Before we get going, I'd like to talk about Jack, and how he is portrayed here. Don't get me wrong- I love Jack Sparrow, and enjoy his quirky personality, but for this particular story, he needed to come across as something of an antagonist and a womanizer, as has been hinted in the films. But no need to worry, I don't plan on making him a villain! My deepest apologies if I have offended Jack-lovers in any way.

By the way, I have little knowledge of pirate ships during this time, so, if any historical inaccuracy is noticed, please let me know. Right, then, I've bugged you long enough- carry on!

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The embers of dawn had just started to glint over the horizon by the time Elizabeth finally faced the streets once more, ready to stay strong in spite of what Jack had done to her. Deep down she knew she could never feel the same way about him, but the determined part of her urged her to confront him, find the true extent of his love- see if it was really existent.

However, Elizabeth was still afraid. Of what? Maybe it was how he would react, or rejection, living a life without love. Perhaps, most likely, she feared the knowledge that she had made the wrong choice…

But it hadn't been the wrong choice, she said to herself as she slowly paced through Tortuga, automatically straying away from street-side brawls. Didn't she long for the freedom of the sea, the dangerous possibilities? She'd wished for that ever since she'd been a little girl, curled up under a lacy coverlet as a woman's soft voice told of legends of pirates and treasure. Jack Sparrow could have been the breathing form of the songs she'd whispered in the fog, in the forecastle of the Dauntless, more than ten years ago. Choosing to side with him granted Elizabeth that kind of storybook life.

Ah, those tales… high adventure… dashing sailors… storybook love…

An image of amorous eyes and a subtle smile suddenly flashed in her memory.

Storybook love… what did it really mean, anyway?

She'd been so lost in reminiscence, when her eyes finally cleared she noticed her feet had carried her to the harbour. There were the usual sailors milling about the docks, some unloading barrels of goods and bundles of grubby cloth from their ships, others just merely inquisitive, gathering where the latest tales of interest were sure to emerge. Elizabeth had never been one for gossip- she had hated having tea with the nosy old ladies in Port Royal, back when she was known as a governor's daughter. As of late, what really caught her attention at the Tortuga quay was the medley of pirate vessels gathered near the port- varieties of large frigates, smaller barques, and sleek schooners- seeking refuge from the restrictive waters in the world of diminishing piracy.

Indeed, as Elizabeth took in the ragged sails and weathered spars of the ships at anchor, it was evident to her trained eye how bad things had really gotten for the pirates. She might not have ever seen this town in its prime, but she could tell that things had become even grimmer since she had first gone on the account. The plunder was not as fruitful, the ships seemed weaker, the men more haggard. Life of the sweet trade was dwindling. A growing sense of loss settled in her stomach and remained there, like an un-melting block of ice.

One ship in particular caught her eye amongst the sparse others. Amidst the reminders of harsh times, it was comforting for her to stop and revel in the beauty of it. She was a small sloop, double-masted, with a fore-and-aft rig, not great for hefty cargo but apt for speed. Although not as foreboding and magnificent as the Black Pearl, there was a sort of charm about her; probably Jamaican-built, judging from the red cedar her wood seemed to be. Above the mizzenmast fluttered a clumsily sewn flag, an insignia of a flame in its centre.

For a few moments Elizabeth merely stood there, watching the piece of cloth tremble forlornly in the air like a butterfly, a single spark in the murky dawn. Bravely alone, hopelessly alone…

A strange feeling suddenly bristled along her shoulder blades, and she instinctively knew she was being watched. Quickly she turned her chin to the larboard side of the sloop; a man was standing there, staring back at her, oddly familiar… Erect position, wisps of dark hair about his face, a long black coat swathing around his ankles…

Elizabeth's heart leapt to her throat in a swoop of recognition and disbelieving joy. Will?

From her position on the nearby dock, she could see a surprised look cross the man's face. "Miss Swann?" he called in a deep, hoarse voice, leaning along the railing of the ship.

Slowly Elizabeth sauntered closer to the ship, finally able to see the man's face, hear his voice properly. Now it was clear who he was; not Will, but his father, "Bootstrap" Bill Turner. At a distance, she had easily confused them, but looking at the veteran pirate more directly, she could tell the differences between father and son. Bill was paler- most likely than not a result of his time spent on the Dutchman- his face lined with coming age, his hair finally stating to acquire tinges of grey. More or less, he was an older version of Will; the real dissimilarity was the eyes, round and pale blue, unlike the dark eyes of his son. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably; seeing Bill again was another painful reminder of what she had done to Will about two years ago, when she had chosen Jack as her heart's destination.

But Jack had betrayed her; she could no longer be considered his. Eventually she would talk to him, but right now, standing athwart the sloop, there was an undeniable sense of wonder and determination welling up inside her. Recollections of the dreams flew through her conscience, and she thought of seeing Will again. It could all be a matter of merely slipping away; she could find him. Swallowing once, Elizabeth answered Bill's call.

"Mr Turner?"

A wry smile twitched at the corners of Bill's mouth. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long while. What brings you here, my lady?"

"I was about to ask the same of you," answered Elizabeth, not willing to draw the conversation to Jack.

"I'm here for the same reason everyone else is here, I'm afraid," said Bill, gesturing to the surrounding ships. "To seek a safe place to hide, at least for a while."

Another person who had been inspecting the boat's capstan stepped up beside him, curious as to whom he was talking to. At first Elizabeth didn't recognize the figure, but an instant later it clicked it her mind; it was Anamaria, the feisty female crewmember of the Black Pearl, who had threatened to hand her over to Barbossa during the battle on the Interceptor. There wasn't any of that hostility in Anamaria's features now, only interest at seeing Elizabeth in Tortuga, donning breeches and a man's waistcoat.

"You're that governor's daughter, aren't ya?" Anamaria asked.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together sorrowfully. "At one time I could have been called as such." She glanced up at Bill again, trying to peer behind him, but no, she wasn't familiar with any of the crewmembers tending to the sloop now; the one she was looking for wasn't among them. The question was pressing against her throat, urging her to voice it, and, releasing a shaky breath, she finally asked, "Where's your son?"

Sorrow clouded Bill's features. A moment of silence passed, broken only by the clamour in the milieu around them; then he spoke to Elizabeth again, defeat raw in his tone.

"Will's in trouble."

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He knew his strength was fading, like sunlight being obscured by winter clouds. Pain gripped every part of his body, numb and relentless. His tongue, dry and coated with grime, sat lifelessly in his mouth, deprived of the warm weight of nourishment. He was starving, so very hungry, the empty feeling in his stomach surrendering only to the clench of nausea and fever.

Rarely would he try to move, wanting to fight the blackness that surrounded him, but his hands, scarred and feeble, could not support him; sometimes he could not even distinguish the hand as his own, he didn't register where he was, he did not even know his own name…

It was even impossible to escape to that small place of hope; dreams were wrought with anguish and eternal shadows, sightless faces, voices like a chilling wind howling in his ear. He couldn't even see her face anymore, he didn't remember it; there was nothing but darkness, and, in the midst of the nightmare, he was just along the edge of it, staring out onto a fountain of silvery-black water that was beckoning him to give in to the obscurity. Icy rivulets fell about ebony shadows, cavorting in an enchanting and ominous dance, a tango of death. Deep down he knew he must not step closer to the flickering water- he had to hold on, but wanted to let go, slip into demise, the way a leaf takes to the breeze.

He was dying, trapped in the void between everlasting sleep and the soar of life, no voice calling him back. At this point, he didn't really care; all he wanted was for this agony to end.

With a shuddering intake of breath, the man once known as Will Turner fell away to unconsciousness, his final thought an aching wish: if only I could have held her one last time…

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