The Faithless Bride
"What is left when honor is lost?"
-Publilius Syrus
(100 BC)
I.
Port Royal reaches out to envelop her in her old existence so completely that there are days when she feels that she has never been away. The only difference is that the Commodore's affections have been withdrawn, and replaced by Will's. There are days when she has to look at the thin white scar on her palm to be sure that the whole adventure had not been a dream.
Irrelevantly, she remembers that Captain Jack Sparrow has just such a scar on his strong left hand.
Again, she feels his hands, holding her against him, caressing her face… She clenches her fist and bites her lip.
II.
When Will leans in clumsily to kiss her, his hand awkward on the back of her head, all she feels is a stab of annoyance that she can't suppress, and she can't help but remember the way Jack had kissed her; hard, demanding, sure, almost brutal.
She chases away the memories and kisses Will to block out the feeling still stinging on her lips, the feeling of Jack's mouth over hers.
III.
"Elizabeth, will you marry me?" Will breathes in her ear.
Of course, it is not unexpected. In fact, she has been expecting him to say this for the past three months. But she never thought that she would feel like this.
She remembers, even as she tires to close her eyes against the memories, exactly the way Jack held her, exactly the way his hands felt, the glorious feeling of being one with him, the feeling that opened and enveloped her whole existence, a feeling of freedom and flying, a feeling that no lady should ever wish for.
Biting her lips against the cascade of tears that threatens to engulf her, she knows that she is false, false, false in heart and soul and body.
"Yes."
IV.
The wedding planning is a nightmare.
The endless decisions of what gown to wear, what china to use, what music to have, decisions that every bride should be thrilled to make, seem to kill Elizabeth little be little. And even as she feels the guilt drowning her heart, she can't help but think that Jack would have found all this ridiculous.
"Do you want a bustle? These pearls would look beautiful! Do you want that new hairstyle? It's the rage in London these days. Look at this petticoat, mound of real lace! This hat, just new from Paris! It would look stunning with that blue gown in your trousseau!"
She can almost see Jack smirking to see her prisoner to all the endless proprieties again. But even though her bars are invisible, they are very real. Even though Jack thought that tearing her corset would free her, there were always other corsets, other prisons to hold her back. Jack would never understand that the walls that surround her are a thousand time stronger that the ones from which he himself has escaped.
"Roses of lilies-of-the-valley, Miss Swann?"
Yes, Jack would have laughed.
V.
She sits alone in her room, waiting for Will. He promised to come at three and it was already half-past two. The fact that Will always came at least fifteen minutes early had to be taken into consideration. Perhaps he never wanted her to wait for him.
She plays with a pearl necklace, moving the perfect round orbs like beads on a rosary, every one of them a prayer for escape. The pearls are a pristine white, and the faint memories of winters in England tell her that this is the color of snow. She dislikes the perfect whiteness, slightly repulsed by the unbroken color. The pearls she likes are black.
Will knocks on the door.
VI.
She has to tell him. She knows that she owes him the truth.
But she can't bring herself to destroy that look of complete adoration, perfect like the whiteness of the pearls that seem to be slowly choking her. She has to tell him, but she can't even open her mouth.
She can't hurt him; it would be like mercilessly strangling a puppy.
"I love you."
VII.
She drops her bouquet and runs. She runs and feels as if she wants to keep on running forever, running towards the sea, towards that sweeping, all-consuming feeling that she felt that night on the island, towards freedom.
And all the while, the rain falls on the flowers on the faithless bride, bruising the delicate petals.
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