Title: A Sparrow's Flight
Disclaimer: These pirates be Disney's. The Sparrow be Johnny's!
A/N: Thank you for such prompt reviews! I feel special. This chapter really covers the reintroduction of Elizabeth. The juicy stuff will come with chapter three! Have faith and patience, lovies, the action and adventure I promised would be here before you know it. Must have the proper set up, you know. I hunger for feedback. Pointers pointers pointers for a beginner, por favor. Enjoy!
To Bake a Cake
The cake would turn out perfectly. Elizabeth Turner wiped her flowered hands on the cloth that covered the slight swell of her stomach, the dust on pale blue fabric giving the impression that she had plucked a piece of the sky and used it as her apron. She turned to the oven and stopped, squaring her shoulders. It was a simple almond cake, there was no reason it shouldn't be beautiful. And when Will returned from the smithy he would love it and she could be content. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she would rather face a thousand armed corpses than open that oven and face another failure.
You're being silly she told herself behind closed lids. Go to the oven and open it, take out your cake and make it presentable. Elizabeth nodded, eyes opening, and marched toward the closed door in much the same manner as a prisoner heading to the gallows. She reached out a hand like a nervous cat returning to prey that had fought back before it fell dead. In one swoop of motion she threw down the latch, opened the door and immediately began to cough.
A wave of acrid gray assaulted eyes the color of well-steeped tea, tears slicking their surface in protest. Her hand fluttered forward, the competence of her gestures disappearing with the smoke out of the open window. She lifted the cake from the blackened cave, setting it on the wooden table with a dull clatter. The remainder of the smoke dissipated from the open oven as she sank into a chair opposite her charred mess of ingredients, a failed domestic defeated by a cake.
"Yo-ho." Her gaze slid out the window, to the mild glitter of harbor beyond. "Yo-ho." Her voice was almost inaudible, ringing with odd girlishness. "A pirates' life for me." Why the bars of the familiar song should resurface after so many years eluded her; she was conscious only of the way her dead tone made the jovial song sound like mockery. She untied the apron and let it fall to the floor, the fingerprint clouds fading into an air scented with lingering smoke.
~*~
"I see you still have the penchant for silly hats," Jack said, more to the burgundy plume that topped the tri-cornered number than to the person who wore it.
"I see you still have the penchant for rum," Will retorted. Jack's swagger was all the more comical next to the blacksmith's easy stride, like partners attempting entirely different dance steps to the same song.
"S'not a penchant, m'lad. Rum is more vital to me existence than me own blood." Will smiled. They were walking away from the docks, a path that had taken some convincing for the corsair. It seemed his sea legs worsened the farther he traveled from the brine. The cobblestones gave way to gravel and dirt, the road ascending gently to a house nestled on a hill overlooking the harbor town. It was of fair proportions, though even these seemed modest in comparison to the Governor's mansion, which sat slightly close for Will's comfort.
"Jack?" Will kept his eyes forward. "Would you mind telling me why you're without The Pearl?" His voice couldn't decide whether it was curious or worried.
"In good time, bucko, in good time. It's only right that your bonnie learns of it when you do." The tone was uncharacteristically grave, or so it seemed to Will, who found he was scrambling to retain the curiosity and not give in completely to the overwhelming surge of the latter emotion. A disconcerting quiet settled, broken when Jack began to sniff.
"Smell's like the rigging's ablaze." Will's gaze had fallen to the gleaming buckles of his shoes; he lifted his eyes to the house, where a dying slip of pale smoke issued from the kitchen window. His stride quickened, despite the harmlessness of the smoke's color. He called over his shoulder to Jack, who had begun an odd sort of lope to catch up with him, voice sounding resigned.
"Elizabeth's been baking."
Disclaimer: These pirates be Disney's. The Sparrow be Johnny's!
A/N: Thank you for such prompt reviews! I feel special. This chapter really covers the reintroduction of Elizabeth. The juicy stuff will come with chapter three! Have faith and patience, lovies, the action and adventure I promised would be here before you know it. Must have the proper set up, you know. I hunger for feedback. Pointers pointers pointers for a beginner, por favor. Enjoy!
To Bake a Cake
The cake would turn out perfectly. Elizabeth Turner wiped her flowered hands on the cloth that covered the slight swell of her stomach, the dust on pale blue fabric giving the impression that she had plucked a piece of the sky and used it as her apron. She turned to the oven and stopped, squaring her shoulders. It was a simple almond cake, there was no reason it shouldn't be beautiful. And when Will returned from the smithy he would love it and she could be content. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she would rather face a thousand armed corpses than open that oven and face another failure.
You're being silly she told herself behind closed lids. Go to the oven and open it, take out your cake and make it presentable. Elizabeth nodded, eyes opening, and marched toward the closed door in much the same manner as a prisoner heading to the gallows. She reached out a hand like a nervous cat returning to prey that had fought back before it fell dead. In one swoop of motion she threw down the latch, opened the door and immediately began to cough.
A wave of acrid gray assaulted eyes the color of well-steeped tea, tears slicking their surface in protest. Her hand fluttered forward, the competence of her gestures disappearing with the smoke out of the open window. She lifted the cake from the blackened cave, setting it on the wooden table with a dull clatter. The remainder of the smoke dissipated from the open oven as she sank into a chair opposite her charred mess of ingredients, a failed domestic defeated by a cake.
"Yo-ho." Her gaze slid out the window, to the mild glitter of harbor beyond. "Yo-ho." Her voice was almost inaudible, ringing with odd girlishness. "A pirates' life for me." Why the bars of the familiar song should resurface after so many years eluded her; she was conscious only of the way her dead tone made the jovial song sound like mockery. She untied the apron and let it fall to the floor, the fingerprint clouds fading into an air scented with lingering smoke.
~*~
"I see you still have the penchant for silly hats," Jack said, more to the burgundy plume that topped the tri-cornered number than to the person who wore it.
"I see you still have the penchant for rum," Will retorted. Jack's swagger was all the more comical next to the blacksmith's easy stride, like partners attempting entirely different dance steps to the same song.
"S'not a penchant, m'lad. Rum is more vital to me existence than me own blood." Will smiled. They were walking away from the docks, a path that had taken some convincing for the corsair. It seemed his sea legs worsened the farther he traveled from the brine. The cobblestones gave way to gravel and dirt, the road ascending gently to a house nestled on a hill overlooking the harbor town. It was of fair proportions, though even these seemed modest in comparison to the Governor's mansion, which sat slightly close for Will's comfort.
"Jack?" Will kept his eyes forward. "Would you mind telling me why you're without The Pearl?" His voice couldn't decide whether it was curious or worried.
"In good time, bucko, in good time. It's only right that your bonnie learns of it when you do." The tone was uncharacteristically grave, or so it seemed to Will, who found he was scrambling to retain the curiosity and not give in completely to the overwhelming surge of the latter emotion. A disconcerting quiet settled, broken when Jack began to sniff.
"Smell's like the rigging's ablaze." Will's gaze had fallen to the gleaming buckles of his shoes; he lifted his eyes to the house, where a dying slip of pale smoke issued from the kitchen window. His stride quickened, despite the harmlessness of the smoke's color. He called over his shoulder to Jack, who had begun an odd sort of lope to catch up with him, voice sounding resigned.
"Elizabeth's been baking."
