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All the rivers flow to the sea, as they sigh
I'll be coming home, wait for me…
(paraphrased from Unchained Melody)

To love and to lose. Oh, but the burning sand, the rough palms of his hands. And the legs, back, arms, chest, his scent, the sea. She was his, finally. But that was ten years ago.

The curse of the captain of the Flying Dutchman was not that he could not step ashore but a day in a decade. It was that love would not hold through that time. A game. How would he know? Would she wait for his return? She did at first. Kept herself busy. A house. But a year had gone. Just one year since she lay beside him under the open sky. It gored her.

There would be nine more years to wait. She looks in the mirror and sees her sunburnt skin, scars, unrefined, so unladylike. Yet her waist is still small, her breasts still firm. She holds her hair up, the vain Pirate King, and looks at her face intently. Yes, her eyes had darkened, hadn't they? Father and James and Will. Not Will. Why Will?

Nine more years…She would be older than thirty then. And a thought wondered to her poor mother, who had not even reached thirty when she had been claimed by that familiar, unwelcoming hand of death. Is she to live to the tenth year of his return?

Yes, it burns and it wrings her insides. Made a woman on her wedding night on the shore, made a widow thereafter. No heart inside – for it is buried deep. But she would wait.

Eight more years. And she grows concerned. How will the wrinkles mar her skin? She remembers the man she is waiting for. What she wants. The sand and the sea, and his scent. And the rum. Yes, the rum. But the hands and the skin, the touch so rough and feverish. There are eight more years, for hell's sake. How can she wait? Pirate King.

It had been two years since she last saw him. He had arrived unexpectedly. A solution? A tale of a journey and the theft (accomplished) of the fountain of youth. Yes. Immortality. She reasons that eight years are nothing to an immortal being. And they both taste the liquid, drops sliding down their throats. How delightful that he brought this cup – such a surprise. But there, both drunk on the potion of eternal life, so close together, she still remembers that there are eight years. And immortal though she is, eight years is still too long. She is so hungry. Living forever, she wants to feel alive.

William Turner comes back, from his ten year chore of ushering souls lost at sea into the beyond. He can breathe the air and feel his lungs fill up. His phantom heart beats faster and faster though he knows that there is nothing in his chest anymore. There she is, Elizabeth, her fresh beauty preserved. And a child! Their child! He is so close to shore. Ten years, and she had waited for him. Eagerly, he steps on land, to be with his wife and son. But what is this? Every step so burdensome. She falls into his embrace, but it burns him. A fire of passion?

Immortals. The child too. As long as the elixir remained in their possession. Will pretends everything is fine, feeling the pain every moment. Were these the terms of the contract? Sparrow arrives later. All the jokes, and the laughs, and the rum. But Sparrow's eyes smoulder. Eight years ago, he brought Lizzie the fountain of youth. She wanted to feel alive.

Oh, the sand, the rough palms of her hands. And the legs, back, arms, chest, her scent, the sea. And the rum. She was his, finally. And the night after that. And the night after that. Pirate.