:-D Get to know Will! I don't know if I did him right; please tell me what you think - I need ideas and opinions!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean. I don't even have any Caribbean seashells.

The single window framed a pale blue piece of sky.

Morning's light mixed with the distant voice of Mr. Kempe, the butcher. Timely as always, he was cursing his uncooperative back door. The door's protests provided a steady bass line for Mr. Kempe's staccato expletives, while his chickens, roused in their pen, provided a tasteful treble squawking.

Morning had arrived in creaking, cussing, clucking, cerulean-toned glory.

Twenty-year-old Will Turner stared at his clear square of sky, numbly listening. He sighed and moved to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, making the frame creak and moan. An attempt to rub his eyes was quickly thwarted by gritty fingers...he'd been too tired to wash before collapsing into bed earlier that morning. He lowered his head and his hair, loosed for the night, brushed his cheekbones. He closed his eyes.

In the temporary darkness, the events of the wee morning hours returned in achingly weary wisps.

In dim lantern light, he was grappling with a carriage wheel on a quiet street. His master, Mr. James Brown, was bellowing in his ear. Then the Governor's fine horses clattered to a stop nearby. Will strained to balance the metal-rimmed wheel, wondering so earnestly if she was watching him, he could barely move…

He shook the memory out of his head and rose, rolling his shoulders. He had to prepare himself for the coming day. By the way Mr. Brown had stumbled off to drink after that morning's carriage repair, it was to be anything but normal.

His bed was made in seconds. Water splashed into a small basin, and the cracked pitcher was set aside. As he had done since he could remember, Will slowly submerged his hands, hissing when the water hit a burn. He waited, staring at the ripples, then splashed his face, sighing as the stale remnants of his dream were washed away. Stretching to his full height, he relished the warm tingling of refreshed muscles that spread through him like a warm drink on a cool day. Drips of water trailed down his neck like tiny fingers. He wiped them off, then dried his hands on his front.

His loose shirtsleeves were well-filled as his biceps flexed and he was filled with satisfaction. If one has a master of the drunk, volatile sort, it is best to tower over him and have muscle where he has fat. Where Will had once cowered, he simply puffed his chest out and stretched as tall as he could. This never failed to reduce short Mr. Brown from a blisteringly inebriated passion to a bearably sullen simmer.

Will's shirt brushed his knees as crossed his room in five steps. He knelt before a chest made of hurriedly sanded oak and lifted its lid, wincing when the hinges screeched like twin cats. Inside lay his Sunday best, the Bible his mother had used to teach him his letters, and his apprenticeship papers.

He was not supposed to have his apprenticeship papers. It was traditional law for the master to keep them safe and this was essential because restless apprentices were liable to run off. An exception had to be made, though, when the master was half-drunk at the best of times and therefore liable to use the carefully drawn up papers in the latrine or as fuel for a fire. Will carefully set them aside, then picked up the Bible. Grime had been worked deep into the cracked leather cover, partially obscuring the gilt title, and the pages were gray. It landed on the floor as gently as a feather. But as soon as Will's brown fingers brushed the folded waist coat, his mouth tightened.

He hadn't had to wear his Sunday clothes for months. The Browns did not attend church any more and the future of the blacksmith's shop rested Will's shoulders. He barely had time to consider leaving the shop for church, much less to actually walk out the door. On top of everything, his best clothes was downright uncomfortable.

Still, the brown waist coat came out, shedding a dead spider. The breeches, neck cloth, and simple coat followed. He was going to her home today, and he couldn't force himself to wear his work clothes. A proud part of him wished she didn't have so much power over him, but she did. I'm even going to wear a clean shirt and stockings. For the love of...oh, my hair! Will grimaced in disgust with himself, but stood and reached for the dusty comb on his washstand anyway.

The one-story house grumbled in a wooden voice as steps came down the hall to his door. Will waited. There was a tap. "William," a woman said.

He opened the door.

Tara Brown was just as short and stocky as her husband was. Her skin was not pockmarked and swollen like his; it was instead deflated, sticking to her bones like wrinkled silk. Her black hair was tucked under her cap as neatly as possible and gray bags sagged under her green eyes, which were pale as if the color had leaked out over the years. Her nose was flat and small, her lips generous but cracked, and her chin receded into her neck.

Tara Brown's husband had once been a great swordsmith as well as blacksmith, a slender needle of a man as talented in using swords as in making them. He had worked hard to pass his knowledge on to Will, back when everyone had been younger, happier, and the spirits that were his companion had remained in the tavern down the road. But as rum had slithered into the household, the master-apprentice relationship had become a Saul-David arrangement, occasional flying weapons included. Husband-wife had become master-maid.

Tara, though, had stuck to her life, solid as the foundation of Fort Charles, and she was the true reason why the shop had survived. Will could not have handled his burdens without the way Tara's eyes crinkled at him, maternally tender.

They crinkled now, but her chapped hands were on her hips and her weary air was thicker than usual. Will knew exactly what she was going to say, but kept his lips tight together.

"Jamie didn't come in after you two ran off in the wee hours. He's in the shop now." She heaved a hand up and let it fall. It hit her stained blue skirt with a hopeless smack. "He completely forgot this morning's delivery," her voice tried to get angry, "and drank himself into a right fine stupor."

Will waited.

"He wanted badly t'make the Gov'nor's delivery, but you'll have to, William. I know you were going to finish Mr. Harrison's hinges this morning, but…I'd make the Governor's delivery meself if I could; it'd be fine to get a squint at his fancy things." She picked at her left thumbnail nervously. "Hopefully Jamie'll be awake to handle Mr. Harrison; Harrison's coming early afternoon. Coming for those hinges."

Will grasped the door frame and thought. "The Governor's delivery had to be made by eight, correct?" He shrugged when Mrs. Brown nodded. "I'll have plenty of time to finish the hinges. Even if I'm late and Mr. Harrison gets upset, well...I've never known him to be unreasonable. If I have to I'll install the hinges for free…"

He blinked.

Tara was staring over his shoulder, her gaze stretching for many blank miles. She began to turn away. "I've got some breakfast and some warm water for you."

"I'm coming…I think I'll see to the shop first," Will replied gently. But Tara Brown was already gone.

Fleeing the grinning skull painted on their insides, Elizabeth's lids snapped wide. Her heart pounded and her neck prickled, sending chills down her spine. Barely breathing, she looked over as much of her bedroom as was possible without moving, half expecting to find some monster crouched in a corner.

There was only her familiar dressing table, privacy screen, and dresser, harmless in the dimness. Her eyes came to rest on the oil lamp that still glowed gently on her bedside table and slowly, the warmth of her comforter and silky pillow melted her fear.

And then, she was just a young woman lying in her bed. A faint light was slipping between the curtains: it was morning.

Hand. Numb. Elizabeth dragged her left hand out from under her hip and draped it down the side of her mattress. As the blood flowed scratchily back into her fingers, she pondered the oblivious flame of her lamp, again slipping away into its glow.

Will Turner was the only survivor found that foggy day. There had been three incomplete bodies collected after much searching… Elizabeth grimaced and flexed her smarting hand. There was a reason why, seven years after the event, she could still dream the experience like it had just happened. That day her romantic perception of pirates had died and her pirate book collection had only gathered dust since that terrible, surreal voyage. She was glad.

Norrington probably will be, too.

Remembering the ball the night before, her heart plummeted to her toes. She hadn't known, she reflected miserably, that this was possible when one was horizontal.

After some seconds, she dragged herself up and slipped out of bed. Taking her lamp, she silently crossed her bedroom to her polished dressing table. After setting the lamp down, she opened a shallow drawer and pulled up its false bottom. She paused when the medallion and its chain were revealed, dull with dust, the imprinted skull grinned with undiminished malice.

Odd, her ears were ringing. She slowly set the false bottom aside and picked up the medallion. Its engravings were lumpy against her fingertips, its weight surprising. It had left a dark imprint in the frosty drawer.

She shut the drawer and rubbed the medallion clean with her thumb. As she did so, she wondered if she could feel it quiver slightly against her fingers.

You're a pirate! Her eyes looked past the medallion, and she saw him lying there again, white, vulnerable, senseless, his traumatized eyes temporarily hidden. A pirate? Her heart sped with the fear she had felt then. If the medallion had been found on him he could have been hanged despite his youth. He had lived because she had not told the truth, and to keep it that way she would never know the story behind his medallion. She would have to be satisfied with its mere presence.

Swiftly, she moved to her wall mirror. Pulling the cold chain about her neck sent gooseflesh rippling down her arms, but she concentrated and fastened its clasp under her hair.

She appeared so alien with the gold resting on the satin gathers of her nightdress, eyes lost in her forehead's shadow; her dark eyebrows questioning and wary. Her freckles had left when she hadn't been watching. She sighed. She still had no idea what she was.

A resounding knock made her spin toward her mahogany door.

"Elizabeth." Her father's voice was muffled.

He can't see the medallion! She sucked a frantic breath, briefly thanking heaven for the womanly image her father held of her, which kept him from simply opening the door. Lunging for the dressing gown at the end of her bed, she collided with a chair, How did that get there? sending it to the floor with a resounding thud.

"Are you all right?"

Her right foot throbbing with outrage, the medallion smacking her as she straightened, Elizabeth shoved her arms into the dressing gown. Irritation flashed briefly as she felt the sleeves of her nightdress being dragged up around her upper arms and then she was pulling the dressing gown closed.

"Are you decent?"

"Yes–" Mind racing, she quickly tucked the medallion down into her nightdress. "Yes!"

The door was already opening. Her father entered, followed by the two maids Estrella and Ann.

"Ah," he said genially, stopping at the foot of Elizabeth's rumpled bed. "Still abed at this hour?"

She grinned shamelessly in reply. Leaving the smell of lavender in her wake, Estrella bustled past and opened the heavy curtains, letting in the enthusiastic Caribbean sun. Startled, Elizabeth shut her eyes for a moment, then relaxed as Estrella opened the French doors and morning air laden with hibiscus streamed into the room.

Her father gazed out over his town and harbor, eyes bright with pleasure. A hummingbird whizzed past. "It's a beautiful day."

It was. After struggling through her dreams, the safety of glowing daytime put Elizabeth in a cheerful mood. She smiled and watched Estrella arrange brushes and combs on the dressing table.

"I have a gift for you," her father's voice quickly brought her around, "once Estrella is done doing…" he flapped a good-natured hand, "whatever she does to get your hair into those sophisticated–tangles."

Elizabeth laughed and hurried to sit down, ready for her maid's capable hands.

Hair in a queue, breakfast in his belly, Will clutched the Governor's delivery under his arm and left his house. He strode into the blue shadows of the wide alley that separated the backs of large shops from the living quarters of their owners. To the right, the back door of Mr. Anders' butcher shop was gathering flies. Across the way, his chickens scuttled in their pen, pecking at corn a tall, slender girl distributed with lazy sweeps of her arm. As soon as Will stepped across the courtyard, the nervous chickens alerted her to his presence and her blond braid swished out as she turned.

Abbey Kempe's mother had died at her birth. Younger than Will by five years, she had a fresh, rosy-cheeked face that could produce a sister's heart-warming smile, a smile that had comforted him on more than one occasion. More than twenty occasions.

She now shot one of those smiles his way. Then the soft tickticktick of corn hitting stone crested as she freed more kernels from the basket she held under one arm. "Good morning, Will."

"Good morning." He returned her smile, working the latch on the back door of the blacksmith shop.

She faced him, free hand now on her hip. Her bright gray gaze traveled up and down him and despite the platonic warmth of her regard, he felt self-conscious. "My, Mr. Turner," she cooed with one raised eyebrow, "do I believe wot I see? You've combed your hair! Who's the maid what's driven you to such a point?"

Will grinned, quirking a brow. "I don't think the Governor would like you calling him a maid." He gestured with the presentation case he held. "I've got a delivery to make to the gentleman himself."

She nodded at the case. "That sword you were working on last week; the one what had you tryin' to pull your hair out every night."

Will nodded wryly. "It worked out in the end, though."

"Obviously" She dug into her basket... tick-tickticktickticktick. "Here, Mr. Turner." She tossed something invisible through the air and instinctively, he reached out. A single corn seed pecked his palm as it landed. He stared down at the wizened yellow kernel, then gave her a confused look.

"'Tis for good luck," she said, then gave a full-bodied laugh. "And comes with my blessings and the chickens'. It should help when Herself shows up."

Will pocketed the corn, eyebrows high. "Good day, Miss Anders."

She laughed again. "And good day to you, Mr. Turner. Give Miss Swann my best regards."

Grinning, Will hurried into the dim snugness of his second home, the shop. He hoped he'd gained the shadows before the heat creeping up his neck had showed.

Tiny pillars of sun lay across the long, warm room that had once been a barn. The airy walls seemed to absorb heat from the forge and then release it into the dust, which coated one like a blanket. The place smelled of straw, sweat, fire, metal, and Mellie the donkey. And rum.

Will looked toward Mellie, who, harnessed to the traces of the bellows, was eating her breakfast with one fuzzy ear twisted toward Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was slumped over some barrels near the far wall. The forge glowed gently from its corner. The work surfaces around it were neat thanks to Will's earlier efforts.

Will looked down at the floor, knowing he should be on his way. The dirt, randomly striped with worn straw, didn't look much different from the brown of his shoes. He had tried to polish the buckles. Tried. And he hadn't even wanted to.

He set his jaw, gaze fastening on the shop's pass-through door. There was no reason for him to dither about his appearance. He could show up, reeking, at the Governor's gleaming door in his work clothes and it would change nothing. He was only the delivery boy who had walked up from the lower streets, a place the Governor would never venture without the safety of a carriage.

Being the late delivery boy would improve nothing.

He tugged at his neck cloth, then hurriedly tried to straighten it. He realized he was sweating and wished he wasn't.

Two upright donkey ears twitched in his peripheral vision. He turned to see Mellie staring at him, a bit of hay dangling from her whiskered muzzle.

What are you still standing there for?

He threw his shoulders back and strode toward the fresh morning.