He stared at the drawing, memorizing the lines as if they were truly her face, her strands of hair, her eyes and lips. Not just marks on parchment, ink that would no doubt fade in time, if given the chance; a thin piece of scrap that could tear and be damaged with the slightest harm. No, this was not his love—she no longer breathed the air of this world—but it was the closest he had to remember her by. The closet he had to remember those details that he knew his mind would only hold for a time.
Before they started to fade. Before the images in his head started to become too fuzzy and unclear.
The drawing prevented any such fate from befalling Killian—though it was getting harder and harder to remember what she felt like. What the color of her eyes were when they were in the sunlight, in the dark candlelight of their room. What her skin felt like when his hands wandered over her body. What her lips tasted like with every kiss they shared between them.
The drawing couldn't save such senses. Such memories.
Such things that he had taken from Killian.
Even the memory of that day, as clear and fixed in his mind as it was, was only burning hatred now. It mixed with the grief and ache that he buried under the drink of rum, but it didn't matter how much drink he consumed; it didn't matter how much he tried to erase certain images from his mind's eye.
They stayed; they remained.
And they gave him hatred. They fueled the need for vengeance within the pirate, with every passing moment. With every glance at the glinting silver metal of his hook, Killian swore the promise anew. Swore to the one that mattered—to the one he had lost—that a price would be paid. That vengeance would be extracted, and death would not stop him.
Because he no longer feared death.
No. No, he couldn't. Not anymore.
For Death would only bring him back to her.