Odd little fic, named Sketches for a couple of reasons; the sketch mentioned, and the story's layout. Enjoy!

Sketches

Your name is Elizabeth Swann, and you will die today.

You are not ready.

When you are twelve, you fall in love with a sketch. Its subject is young; there are no wrinkles and he walks with an easy grace. Or so you imagine. How are you to tell but with the corners of your mind?

Your father does not know you own this book. It is true that you stole it from the head housekeeper, but you are the lady of the house and so it is yours. You take what you want and give nothing back.

You sing songs about pirates coming to take you away. You dream of digging for treasure and laughing under the stars. You are only twelve; you are already bored of this life.

Bored of the boy who will not speak your name.

He is in love with you by the time you are fifteen. You know; his hands fumble when you are near and he trips over his own words. When you talk about running away, whispering in the candlelight, he looks away in silence, forever unwilling to part.

For three years you have wondered. Wondered what he is doing; who is he talking to? His absence stings like a presence would, sharp and inconsiderate. He has been all over the world and yet he has not been here.

For three years you have wondered why.

It happens when you are eighteen. Everything is constricting and large and so very bright and you cannot breathe.

When your eyes open, he is above you. And he is real.

He hasn't spoken a word but you are his. You can see in the way he smiles that he knows.

It feels like you are in one of your dreams. Nothing else matters; not the cut on your hand from the knife, stinging from the saltiness of the water. Not the fact that you are miles from home with the Navy chasing your bones. Not even the fact that the boy who will not say your name may be in danger.

Not right now.

All that matters now is the sand and the pirate sitting next to you.

You sing songs about pirates who have come to take you away.

You drink rum before you burn it. You regret it when you are rescued before he has kissed you.

It is all a blur. It is not happening, yet the noose slipping round his neck is startlingly real.

You barely register that the boy who does not speak has said your name. Did he say something else?

Does it matter? You guess not, registering only that he will live, only half aware that it was the boy who saved him.

He is leaving, taking your hopes with him. You know his words are lies; you know it would have worked out.

It has been a year and you are marrying the boy who is only just beginning to speak. If you are honest, you do not know why you are marrying him. If you lie, as you have every day for the past year, you may claim that you love him.

He cannot see; he never could. Just as he could not see your lies, now he cannot see the relief that your wedding has been interrupted by him.

Even though he is not there, you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face.

The compass does not lie, and you both know it.

Perhaps he does not realise this until you are climbing out of his tangled bed sheets and pulling on your clothes the same afternoon, but he knows now. He lounges back, not even bothering to get dressed or wipe the smug grin off his face as he scans your flushed face.

You have known for a while.

You are nearly twenty; eight years since you fell in love with his sketch. Now it is real.

You don't know what is happening. You don't know what you are doing. You are afraid you will die, everything is moving so fast and then you are kissing him, pushing him back further and further until you cannot anymore.

He tastes sweet while the shackles sting your hand with their unkindness, and then his lips are gone but it is too late and it cannot be undone.

He is dying. You killed him. You hate yourself.

And then you are gone.

You do not count the days it takes to reach World's End. You know there have been enough; too many.

You are pregnant.

The boy will not speak to you.

You lose yourself in the Locker. There are voices in your head. You don't know your name.

You only remember his face, but he won't look at you. He is scared of you. Even he doesn't know why; whether he was affected more by his death or the profound impact you have had on him.

You begin to find yourself when he touches your hand. He knows about the baby. How?

He smiles.

You are halfway home. You have found yourself in his clemency. You think of names for a boy – Anthony – and a girl – Anne. You want to apologise to the boy but he has already forgiven you.

Then you see your father. He has not made it.

You nearly lose the baby from the trauma; there is blood on the bed sheets in the morning.

Then you feel your child kick, and everything is different.

You don't know what is happening. The boy has been stabbed; he is dying and your grief shocks you to the core.

You realise then how he has been there for everything; he has saved your life many times and you have not had the heart to even thank him.

You give him eternal life. You hope it is enough to make up for everything.

It is.

It is a girl. You name her Anne, and she has his surname.

You fall in love all over again. She smiles.

You marry him, eventually, the pirate with the obsidian eyes. You have lost track of the time since you first laid eyes on him in the sketch; you have lost track of the times he has taken your very breath away.

But he is yours.

Your name is Elizabeth Swann, and you will die today.

Are you ready?

WD,
xo.