A/N: Wow, it's been...over six months since I put up anything new. Craziness. I thought time was only supposed to fly when you were having fun? Ah well. I'm sure somewhere amid the overwhelming piles of schoolwork and other unfortunate obligations heaped on by that silly thing called a "real life" (my therapist said it would be good for me to try one out), I had a tiny bit of fun. Maybe. But I digress. I just celebrated the New Year by watching the whole PotC trilogy (8 hours of back-to-back-to-back piratey goodness, mates), and it reminded me that I had this random little fic that I had written for a winter-themed writing contest. Not meant to be anything of great profundity - just a little fluff written because I heart my Willabeth. As always, though, reviews shall be received with open arms, much love, and fresh-baked cookies (while supplies last). Happy New Year, all!
((Random aside to anyone who actually cares what goes on in my personal life - I finally made my way over to Disney World shortly before Christmas. Pirates love.))
Disclaimer: Not mine. It all belongs to the Mouse. He cornered me at the Magic Kingdom and told me so.
She hates winter.
She can vividly recall winter in England, a cold so penetrating that no amount of clothing can deter it. Days when she would be told that no, she could not go play, she'd catch her death going out in the cold, and why didn't she go do her studies instead? And even when she could go outside, the world was painted in dull shades of grey and brown. Everything is dead or dying in the winter. Winter is oppressive, lifeless, unrelenting. Winter is death.
Here, it's always winter. They've only been here for a few days, and already she aches for the warm, bright climate of the Caribbean. It's fitting, though, she supposes. The woman who lived in the colorful, alive Caribbean is decidedly not the same woman as the one who is now sitting at the bow of a Chinese junk, staring into an endless, monotonous sea of ice.
The frigid wind blows, stinging the exposed skin of her face and hands like thousands of tiny needles. She dimly reflects that it would be wise to fetch a coat from the hold. They've already had to bury one man at sea – he fell asleep on deck during the night watch and never woke up. She wonders how long she would have to sit here in order to experience the same fate. It wouldn't really matter; she's already dead on the inside.
Outlaw. Pirate. Murderer. If he knew, he wouldn't want her. He would discard her, like so much refuse – worthless, soiled. Her once-manicured hands are stained red with blood, even if only she can see it. He would be broken. If he knew…he would leave.
She hides it well enough. She busies herself with their rescue plans, working out every minute detail. She hardly sleeps, knowing what her dreams will bring. She goes through the motions of life, an almost flawless little charade that has become a way of hiding. But she never smiles. She promises herself that soon, she'll start talking to him again, that they'll go back to how they were. Once this is over, she'll be alright. They'll be alright.
Abruptly, she's drawn out of her thoughts by something warm being draped across her shoulders. She looks up in surprise, and he's standing there. Belatedly, she realizes that it's a coat. His coat.
"I thought you might be cold," he explains softly, flashing his signature smile – a small, apologetic grin that almost seems to ask for her permission to show itself.
"Thank you," she whispers in reply. She should say something else; she knows she should. Anything that will keep him here, hovering over her – her own guardian angel. But nothing ever comes out.
He nods wordlessly after a moment's pause, and then he's gone, descended into the hold once more.
Staring out at the endless ice, she pulls the coat more closely around herself. As she breathes in his scent, she closes her eyes and barely, just barely, smiles.
Once this is over, they'll be alright.
Even winter must turn to spring.