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It was hard for James to believe that the beautiful young woman curled up in his arms was over a thousand years old. Under the spell of sleep, she looked barely the twenty-five years that had been her age before her first death.
She had told him the story once before - the only time she spoke of her life before her involvement in the Game. "Life after your first death," she had said, "is when you have the opportunity to change who you will become."
Her village had been small, simple and held together by family bonds. They did not live by war, and avoided it as much as they could, and their history was a plain as their lifestyle but they knew no other was of life and so it sat well with them. They lived in peace.
Until that fateful night when raiders came from across the seas under the cover of darkness and with ill intent. She told the story of how they were silent until they reached the simple dwellings of the villagers and then let loose and tore and burnt down everything in their way. They were after no prisoners, no slaves or women. Everyone in the town had been brutally murdered - the first in their sleep, the last screaming in terror.
Her family had been amongst the last to be slaughtered, and she spoke of waking up after her first death surrounded by the bodies of her family. Her parents, and her younger siblings. "When I think of true loss, that is what always comes to mind," she had whispered and that had concluded her story.
It was any small wonder that she had not gone after those responsible for the terrible destruction of her home and her only family. She had only ever spoken of revenge once, though for the most part he believed her incapable of such action.
She stirred, shifting in his arms and murmuring a question.
He brushed a few stray hairs off her face and looked down on her. "Hm?"
"What's the matter?" she repeated, pulled herself up slightly so that she could meet his eyes equally. In the haze of early morning, her normally pale blue eyes appeared gray and still bore the last vestiges of sleep.
His hand slipped from her face and down her arm, the skin smooth and unmarred by scars or blemishes under his touch. Unlike his own, scarred from the battles and skirmishes that he had fought before his own death. Those his Immortal healing ability would not undo. "I couldn't sleep," he replied, voice soft and low.
Her hand cupped his face. "Do you want to talk about it?" Her voice still held the traces of sleep.
James shook his head slightly. "You should go back to sleep," he told her, but she only pulled herself up more so that she was the one looking down on him with a face that would brook no arguments.
"James," she said, and her voice bore the same expression as her face.
"It's nothing. I promise," he said, pulling her back down and kissing the tip of her nose, drawing a small smile from her.
It quickly turned into a frown. "Don't think that is going to distract me, Mr. Norrington," she told him. She started to pull herself up once more, but he held her in place.
"Oh?"
For a fleeting moment he thought she might wrench herself out of his grip just to spite him. Almost as though it were a mere illusion, the frown faded and the tension in her body disappeared, replaced by the growing fire of desire.
"Samantha?" He looked at her mildly, although his thoughts were anything but mild.
The corners of her lips turned up into a mischievous grin. "Damn you, James," she murmured, leaning forward to kiss him.
He held a finger to her lips before they reached his. "I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong?"
She kissed his finger. "Shut up and kiss me."
And he did.