This week's prompt: Mask and/or Masque (an allegorical play featuring members of the court). I managed to squeeze in both.
A Man and An Iron Mask
Will Turner looped his cravat one last time, smoothing it into place above the collar of his new waistcoat. He was not used to owning so many sets of clothing, but after days at sea and battles with undead pirates there were just some stains you couldn't remove, and so he had let Elizabeth help him select some newer, more fashionable suits.
The deft hands left the cravat and nimble fingers cradled the young craftsman's delicate creation, the product of a week's painstaking toil. The glinting object was raised and appraised one final time, before the strong, careful hands lowered it reverently into dark velvet folds and pulled a lid closed over it.
The young blacksmith strode through Port Royal's quieting streets. It was late afternoon, and the sun was slipping gently behind the trees and bringing a blessed cool to the balmy summer day. His hands guarded the precious wooden box that protected his gift.
He squinted into the setting sun as he climbed the hill towards the governor's mansion. When he reached the edge of the property he turned, and directed his footsteps not to the large mahogany door, but instead into the staunch hedges of the ornate garden. He was hardly through the leafy perimeter when a voice rang out with a greeting, and he was necklaced by a pair of soft white arms and muzzled by a pair of strong fervent lips.
When the embrace finally ended, Will took the hand of his attacker and led her to a small bench in a secluded corner of the garden. It was a favorite spot of theirs, though there were so many amidst the carefully trimmed topiaries and elegant palms. This garden was their kingdom, a place where they had grown up together in secret, playing hide-and-go-seek, and Romeo and Juliet. It had been several years since Will had navigated their garden fortress, but he still remembered the way to this special alcove.
Elizabeth sat down, grinning playfully up at him.
She laughed musically. "I got your note this morning. We don't have to meet like this anymore. Everyone knows about the engagement," She teased.
"I know. But I like it better this way. I can have you all to myself."
He did not match her smile, but fixed her with one of his deep, adoring gazes that made her feel as though she might drown inside his eyes and made her heart somersault. She broke eye contact first, noticing the plain but polished wooden box he held in his lap.
"Open it," he commanded, relinquishing his treasure.
The white fingers obeyed. The lid was gingerly lifted to reveal--a mask. Delicate and glittering, made not of fabric or wood, but of metal. Elizabeth could see at a glance her beloved's expert craftsmanship in its graceful curves, and its stunning, yet simple design. She lifted it, surprised at its weightlessness, turning it to watch the last rays of sunlight catch the intricate grooves etched into elegant flourishes across the glassy surface, and the feathery tendrils of metal spraying from the corner of one eyehole.
There was a moment of silence, as Elizabeth took in all of these details. When she spoke, it was in breathless awe.
"Oh Will. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
He was pleased. "Not me." He punctuated his comment by catching up a small strand of her hair and twisting it around his fingers.
"I made it for you. For Lady Barclay's ball," he announced.
Elizabeth smiled warmly and raised the fragile visor to her face.
"Oh!" she exclaimed happily. "It isn't very big is it?"
The mask, unlike those that the fashionable set of Port Royal would doubtless be wearing to the event, covered only her large brown eyes and part of her nose.
"You shouldn't have to cover up any more of your face than you absolutely have to." Came the reply, as Will gently brushed aside his handiwork and softly kissed her nose, then her cheek, and then met her lips in a dizzying kiss.
When the young couple decided to breathe again, Will stood up, his eyes sparkling conspiratorially.
"Now, Miss Swann, if I'm to dance at this ball then we'd best finish my lesson." He held out a hand to his bride to be.
She giggled, amused by his reference to another stolen moment in the garden, a dancing lesson that had ended less than favorably. She placed her soft hand into his own calloused one and stood.
"I should be delighted to honor you with this dance, Mr. Turner."
While the young blacksmith and his fiancé were dancing in a garden, a very different gathering was taking place thousands of miles across the sea. A grave, poised and correct gentleman stood in a crowded room watching his masked monarch and waiting for the opportune moment.
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A/N: To read about Will's first dancing lesson, see The Memoirs of James Norrington Part 1, Ch. 7.