Linnet's Note: Just a little thing that I stuck together this weekend, can be considered a companion piece to "Constellations," because it's written in the same style. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue?
Own
He doesn't call her Lizzie anymore.
(She misses it, because her Christian name has always been so normal, so common. So unlike a pirate.)
It's "Elizabeth," now. The way that he says it with his eyes so dark and desolate makes her snap somewhere inside her stony exterior.
(The somewhere that is not a pirate and not a lady and reserved just for him.)
Is it her punishment, she wonders? Her punishment in the smallest of forms, her own private Hell, in the form of her own name?
(She will die of this, of this coldness.)
She has not talked with Will, not for a long, long time. She has not yet told him that she loves him.
(She doesn't love Will anymore.)
Even though she does love Will, somewhere in between the pirate and the lady and the (very large) part of her that is reserved for the pirate.
She misses Will. She has missed Will since she became a murderess.
(She had missed him. Had no one come to save him just because they missed him? She missed him, dearly, torturously. Every waking hour, every time she dared to close her eyes, she heard his voice, saw his face. She missed him.)
She needs to apologize for what she's done. To Will, to James, to him. She needs to apologize to them all, even though she finds it doubtful that it will do anything good.
(Will owns the smaller part of her that is still a girl on the passage from England, leaving her mother and old life behind, which must count for something.)
She loves Will (she does). She belongs to Will.
(And yet, the man who she killed owns her soul, owns her heart.)