When Cutler Beckett came to, he was confused, and his clothing was oddly damp.
He remembered being aboard the Endeavor, of the relief that turned to despair as the Dutchman surfaced only to begin sailing towards her in time with the Pearl. Now it appeared that he was on the Dutchman. Had he been kidnapped? If so, why was the Turner boy standing there before him, in new clothes that could not hide the weariness showing on his face? He glanced about the room, there appeared to be no guards on the door. Thoughts of escape quickly fled though, Turner was armed with what appeared to be Norrington's sword while he had no weapon. It wouldn't be prudent for him to try without knowing that he'd have someplace to go anyway.
"I know where I am, but why am I here?" His voice sounded a bit rusty, for some reason.
"You're dead, Beckett. I don't suppose you remember what happened?"
Cutler opened his mouth to reprimand him about using his title, but laughed bitterly. If what the boy said was real, it was hardly the place for formalities. Besides, the dead have no titles he reminded himself.
"I'll take your silence for a no. I've been informed that the dead not brought aboard instantly sometimes have a bit of memory loss for a while, though it seems to be short term." He paused, pouring himself a cup of tea from a pot that Cutler hadn't even noticed. "Though I suppose in your case, it could very well be shock. Care for a cup?"
He blinked several times; it was starting to sink in that he was truly dead. It wasn't a thought he particularly cared for. And if it was Turner talking to him and not Jones, that would mean that while the Dutchman survived the battle at sea, Jones did not.
"Yes, please. Three sugars, if you have it."
Brandy would have been preferred, or he even would have lowered himself to drink rum in this instant, but that did not appear to be an option.
Turner gave him the tea before settling back in his chair and invited Beckett to take the seat opposite him, to answer the question that Cutler had yet to ask.
"Jack had managed to get the heart from its chest. He held it at knife point, and instead of attacking Jack, he stabbed me instead. Killed by my own sword," the bitterness was soft, but it was noticeable. "The second before I died, Jack wrapped my hand around the knife and helped me to stab it. Jones fell into the maelstrom and whenthe Dutchman resurfaced, we helped to take out the Endeavor to end the fight then and there. You went down with the ship."
It certainly helped to explain why his clothes were wet, and confirmed why Turner was able to use Jones' cabin in peace. It still didn't explain the outfit change, for which Beckett found himself oddly jealous, before dismissing it as the least of his worries.
When Cutler once again spoke, the question that came out of his mouth wasn't the one he'd expected to ask.
"My men?"
"Most perished, a few managed to escape."
The memories were starting to return. He knew now that he'd been too stunned to act.
The silence stretched between them for several long moments, the only sound in the cabin of china against china as the men drank their tea.
"Why am I here?" Cutler suspected he already knew the answer, but he had to hear it regardless.
"Penance. You cannot go unpunished for those that died by your command, those that died by simple virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For all the actual pirates you captured, twice as many were as innocent as the world allows.
He sat stoned face. Turner would never understand that what he'd done, he'd done for the greater good. The boy's view of pirates was too rosy, tainted by the occasional spurts of kindness from Jack Sparrow. It was as if Turner had forgotten that it was Barbossa's attack on Port Royal that had put Turner's precious Miss Swann in mortal danger to begin with.
"No length of time is truly sufficient for the suffering and death that your zealotry caused, but I am not as callous as Jones' either. Ten years aboard my ship you'll be free to make your own decision. None of the men left on my ship are here against their will. I am not Jones, nor will I run my ship like him."
Not that Cutler ever expected Turner to. He was too good, too pure to do so.
"Mr. Turner will show you your station and what you need to do."
A dismissal if there ever was one. He set down now his now empty cup and stood, in that instant deciding.
He would treat this job with the same dignity and zeal as when he worked for the East India Company. He would not allow the menial labor, the association with common thugs and pirates break him.
He was still Cutler Beckett.
He was still better then the rest. Soon enough, he would be running this ship, Turner his obedient puppet.
He gave a short bow and left, a smirk on his face after the door closed behind him.
The future was looking bright.