Drabble: Fragrance
Disclaimer: POTC is of another's imagination…
Elizabeth rapidly scanned the pages of her tome with interest, her eagerness to read it apparent. She traced her finger along the new, golden binding, tingling with excitement. Then, taking it in both hands, she brought it near her face, and…oh!
She inhaled the scent of the fresh pages—what a wonderful, intoxicating aroma! The tree-like smell mixed with the smell of ink: nothing could compare to such a fragrance!
It had to be the best fragrance in the world, Elizabeth soundly decided.
She paused suddenly as her eyes fluttered open, and she disregarded the book, simply. With the flick of a hand, the book landed with a thump and a flurry of pages onto the seat beside her, and she cast not a backwards glance at it. Where did the desire for it go? Was it not temptingly beautiful, alluring, exciting? Could anything be better than a greatly-anticipated novel?
An exhilarated cry resounded through the room; the book, despondent and dejected, thought for a fleeting moment that the cry was one of lamentation and remorse for flinging it away so, but, poor book: it was mistaken.
Elizabeth, the utterer of such a cry, flew into the arms of a gentleman standing casually by the doorway, a lighthearted smirk upon his face, and adoration in his eyes.
"Will", she whispered, her heart brimming with ecstasy as he captured her, and held her firmly, their lips meeting in an eternal kiss.
No, Elizabeth thought resolutely, William Turner is the best fragrance in the world—as she lost herself amongst his invigorating, piquant aura.
Drabble: Hair
Soft, tangled, smooth, wavy, curly, dark, light—Elizabeth Swann's hair had had each of these qualities. When a young child, it was soft, almost downy; it curled delicately, dark curls. As she aged, it remained still soft, yet lightened to a color that more resembled her mother's hair. As further time wore on, so did the transition from curls to waves and more drastically from deep brunette to that of chocolate swirled with honey.
That was the result of her outdoor adventures. Thus came the change from constantly smooth locks to tangled, then back to smooth when she remained on land, as opposed to on a pirate ship over open water. There, the wind was brutal, making her hair even knotted.
At her present station, her own home, Elizabeth sat in front of a mirror at her vanity, pondering such things abovementioned.
"Oh, dear", she sighed, and purposely shook her tousles, honey drops tumbling before her eyes, more and more russet whirls, suddenly invaded by a tendril of obsidian.
She gasped, taken aback, and discovered the owner of the magnificent swarthiness. Those eyes, the eyes of her husband, flashed, matching perfectly his own hair—dark, mysterious, unalterable. Unalterable. With a prick of dismay, Elizabeth realized that indeed, his hair had never changed. It has always been…
"Elizabeth, what are you doing?" he asked, mirth tingeing his voice, as he raised and eyebrow.
She blushed slightly, then brought her hand forward, brushing her fingertips against his tresses.
"I love your hair", she admitted wistfully.
Will chuckled, removing her fingers and bringing them to his lips.
"I love you, my dear, despite your caprices."
She pursed her lips, haughtily withdrawing her hand, to which Will displayed a look of feigned injury.
"Wouldn't you like to know why?"
Will clasped his hands together, and peered at her with attentiveness and adoration.
"Why then?"
"Because it is constant", she replied in all sincerity. "You are my constant, every part of you."
"Oh, Liz", he murmured, stroking her cheek. "You are also my constant." He smirked. "You needn't worry that your hair changes shades."
She shook her head and laughed as he lifted her in his arms and kissed her.