oh, i hate those voices

tellin' me i'm not in love anymore

but they don't give me choices

and that's what these tears are for

Anne Elliot, despite all protests of her own mind and soul, was still in love with Captain Fredrick Wentworth. No matter how many years had passed in utter misery of her own making, she would forever mourn the great loss of the only true man worthy of her attention and affection. Seeing him was almost too much to bear, minutes seemingly stretched on long after their brief interaction in which she stood, frozen, in shock of Wentworth's sudden appearance. Flustered and embarrassed, she found herself stuck to the floor, her eyes proving themselves traitorous as they continued to wander back towards the looming figure who seemed to occupy the entire space in the room, and very soon after, every space and corner in her vast, ridiculous mind. The shame and embarrassment, him catching her off guard at the least anticipated moment, was enough to bring tears to her eyes. Her courage along with any bit of rationality in her head fled when their eyes locked for the briefest of moments. Her eyes were immediately averted, a red bloom climbing her cheeks as her hands began to shake from fear and foolishness. For it had been foolishness and weakness of character on her part in the first place to warrant such a cold greeting. She had been the one to argue against their determined attachment. She had been the very object of her own loathing for the last seven and a half years in which her absolute rejection of Captain Wentworth, her Captain Wentworth, had been the means of ruining both their happiness. Both parties gained nothing but pain and torture when a young, feeble-minded Anne decided to allow herself to be persuaded against marrying perhaps the only man she could ever truly love.

So altered he should not have known me, she thought to herself, something cold tightening around her heart, causing her lungs to constrict. She knew on every level that she was no longer handsome. That her youthful innocence and the glow of first love had faded years ago. She could not breathe, she dared not. It would serve as a reminder that she was still living, that she was still painfully forced to live in a world in which the one soul she would have relinquished everything to for in a heartbeat had the chance been given - despised her. Not just despised, but hated her with every ounce of his being.

All of the plans they had made, the secret glances and steady determination of always being near each other, gone. Lost at sea, all those many years ago when she was forced to give up the only man who could ever really understand her. And for what? Out of pride? Out of a sense of duty? She could not say what it was that made her act so incredibly hasty and foolish, except that she could. Lady Russell and all her intelligence of good society and respectability persuaded her away from what was deemed an imprudent match, and Anne had let her. Foolish, stupid Anne had allowed a woman so well versed in matters of society to determine the matters of her heart. It was really the most ridiculous thought and yet at the time, Anne had been absolutely convinced that her actions were done for the sake of love for Fredrick Wentworth as much as it was for herself. She had not anticipated his anger or his quitting of their society shortly after. Nor could she have predicted his incredible success, although she had always known he would meet upon good fortune. He was the type to do so, with his courageous bravado and self-assuredness that endeared himself to her in the first place.

Despite the rush of immediate mortification and sadness, Anne was also reminded of the past happiness. We were happy. Anne repeated to herself, almost as consolation to herself that night, and yet it made her heart and soul ache all the more for that which she lost. They were happy. They had been perhaps the happiest couple to ever walk the streets of Somersetshire. Despite every conviction hammered like nails into her heart, meant to somehow strengthen her heart against that which had torn into it in the first place, she felt the boards splinter. No matter how many times she was reminded by both her family: Sir Elliot, Elizabeth, and even her kindly neighbor Lady Russell who exerted her influence over Anne for her safety, Anne held on to the one fact she knew was absolutely certain, no matter how many times she was told it was not - We were happy. And somehow, those words were enough. All of those voices seemed to be drowned out and no matter the consequences of her own soul, she could not pretend to rid herself of the very simple belief that for a single moment in time, she held onto happiness. She held tight as a child does to a newfound toy. She held on because it was all she had left. When her tears fell bitterly as the spring flowers turned to autumn leaves, through hot summer days turned to cold, barren winters, she held tight.

Several nights passed after their first meeting again in bitterness and anger but mostly regret in the memories of what might have been. What should have been having she not been so foolish, when one supper produced a situation in which Anne and Fredrick Wentworth were left on their own at the table. Mary Musgrove and her husband went chasing after their children, one who decided to cry uncontrollably while the other who had discovered what his legs could do, darted out of the room when his parents had been distracted. The maids who were meant to be tending them had their own arms full with sleeping babies. The silence between the aquainted strangers was nearly unbearable. It was at Fredrick Wentworth's own determination to ignore Anne Elliot's presence that caused her eyes to burn. Silently, she turned her head away from him, beginning to weep for the loss of the only happiness she had ever known. Standing, she crossed the room to the fireplace, hoping the crackling of the logs and the crying children would be enough to drain out any audible noise that would betray her feelings. She faced the ceiling, short above her head, and willed her tears to cease, praying that she might find a way to excuse herself from the confined space. In her weariness, she had not noticed the subtle scrape of the chair legs against the floor, nor the sound of Wentworth crossing the threshold, stopping only steps from her. She could sense he was behind her at that moment and composed herself as best she could, and turned to him, determined to make the best of a truly dreadful situation.

"Anne-" Wentworth began, catching his informality. "Miss Elliot," he started again. "What is the problem? What reason have you to be sad?" He looked as if he wanted to say more, but the pain in his face was evident. As to why he was pained was as much a mystery to Anne as the reason the sky was the same bluish shade his eyes were as they searched her face. She considered lying, ignoring his inquiries and while she told herself to take a step back, find a way to excuse herself, she remained, only a foot from him, searching his face as well. Searching for something recognizable in his eyes, and painfully, she saw what she should not have. She saw something akin to love in his eyes. Love and worry for her own happiness and in that moment, she wailed silently over her own prideful, stupid weakness.

"I-" She began, testing her voice. It was soft, shaky and weak. She stopped. She had not intended to tell him what was grieving her, she had not even been sure she could put into words what exactly was causing the pain. If she did, she might not be able to ever recover. How could she explain that her tears were for every second of pain the last seven and a half years had brought upon her. How could she describe the complete agony and torture each beat of her own heart brought as pangs of coldness and pain gripped tighter, trying to freeze out the happiness that had once been given to her. She wanted to say something, anything to dispel the pity that seemed to break through Wentworth's emotional barrier. The entire supper and the last few days had been filled with nothing but smiles for Louisa and Henrietta but a cold contempt for herself. Wentworth, based on his comments and behaviors, was still as angry with Anne as he had been those many years ago. It was why, seeing his expression falter as he ventured to close the gap between the two was nothing short of a surprise. Anne had had sufficient time to compose herself but when she went to speak again, the last bit of her strength crumbled and she turned away from him once again, bringing her palms to her face, burying her hands out of shame and embarrassment, upset that her own, ridiculous heart decided at that moment to fall to pieces.

At this, Wentworth's last bit of anger dissolved into an instant renewal of his past feelings towards Anne. Stepping forward, he pulled his handkerchief out and offered it to her, inches from her face. Understanding the impropriety of the moment, he pushed those irritating thoughts aside, caring only for the comfort and well-being of Anne Elliot. The woman who rejected him seven and a half years ago. The woman who he had compared all others against and determined none like her had ever or would ever exist, she was the one and only woman who held any piece of himself, even years later. He unequivocally loved her, just as he had before, perhaps even more now, and despite the pain, the anger, the utter resentment, and the blow to his pride which he had received through her rejection, he still found himself yearning to give her everything she could ever desire. His world would forever be hers. His happiness forever in her delicate hands. No matter the storm, no matter the waves that tossed his ship about, she would forever be his anchor and for the first time in seven and a half years, he was set free. They had been happy and they would be again if he could only find a way to communicate with her the sudden clarity of the situation and find a way to admit not only his own foolishness but entreat a million times for her forgiveness of his prideful temper which kept them so long separated. So long unhappy.

"Anne Elliot," he began, her eyes shifting upwards to meet his, the tissue dabbing delicately at the corners of her vision. "I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late." He paused, letting his words sink in while Anne stood in stunned silence, unable to predict what could be his meaning. While he started with a pained reserve, he now spoke in an animate language, explaining his continued, unwavering love for her. Detailing his own prideful foolishness kept him from seeking her out. He begged for her forgiveness. "None have compared. None have held my heart which has been so wholly your own when seven and a half years ago you broke it. Only you can be the means of mending what was only ever yours." Neither of the two noticed during his speech he had stepped even closer to her, their eyes just inches from each other, his hands grasping hers, holding on tightly, anchoring her to reality, to the raw confession that she had so long-awaited and dreamed for. He loved her and had always loved her. "Say you'll marry me. Say that we will once again spend our days always next to each other. Always connected. Always supremely happy for the rest of our lives."

That was all she needed. She blinked back tears, but not the same bitter ones from moments ago. No, these tears were infused with more than saltwater, they were tears of joy, and of love. They erased the memory of her past grievances and provided a strong sense of a new tomorrow. "Yes," Anne breathed before reaching up to cup his face. His free hand moved to pull her own face the few centimeters to his mouth. A long, lingering kiss the two had so long awaited finally finished their unfinished sentences. No one could touch their smiles for the world, and forevermore, the two were happy.