umbrage.
"Well, y'cert'nly look it!" she retorted irritably.
"Then you are mistaken," he seethed, her anger feeding his own.
"Fergive me, then, fer tryin' t'apologize fer offerin' you some bloody kindness, which makes utterly no sense whatsoever, ergo I honestly don't understand why, in God's holy name, I am apologizin'!"
"I am certain," he began quietly, "that if you were to close your mouth – assuming that you possess the ability – and contemplate our situation for a long enough period of time, the answer would come to you."
She pursed her lips and her nostrils flared as she sat up on her knees, hands on her hips. The image would have been rather comical had he not been feeling so truculent toward her.
"Are you tellin' me t'be quiet?" she demanded, her tone low as she tried to reign her outrage.
"If it isn't too much of a bother…"
She gawked at him, flabbergasted and quite beside herself.
"What's come over –"
"You," he finished rancorously.
"What?" she exclaimed. "Why?"
"Yes, why?" he sneered, struggling to his feet. "Why are you so determined to help me? Why on Earth would a prostitute – a woman so desperate for money she is willing to go to the most vile means in order to obtain it – pursue one man relentlessly when there are others to be had?"
"Don't you dare –"
"Unless there was some sort of benefit for you?"
"Is that what y'think – ?"
"What else could it be?"
"Perhaps I was simply bein' compassionate!"
"Of course," he said, his voice practically oozing sarcasm. "I'd forgotten that you're such a caring individual."
"God, no," she scoffed distastefully. "I already told you: I owe y'fer savin' my hide."
"And if my memory serves me correctly, I already told you that you are, in no way, indebted to me."
"Why'd y'sleep with me, then?" she challenged.
"For God's sake, I don't know!" he blurted furiously.
Her glare did not waver.
"Well let's jus' scream like a lunatic, then! That'll make ev'rything better!" She was raving, fed up with continuing a conversation whose path was circular. "An' stop pacin' like that! You'll make yerself sick again!"
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This was ridiculous. As far as she could tell, neither one of them was making any headway, and she wanted to go back to bed. The prospect of sleep was growing increasingly less likely, however, as her temper was blazing. And it was all thanks to that bloody idiot…
Had she honestly felt sorry for him?
Yes. And she did still. The poor luv looked to be a down-on-his-luck nobleman – navy, judging by his attire, and quite important, too, for his coat to have acquired all that gold. It was more than likely that living in a pirate haven was something he had never even thought he would experience. Therefore, unless he had stolen that jacket (unlikely, given his reaction to her thievery), she imagined that it was exceptionally difficult for a navy man to cope when surrounded by those he would have once taken pride in arresting. Of course, assuming that he was (or, at least, had been) one of His Majesty's finest, he must have been flaying himself constantly for sinking so low as to indulge in the same despicable activities as the ruffians he undoubtedly detested.
Ah, of course…and that was why he shied away from her: He feared becoming that which he hated. That, and his steadfast sense of propriety would not allow him to have a woman, whether said woman was willing or not. It was highly irritating…and at the same time almost endearing. After all, there was nothing wrong with decorum, though it was a bit impractical in a culpable place like Tortuga. Best to defenestrate it and conform to the locals. Still…she wasn't opposed to a man who knew how to treat a lady.
Yes. I'm such a lady, she thought caustically as she glanced over at him. Well, at least he'd had enough sense to put his anger aside, take her advice, and sit down, albeit he was on the very edge of the bed, having put as much space between the two of them as he could. Very well. If that was what made him feel more at ease, then she would take no offense. Besides that, she wasn't ignorant enough to think herself truly appealing. No, she was perfectly aware of her ugly countenance, damn her hair…
She sighed and watched him out of the corner of her eye, wanting to ask for forgiveness but certain that doing so would only reinforce his animosity toward her.
"I…" she began uncertainly, cringing inwardly when, at the sound of her voice, he closed his eyes as if in pain. Yes, that had been foolish of her. She quickly shut her mouth.
Another sigh, this time from him.
"I am more at fault than you are, though I will admit to wanting to place the blame entirely on you." He paused to lift a weary hand and rub the bridge of his nose. "I slept with a woman who was not my wife."
She blinked at him curiously.
"Oh, you…you're married."
A hollow laugh.
"No."
"No longer?"
"Never."
"Oh…"
She let it trail off into a thicket of uncomfortable silence, thinking it unwise to say anything more. This did nothing, however, to quiet the thoughts now running through her head.
The amount of bitterness and longing in that one word, that "Never", were telltale. The man desired a wife – possibly more than anything. It was astounding, really, that a man such as himself was unmarried – if her previous theory proved to be correct. A high-ranking naval officer should have caught the eye of many eligible maidens, particularly if he held their virtues in the same regard as he held hers – sans disgust toward her profession and appearance.
"You must excuse my behavior," he said suddenly, toneless. "I am unaccustomed to all of…this…" A hand rose at that final word and hung in the air, its purpose vague as if it was uncertain of its future, speaking of the confusion and worry that its owner could not voice.
"I'd gathered that," she replied tentatively. "I don't expect a man such as yerself would be accust'med t'this way of life."
When he shot her a curious glance she raised her eyebrows pointedly at the sullied uniform that lay between them. She shrugged nonchalantly.
"Wasn' that hard t'figger out."
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He nodded distantly, his head so full of thoughts it threatened to burst, though it was mild in comparison to the pain he had felt earlier that morning. No, this was simply…an over-abundance of ideas, an immense preoccupation…although he would have been thankful if they had at least sorted themselves out instead of becoming more and more entangled with one another until they were one gargantuan web of conceptions.
The truth was that he knew he had acted rashly, treated her unfairly, lashing out at her when she had tried to apologize for taking care of him.
She had been right to question the guilt she had felt for her benevolence. There had been no call for that remorse, just as there had been no call for the animosity he had directed at her.
He had to ask for her forgiveness.
His eyes flickered to her face, and she held them with steady gaze of her own. Her features were delicate, unmarred by lines brought on by scorn for him, save for her eyebrows, which were very slightly knit in thought. That was another thing that had surprised him – with as painted up as they had been, he had expected her brows to be sparse, nearly invisible. But on the contrary, they seemed almost…effortlessly shapely. And now they gave a small quirk as she simply sat there, surveying him, not expecting him to continue, perhaps even wondering what she was to do about him.
The swarm of thoughts extant, he took in a low breath and began.
"I would like to apologize for my earlier words – for my treatment of you as a whole, actually. I have tried to convince myself that only through your manipulation did I agree to…"
"Share a bed with me," she supplied evenly, as if knowing that he would have rather not said the words himself.
"Yes," he replied stiffly. "However, I knew that that was untrue. I allowed your…profession…to obstruct my vision and as a result I failed to see that your intentions truly were good. You were being kind and not once did I appreciate that. Instead I chose to discredit your generosity and throw it back at you."
"An' what about: So desp'rate fer money she's willin' t'do th' most vile things in order t'get it," she cut in, remembering his words.
"That was out of line," he admitted at once.
"Though that knowledge won't stop y'from thinkin' me desperate." Her voice was cold.
His mouth close abruptly; he hung his head.
"I am sorry," he said softly. "I'm terribly sorry. In those moments…I was not myself."
"Oh, lovey," she sighed sadly. "Whoever is?"
He cocked his head at her, not making sense of the question, but he chose not comment.
"As fer your apology…" She paused, thinking. The silence was unbearable.
"I will not blame you in the least if you refuse it. I behaved appallingly, therefore I do not expect you to forgive me. I had no right to treat you as I did, especially after you have been more than kind to me." He let out a brief, hollow laugh. "I don't believe I ever thanked you…"
"My debt, remember?" she pointed out. "Y'don't have t'give thanks when someone owes you."
He shook his head stubbornly.
"No. Even if that is the case, which it most certainly is not, I still should have expressed my gratitude rather than condemn you, and for my harsh words and severe lack of manners…for that I am truly sorry."
"Y'didn't even let me finish," she pointed out. "Bit rude of you."
His gaze dropped to his hands. "I needed you to know that."
A third, foreign hand suddenly slid over top of his. He looked up, startled. She smiled.
"You're much too hard on yerself, y'know that? What I was about t'say was that I fergive you."
He blinked, confused and thoroughly shocked that she did not despise him. He stared down at their hands, at their intertwined fingers, wondering why he had been granted clemency when he did not deserve it? How easily she had forgiven him – an ability that must have been born out of being unable to express her true emotions lest they compromise a customer's happiness and, as a result, her being paid. He realized that, often times, military men donned the same blank mask – for different reasons. He shook his head, knowing that he could not forgive himself despite the fact that she had.
For a moment, he peered at their hands intently, astonished at how tiny hers looked in his own. Then, at once, he looked up at her, his voice at last returning to him.
"I deserve your hatred," he told her. "Whatever grudges you may hold against me, whatever spiteful insults you may wish to voice – I deserve them."
"I know," she agreed, sounding weary. "But I find it's best not t'keep grudges – makes life much simpler. 'Sides," she continued with an air of indifference. "I find it unwise t'stay cross at onna th' only men who's been halfway decent t'me… You," she elaborated when he looked skeptical. "Honestly, of all th' men I've been with, you're onna th' better ones – an' no, fer once I don't mean it like that," she added with a roll of her eyes.
"Please," he implored, "do not trouble yourself by showering me with false compliments."
"Why not if it's true?" she demanded to know. "You're such a gentleman – even if y'didn't remember t'thank me. What I mean is, yes, y've been a bit…cantankerous – well, more 'n a bit – but…the way y're completely against takin' advantage of me? How y'feel that it's wrong? That's very thoughtful of you, almost sweet."
He gaped at her, dumbstruck.
"I jus' feel like a ninny fer forcin' myself on you all th' time." She shrugged her pointed shoulders. "I've been in this buisiness fer so long…musta fergottin that there are some men who…don't have jus' one thing on their minds, however rare they may be.
"M'curious, though," she went on. "Why did y'call me over that night if y'weren't plannin' t'sleep with me?"
Creases appeared on his brow as he tried to conjure up a suitable explanation only to find that the only answer that occurred to him was the disgraceful truth. He could not bring himself to tell her that – that his longing for human contact had grown so fierce, that he had become reckless and pathetic enough that he had sought out the company of a whore. The warmth that another person could offer was tantalizing – achingly so.
He chuckled dryly. "Because I am no better than the letches that normally solicit you."
"Yes, you are," she stated matter-of-factly, her eyes bright and knowing. "B'cause even if that is true, y'still knew that it wasn't right. Now, that's a fact that all of my men're well aware of, but they don't let it bother 'em. You, on th' other hand…" She grinned broadly. "You couldn't have yer wicked way with me. You may've wanted to, yes…but that doesn't give you any motive t'do it, does it? Not really. Not in yer eyes. B'cause, despite all reasoning, y'know it isn't right. An' that, no matter how many flaws y'claim t'have, puts y'jus' a smidgen higher than th' rest. Least, in my mind, it does.
"Now, then," she announced briskly, releasing his hand to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. "What do y'say to a bit more sleep? I imagine we've got few more hours b'fore I have t'get t'work."
His mind was completely barren – a starved, arid wasteland – as she burrowed under the coverlet, the squabbling mass of thoughts evaporating, leaving nothingness in their wake.
She was wrong.
She was an ever-flowing fountain of nonsense, spouting mad ideas and spraying wild tales while always under the pretense that she knew what she was talking about.
She was wrong.
He would have to set her straight, but…later. She had already fallen asleep, the little fool… Shaking his head in disbelief, he, too, succumbed to exhaustion and curled up at her side, still marveling at how easily she evaded reason.
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NotesSuccubus – this is actually an appropriate term in more than one way. For those who don't know, a succubus was thought to be a demon in female form that had sexual intercourse with sleeping men. Now, as a woman thinking of this from a man's point of view, I fail to see how this could be considered a bad thing (unless you're James). However, a succubus is also another, less-popular, and more offensive term for a prostitute. Interesting, isn't it? Also, "The Succubus" was originally the title of this chapter, but I found "Feminine Wiles" to be much more fitting.
She appeared to enjoy saying his name. – from what I've noticed in the movies, not many people refer to him by his first name. Even Elizabeth only calls him "James" once, and that's in a deleted scene. This, I feel, is significant because it would seem that those who call him either by his last name or his title are not familiar with James, the person, who he really is. And we all know that this is, for the most part, how he wants it. However, on Tortuga, we can see that, because he no longer has his duty to hide behind and his work to keep his mind busy and away from emotions, he has difficulty concealing his true self. Because of this, Jou-Jou is given a major advantage. Aside from the fact that she's naturally intuitive, she is presented with an unveiled James who tries to keep his mask in place but doesn't do a very good job. As a result, it is possible that she is one of the few who knows (or will know) him better than many of the people who have known him for years.
… a down-on-his-luck nobleman – navy, judging by his attire – has anyone else every wondered how James, who was once the scourge of piracy in the Caribbean, survived in Tortuga, a pirate port? I'm under the impression that, while he obviously made no efforts to hide the fact that he was a military man, he didn't broadcast who he was specifically. That way, hopefully, all the pirates and rum runners and thieves and such would look and him and think "Arrgh, navy! Let's kick his ass!" as opposed to "It's that no-good Commodore who killed our pirate brethren! Let's torture and kill him!" Anyone have any other ideas?
He had to ask for her forgiveness. – I always got the feeling that, even if he had every right to do it (which he doesn't, in this case), James would still feel guilty about verbally abusing someone if they were a decent person, however mild said abuse may have been. He would try to find a reason not to regret his actions, but he would just keep arguing with himself until he eventually went "This is pointless" and apologized. But maybe that's just me?
A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author
I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. Merci in advance!