Chapter Text
Elizabeth Swann and William Turner were fourteen when they became acquaintances. More precisely, they were fourteen when they realized they could be nothing more than that.
As a result of his uncustomary citizenship, the governor claimed Will as his ward until they could locate a suitable trade master for him. For that short slip of time, he shared a house and even a governess with Elizabeth. These were long, golden days spent fleeing from authority and hiding in various nooks, stolen treats in hand. The pair climbed high into the blue mahoe trees or slipped behind curtains and under tables to escape lessons. They would scamper through the kitchens and storm the stables almost daily. The notion of "propriety" or "etiquette" faded in each other's presence, each drawing out the most impish qualities in the other. Elizabeth would order her loyal companion to whatever task suited her in the moment, and he obeyed like a moonstruck dog.
"Will?" Elizabeth called one lazy Sunday as they stretched out on the vast lawn.
He looked up from where he had been tying pieces of grass into sailor's knots, "Yes?"
"What will we do once you're an apprentice? Will you call on me?"
He thought for a moment, then murmured, "I'm not sure I'd be allowed."
She sighed, dissatisfied, "then I shall come up with a way to require your services every day!"
They both smiled at that thought.
"Maybe," he added, swinging to his feet, "I'll become a sailor like my father and travel all around."
"I wish I could be a sailor and see the world," Elizabeth pouted
"You can come with me! We'll see the world together."
She giggled at that, "My father would drop dead of horror."
"I suppose you're right... and you would be loathed to leave your darling Norrington," he added with a sour face.
Jumping to her feet, Elizabeth swatted the back of his poor head, "he is not my darling Norrington."
"No? And I didn't see you stick up your chin and curtsy particularly low when he came for dinner."
"Will Turner you stop teasing right this instant!" She cried, to his sudden regret. "Now promise me you won't forget me when you sail off."
"Of course not. I'll bring you back trinkets, and store up every detail of my travels so that you'll feel as though you'd been right beside me."
They merrily pondered the thought. Then Will slowly sat beside her and reached out a hand to brush her freckled arm.
"I won't be a sailor. I won't be leaving Port Royal at all..." he breathed quite heavily, "you see, I've been sought out by Mr. Brown."
She sat straight up, "the blacksmith?"
"It's not a bad profession. I'll learn how to craft weaponry, so perhaps I'll become something of a skilled swordsman."
She thought on this, "I suppose it's romantic in a way."
"Only you could care about a romantic profession." He grinned. They fell awfully silent.
She suddenly whispered woefully, "I wish you could just stay."
He gave the grass an irritated tug, "We both understood I couldn't live here forever. I'm just poor orphan Turner."
"Not to me." Elizabeth murmured with an unusual tenderness. A crack of thunder startled both of them out of the moment. Neither was sure who reached for the other, yet they realized their hands were wound tight together.
Will quivered, "Swear won't forget me when you become a high lady."
"Only if you swear to me that you won't ever treat me like one." She breathed.
"I promise," they pledged in unison as rain began to drizzle.
"You will, though." Will cried, "It can't be helped. You'll become a grand noblewoman and won't have time for a small blacksmith."
In response, Elizabeth snatched this collar, pulled him to her, and kissed him.
It was the most tender kind of kiss, the innocent and unplanned brush of childhood. Not even the most arduous of love affairs can come close to the quiet earnestness of first love. It only lasted for a heartbeat before they were staring at each other, wide-eyed. Will, in horrible clarity, seemed to pass over into adulthood in that instant. He realized with a sudden, sickening certainty they could never be anything more than a passerby on the street to each other.
"We mustn't..." He muttered. A hundred endings to that sentence floated on the air between them.
Elizabeth shook he head slowly, lip quivering, "Why must you always be on your high horse?"
"Because one of us must be sensible. I'm not meant to be in the grand life you were born for. I still confuse the cutlery, and forget titles, and I'll never be anything more than a tradesman. But you... you were made for greatness." He gently took her hand, afraid she might tear it away.
"I'd help you learn," she whispered, her voice already giving into defeat, "I could remind you every time."
"It's no use trying to change the way Providence has ordered our steps." Will stated solemnly, echoing the preacher's morning sermon.
Closing her eyes, she strained for the sound of the ocean behind the patter of rain drops, "let's just pretend we're sailors for now."
"You know I-"
"Sailors." she hissed, falling back on the grass.
Will drew his hand away, "Alright, Elizabeth. Alright."
Not once did he come closer than a few paces past that afternoon. Nor did he address her by anything other than "Miss Swann". Yet, still his youthful eye wandered often to her hand, her face, her passing form. Not once did he successfully stifle a toothy grin when addressed by her sweet voice. He knew his manners, and held to his propriety, but not for the for all the world could high society strip away boyish fancies. Still, when the time came---as it inevitably does---he packed his few belongings, praised his generous benefactor, and left behind the borrowed life of luxury with head held high.
Elizabeth, seeming to recall her noble blood, flung herself into her duties with a bitter fervor. In all of her days, neither in England nor Port Royal, had she applied herself to her studies in such zeal.
At night, when the deep well of loneliness flared up in her, she crept to her window to gaze down into the city. From the little blacksmith's forge came the flickering light of Will's fire as he worked late into the night. She imagined herself at that windowsill instead, watching the rhythmic swing of his hammer.