That's right... I wrote a PotC fanfiction. That's unusual for me, and it's not very likely to happen again. It was a strange feeling.

PotC (c) Disney and probably some other people. Not me.

Enjoy. Leave pretty reviews?

Elizabeth Aboard the Flying Dutchman

"Take me to the sea."

With shaking hands, thirty-four-year-old James Turner rowed a small boat out to open water. He had begged and pleaded with his mother, insisting that it wasn't necessary, but she had opened her tired eyes—she was always tired these days, and weak—and whispered longingly, "I want to see Will, James. Please."

His mother was dying.

She lay in the boat, as comfortably as James could make her, and her faint breaths were somehow audible to James even over the slish of the oars through the water. Her hands were crossed over her stomach; it reminded James of the pose of coffined corpses.

"This is fine, James," his mother said when James could no longer see land. Her voice was breathy and barely there. "Thank you."

"Mother…" James put the oars back in the boat and went to stroke his mother's heated forehead. "Th-this isn't necessary. You're going to live. You're going to live." He kept repeating it, wishing that she would believe him just once so that he could believe himself.

But Elizabeth Turner shook her head slowly. "No…" she said. "I know this is my time, James… I can tell. I'm just glad it was this illness, rather than dying in my sleep…"

"Don't say that!" James protested. "This illness is making you suffer. You're in pain."

"But I would never have known death was coming… if I'd died in my sleep," his mother reminded him. "This way I can die at sea… And Will…… Is he coming?" Her voice's inflection darted upwards in eagerness for a moment, and she tried to sit up. James had to press her frail shoulders back down to the boat.

"You need to rest, Mother," James murmured. "Lie back down."

Elizabeth obeyed him, but she asked again, "Is he coming? Look for me, darling."

Dutifully, James shaded his eyes to look over the ocean. Grief clenched his heart suddenly as he saw a ship on the horizon. He lifted his spyglass to his eye, but he'd recognized the ship's silhouette without even that, even though he'd only seen it three times in his life.

The Flying Dutchman.

The ship that came to collect the souls of those who died at sea.

It was coming for James's mother. His mother was dying.

"…He's coming, Mother. I see the Dutchman."

"Thank God," Elizabeth whispered gratefully. "Oh, Will…"

The wait.

James and Elizabeth had experienced the wait before, staring out at the Dutchman as it cleared the horizon and inched its way towards them. But then they had both been eager. Now his mother was still eager, longing, but James's heart was filled with dread.

"Mother…" he whispered, his voice strangled by tears.

She turned her face towards him and opened her eyes. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you… but it's inevitable. Death is inevitable… It comes to all mortals…"

With every labored word, the Dutchman sailed closer. And it was clear that Elizabeth was fading. Her eyes slid in and out of focus, and her breaths were inaudible and shallow. Finally, with great effort, she raised her hand to stroke James's cheek. "Good-bye, darling," she whispered, and her hand fell.

"No… Mother!" Somehow it only came out as a hoarse whisper.

The Dutchman drew nigh.

James heard a voice he barely recognized.

"James?" the voice called, bewildered, alarmed. James looked up into a face that was almost identical to his own—except, ironically, it was younger. "What are you—"

Then William Turner, the immortal captain of the Flying Dutchman, saw the other soul occupying the boat. James watched his father's face grow shocked, horrified. Will's lips numbly formed the word once; then Will bellowed it, a howl of grief.

"Elizabeth!!"

He leapt over the side of the ship and swam to James and his dead mother. Hanging onto the side of the ship with one hand, Will caressed Elizabeth's face with the other, and bent over for a tearstained kiss. Unable to bear his father's grief, James looked elsewhere—up to the deck of the Dutchman. The ship's first mate, James's grandfather, leaned over the side and watched his son with sad sympathy.

"Elizabeth…" Will murmured.

"She wanted me to bring her to sea," James told him numbly. "So she could see you when she died. But now she can't even…"

Will collected himself enough to look at James. "Thank you, James," he said shakily. "Thank you for bringing her to me. I'll—I'll take her now. If there's anything I can do for her, I'll…" He couldn't finish the sentence. The hope was too great, too terrible. So instead he said, "You've grown into a fine young man, James. The circumstances are tragic, but I'm glad to see you again."

James nodded, agreeing despite himself.

But he wasn't sure his father saw his nod; there was a distracted look in the captain's eye. "You'd better leave right away once I've taken her onto the ship, James. I don't—I'm not sure how this will work out."

"What do you—"

Will shook his head. "No questions, James. I'll see you in a few years."

He lifted Elizabeth's body out of the boat and shouted for a ladder from the Dutchman. For a moment, James watched the captain of the Flying Dutchman take his mother away. Then, obediently, he began rowing his boat back to shore.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"William—" said his father sympathetically, but the captain of the Dutchman had no time for talk. He laid Elizabeth down on the deck, arranging her limbs as naturally as he could, and then he turned back to the side of the ship.

"CALYPSO!" Will bellowed, calling the sea goddess. "CALYPSO!! CALYP—"

"William!" his father interrupted in a fearful voice. Will spun around—Calypso was there.

She was in the form Will knew, the form of Tia Dalma. The sunlight gleamed off her sea-sprayed bronze skin, and her large, untamable eyes gazed at him impassively.

"I wondered if I would be hearing from you, young William Turna," she said in her thick accent.

"C—Calypso," Will stuttered. Everything he had planned to say had suddenly gone out of his mind. Tia Dalma may have been intimidating, but now that she was the unbridled Calypso merely choosing to appear as human, something more—an awe-inspiring force—radiated from her. Will could practically feel her divinity. Shamefully, he bowed low; then he raised his eyes back to the goddess's face.

"Calypso," he repeated. "Elizabeth is dead."

"I know," she replied simply.

"I want to know if there is anything I can do."

Calypso looked back at him, a coolness in her gaze. "You can carry yo'a beloved to the land of the dead, as is yo'a duty."

Will gave an involuntary shudder at the thought. "No, Calypso, please. I want to save her. If there's anything I can—"

"The'a is nothing. She has died. That is part of being a mo'tal."

"But you can raise the dead!" Will protested. "You raised Barbosa, you can raise Elizabeth as well!"

"Ba'bosa died of a gunshot and his presence was so'aly needed," Calypso said evenly, a hint of bare tolerance in her voice. "Elizabeth, on the otha' hand, has died naturally of an illness and was necessary to none."

"My son—"

"It has been ova' thirty yea's since the birth of yo'a son, William Turna. He can take care of himself."

Tears stung Will's eyes. "Then I need her," he begged quietly. "The only thing that has kept me going these last thirty years is the thought of seeing her. I have nothing without her."

Calypso merely stared at him.

"Please, Calypso. I love her. I—You remember what happened to Davy Jones without you! I'll go mad in the same way—"

"Is that a threat?" Calypso swelled and grew suddenly, and before Will knew it she was eight feet tall, glaring down at him. Then it truly sunk in:

He could not make this goddess do anything. It would have to be on her own will that she revived Elizabeth, and she showed no inclination to do so.

It was hopeless.

"No, it wasn't a threat," Will mumbled, his heart aching. "I apologize, Calypso. That's—I guess that's all, then. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

Calypso stared impassively at him for a moment, then her eyes softened. "I know that it is ha'hd to lose the one you love, but you cannot let it interfere with yo'a duty."

And without another word, Calypso vanished.

William dropped to his knees next to Elizabeth and stared into her pale, aged face. She was over fifty now. He had known that someday she would age and die while he remained exactly the same. He simply had not prepared himself for it.

Will felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the face of his father, Bootstrap Bill. "I'm sorry, son," Bootstrap said creakily. "Shall we bring her right away?"

Unable to answer, Will simply nodded.

Bootstrap went to the helm, and Will stayed with Elizabeth. He embraced her again, gathering her up in his arms and kissing her hair. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth…

And then—

"Fine. I will give you ten minutes with your love, young William Turna," said a thickly accented voice into his mind.

The body in Will's arms stirred.

"Elizabeth!" he cried as his beloved opened her eyes.

She saw him and threw her arms around him. "Will! Oh, Will…"

They embraced and they kissed, Will supporting Elizabeth's head tenderly. Then after a few minutes, Elizabeth leaned back, and a terrible, enticing idea occurred to Will.

"Elizabeth, listen to me. Listen to me," Will said, brushing her hair with his fingers. "I'm going to ask you a question and I need you to answer."

"All right," she said, gazing at him.

He knew he shouldn't ask it—knew that it was wrong, knew that it was not the way things were supposed to work—but surely, for just one person, it made no difference—

"Elizabeth Turner," he murmured, "do you fear death?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened; at the same time, Will heard his father cry, "William, no!" and he felt Calypso's sudden fury surround him like boiling water. But only Elizabeth's answer mattered to him.

And she said, "No."

Will's face crumpled. "What? No, Elizabeth, you don't understand—"

She shook her head. "I understand, Will, but I don't fear death. I'm ready for it. I'm sorry, Will. "

Will gripped her shoulders. "But I could make you a member of the Dutchman's crew! We could stay together, Elizabeth—"

"No, William. She's made a wise choice," said his father's voice. "An oath like the one that bound me binds a sailor to the ship, not to the captain. If the Dutchman were to change captains within her sentence, she would be bound here with the new captain, whoever that may be. And eventually she would become a part of the ship; she would lose her humanity and forget even that she ever loved you. Service on the Dutchman is much worse than a death sentence."

"I'm sorry, Will," Elizabeth said again.

But Will had known all along that that would be her answer, and finally he accepted it.

They held each other until Elizabeth's ten minutes were up; then Will continued to hold her close. He could feel Calypso's leftover ire at him for trying to make Elizabeth part of the crew, but he would deal with those consequences later.

For now he was carrying the soul of his beloved to the land of the dead.

I had her name the child "James" in memory of Commodore James Norrington. But if you didn't catch that, I forgive you. It took me about ten minutes to remember his first name.

I apologize for my crude attempts to mimic Calypso's accent. It was just so cool that I had to try. Hope it wasn't too irritating.