Pirates of the Caribbean Oneshots

The Letter (2)

The letter was on the kitchen table, propped against the teapot, when he returned from walking the dog.

"About time, that messenger must've been very bloody slow," he muttered, making a mug of tea before lifting the letter and flipping it over.

It was heavy in hand, and the dirty blob of wax securing it was unsealed.
There was no indentation of the raw obsidian that usually characterised the closure of these letters.

He frowned slightly, suddenly feeling uneasy.

Stirring sugar into his tea, he broke the seal and pulled the letter out.

Something else fell out of the envelope, hitting the stone floor of the cottage with a clatter.

He ignored it momentarily, turning his attention to the letter.

My Eddie,
I write this from a cell in the Tower of London, and I know it will be too late by the time you are reading this.

The Navy had us surrounded and outgunned. They didn't want the crew, not even Soracha. It was only me they wanted, so I went quietly.

The Lady will return home, please ensure Diana gets her, as well as my seat in Court. I have enclosed another letter of instruction to settle the Courts affairs, and I trust you can handle any problems that arise.

I will be hanged, publicly, two days from now at dawn.

I have not been mistreated. I am not even shackled, just locked in. A Sparrow in a cage.

A Sparrow who will never fly free again.

Please do not grieve too much. I trust the death will be quick.

My thoughts will be of you and our family until the end.

My everlasting love, your Asthore.

The ink was slightly smudged, the lettering not as precise as usual, as though her hand had shaken and the parchment was wrinkled in one corner as he held it against his chest.

Now he knew why the seal had been missing; his wife's wedding ring lay on the floor, along with the golden Celtic necklace he'd given her as a birthday gift the year they'd met.

His tears started to fall as he knelt to pick up the jewellery. The hope that this was all a trick had disappeared.
He knew her writing as well as his own, and she had never removed her necklace, for any reason ever.

The heart-shaped pendant was cold in his palm, glittering in the light. Mocking him as his own heart shattered.

He closed his fist over it, the chain snaking between his fingers.

Staring at the letter, vision blurred with tears, he didn't notice the door opening.

"Oh. Ye...ye got the news then?"
The tentative question was laced with too much emotion to decipher, and the voice belonged to the only one he wanted to see him in this state as he dropped into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

A small hand was laid on his back, a solid, constant anchor in his sea of emotions, the touch warm through his linen shirt.

Sobs racked his body, and he made no attempt to subdue them. His heart was splintered, fragmented by the words of the letter, the knowledge that the one he loved more than anything would never return home.

He would never see her again, never hold her, never sleep beside her, never be woken by her lips on his.

She wrapped him in an embrace, murmuring in their native tongue, her voice heavy with grief.

He stayed rigid as her smell of smoke and whiskey drifted around him, as familiar as the feeling of her embrace, and all the more comforting due to the familiarity.

The tears eventually stopped coming.

"Thank ye," he muttered, his voice rough and thick as he rubbed his eyes before gently sitting back.

She looked at him sorrowfully, lacing her fingers through his, squeezing lightly.

"Cup of tea?"

He nodded silently, head dropping to rest in his hands, dark eyes watching her through the gaps between his fingers.

The tears had stopped now, leaving a dreadful, aching emptiness in his chest.

He lifted his head as she placed a steaming mug in front of him, his hands reaching out to wrap around it, unexplainably drawing comfort from the warmth as he took a slow sip of tea.

Soracha sat facing him with a mug of her own, watching the steam rise in silence for a few seconds before she raised it to her lips.

"Did...did ye see it?" he finally asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"From a distance," Soracha murmured slowly. "It looked clean."

A long, slow exhale left his lips and his shoulders sagged, hands briefly leaving the mug.

He looked at her, relief in his eyes as he took a drink of tea. "Thank goodness. That...that makes it a little easier."

Soracha nodded softly, reaching over the table, her hand giving his a gentle squeeze.

"D'you want me to stay?" she asked.

"Aye, for a while at least please," he muttered, looking at the pendant resting on the table by his left hand.
His thumb traced the golden surface in a loving caress.

She squeezed his other hand again, silently reminding him that she was there, ready to listen and support as much as she could.

"Jackie an' Ro, they need to know."

"It can wait until tomorrow. I'll tell them. Tonight, my only priority is you," Soracha said quietly.

He looked at her, his eyes stormy with emotion, but softened by the affection of a long friendship.

She met his gaze steadily, her vibrant emerald eyes framed by auburn locks that were slowly fading to silver.

"Her sword, pistol, everything..."

"I have them. I have her weapons. Nearly everything else is on the Lady. She...she died in her coat an' it seemed fitting to bury her in it."

"Thank ye, an' aye, I agree," he murmured, sipping his tea.

He finished off the mug in silence, then stood up with a deep sigh.
"I think I'll go to bed. Jackie's rooms empty if ye want it."

"Give me a shout if you need me," she said, standing up to hug him before he left the kitchen.

He remained in the kitchen for another few moments, washing up.
Then, with a sigh, he stepped into his bedroom.

The bed was cold and empty. Usually when she was home, Roxanne would already be in bed by the time he got into it.

But she wouldn't be home again.

She wouldn't be in bed with him again.

All he had left were a few precious items, countless letters, years of memories, a family and a shattered heart.