Part One
But the queen—too long she has suffered the pain of love,
Hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood,
Consumed by the fire buried in her heart
His looks, his words, they pierce her heart and cling—
No peace, no rest for her body, love will give her none
— Virgil, The Aeneid
Lord Oliver Quincy, 3rd Viscount of Avonshire, arrives in Port Royal a sunny afternoon in December. Voyaged all the way from England, Father tells her, as if Elizabeth hadn't lived there eight years of her life. Elizabeth cares not for the pleasantries and affairs of the English court, but her father does, if only out of a sense of duty rather than personal conviction.
Thus, they greet Lord Quincy as he strides down the gangplank of his ship—a sleek little schooner named Victorious—and walks down the docks toward them, swinging an ivory walking stick as he goes. Oddly enough, the gaggle of personnel Elizabeth is used to seeing attend men of Quincy's standing is absent, replaced by a pair of burly sailors who flank their employer like guard dogs. Standing between them, Quincy seems distinctly out of place in his purple justaucorps and fine leather shoes.
"Governor Swann," the viscount says, doffing his hat in a magnanimous bow before them. "It is an honour to finally meet you."
"Please, Lord Quincy, you're too kind," Father begins graciously, but the viscount has already moved on. Elizabeth barely has time to proffer her hand before Quincy seizes it and stoops to bestow a kiss. His hand is smooth and pale—indications of a wealthy gentleman unacquainted with hard labour.
"And you must be Miss Elizabeth Swann," he purrs. His eyes pale blue eyes glitter beneath his tricorne. "In all my travels, never have I beheld a woman with such breathtaking beauty as yours."
Discomfort squirms in Elizabeth's belly at the viscount's touch, but she has had too much experience with ambitious sycophants to let this one's fawning unnerve her. So she merely offers a courteous smile and says, "You flatter me, Lord Quincy."
"It is true, all the same," the viscount replies. His gaze never leaves her face.
Elizabeth's hand, still enveloped in his, begins to sweat.
"I trust the reason for your visit to Port Royal is an amicable one?" Father enquires, saving Elizabeth from having to respond.
"Business matters, I'm afraid," Quincy replies. Elizabeth takes the distraction as an opportunity to shift her hand just enough to alert the viscount of its current location. Blessedly, he senses the motion and releases her hand, masking the sudden movement by tugging primly at his justaucorps. "When my father died, the role of principal organiser of the company was left to me. Time has flown by so quickly since then; I can hardly believe it's been six months since his passing."
"You have my deepest condolences," Father says sympathetically. "He was good friend and an even better man. I received the news of his passing only a month ago, or I would have sailed to London to pay my respects."
"His death was a blow to everyone," Quincy says softly. "The company in particular."
"If you should need anything at all," Father starts, "I am more than willing to—"
"No!" Quincy cuts in, his unctuous tone cut away by an abrupt harshness.
Elizabeth blinks, startled.
Father's eyebrows shoot up. "I meant no offense, Lord Quincy."
As if remembering himself, Quincy inhales deeply and clasps his hands in front of him, docile mask slipped back into place. "Forgive me, Governor Swann. It seems the stress of handling the company on my own has taken its toll."
"There's nothing to forgive," Father says, waving a dismissive hand. "Running a merchant business is no easy task. Perhaps…perhaps a meal with my daughter and I would help make your stay more bearable?"
Elizabeth casts a sharp glance at her father, which he archly ignores.
Quincy shakes his head. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude—"
"I insist," Father interjects, extending an arm in a gesture of camaraderie. "It would be an honour to dine with the son of Lord Oliver Quincy, God rest his soul."
Lord Quincy flashes a smile of which Captain Jack Sparrow himself would be proud. "If you insist," he says. "I wouldn't dream of disappointing such a dear friend of my father."
His gaze slides to Elizabeth, and it lingers long enough to make Elizabeth uncomfortable. Then Father sweeps him away, eager to begin discussion regarding current affairs in England and the state of Quincy's business.
Elizabeth waits a moment before following, a chill she can't quite blame on the brisk sea air racing across her flesh.
That night, dinner at the Swann Mansion subdued. Lord Quincy maintains a constant stream of chatter, relieving Elizabeth of the responsibility of making small talk herself. He and Father discuss typical suppertime topics—politics, economics, business—and for some time, Elizabeth is content to sit quietly and eat her dinner. She has no qualms about chiming in, but Elizabeth learned long ago that listening gleaned nearly as much information as asking questions. So she is silent. She listens and she learns.
Then Quincy makes a comment that makes her heart skip a beat.
"Elizabeth has indeed grown into a fine young woman. It's a pity her connection with the former commodore Norrington was so woefully ended."
"James Norrington is a good man," Father replies. "His presence here in Port Royal is deeply missed."
The viscount swirls the wine in his glass, sustaining an air of careful nonchalance. "Could I be so bold as to ask what prompted the sudden change of heart?"
"It wasn't a good match, I suppose," Elizabeth jumps in, ignoring the cautionary glance from her father. "His heart lead him in one direction, mine in another."
"Capricious are the whims of the heart," Quincy muses, setting his glass down with a muffled clunk. "So capricious as to deny any man a chance to win it?"
"I assure you, terminating the engagement was an entirely mutual agreement," Elizabeth says, hands clenched beneath the table. "We bear each other no ill will."
"It's fortunate for you Mr. Norrington was so understanding. Not many men would take such a rejection so amicably." Quincy flashes her a simper over his roast beef, almost daring her to give him a piece of her mind.
Elizabeth inhales, about to do just that, when Father jumps in.
"Indeed," he says. "Both of us are grateful for Mr. Norrington's magninimity."
Something about the way Quincy stares at her tells Elizabeth he would've handled the matter quite differently. An uncomfortable silence descends over the table, but Elizabeth feels no obligation to fill it. Unfortunately, it seems Quincy does.
"Miss Swann"—he leans forward, and Elizabeth catches a whiff of his orange-scented wig powder—"I wondered if you might be willing to accompany me on an excursion about Port Royal tomorrow afternoon."
For a brief moment, Elizabeth is struck speechless. Of all the men who have called on Elizabeth in hopes of becoming her suitor, Quincy has to be the most forward. Certainly no one has made advances this quickly before.
"Lord Quincy," she begins, smoothing the napkin draped over her lap, "you are an admirable man, I'm sure. But you are mistaken in thinking I—"
"Ah, Elizabeth would love to!" Father interjects loudly. Once again, Elizabeth shoots him an indignant flare. "Tomorrow afternoon, then?"
"If not sooner," Quincy replies, and his saccharine grin widens.
Elizabeth barely manages to reciprocate with a half-hearted smile of her own. She swallows down her displeasure with a copious gulp of wine.
Quincy has already made arrangements concerning a temporary residence in Port Royal. Elizabeth is glad, too, because she wouldn't put it past her father to offer him a room in the mansion. He retires to his own dwelling soon after supper to allow for an early start the next morning. Elizabeth can tell Father wants to speak with her, but the sentiment isn't reciprocated. Using weariness as an excuse, she retreats to her chambers as soon as the meal has finished, determined to remain there for the rest of the evening.
The next morning, Elizabeth rises before the sun, slips into a stolen pair of trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, and slips into town to find Will.
Port Royal is quiet as she jogs through its streets at a steady pace, making a beeline for the forge. The heavens are just light enough for her to move without a lantern, most of the town's buildings still shrouded in darkness. Nonetheless, Elizabeth knows the streets of Port Royal as well as she knows herself. She arrives at the forge in no time, barely winded by the short journey.
The smell of soot, dust, and metal—the smell of Will —fills her nose as she slips through the door, careful to shut it softly behind her. Even dressed in his customary shirt, jerkin, and trousers, he looks finer than anyone has any right to at this hour.
"Good morning, Miss Swann." Will grins and sets aside whatever project he's working on. "I mean, Elizabeth," he amends, but Elizabeth scarcely hears him, because she's striding across the room, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him like he's a soldier come home from the war and she his long-neglected wife.
Will starts, tensing under her touch, but quickly melts into her embrace to reciprocate properly. This is an improvement upon his initial reaction to shy away, glancing about like a naughty schoolboy afraid of being caught by his teacher. Here and now, while the shadows of night still cling to them, while they are tucked away in the corner of the smithy, where the sun can shine no light upon their deeds, he is bolder. Elizabeth is ridiculously glad for it.
"Good morning, Mr. Turner," Elizabeth says breathlessly. Just the sight of him makes her smile wider than she has since…well, since the last time she saw him.
He chuckles and leans back, though he doesn't release her from his arms His deep brown eyes are warm and gentle in the dawn. "What's the occasion?" he asks, voice husky and brimming with a smile.
"Oh, nothing," Elizabeth replies lightly, smoothing the front of his jerkin simply for lack of something better to do. "I'm just glad to see you, is all."
Will cocks his head. A strand of dark hair falls across his brow. "Glad to see me? It's not been three days since we last met."
Elizabeth reaches up and brushes the hair away from his face. A mellow, golden contentment laps against the shores of her heart, filling her a sense of peace she hasn't enjoyed since before Quincy arrived. "Yes, and it was far too long to be away."
This time, Will leans in first, bestowing a sweet, fleeting kiss Elizabeth happily returns. When they part, Elizabeth allows herself a rare moment to admire him openly, to gaze at the angle of his jaw, the depth of his eyes, the curves of his mouth. Forget the viscount, Elizabeth thinks. The king of England in all his splendor cannot compare to what stands before her now.
"Are you ready for another lesson?" he asks, lips barely a breath away from hers.
Elizabeth's raises a brow, a playful grin spreading across her face. "Are you?"
Will releases her (Elizabeth mourns the loss of his closeness only a brief moment) and strides over to a set of familiar swords lying on the workbench behind him. With expert ease, he takes her sword and flips it so the hilt extends toward her, long fingers deftly gripping the blade.
"Let's find out, shall we?"
When Elizabeth had first expressed serious interest in swordsmanship, Will bypassed the more elegant dueling swords and selected a small cutlass, overlooked by others because of its diminutive size, with which Elizabeth could train. If it's pirates you're worried about, he told her, you might as well learn to fight with one of their weapons.
Young Elizabeth's interest in swordplay arose mostly from its associate with piracy, partly because it was both an engaging and useful hobby, and partly because learning it meant she could spend more time with Will. After the incident involving Barbossa and Isla de Muerta, however, Elizabeth began to understand just how valuable the skill really was. Much to the chagrin of her father, Elizabeth insisted Will increase the frequency and intensity of her lessons, encouraging him to challenge her more each session.
As youth, Will and Elizabeth would spend their practice sessions chasing each other through the streets of Port Royal, treating swordplay more as a game than a deadly discipline. At the time, Will himself wasn't yet proficient, but his gender and occupation provided him ample opportunity to hone his ability with the soldiers posted in town. Elizabeth spent what was probably an indecent amount of time studying Will as he fenced with the guards at the barracks, even going so far as to take notes for later application.
As time passed, Elizabeth's father, noticing Port Royal's gossip flourishing alongside his daughter, relegated their sessions to the spacious courtyard behind the mansion. By stashing his child away, he quelled the suggestive rumors and created an environment in which he could closely supervise Elizabeth and her young instructor. Eventually, even the courtyard meetings were banned due to their being "an unbecoming activity for a lady of stature." Henceforth, Elizabeth was forced to practice swordplay in secret.
Since Isla de Muerta, however, Father's stance against Elizabeth's fencing has softened enough for her to stretch the limits of his previously unyielding decree. Over the past few months, Elizabeth has come to the forge to meet with Will at least once a week, though she is careful to steal away only in the moments she will go entirely unmissed.
She is glad now is one of those moments.
The forge isn't nearly as spacious as the manor's courtyard, nor as well-lit as the out of doors, but Elizabeth would take it over constant paternal observation any day. No one comes to the forge at sunrise, not even Will's master and Port Royal's resident drunkard, John Brown, whose alcoholic tendencies keep him from his workstead early in the mornings. His absence leaves the smithy free for Elizabeth and Will to use. And use it they do.
Back and forth they duel, moving together as though caught up in a deadly dance, blades clashing, feet shifting, breaths coming quick and short as each combatant pursues victory with the ardent intensity of a wildfire. Three months ago, Will wouldn't have dared fight so vehemently. It took weeks of encouragement (and more than one smart rap with a blade) for him to begin to test Elizabeth at the extremity she desired.
Now, Will smirks as he disarms her with a swift flick of the wrist, sending her weapon clattering to the ground.
"Your form is good," he says as Elizabeth picks up her blade, panting harder than she'd care to admit. "But you become brash, leave your left side unprotected."
Elizabeth brushes loose strands of hair out of her eyes. "That's what you are for, is it not? Let's start again."
This time, Elizabeth pays extra heed to Will's advice, careful not to overextend herself or focus too hard on one aspect of the duel while ignoring another. She's pleased to see she isn't the only one perspiring; Will has worked up quite a sweat trying to best her, which is more than she could say when they first began fencing.
Triumph bursts in Elizabeth's chest as she gains ground, steadily pushing Will toward the wall next to the hearth. His expression turns to a grimace of concentration as he springs forward, trying to disarm her with the same movement he used earlier. Elizabeth is ready for it. Before his blade connects with hers, she yanks her sword back, rotates the blade to gain momentum, and lunges in for the finishing blow.
Faster than she can react, Will sweeps his sword across himself and raps the flat of his blade on Elizabeth's fingers. Sharp pain explodes in Elizabeth's right hand, and her fingers spasm reflexively. Once again, the cutlass drops from her grip.
Wheezing an unladylike curse, Elizabeth dives forward to snatch her sword from the dirt. But Will catches hold of her forearm, twists her around, and pins her against him. Elizabeth can't see his face, but she can feel his right arm cross over her chest and the cold kiss of steel against her throat, the flat of his cutlass resting against her skin. More than that, more than anything else, she can feel Will against her back, chest heaving with exertion.
"Defeated again, Miss Swann," he pants victoriously. His breath is hot against her neck.
A grunt of frustration escapes Elizabeth, who, in a fit of petulant rage, drives her elbow into Will's midriff. A huff of air escapes him and his grip on his sword loosens, allowing Elizabeth to knock the hilt from his hand. Then he stumbles, and Elizabeth is shoving him back, back, back until he hits the wall with a muffled thud. Elizabeth presses him there, arm braced against his throat.
Then she's kissing him with the force of a hurricane, eyes closed, fingers tangled in his hair, body crushed against his as though melded there with a hot iron. There is nothing proper or neat about this, their jumble of lips and limbs and hair and bodies. This is messy and wild and ruinous. This is calamity; this is what happens when storms collide. Elizabeth is caught up in Will's tempest, giddy and desperate and unrestrained. She would happily drown in his embrace.
Elizabeth gasps as Will pulls away, grasps her waist, and pivots them around as if they are dancing. Her back strikes the wall with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, but she doesn't mind in the slightest.
"Will," she laughs breathlessly.
He grins and dips his head to kiss her again.
A rap at the door snaps Elizabeth from her euphoria, dropping her back down to earth with an unpleasant jolt.
She stifles a groan as an even more unpleasant voice filters through the door.
"Hello? Is anyone here? Is a Miss Elizabeth Swann in there?"
Elizabeth claps a hand over Will's mouth. The bewilderment creasing his features would be comical if not for their current situation. "It's Lord Quincy," she whispers urgently. "The viscount."
Will's eyes widen, then narrow as another series of vicious knocks rattle the door.
"Miss Swann? Your father told me you'd be here. He mentioned something about lessons, though I can't imagine what in…"
There goes any change of simply waiting until he leaves. Elizabeth peels herself off the wall and brushes dust and straw from her clothes, silently cursing her father's loose tongue.
Before Elizabeth can persuade him otherwise, Will bounds over to the door, unlocks it, and flings it open. He's a mess—sticky, dishevelled, streaked with dirt—and knowing what she does, Elizabeth doesn't expect Quincy to be merciful in his conduct.
"Ah." Elizabeth can imagine the viscount's face before she sees it. Once she does lay her eyes on him, she acutely wishes she hadn't. Just a glimpse of him makes her toes curl with distaste. His face reminds Elizabeth of a lump of raw pastry dough—the chief difference being that pastry is something in which Elizabeth might actually have interest. He is dressed to the nines in a richly embroidered emerald justaucorps, cream-coloured breeches, and a pair of leather riding boots. His smile turns frosty as he looks Will up and down, holding his walking stick between them like a shield. "Miss Swann. Governor Swann told me you'd be here."
"He was correct," Will replies evenly. Anyone but Elizabeth would be fooled by his calm demeanour, cultivated over years of coping with the more pretentious of the upper class.
"Lord Quincy!" Elizabeth says, face flushing when her voice comes out a hoarse squeak. She clears her throat, willing her traitorous blush to disappear. Will resists as she tries to push him aside, but she manoeuvres around him anyway. She touches the palm of her hand against his back in an attempt to reassure him. "Will has been giving me fencing lessons."
Quincy takes in her mussed appearance with a blatantly critical eye. Elizabeth couldn't care less; however, she does care about Will—or rather, she cares about the obvious scowl forming on his face as he watches Quincy perform his appraisal. "Yes," Quincy finally says. His gaze returns to Elizabeth's face, nose wrinkled with obvious contempt. "I recall your father saying something about fencing, though I was hardly inclined to believe him. Swordplay is hardly an appropriate hobby for a lady of breeding, don't you think?"
"I think fencing is a noble art—good for anyone, man or woman," Elizabeth replies, lifting her chin defensively. "I am fortunate to have such a capable instructor as Will."
Quincy's lip curls as his gaze flickers between Will and Elizabeth. "Indeed."
"What is your purpose here, Lord Quincy?" Elizabeth asks. The question comes out sharper than she intended, but she can't quite bring herself to care. The way Quincy sizes up Will—like he's a rat scurrying about the bilge of his schooner—makes Elizabeth's blood boil. "Surely it isn't to offer me advice during my lesson."
The viscount blinks. "Of course not." He draws himself up, giving Elizabeth an indulgent smile. "I finished the day's business earlier than expected. I am ready to begin our excursion together."
"Oh."
Quincy raises a brow. "Unless you had other plans for the day?"
Elizabeth privately thinks it couldn't be more obvious that, as a matter of fact, yes, she does have other plans for the day. But on the other hand, she has no desire for Quincy to complain to her father. "No, I suppose not," she says, feeling rather like a scolded child. "I would have to go back to the mansion to change clothes…"
"It's no matter," Quincy assures her. He moves from the entrance of the smithy to allow Elizabeth an egress. "I am more than willing to wait."
Elizabeth shoots a quick glance at Will. He is silent, but his expression tells Elizabeth everything she needs to know. "Very well, then," she concedes. For her father's sake, she will humor Oliver Quincy. Though she declines to reciprocate his simper as she adds: "I will meet you at the front gates of the governor's mansion in one hour."
Admittedly, her first outing with Quincy isn't the most terrible thing to ever happen to her. He is polite and tries not to be overtly forward in his advances, though Elizabeth can hardly thank him for it, seeing as she never invited them in the first place. For most of her life, she had James Norrington to chase any potential suitors away. Now, the task is left to her. She is careful to maintain boundaries and establish principles early on to ensure Quincy won't attempt anything disgraceful—which, much to her relief, he doesn't. However, after three excursions in as many days, it's obvious the viscount's patience is wearing thin. Elizabeth prepares herself for the worst.
Lord Quincy proposes to her on their fourth outing, about one week following his arrival in Port Royal. Elizabeth is expecting that. However, she doesn't expect it to occur in the same place James Norrington proposed so many weeks ago. Be that as it may, none of the fondness Elizabeth harboured for the former commodore is present here. For once, Elizabeth is glad she took the time to dress in formal attire for this outing; she wears her gown like armor, cloth and jewels a shield, a throne. She faces Quincy, fingers entwined over her stomach, chin held high, holding his eager gaze as he speaks:
"Miss Swann, I know this is all very sudden. But I believe it will work out, given some time. I'd like to make a proposal. Marry me, and become the happiest woman alive." Quincy flashes her a hopeful grin before adding, "Of course, it doesn't have to be right away. We can wait a month, a year if you wish. But—"
"Why, Lord Quincy?" Elizabeth knows it's impolite to interrupt, but she must know. "Why me?"
Quincy's brow furrows with bewilderment. "Be-because you're beautiful of course. And intelligent and loving and kind . . ."
"You are a viscount," Elizabeth points out. "Surely you could have any wealthy Englishwoman as your bride."
"But I want you, Elizabeth!" Quincy rushes forward and tries to take her hands. When Elizabeth doesn't unfold them, he places his hands over hers. "You and only you."
Gently but deliberately, Elizabeth pulls away, letting Quincy's hands fall to his sides. "I'm flattered, Lord Quincy, but I'm afraid I cannot accept your offer. "
Silence. Quincy just stares at her as though struck dumb. "You jest, surely," Quincy says, his tone forcibly light.
"I wouldn't jest about something as serious as this," Elizabeth replies. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I cannot—I will not—court you." She holds her breath, waiting, watching Quincy's eyes search her own. She can pinpoint the exact moment he comes to a conclusion; it's as definite and visible as the rising of the sun.
"The Turner boy really has enchanted you," he murmurs, brows furrowed. "When your father told me you had set your sights on the-the village blacksmith, I assumed you coquettish—perhaps a bit naïve—but never insane. Only a madwoman would turn down a proposal from a viscount. "
"I would do it again," Elizabeth replies. "Just as I rejected Commodore Norrington." A man far more honourable than you.
"Foolish girl," Quincy snarls, anger flaring in his eyes. He towers over her, ever the wrathful aristocrat, but Elizabeth is not fazed. She has faced down pirates, both living and dead, and emerged victorious. Surely she can do the same with this spoiled nobleman. "That whelp is nothing—a penniless commoner. What do you think you'll gain by marrying him? Contentment? Love? Those are things of fairytales, Elizabeth. They are for silly little girls. Not a grown woman. Not the daughter of a governor. It's time for you to grow up and face reality."
"If that is the case," Elizabeth says, her tone like stone, like ice, "I will remain a silly little girl forever, happily married to the man I love. And you, Viscount, shall languish in your manor, a wifeless, miserable wretch until the day you die." Quincy's pasty face flushes scarlet under his tricorne, but Elizabeth can't bring herself to feel sorry for him. Not after what he said about Will. As she turns back toward the bay, she adds, "And it's Miss Swann to you."
She looks out over the sea, at the ships and the waves and the distant horizon, as Quincy takes a deep, ragged breath, practically quivering with indignation. "Don't think this is over, Miss Swann," he growls. From him, the name sounds like an oath, a curse. "You're going to regret refusing me. You're going to regret it very much."
Elizabeth whirls around to face Quincy so abruptly he shifts back, surprise flickering in his gaze. "Tread carefully," she says, blood thundering in her veins. "Swanns do not take threats lightly."
Quincy steps forward, forcing Elizabeth to tip her head up to stare him in the eye. "Neither do I."
Even as Elizabeth stalks from the balcony with her head held high, she can feel his gaze piercing straight through her, keen and deadly as a soldier's sword.
Evidently guilt outweighs any scruples her father has regarding Elizabeth's privacy, because he pays a visit to her boudoir that evening. He stands several paces away as the Estrella tugs the pins and combs from Elizabeth's elaborate coiffure, always on the verge of saying something but never quite getting it out. Sensing that a delicate topic is about to be broached, Elizabeth dismisses Estrella and starts unraveling the tresses herself. The moment Estrella exits the room, Father begins to speak in cautious, almost timid voice:
"So…how was your day?"
Elizabeth pointedly avoids her father's earnest stare, concentrating intently on a particularly troublesome pin knotted in her tresses. "It went well enough."
"He's a businessman, you know," Father says, clasping his hands over his midsection. "When I knew him in London, his father was quite successful."
"Mhm."
"Elizabeth, Oliver Quincy has asked my permission to seek your hand."
Elizabeth whips around, yanking the pin from her hair with enough force to rip a few strands from her scalp. "What did you tell him?"
The look on her face must've displayed her sentiments toward the notion precisely, because Father raises his hands in a placating gesture. "I told him you are currently uninterested in finding a husband, and will remain that way for the foreseeable future."
"Did you tell him about Will?" Father doesn't have to reply for Elizabeth to know the answer.
"Father!"
Father inhales a long-suffering breath. "Elizabeth, my dear, it's more complicated than you think."
Jaw clenched, Elizabeth turns back to face the mirror and seizes her hairbrush. "No, I don't believe it is. I love Will, and he loves me. What's so complicated about that?"
"People are beginning to talk." Father edges closer, wringing his hands. "There are rumors floating about regarding your association with Mr. Turner. Rumors wondering if perhaps his intentions toward you are not altogether honourable."
"Honourable?" Elizabeth echoes incredulously. "Did they happen to forget Will risked life and limb to save me from Barbossa?"
"His actions were indeed noble," Father admits. "And I will be forever grateful. But you must remember, dear— he is a blacksmith."
"Let them talk," Elizabeth snaps, wrenching the brush through a particularly snarled lock of hair. "What goes on between me and Will doesn't concern them."
Father sighs, brow creased with sympathy. "Actually, it does."
Elizabeth sets down her brush and closes her eyes, a taste like vinegar souring her mouth.
"Elizabeth, haven't we discussed this enough already? I was appointed governor of Port Royal, and as such I have certain duties, certain expectations to fulfill. And you…" Father lets out a long breath. "As the governor's daughter, every decision you make is judged by not only the people of Port Royal, but also by those across the sea."
She is aware of her father's closeness behind her, but she ignores him. With a forlorn sigh, she opens her eyes and stares at her reflection in the mirror. She sees nothing. She feels everything.
She had thought being kidnapped and nearly killed by pirates would more than sate her thirst for adventure—and for a while, it did. But inevitably, the familiar cage of privilege and responsibility descended once again, trapping her behind invisible bars. Elizabeth fights it, she fights with all she has. But living as she does, it's difficult not to simply give in to the pressure nearly all of her peers place upon her. Each day, the pressure tightens like a cinched corset, so constricting she can hardly breathe. Though Elizabeth is loath to make the comparison, it's almost as though she's back on the Black Pearl, the coveted prisoner of Captain Barbossa.
Something dark and heavy and familiar tugs from deep within Elizabeth's chest like an ache, insisting upon her attention after being ignored or repressed for so many weeks. Before, she tried to drive the sensation away, hoping it would disappear with time. It has not. If anything, it's only grown, a festering wound in dire need of remedy. And now, Elizabeth must confront it, lest she be crushed under its unbearable weight. This inexplicable melancholy, this ineffable hollow filling her soul—it's longing, Elizabeth knows, accepts. Fathomless, unabated longing.
She longs to be at sea again, to feel the rock of the ship beneath her feet, to inhale the briny sea air, to taste the salt of it on her tongue. She longs to hear the rush of wind in her ears as she sails over the open sea with nothing but the horizon and endless possibility in sight. Most of all, she longs for freedom—the liberty to be who she wants, who she is, without consequence. After getting a taste of it, there's no going back. That knowledge tastes of absinthe and iron in her mouth, ceaseless and indelible. But what's even worse is the fear—the cold, constant fear—that she will never live true freedom again.
"Elizabeth—this is our second chance."
She falls back into the present, regarding her father with pursed lips. "At what exactly?"
Father makes an expansive gesture. "At redemption, my girl! At prestige and influence. At a life free of trials or worries." He inhales a deep breath, tugging anxiously at his ruffled collar. "After you rejected James Norrington, I thought we were doomed, but now . . . Elizabeth, look at me."
Reluctantly, Elizabeth sets her brush aside and shifts to face her father. He takes Elizabeth's hands in his own, and suddenly she is eleven years old again, already burdened by the demands and obligations of a member of the British gentry. "Lord Quincy's father—he was a good man. Surely his son is the same."
"His attitude toward Will would suggest otherwise," Elizabeth retorts, reflexively tightening her grip on Father's hands. "Did you know he would propose to me?"
Father winces. "He…suggested it, yes."
"And you gave him your blessing?"
Father brings her hands to his chest. "You are my daughter. I only want what's best for you!"
Elizabeth rises and finds herself standing much taller than she had at eleven. She smiles in spite of herself, squeezing Father's hands with a steadfast assurance. "Father, Will makes me happy. That is what's best for me."
The corners of Father's mouth stretch up in a soft smile. His face is creased with countless wrinkles, for which Elizabeth loves him all the more. "You're sure, then?" he asks. "I couldn't bear to see you wasted away, crushed by regret as so many others have been."
Elizabeth lifts her chin, a stillness, a surety deeper than the sea washing over her. "I've never been so certain of anything in my life. Will and I—we're meant to be together. I can't explain it, but I know it. I know." She looks down, a faint blush creeping up her face. "You must think me foolish."
"No." Father's hand cups her cheek and lifts her face. "Not foolish. Just very much in love."
Elizabeth's smile widens, fondness for her father welling up inside her like a spring. Despite his worries and misgivings, Father would support her. Excluding maybe Will, Elizabeth couldn't ask for a better man to stand by her side.