AN: If you're expecting something exciting, novel and intriguing…I apologize. I'm trying to branch out, test the waters in new areas. I'm feeling a bit more confident about Tragedy, Humor, and Revenge now…and so there's only one thing left to do. That's right. Romance. I have now joined the ranks of the three hundred kazillion rabid fan girls who have written a terribly sappy, fluffy, completely pointless PotC romance (my mother would be so proud).

Please take it only for what it is , and enjoy it in all it's angsty, ungrammatical glory.

PS: If you have anything to fling—especially reviews!—save some to fling at Flygon Pirate, who keeps insisting I write more one-shots.

Elizabeth.

She was a goddess who graced him with her presence. It was his life's deepest honour to have her look at him, to notice him, let alone touch his hand, or brush his lips with her own…

But it wasn't her porcelain skin, her hair like a curtain of silk, soft and scented in his hands, the beguiling curve of her arched, coral lips or her small breasts pressed so desperately against his own…not even the smoldering embers of her eyes, but the soul, the spirit, the warrior-princess, the valkyrie, the fearless, confident flame that burned within her that captured him, enslaved him. It was the knowledge that such a spirit knew of his existence and doubts, his poverty of spirit and his fears that sent him reeling to his knees, drunk with life, with hope, with a blind and utter love.

How to tell her…

He couldn't.

She said she loved him. But she couldn't. She needed better, deserved better, even if she said she didn't want it she must have it. He couldn't love her, truly, if he gave her anything less than what she deserved.

And he didn't deserve her.

Nervousness now. That growing lump in his throat, that suffocating panic that words would come but be choked out, even though he knew no words would ever come. Skilled with his hands, skilled with a blade, for years his hands and his hands alone had forged every sword, poured every musket ball, hammered every carriage harness, shoed every horse. Hands that had once crafted a sword so fine as to be gifted to a Commodore of Her Majesty's Fleet… These hands, his hands, now lay sweaty and limp at his sides.

Yes, William Turner was skilled with his hands. But not words.

Never words.

He was a blacksmith, not a poet. Elizabeth. He could think of no more words to express the song, the worship, the ache and longing of his heart for her happiness…Her name was sweet in his mouth, sweeter even then her heady breath, engraved in his heart, his soul, the only poem he would ever speak.

How to tell her.

He couldn't. Even now when he needed to, he couldn't.

Staring off into the Sea—had it only been a year ago?—the same Sea he had sailed so rashly, so desperately to win her heart. To win fair lady's heart…the words brought back the memory of Jack Sparrow. Captain, he thought with a small, bitter laugh. A pirate, and a good man. What was it that he said to him?

This girl, how far are you willing to go to save her?

I'd die for her.

He was visited by the memory of a crude, yellowed bone knife pressed unrelentingly against his throat, rough hands on his head, forcing his face to look down, down, to watch the outpour of blood that would surely come. The feel of a sword, his sword, pressed against his cheek, expecting to feel the sudden rip of musket balls through his flesh. But the thought of her safe, and happy, smiling that smile that opened her eyes like light from shutters thrown wide open, golden, glorious sunlight streaming in….

I'd die for her.

And he would, tonight he would. It would kill him to leave her. She would hate him, she would never understand. She would call him a coward and a bastard and she would be right. He could steal a ship, throw in his lot with a pirate, face death by the gallows to ensure her safety and life…but he could never do anything so brave or bold as to selfishly, purposefully love her against his conscience and his doubt. He had told her of his love, once, but only to steel himself for the horror that he knew must lie ahead. The two bravest deeds he would ever do…

A rustle of silk. The smell of roses. It's her. Without turning or speaking he knows it's her from the tread of her foot to the smell of her perfume. Deftly she takes one of his sweaty palms in hers and presses tightly with her own slender fingers, so soft and delicate in his large, roughened hands.

Hands that looked as out of place in their embroidered, gold trimmed sleeves as he felt at this dinner party. Hands now rendered as clumsy and awkward as his stumbling, silent tongue.

"Your hands are so cold." She says expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

No words come. The soft hand in his, he raises it to his lips and presses it against them, hoping maybe she would know, that the hands that served him so well in all other aspects of life might convey the words he both loathed and longed to speak.

But there are tears in that kiss. His eyes betray him. No cold, bitter front. No lying now. You fool, she can see it in your eyes, you love her. Damn you, Will. You have to let her go…

"Will?" There is concern in her eyes as his open. Concern and love. They both must go. Her hand opens in his, blooming like the soft petals of a white lily against his face.

Still she waits for words. He has none.

Anguish.

The tears pour faster now. "Will." She says, and catches them on her fingertips where they hang like dewdrops glistening in the moonlight. The waves roar gently against the beach, and from inside the music of strings and the murmur of guests comes through the many open, arched windows of the Governor's Mansion. Important guests. The Governor's guests. Here for the engagement announcement and celebration of no less a personage than the Governor's daughter.

A burning ache fills his lungs, his heart, his chest. He can't speak. He can't breathe.

"I can't breathe." He chokes finally, a cowardly apology for his inner turmoil.

"I understand." She says softly, her hand still tenderly against his cheek. He looks in her eyes for forgiveness, searching her earnestly. "Although I don't know why you of all people would chose tonight to wear a corset." She laughs, her lips turning into an arched bow of joy at her boldness and her jest. "Come," she pulls his hand insistently, laughing still. "We can't keep them all waiting!"

"No." He says.

She stops, turns. Looks back at him, confusion clouding those dark, inquisitive eyes.

"No. Elizabeth Swann," He chokes. "I can't. I can't marry you."

Dawning comprehension. Fear. A panicked smile flits across her lips, eyes darting into his. "Will, it's just nervousness, wait a moment and it will pass-"

"No." He repeats firmly. "I can't marry you."

Fear. Anger. Humiliation. "Will, there are nearly a hundred people inside, and they're all waiting for me. For us! You can't do this, not to me, not here, not now-"

The thought of walking in, alone, ashamed…her anger and pain were terrible, cutting through his throbbing heart. Yes, she must hate him. She must hate him more. Must hate him enough to feel victory, to feel pride as he walks away, to know he never could have deserved her, to be relieved of this useless, shameful burden that was Port Royal's blacksmith…

She runs to him, wants him to take her in his arms, desperate, pleading.

He will not.

"Will, please, please don't, you-you can't make me walk in there alone-!"

Pride.

If she had one weakness it was pride.

"I am not going to marry you, Elizabeth." He says, his eyes cold, face set. He takes a step back, her embrace faltering, small hands falling to her sides in disbelief. The next words wound him, wound him as deeply as though his roughened hand had reeled back and struck her face, sending her sprawling with the blow. "I can't marry you, Elizabeth Swann…because I don't love you."

Silence.

The words sink in. She gasps, covering her mouth in horror. Agony. Shock. Fear. Anger. Hatred. They flit across her face, brows contorting as each emotion sweeps through her soul. "You bastard!" She shouts, and for a second the laughter and the music falter. Her face is twisted, leering, she steps closer, her bared teeth upturned towards his face. "You liar-!"

Hot and angry tears splash down her face, and each drop he would give his life to dry, to wipe away. But he will not be weak. Will not be turned.

"I am sorry." He says stiffly. He nods curtly, and turns away.

"I never loved you!" She shouts. "Never! I pitied you, you two-faced coward! I always have, ever since you washed up aboard the Dauntless-"

He continues walking, every insult a blow, rendering him staggering, reeling. But he is strong. He can bear the pain. He can bear the truth…the truth will set her free.

"You're just as pathetic and, and ignorant, and-and weak!"

No, not weak, Elizabeth. I am walking away from you. For once I am strong.

"You're, you're a coward!"

She falls to the ground, still screaming, bleeding wordless fury into the empty night. He doesn't turn back.

It is three miles from the Mansion to the Fort. Three miles and the waves crash on the white sand beach, rocks jutting up like skeleton shipwrecks in pale foam and wavering moonlight. He stops, alone, watching the waves dance. He turns his dark eyes up, and the moon shines brightly down, cold and unfeeling.

She is a harsh mistress.

No more lies. No more fear. Only love. He walks willingly towards the endless, watery horizon, ready for her cold, eternal embrace.

"Will!" Her voice tears him from his path. "Will!"

She knew. Cursing and crying she stood in the garden and saw him, a tiny, lonely figure on the vast stretches of ebbing sand and she knew… And she followed. No tears no embrace only anger her cold, bony hand strikes his face not once, not twice but three times, blood pouring from his broken nose, eyes wide in shock-

She kisses him. Salty tears and bitter blood, her vengeance turned to passion she holds his ruined face to hers.

They part. He is gasping, panting, eyes wide in shock and disbelief. He presses a hand to his face, and draws it slowly down. The fingers are stained, warm and scarlet, harsh in the pale light. She waits, anger and love smoldering in her amber eyes. He breaks the silence.

"You struck me." It is whispered, faint. Wondering.

"Yes," She answers brazenly. "I did. And I'd do it again if that's what it takes to knock sense into you. William Turner, did you honestly think you could fool me?"

Heartbreak. "I don't love you-"

She laughs bitterly. "Don't lie to me. Don't you lie to me. You're a horrible liar, William Turner. And it won't work. I. Love. You."

She doesn't see. Dressed in these damn clothes with silk and gold, ribbons and lace she can't see him for what he really is. It is a mask she loves, and nothing more. She must know, must see the truth… "Elizabeth, I can't marry you. I'm, I'm a blacksmith!" He shouts, chest heaving he wipes blood from his broken face. "Just a blacksmith. Not a lord, not a merchant, not a pirate-!" His voice breaks, and he lowers his eyes. "I have nothing to offer you. Nothing. Nothing save a life of poverty, misery and doubt."

A gentle hand takes his. Too weak, too tired to resist he stands, face downcast until small, delicate fingers lift his chin. Her eyes are stilled, no longer ablaze. A tear leaks down her blood-smeared face as she begins to weep.

"But you're kind. And honest. And, and a good man." She whispers. "You give me all of you. All your love. All your doubts. All your fears. Not just a portion. The whole." Her voice falters, trembling.

"But you'd be a poor, pitiful fool if you believe I love you in spite of those things, Will. Don't you see? It's because of those things I love you. You're so simple, so unselfish…so sincere. When you say you love me you mean it, and I, I don't have worry that there will be ships and crews and commissions and, and money to love more than me-"

She has never been so honest. So weak. So vulnerable. It takes all her strength to tell him.

But he says nothing. Returns nothing. His eyes unreadable as she scrutinizes his face. Doubt. Fear. Panic. They creep into her heart, pulse rushing, face blanching…This is what it feels like to be truly open, to be utterly lost, entirely wounded-

Waves foam and break. The surf roars around them. Heartbeats. Hours. Eternity.

She cringes and sobs. "Have you nothing to say?"

Lips part. A single tear falls. A gentle hand in her hair, another laid softly against her back and he pulls her closer, draws her nearer, holds her tightly in a lilting, unending embrace that needed no explanation, needed no answers, needed no words at all.