Disclaimer: If this were mine, I wouldn't spend my day sitting on my ass and writing fanfiction. I'd be bathing in platinum shavings, buying a castle, and making a library with more books than I could actually read in my lifetime. But it isn't, so I bathe in plain water, live in a normal house, and only buy books when I'm going to read them. So don't sue me. The only thing you'll get besides this computer and those books is a toy parrot that mimics everything you say. And believe me, you don't want it.
Author's Notes: This is the product of my writer's block. I had a friend give me some challenge guidelines, and this is what was spawned. Any suggestions for the title would be greatly appreciated. And please review. Flame me, if you like, but know that the only thing it'll do is warm my chicken for dinner. If you want to stop reading writing as crappy as mine, constructive criticism is the way to go. If you want to say, "That is SO not Will!" than by all means go ahead and say it. But if you do, try to add something like, "Will is completely out of character in your story. He would probably do this instead of this, and I don't think he would act like this." If you want to say, "Will belongs to Elizabeth! They'll be together forever!" than you can say that, too. But keeping in mind that I happen to disagree with that, only add it as a side note after stating your opinion on the story without making it biased towards a specific character or relationship or circumstance or whatever. Thank you kindly, and I apologize for rambling, but it was necessary.
I
Silence, Will thinks, isn't so silent as they might have him believe. Wind in the alley, waves crashing at the docks, the thick crack of heavy shutter meeting rough stone as he pushes it wide open.
A child cries for its mother, and it is silence, as voices call to him.
You forget your place, Turner.
It's right here, between you and Jack.
As is mine.
But she is not beside him - not any longer. And why? Maybe Will would make sense of it, if only she would stop mocking him, whispering into his ear.
The moon is new now, and Will is bathed in darkness, and he is so confused.
II
He stands facing windward, so he can breathe through his open mouth and taste the salty air. He is in front of his window, and has once again opened the shutter.
He has a glass of water, tasteless, flavourful water. If he closes his eyes and pretends he is with her, he can still taste her lips on his.
We should return to the Dauntless.
Your fiancé will be wanting to know you are safe.
He knows that look in her eyes all too well now.
The moon is a tiny crescent now, and Will can see shadows, and he despairs.
III
Will opened the window before he laid down to sleep, so he wouldn't have to get up at midnight again. He is curled beneath a coarse blanket, sweaty and scratched from the wool, but he is loath to move from his uncomfortable position. The night air is balmy, and he might enjoy the way it would caress his skin were he not cocooned in such a manner.
He hears blood pound through his eardrums and licks his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat half-dried on them. A miniscule breeze blows and tickles Will's nose and eyelids as it dances about his face. He can hardly feel that touch, though, because he remembers the feel of her silky-smooth skin.
Oh!
Sorry. Blacksmith's hands. I know they're rough.
No. Well, yes they are, but...but don't stop.
He feels the skin of her face and neck and chest, and purposely forgets the gold; the gold is not as soft or smooth or loving as she. For she does love him – she must.
The moon is semicircle now, and Will perceives half-formed figures, and he wallows in denial.
IV
A chair sits beside the window, which Will never closes. The breeze carries the fragrance of salty sea and sandy beach and blooming flowers. Here in this room it is mingled with the sweat and fire that linger still on him. He pays it little mind, trying to enjoy the distant breaking waves, the salt-laden air, the warm, damp air.
He inhales deeply, suddenly, and is reminded of the sweet scent he always thought followed her: sea air and roses.
Elizabeth, don't you look lovely?
Will! I had a dream about you last night!
About me?
Yes, about the day we met. Do you remember?
How could I forget, Miss Swann?
And how could he forget? Her voice whispering in his ear, her taste taunting his tongue, the smoothness of her skin brushing against his hand. She always stays just there, beyond his grasp, mocking him, calling him to her.
The moon is at a gibbous now, and Will sees shapes in gray, and his blood runs with anger.
V
The chair does not offer a view of the world outside his window, and Will stands so that he might see it all. From the sable of the midnight sky to the uneven cobblestones of the road below, he wants, needs to see it. The floorboards creak and groan as he leans forward, offering himself a fuller view.
He watches the moon float across the sky, the dust fly in the wind, the now-loose shutter wobble on its one intact hinge. She does not appear before his eyes, does not taunt him with deceptive loveliness. She does not hold him on strings like a puppet, and he dances for her no longer.
So this is the path you have chosen? After all, he is a blacksmith.
No. He's a pirate.
But he isn't. He's Will – just Will. Someday she will see, and she will regret, and she will feel the ache that has tormented him so. He will smile then, as he does now, and she will never have him.
The moon has reached fullness now, and Will can see clearly, and he hates.