Series: Promises
Authors: L.M. Griffin and KnitMeAPony
Email: wren@knitmeapony.com or laurie@knitmeapony.com
Rating: Today R, tomorrow the world! BWAHAH...ah... ahem.
Pairing: Jack/William (not THAT one!), Jack/Norrington strongly implied
Distribution: List archives. Everyone else please ask!
Disclaimer: Laurie is a law student and knows these things won't help a damnbit, but should we get sued we're going for Fair Use and Parody.
Series Summary: A good five generations after CotBP. Jack's been using the curse to live forever... and has a bit of trouble convincing the youngest Turner to help.
Feedback: Yesh. Laurie says: "especially about anachronisms... that's where I'm weak!"
Author's notes: This is a crossover. It's a surprise with what, but the
'William' and 'British' bits should tip you off. We'll be a bit more
forward with the facts in future parts.
Prologue Two - 'He Never Came, Y'know.'
--------------
-London, 1864-
He ran through the streets, cutting a fine, lithe figure in his breeches and jacket. At thirteen, William James Turner the Fourth was as fine a figure of an Englishman as any of his family. His waves of gold-brown hair refused to stay tied back; his thin limbs and the pale skin told the tale of a life lived indoors, gone smooth as china instead of pasty and damp like so many of his countrymen. He slipped between two carts and near caused an accident, skidding back onto the sidewalk and pausing to catch a breath.
"Is it true, father?"
He knew better than to interrupt his father at work, but there he was at the door of the office. He'd walked all the way here, on his own, and he was certain he'd be in trouble when he got home. At least he'd left word, this time -- perhaps he'd only get scolded. His father lifted his eyes from his work, fixed them on his son accusingly, and waited.
"Is it?" The boy took a step through the door, firelight flickering over his hair and eyes too bright for mere excitement. It softened his father's expression, a bit - his youngest boy was prone to illness, so he gestured him over to press a careful hand to his forehead, another to his wrist.
"Is what true, Will?" Warm. The boy was over warm and had probably run all the way there. He simply refused to take care of himself, it seemed, and dashing about without his mother certainly didn't help. He examined the age-worn book his son held out, with a half-smile on his face. Ah.
"The book you gave me this morning. About... is it great-great grandfather? And his son? Were they really pirates, father?"
"Aye." He smoothed back his son's hair and stood, pulling on his coat. "Come, Will. I'll tell you about it as I walk you home." He took his hand, and as they went through the crowded London streets, he answered a hundred curious questions about very familiar names. Bootstrap Bill, and where that name came from. The first Master William Turner, and how he made the small fortune the family still stood on. Captain Jack Sparrow, and the -Black Pearl-. and how they still came back.
"He's still alive? How? He must be a hundred years old!"
"Aye, he is at that. More to a hundred and sixty, now. But he uses thecurse of the Aztec gold and Turner blood. He looks perhaps forty today. You see, he'll spend a year as a man, now and then, living a life I'm told is most debauched and against all hopes of heaven." His lips twitched, though he kept his expression carefully schooled disapproving. "And then he'll return to that hidden island, steal a bit of gold from the chest. He'lllive as a cursed man until he comes to take a Turner back to the isle." He opens the gate and sees his son inside. "Cursed for a fortnight, if a year is a day."
Every fourteen years. He saw his son do the hasty, simple math in his head. "When was he last here? Did you go with him?"
A nod. "He returned me home the day before your birth." He leaned on the gatepost, patiently.
"I'll be fourteen next month." He watched his son muse it over. Captain Jack Sparrow, -here-, and just in time for his birthday. And perhaps... "Father? Which Turner will he take? There's you and I here, now..."
"I couldn't leave your mother without an income for six months, now could I?" A thrill danced up the boy's spine, and he held the book close, like a precious thing. "But he won't be able to take you on a journey if you're ill. Go see your mother and let her take care of you lest your fever come back." Will deflated, slightly, and sighed. "And we'll talk about your behavior when I get home."
---------------------------------------------------------
-Somewhere in the Pacific, 1898-
He never came, y'know.
I don't normally take time out of my busy schedule to brood, but as I'm literally on a slow boat to China, I suppose I can bothered, just this once. I lean on the rail and thoughtfully stare out onto the water. Moonlight's pretty, but I've had enough of it. It's the firelight from the torches that really fascinates me.
Fire's -nice-, y'see. It's pain and clean and terrible, and y'can't tear your eyes away from it.
But I've digressed. I was broodin'.
When I was fourteen, my father told me a fantastic story. He said there was a family secret -- that six generations ago, the Turner family men were pirates. Yes, I know, it's all very cliche to claim pirates in the family, but I believed him. Two generations of Turner men sailed on the -Black Pearl- with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.
Here's where it gets mad.
So did the next three generations.
There was a curse, y'see, that made men immortal with god awful side effects -- no way to satiate eternal hunger, thirst, lust. Y'think being a vampire is bad? It's the vampire times ten, I'm thinking. Times a thousand. Jack Sparrow did it to himself on purpose. Something about a promise, something about living forever. I don't remember exactly.
A life like that, even an eternal one, is empty. Void of everything that'd make eternity worth it. So every fourteen years, so the story's told, Jack Sparrow indulged in the cure for his curse and lived a year or two in glorious debauchery. The cure of course being the blood of Turner men. He'd kidnap the oldest living son, sweep them off to a cursed island in the Caribbean, take a nip of blood and give them a year's adventure in return.
I was the eldest son and thirteen when I heard all this. I believed every word of it, foolish, naive idiot that I was.
So I waited. I turned fourteen. He didn't come.
I turned sixteen, and my father died, and I threw the book away. He didn't come.
I turned eighteen. I met Cecily, and my whole world changed. He didn't come.
I was almost twenty-two, and suddenly a dark-haired stranger entered my life.
Not Jack Sparrow. He's a fairytale. Angelus? He's not. He's a legend, and he took me from William Turner to William the Bloody. Entirely different curse than the one I'd been hoping for. More's the pity, too.
There's no cure for this one.
I light a cigarette and toss the match out into the water. It gets sucked under in the middle of a puddle of light. Some kind of metaphor, that. I dunno. I've stopped writing, stopped payin' attention to such things. Angelus... not a reader. And what he doesn't do... I don't do. Just the way things are now.
Would my life be different if he'd come? Maybe I would have stopped chasing fairy tales if I'd met a real one. Maybe Cecily couldn't have touched me. Maybe pain would be different. Maybe Dru never would have seen me. Dunno.
Maybe it would have all been the same.
No use cryin' over spilled blood, right?
Yeah. No use.
Authors: L.M. Griffin and KnitMeAPony
Email: wren@knitmeapony.com or laurie@knitmeapony.com
Rating: Today R, tomorrow the world! BWAHAH...ah... ahem.
Pairing: Jack/William (not THAT one!), Jack/Norrington strongly implied
Distribution: List archives. Everyone else please ask!
Disclaimer: Laurie is a law student and knows these things won't help a damnbit, but should we get sued we're going for Fair Use and Parody.
Series Summary: A good five generations after CotBP. Jack's been using the curse to live forever... and has a bit of trouble convincing the youngest Turner to help.
Feedback: Yesh. Laurie says: "especially about anachronisms... that's where I'm weak!"
Author's notes: This is a crossover. It's a surprise with what, but the
'William' and 'British' bits should tip you off. We'll be a bit more
forward with the facts in future parts.
Prologue Two - 'He Never Came, Y'know.'
--------------
-London, 1864-
He ran through the streets, cutting a fine, lithe figure in his breeches and jacket. At thirteen, William James Turner the Fourth was as fine a figure of an Englishman as any of his family. His waves of gold-brown hair refused to stay tied back; his thin limbs and the pale skin told the tale of a life lived indoors, gone smooth as china instead of pasty and damp like so many of his countrymen. He slipped between two carts and near caused an accident, skidding back onto the sidewalk and pausing to catch a breath.
"Is it true, father?"
He knew better than to interrupt his father at work, but there he was at the door of the office. He'd walked all the way here, on his own, and he was certain he'd be in trouble when he got home. At least he'd left word, this time -- perhaps he'd only get scolded. His father lifted his eyes from his work, fixed them on his son accusingly, and waited.
"Is it?" The boy took a step through the door, firelight flickering over his hair and eyes too bright for mere excitement. It softened his father's expression, a bit - his youngest boy was prone to illness, so he gestured him over to press a careful hand to his forehead, another to his wrist.
"Is what true, Will?" Warm. The boy was over warm and had probably run all the way there. He simply refused to take care of himself, it seemed, and dashing about without his mother certainly didn't help. He examined the age-worn book his son held out, with a half-smile on his face. Ah.
"The book you gave me this morning. About... is it great-great grandfather? And his son? Were they really pirates, father?"
"Aye." He smoothed back his son's hair and stood, pulling on his coat. "Come, Will. I'll tell you about it as I walk you home." He took his hand, and as they went through the crowded London streets, he answered a hundred curious questions about very familiar names. Bootstrap Bill, and where that name came from. The first Master William Turner, and how he made the small fortune the family still stood on. Captain Jack Sparrow, and the -Black Pearl-. and how they still came back.
"He's still alive? How? He must be a hundred years old!"
"Aye, he is at that. More to a hundred and sixty, now. But he uses thecurse of the Aztec gold and Turner blood. He looks perhaps forty today. You see, he'll spend a year as a man, now and then, living a life I'm told is most debauched and against all hopes of heaven." His lips twitched, though he kept his expression carefully schooled disapproving. "And then he'll return to that hidden island, steal a bit of gold from the chest. He'lllive as a cursed man until he comes to take a Turner back to the isle." He opens the gate and sees his son inside. "Cursed for a fortnight, if a year is a day."
Every fourteen years. He saw his son do the hasty, simple math in his head. "When was he last here? Did you go with him?"
A nod. "He returned me home the day before your birth." He leaned on the gatepost, patiently.
"I'll be fourteen next month." He watched his son muse it over. Captain Jack Sparrow, -here-, and just in time for his birthday. And perhaps... "Father? Which Turner will he take? There's you and I here, now..."
"I couldn't leave your mother without an income for six months, now could I?" A thrill danced up the boy's spine, and he held the book close, like a precious thing. "But he won't be able to take you on a journey if you're ill. Go see your mother and let her take care of you lest your fever come back." Will deflated, slightly, and sighed. "And we'll talk about your behavior when I get home."
---------------------------------------------------------
-Somewhere in the Pacific, 1898-
He never came, y'know.
I don't normally take time out of my busy schedule to brood, but as I'm literally on a slow boat to China, I suppose I can bothered, just this once. I lean on the rail and thoughtfully stare out onto the water. Moonlight's pretty, but I've had enough of it. It's the firelight from the torches that really fascinates me.
Fire's -nice-, y'see. It's pain and clean and terrible, and y'can't tear your eyes away from it.
But I've digressed. I was broodin'.
When I was fourteen, my father told me a fantastic story. He said there was a family secret -- that six generations ago, the Turner family men were pirates. Yes, I know, it's all very cliche to claim pirates in the family, but I believed him. Two generations of Turner men sailed on the -Black Pearl- with the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow.
Here's where it gets mad.
So did the next three generations.
There was a curse, y'see, that made men immortal with god awful side effects -- no way to satiate eternal hunger, thirst, lust. Y'think being a vampire is bad? It's the vampire times ten, I'm thinking. Times a thousand. Jack Sparrow did it to himself on purpose. Something about a promise, something about living forever. I don't remember exactly.
A life like that, even an eternal one, is empty. Void of everything that'd make eternity worth it. So every fourteen years, so the story's told, Jack Sparrow indulged in the cure for his curse and lived a year or two in glorious debauchery. The cure of course being the blood of Turner men. He'd kidnap the oldest living son, sweep them off to a cursed island in the Caribbean, take a nip of blood and give them a year's adventure in return.
I was the eldest son and thirteen when I heard all this. I believed every word of it, foolish, naive idiot that I was.
So I waited. I turned fourteen. He didn't come.
I turned sixteen, and my father died, and I threw the book away. He didn't come.
I turned eighteen. I met Cecily, and my whole world changed. He didn't come.
I was almost twenty-two, and suddenly a dark-haired stranger entered my life.
Not Jack Sparrow. He's a fairytale. Angelus? He's not. He's a legend, and he took me from William Turner to William the Bloody. Entirely different curse than the one I'd been hoping for. More's the pity, too.
There's no cure for this one.
I light a cigarette and toss the match out into the water. It gets sucked under in the middle of a puddle of light. Some kind of metaphor, that. I dunno. I've stopped writing, stopped payin' attention to such things. Angelus... not a reader. And what he doesn't do... I don't do. Just the way things are now.
Would my life be different if he'd come? Maybe I would have stopped chasing fairy tales if I'd met a real one. Maybe Cecily couldn't have touched me. Maybe pain would be different. Maybe Dru never would have seen me. Dunno.
Maybe it would have all been the same.
No use cryin' over spilled blood, right?
Yeah. No use.