Musings of a Troubled Man:
They say she was able to utter a few words before she died.
This, of course could be some lie conjured up out of thin air; or perhaps the lass really did mutter a few words before she took her last breath, I surely have no bloody idea. Knowing her as well as I did (and I did know her well, better then her fop of a husband) it was most likely some rubbish about honor or something of that sorts. Or maybe even the terrors of desirable alcoholic beverages. She really did hate anything that was well, rum.
Hardly a decent corsair if you don’t even like a good mug of ale or rum now and then. She obviously had some priority issues but I shan’t be one to help.
Anyway, all I know is that this death does not effect me, not one bit.
To be entirely candid she really was nothing to me; save for maybe an incredibly bothersome bump in my exceedingly long road of infamous adventures and escapades. Well, perhaps more like a gradual incline then a bump. Or maybe more like a hill. A mountain? A mountain sounds about right. You know, I never was one for mountain climbing. I tried it once when I was a lad exploring China with me friend Friday and…
Off topic; sorry mate.
Whichever, she did send me to hell and back after all (literally, that perfidious harridan), so that does count for something. A very interesting journey to hell, dare I say, however smelly and painful it was… more smelly though…
Ah, now where was I? Oh yes. Her insignificance. A delightful topic really.
So yes, she was insignificant and meant close to nothing to me if not just nothing. Even if she was an interesting woman.
I’d never met one such as herself really, despite all my (did I mention?) notorious journeys. Just one large contradiction she was, if that is the proper epithet for her. Lecturing me on bloody nobility and morality one minute and killing me the next, saying she was most certainly not sorry and then changing her small little mind later and saying she was sorry. Drinking my rum (my rum!) one day and burning it the next.
And don’t even get me started about her dearly beloved fiancé. Her choice in men was most certainly distasteful… Well most of them.
Now, I am sure that if you know of my journeys, then you surely must be thinking that she fancied me. Of course she fancied me; I am after all, Captain Jack Sparrow. You must be bloody stupid not to know that. Ladies across the earth would give an arm and a leg to get a chance to tumble about me cabin for a good hour and she is no different. Hang her bloody talks about morals and such; she was a pirate and a good one at that. Given the situation, I could win her into my bed in before you could say ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’ ten times.
Actually, you should probably say it now, just for practice should we ever have the good fortune to meet. And it needs to be said correctly, after all. Captain Jack Sparrow. Emphasis on captain.
At least she got that one down.
I keep losing my train of thought. I never really was on for this ‘writing down me thoughts’ codswallop.
I rather fancy a bottle of rum at the moment. Perhaps I shall go-.
Have I mentioned I am not only dashing but clever? Fancy. Yes, I was telling you how she fancied me.
So the lass fancied me, as we have established. And… I said I wouldn’t lie, so I shall admit it. Yes, I fancied her. I fancied her more then any other spitfire woman. She was different. I do recall quite clearly (she was in her undergarments, after all. Quite a lovely image) the day I plucked her from the seas harsh grasp. Now, I had thought I had rescued some young woman of higher classes that would most surely faint or quail upon seeing a dirty pirate such as meself with his hands all over her. The typical upper class sort of woman. You know, all those frivolous tea parties, corsets, bodices and all that ‘Oh did Mr. Stick Up His Rump really tell Mrs. Atrocious Hair that her china was hideous? Mr. Atrocious Hair shan’t be pleased!’ rubbish.
But I was wrong (a rare happening, trust me). She was different. She held my gaze the entire time and did not flinch once or even cringe when she wrapped her lovely arms about me. More… feisty, dare I say? Probably scared many a man out of their wits. Especially with that glare of her's. Stubborn. Oh yes. That woman was very stubborn. Making her change her mind was like trying to move King George’s enormous bottom off the thrown. And beautiful. I won’t deny it mate, she was lovely in every aspect of the word. I mean physically! I’d never… what’s the word called? Love. I’d never… that anyone.
I am being truthful. Remember? I swore on it. I didn’t? Well, I shall swear on Barbossa’s life now; I am being entirely honest. You can believe me now.
But she was different and unique. There was definitely a woman yearning to be let out the day our paths decided to join together. A woman who desired to leave the suffocating confines of her exquisite little mansion and see the wonders of the world other then how ridiculous those powdered wigs are.
And she did for quite a while courtesy of yours truly.
She got to experience some of the real things living for during these times. Call me soft, (actually, don’t) but sailing the seas you come to acquire an appreciation for the way the sun dips below the horizon at dusk or how the ship rocks and rolls as if it were of its own mind. And the thrill of adventure is no bloody different.
She was adventurous. Incredible to watch in battle. Hot-headed. Impatient. Beautiful. Just lovely… fine, yes, you were lovely, love. I’ll give you that much.
But that was what she was.
I don’t know if she kept living that way after we parted; remember, I don’t care. I most certainly do not.
I heard rumors that she went to go live on some little spit of land for the rest of her days and raised her and the whelp’s bastard. Whatever floats your most likely sinking boat, love.
However, I also heard more satisfying rumors that she lived the last of her years in Shipwreck Cove ruling the hoards of mongrel that cultivate there.
I can’t say. I don’t bloody know.
Maybe I will miss her. Maybe I won’t. Hell, she did kill me (didn’t I mention?). She drove me to bloody wits end. I do believe I fantasized strangling her perfect little neck at one point or maybe I was pressing my lips to it. A combination of both, perchance?
Alas, I’m running out of space here and I believe I’ve gone on quite enough. I’ll go drink to her now, as it is only the correct and pirate-y thing to do.
So to you Miss-. Eliza-. Cap-.
To you, Lizzie Swann, Pirate King.