Sorry about the month-long update. RL has been kinda crappy to me lately. Anyway. Back to the story, aye?
This chapter consists of romangst. No Jack, no Hector, no Will. Just James and Elizabeth. Dun dun dun.
I don't own anyone or anything you recognize here. Not even Elizabeth's pillow.
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Elizabeth smiled, curled up against her husband. He was asleep, his heartbeat slow and steady, echoing in Elizabeth's ears – the rhythm of life.
He shifted in his sleep and pulled Elizabeth closer to him. She rested her head under his chin, wrapping her arms around his bare shoulders, keeping warm. She never wanted to move away.
It was a moment of contentment. Both lost in dreams and thoughts, one about the other, no dread, no worry in their carefree lives.
James rolled onto his back, taking Elizabeth with him and landing on top of her. Elizabeth grinned, but after a few moments she began to lose air. Her breath came out in ragged gasps, her hands struggling to wake him. He fell back and landed onto the floor with a sickening thud-
Her eyes snapped open. James was not there.
She leaned over the edge of her bed. Realizing that the reality was just a heavy pillow, she threw her face into her hands and wept.
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James gripped the wheel tightly. He was getting sick of this mission. Why was Turner such a target? And how could he have been taken without warning?
He sighed. If it weren't for the pirates, he wouldn't be here. He'd have been in Port Royal with Elizabeth.
He missed her terribly. Every waking moment – 'rubbish', he though spitefully– every moment without her was death frozen over. He'd promised himself not to take up any sort of sea venture for at least a month, yet here he was on a (mandatory? It was a good question.) on a rescue mission for Turner, the man that had been the cause of his last mission.
James found himself disliking this man.
A lot.
"All right there sir?" Gillette asked a tad mockingly as James' knuckles turned white.
"It is not yet your shift, Lieutenant," James more or less answered. He could almost see Gillette smirking.
"You look unwell, sir."
James gritted his teeth and lowered his voice. "If you were not a close friend, Andrew, I'd have you sent back to port..."
"But..." Gillette prodded.
James narrowed his eyes at the sun now hanging in the sky above. "Turner seems to have brought about a little more than just trouble, and it bothers me that one man could be so damned anno-"
The sharp snap of wood interrupted him. Both shifted their sights toward the main mast, where the sound had come from, and sighed in relief. The sails had flapped against the wood and resounded with the snap.
"...just be so troublesome, I suppose," James mumbled, shaken by the interruption and reverting his concentration on the wheel.
The wheel. Smooth and elegant wood, finely carved, he mustered all thoughts on admiring the work. He ran his fingers over the smooth and dented skin-
Wood, James. He ran his hands over the curved edges of the ship's wheel, her dainty posture-
Wood, man! He sighed heavily and blinked, struggling to think about just the one thing in front of him right there. The wood of the ship, almost sparkling – sparkling like the waves of the ocean.
The ocean, untamed, boisterous, beautiful, laughing as he splashed her lightly, not caring about her soaked dress-
James couldn't snap out of it. Anything he tried would lead back to Elizabeth. Why, even the bloody Lieutenant reminded him of her – the cuff links on his coat reminded him of the time she'd tugged at his own, a mere four foot tall child, asking question after question on everything about the ship...
God, he missed her.
Finally giving up, he turned on his heel, barked for the nearest officer to man the helm, and retreated to his cabin to weep.
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Elizabeth stared at her tea, its murky froth swimming in a pure white cup. She looked idle, but inside, she was willing herself not to cry. It was difficult; nothing seemed right without his presence.
Tea. Water...
Water. She swished the liquid in the cup, the minute waves killing themselves on the china mug, like ocean waves on a cliff face. A horrific but possible situation, and the waters of the Atlantic were unpredictable. Who knew if James was even alive?
Storms at sea, worse than the ones in her head. They were fearsome, unimaginable to those without experience. She had no experience. She had no idea.
Is he still alive? She gripped the mug tightly in her right hand, clenching her left fist onto her lap, fighting down the tears that threatened to fall. They were there, just behind her eyes, like the death of her beloved. Would it come soon? Or was it yet to come?
The metaphors didn't help.
A tearstain formed on her nightgown.
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James moaned in his sleep, his pillow wet, his hair a mangled wreck, his sheets twisted. He could not sleep. It was useless trying, nothing would help.
It was a long night for James; every possible thing that could have happened to Elizabeth ran past his mind, and with each new worry came double the amount of negative thoughts. He tried every possible way to get his mind off her for just one minute, alas he could not – anything and everything reminded him of her.
Many leagues away, his wife sat on the edge of his bed, the clock chiming twice a mere squeak in her thoughts. It was a long, tiresome stretch of worry and restlessness for Elizabeth, her eyes glazed over, staring at the unmade bed before her.
It was daunting to think that the man, the very man that had slept in the bed she now sat upon, was many hundreds of miles away from her. Miles away from the place he once stood. Miles away from land.
Away from her.
She cried herself to sleep.