The Flying Dutchman, though traveling above the surface of the water, had caught herself running against the wind, which enabled her to travel much faster across the waves. Will Turner resigned himself to the organ room most of the time, feeling uncomfortable about the willingness of Jack Sparrow's daughter to speak so brazenly to him about matters which he believed should be kept between him and his wife. He thought about how Beckett could've coaxed Elizabeth into abandoning the lifetime love she had had with him –how he could have swayed her into cavorting with a sworn enemy while pregnant, no less.

Will had ignored the occasional knock which most likely signified Joana's want of intrusion. Truth to tell, he was tired of helping her translate her book and he thought about Elizabeth all the time—her long dark hair, the mischievous twinkle in her eye as she walked about in the most proper of petticoats. She was a different sort of woman—one who lived for adventure and thrills, a woman who had stood against society, against her forced fiancé Commodore Norrington, to promise herself to a lowly blacksmith, the son of a pirate. And the odd thing was, she had seemed to be even more thrilled to know of Will's parentage—his connection to a pirate. What was the draw with Cutler bloody Beckett? He came from a wealthy family chock full of Royal Navy officers and had a burning desire to wipe out all pirate-kind. He was, quite simply, the opposite of what Elizabeth, what with her temperament and desires, should be looking for. And yet, she was aboard the commandeered Black Pearl, most likely lying in the arms of this enemy at this very moment.

"Cap'n Turner!" said the male voice at the door, heavy raps accompanying it.

"What do you want," Will asked blandly, staring at the dusty keys of Davy Jones' pipe organ.

"It's somethin' really odd—the sky is just full of 'em!" the voice replied.

"Full of what," Will responded, irritated by the interruption of his thoughts, depressing though they were.

"Seagulls, Cap'n! I've ne'er seen so many in one place!"

In a matter of moments Will had hesitantly risen to his feet, which seemed to be bowing out so much as to make it uncomfortable to do much other than sit. He limped to the door, opening it to find Ragetti, his back to the door and covered in bird droppings whilst the flock of seagulls landed all over the deck of the Dutchman.

"What's going on?" Will said, pushing past the skinny pirate on his way to the bow of the ship. He watched seagulls swoop down onto his crew, pecking at their fishy hair and bodies. The bosun swung the cat o' nine tails about his head in an attempt to shoo the gulls away from him.

"Oy!"

Will spun round to face the crew of his ship who were attempting to shoo the birds, their craggy bodies pitted with gull droppings.

"Who said that?" Will asked, his eyes darting around suspiciously.

All of a sudden a piece of a board tied to a long string of various fabrics knotted together clattered loudly, wrapping around the bowsprit.

"Who goes there?" Will spat, turning around to face the intruder. He pulled a sword from his scabbard, brandishing it in front of him.

Suddenly a woman appeared on the bowsprit, her face grotesquely painted with runny makeup, hair caked with seagull excrement. She looked positively furious, attempting to kick behind her as she pulled herself onto the jagged wood of the bowsprit, an unknown person's hand then relenting to push up on her underskirts. Several seconds later, she sat upon the craggy bowsprit of the Flying Dutchman, gazing up at the hideous visage of the transformed Will. Predictably, she screamed. Will blinked indignantly, a confused expression on his face.

"Oy, didn' I tell you wot to expect, luv?" a male voice came from behind her. All remained silent for a few moments, as if the speaker was thinking. "Bugger. You're Turkish. It's no wonder you said nothing."

A ring-clad hand tightly clenching a bottle of rum shot up from the sea, the arm following it heaving itself over the wood of the bowsprit. A familiar face followed, his gold teeth gleaming in the sun.

"What in God's name—Jack—how did you end up here?" Will asked, gawking at the soaked pirate below him. He could see through the flock of seagulls a crude wooden platform floating on the surface of the water utterly swarming with the birds. He could see a large heap of dead gulls lying on the platform, their bodies getting pecked at ruthlessly by their peers.

Ayla pulled herself aboard the Dutchman without help from the terrible-looking captain, finding herself surrounded by fish-people and a couple of filthy, dropping-covered pirates. Unable to recognize anyone from the group, what with everyone covered in filth, she shook the water out of her dress and moved as far away from the whole lot as she could.

With a great heave of his body, Jack Sparrow pulled himself onto the ship, opening his bottle of rum to finish off the last slug. He stumbled right into Will, completely drunk.

"William Turner—err, Captain Turner, as it were," Jack said, swaying back and forth as he recorked his bottle. He touched the young captain on his back. "'s been quite a while, has it not? Must say, I'm more—drunker—than I thought… because right now, in this light, you look like th' bloody spittin' image o' Davy Jones."

"Your vision does not fail you," Will replied, keeping an air of coldness about him.

"Wot?" Jack said, squinting at Will's hands. He touched the rough chitinous top of Will's starfish hand and pulled his hand back daintily, sticking out his tongue with disgust.

"Too much soakin' in seawater'll do that to a man," Jack said aloud, more to himself, in apparent disbelief. "Now, wot brings you from your—well…" He couldn't find the words to say. If Will was indeed transformed, that meant he was either corrupted or had corrupted his duty. By being present on earth at the current time, the second was true, for the moment.

"A man has stolen my heart," Will said.

"Ah… that explains quite a lot," Jack murmured, an uncomfortable smile on his face. "I apologize for thinking you a eunuch, when clearly it was—"

"That's not what I meant," Will retorted, flashing Jack a dark look. "A man stole the chest from the island where I left it—with Elizabeth. Whatever he did with the heart, it was causing me constant pain, and so I had to return from World's End to find it and get it back—I'm not entirely certain what he is currently doing with my heart, but it seems as if he's holding it ransom, but without telling me what the ransom is. I'm returning to Southampton to retrieve my heart and my wi—"

"Oh. I see," Jack replied, boredom in his slurred voice. "So wot are you doing wiv th' rest of my crew aboard?"

Joana, having unsuccessfully attempted to cover her head from the seagulls, moved to the bow to see her father.

"Dad!" she cried, running to him. She gave the wet pirate a hug, soaking herself in the process.

"Joana!" Jack said with a crooked smile. "I couldn't figure out wot happened to you." His jaw slackened. "You're still alive, right?" Gingerly, he reached out and pinched her arm.

"Of course I'm still alive," she replied. "Why are you so—wet?" she asked, looking quizzical.

"I thought I'd tidy up a bit wiv a bath before boarding this fine ship," he said. "However, before said sea bath, I looked like bloody Governor Swann, wot wiv my hair covered in—"

"Speaking of Governor Swann… When did you last see Elizabeth?" Will questioned the dreadlocked pirate. Irritated, Joana stepped away from her father, using a wet sleeve to wipe some bird matter off her hand.

"Last I saw her, she was wiv child an' was sittin' on the deck of th' Pearl. 'Course, that was before Beckett an' th' whole Royal Navy invaded my ship."

"How did you end up in the middle of the bloomin' ocean?" Pintel cut in. "I thought you was dead."

"I successfully escaped my captor ship, the Intrepid. They don't build ships like they used to, that's for certain. Hull was loose all over th' place. By the way, your strategy, wot wiv th' dead bodies tossed from th' Pearl wiv barrels attached—quite an inspiration, I must say. Though, I wasn't about to kill the lady—" he looked over at the Turkish prostitute, her hair hanging in strings around a face smothered with torrents of makeup, and grimaced—"my fellow escapee."

Suddenly the woman peered over from her corner, regarding Jack with a puzzled glance. Will was not interested in meeting anyone new, and asked more questions of the pirate, ignoring the prostitute.

"Where are Gibbs and Barbossa? Were they with you?" he asked.

Jack looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well, if they haven't drowned, then I suppose they may still be aboard th' Intrepid, however long it remains afloat…."

"Haven't changed a bit, I see," Will muttered, looking half-disgusted.

"Wot do you mean by that?"

"You care for no one but yourself."

Jack flashed Will a look of mock hurt. "Wot am I to do about it, eh? I was th' one floating on th' water in a bloody thunderstorm. I doubt Mr. Gibbs' situation was as dangerous, wotever it was… or is. An' Barbossa—well, I should hope that he's off to the next world because o' wot I did to that ship."

Their conversation was interrupted by heavy footfalls. Bootstrap Bill strode quickly across the deck, towering above Jack upon reaching the bow of the ship. The assigned helmsman for the day, he couldn't help but temporarily leave his station to satisfy his curiosity with the happenings at the bow of the Dutchman.

"Still alive, eh?" the craggy old pirate asked Jack, giving him a good-natured pat on the back. "Every time I hear ye've died, ye show up somewhere very much alive."

"When you hear news of my death, mate, ye have to remember one important thing. That being, that I'm Captain J—"

"Who's at the helm?" Will interrupted, turning to his father.

"No one at the moment, but I just had to see what all the fuss—"

"We have a mission to uphold—the longer we take, the less likely we'll be to find the chest and Elizabeth. Do you want to look like this forever?!"

Bootstrap looked crestfallen. His shoulders slumped as he turned away from Jack, the starfish on his forehead squirming.

"Alright, Will; I'll get back to my duty—"

"Let him be," Joana suddenly said to Will. "I can steer the ship."

Will sighed, ignoring her but forgetting about being angry at his father. Joana left hastily for the helm, disgusted that she had barely been paid a minute of attention from her father before it had been taken away from her.

"So you are again in search of your bonny lass," Jack muttered, turning to the young captain. "I should think you ought to maroon her on some uninhabited spit o' land th' next time you leave, lest someone—"

"Lest someone what?" Will fumed. "Steals her from me again? Takes the only thing I care about in this world? She even had a going-on with you for some time, for God's sake! Can I not expect my own wife to be faithful to me?"

Jack held up a finger as he wobbled unsteadily on his feet.

"You cannot blame my ability to charm the lovelier sex—it's universal. No woman can resist yours truly—an' that's not your fault wotsoever. She an' I… are quite alike—it's nigh impossible to tie us down," he replied, a rogue grin on his face.

Suddenly Will lunged forward, shoving Jack forcefully into the gunwale, the pirate's back thudding against the sharp projections in the wood. He had not expected an act of violence from Will, and had he not been so intoxicated, it would have really hurt.

Bootstrap shoved an arm in between the two men. "He's drunk, Will. He's not speakin' clearly. And yer not thinkin' clearly. We need to finish this mission. Ye need to speak with Elizabeth for yerself."

Will flashed his father a dark look. "Didn't defending Sparrow get you thrown off the Pearl and indebted to this very ship for one hundred years of service?" he spat, moving his father's arm out of the way. "I should think that you should be less willing to protect a person who would never put his safety on the line for others. In fact, he prefers when others are used to settle his debts and guard him from the inevitable, lest he mines up Cortes's lost gold… or better yet, finds the bloody fountain of youth."


Cutler Beckett sat on a small keg in the brig of the Black Pearl, mind swimming with thoughts. What can I do now? She's never going to get over that letter. She probably thinks she's destroyed my life, which she certainly seems to have done. I've no job, no fiancée, no child, no inheritance. He bent down for several moments, sitting back up with something in his hand. Though I've lost the prospect of her, I could still retrieve my job or my inheritance. He smiled a subtle self-satisfied smirk as he held the key to the Dead Man's Chest. Maybe both, actually….

"Land ho!" came a shout from the crow's nest. Beckett could hear a stirring aboard and immediately bent back down, placing the key back in its hiding place. After the key was sufficiently hidden, he stood up, shaking out the coat—only to find that every single buttonhole was ripped, every button torn off the front of his coat.

"Shit," he muttered, examining the buttonless holes in his coat. He slipped the coat on, reaching into a small inner coat pocket to find the location of his father's letter. She had not destroyed it or even crinkled it. It was folded along the same creases as before.

Hmm…. Would blackmail be the best course of action? Elizabeth would very well despise me for the remainder of my existence if I proposed such a thing. The problem is, she believes that Turner took the key from her as a sort of dissolution of the marriage. So it would be foolish to admit to doing so myself. Wouldn't want to have Turner redeemed in her eyes. Or, better yet—I could participate in a sort of a trade-off, as it were. I'm certain Admiral Morgan would be happy to have his hands on the key and the chest both—but then again, who's to say he should keep the chest? Both were once mine, and they can be mine again. And once poor Mr. Turner, certainly no Davy Jones, is doomed to serve me, I can ask for—and take—what I want from him. Namely, his wife. And for me to guarantee the continued safety and security of her beloved lobster face, she would have to bow to my will.

Whistling a merry tune, Beckett straightened his clothing out as best he could manage and ascended the ladder, as if without a care in the world. Once the ship had docked in Southampton's main harbor, he helped secure the ship to the dock as Dr. Stillwell emerged from below deck, carrying Elizabeth in his arms. Elizabeth held her baby close to her chest, noticing Beckett's change in demeanor out of the corner of her eye. She pretended not to notice that he looked happy—was it he who was whistling?

Upon placement of the gangplank, Dr. Stillwell strode down the board with Elizabeth and her baby in his arms. He had helped her dress in clothing more appropriate than a nightgown; rather, he clad her in a rather baggy pair of breeches, one of Beckett's white overshirts, and her shoes. She took one last fleeting glance back at the Black Pearl, her home for so long, now the property of the British Royal Navy, courtesy of Beckett. How could I have been such a fool, she mused. To keep my friends close, that was wise—Jack, Mr. Gibbs, and the crew of the Pearl, fighting beside them, freezing beside them, celebrating beside them—but then, I allowed an enemy to get closer—close enough to manipulate me, close enough to tear me from the man I thought I loved the most. And now I have nothing. Will has understandably abandoned me, the Black Pearl has again been taken from Jack, and I'm in a strange city with a child and no one to trust.


As the Royal Navy crew of the Black Pearl made their way off the former pirate ship, Cutler Beckett took his time aboard deck. Upon seeing the captain headed down the gangplank, he ducked into the captain's cabins. Perhaps the Royal Navy had left some pirate treasure behind. It was something to do to restore his reputation—or at least to barter for it back. Unsurprisingly, the cabin had been utterly ransacked by the Royal Navy. Chests lay on their sides, all gold, jewel, and obviously valuable contents long-gone. All that remained were a collection of papers and scruffy pirate clothes. Beckett found himself sifting through the mess, not quite squatting, as he saw that most of the chests held what had been secretly stashed bottles of rum. Many of the bottles had been broken, their contents having since spilled out, soiling many of the articles of clothing and papers.

"Absolutely appalling," Beckett muttered, sniffing the rummy air. "I wonder if the Royal Navy realizes this is now their ship. No less heathen than the pirates."

He moved from chest to chest, occasionally lifting up a soggy piece of paper and noticing it to be the destroyed remnants of a map. Perhaps I should've trailed the bloody medic in order to know where he has taken Elizabeth, he mused. Eh, or I could simply ask the right people. There has to be something of value that the Navy missed….

His disappointment became more apparent as he sifted through each chest, finding only the remains of potentially important maps and charts. Even Jack's compass was not present, most likely remaining on his person.

Bloody hell; there's nothing left, the short Englishmen mused, dropping the soggy remains of paper on the floor.

One chest, it seemed, had much more of a cache of rum bottles than the other chests. Becoming sickened at the overwhelming stench of spilled rum, Beckett turned his head as he reached into the bottom of the chest. A sharp piercing sensation made him jerk his hand back. He lifted his hand to his face, blood trickling from the tip of his index finger, a triangular-shaped piece of brown glass lodged in the end of his finger.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, picking the piece of glass out of his flesh. He peered over the edge of the chest, noticing the bevy of broken glass at the bottom. It seemed as if at least a dozen bottles of rum had been broken and spilled into this chest. "Nothing perishable could survive that mess," he grumbled. But then, something cylindrical was lying in the bottom of the chest, soaked in rum. It'll probably fall apart as soon as I touch it, he mused, reaching into the chest.

Shuddering at the feeling of cold rum on his hand, Beckett reached through the mess of glass and alcohol to grab the cylindrical object. The cut in his finger gave him a sharp pain as it became submerged in the alcohol. Surprisingly, the object at the bottom of this chest had remained stiff. A perplexed expression on his face, Beckett lifted the item out of the bottom of the chest. Rum dribbled from the object, clearly something made out of paper, yet not ruined.

Careful not to touch the paper with his bleeding finger, Beckett undid the bow holding the paper in a cylindrical shape, and slowly unraveled the paper. He was met with a rather odd-looking puzzle, a series of concentric circles surrounding a picture of a ship. What appeared to be a crudely drawn map of the world lay offset by these circles, which seemed to be constructed of different sheets of coated paper held together in the center. Very interesting, he mused, rolling the map back up again. Very interesting indeed.

Quickly he shook out the map as best he could and tucked the map into his coat, pulling the buttonless sides of his coat together and crossing his arms to keep the map concealed. He exited the cabin hastily, satisfied with his find.


Elizabeth held little William close to her chest as she was carried by the Royal Navy medic to the dock. She felt absolutely pitiful, what with needing to be carried.

"Stop for a moment," she said to the doctor, causing him to look down at her with a puzzled expression. "Let me walk," she said insistently, shifting her weight in his arms.

"You've just had a child. There's a great risk of your tearing the weakened—"

"Please let me walk," Elizabeth said again. "I am perfectly capable of walking."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, allowing her to stand on her feet. Elizabeth stood unsteadily at first, letting the doctor take the baby from her as she gained her footing. She followed beside yet slightly trailing the doctor as she took small steps. Though she now felt the pain of the recent childbirth, her health had been restored being as the Spanish fly was no longer threatening the health of her child. She looked over at her tiny pink baby held in Dr. Stillwell's arm, and thought of how lucky she was to have had a healthy child after the prolonged sickness she had experienced.

"May I hold him?" she asked the doctor, her expression warmed by the sight of her healthy pink baby. Carefully, he transferred the infant to her arms, and they made their way back to his dwelling, a modest home within view of the harbor, being as he had to be readily available to treat members of the Royal Navy entering and exiting the harbor. It could have been so different than this, she mused. I supposed that when we made berth that I would become Mrs. Beckett, settle into England for a while until I had the baby—then perhaps we could've returned to the Caribbean. After all, I cannot stand the idea of corsets and petticoats my whole life, and he wasn't going to change my mind about that. God… I loved him—at least, I thought I did, based on his newfound integrity, and he told me he loved me—lying to me right through his teeth. How could I have known of his true intentions?

And Will—I'm afraid that it may be true that he is the embodiment of Davy Jones. Why didn't he go back to World's End when he saw he was morphing into that monstrous thing? I hate to admit it to myself, but if he is transformed, I may not feel the same way about him. But then again, my feelings about him have been different for a while… all because of bloody Beckett.

I have no money, no family--how am I going to take care of little William? She looked at the sleeping infant in her arms. If it weren't for my rashness earlier, Beckett might've agreed to provide for you as an act of contrition--he did seem to be apologetic. Oh, who am I kidding? Beckett, sincerely apologetic? Ha!


Upon exiting the Black Pearl, Beckett made haste to Hampton House, his birthplace, so that he could convince his sister Julia to accompany him to the home of her husband, the current admiral of the Royal Navy. As the coach traveled through the streets of Southampton, Beckett peered out the window of the coach at the overcast sky, low-hanging grey clouds blocking the sun. The ground was waterlogged, muddy puddles in the grass and filling the dips in the cobblestone road. The city looked quite miserable, the humidity of the air hanging so thick that it felt like a cold mist on the skin. Though he was dressed warmly, Beckett shuddered.

Once the horses had stopped in the muddy driveway in front of Hampton House, he looked up at the building, squinting as he held together the ruined coat. Beckett promptly paid his driver and stepped down from the coach, gazing up at the house, which appeared to be empty. The house seemed smaller and older than he remembered. No sign of horse or carriage tracks marred the muddy gravel driveway. The shrubs lining the house had since grown unruly, large branches needing to be trimmed back. The place looked to be abandoned.

"Can you wait here, please?" Beckett asked the driver as he took a couple of steps toward the house. "I would like to be certain that my sister is home before I am left without a means of travel."

"You mean Mrs. Morgan?" the driver blurted.

"Yes."

"Mrs. Morgan don't live here anymore. She's now residin' in the home of Admiral Morgan, her husband."

"You must take me there. We must make haste," Beckett replied, as he quickly returned to the coach, climbing back into the seat again.

"But, Sir, I may need special clearance to enter the estate—"

"I am Mrs. Morgan's brother," Beckett stated flatly. "Is that not clearance enough?"

"Whatever you say, Sir," the driver replied, signaling the horses to go.

I feel like quite the imbecile now, Beckett mused, looking at the quiet house. I may not have even needed a wife and child to inherit the building, now that Julia has taken up residence elsewhere. Carrying around this paper was all for naught. Elizabeth and I would have moved right in—her child sharing my surname and not that damn blacksmith's. Do I really care more for that bloody house than I do for her, to put my future with her at risk for a promise of inheritance?

Sulkily, Beckett slumped down in the soft seat of the coach, staring at his hands.

She still has my ring, he mused, eyes widening as he gaped at his bare finger. Oh, she's going to throw it away; I just know it.

"Bloody hell," he muttered to himself, shoulders sinking. Sighing, he tucked his hands into his coat, running his fingers along the buttonless holes.


Thanks for your continued interest! I plan on updating more frequently now!