plays-with-squirrels:what to wear when…elizabeth swann. she stands on the shore, unflinching and shi

plays-with-squirrels:what to wear when…elizabeth swann. she stands on the shore, unflinching and shiny-eyed, sand cooling between her toes, gusts of west wind whipping her salt-encrusted hair. her heart seems to tremble and kick in her chest as the dot of the dutchman melts into the inflamed horizon. but she swallows her grief in one gulp to still its protest. after indulging in six tears and a jaw-shivering sigh, she hoists her babe on one hip and turns to her crew. bring me that horizon, she dares. there could be no haunting a widow’s walk with a mourning veil and her lover’s portrait under her pillow. she is no goblet of clear water, defined by the space that contains it, unrippled and reposed, waiting for someone to pick her up and pour her into his throat past gristle twined between teeth and ale on his tongue. no, if she were water, she would be the ocean - murky, mercurial, harsh, eternal. she is the untamable storm and she is the men whose skulls are dashed on the rocks because of it. she is the sword viciously gifted to a man’s gut and the dried blood hardened on its hilt and the fish nibbling at his remains and their erratic tugging on the fisherman’s line and the hollow-bellied blacksmith trading weapons for fish and the sword forged in exchange by the blacksmith that will be viciously gifted a thousand times over. she is the echoing mewl of mermaids in the mist, the inky bottomlessness of her realm, the deafening cannons and sunburned skin, the chill of silence at sea, the thrill of freedom. she is trickery and passion. she is the grit and gilt of digging up buried treasure and she is the dangerous glint of the steel shovel that dug it. she is the all-consuming fog and she is the secrets that it obscures. she is the pirate king (requested by vega-ofthe-lyre with regards to this post).post 123 of an infinity-part series -- source link

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