The Wistful One
Some moonless night, when the sky is black,
I'll run away and I'll never come back;
And maybe the girl who used to be me
Will be far away, like a lad, at sea.
- Abigail Cresson.
Elizabeth stood off to the side; always underfoot, but eternally invisible except when they wished to see her. She heard the men mutter things amidst riggings and sails and barrels about bad luck having a woman aboard, but never once had she seen one of them turn a glance towards Anamaria.
She was hard. She was tough. She was a pirate.
Elizabeth knew that Anamaria had seen her watching; sideways glances through windswept hair as she hurried her way across the deck. The dark woman's eyes were quick, and she surveyed all below her like a queen when she stood behind that wooden wheel, the Pearl obeying her every command. Anamaria never truly spoke to her, save informalities, but words mattered not to Elizabeth. She saw what she desired in Anamaria's eyes.
It must be the freedom, she told herself, else why in God's name was she so drawn to this woman? She sometimes thought of Captain Sparrow's impassioned words to her, on that rum-fueled night on the beach. The way he spoke of freedom made Elizabeth reconsider everything she had ever known or held dear. She desired to taste it, and here it was, embodied in this very woman.
Her life had never been her own, much as she would have liked to think it was.
She had run free on the beach as a girl, when her father was not watching. She had always loved the sand under her feet, kicking up in wet clumps behind her. She loved the way the salt-spray clung to her thin arms and giggled secretly when her nursemaid had to comb it out each evening.
But this was never spoken of to her father, for it was just not proper. Not proper at all.
She knew she loved the sea, and though all of these men were free, none could truly appreciate it as a woman could. She was jealous of Anamaria, yet craved her companionship. She wished to speak with her and touch her exotic dark skin, and often wondered if she would taste of spice, or perhaps she would be musky and sharp on her tongue, like the whiskey father made her take when she was ill...
She moved quickly to avoid being run down by one of the crew, but she did not glance back up right away, as she felt that dark gaze on her again. She knew her cheeks reddened, and she was confused at this. She forced her gaze up, a warm shiver sliding down her spine at Anamaria's small, secret smile.
Elizabeth brushed by two large men as she escaped down below, her heart pounding against her ribs, her legs shaky. She sat carefully on the edge of her bed, and strangely, her thoughts turned to Will.
To Will, whom she always watched when he did not know. Whom she always watched as he was watching Captain Sparrow.
They all craved something, she knew... But now she was not quite certain what it was.
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