Two months since Jack went away and Elizabeth finds herself climbing to the cliffs west of the city. Not as tall as the hills behind, yes, and she’s not as apt to lose herself amongst them, but that’s fine. It’s still away from the hum and bustle and everyday smells of Port Royal, and she can still see for miles, to the horizon. She can still smell the tang of the salty ocean air.

The cliff itself is rocky, a gentle slope upwards before the sheer drop down to the water and the jagged fingers of stone there. She doesn’t go to the edge, but to a smooth rock five paces from it, and there she sits, pulling her skirts down tight over the curve of her knees. The hem billows in the wind that is a constant this high up, so she holds it down and pretends that it’s her mind that is in danger of blowing away. Over the ocean, with its waves and the reefs, around Tortuga with its filth and pirates and whores. On and on until it reaches wherever the Pearl is, sailing towards tomorrow.

She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. If she concentrates hard enough, she thinks, she can still smell the rum that always coated Jack’s breath, the salty grime of the Pearl’s timbers. She can hear the sounds of the sail sheets flapping and catching in the wind, of the crew going about their tasks under Jack’s surprisingly all-encompassing gaze. She can taste the adrenaline of her hours spent on the ship in Barbossa’s custody, and then later as she freed it from the pirates.

As she sits, she feels that tugging at her heart again, the one that calls her to the Pearl, pulling her back there. A want so strong that she can no longer deny it. Thus, her trip up the cliffs for the day, this afternoon of solitude. Because she wants and she’s not used to not being able to have.

Sometimes at dinner, her father tells her tales of England: meals he ate at the King’s table, parties that her mother threw for their circle of compatriots. He talks of fond memories and Elizabeth can remember a time when she thought that London was the Grandest City in the Whole World. Houses that looked as if they stretched to the sky, carriages with white horses, and people on the street who looked to her with envy.

Then her father was appointed the Governorship of Port Royal and she discovered the joys of the Caribbean: sun instead of fog, clear blue water instead of murky gray, fresh air instead of smoke and dirt and mud.

She arrived, she saw, and she thought she was in heaven.

But then came Jack, who saw through her façade of a happy life—two peas in a pod, he said they were, and he was right—and gave her more. He let her be as un-lady-like as she wanted, showed her that she could survive in a world without maids and fine dresses, and let her fight at his side.

Well, his giving of these insights might not have been intentional, but no matter. He opened the door, her eyes. And now that she’s back in Port Royal, the scope of her wold broadened beyond what any proper lady’s should be, she can’t go back. She knows what’s out there now. Knows and can’t have unless she takes it for herself, and as she sits on her stone, her skirt held to her knees, it’s tempting. She thinks that she can just reach out and—

"Elizabeth?"

She starts at the sound of her name, almost drowned out by a sudden burst of wind, and she lets go of her skirt in her startlement, letting it billow up around her as she turns. She pushes it down again hastily, but Will is at the edge of the tree line not so many paces away, that soft smile of his on his face. The smile he gets only when he looks at her.

"Will," she answers. "What are you—? Why—?"

"I called for you at your father’s house," he says. "One of the maids, she said that she saw you walking in this direction. That you’d refused an escort." He pauses as a gust of wind passes them by. Most of his curls have come loose from his ponytail, and if she wasn’t up here, if they weren’t in the midst of this moment, she would go to him and run her fingers through them. Maybe re-tie the ribbon for him.

"I’ve seen you watching these cliffs," he continues. "I… decided that it was worth a look."

"And here I am."

"And here you are."

He takes a hesitant step towards her—and for a moment she wants to tell him to stop, but then he takes another and the feeling passes. She should feel lucky that he knows her so well, she thinks. That he knows where she’ll run when she needs to run.

But if he knows that, he might know other things. What she wants. Why she ran. And those are scary thoughts, so she stops them. His pace quickens and then he’s beside her, crouching down by her rock. He’s looking to the ocean too, his lips slightly parted, and they sit there for more than a few moments in silence. Finally, though, he speaks.

"Port Royal seems rather small in comparison, doesn’t it?" he asks softly. It’s a statement of fact, but his voice lacks the wistfulness that she knows would be in her own should she ever let herself voice her thoughts. Because he’s happy here, in Port Royal.

And she’s happy with him, she tells herself. She loves him, and no matter what else she wants, she knows that’s true.

That’s what this whole day has been about, after all. Reminding herself that there’s a difference between wanting and having. That it’s not about succumbing to temptation, no matter how easy it would be to. That her life is here.

It has to be here. With Will.

"But Port Royal is home," she says softly.

She reaches down to grab his hand and he looks up at her, a tension leaving his body that she hadn’t even realized was there. She smiles back at him and as he lifts her hand to his lips, another gust of wind comes upon them, catching her skirts again. They flap behind her, like a sail.