Pairing: Will Turner

Word Count: 415

Prompt: Article

Summary: Young Will Turner must pay his fare to the West Indies by selling . . . something.

NOTE: I have no claim whatsoever to any of the brilliant POTC characters; I am grateful to be sitting at a banquet table set by truly talented storytellers.


Ite, Missa Est

Towards afternoon, the noise of the busy thoroughfare began to disturb the peace of the small room in Rotherhithe. Against the rumble of carts, the songs of the buskers and the general hubbub of the crowds, Mrs Shadderall drew the window closed, and turned to the sombre boy standing by his mother's bed. Her late tenant's shrouded body lay cold and quiet.

"You do see that it's for the best?" Mrs Shadderall enquired. "I mean to say, you've hardly enough to bury your mother. You have no articles of value, do you, anything I could sell to pay your fare?" She cast her sharp gaze around the dim room.

Will Turner shook his head, a wary look in his dark eyes.

"Well, then!" Mrs Shadderall exclaimed, as if a great point had been proven. "You'll be indentured to me brother, and smithin's a good trade. They all know Micah Brown in Port Royal! How fortunate for you!"

"And I'll likely find my father, don't you think?" he asked the landlady.

And I'll likely marry the Young Pretender, thought Mrs Shadderall, but no sense fretting the boy still more. She nodded. "Oh, yes, dearie! But in the meantime you'll have your articles of indenture, and be bound to Micah for eight years."

"Shouldn't I work only three years for the fare?" Will enquired anxiously, twisting his hands. His eyes were on the worn bedclothes with their telltale rusty stains, the traces of his mother's coughing fits.

Well, that's gratitude, reflected Mrs Shadderall. She replied with a tight smile, "Ah, but you're only small, y'see. It'll take Micah eight years to get the work out of you what a bigger lad could do in three. Now, I suppose you want a moment with your mother, before I put you on your ship?"

He nodded and Mrs Shadderall withdrew from the room. Then, he spoke softly to his mother's spirit, patting the medallion under his shirt.

"I won't forget what father told you about it," he said to her. "Don't show it – don't tell no one I've got it," he thought for a moment. "And don't sell it, no matter what."

He hesitated, remembering their last conversation. What else had she said as she held his hand for the last time? Your father's a good man. You remember that. The boy nodded, and hurried from the room with head slightly bowed. Outside, the noise of the street drifted up to the deserted room. The buskers finished their song and moved on.