I Dream of Disney (Volume II)

Commanding the Cannon Fire [Jack Sparrow x Reader x Cutler Beckett] Part III

Part III - Endings, Farewells and Wedding Bells

It felt surreal. More akin to the likes of a fever dream than the true blistered reality. It felt like a poison, slowly seeping into the bloodstream until all signs of life were replaced by meaningless replications: the lack of appetite at all meals, only dining when forced to by a chastising governess; the restfulness of sleep fading into the long unwavering hours of insomnia and, perhaps worst of all, the dread sitting sovereign on her heart. 

The cause of this disruption was nothing that she hadn't expected. It was, by no means, new to her that one day she would be married. That sort of thing was discussed frequently, in all manner of social conventions. (Y/n) had, even in her spare time, pondered the subject with a mostly open mind. In her thoughts, she was to be married to someone of the Barbadian variety: perhaps a nobleman or baron, even a respected tradesman would do. Taking place in the summer, she would marry under an arbour of desert rose in a place perhaps overlooking the sea. Skies marbled with streaks of cloud would make the wedding banner, under which the hand of her and her spouse would be joined in holy matrimony, and the syrupy scent of the heliconia and hibiscus would perfume the air. Life thereafter would be lived answering to her husband, attending plentiful parties in the Governor's household and hosting many herself, purchasing new servants by way of the merchantmen and punishing those servants who disobeyed her. Though in many ways the lifestyle, or at least certain parts of it, made her uncomfortable, this new development had stunned her completely. 

(Y/n) would be married in England, where she would live with her new husband. 

All little girls were supposed to dream of their weddings: the expensive finery of the gown, fitted with those small but necessary touches to bring good luck to new brides; bouquets of pale roses donned hither and thither around the aisle; the guest list inviting only the most prominent of guests. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Yet she found it difficult to find enjoyment in the matter when none of the preparations was being left to her. Denied even a look of her wedding dress, she was left in insidious questioning. The only things she seemed to know was this: one, the fact that she was to be married in England, and two, the name of her fiancé. 

For all purposes, (Y/n)  could have been her own something blue when Molly had entered her room - barely on the crack of dawn - to rouse her from her bed and ready her for the voyage. The old woman had plonked her into steaming hot waters and then proceeded to scrub the young woman's skin raw, while also raking a brush through her hair so violently that she feared she must be bald. 

No sooner had (Y/n) stepped outside into the mist had she realised how the bad part of her morning was yet to come; the chill soaked into her bones and made uncharacteristic shivers rake down her spine. Barbados was warm and moist just on the cusp of sunrise - never had she felt so strongly this dry, cold fog that gathered at her shoes as she paced down the courtyard to where the carriage was waiting. The dark mahogany exterior, newly waxed, awaited her with the door yawning - it was creaking from the movement of the Lord and Lady Wayland that were arguing on the inside. The voices rang shrilly through the fog like eerie calls of the dead - an unsettling thought that paused her in her step. A fierce pang of longing flared in her heart. 

This could be the last time she ever set foot on Barbados - the land where the memories flowed through her like water bittersweet.  There was a tug at her skirts. She looked down. 

'Come, child," Molly beckoned.

It struck (Y/n) to see the short, dark-skinned woman standing there. Molly had never looked so frail. Looking so aged and wrinkled around her dark and deep-set eyes, which always gleamed with kindness. Suddenly, she felt a bristle of protectiveness as she considered how Molly must be feeling, the woman who had raised her. How could she possibly stand to travel back over the seas that had imprisoned her so long ago? (Y/n) narrowed her eyes when she reminded herself that it was not just the seas that had imprisoned Molly. Molly reached out her wrinkled ebony hand and enclosed it firmly over (Y/n)'s, allowing the young woman to squeeze onto it tightly as they paced down the eroded limestone steps.