Prompt: Sealed in blood. Originally posted 18/5/07.
Written prior to the release of At World's End, in response to one of the trailers. Still in line with canon, although my original intention is not.
They are going to die. Elizabeth has come close to experiencing violent— and inappropriate— death far more often than can possibly be considered proper for a young lady of good birth and noble pedigree and she has even taken part in more battles than an average lieutenant sees in a lifetime. Until now, however, an awareness of her own mortality has not troubled her greatly; she has killed men and seen her own death in half a hundred pieces of rapidly moving, sharply pointed metal, but conflict—with undead pirates, sea monsters, or drunken sailors—has been an adventure, an exercise in besting her opponents. Only now for the first time does a sense of impending doom choke her lungs and tangle her feet.
The rain lashes down, drumming on the decks, washing copper stains into the sea. She moves almost without thought, arms following the patterns Will taught her so many months ago.
Will!
It is, she realises, for Will that she most fears, and the thought surprises her. She bound Jack to his doom, it is true, but Jack was—is—a pirate, and death is an occupational hazard in that profession. Will was a good man, a blacksmith who wanted only to love her and work for her and live with her…she is no longer all he fights for, Elizabeth knows, but she is fully aware that it is only because of her that Will stepped onto the path that brought him here, straining every muscle against death. She can see him now and again as he passes across her line of vision, but she is constantly aware of his presence, curiously comforting in a storm of death.
They come together in one of the odd lulls that fall in the rise and ebb of battle, face one another with swords in hands, water trickling down their cheeks, hair soaked black against their skulls.
Will stares at her, and his eyes frighten her because, for the first time, they are not Will's eyes—gentle and devoted and good. There is a fey brilliance in them now that draws her even as it terrifies her, and she will never be able, afterward, to say which if them it is who first steps forward; only that for a moment they embrace, clutching one another with bloodied hands, kissing until breath is gone and beyond. Even the taste of him is different, all else masked by the tang of bitter salt. When at length he pulls away and turns silently from her, raising his sword once more, there are crimson drops smeared across her lips.
The rain takes even that from her.