Elizabeth has features worn rough by the elements. She has sun-kissed skin, messy honey-toned hair, brown eyes like those of a puppy. She has proven her worth time and time again, and yet still, there is something in me which longs to protect her. In the eyes of most, she is formidable and tough. In my eyes, she is fragile as glass and something to be cherished. If anyone else, God forbid, were to feel her in their arms, they would see. They would see just how soft her curves really are, how she shakes ever so slightly when she is nervous, how her eyes dart about anxiously whenever she is around men, particularly men who are larger than she. If anyone spent any time with her, any time at all, they would see how easily she becomes ill— how her shoulders shake when she coughs— how her eyes tear up when she vomits— that she becomes horribly frightened whenever her body turns against her. If anyone ever kissed her, they would see how gentle she can be. But nobody cares for Elizabeth Swann. Nobody but me.
Blimey.
If anyone ever got close enough to get a whiff of her, too, they'd see that she smells absolutely incredible. She smells fresh like the sea, and sweet like flowers, and warm like curtains on a winter's night. When I hug her tight, I can smell all these wonderful things, and when I bury my forehead in her hair, I can feel warmth radiating off of her like she is the sun. She loves hugging me, and if anyone stopped to say hello to her, they would know that. They would know that she loves cuddling in front of the fire in the evening. They would know that she likes reading Shakespeare on lazy Sunday afternoons, out on the top deck, basking in the warmth of the sunlight. They would know that she has a teddy named Olivier, which she likes talking to in the late hours of the night. I hear her, sometimes. She cries. She cries a lot when she thinks nobody's listening. Hell, she cries every moment that she thinks nobody's listening. I often wonder if there's something more I can do for her. But when I ask her, she insists that all she needs from me is hugs and kisses.
So I hug her, and I kiss her, but most of the time, she is frightened to be touched. She does not flinch when another woman tries to come into contact with her. But men? She does not trust men, not even me. She shies away from any man who tries to touch her. And who can blame her? As the only woman aboard, she is the object of every man's fantasies. They get drunk every night and whistle at her, catcalling, They beg her for a peek up her skirt. They plead for it. Sometimes, they force it upon her— they push her over and tear at her skirts, and though she is normally the type to defend herself, there is nothing she can do. There are six of them, after all, and only one of her. I am rarely there to defend her honor.
God, I wish I could do more for her. I wish I could do everything for her. I wish I could protect her, I wish I could make her happy, I wish I could just do everything for her. I wish I could carry her around everywhere, and show her off to everyone I meet, and cherish her like a precious treasure of mine. But I cannot.
God, I cannot.