Cold Burn

By Tori Chiisai

Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is property of Disney. No copyright infrigement intended.

Warnings: Minor language. Violence. Drinking. Hey, they're pirates!

Author's Notes: Chapter one is going to be a little different from the other chapters. I couldn't decide how to lie out the premise of the story, so it ended upbeing this hodgepodge of POVs, tenses, and persons. It's, well, it should be challenging to read. I want to try to sort it out in the later chapters, and make it all uniform, but I'm reserving the right to revert to the weirdness whenever I please. I will add a disclaimer here, too, that I am completely landlocked, and the only tall ship I've ever seen is the one in the West Edmonton Mall. I did some research into sailing, so any errors you see are entirely mine. Same with the very, very basic knowledge of tarot cards.

Special thanks to Forwyn Redearth for the encouragement, beta-reading, and figurative slap in the face whenever I need it. This one's for you!

CHAPTER ONE—In The Cards

I think the extensiveness of young Mr. Turner's education needs to be addressed. If I'da had him as me cabin boy, we wouldn't need to be in this tavern, the table full of empty glasses between us, and Will's fat head flopped down on his folded arms. He's not a happy camper, and for once, I don't blame him. It's not his fault he's stupid as the day is long.

But he's not me cabin boy, he's me drunken mate who's gonna have to go home at some point. The wench at the bar keeps eyeing him up, and while I'm sure ole Will would be nothin' but willin', I don't think his flag would even be running at half-mast, you know what I mean? Him bein' a eunuch and all.

Wasn't expectin' to find the young Mr. Turner here, that was for damned sure. The lad had ingested all of the grog he could before I even got here. If he knows I'm sitting with him that would be a miracle of Biblical proportions. As me and the Almighty parted ways a few decades ago, I'm loathe to believe that it's His intervention at work here.

The drink bein' the Devil's creation, after all. Turns even the finest gentleman into a scoundrel, according to a certain reliable source, who shall remain unnamed at this point.

Mr. Gibbs helps himself to the other chair at the table, grasping a handful of Will's hair to pull him upright. The boy's eyes flutter open for an instant, and he seems coherent for a second. "'lissbeth?" He slurs. Gibbs lets go, and he hits the table with a solid 'thunk.'

"Bit harsh, mate." I lean forward, grabbing what's left of his grog. Bloody awful stuff, I always figgered if yer gonna serve rum, ye might as well not water it down. Saves getting shot later. Then again, I can see the point of it. Young Will would have needed half of these flagons had he been drinking it on the straight up. I'm bein' generous in my estimation, Will might have been gone on the smell from the blessed cap.

"Ye think we be leavin' 'im 'ere, cap'n?" Gibbs asks. He looks like he cares nary a wit, but the man's a big bag of bleedin' heart, he is. Bets are off, because I know Will is going to end up tucked up all cozy in Gibbs's bunk tonight, while the old man takes the deck.

I shake my head. "Miss Swann would be bloody impossible to live with, if we did, dontcha think?" I swallow down the dregs, slam the cup on the table, and get up. "Come on, Mr. Turner. Time for beddy-bye."

"J'ck?" Bollocks, I would have lost that bet. He blinks up at me with hazy brown eyes. I swear I can see the rum sloshing around that head of his. "Feel funny."

"I'd bet." I throw his arm around me shoulder. "You feel like barking like a seal, you do it outside. And not on me ship." I add on that bit at the end, I figger it'd be somethin' I could blame him with when he wakes up. Hangover or no, I'm havin' the lad titivate me ship from the top to the bottom. Punishment fer getting' stinkin' drunk.

Lo, he pukes his ever lovin' guts up all down the front of me shirt. Soundlessly, without so much as a second's warning. I do think about leavin' him, but he's got a hold of me hair, as tightly as a newborn babe with a bottle. "Sorry." He manages, weak as a babe, too, stumblin' with every step.

"'e feel hot to ye too, cap'n?" Gibbs asks.

Aye. He did. Not drunk then. "Great." I ignore the warm vomit leaking through my shirt, ignore the stares I'm getting, and hug the young Mr. Turner tighter so that he may walk. "With my luck, he's got the bloody Black Plague."

&&&&&&&&

It was a strange sight, the lady at the embattlements. True, there were times when the gentry headed out to the fort, in order to hold celebrations or executions (both being highly entertaining all the way around) but there was nothing scheduled for that day. Nothing that should bring a young lass such as Governor Swann's daughter out to the stone walls.

She would sit on the wall, unladylike to the last. Her legs crossed underneath her, her hands draped across her lap. She watched the sea, the waves that crashed against the coastline, unforgiving by their very nature. If she knew which direction, she would not be there. If she had had any idea where Will might have been, what might have happened to him, she would not be sitting idly by. Her father, what did he know? He seemed unsurprised the day that Will failed to turn up for their evening supper. Oh, true, he offered her his condolences, but really, Elizabeth, what had you expected from a rogue such as this? The lad was born a pirate, what makes you think that anything you say or do would change him?

Actually, she would have gone with him. Governor Swann had been quite distressed to learn that. All he had needed to do was ask, and Elizabeth would have followed Will from Port Royal to the shores of Madagascar and all the ports in between. "Perhaps it's for the best, then." Swann would say, patting her on the shoulder, tsk tsking when she glared at him.

Elizabeth Swann became a bit of a legend around the town of Port Royal. She shouldn't be surprised to learn that those who came to live there long after would speculate about what happened to that young woman. Perhaps she died of a broken heart, and her ghost still walks the walls of the fort. She might have thrown herself into the sea, figuring that if Will Turner wouldn't take her, no one would.

She sits, now, in the hut of an old woman. She knows not what to expect, only that it is a fairly slim chance that she might learn a clue as to where her dear Will has gone. A fortune teller, people say, gifted with the sight of what will be, what is, and what was. It cost her a pretty penny for this honour, and she intends not to waste it.

The old woman has a face like a piece of the Black Pearl's hull. Wizened and weatherworn, the paths that she had taken in her life marked out for all to see on her ebony skin. She shuffles the cards of the Tarot, asking Elizabeth innocuous questions. The young lady answers hesitantly.

"There be a young man in yer life, chile?" The woman turns over a card. Elizabeth has no idea what they mean, and she tries not to dwell on the pictures or the words. All that matters is the information. "He might work wiff his hands?"

"He's a blacksmith." Elizabeth finds herself saying. "He disappeared."

"Ah, yes." The old woman shuffles the hand again. "Gone, but… Oh, not of his own free will."

Elizabeth pulls her knees up tighter against her chest. It's night, the ocean air is cold, and the single candle flickering in the woman's hut is not nearly enough to keep her warm. It does, however, bathe the table in the warm light. Beyond that, Elizabeth can make out the hanging carcasses of small birds, and smell the unique combination of spices that the old woman is burning. They're on the floor in the middle of the hut, the table not so much a table but a raised piece of wood a few inches from the dirt. "Where is he?"

"That's hazy." The woman lays her cards again. Turning them over with slow deliberation. "I see darkness, chile. The colour black. It's all around him."

Elizabeth leans forward. Oh, she wants more than that, black could mean so many things. It might even mean the temper that her father will be in, when she comes home. He dismissed this as nothing more than the local voodoo, stories intended to frighten the young children who had come over from London. He thought that those who listened to the local fortune tellers ought to spend more time in church, particularly in the confessional. This was a sin, sure as any of those that Captain Jack Sparrow had ever committed.

The cards fall in the way that they were meant to, and the story that the old woman tells Elizabeth is nothing if not disheartening. Her dearest love is fighting off illness, he may in fact be dead. But it doesn't answer her question. Let her marry a gravestone, if that is the case, she just wanted to find him. To bring him home again, to Port Royal.

If the answer doesn't lie there, the old woman coaxes the strings of Elizabeth's purse open with it, perhaps there may be something in the lines of Elizabeth's hands. She holds them up for inspection, and lets the old woman hmm and haw over them. Lifelines, yes. A good and lengthy one for Elizabeth. Look at this, it appears she will marry, and be prosperous. "I'm not here for MY fortune." She insists. "A direction, old woman. Send me north, send me south. Give me a place to go."

The old woman looks her in the eye, and with a slow smile says to her, "You already know the way, chile. It's the way how you came to be here."

Elizabeth considers this. Closing her palms over her lifelines, empty of all the coin she had brought with her—so if the old woman wants more money, she can nigh on well forget it—she ponders what that could mean. It's a short ponder, because all the while, she thinks about what has tied she and Will together from the moment that they met. Their journeys had been shockingly similar, from the very moment that she spotted him in the water on the crossing from England. Just a boy, adrift in the wake of the Black Pearl.

Their common denominator.

There are two cards, she turns at Elizabeth's urging. Elizabeth looks at them, and asks, "what of these?"

"The ace of pentacles, and the ace of swords." The old woman smiles. "New luck, new challenges."

"That's all they mean?" Elizabeth asks.

"Nay, lass. Winter and spring. North and east."

North and east

She smiles at this. All this money, and the answer was obvious. Difficult, for she would need to find her way out of Port Royal and onto the open sea, but obvious, nonetheless. All the thinking she had been doing, of their time on the Pearl, that was the place where she should be going for her answers. "Thank you."

&&&&&&&&

The regrettable aspect of such an isolated town as Port Royal was the tendency of the denizens to talk. Not just talk, of course, but gossip, of things be they true or not. It mattered little to the ancient tongues in their powdered wigs how factual the statements they made were. What they wanted was a good juicy rumour to share with their like-minded guests over a spot of high tea. Never to be out-done, they would change events or facts, just to give the story that extra little zing that made their telling the one to be embellished at the next party.

They did not have the name Bootstrap Bill to bandy about, but word of Will Turner's unfortunate lineage had reached their ears. A pirate, they'd whisper as he walked by, lifting their eyes from their confederates just long enough to catch a glimpse of the man in question. Or, a pirate's get, at very least. A bastard, maybe? Oh, his mother would never have lain with a pirate willingly. Dear Will, he couldn't help his lust for Governor Swann's daughter. It was in his blood.

The lad did nothing to quash those rumours. When he went about town, he no longer wore the drab homespun, or the dark colours. No, when he went out, he was a splash of vibrant red or cheery yellow. He kept a jaunty gait, his chin up so that the plume bounced about behind him. The young ladies peeked at him over their fans, to hide their smiles when he winked. Their scandalized mothers would tug them away, admonishing them for their interest. But that made the young Turner all the more desirable, for a man who was talked about was one who piqued the curiosity of foolish young girls with romance in their hearts. To prohibit their contact with him only made them want it more.

But the path he followed every day took him from the modest home to the home of the governor. Swann did not raise a voice about the propriety, in fact, he said nothing. That started rumours in and of itself. Maybe the governor wasn't aware of the affair. And what about that Commodore Norrington? There couldn't have been a finer officer in the fleet, surely Governor Swann would have preferred him as a son-in-law.

Some part of Will was horrified. The part that stood back, still clasping to his life as the blacksmith's apprentice, as the man who drifted through days without being noticed. The town of Port Royal has gone years without talking about the boy who had been found in the waves. When he had been a child, the backlash had been limited to speculation of his origin; however, as he had made a great effort to disappear, they allowed it.

There have always been ways to do things. Proper ways. Will Turner was just becoming acquainted with that very fact. Well, no, that was not true. As a blacksmith, he knew, that you had to follow a certain sequence of steps, a proper list of procedures, and of course, meet a certain set of specifications. Your very reputation was on the line, should you turn out a blade not nearly as perfect as it should be. He just never once thought that the rules that bound a simple menial labourer would ever, ever, ever apply to someone of a higher stature.

It was not the goods that they produced that the world judged these people by, no. It was themselves. It was why young William Turner was standing on what the tailor referred to as a shoe—at least, that was what he thought it was called—so that the man might measure and grope and cinch to his little heart's content. Governor Swann stood behind him, talking to the tailor about everyday things, like the weather and the prices of commodities, all things to draw attention away from the fact that—by the standards of those who were part of the 'right' society—his soon-to-be son-in-law had the dress sense of a blind mule.

Every once in a while, conversation would drift back to Will. The tailor would, no doubt, seize a great handful of material, and yank it back, nearly throwing Will from the stool he was precariously perched upon. "We could take it in here," would often be the justification for this assault.

"I'd need to remove a shoulder blade for that." Will grumbled, straightening the lay of the coat when the tailor released him.

Swann frowned at him in the mirror. "Need I remind you, Mr. Turner, that these will be the clothes that you wear to your wedding? Your wedding to my daughter, I might add. And while I have always thought of you as a son, I still will not have you show up dressed as a ruffian or a black…" He trailed off.

Will didn't call him on it. On any of it. Being thought of a son? That was well and good to say now, but then-Captain Swann had been more than satisfied to leave the orphan in the tender mercies of the man who was not only the town's only blacksmith, but also the most ridiculed drunkard. As for being a blacksmith, or a ruffian, the former Will would continue to be, and the latter, Governor Swann thought he was playing at. He had no idea about dear old Bootstrap Bill, Will's dearly departed father. William Turner would be forever sanctified as a good man, nothing more, and nothing less. "This is the latest fashion in London?" He asked, almost recoiling when the tailor stuck his hands between Will's legs, in the guise of measuring the inseam. He glared, but the tailor continued on without even looking up.

"Do not mock me, boy." Swann warned in a low voice. "I do this as a favour to Elizabeth, I will not tolerate your mouth."

The tailor wrapped his measuring tape around Will's chest. "No corsets, please." He managed a straight face as he said it.

"Mr. Turner…" Well, he had known it would come. Governor Swann came up beside him, doing he utmost best to look threatening and intimidating. "Your past acquaintances may have taught you otherwise, but I will tell you now that it is not proper, in any echelon of society, for a young man to concern himself with a lady's undergarments, be she his wife or no."

The man obviously had never been to Tortuga. A young man was expected to concern himself with those, particularly if the lass were not his wife. A lesson Will had learned the hard way. "Noted." Will held out his arms when told to do so, trying desperately to be serious. "I'm curious then, sir, if we are not to speak of London, or your daughter, as she is the only lady I would concern myself over, what am I to do with conversation? I'm certain your friends would not wish to hear about the life of a blacksmith. How dreadfully boring that must be, slaving away day in and day out in order to make a living. However, that is all I know, save for my adventures with…"

Governor Swann cut in, before the groom-to-be made a comment that would utterly ruin his stance in society, even if were only a remark in the presence of the tailor. It was reflections, you see. These people were nothing but a bunch of mirrors. "I think there has been quite enough speculation about this town as to exactly what sort of adventures you were getting into, Mr. Turner. You may discuss London, whatever knowledge you have of it, and you may discuss my daughter, though you will strictly withhold any knowledge you have of her, particularly regarding her undergarments. As for the life of a blacksmith, I think you may as well discuss it with our friends, for they know as well as you what a hard day's work is." He slapped Will's hand away from the tail of his coat, and straightened it with one downward jerk. "Commodore Norrington did not have the world laid out before him, lad. He worked his way up to where he came to be."

"Ah, yes." Will continued to look at his reflection in the mirror. "Commodore Norrington. I was wondering when you would bring him up."

"Do not speak his name with such disdain." The governor straightened his back, clasping his hands behind it. "That man saved your life."

Not exactly how Will remembered the events of that battle. Dear Commodore Norrington would be making some fish fat if it hadn't been for Will and Jack Sparrow—not that there was a person other than Elizabeth who would know that. Even she was shushed when she tried to talk about the great fun they had had with the pirates. Yes, fun. Again, Will would love to differ on that. He found nothing particularly amusing about being held over a box of golden coins, with a blade at his throat. "Yes. Of course. How stupid of me to forget." Will turned when he was told to, facing the governor. "If you're so against this marriage, Governor, why didn't you let me dance with Jack Ketch?" He purposely used the pirate's phrase for that, a phrase he wasn't certain the good governor would understand.

A high colour blossomed on the governor's cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. Grieves, you'll send the clothing here when it is complete." He ground out. The little tailor knew when to beat a hasty retreat, gathering up his supplies and bolting like he'd been struck by lightening. Will was practically whipped out of the clothes.

Once he'd changed, Will had every intention of leaving as well. Much to his surprise, the governor had poured two brandy snifters, and was waiting with them in hand. "I think it's high time the two of us had a talk, Mr. Turner." He held out the snifter to Will. He accepted it, but he didn't drink. The governor, though, took a long draught, then settled himself into one of the uncomfortable parlour chairs. Will remained standing, even though Swann gestured for him to sit as well. " 'Dance with Jack Ketch.' You really think that I could have let you hang, Will, even if you did break loose that despicable pirate?"

"Good man." Will countered, crossing his arms. "Dress it up as you like, Governor, the only reason Elizabeth and I are alive today to contemplate vows is Captain Jack Sparrow."

"We're not speaking of Sparrow," Swann spat the name. "We're speaking of you." He set the snifter on the table with a decisive clink. "I'm neither blind nor stupid, Will, I know that you and I have something in common. We both love Elizabeth, and want what's best for her. Heaven help me, she thinks that you. My daughter was infatuated with you from the moment the two of you met. You can understand that, for a father, that's a terrible thing. My little girl, falling for a mysterious boy without a past." He gave a rueful chuckle. "Do you see how easy it would have been for me? All I had to do was tell the commodore I wanted the fullest extent of the law brought down upon you, and you and your pirate friend would be dangling off the coast, as a warning for any more pirates. But, I also know what that would have done to Elizabeth." He raised his glass to Will, not noticing the pallor that had stolen over Will's face. His blood was running in cold streams through his veins. "You're alive because of my daughter's love for you. Someday, though, I think you will no longer be part of her life. Someday, I think you will leave. I hope it is sooner than later, Mr. Turner."

"Never." Will hissed, barely able to form the words. "You are wrong, Governor."

Swann shook his head, the smile on his face strangely sympathetic. "You may think me a fool, Mr. Turner, but I'm not. I've seen my share of this world, even if you think I haven't. You're the sort who would marry the pretty girl, leave her with a child, and return to a life of grand adventure. Where does that leave my daughter? Married to the memory of the man who left her." He got up, and crossed the room, heading for a roll-top desk. Sorting through a stack of papers, he came up with a document, trading Will his brandy for it.

Will's hands were shaking when he took it. His eyes scanned the words on the page, words the he read but that did not register. He looked up at the governor in shock.

Swann nodded. "It's a letter of Marque. I'll give you enough money to purchase yourself a fine ship, if you'll take it and leave." He waved at the open window, to the ocean that crashed against the shore, and the palm trees waving between them and it. "Go and be a pirate, lad, just leave my daughter out of it."

"Privateer." Will corrected absently. "A privateer, governor. You'd pay me to leave Elizabeth." He turned the page over in awe, almost. Held it up so that the governor could see it. And neatly tore it in half. "I think you forget the reason that I partook of my adventure, Governor. Would I have left Port Royal, would I have taken up with the unsavoury characters that I did, if Elizabeth were safe at home? Nay. You forget that I love your daughter, as well, Governor. Money, a ship, what use are they to me?"

Governor Swann looked him over coolly. "You think I offered this to you as a request?"

"You think that I would take it as a command?" Will countered. "Thank you, governor, for proving how little you think of me before I married your daughter." He threw the pieces of the letter onto the floor at his feet, pivoting on his heel.

"Ah, lad, hold up." Swann called after him. Will hesitated, slowed, and finally paused with his hand on the door. "You are right, I apologize. You will forgive a father his concern for his daughter?" Will didn't want to turn, but he did. He had to. Swann was smiling again. "Come, stay. Elizabeth should be home soon."

How open and jovial he suddenly was. Will inclined his head. "As you wish, sir."

&&&&&&&

He's taken to me bed, feverish and dull-witted. The ship's surgeon is concerned, and I'm using that term loosely, too. Bathe his forehead, keep him cool during the hot spells, and warm during the chills. Chances were, me and Mr. Gibbs were comin' down with it as we speak.

The doctor is doing something, listenin' to Will's breathin'. Sounds funny to me ears, but I'm not no surgeon. He makes 'hmm' sounds, and it's drivin' me up the blessed walls. Finally, he tears off the whelp's shirt, and lo and behold, there's a scar. A bright red, poorly healed, most definitely infected scar.

"Holy mother of God." Gibbs crosses himself. I had no idea he was religious. Or perhaps he isn't, because I found meself about to address the Almighty, until I remembered that He and I are not on speaking terms. No, I sit there like a bump on a log, looking at that wound on Will's chest. A knife wound—I'm well versed in wounds of all sorts. Gunshots, knives, whips, you name it, I've got it. The doctor starts talking about miracles, that Will survived so long, but ye know, I can't help but think that the bigger miracle would be if the lad gets up out of that bed again. No longer me bunk, no, it's the place where I'll be settin' up a deathwatch shortly.

The doctor's speaking to Will. The lad's awake, if not coherent. Bathed in sweat again. "I know, lad. I know it hurts." The doctor soothes. He draws a knife, and hovers over the boy's chest. "Captain, would you be so kind to pour me some whiskey."

"All the same to you, mate, I prefer you butcher the lad sober." I counter.

That earns me a glare. "For the boy, Captain, not me."

"Ah." I toss him a bit of a salute, and get up, findin' me finest. The doctor gestures that I'm supposed to try to get our patient to take a drink of it. Will chokes on it as he tries to swallow, bubbling it up over his chin. "Drink up, me hearty." I say.

Forgive me, I don't stay when they cut the wound open again. The scream from outside the quarters are more than enough for me. I have other things to deal with for now, a crew to get underway. Ana Maria, bless her, she looks questioningly at the cabin, wondering. I say nothing, reveal nothing to her. I bark orders, "weigh anchor, bring me that horizon!"

I'm interested in revenge. Oh, let's not dally about that. Will Turner deserves only what I dish out to him, anything else sets me blood a-boil. Annoying, persistent, and let's not forget that he's 'bout the biggest Pollyanna I've ever met, there were times I had considered puttin' a round in the lad's head. Not as many times as I had considered putting it in his lady's head—Miss Swann having committed the unforgivable sin of burning the ENTIRE cache of rum—but there were times in our period of acquaintance when, if I hadn't needed him so damned badly for my own purposes, he would have been sleeping it off in Davy Jones' Locker. But he managed to worm his way into me good graces, like a barnacle upon the hull. Woulda killed me if Barbossa had killed the whelp.

Whoever laid his hands upon the body of me mate did so a goodly time ago. Nothing festers a wound like that save time. Poor blighter had been sufferin' from that infliction for… I don't know. I don't know who did it, I don't know how long he's been like that, hell, I don't know if he's going to survive. If he doesn't, that solves problems for me. They thought Captain Jack Sparrow was the scourge of the seven seas before, there'll be hell to pay these days if Will Turner dies. I'll start at Port Royal and burn me a path until I find who did it. Not even Norrington with his hoity-toity attitude and powdered wig would stand in me way. I'd slit his neck, toss his weasly guts to the seagulls. And those of anyone else who gets in me way.

When the doctor comes to find me, he looks exhausted. "It's in God's hands." He tells me.

Damn and blast.

&&&&&&&&

"Were you afraid, Elizabeth? When you were alone on the Black Pearl?"

That had been a time they never talked about. They didn't compare battle scars, they didn't discuss the island that she had been marooned on, nothing of the sort. He noticed that the cut on her hand hadn't scarred, while his had. A reminder, he had supposed, that he had been this close to being dead. To being her death.

The sea, it was in his blood. Elizabeth, she had noticed it. Standing in her room, his back to her bed, staring out the windows to the ocean as it crashed against the cliff-face, he had lost himself in a memory of being, well, not here. Out there, among the waves, just him and Jack Sparrow on a commandeered ship, sailing into Tortuga, in order to gather a crew as mad as they both were. When she had answered his question, it hadn't been with words, it had been with a sound kiss, and a pair of arms around his neck, holding him tightly against her.

He made a fist over his collarbone, wishing her hands were there, holding him tightly as he clenched his hands now. Tightly enough that the moon-shaped crescents in his palms were already leaking red blood. If he could sleep now, perhaps, it would be a different story. If he could only close his eyes, and not see Elizabeth's face, not feel her skin against his, not smell the scent of her hair. Roses and woman, and something… Was there always something about women that men just couldn't place?

It was an aroma he wished for, longed for again. The odour that permeated the boards smell of the bilge water sloshing back and forth with every wave. It wasn't the smell of brine he objected to—that, he found to be a clean scent. It was the rotting odour of the few rats that had been unlucky enough to get caught in that last squall that had passed through. Their lifeless bodies batted up against the sides of the hull, thunk-thunking, like the beat of a heart.

There was no light. None whatsoever. No oil-lamps, no torches, not even a beam of sunlight. His head swam so horribly he welcomed the darkness. Whatever and whoever hit him had done so quite efficiently. Nothing like the blow he had received while Port Royal was under the attack of the crew of the cursed Black Pearl. This one came with a few friends, including a quick meet-up with the ground. It hurt something fierce.

He envied Jack his plunge from the embattlements. Will had been half-tempted to follow, and perhaps it was that bit of temptation that led to this. A punishment, if you will. He had not been unfaithful to Elizabeth. No buxom wench, no lady of the night could pull his attention away from the darling girl that had stolen his heart when she found him amidst the waves all those years ago. She truly was the woman he loved. But the half of him that resembled Bootstrap Bill, the half that was content on the waves, up amongst the rigging, running the ratlines, that was the half that led to this, he was certain.

"You need to get yerself a girl, mate." When Jack had said that, he hadn't meant for Will to develop affection for two at once—Elizabeth Swann, and the sea.

The hatch was thrown open, sending streams of sunlight down into the hold. Will winced and turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. He still couldn't block out the sounds of two pairs of bots as they thumped down the stairs to the heap they had dumped Will in days before. They left him shackled there, no food, no water, nothing. It was the first time he had seen the men who had pulled him from the street in Port Royal.

What little of them he did see. With the light at their backs, he couldn't make heads from tails. They dragged him upright, even though his legs would not support him, and thrust a sack over his head. It was made from burlap, and where it touched his skin, it itched something fierce. That was not as bad as the bits that came loose from the bag, and slipped down his throat and into his nose with every breath.

They were deathly silent as they hauled him up, and across a ways. He could feel the heat of the sun upon him, but, tragically, it was gone again in short order. Back into darkness, down into what would become his hell. For the short time he was on the Black Pearl, he learned exactly what it was about her that made Jack love her so much. Sitting in her brig, she had been his companion, the gentle hand that allowed him to sleep, even knowing full-well what might be lying ahead for him.

He had no idea what would happen to him when the men marching him pulled him to a stop, and whipped the bag from his head. Even the light from the lamp was dazzlingly bright, as far as his poor eyes were concerned. Will clenched them shut, opening them terribly slowly. In the mean time, they tossed him to his knees, landing him hard on the deck of a ship.

"Well, matey, did ye have a good sleep?"

When Will didn't answer immediately, the behemoth to his right cuffed him a good one on the side of the head. Stunned him, to say the very least. Trying to work some saliva back into his mouth, Will realized with a start that he should be afraid. Not only that he should be afraid, but that he actually was.

A pair of scuffed boots stood before him. He noticed that, he supposed, because he would never have gone out of the smithy with his clothes looking like that. Even Captain Jack Sparrow had certain quirks about his appearance, and while they might not be anything that Governor Swann and his ilk would consider acceptable for their refined presence, things like his boots and his hat were to be kept in somewhat decent shape.

Looking up, he realized that the tree trunks that were sprouting from the boots were, in fact, legs. Big hulking legs attached rather intimately to a bug, hulking torso. The man was wearing silks, none of which, on their own, would have covered him adequately. He wasn't fat, oh, no, if he had been fat, Will might have found him more ridiculous than threatening. No, naturally, with Will's famous luck, this man was all muscle.

And unlike his two comrades, it wasn't all entirely between his ears.

"I be expectin' an answer, matey. Didja sleep well?"

Will nodded. "A-aye." He managed to stammer.

The man traded looks with the two beside Will, and that was another valuable lesson learned at the end of a roundhouse. When Will was righted by the men, the giant knelt before him, clasping his chin with a big, meaty fist. "Ye're eyes tell me ye slept nary a wink. Don't be lyin' ta me, Turner, ye know I don't like it."

"Turn…" Will sputtered, pulling free. "You… You know my name?"

Another blow, and maybe, Will added to his list of rules, it was best to keep his mouth shut until they asked him a question directly. One thing was for certain, they could only do this for a while longer. The man was right, Will hadn't slept, even in the dark. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and he was ever so cold. Perhaps they could bat him around like a cat with a toy for a bit longer, but, eventually, he was going to run out of strength. Mental, physical, spiritual, they would all just stop, and on would come the blessed night. Come to think of it, as he knelt on the wooden deck, desperately trying to gather his wits about him again, he would have rather welcomed it.

One moment walking down the street having spent an evening with Elizabeth and unfortunately her father, the next, set upon by a gang of thugs. Port Royal was not a safe town, by any means, but even so, such attempts were few and far between. Unlike Tortuga, Port Royal at least had the image of being a quiet place, even if under the surface, she clamoured and roiled like any other pirate haven.

"And ye'll sit here and pretend that ye don' know mine." The man tipped his head to the side, as though he were truly inquisitive. "Very well, Mr. Turner, I'll be introducin' meself again. I'm John Beathard. Ye remember me bitty ship? The crew ye royally screwed over, Mr. Turner, do ye?" He seized a great handful of Will's shirt, hauling him up so that they were face-to-face. Will could smell rotting meat on the pirate's breath, as the hot air blasted over him. "A treasure trove unlike any other, ye said, a thousand pieces of gold for every man, and more besides. What did we get, Mr. Turner?"

"I haven't the faintest." Will said in a small voice. Gads, he had no idea what the man was talking about, even if he had his name right. Beathard had to be out of his mind, and even then, this was a dangerous place to be. More so than before, if anything.

With a great shake, Beathard threw Will back into the waiting arms of his two men. "Take Mr. Turner below. Find out if there actually be a treasure for us to plunder. If'n there isn't, ye be tossin' him over the side. I'm sure there's a shark or three that'll be more than happy to feast upon yer black guts." He punctuated that with a blow to those very 'black' guts he had just been threatening.

&&&&&&&&

That very night, she moves. Her long hair, she stands before her mirror and cuts. Not too short, no, about the length that Will keeps his. She draws it back in a ponytail, and tucks it under a scarf. She is a beautiful woman, she does not know very well how to conceal it. She had gone to Will's quarters, at the smithy, looked through his clothing. The shirts are big enough to hide the swell of her breasts. The breeches, she knows that they should fit tighter, but without the skill of a good tailor, they will have to do.

Her final touch, though, is a rolled up handkerchief. A bit embarrassing, particularly since she had had to cinch the breeches with twine, but a necessary detail that, should she brush up against someone, or become the object of close scrutiny…

Oh, she knows full-well what she looks like. Elizabeth Swann has to disappear for now, and in her place, young Charlie Turner is born. She likes to think that these will be adventures that she can pass on to her son, when she and Will marry. His father will be terribly embarrassed, but young Charles will learn that there is more to life than propriety and the trappings of a high life. This Charlie, though, this Charlie is a street urchin, one of the many that are supposed to no longer exist in Port Royal.

You think it would be easy to find a pirate's ship in Port Royal. Theoretically, it is. Most of the men who pull into dock are scallywags and buccaneers. None of them are as flamboyant as the dear Captain Jack Sparrow was, so many of them do not get caught. They perform their business and leave again, with the port officials none the wiser. Still, one has to know something about pirates in order to sign on with the crew.

Elizabeth goes down to the harbour, with nary a plan on her mind. Oh, there's some smattering of one, but that all depends on who is sitting in the dock. She has discarded her footwear some time ago, finding it easier to walk barefoot. She even rent the cuffs of Will's pants, so that they hung well above her ankles. She feels as though every eye is on her, and that they are able to peer through her clothing, and see that she is not a boy at all, but a woman who is very much afraid.

She finds someone in one of the taverns. An old seadog, from the look of him, his feet up on the table, and a bottle of rum clutched in his hand. It takes but a word to get him talking about his grand adventures. And does he have a lot of them. She keeps buying him drinks, and he keeps telling her of the times he went head to head with the British Navy, and lived to walk away from it. About the time that he double crossed a weasly double-crosser, and slit his guts as a warning to everyone else.

He was the first mate aboard a ship. A ship more than willing to take her out of Port Royal.

&&&&&&&&

Poor boy's delusional. I prop me fist up under me chin, and stare down at the lad. He's tossing and turning something fierce, fighting off a foe I cannot see. The doctor found more bruises on him, the legacy of a beating or ten that will stick with him for a time to come.

They've got something spread on the wound, a nasty thick glop that smells like somethin' ye scrape from yer shoes. The surgeon tells me it's some old woman's voodoo, and when I tease him about it, he shrugs, and says that if it works, it works. I like that about me crew, always lookin' for more than what's conventional.

Fightin' the undead and battlin' off a curse will do that to, oh, everyone.

Couldn't keep the lad's presence a secret for long. Dear Ana Maria, I'm beginnin' to wonder if she's bein' unfaithful to me, tarrying where she ought not. As many times as I tell her that the young Mr. Turner is far from the usually gentry she courts, she still slaps me and tries to take a shift at his bed side. Don' ask me why, I have nary a clue. Women.

We've been days at this. Every time we think his fever's broken, it flares again. Many times, I've considered getting me pistol, and putting the youth out of his misery, but the doctor figgers that if we can keep him cool, and let his body fight this, he'll be fine. At least, that's what I want him to say.

He checks Will's breathin' again. Smiles at me. "He's doing better." Straightening up, the surgeon rearranges the blankets over Will's prone form. "Wish there were more that I could do for him. When he was stabbed, he lost a lot of blood."

I look up at the man. "Tha's why no leeches?"

The doctor raises his eyebrows. "Leeches? No. I wouldn't take more blood from him. I wish that there were a way of putting some more into him." With a shrug, he steps back. "I'll be honest with you, Captain, I'm surprised that he's lasted this long. He's a fighter."

Captain Jack Sparrow does not get all soppy. But if he did, just once, indulge, he'd think to himself, that this lad had proven it over and over again. But Sparrow would never, never indulge. In booze, in women, but never in that. Nay, not the man who raised a glass to a skeleton in toast. "I may let you live, Doc."

He smiles. You didn't throw away a gem like that, a real doctor. He wasn't a carpenter or a cook, but an honest to god surgeon. Nay, he knew his life was practically guaranteed. "I'll be back soon. Call me if anything changes."

Will stirs, and something comes from his lips. "Meurte." I don't think I'm hearing right. Or, mayhap, the lad still dreams of the place. I do. Not that it bothers me, I've seen me fair share of worse things, but the undead would bother the sleep of a common blacksmith. Wonder if Elizabeth is the one he wakes up to…

That was when I realized he was looking at me. Breathin' hard, painfully, but lookin' at me with recognition in his eyes. I don't get in a panic about it, for it could be merely part of the dream to him. But, then, he closes his eyes, and winces. "Jack?" He asks.

"Ahoy, matey." I catch his hand as he reaches for the wound. "Wouldn' be doin' that. Right nasty mess, that was."

He nods, slowly. "Hurts like a bastard."

"I'd imagine so." I laugh. He doesn't appreciate it when I cannot stop.

To Be Continued…

&&&&&&&&

A/N: Wow! It's been a long time since I've published fan fiction. This place looks way different from the last time I saw it! So, this is my first "Pirates of the Caribbean" fan fiction. I've been told I'm out of my mind to keep jumping around with the POVs, not to mention the tenses. So, love it, hate it? I'd love to hear what you think.