A/N: New Story! Wooh! lol Alright, this story is different from the others I have done in the past. It is from Elizabeth's point of view, and basically it's her, writing entries of what has happened to her from the end of AWE in her journal.

I am sorry for how short they are, but come on! They are journal entries, yes? I'm writing these so that they are easy to read, easy to follow, and a breather if you need to sit down quick during the day and just lose yourself for a moment.

Pairing is one hundred percent Sparrabeth! Sorry if it's a little Willabethish right now, but you'll see why. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mouse. Period.

Chapter 1:

May 14, 1689

Dearest journal,

I cannot begin to describe to you what has happened in the past few days. It is too much. My heart is filled with sorrow, the despair and pain of the whole situation crushing me, and I feel as if I am suffocating. Is there no way out? I feel cornered, and there is no one I can trust who'd let me lean against them and take the agony from me.

There is no one left in the world who cares of me. James is dead; he fought an honorable fight but died before my eyes. My father is dead; I met up with him on the journey home from the worlds end.

Will is dead. The only man I had really ever, truly loved is dead, speared with his very own sword by Davy Jones.

I am in denial, but I do not care. I recoil from reality in my mind, I don't want to acknowledge what has happened or what will happen; there is no choice. If I let myself finally admit that he is dead there will be nothing left for me to cling to. I don't know where to go, or what to do, or who to talk to. There is no one I can seek solace in, there is no rock in the river of grief to try and hold on to. It's carrying me away, journal, and there is nothing to stop me from drowning in my own bitter tears.

We were to be married after the battle was over. How many times had we talked about it, hidden from the world in one of the spare cabins of the Black Pearl, giggling and planning like two silly, completely happy children? Too many times to count. We had wanted to marry in Port Royal, our home town; I with a beautiful white dress and he with a dashing black tux, holding hands alone as the minister made us husband and wife. There was to have been no lavish wedding, no crowd. We both had no parents or relatives, and planned to have a simple wedding, with perhaps Mister Brown as our witness as well as Mister Gibbs, or dare I say Jack Sparrow. (No doubt though, journal, that he would have broken into the supply of rum and drank himself into a stupor before then.)

All my dreams have been dashed to pieces by his death. He is alive and well now, breathing and speaking, as the new captain of the Flying Dutchman, but it is not the same. There is a look in his eyes, an older, more grave look. It scares me. He holds a wisdom beyond my imagining, and his voice is grim when he talks to me. "I cannot stay long." he says. "I have to go ferry the souls across to the other side." he says. "I love you, I always will." His words make me want to cry when I've already sobbed so much that my eyes sting.

I've seen the scar that mars his chest, it is awful to look at and awful to feel. It was rough and jagged under my fingertips as I stroked it through the opening of his shirt, and it had made tears pour down my face harder than ever before.

I'm supposed to be strong. I'm the Pirate King - courtesy of Jack - and I control the pirates, but how can I be a good pirate when I cannot hold back my own tears? Why did he make me King in the first place? That will haunt me until I figure out the answer.

Jack says it's good for a woman to cry. "The emotions of a woman are powerful and beautiful in a special way, love. It makes em' unique." he had said, and the warm smile that had grown across his lips while he had brushed some hair from my face made me tremble. We've not talked much since I killed him, and I don't blame him, but I think he has forgiven me as time has passed. I no longer see hate and distrust in his eyes when he looks at me or speaks to me.

It was him who gave me this journal to write in. He told me to write down all my thoughts and feelings into this heavy, worn, leather book, and keep it safe from prying eyes. (I can't help but wonder if he hinted to that because he knew curiosity would get the best of him and he'd come looking for it, ready to stick his nose into places it certainly doesn't belong. Pirate.) He had insisted so feverishly that I had felt inclined to take it, and the grin of satisfaction he had shown afterwards made me thankful I hadn't rejected him.

Jack's kept his distance from me in respect of how I am feeling, but at the moment I feel that is the worst thing he could have possibly done. I know he cannot handle tears and sobs, but at least he understands them. All I need is for someone to hold onto me, so that I don't end up drifting away and losing myself forever. Instead of standing back, I wish he would come and hold me, and just listen to me for once, let me sob and cry all I need to. Crying here, with each tear blotting the ink and spoiling each letter, it's not the same. I am alone, and I am cold, and I wish, above everything else, that someone, out there, would understand what I am going through.

For the moment all I have to lean on is myself, and I don't know how much longer I can stand to do that before I collapse. Humans are not meant to deal with such horrible agony alone, and I am doing just that. I have to have courage, and I know I will get over Will's death after a while, but the question is: How much of the person I originally was will be left? There is no doubt I will end up changing, but for better or for worse I have no idea. Worse, that's what I'm leaning towards.

He leaves tomorrow at sunset, and I have one last day to spend time with him before he is gone for the next ten years. Will I ever see him again? Can I even hope that long? How will he survive? How will I survive? The raw truth: I don't know.

Love,

Elizabeth Swann