019 ♚ [action, OTA academy students] The only way out is through everything she's running from
[For four days, she had scarcely made an effort to leave the comforts and shielding walls of her own chambers. Too much had transpired, too many old wounds ripped, left bleeding and open to fester. Too many of her fears had been tested, and despite all her assured confidence in nearly every aspect of her life, Elizabeth Swann had never felt so doubtful. In being taken by the wretched Black Mist, she was reminded of all that she had lost, all the burdens she had shirked, the transgressions she had bearing weight on her soul and her shortcomings. She doubted herself.
Her nights were--on the rare occasion she slept--plagued by clawing nightmares, her days long and merciless. She passed hours watching the slow crawl of filtered sunlight through the slats in her window creep across the floor. When the golden swathes of light disappeared, the moon made white wraiths, ghostly and haunting on her walls. Her eyes screamed for dreaming, but her body could never rest. Only when exhaustion took over and she fitfully surrendered could she sleep. She dreamed of a man in an Admiral's uniform, dying in her arms. Upon waking, she could still see his eyes, the ocean greens once so piercing clouded and dull. She wrung her hands until they were raw, and for another day or so, she would not lie down again.
It had taken her a year to accept her father's death... and she had only just lost him again. The Mist had been cruel, taken a fishhook to her heart and, pitiless, jerked the line with such brutality. Just five days ago, she'd seen the sweet man's face, had tea with him and talked of how English courts used to be, his silly love for hats with ostrich feathers.
Now he was gone again. She'd not even said goodbye. She could still hear Tia Dalma's voice despite the muffle of Will's embrace in the locker.
Him at peace.
It took her four days to step out into air that was not stale with her confusion, doubts, and grief. She shakily attempted to dress herself properly, applied a bit of rouge to her ashen face and stared in the mirror. A finger traced her lips, and for a moment she longed for the man that had kissed her, the man she could not dare ask to kiss her again. It did not matter how much she desired his comforts. It would kill him. It would kill them both.
How have I come to this?
It was evening before she could bring herself to leave, one hand cinched around a her bedtime tonic--a full, corked bottle of rum--and the other fisted into her skirts.
Tucked in a corner of campus, you will find her, staring the face of the horizon down and watching for a flash of green at sunset. The bottle is in her hand, the cork spat off to the side. Her lips are cracked and dry as she wraps them round the rim, and she winces with each burning sip.
She'd do anything for a different kind of pain than this.]
((Sorry, but closed to 4thwallers. She just couldn't handle it.))
Her nights were--on the rare occasion she slept--plagued by clawing nightmares, her days long and merciless. She passed hours watching the slow crawl of filtered sunlight through the slats in her window creep across the floor. When the golden swathes of light disappeared, the moon made white wraiths, ghostly and haunting on her walls. Her eyes screamed for dreaming, but her body could never rest. Only when exhaustion took over and she fitfully surrendered could she sleep. She dreamed of a man in an Admiral's uniform, dying in her arms. Upon waking, she could still see his eyes, the ocean greens once so piercing clouded and dull. She wrung her hands until they were raw, and for another day or so, she would not lie down again.
It had taken her a year to accept her father's death... and she had only just lost him again. The Mist had been cruel, taken a fishhook to her heart and, pitiless, jerked the line with such brutality. Just five days ago, she'd seen the sweet man's face, had tea with him and talked of how English courts used to be, his silly love for hats with ostrich feathers.
Now he was gone again. She'd not even said goodbye. She could still hear Tia Dalma's voice despite the muffle of Will's embrace in the locker.
Him at peace.
It took her four days to step out into air that was not stale with her confusion, doubts, and grief. She shakily attempted to dress herself properly, applied a bit of rouge to her ashen face and stared in the mirror. A finger traced her lips, and for a moment she longed for the man that had kissed her, the man she could not dare ask to kiss her again. It did not matter how much she desired his comforts. It would kill him. It would kill them both.
How have I come to this?
It was evening before she could bring herself to leave, one hand cinched around a her bedtime tonic--a full, corked bottle of rum--and the other fisted into her skirts.
Tucked in a corner of campus, you will find her, staring the face of the horizon down and watching for a flash of green at sunset. The bottle is in her hand, the cork spat off to the side. Her lips are cracked and dry as she wraps them round the rim, and she winces with each burning sip.
She'd do anything for a different kind of pain than this.]
((Sorry, but closed to 4thwallers. She just couldn't handle it.))