A/N Hm. Okay, well, this is my first PotC fanfic. -Crosses fingers- Hope you like it. Some sexual references and implications, but that's all. It's also /not/ a romance.

Summary: It's been over two hundred years since Elizabeth's death, and because of an injustice done to the captain of the Flying Dutchman, he's cursed to sail forever. But what would happen if he comes ashore again?

Prologue

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest,
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Drink and the devil had done for the rest,
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
The mate was fixed by the bo'sun's pike,
the bo'sun brained with a marlinspike.
Cookey's throat was marked belike,
it had been gripped by fingers ten;
and there they lay, all good dead men.
Like break o'day in a boozing ken,
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum."

The lyrics of that gruesome song were belted out by Penrod, as he sidled towards the port side of the Flying Dutchman, peering over the railing with a decidedly addled expression on his countenance, something that was ever present. Humming to himself now with only a few, muttered, indiscernible words, he stared out at the bleak seas of World's End, watching the boats of souls pass by. The movement was slow, languid, and the persons sitting complacently within paid no notice to the Dutchman…or Penrod.

Over the years, it was noticeable how drastic the clothing changed on these souls. Ever since Elizabeth Turner died, the Captain was loathe to step on land at all. Occasionally, he would drop anchor outside of port to visit his own family, and they would go ashore, only to receive strange looks and barely concealed whispers. By this point, it was impossible to tell what year it was…only that it was clearly a dangerous point in the future. The souls of some women and girls wore the most scandalous clothing, worse than any of the wenches Hadras had ever seen.

They often were garbed in tight breeches that showed above their knees…all the way up to their thighs! A delightfully tantalizing amount of bosom was shown, what with their low cropped blouses and all. The men were equally changed, showing less and less lace, -though in a few cases, dressed similar to the women-. The fashions and appearances changed so much over the years. It must be an age of debauchery and sin, worse than anything they had ever experienced! If only the captain would let them go ashore again…

But no. That would not happen. Not for many years, at least. Yet the month of William Turner's one chance to walk on land soon approached.

Chapter I, part I

The Flying Dutchman

"Captain," said Bootstrap, putting a large, paw-like hand on his son's shoulder affectionately, "We've not been ashore for years now. More than thirty, at least. The men have been loyal to you; you know they have. Reward them for their steadfast constancy." His luminous, pale blue eyes were asking for this favor, though quite prepared to accept whatever decision his son chose.

Bootstrap was standing on the quarterdeck, the full length of the Dutchman spread before him. Will was positioned on the stairs, frozen on the second step going down. He was in the process of descending when his father caught up with him to bring forward an important -and often avoided- issue.

"You're our captain. We're obligated to accept whatever course of action you will, but you know that they deserve this treat." He said, his husky voice stretched from all the years at sea. His son nodded absently, thoughtful.

"I know." Will said at last. "I'll let them go." He said this softly, like it was a great pain to lose the men for but a day. Motioning for his father to move from blocking the stairs, he slipped past him, and, walking towards the wheel, stated to Jimmylegs, the bo'sun, "We're close to the Americas, near the Baja coast. Steer us where you will." Then he clapped the man on the back with good cheer that he didn't really feel.

The bo'sun displayed a lopsided grin, splitting his face almost in two with his glee. With a smile, Bootstrap passed Will with a short dip of his head, thanking him. His son returned the smile, but it soon faded, and with a deep breath, he retreated down the stairs again, avoiding the crew like they were a deadly plague, seizing his limbs with clawed fingers and spreading an icy chill spreading over his heart. But they were no disease, just men.

Men who wanted to see life again, see the new world for what it was, not just attempting to piece together a story with only the souls floating past them as evidence. In recent years, when cruising the coastal waters, they would come across sleek ships, white and pristine with no sails to speak of. They were like dolphins, almost, with their speed and agility, cutting through the waves as easily as a knife through warmed butter.

It was a wonder how they moved so precisely without any wind to power them. Why, it was a wonder they moved at all! How could Will blame the Dutchman's hands for wanting to find the source of this enigmatic vessel with no oars, no sails and no rigging? He could not. And so he chose to let them find out, to satiate themselves with knowledge and wenches.

Now in the safety of his cabin, Will passed the ominous organ, looming over him like a thing alive. It served as a reminder of how twisted he could become, how hard he must work not to turn into the next Davy Jones. This giant, grim organ was a warning, but it also served another purpose. He ran his deft fingers over the keys, long unused and out of tune. When he hit one note, a particularly sour sound was emitted from the bellowing behemoth.

Looking up at the pipes, Will smiled reminiscently, his warm, rum-colored eyes gazing at a face that materialized before him.

It was Elizabeth, giving him the suggestion to hide the key to the Dead Man's Chest in one of those enormous tubes. It was genius, a place seemingly no one would think to look, for fear of incurring the captain's wrath. Whether it was the new captain or the vengeful spirit of Davy Jones was unclear.

Then the mirage vanished, leaving Will alone, feeling alienated and melancholy. It was said Jones lost the ability to love when his heart was cut out.

Why had that not happened to him?

Chapter I, part II

What was the definition of monster? Was it an abnormality, a lusus naturae, like the twisted creature that Davy Jones had become? Was it a sinister fiend, an internal gargoyle that worked for their own ends, like Hector Barbossa? There were too many monsters in the world for merely one vague interpretation of the word. Take William Turner for example. All his life he attempted to do good, to live with a personal code of ethics and morality, only to have it ripped savagely away by one pirate, namely Jack Sparrow.

This chance meeting in a humble forge catapulted the young blacksmith into a world of scoundrels, thievery and danger. It was nothing like the romanticism of piracy that oft would appeal to younger, naïve children as it once did to Elizabeth. No, William Turner became one of them. One of the pirates. The outlaws. The monsters. While he was no corrupted skeleton, no fish-like creature, his view of life was warped. How could it not be, filled with Goddesess, Krakens and curses as it was? And now he was one of them, doomed for eternity as a psychopomp.

He was no longer living, though his heart still beat. How was it that Elizabeth loved a creature like that, though she blindly insisted she did? It repulsed him to know that he was no longer entirely human, to know that he outlived Elizabeth, to know that he was forever changed because of a fateful chain of events of which he had no control over.

Will mastered the eerie ability to slip through walls and doors, crossing long distances between ships at sea like a shadowy wraith, a specter. That's what he felt like. Hollow. Incorporeal. Ghostly. Was this how he was doomed to feel like forever, as an immortal? Gladly Will would have given Jack the heart, even if it meant his own death. If he had only known what measures Elizabeth and Captain Sparrow would have done to save his life…was it worth it? Jack would certainly have saved his father, and their skirmish with Norrington on Isla Cruces seemed altogether futile.

So here he was, Captain William Turner of the dreaded Flying Dutchman, staring gloomily at his tanned hands, sitting at the edge of an ancient, creaking couch in his cabin. Around his neck was looped a chain of silver; the musical pendant that once belonged to Jones. It sparkled incandescently in the moonlight that leaked through the window, the engraved eyes glinting supernaturally. If only Elizabeth was buried with the second piece. Then he wouldn't feel quite so alone.

Elizabeth was constantly on his mind, every day. Even as the spectral essences of souls floated past, reduced to glowing wisps, Will thought of her. She was like one of those ghosts, haunting him and toying with his mind. Her voice whispered to him, shouted to him, and he could think of nothing but her. The days inched past slowly, and Will wondered why he had not yet carved his own heart out. Ah. He had no heart. It was always in her keeping. Always. And he said as much to her so long ago.

He once trusted Elizabeth with his life, yet he doubted her fidelity. Who would be so loyal to a man gone every ten years? It was impossible, even for her. Or so he thought. Ten years after the battle with Beckett and Jones, the Dutchman was preparing to return once again to land. However, within that span of years, Will had constant turmoil with himself, suspecting that Elizabeth had abandoned him in favor of a more readily available man.

Despite these doubts, he would not let himself ruin his one chance of being with Elizabeth for the rest of his life. As the green flash surrounded him, and the ship dove beneath the waves, surfacing again in a different location, he felt in his heart, -ironically- that she remained ever faithful. He continued to sail unfalteringly towards the rendezvous point, anticipation tingling in his entire body.

When he saw two shapes walking towards the beach, a brief, blinding moment of panic surged through Will. Who were they? Surely not Elizabeth. Had she forgotten? Did she not stay staunch in her love? Yet the strong feeling of assurance still remained deeply rooted in him, even though his thoughts strayed to darker ideas.

He bounded to the nearest jollyboat, hoisting it over the side of the ship, jumping within and cutting the ropes in a frantic flurry of rapid movements. His crew watched him with a mixture of joy and regret, secure in the fact that their noble captain would soon be leaving them forever, though heading towards the woman he still loved.

The figures on the beach still approached, one half the size of the other, and a few of the men jabbed Bootstrap Bill with their elbows, winking and muttering encouragements, with whispers of "Grandpapa Bootstrap," and other endearing terms.

All of this was lost to Will, who rowed steadily towards the shore, his eyes glued on the Dutchman like it was the last thing in the world he would ever see.

When finally the increasing amount of sand under the hull of the jollyboat brought him to a halt, he leapt out…and froze. His mouth turned suddenly dry, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, unable to perform any utterance at all.

"Papa?"

Elizabeth was there, beautiful and shining with all the radiance of an angel, and by her side, a young boy hid behind her nervously. He looked up at Will with his very own brown eyes, wide and curious, open to the world. The child looked every inch his father and mother…

This was his son. Elizabeth was smiling.

The family instantly clicked, William Turner III began following his father around like an adoring puppy. The first day passed with much rejoicing, and Bootstrap too came ashore to celebrate his son's freedom, and to greet the latest descendant in the Turner line.

As night settled in, and Will was in the process of saying his farewells to his crew, a sudden wind picked up, blowing about the assembled company in a fury.

He would soon learn that the sea didn't give up what it cherished so easily.

The voice of Calypso was trumpeted, airy, but distinct in the unexpected gale. It spoke to the former Captain of the Flying Dutchman, commanding him to continue his services as he himself had not stayed loyal to Elizabeth. Outrage struck all in attendance, and the Turners were devastated, unbelieving.

Calypso's voice continued to talk through the screaming wind. She haughtily pointed out that Will now had two loves; Elizabeth and the sea. He protested that any sailor fell in love with that particular mistress, that both he and his wife had stayed true, but Calypso was jealous; envy was in her voice, and she would have none of it.

Will's heart was still in the Dead Man's Chest, and he would be Captain of the Flying Dutchman forever.

It was not Elizabeth that doomed him to sail for eternity…but himself.

All these years he held a certain dread of walking on solid earth, as if he was not worthy enough for such a reward. He longed for the smell of trees, the texture of fresh soil in his hands…but no. He was not yet ready. Would he ever be?

"William." Looking up, he saw his father standing in the doorway. "Don't blame yourself again this time. You know it's no fault of yours. She would not want you to handle it this way." Bootstrap said that every year, and as much as Will wished to believe him, it almost seemed like it was too cheap a way to excuse himself.

When Will did not answer, Bootstrap shook his head sadly and left him alone. Barely audibly, Will said to his long dead wife, "I can't go. Not when I'm thinking of you."