Summary: The sounds of Elizabeth Swann's life and the feelings they inject in her. One-shot.
A/N: This is once again something I wrote during my Creative Writing class at school. The prompt is "_ is the sound of my childhood."
The Sound Of Her Childhood
Elizabeth Swann had always found the different sounds she heard interesting. She was always comparing them to other sounds, trying to decide which she liked more. She'd found that she hated the way Commodore Norrington cleared his throat when he spoke to her. He never did it around anyone else. She found the hammering metal at the blacksmith shop constant and almost comforting.
And then she also noted the sound of the crashing waves. That sound, she'd decided, she liked more than anything else. It soothed her at the same time it made her feel longing. It made her feel a pull towards the Caribbean waters on the beach of Port Royal. But no, she was the governor's daughter. She had several reputations to uphold. She couldn't allow herself to sit in the sand, barefoot, and let the water wash over her toes. The sounds of crashing waves had become the sound of longing; the sound of her childhood.
She remembered when she'd stood freely aboard the deck of the Interceptor, when she was near adulthood. The sound of waves crashing against the wooden hull of the ship was soothing, of freedom. But it was also of dread of the pirates chasing after them.
She remembered sailing on the Black Pearl, on a quest to locate her fiance. She'd enjoyed the sound, but it also caused her worry. It had been days since she had heard from Will Turner. His body could be at the bottom of the Caribbean, beneath her very feet, and she would never know for certain.
She remembered sailing the Hai Peng in their journey to rescue Jack Sparrow from Davy Jones's Locker. She no longer felt soothed by the water, but lonely. It reminded her of how poorly things looked on the seas now, reminded her that she had condemned a man to death, and reminded her of the cold looks her fiance kept giving her.
And Elizabeth also recalled leading the Black Pearl into battle against the Flying Dutchman. The calm waters had become a rough maelstrom. The harsh spinning motion of the whirlpool were not soothing in the least; they were a warning that time was running out. That the time of pirates was running out. Or, perhaps, a warning that the rule of Davy Jones and Cutler Beckett was coming to an end.
Longing was the sound of her childhood. Waiting was the sound of her present. Uncertainty was the sound of her future.