Disclaimer: We've been over this, I'm certain of it: don't own, do care, can't change it, cry emo tears of blood over it (not really but you get the picture).
Marked
© JeanieBeanie33
Elizabeth remembered her childhood. She had nothing else to do, no where to go. She chose to stay at Shipwreck Cove until the baby was born. The fishwives and island women didn't know what to say to the fierce, female Pirate King that commanded their men; they avoided her, averting their eyes when she passed by.
In almost every memory was her father.
She remembered all the times she'd gotten hurt, the scraped knees and hands from jumping off trees, the cut feet from wading into ponds where deceptively soft-looking rocks lay among the sand. She remembered all the bad marks given by governesses she'd eventually driven away, all the society girls that she'd insulted or tricked. She remembered how always, her father found some way to make it better: holding her hand while the housekeeper patched her up, politely dismissing or calmly accepting resignations, giving excuses to the girls' fathers whenever they complained.
There was always a speech, of course, about good manners and responsibility and ladylike behavior. But when lines were drawn, Weatherby Swann always stood by his daughter.
No more.
No more would Elizabeth rush into her father's arms, or kiss him on the cheek, or thank him for a dress or a necklace or for accepting a blacksmith as a son-in-law. He was gone for good, and Elizabeth knew there would always be a scar that Weatherby unwillingly caused, a hurt that he could now never heal.
This was the mark that couldn't be washed away.