Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea and Evie as well as her husband. Will Turner is of course property of Disney, and Rebecca Sparrow is property of /u/643020/Journalistintraining
Author's Note: As far as any spelling or grammatical errors go, please ignore them and just ready for the sake of reading…I only write for the sake of having fun, and I don't particularly care for the particulars of the process.
Chapter One
The Meeting
"Mmm… it looks as though that Sea-rat Turner has returned"
The man's voice seemed unimpressed and altogether he drawled as though the mere thought of such events were trivial and not worth his time, or that of his wife whom he was speaking to. He turned to the dark haired woman at his side, waiting to hear her thoughts on the subject, and being more than just a little judging of what she was going to say. So much so that she swallowed slightly in fear and quickly rethought her response. She bowed her head ever so slightly, her lips pressed together tightly and her eyes closed; showing her fear and her determination in not speaking her mind. What good would that do? It never brought them to anywhere worthwhile.
She opened her eyes and looked up at her older husband; he was at the very latest ten years her senior, and at the very least seven years. She looked him over, his hair was dark like hers, but through his were wisps of silver frost. The little wisps of hair showing only at the nape of his neck; where the white wig did not hide them any more. The wig was bound back with a black ribbon. His face had a few distinct lines, wrinkles that were already setting into his flesh, she suspected this was because he never smiled but wore an almost perpetual frown of disapproval. It seemed that nothing she did was ever good enough. Its not that she minded how he treated her herself, when they were without company, no that didn't bother her because her humiliation wasn't in front of people she cared about, or in public. No, what she hated very much was when he insulted her in front of their children.
At only 19 she was the mother of three children, the oldest being 5 years old. When she had been 13 her mother had sent her off to be married, just like all the other young girls of the upper-class. And just like all the rest she had had absolutely not say in who she married, when, or why. She had no say in how many children she was to bear for her husband. After all, women, like their children, were to be seen and not heard. She'd been practically in the shadows all of her life due to this masculine belief, and although she wanted to give her daughter better, she knew that she could not. To raise her daughter so that she was equal to her sons, would be immoral. Even if her husband allowed it, which she knew that he would never do, than it would only make it harder for her precious daughter, Elise, to find a husband when it was her turn.
But perhaps what had hurt her the most, wasn't the way that her husband treated her, it wasn't that she was a mother at 14, it wasn't even that she hadn't been able to marry for love (as only the poor do, and she had been married from money and status, and for money and status) it was the simple fact that although she knew she did not truly love her husband, she still felt for him. She still cared for him, and to him it couldn't have been anymore the opposite. What hurt her the most was that for 3 of the last 6 years of their marriage she knew that her husband was having an affair with another woman. He had a mistress and more than likely had a number of illegitimate children with that woman. Annabelle, oh how she hated that name; and to think she had been ready to name her own daughter Annabelle.
She could feel her husband's eyes searing into her skin, and she looked up into his dark slate grey eyes. Those eyes pierced her, made her feel weak and immaterial. She had always believed that the eyes of a husband should be warm and welcoming, signalling that he was a safe haven for her to run to, for her to feel free with. Instead he made her feel as though trapped in a cage. Knowing it was better to answer him quickly than to upset him, and in her turn be insulted she looked down the compacted dirt road; to the docks.
"I suppose he was tired of gallivanting around the sea immorally with the rest of the pirate-filth that he seems to travel with."
It almost pained her to force these words out of her lips. She didn't care what said young man did with his time; she couldn't care less that he was a pirate. But she knew her husband was the kind of man that thought anyone that was not in the upper-class and nobility was in fact not worthy to walk on the earth. She knew that although he was disgusted by the thought that any man could mingle with pirates, and disappear away from his duties with the colony for more than three months at a time and could still go un-arrested, and unnoticed, that he didn't truly care what the young man he spoke of did with his time. If only they knew the truth about him.
"You sounded as though that was painful for you, Evie"
Her husband eyed her intensely once more. Evie's eyes widened ever so slightly in fear, and she turned once more to look at her husband. She forced a happy smile and laughed softly as she spoke,
"Oh Philip, do not be silly! I was merely trying to word what it is that I wished to say, although it seems that in so doing it sounded, forced, shall we say? No Philip, I believe as you do, that men such as Turner should not be allowed back into our society. He is not worthy of breathing the air that we breathe. At the very least he should be arrested and charged with his crimes, of which I am sure the list is long my love."
Philip nodded and continued walking along with his wife Evie, not suspecting that her words had been well practised in the late nights that he was with his darling Annabelle. Never suspecting that they were forced. He laid his pallid hand over her own slender white hand as it rested in the crook of his elbow as they walked. Philip was always half a step, or more, ahead of her, so that she walked in her husband's wake; as any good wife does.
Ahead of them only a short way, at present, laid the docks of Port Royale, which the King's Royal Navy frequented most often. After the Navy the harbour was used mainly by the traders that came in and out on occasion, to deliver the merchandise to the market for the colony. However, on occasion the harbour was used by the less desirable people in their society. The pirates.
Yet looking around Evie could not see any sign of a ship that was not that of the Navy, or a Merchant Trader's. No sign of pirates letting off one of their own into this port. Yet there in front of her was the proof that indeed a certain young pirate had been returned to his home colony.
Ahead of Evie and her husband stood a young man, only a few years older than Evie. He was leaning over the side of the dock, pulling the thick rope in; coiling it around and around itself as it brought in one of two listing long boats. Turning away from this task he looped the end of the fraying and rotting old rope around the wooden post so that the boat wouldn't drift back out to sea with the current. He turned his back to the couple as they continued to slowly advance. The young man's hair was chocolate brown, and sun bleached in spots, lightened to the colour of butterscotch. His slightly curling hair hanged down to an inch or two below the top of his strong shoulders. He was already a tall man; taller than Philip, yet he stood before a man much larger.
This man was a black-skinned, and who stood nearly a head taller than the young pirate. He wore a broad grin, his stark teeth in bright contrast to his flesh. His hand was on Turner's shoulder. Philip rolled his eyes, even less impressed with the young pirate who was returning, now that he saw his company. It was obviously he believe that Turner was making friends with former slaves. And that was the truth. The man that he was in company with was a run away slave, but what did it matter? Evie smiled slightly, praying her husband did not catch her. She didn't mind who were friends with who. Truly what was skin colour, other than just that, a colour? What did it matter? She shook her head, her smile fading so that she would not be caught. But her ears perked up as she heard Turner's voice speak, full of happiness and warmth.
"Merci mon bon ami. Faites être un voyage sûr et les bénédictions à votre épouse et enfant!"
The black man laughed deeply, and clapped Turner on his shoulder as he answered him,
"Merci beaucoup ! Nous espérerons vous revoir bientôt Will !"
He moved the edge of the dock and lowered himself into the free longboat, picking up the oars once again. He waved to the young man that he had brought back to port; Turner lifted his hand in a wave. The second man started to row away, and Turner turned away from the docks, walking into the town.
Philip clucked his tongue in disgusted.
"Did you see that Evie? Fraternising with former slaves. I thought Turner couldn't sink any lower than he already had. I suppose that I was wrong. "
Evie sighed softly as she looked down at the road while they walked along. She glanced the way that the young man had walked into town, her mind wandering.
Unlike her husband, Evie had never had anything against William Turner. If anything she was fascinated by him, like much of the young eligible women, and young wives here in Port Royale. He wasn't like their husbands most importantly. He was the mysterious one, he was the one that didn't care what your status was, he would always talk to you. He had always been someone that Evie could talk to, most freely she discovered. When he was in port, he was a person that would listen, who would take what was being said to him into consideration, and if one asked him, in the greatest of confidence. He wasn't one to learn a secret and spread it. Once told to him it would never leave his lips again. But most importantly William did not see the difference between white and black, man and woman. For him, or at least for the way he acted, there was no difference, all were equal. Evie began to realize, it was this very factor that made Philip hate William Turner and not because he was a pirate, or because he was never arrested. Smiling to herself, Evie slowly began to realize that William, through his innovative way of thinking and of treating people, must have made just the right number of friends in the world, with just the right people. That was why he had never been arrested. Smiling to herself she gripped Philip's arm a little tighter, and rest her head against his shoulder while they walked. He looked to her more than just a little surprised, but in his turn smiled and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her there as they walked.
He sighed softly as he stepped once more into the darkened Smithy. In the three months that he had been away, the shop had hardly changed. That is to say it had not changed at all. The only difference was, perhaps, the thick caking layer of grey dust coating everything within sight. He looked around himself, peering through the semi-darkness. Thin bands of golden sunlight filtered into the shop through the wooden walls. They were nothing but thin wooden slats nailed to a frame; each slat had a roughly two inch gap between it and the next. On windy nights the cold breath of wind whistled through the Smithy and not even the heat of the hotly burning forge could keep the young man warm. Curled tightly in on himself on his narrow straw-stuffed cot, the heavy woollen blanket clutched intimately close to his chest the wind still stole the warmth from his body. During the hurricane season the water and the wind used to rob him of his health. For years the weather that his home and his work let in to ravage his already exhausted body had nearly killed him. This is the reason he had taken to leaving for months at a time, mostly just during the Hurricane season. Being only twenty-three he did not feel ready to succumb to the ravages of illness.
Sighing softly once more to himself, William moved down the last of the few stairs into his work place. With his warn out leather courier bag resting on his hip he walked across the compacted dirt floor and through a small door that lead to another room.
The room was small, and there wasn't much to it. The walls were built the same as the rest of the shop, with the widely spaced woodened slats. Off to the side of the room, against one of the walls was a low-to-the-floor sleeping cot, whose mattress was firm, but flat due to its straw stuffing. The pillow was almost as flat as the mattress and stuffed with bits of old clothing. The woollen blanket, a simple grey in colour lay haphazardly over the bed, as though it had been tossed aside in a hurry when last it was used. Beside the head of the cot was a small and unadorned nightstand, on which rested an oil lamp; the glass cover dirtied with soot and smoke. Beside the lamp lay a small leather bound journal. His book of orders from the people of Port Royale, after all he was the Blacksmith. Inside he calculated the billing for each and every piece that he had made.
William had been the Blacksmith in Port Royale for nigh on six years, at least it would be this coming winter. Before this had had two years of training from the previous Blacksmith, one J. Brown. Brown had taken Will in when Will was thirteen years old, and adopted him, if that's what it could be called. Since that day James had worked him like a mule, and so much as trained him as he had forced him to learn for himself how to work with the burning metal. But thankfully, James had died, and left Will his shop. Though the death was sudden, and some in the Port spoke that perhaps William had indeed murdered his cruel master. William didn't care much for what they said about him; but he wasn't about to reveal the truth either, and that in itself was proof enough for anyone that could see passed William's charming exterior. When asked about J. Brown's death, a deeply unsettling, and positively evil smirk came over his normally soft and caring features, twisting them in a dark truth.
William set the leather bag down on the bed as he turned his back to the cot, before sitting down slowly. He put his face into his hands tiredly. The last three months had taken its toll on him in a way that his work here as the Blacksmith did not. Its not that he was unfit, in truth he was far from it, but the work was far different. When there was work to be done, it was demanding, and normally a life or death situation when on board his dear friend's ship. With the Hurricane season came numerous dangerous storms. Each storm brought the high possibility of death, and with each storm the crew grew more and more tired, and careless. The risk of death increased by a large percentage. And yet through another hurricane season the ship, the crew and William, had come out unscathed. This year there were no fatalities upon the Pearl, and for that William could not be happier. But although storms were hard and exhausting, they were the least of the problem. Unless there was a storm there was next to no work to be done. If he and the rest of the crew were lucky there might be a sail that needed mending, or a rope latter that needed retying, or perhaps the deck needed to be tarred once more to keep it water tight. But the truth was that there was rarely any work to be had while the sun shone. This year they had been unlucky enough that between two tropical storms they had encountered the Doldrums. A place of the sea where there was simply no wind to be had, not even a lick. For six days the ship listed helplessly, being only moved ever so slightly by the currently that licked at the hull. The crew, William included, had lost their minds to Cabin Fever. Madness was still eating away at their minds when the ship was suddenly tossed like a cork; Calypso's rage had burst once more, casting them into a week long storm; presumably to make up for the Doldrums. That storm had taken its toll on them maddened crew of the Black Pearl. In his folly a crew member had been thrown from the ship, and had it not been for the quick movements of William and half of the crew he would have drowned. William had quickly tied a thick and strong rope around his waist, and dove into the raging sea without a second thought. Leaving the crew to quickly grab onto the quickly uncoiling rope as he dove to find the sinking pirate. And miraculously he had saved the crewman from a certain death. But this year had exhausted William, far more than it should have at his age.
As he sat there, his face in his warn and rough hands it slowly started to dawn on him. At twenty-three he was still alone in the world. Unlike most men his age he was yet unmarried, and yet without children. Men such as Philip Lewis, who was married to the lovely Evie White-Lewis, had married his then thirteen-year-old bride at the age of twenty, and even he had married late according to societies written, and un-written laws. But William, who was still in his prime was not even betrothed to me married. It wasn't as though there was a fiancée here in Port Royale waiting for him to return so they could be married. It wasn't as though many women wanted to be with him. He was the one they looked down upon. Yes he may have been the one they all secretly pined for (much opposed to his knowledge) because he was the mysterious one, but for the same reason they pined for him, they looked down upon him. He was mysterious, and dangerous to be around. He was a pirate, and therefore he could not be trusted. He was nothing but scum in society's eye.
By twenty-three he should be a husband at the very least, but he should also be the father of at least one child. William had never had the time to be that involved with any woman as to have a child, whether legitimately, or otherwise. With his slowly dawning epiphany, William realized that if he continued to run away every year he would never be married, and never have the children that he did in truth, despite his reputation, long for. He would die old (if he was lucky enough to make it to thirty, knowing the hostilities of both his professions) and alone. A fate that to him was rather unwelcome and unfathomable. But what woman in her right mind would marry him? He was a Blacksmith. Every morning he woke up before the dawn in order to stoke his forge back to the roaring life he needed to work. As soon as it reached the much needed heat he set to work, and normally he did not stop unless it was that someone was calling on him for yet another order. And should he be lucky enough he set his work down at ten o'clock that night. It gave him precisely thirty minutes in which to prepare and to eat a simple dinner before he had to retire for the night. What woman would marry a man that never was there? Even Philip was there for Evie part of the time. But William couldn't be, and its not as though his wife could be near him while he worked. No he would have to move out of the Smithy and into a house if he were ever to be married, the small room beyond his shop was barely big enough for him, it would never hold two people comfortably. And should he ever have children, which he was starting to doubt, he wouldn't want them running around in his shop were they could easily get hurt, either being burnt by his forge, or injured on one of the many cutlasses that lay around. No, he didn't think it likely he would be married any time soon.
He needed air. William stood up slowly, feeling that his now worrying mind was getting the better of his already tired body. He was feeling rather nauseous as he stood; one arm held against his abdomen. He shook out his long hair slowly so that it fell once more around his shoulder.
Once outside the fresh air calmed his nerves, if only a little. Falling silent, although he hadn't spoken since he waved his friend Amar off to return to the well hidden Pearl, his whole demeanour seemed to be silent. Normally his body language would have been talking for him, and perhaps it still was. But now it was more subdued, reflecting an either sad man, or a man that was lost deeply in this thoughts. For William it happened to be the same thing at the moment. With nowhere left to go but back to the water he slipped his hands into his pockets, slowly sauntering back to the way he came. However he didn't stop at the harbour this time. He simply kept on walking, eventually reaching the public part of the beach. So deeply lost was he in his thoughts that it took him a moment to notice her.
Out maybe thirty yards from the shore a young woman was thrashing around in the dark cyan water. The woman's long blonde hair was flailing with her as she fought to keep herself above the water. Her discarded dress lay in the sand not far from William; the white cotton dirtied by the sand, the floral pattern smudged.. With next to zero thought on the matter William dove into the water and started to swim out to the drowning young woman. He wrapped his arms around her narrow and doubtlessly corseted waist. He pulled her closer into himself so that he may be able to pull her to safety, but much to his surprise she screamed shrilly. Her thrashing arms moved again and her pale right hand came slashing down, slapping him in the face with as much force as her petite frame could generate. He felt the flesh just along his hairline on the left side of his face split open with the force and with the ring she wore on her hand. He could feel the warm trickle streaming ever so slightly down his forehead. The woman stopped moving and gasped in slight horror seeing the damage she had done to him. She stopped struggling and let William, who was now blinking the Venetian red blood out of his dark eyes, pull her into the shore.
William pulled her out of the water and into the sand by her dress as he laid down upon his back, panting, not far away. The young woman pushed herself up, so that she was sitting. Her flaxen hair was soaked, and water streamed out of her curls as she sat there. There once white shift was now dark beige, soaked with water, and covered now in sand as she sat there. Biting her lip nervously she leaned down over her rescuer. He lay with his eyes close tiredly as he caught his breath.
"I'm sorry I hit you Mr. Turner but I thought you were trying to kidnap me! I mean honestly you came out of nowhere and suddenly grabbed me! What was I supposed to do?"
William's brows knit together as he lay there, his expression undoubtedly that of anger. He opened his spiced rum eyes and looked up at her, before pushing himself up so that he sat in front of her, his presence slightly intimidating.
"I came out of nowhere? Excuse me? I was trying to help you, you were drowning!"
The woman seemed to be taken aback, and her expression changed to match his, her brows knit in anger; her hazel eyes glowing with rage.
"Drowning?! I wasn't drowning you brute I was just floating!"
"Is that what you call flailing around and thrashing like some kind of beached sea creature!?"
William growled now as he barked at the women he quickly realized he should have left to drown, or as she called it 'float'.
"How dare you talk to me like that?!"
She raised her hand once again, to strike. William didn't know if it was an empty threat or she meant to hit him. He didn't have the chance to find out. Without realizing that he had done it, he flinched, turning his face away from her to avoid her painfully sharp ring once again. After all this time he might not be as lucky as before; this time she might put the ring to his eye. He didn't want to lose his eye, obviously, besides he didn't think he could find a glass eye with his iris colour. The woman noticed him flinch and turn away from her. She realized the blood was still trickling down his wet face. The water was rolling down out of his hair and down his cheek bone, that's where the blood and water met making it look as though there was a great deal more than there truly was. She sighed softly to herself, lowering her hand. When William didn't feel her strike he carefully turned back to look at her. She sighed softly, her hands resting in her wet lap as she looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I shouldn't have hit you the first time - but you shouldn't have grabbed me!"
"I thought I was helping you! I didn't want to see you drown!"
She half smiled to herself and nodded,
"Alright Mr. Turner--"
"My name is Will--"
The woman nodded her head, her eyes closed,
"Alright, William--"
"No. My name is Will. That's what I go by. Just Will."
She opened her eyes once more, looking into her saviour's sparkling wet face and nodded. She felt a little odd however calling him by such a… a childish short form for his given name.
"Alright Will… I'm Rebecca Sparrow… I suppose that would be Becka for short"
It felt all together even stranger to have such a short from for her own name. She hadn't gone by anything shorter than Rebecca since she was a very small child.
"Becka Sparrow… You're Jack Sparrow's sister, aren't you?"
She was barely listening to him, only noticing that her shortened name sounded better when he said it than when she did. Though that was most likely due to the fact that shortened names always sound better when said by people other than the person whose name it was. She didn't answer him, and when she didn't respond Will looked at her oddly. His dark and slightly shaped brow rose up as he watched her, waiting for her to answer him. She blinked and turned to look at him. She stared back at him blankly. Will lifted his hand, rolling it at the wrist as though to say 'come on, come on'
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Becka's brows rose up as she questioned him, looking from his motioning hand, to his eyes. Will's brows knit together in an unimpressed stare to respond to her complete lack of attention.
"I said 'You're Jack Sparrow's sister, aren't you?'"
"Oh!"
Becka jumped slightly, and blushed realizing that she had been asked a question while her mind had been elsewhere. She also seemed to realize that she had no idea just how long he had been waiting for his answer. Smirking Will decided to play on this factor,
"What, had to think about it?"
"No!", she gasped embarrassedly, crossing her arms over her chest, "I'm his half-sister actually. Our mother had become pregnant before she married my father. She married my father, Maverick Sparrow, and then had Jack a short time later, so my parents just named him a Sparrow. I was born about 19 years after that"
"Ah. That would explain why you don't look like Jack very much. Anyway I had better get back to…work…"
He sighed, his voice strained as he pushed himself up and started to stand, brushing the sand and minute shell pieces off of his clothing. Becka looked up at him,
"You can't just get up and leave."
"And why not?"
He looked down at her questioningly as he waited for her response. Becka blushed faintly.
"You have a cut that needs to be taken care of, an I highly doubt that you can do that yourself!"
Will rolled his eyes and sat back down in the sand in front of her. He knew she was going to do this as soon as she apologized for hitting him in the first place, but he'd been hoping to escape her before she could stop him. So far he was starting to believe that Jack was the normal child in the family; and that was truly saying something.
Becka smiled softly and sat up on her knees, and moved closer to him. She came so close that Will could smell her slight perfume. He bit his lip; this was too close, he didn't like people being this close unless he knew them, and Rebecca he distinctly did not know. Becka's damp white fingers came up and brushed his hair out of the cut that she had caused ever so gently, so that there was no way that she could hurt him. Will waited patiently, though he was fighting the urge to get away from her something terrible. He couldn't tell if it was because she was too close and he found her a little odd, or if it was because she was simply too close. Becka turned and looked around her, her eyes falling on her dress that lay in the sand a little ways away. She lifted up the hem a little and with a quick motion she tore off piece of the soft cotton. She lifted it to her lips and dabbed it against her tongue gently, before using it to tenderly wipe the blood away from the cut. After a few moments she pulled back from him. Will let out a breath he wasn't aware that he had been holding. Becka did not notice his exhale. She looked over the cut from her position in front of him.
"Alright… that's the best I can do out here. It should heal alright but it may scar. I could clean it better if you were come to my father's house but expect you have other things to do today, Mr. Turner."
Will nodded, barely listening to her, instead just looking into her sparkling hazel eyes trying to figure out why he was this uncomfortable. He simply nodded and stood up once more. He brushed the sand off of himself and looked down at her as she picked up her dress. He smiled kindly down at her.
"Thank you Becka. I appreciate it-- just please don't hit me again if you see me"
She frowned at him but nodded.
"I said I was sorry…"
"I know, I know."
Will half laughed and held his arms open, inviting her into a hug, giving up and figuring out why she made him uncomfortable. He had noticed that he seemed to do the same to her and he didn't want her to feel badly about what she did. If anything, looking at the situation as though he were someone in her family, her brother, or father perhaps, he was happy she smacked him. She wasn't afraid to defend herself.
Becka looked at his face, her eyes moving to his outstretched arms, then back to his face questioningly. She looked around them slowly, making sure that no one was watching them. In any case if anyone happened to see her, as Rebecca was a young lady of the upper-class, hugging a man that was not her father or brother she would be scorned and looked down upon by the rest of the women and their husbands. There was no one around them although; they were alone on the beach for now. She bit her lip and moved closer, leaning into the port's Blacksmith and wrapping her arms around his torso as she felt his arms enfold her. She was considerably shorter than him; her face came to rest in the crook of his both sea-water soaked, and sweaty neck.
"Thank you for cleaning up that cut. I know that I would have left it to do whatever it would on its own if you hadn't stopped me from leaving."
Becka pulled back from him as he let go of her.
"Well you should take better care of yourself! I'm sure your wife wouldn't appreciate it if you fell apart on her"
Will half laughed at her reaction; and to think that fifteen minutes before he had just been thinking about how he didn't have someone to be upset if he fell apart at the seams.
"What is so funny Mr. Turner?"
"Mm… I am not married, that's what's funny. No one to be upset if I do fall apart."
"Oh…", Becka's voice was soft, she was definitely embarrassed that she had said anything. "Well… thank you anyway for saving me from 'drowning'."
Will nodded and looked at her as she turned her back on him, pulling her over dress on once more. He spoke up,
"Oh, and you shouldn't be upset for hitting me. It was a good thing, you're not afraid of defending yourself."
"I--"
Becka turned around to answer him, but when she turned she saw that he had already left. There was no sign of him on the beach. He must have cut through the tropical forested area to head back into town. She sighed softly, before finishing the sentence intended for him.
"I appreciate that…"
