A/N: Here it is! Our PotC fic! We tried really hard on it, and we hope it's good. So leave a review and tell us what you think. See ya!

"Here, where the world is quiet,

Here where all troubles seems

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams…"

Over The Edge

Chapter 1

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It's night. Thick dark grey clouds spread over a sky of midnight blue, hiding the stars, announcing the storm coming over. The seaside wind blew strong and cold; cold enough to make the men on the deck chatter their jaws, and close their eyes against the cutting sensation. The waves under them churned violently, attacking the sides of the battered ship, sending it swaying sideways, and knocking the sailors on the floor, as they tried to rearrange the sails and prepare the vessel for the rough night that was to come. For it was quite obvious it would be one, it had been in the orange-purple sky that glowed at seven in the evening, and the sudden change in the wind's direction.

There's an old man with graying hair and a thick white beard, shouting orders at the others. He walks in circles, gravely, wary of more than just the weather. He sends an anxious look towards another man, at the end of the deck. This man has his back turned to him, and leans over a table, gesticulating furiously and mumbling to himself. Just as the old man watched, the other's movements ceased completely. His shoulders tensed. He stopped stock-still. The man turned around, bearing a grin so wicked it put the devil's to shame.

"Gibbs." The man called. He could barely keep his voice from shaking as he answered, nervously.

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Set sails! We now have a destination!"

"Er… Haven't we one afore, Cap'n?" he asked, tugging at his collar. The man opened his mouth to answer, but closed it suddenly. Then opened again, and spoke chidingly.

"We certainly did, Mr. Gibbs, for our former destination was getting to our next destination, which is our current destination, which you should be seeing to reach as about now!"

Mr. Gibbs yelped and scrambled away, resuming his shouting and pulling himself some of the cords in the ship. He glanced at his mumbling captain one last time, and felt a shiver run down his spine. He checked the winds once again. He felt a sudden sense of foreboding. The south-west* wind. The storm bringer.

As he looked up at the cloud-filled sky, he crossed himself three times, and thought resigned, that the calm time was about to end.

And after the calm, always came on the storm.

She woke up with a start.

She shot upright in the bed, panting heavily. Her chest heaved up and down as she gasped repeatedly for air. She was shaking head to toe, and looked paler than what was humanly possible. Her breath was coming ragged, and she was freezing. She lifted a cold trembling hand to brush her damp hair out of her forehead, letting her palm rest against it for a minute, closing her eyes, trying to calm down. It took a few minutes, but she finally managed to soothe her raging emotions back into the usual ease they normally were.

These dreams would be death of her.

They had started since that fateful day, months ago, since the end of those much cherished twenty four hours that away her most precious memory. She sighed, covering her eyes with her hands. Was it too horrible to think about him this way? As a memory? Was it too wrong to think about him as a part of her glorious past, that was to be for evermore, just that? Was he just that? A fading memory of golden ages long gone, and a broken promise of future never to come?

She felt a sob stuck in her throat, but she held it back determinedly. She was long past the stage of crying, she was long over sadness. Now, the only thing left was an everlasting agony, caused by an ever-present sense of longing. It was ironic, really, that she was the one with his heart on a safe, for she often felt like the one with a hole in her chest.

Her hand flew to the key dangling from her neck, the one she guarded with her life. She pulled it, ignoring the sharp pain in her nape when the string ripped in two and dropped the little metallic piece on her lap. The darkened silver looked decidedly off against the pristine white sheets. It looked scary, and tainted. The dark metal shimmered in the moonlight with a glow that was almost… Evil. She contemplated for a second, had she looked at it more closely, would she have seen the stains of the blood that was spilled over the chest that little old key guarded?

She picked it up and it weighted a ton. The burden of years of suffering and agonizing wait, wretched mark of those who are cursed to stay behind, represented by a damned little key, crushed down on her, and the maledicted object slipped right through her fingers, falling with a clatter to the hardwood floor. The noise reverberated through the somber chamber, like the sound of two swords clashing.

Swords. Like the twin blades stuck on the sand of the beach outside her window. Two old swords, turned rusty by the salty air of the sea, nailed on the ground, like a scar in the surface of the earth. A reminder of happier times, and the materialization of a promise that would take way too many years to come true, and miserable twenty four hours to fall apart.

The soft sound of shuffling of feet on the hallway reached her ears, and she forced herself to pick up the cursed key from the floor and throw it hastily on the drawer of her bedside table, slamming it shut. She jumped back on the bed, burying herself deeper in the sheets. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was asleep. About half a minute later, there was a timid knock on the door, and it opened slowly to admit a little boy in.

She blinked, faking the sudden wakeup, and sat up calmly, looking at the new occupant of the room. It always startled her how much he looked like herself. One would believe he was hers entirely. He had her features, from the dark blonde hair with the golden streaks to the tanned skin, unnatural for somebody with such pure English lineage as herself. The nose was hers. The eyebrows were her father's. The eyes had the same smart glint mixed with the bronze, and his whole complexion lit up with a disconcerting aura of wit, the way hers had when she was his age.

Where was his father in that little being?

"Yes, dear?" she prompted, faking a yawn. He bit his lip – gods, even that was hers – and entered the room, warily. She knit her eyebrows together in worry when he stayed by the door, staring at his shoes. "Darling, what is the matter?" she tried again, softer.

He looked up, and stared blankly at her for a minute or two. And then he puffed out his chest cockily, and a smile broke into his face. She almost screamed with relief. There it was. There was his father, hidden in the corner of his mouth, a mouth that looked like hers, but became his whenever that smile came trough.

"I came to see you're okay, mother." the boy stated in a tone that indicated she should have known something so obvious "I had been sleeping soundly in my quarters when I was woken by a sudden noise outside. I thought you'd be scared to be here all alone in this enormous chamber, therefore came by to see if my assistance was needed."

She smiled amusedly at him, shaking her head at his behavior. He was a sneaky little creature, with a knack to twist the situations around in his favor. Sometimes he really astounded her with his sense of independency and his irreducible pride. He was smart, and treated matters with a wariness and logic that was unconceivable for kids so young. She honestly didn't know where that had come from. She hadn't been that cunning at his age.

She could see, though. The shadow of fear behind that adorable crooked smile, and the typical haunted look given by a terribly vivid nightmare. He was such a mature child, that she often forgot he was still just a child.

She could have told him she was okay. She could have told him that it was just a bad dream. She could have told him to go back to his quarters.

But what good would that have done either of them?

So she opened her arms, and said in an upset tone:

"Oh, dear, mother had an awfully scary dream. Would you, please, stay here tonight?"

She didn't miss the look of pure relief that crossed his face, before he pulled the brave one again and ran to the bed, jumping on it and snuggling to his mother's side. She smiled and kissed the top of his head, pulling the covers over him. He rested his head on her shoulder, and sighed contently. Within minutes his breath evened, and she realized he was asleep, his mouth was open in an 'O' shape, giving him the look of a much younger child. Her heart filled with tenderness for that little creature. He was her son, and she loved him dearly. She truly didn't know what she'd do without him. He always brightened her days with his pranking the village, the pompousness of his speech or even the astonishing remarks on conclusions he's made about people and the world in general. He filled the blanks, killed the spare time. He was a true gift from the gods. A true gift from…

She smiled lovingly at the sleeping child, and leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead.

"Thank you, Ben."

Elizabeth Turner looked out at the sea outside her window, and for once in ten years, she didn't resent it.

"Thank you…" she breathed out to the empty room. "…Will".

It's a dark, cold night, where the stars shine brightly, and the wind blows furiously. There aren't clouds in the sky, but the big round moon glows in silver, giving an eerily look to all things under her. She is especially beautiful tonight, and shines with the joy of a woman who twirls around in front of the mirror, amused by the drapery of her new dress. She looks down at the sea and snorts snobbishly. You see, the moon heavily disapproves of the sea. She thinks it too messy and temperamental. She'd rather flirt with the sun whenever they cross each other in their comings and goings. Terribly charming that one, and rather predictable. The moon appreciates punctuality and routines. She is not one for big shows, she doesn't throw tantrums. She stays up, and quiet, and unaware of the running planet under her. She never did enjoy the ways of the world. So she twirls in front of her mirror, and remains oblivious to these mundane matters that silly sea likes to watch so much.

But if only the moon had looked down, she would have seen the matters being run on that boat, were not entirely mundane.

It's silent in the deck, and the only man who dares to be out there in such a freezing weather is the same man who dared to do so many other things he was bound to be searched for in each one of the five oceans. It's late, awfully late, and he really shouldn't be there at this moment. His first mate had warned him of a possible impending doom, but he didn't pay much heed. That one was an incredibly superstitious man, and the man figured he could, sometimes, exaggerate a little bit.

He should have know that as superstitions tend to go, he was about to be damned by another one.

"Twist to the right, twist to the left…" he mumbled to himself, while twisting circles of an old and stained map. Letters formed between the two bigger circles. Letters that didn't mean anything. Or anything he was interested in, at least. He growled, slamming his fist on the wooden map. "This is hopeless." He mumbled to himself.

"Jack…"

He stopped, frozen in place. Had somebody just talked to him? No, all the man were hiding below deck for some reason only Gibbs understood. He looked around, and sure enough, nobody was there. He shrugged and grabbed the half-empty bottle of rum on the table, taking it to his lips, ready to drink it.

"It's impolite to ignore people, Jack."

The voice seemed slightly familiar to him. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Hadn't he already talked to invisible voices before? He lifted the dusty bottle to eye-level, and scrunched his eyebrows together in annoyance.

"You used to be more comprehensive, mate."

A chuckle resounded in the chill of the night. A chuckle he was sure he knew. A chuckle that made the hairs in his arms stand up. Where had he heard a chuckle like that before?

"Turn around, Jack."

He did. Slowly. And to say he wasn't expecting what he found was an understatement. His eyebrows shot up, and he almost punched himself to be sure he hadn't passed out drinking again. He pinched his arm, instead. No. Definitely awake. His pinches hurt like a bitch in real life. He prided himself in being a perfectly capable pincher. It was a skill to be envied, really.

"William!" he greeted surprised, rubbing his still hurting arm.

"Jack." The man before him said, amusedly.

"You are…" he started, looking at the other in search for words. "…Taller."

Will smirked, and approached slowly, stopping a foot from Captain Jack. He gulped.

"I came to warn you."

"Well, that is a very nice thing to do, for mates watch each other's backs, and I would hope you are my mate, old chap. We are mates, right?" he asked with a fake worried look.

"Jack." Will cut him off, with a dangerous edge to his voice. "You're messing with things you shouldn't." Jack opened his mouth to speak, but closed it. He frowned for a second, and then smiled.

"Well, I'm always messing with things I shouldn't, therefore, one would expect me to do something I shouldn't, so if one would expect me to do it, it would be only rude not to correspond one's expectations. So doing something I shouldn't, I would be doing something I should." He finished with a mischievous smile. Will grinned and shook his head.

"I'll be more than happy to tell you 'I told you so' in the end, Jack." He stated, with a definite tone.

Will turned around to leave, but stopped mid-way, and turned back.

"I had almost forgotten." He opened an all-knowing immortal grin, one that was almost wicked. "Be sure to send Elizabeth my love."

"I will." Jack promised in a smiling and confident tone. Will smiled once more and disappeared right before his eyes.

Captain Jack Sparrow fell back on the table, where the map laid forgotten. Sure, he would send Will's lovely wife his love. He snorted. As if. The hand he was using to lean on the table slipped suddenly, flying across the wood and catching one of the circles in the old charts, twisting it accidentally. He cursed out loud and got up, standing in front of the wretched map.

His eyes widened.

'Over the edge…'

It couldn't be.

'…And over again.'

Will's sardonic laughter echoed through the empty deck, sending a shiver down his spine.

"How did you know, you little…" he mumbled, befuddled. His answered came whispered, as if the owner was standing right beside him.

"The dead speak, Jack, if only you learn to listen."

'And again… And again… And again.'

Over the Edge and Over Again.