The grungy pipe organ that could be found in the captain's quarters aboard the Flying Dutchman had not been played for many years. Captain William Turner had often considered ordering its removal from the ship, but truthfully he couldn't bring himself to instruct his crew to carry out that particular order. Personalizing Davy Jones's quarters seemed like resigning himself to spending an eternity aboard this ship… something he wouldn't yet do.

And so it had remained aboard the Flying Dutchman all these years. William often found himself staring at its towering pipes, which loomed above him like an intricate forest of metal kelp and coral. A net of metal kelp and coral, which he often found tugging at his consciousness, wanting to poison his thoughts. But no matter the temptation, he never, ever played it, not since that one day. He had not touched a single dusty, pale key since the first time he had left Elizabeth on Isla Cosette.

William remembered that day with clarity. He had been sitting in this very room, wallowing in his anguish and bitterness.

He noticed the organ against the wall and walked over to it. He sat at the bench, and began stroke the lunar keys. It was an innocent move, done out of simple curiosity. But it surprised him how naturally he struck a tune—at first it was a simple aria, played with a single finger; but then the organ seemed cast its spell further, and soon he'd found himself playing an elaborate melody.

Despair had seemed to flood his bloodstream; he found himself falling into a black hole of abulia. He wished for freedom from this curse—any freedom by any means. He could not think clearly—William Turner only knew that he despised this existence and everyone who had to do with it. This was his world: one of anguish and a terrible, consuming hatred. Oh, what he could do to Jack Sparrow, if he simply gave the order to return to the realm of the living! The kraken was no longer alive, but there was always—

At that point William stopped playing.

No! He would not let himself turn into what Davy Jones had become—a cruel monster. He could not let the situation infiltrate his sense of what was right and wrong.

He'd done it before, hadn't he? He'd stood up for his morals and risked his life by doing so. And saving none other than the very man who had caused all this.

"On our return to Port Royal, I granted you clemency. And this is how you thank me? By throwing in your lot with him? He's a pirate!" exclaimed Governor Swann.

"And a good man. If all I have achieved here is that the hangman will earn two pairs of boots instead of one, so be it. At least my conscience will be clear."

Had that really been twenty years ago? Hell… had that really been him? It seemed so far away now, like another lifetime. Port Royal, Brown's forge, Fort Charles….

William sighed. These thoughts were getting him nowhere—he had better continue his letter. He looked away from the organ on the far side of the room, repositioned his chair so he could write properly on the burnished ayan table, and read what he'd written so far:

Elizabeth,

Well, there haven't been any novelties, not since yesterday. That is the problem with writing these letters every day, I suppose. We very seldom encounter anything of interest, and anything that does happen, I've already written about… but I still write these letters every single day, Elizabeth. When we meet, in a few months, you'll have quite a few to read. Ten years' worth of words. I hope this poor captain's ravings aren't driving you mad. And I hope you have not yet gotten sick of hearing the phrase "I love you, Elizabeth."

I know, this letter has an odd note of finality to it… but a few months until I see you again is nothing to me now, not after ten years.

I've though much about you lately, and William.

Will sighed. How was he to continue this letter?

He put his pen to the thick parchment.

Then, suddenly the world went as dark as the ink he was using. An icy cold sensation assaulted his senses as the world did somersaults.

He desperately tried to gather his thoughts; what was this sensation? He had felt it before!

And then in a moment of consternation, he knew.

The world rearranged himself around him, the color returned, and the cold sensation left him. But William was still shaking with revelation.

The sensation of cold metal. Cold metal on flesh, that's what it had been. A blade against his heart… but who would know of that part of the legend? How did they obtain the chest?

Perhaps, thought Captain Turner as he felt the Dutchman sink below the dark waters, I'll be seeing her sooner than I thought.

.

.

.


Author's Note- Ayan is a type of wood. I am aware that it also means "epilepsy" in Indonesian, but that is not the intended meaning here… I just thought I'd clarify that point of confusion. We can't have dear William writing on an epileptic table, now, can we?


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