dwgm | Challenge!fic: 'Mirror Image'

Wrote this to cover two drabble challenges at Black Pearl Sails (last week's 'Numb' and this week's 'Image') and for the

piratechallenge #3, the prompts for which were sword fighting, something torn, and something precious.

ETA: Wow! There were nine submissions for the

piratechallenge #3 -- a LOT of competition! Here's my entry...

~ Mirror Image ~

As you are, so you will fence. You can conceal nothing, nor can your opponent.
~ Paul Gallico

"Show me!"

"Elizabeth... I can protect you."

"I don't want..." she began heatedly, but then changed tactics. "What if you're not there?" He opened his mouth to object to such a notion and she added, forcefully, "Through no fault of your own!"

He could not deny that it was possible, and she took advantage of his hesitancy, coming to him with shining, pleading brown eyes. Was there just a hint of mischief in them? And in the curve of her lovely mouth?

"Show me!"

He could not refuse.

*

They'd been at it for some weeks, and Will had been showing her, methodically teaching her as he'd been taught. Attack, parry, riposte. Attack, parry, riposte. Again and again. Slowly introducing variations. Impressing upon her the Rules of Engagement. And yes, when they must be ignored.

Bloody pirate.

She'd learned with startling rapidity. She was impatient, but he made her practice until each movement satisfied, each stroke of the blade was a part of her. Only then would he let her move on.

But there came a time when he noticed...not faults, but little differences. Improvisations. Then a day or two later they were sparring and she took a chance, surprising him, and his sword went flying. Her glee was unbounded, and though he laughed, too, he grew more wary afterward, and worked her the harder, both to assuage his pride and to ensure she possessed true skill. She continued in the same unpredictable vein, however, and one day, when Brown was gone and they were practicing in the smithy, fate caught them both.

Something about the time, or the way the light came in shafts from the high windows through the wood beams overhead, reminded him of the day he'd first fought Jack. It was a distracting memory, and excuse enough for what came after, maybe. For Elizabeth chose that moment to try a risky new counter-riposte, failed in the attempt, and Will's blade slipped into the breach, skittering over her ribs.

"Elizabeth!"

She had not cried out herself, only gasped in startled dismay and clutched her side, but he threw down his sword and came to her.

She said, unnaturally calm, "You've torn my shirt."

"My God. Elizabeth... I'm so sorry. But you shouldn't have..."

"I know!" she said, testily.

"What were you thinking?" he snapped in return. "Here, let me see!"

She allowed him to pull her hand away, and there was bright blood on her fingers, and staining her rent shirt. "I barely feel it," she commented.

"No. You will, later." He pulled the hem of the shirt from the waist of her breeches and lifted it carefully to reveal the wound, which was high up, under her arm. My God. Another inch, and her breast... He blanched.

"Is it bad?" she demanded, her voice shaking a little.

"I don't think so. But we can't do this here. Will you come up, so that I can take care of it?"

"To your room, do you mean?" Her eyes lit. "Yes!"

He chuckled, bemused. Any other woman would have fainted by now.

*

"The shirt's ruined, I'm afraid."

"I'll take it off then, shall I?"

His mouth went dry. But he said, "I'll get another for you, and something to clean and bind the cut."

He busied himself in the battered old chest where he kept his belongings. There was a new shirt she could have, very like the damaged one -- perhaps her maid wouldn't notice the difference. How she would keep secret the fact that she had been wounded he couldn't imagine. And if the Governor found out... Will knew his prospective father-in-law was none too pleased with Elizabeth's choice to begin with.

When he turned back, she had stripped off the spoiled garment and was standing there, watching him. Her breasts were shielded with the bunched, blood-stained linen, but otherwise she was bared to him, slender white shoulders and arms, the dip of her trim waist...

She straightened, chin well up, and two spots of color appeared, one on either cheek. There was a smile struggling against her lips.

He came to her. His precious girl, every inch of her perfection. “You’re beautiful,” he said, simply. He put an arm around her and a finger under her chin, but she was already turning her face to his.

“Will!” His name a whispered prayer on her lips.

He returned it – “Elizabeth!” – and kissed her. She made a small, unformed sound and it was all he could do to restrain the passion, the possession that welled inside him. His hand slid lightly up her bare side, encountered the shirt, the slight swell of one virgin breast, the wound, and was brought to earth once more. With a sigh that was almost a groan he ended it, his forehead against hers. “Come. We need to finish this. You’re hurt.”

She laughed, shakily. “We are both in pain, and it will not be made better for some weeks yet.”

Their wedding. “What a day that will be.”

“What a night!” She looked up, in frank longing. But then she straightened, again. “Well, perhaps we should bind this up.”

“Yes, Miss Swann.”

She wrinkled her nose.

She was quiet throughout the tending of the wound, even when he cleaned it with a soft cloth soaked with rum, merely setting her teeth and enduring. He put a healing ointment on it, gently as he knew how, then bound it with a pad and a long strip of cloth.

It would do.

She turned her back to him and put on the clean shirt, its snowy folds slithering in a caress over her slender form. She tucked it into her breeches, then faced him again. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “We must be more careful.”

“Yes. I suppose attempting to emulate Jack’s style wasn’t the best of plans.”

Jack! Will almost gaped. That’s what it was – why her improvisations struck a familiar chord.

Two peas in a pod.

She’d told him about that conversation, laughing at the notion. But Will wasn’t so sure.

She said, “We had better go down, hadn’t we? Isn’t Mr. Brown due to return?”

“Yes,” Will agreed, though it would be another hour at least, he knew.

They descended the steps to the smithy, and Elizabeth made ready to go, putting on her coat and placing her hat at a jaunty angle.

“A pirate lass?” Will smiled, crookedly.

She grinned. “Your pirate lass!” And she kissed him, and took her leave.

Will sat down near the donkey and stared at the smithy door.

Pirate.

~.~