Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: Inspiration strikes one at the oddest moments. Here is the long-awaited epilogue:

The chilled crystal glass was left with the lingering, misty imprint of her breath as her lips brushed the rim. The last drop of water vanished upon her tongue. With a finger, she traced the design on the glass, some naval emblem, and then set it back down. The tablecloth, ill-used, seemed to wheeze with a puff of dust in contact with the glass.

Discomposure. The entire room was discomposed, fraught with the cold and covered with dust from a year of neglect.

And yet she had located the crystal glass—having pried open the cabinet—cleaned it, drank out of it, for no reason other than nostalgia and perhaps a fragile hope that her touch would bring life back into the room. Not so; her powers were not so potent. The past was dead, and so she had no reason to be here. Except that the estate need be handled. After her father's death, it had passed into the undeserving hands of the militia and the town went to ruin. Now, everyone was either dead or a deserter and the estate stood empty. She had not wanted to face it, not after they left. She was content to leave it be, a remaining fragment of her old life, of her father. But notice came that it must be seen to by the rightful heirs or be torn down, by their consent or not. And so with heavy hearts, with wounds still not fully healed, they received word, both of their names listed as heirs to the estate. Rightfully, he (her husband) would inherit all, her father having entailed the entire property (and his fortune, in the event of his death) to him. And so, a year after the events that so transformed their lives, they found that they were not destitute, but well-endowed; they were not poor, but wealthy.

They received this news in a lukewarm manner. The circumstances had lost the potential to be providential; it was too late. They had contented themselves within a beach cottage, modestly idyllic, and set to abide the rest of their lives there. Expecting a child, they struggled with preparing for this new life into their own while dealing with the shock and pain that had threatened to kill them, but did not. No—they were given the oddest gift of all: immortality. She loved it, for it had saved him. But she hated it, and he hated it likewise (never would he admit, but she knew). It meant an eternity of dealing with what had been, with what was now.

They would learn to move past it, but what then? They were immortal, but what about their children? Would they suffer a life of watching them grow and then die before their eyes? Would they bury sons and daughters grown old and weathered whilst they remained young? Could they forfeit their dreams of parenthood, abstain from intimacy with one another, just to spare them this further pain? And yet, in being spared this, more pain was incurred. For not being together after all that had transpired was the severest sort of pain. Death was preferable. In ruminating on this, often they were inclined to seek death, but this was impossible. Unless immortality could be reversed.

They did not want to think about it.

So a year had gone by (so quickly—perhaps if all time passed thus, eternity would not seem eternal) and here they stood to take care of things. The babe was left at home, under the care of a trusted acquaintance—in so far as they could trust anyone. Yet with her they felt quite safe. She was Anamaria, after all, who had not abandoned them when the Captain had.

She heard the door click and she stood, passing out of the parlour and into the foyer. Her silhouette contrasted starkly with the grey surroundings. It did not used to be grey, this house. But once she had abandoned it, those years ago, the house was fated to ruin. She did not lament; it was the course of destiny.

And so her destiny met her in the foyer, a man with the same mystical exquisiteness emanating from his person, so discordant with the grey that enveloped him.

He was drenched in wetness, but it brightened his features. The gift of immortality was eternal beauty, enriched beauty, heightened sensuality. Every movement was lithe and full of vigour. What was strenuous before was simple now. That effect of their condition had its merits, at least.

"The rain persists, then?" she murmured.

He nodded, weaving a hand through his damp tresses. "No relent in sight." He approached and took her hand in his. Their eyes met and they engaged in a silent discourse, their thoughts the only semblance of life in this dead house.

He did not question her; need not. Only offered, "Shall we go?"

Silent, she took his arm, and like spirits, like ghosts of a long-forgotten world of custom and politesse, he opened the door (once so imposing, now frail). Allowing her to cross the threshold, he supported her with a hand at her back.

Stepping into the rain, the house evanesced as a wisp of smoke, turning ever greyer as they departed. It was left to its fate, as they were left to theirs.

He had taken care of the papers, she needn't ask—he had known her decision before she knew it herself. The mansion would be condemned. The fortune was theirs, but what to do with it? All plans for the future seemed out of reach, irrelevant.

Their situation was not hopeless—far from it. She must remind herself of that, despite the pricks of darkness that entered into her heart when thoughts of the past crept into her mind unbidden.

Her hand tightened against his arm as they walked. He glanced at her with a smile.

Her heart was won. And this was the reason why life was worth living, why immortality agreed with her at all. For if he had not swallowed the elixir, he would be dead. And then…?

The touch of his lips upon hers took her by surprise. Stars swirled in his eyes. A kiss from him could shift her entire world. His voice rumbled against her throat as he kissed her there. "Let us go to the sea, Elizabeth."

She placed her hand at his heart, feeling the beat, as she drew unconsciously closer to him. She knew what he wanted; she wanted it. But when was the right time for an escape? "Will…" she whispered. "What about William?"

They loved the child, undeniably. At least, they wanted to love him. She loved the idea of a child—but like the inheritance of her father's estate and fortune, the circumstances had arrived too late to be considered providential. Thus, their baby, their William, seemed an ill-timed blessing. Perhaps in the coming months she would love him truly, not out of obligation but of natural instinct. A father had his fears—questions about immortality burdened Will. He was not ready, did not ask for this condition, did not ask that his first-born be bestowed with the gift of eternal life. How would that affect his development? When would he cease…to age? Would they, he and Elizabeth, age visibly? The myths foretold eternal youth. How to reconcile this with their baby, born immortal? He could not fathom. He could scarcely deal with these issues, let alone deal with what he had become. What he and his wife had become. Life had turned brighter yet darker still, with uncertainties accumulating and the ability to love suddenly stifled. Could they properly love the child, without loving one another as they ought?

"We shall be gone but a fortnight. Forget not that he remains quite snugly under Anamaria's care." He kissed her again. "We need this."

"Yes…" She clenched the open collar of his shirt. "Yes." She needed him to kiss her again. Needed him…

When had their thoughts and feelings subsided enough for a single, unthinking, intimate moment? Thinking back (how could she not, in searching for happiness?)—Thinking back, she recalled the day of her husband's death, and rebirth. In the aftermath, when all was done and Jack had left them (they'd had no word of him since), they lay in one another's arms, too shaken to speak, to move, anything. And days turned to months and they must get their bearings, and then the pregnancy…

In short, intimacy was grown impossible. Even after William's birth—well, it was now four months since, and what with Anamaria turning up (bless her) and receiving the notice about her father's estate…well. And that was that.

Yet—he suggested a retreat upon the sea. The sea. The conduit of freedom, it was her vision for an idealized existence of pleasure, merciless in its crushing of propriety.

"Elizabeth."

She blinked out of her reverie and noticed his gaze, shocking silver as he met her own eyes with certain intent.

"Elizabeth," he murmured again, pulling her to him with a grasp of her hips.

Her figure, bending like a flower's tendril, seemed to twist and wind about him in a spectral dance. Rivulets of rain upon her skin cascaded through her veins in a torrent of feeling. Having lain dormant, its sudden familiarity within her was startling.

"Elizabeth."

She felt the feeling spread and it threatened to erupt through her should he say her name again.

Beneath a secluded bough, they were shielded from the rain, shielded from the world. Sand was beneath their feet—they had reached the seashore, unwittingly. She had not noticed, for once. Had not noticed for once, for she had been enraptured by memories and sensations that he created.

"How long has it been?" he queried, kissing her again, his lips nigh voracious as they sought hers.

She sighed, leaning into his form, not expecting…not expecting to fall, headlong, into impassioned oblivion, her breath catching in her throat, as he touched her, gracing her collarbone with a feathery touch, his arm winding around her back to press her ever still closer.

"Will," she hissed, deepening the kiss of her own volition. It was devastating, her heart fragmented like the frayed edges of a tapestry—suddenly the fragments beginning to knit together again as her heart became alive.

The rain began to pelt against her neck, the bough too weighted down to provide shelter. He knew very well how long it had been, knew very well as he tasted her lips and let the rain fall upon them, washing away the anger and anguish of the past. Knew very well, when she responded with tears burning in her eyes, her hands shaking as they slipped beneath the soaking garment to touch his skin, to feel his heart beating against her palm.

"Eliz—"he ventured against her own importunate lips, and when she uttered a blasphemy, he chuckled deep from within his chest. "There's my Elizabeth."

Their eyes met, and the pretence—the pretence of caring too much about the petty details of their existence—evanesced in a moment.

She smiled at him, her eyes vivid, and murmured in a rasp, "I want to go to sea."

Lightning struck the ground by their feet, casting their countenances in supernatural radiance. They glanced at once another, mirth in their curving lips, and kissed once more, tempting fate. Jaded by life, jaded by death, they cared not, for nothing could touch them.

Taking her by the hand then, they stepped across the cobblestones, bound for the parapets. With a breath, and feeling closer to him as the rain propelled them together, she cried,

"We have only the sea to bind us."

He knew this—for he turned about, engaging in a pas when his footsteps merged with hers, lifting her by the waist and setting her upon the stone staircase. His movements spoke to a greater advantage than his words. We met, we loved, we lived, we died, he intimated, while on the sea.

A little girl found a shipwrecked boy with a medallion round his neck on the passage from England to the Caribbean; a subtle moment in a ship's below when he touched her hand and she entreated him not to stop; a stint upon The Black Pearl, living out from under the shadows of propriety; and dying figurative deaths on route to Tortuga.

"Shall we try again, love; try to live again?" he asked. They stood, side by side, on the edge, looking down into the black, churning waters. They had been here before, all before—she had fallen into those frozen waters under the weight of propriety, igniting the chain of events that had led them here; he had watched Jack plummet towards the depths in search of freedom. If she had done it, if Jack had done it, both in seeking freedom, then there was naught to stop him.

She looked him full in the eyes, longing in her gaze, and wrapt her arms about his neck. "Yes."

He claimed her lips, claimed her body and soul, and like perfectly matched partners in a pirouette, they danced off the parapet. Into the sea.

In the distance, lightning struck. The Swann Estate burst into flames, immediately dampened by the rainfall, and disintegrated into a mound of charcoal ash.

Into the sea. The reign of the past ended, a rebirth was begun.