Disclaimer: I own nothing of Disney's, Jerry Bruckheimer's, or Gore Verbinski's, and so very tragically, I have absolutely no claim on Orlando Bloom whatsoever. I also have no money, for I am a state employee who once again, like other state employees, didn't get a raise from our state legislature. In short, please don't sue me. Did I mention how tragic it is that I have no claim whatsoever on Orlando Bloom? It is quite tragic, indeed. Oh well, I don't think anyone has ever claimed life is fair. January 2004.
PS: Did I forget to state that it is terribly, agonizingly, horribly tragic that I have no claim at all on Orlando Bloom? Sigh…
Author's note: Many, many, many, MANY thanks go out to Gamine on this one!! You wanted "oomph"? Here's your "oomph". ;) And I'll leave it to ErinRua to decide if there should be a "hankie warning" on this vignette or not. Everyone please keep your arms and legs inside the fic ride until the story comes to a complete and total stop. Enjoy your stay in Will Turner's heart, and please, don't pet the cursed monkey as you leave for the docks. He still bites, even after all this time. Naughty cursed monkey!!
BY
KAHVA
You look so happy with him.
You look so happy with my son. My little baby boy.
Were you ever like that with me, when I was that small?
You've been back in my life for a year now. Elizabeth has gotten to know and love you. The Commodore actually likes you, even though you were a pirate. The Governor thinks you're going to be a fine grandfather – just like he is, of course. And you are, you both are, you are both wonderful, doting grandfathers. My baby boy's face lights up whenever he hears your voice. He's barely two months old, but already he knows you.
I fear he knows you better than I do. I fear he'll know you better than I ever will.
I am envious of an infant. My own child.
Please don't misunderstand me, I'm thrilled he'll grow up knowing you.
He'll get more than I did as a child, that way.
He'll get to know you for all of his young life.
I didn't.
I didn't get that chance… and I find myself wishing I could be my son, so that I can have that chance back.
I can't turn back the hands of time though, can I?
You've been back a year, and I don't feel I know you any better than when I saw you at my wedding. I love you Father, make no mistake… but I feel as a stranger to you. I don't know you anymore.
It hurts.
I want you to take me into your arms like you used to do and make everything better. Do you remember doing that when I was little? Do you remember chasing away the sea serpents and the bad thunder? Do you remember teaching me how to walk a fence rail? How to tie sailor's knots? Telling me stories that Mother would declare I was too young to hear?
Do you remember holding me when I was too sick to get out of bed, and telling me that I would get well, all because you said so?
I believed you when you said that. I got well.
Do you remember telling me that you were going to take me fishing when I turned eight years old? You said there was a secret pond that only you knew about, where the fish were as long as my arms.
I believed you when you said that. We never went fishing.
Do you remember telling me that you were going to be gone for only a little while when you left us that last time? Do you remember telling me to wait for you at the docks, that you would be back in eight months?
I believed you when you said that. You never came home.
Do you remember what you told me? This trip is my last one son, I promise.
I believed you when you said that.
It's the one promise I wish you had never kept.
God, but this hurts!
I know it isn't your fault that you never came home, believe me, I know it. Every time I see the scar on my left palm, on Elizabeth's… When I see those faint scars, I know it. They'll never let me forget.
Every time Elizabeth wakes me from a nightmare, and I still feel that cold, stone blade of Barbossa's caressing my neck, I know it. When she holds me and tells me everything will be all right, that he can never hurt any of us ever again, I know it.
But I wish I could run into your arms and have you make that promise to me.
When I hear Barbossa's voice in my head, I want you to hold me and tell me that he can't come back from the dead, just like those sea serpents can't ever hurt me, or the bad thunder.
Because you're there.
Because you're my father.
Father!!
Is it so horrible to want to know you again? Is it so terrible to want to truly feel I have you back? Is it?
Is it really so selfish to yearn to know, to feel beyond any doubt whatsoever, that you truly do love me, as you obviously love my son?
Is it such a hideous crime to want my heart to finally stop bleeding after nearly fourteen years? Is it so terrible to want the hole in my spirit to be filled?
There's a part of me who is still that little boy. That boy, who went to the docks on his eighth birthday, waiting for his father to come sailing in.
Waiting, with two fishing poles.
Waiting, for four years, until his mother died.
Waiting, even while working as a cabin boy, earning passage to Jamaica. Earning his way back into his father's arms.
Waiting, with two fishing poles and a small bag of clothes stored under his tiny bunk. Waiting, with a cursed medallion around his neck.
Waiting…
I lost those clothes. I lost the medallion, until Elizabeth returned it to me on the Interceptor.
I lost the fishing poles.
Lieutenant Norrington he was back then, he gave them to me as the Dauntless carried us to Port Royal. They were amongst the few things that could be salvaged from the ship. He must have thought the boy they had saved that day was slightly mad. After all, what child cries at the sight of two rough, simple, handmade fishing poles?
Broken fishing poles.
I did. I threw them away and cried all the way to Port Royal. I'd lost everything that had ever been worth having.
I think I lost a part of myself somewhere in that wreckage too.
Now you are back, and I feel more lost than ever. You are there, right there within arm's reach, and I can't touch you. I fear I can't touch you, and I don't think I believe anymore that fathers can keep their promises to their sons, no matter how hard they may wish to.
But you've just promised to take my little boy fishing, once he's old enough. You've promised to take him fishing, sailing, hunting – everything that you promised to do with me so long ago.
Please keep your promise to him, at least.
I can't stay here anymore. My heart is breaking, though I feel it shouldn't. You are here with us on this picnic, Governor Swann also. Even the Commodore has joined us – don't we all make such a lovely portrait this unbearably beautiful day? I can't stay here.
I can't stay here and let Fate's cruel dagger twist any deeper into my torn heart. I can't stay here and listen to Fate laughing at my pain anymore.
Fate has a sense of humor that I do not appreciate.
All I thought I ever wanted was to see you one last time, to hug you one last time.
I was wrong. It is not enough. I hunger to know you again as my father.
It seems I am doomed to starve.
I excuse myself before my tears can begin. If I weep now, I'll not be able to stop. I smile and start to head back home – but you stop me.
One gentle hand on my shoulder, that's all it takes. One word from you, and I am doomed to fall apart in front of everyone.
"Will."
You're smiling. Why on Earth are you smiling at me? What is there to smile about? Why are you so damn happy, when all I can feel is my heart ripping apart?
I'm sorry. Oh please, I'm sorry. I don't mean to feel like this, but I can't help it. I hope you don't see my feelings, I hope my mask doesn't slip.
Your hand doesn't move. "Will."
I know you don't mean to hurt me this way, I know you are not deliberately cruel, but I can't take it anymore… What is this?
You're holding me. You're holding me, smiling only at me, only for me…
I'm eight years old again, and my father's ship has finally come in. Just like you promised. Your arm is wrapped around my shoulders, and I know that the sea serpents and bad thunder can't hurt me anymore, because my father says so.
This shattered heart is finally mended; the hole has been filled with four simple words.
"Let's go fishing, son."