The Fire Within Me
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: PG-13 orT for Teen (for "frightening" moments)
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. If I did, this would not be under fanfiction and I would be horribly depressed with myself.
Warnings: Gore, thrilling moments, very little dialogue
Dedication: To Kat, Andi and Emi- for being utterly patient betas and getting this done for me. I love you guys.
Author's Note: A special thanks to Kat for betaing this even though she hadn't seen the movie. This is a fill-in-the-blank of sorts, an explanation behind Will's lack of injuries, and an attempt to get into Bootstrap's head. Enjoy.
Every time he looked over at the young man working hard beside him, he could not believe that he was his son. The last time he'd seen the boy was when he was barely a year old, young and new with curious brown eyes and an adorable smile. Somehow he had thought that William would still be that little child. Maybe a bit older, four or five, with thick dark curls like his mother's and the same happy disposition. It never occurred to him that a decade or two had passed and with it, the boy he'd always imagined. His eyes wandered to the man again and his heart, something he thought dead, jumped in his chest.
He did not lament the death of the child he knew. The only sorrow he felt was that with the passing of that child, he had lost all he knew of his son. The man working beside him was unfamiliar to him. Gone was the sparkle of innocence in his eyes. Lips that had easily smiled were now fixed in a permanent grimace. There was definite light about him but it was not the same as the baby's he'd held back in England. No, it was the light of determination and strength, gained through years of experience in a harsh, unforgiving world.
And this light gave him the assurance that he could be proud of this man, his man, his boy; his William. There was dignity in him, a sense of nobility, that could not be crushed. Most importantly, he discovered as rain crashed upon them and his William tugged on the rope with all his strength, William radiated love in that light. Not only love for everyone around him but a fierce, true love for a special person. If only he knew who that someone was, the person who William fought so hard for.
At first he had thought it was love of friendship for Jack Sparrow but he quickly dashed those thoughts aside. William did have a friendship with Jack but it was not what glowed in him. No, what was in him was much deeper, thrumming in his heart and keeping him going as another wave washed over them. He was certain now, as he tied off his own rope and clutched the railing as the wind rocked the ship, that the special someone was a woman. He was sure that this woman was the reason that Will fought so hard and did his part. This woman was the reason that William came searching for the Dutchman in the first place.
William, his son but not his, came next to him, struggling against the driving forces of nature, and slowly began to fix his rope down. He looked so pale and so worn from the harsh abuse of being a part of Davy Jones crew. 'As he should,' he thought miserably, lurching over to help his boy. This was not a ship for a mere human.
Davy Jones and those who swore allegiance to him lived but not in reality. If they went a few weeks without food, they still lived. If there was no water or air or sleep, they did not collapse. They merely survived on, working and falling prey to the sea creatures that took root on their bodies. Those under the horrible hold could survive the harsh circumstances of a storm but a human, such as his William, could not; no matter how bright he was.
His hands clasped over his son's and though he felt the boy shudder, he felt a sense of satisfaction when he did not pull away. Before, William refused his touch and comfort, refused to look him in the face but now, he was slowly letting his father in. He did not snort at or ignore questions that were asked. He would give answers, albeit short ones, but he would tell his father about his life. His William gave his heart a little bit of warmth with the small answers of 'blacksmith' and 'Port Royal.'
He could tell William was used to being completely self-sufficient. The first day or so when William worked and his father tried to help, he would shove the man away with a grunt. It was a stubbornness that both his father and mother had possessed, a stubbornness he had inherited by default. But his William's behavior had been enforced also by necessity, by a childhood he only gave in single words. The fire that William's presence lit in him went cold when he thought of his boy suffering.
Together they wrapped the rope around but when it came to knotting it, William's hands had gone clumsy. He watched his son's fingers fumble and shake as they tried to finish the task. Too much time in the rain and wind with fatigue and injury had left his boy in need of a break he would not find; especially not if the rope slipped now. There would merely be a whipping and more tasks to be done. He couldn't let his son suffer through that. Not because he didn't want to see his child hurting, not because he didn't want that light to go out; no, it was because too much more and his son would be dead.
He took the rope from the boy and efficiently tied it off. A wave washed over the deck as he finished, shoving both he and his William to the railing. It was time to go below deck and to have a rest. The job was done for the time being and now was the time for rest. Though he did not need it to survive, it slowed the aching of his bones and the pain caused by the animals attached to him. He grasped William's arm and fought against the wind and rain to get below deck. The faster they managed to get to their destination, the less chance there was of being stopped and forced back to work. And he knew Will would not be able to survive another task.
He jerked the door open and gently pushed Will in before him. A howling gale pushed him in after and slammed the door shut, leaving the two of them dripping wet in a drafty, damp hull. It was not very good, he decided, stepping down a few stairs to the floor, but it was better than the storm. The inch of water that perpetually sloshed on the floor of the boat swept over his boots and then pulled away as the boat rocked. This was not ideal for an unwell human being but it would have to do. For some reason he doubted he could convince Davy Jones to put on to dry land or to make the ship more homey.
He watched William sink onto the ground, panting for air, his head leaning against the hull of the ship, his eyes closed. His torn shirt hung limply and his vest was looking thin. The cut on his forehead from when the crew captured him was black and blue around the edges and bleeding slightly. He could only think that the whiplashes were worse, considering how dirty the whip was and the fact that they were relatively unattended to. All of this from a couple of days.
Knowing he could do nothing to help his son, he sank down next to him, listening to his bones pop and the creatures on his back protest. A twinge started in his one arm and he knew he was soon to acquire another barnacle or clam. Disgusting and unpleasant but the price he had to pay for selling his soul. It was worth it compared to eternal suffering on the ocean floor. Or at least, that was what he'd been trying to convince himself.
Next to him, William raised a soggy arm and dragged it across his face, brushing away the blood and the few strands of hair resting on it. His one leg was folded up on the ground, pulled close to his body, while the other was bent at the knee. Resting the now pink tinged arm on his knee, he let out a heaving sigh and let his head fall forward. He did not move again, nor did he speak and his father was sure he was asleep.
If he believed in God, he would have thanked him for that. William needed any sleep he could possibly get before they were pulled back out into the storm. Usually, he did not have to worry about such harsh weather. Beyond the fact that he was, in fact, immortal, the Dutchman did most of its sailing underwater. The water was always calm there and considering more than half of the crew was composed of half-sea creatures, it was almost ideal. But Davy Jones wasn't about to lose his leverage on Jack by diving with a human aboard. William would drown before agreeing to sell his soul to the devil.
He focused his attention on his son, listening to his hitched breathing as he slept and viewing his slouched figure. Though he hoped beyond anything that his son would escape, he could not help but be happy for his presence. It gave him a sense of peace and purpose, a reason to continue going on without giving in to the creeping evil in his heart. William had become almost like his salvation in the short time he'd been there. His son had become the fire within him, heating his chilled soul and dead conscience.
Though he was looking right at William, he barely registered the boy tipping over with one of the waves and falling against his shoulder. He jerked at the contact, drawing away, almost allowing his son to fall to the ground. At the last second, he stopped himself and reached out with grey hands to hold William up. His arm was a horrid place for Will to sleep. There were so many oysters, barnacles and other sea life growing there that any person leaning on it would certainly cut his or her self. Will's face held testament to this, a thin cut trailing down his cheek.
While he was willing to help his son, touch him if it meant keeping him from the whip, he felt a sudden awkwardness as he supported the boy. It had been many, many years since he'd allowed someone to use him as a pillow. Over thirteen years, in fact, when Jack Sparrow and he had still been close as brothers. The situation had been strikingly similar except he and Sparrow had been on their way to the gallows, and Jack's arm was a mangled mess from a failed escape attempt. After that, there had been so many events and chilling darkness that not even a woman had been this close.
Gently, he eased William down so that he was resting on his side, propped slightly against his father's leg, his head lolling against the elder man's stomach. William didn't respond to any of this, much to his father's worry. His son was completely lost to the world, not only because of exhaustion and injury but a fever. He could feel it pulsing through the young man's skin, chewing away at his son's life and holding the boy in the realm of dreams.
He had no way to fix this. There was no need to help those injured on the Flying Dutchman. Consequentially, there was no way to help those not bound to the ship if they happened to become injured. They would merely be thrown overboard to die or would be forced to give their oath of service. There were no potions or doctor's brews, painkillers or even bandages. All that was available was saltwater and the dirty clothes he'd been wearing for over eleven years. A sudden, repetitive noise alerted him that luck had deserted him again, as it often had in his sad, miserable life. The sound, clunking of Davy Jones' peg leg, was coming closer as the captain approached him. There was no ignoring it, no pretending like it wasn't there. So he pulled his William close to him, or as close as he dared, and waited for the inevitable onslaught. The coldness in him laced around his heart, warmed up until now despite his dire straights, and he felt himself slipping back under the darkness that held his soul.
"Bootstrap Bill Turner," Davy Jones said, now hovering over the pair, his pipe in hand. "Last time I checked, our agreement was not for you to become a part of the ship but to crew it."
He did not reply. Threading barnacle-covered hands through his son's hair, he tried to recall when life had been easy and he did not have to worry about William's safety. Back to a time when his beloved was still alive, still watching their child, still hoping for his return. The iciness started to grow stronger, pull harder at him, trying to drag him down until a soft moan met his ears. The warmth sprung up suddenly at the feeble noise and his eyes focused on the boy in his arms.
"Are you ignoring me?" Jones questioned, bending over slightly, the pipe now discarded, trying to catch his eyes.
He shook his head, the warmth blazing in him with an amazing amount of strength. He met the Captain's gaze without wincing. "No, Captain. I apologize. William and I were just taking a rest from the storm."
"You need no rest," Jones snarled, and he knew that the devil could hear the defiance building up in him. The fire grew. Though there was a small part of him whispering fearful things. He ignored it. "Get up before I have you both whipped."
"I may not need rest, Captain," the father agreed steadily, his eyes focused on the octopus-like face. All over his body he could feel a tingling sensation. "But my son does. He is human."
Jones snorted, tentacles flapping, "He belongs to this crew, and he will work with this crew. Human or not."
"He is not a part of this crew yet. He holds no oath and because of it, he cannot take the work. He is ill," the father said firmly, feeling more like he was telling the parent of a child that his boy could not come out to play instead of the captor of his soul that his grown son needed rest. "He cannot–"
Jones' temper interrupted before he could finish. "Then he will work until he dies and we throw him overboard, or until he swears an oath! Now up and out- both of you!"
The Captain reached forward with a hand and a claw, snatching his William away from him before he could react. Little to no response came from his child but the father made up for it. Jerking to his feet, he lunged at the Captain, grasping a handful of long, octopus legs and pulling. He barely noted the fact that his hands, blue and grey before this, were returning to normal color. The fact that the oysters, clams and other animals that made him limp and bear his weight strangely had retracted and allowed him to stand normally didn't reach him. He was completely focused on getting back his son.
"He is no good to you dead!" he growled, yanking at Jones' face and flailing to get his free arm around Will. "And I will not let you kill him! You will not take him from me!"
He would have never done it for anyone else. In fact, he would not have even considered it. Attacking Davy Jones, the man who had saved him, the demon who held power over him, was not ever even the faintest idea in his mind. He was reminded why in an instant as Jones shoved him away with extreme and unseen force, and threw William on top of him. They both slammed into the side of the ship, him with a grunt of pain and William with a slight whimper.
Silence rang, not even the wind and rain daring to interrupt this. He had made a mistake, a small part of his mind that was lying beneath the burning flames told him. But that voice was so faded that it was almost completely gone. The stronger instinct fueled by his son's presence filled him full of courage. The man before him, no, the beast before him did not hold control over him. Perhaps he was a slave to this monster but not forever. He had something to keep him alive.
The fire within him.
"I can take everything from you," Jones hissed. "I have your servitude, I have your son, I have your life and I have his. I can take him away and you will never see him again, Bootstrap Bill Turner. Your precious gem will be gone for good."
He clung to Will, feeling the shuddering breaths the boy was breathing in and worrying over his pale countenance and blue lips. There was fresh blood on his head now, from yet another injury.
"Do you really think that your love for him can save you?" Jones questioned with a dark voice. "Do you really believe that love can conquer all? I thought you were a man of the world, Mr. Turner. And to top it all off, when is the last time you've really been human? Enough to have human emotions? To be a good person, fighting the good fight, truly loving someone?" The peg leg came down hard on his leg and he cried out. To his fascination and confusion, blood trickled from it. Warm, red blood; the color of a man who was truly amongst the living as he was most certainly not.
"True love does not exist," Jones stated harshly, placing his face close to the face of the man in front of him. "And the love you have for him will not save either of you. He will die and you will watch it unless the two of you follow my orders!"
The hold was broken. It was gone. Why had it taken him so long to recognize it? Through a haze of pain from his leg, he whispered, "You have no hold on me or on him. He needs rest and he will get it. He is no good to you dead and neither am I."
"I care little if he dies," Jones responded, apathy dripping in the anger. "And you cannot."
"Can I not?" he asked, starting to feel lightheaded. There was blood racing from the injury and he was rather sure that the wooden leg had struck something important.
It was then that he knew Jones saw the blood and truly understood how far that little fire had rescued him. With a growl of rage, the Captain grabbed him by the chin with his claw and pressed his hand against the injury. He could feel the cold trying to press into him from those points, trying to drag him back but he would not let it. Not yet- not before Will was safe and well.
"You still owe me eighty nine years of service," Jones reminded him. "I still have your soul until those days are up!"
He choked as the pressure from the claw stole his breath and his eyes wandered to William's face. "And you'll have it a hundred more if you let him have the rest and treatment he needs to get well."
"I do not make deals with those I already own," Jones snapped, forcing the cold even more than before. He rejected it easily, the fire pulsing through his veins. Though he could only feel misery physically, he could not help but be overjoyed. He was human again. He was free.
"Then you lose me from your crew and him from your deal with Jack Sparrow," he whispered, seeing darkness at the edges of his vision and feeling faintness coming upon him rapidly.
Jones shook him hard, glaring at him, eyes rolling in the octopus face and the claw started pinching so tightly that he could no longer breathe. This was going to be the end. Jones most likely had come to the decision that he and his son were expendable. After all, there were many other sailors who would sign on to the Dutchman if it meant avoiding death. And Jack's fear of the kraken would assure Jones yet another ninety nine souls. Jones' face as sliding out of focus and all he could think was that it wasn't fair that his son would not be able to live, marry the woman he loved and have a family.
The grip on his throat loosened enough to allow him to gasp for air. Jones was studying William, eyes narrowed but face unreadable. No words escaped the Captain this time. Instead, he slowly reached out his slimy hand towards the boy. The father, held captive by physical weakness and the captain's grip, cringed at the thought of Jones' intentions. He could not bear to watch his son die but his eyes would not leave the hand as it touched William's forehead, dripping a slimy substance onto the cuts there. Poison was the father's first thought though it wasn't Jones' style.
He was wrong. He watched as the cuts slowly began to knit themselves together, leaving mere scratches. Jones let out a watery snort and his less than human fingers moved to William's back. It hovered there a moment, as though Jones' was indecisive, before slipping under the vest and torn shirt. There was no reaction from William as Jones' touched the injuries, and the father wondered if perhaps, it was too late. His heart clenched, his eyes burned and a single tear trickled down his face. But that was all, for Jones' soon pulled back and focused his attentions on the crew man.
"You are mine," Jones hissed at the man he held captive with his claw. "Your son will recover and get his rest but you are mine for a hundred years more for it!"
The father's eyes flickered to his boy, his son. William's lips were no longer blue and his face not so pale. His breathing sounded normal and there were no traces of pain left in him. The state he was now in appeared to be a state of sleep, caused by exhaustion, not illness. Jones' had signed on to the deal that was offered, clearly keeping his half. Now, it was time for he, the father, to keep his.
"So be it," he wheezed in return. And he let the cold return, seeping into his being, his core, his mind. And this time, when he signed himself back over, he would not do so with regret.
The pain of the creatures coming back was horrid but he took it in stride. The pain in his leg remained but the bleeding stopped, as did the feeling of rapidly approaching unconsciousness. His vision cleared in one eye and grew worse in the other as a starfish slowly grew into it. The heavy darkness slowly began to grab a hold of him as his own light fled him once more. Or, perhaps, partially fled him as it returned to its place with Davy Jones. It did not belong solely to the Captain anymore.
He felt the glow of the fire still deep within him, steady even in its smallness. Carefully, he stored a bit of himself there in that warmth. It would never go out again, not like before. Now that he had found it, experienced it and found how desperately he truly needed it, he would never let it leave him. He knew that as long as he had it, that he could face the long sentence he had here. It no longer mattered where he was, how he was suffering, or who his soul belonged to. Those were technicalities that were washed away by the fire; the love; the warmth of his son.
"He gets until morning," Jones stated, releasing the father from his claw. "But you will return now."
Then he turned on his heel and clunked away, up towards the deck.
He sat quietly for a moment, his son in his lap and his mind lost. Glancing down at the boy, he found that William was looking even better than just a minute or so before. He was sleeping peacefully, a slight smile on red lips. A sigh of relief escaped the father, and he closed his eyes. It was over for the moment. The fear, the worry, the knowledge that this could be the end. It was done because the end had not been reached. Yet again, he'd received a chance to make things right. He thanked whatever had been looking after him and his son and carefully, with the boy cradled in his arms, stood up.
There were several crates over in the corner of the room. Tied to the walls, they did not shift with the rocking of the ship. Several of them were taller than the others, creating a nook just large enough for a person to lie in. He moved to them and gently lowered his son onto them. If he could not be here to make sure that William would not roll about the ship or drown in the water on the ground, this would have to do. William's head moved with the rhythm of the waves but his body stayed stable. Perhaps not a soft, warm bed, what he would prefer for the boy, but it worked as well as anything on the ship.
He stood over the young man, his child, watching him sleep, taking in his features and felt the fire swell. Though it did not release him from the spell of Davy Jones, it gave him the warmth and the strength he needed. He bent over, and placed a gentle kiss on his child's forehead. The child he'd left behind, had sent cursed gold and had not thought about for over five years had come through for him in ways that some of his closest friends never had. This child had provided him with an escape. His boy had given him the courage to survive.
His William had given him love.
With that knowledge and the glow filling him, he turned and walked steadily up towards the deck, prepared to take on anyone or anything, knowing that the fire within him would see him through until the end.
The End of Sorts