*Disclaimer* None of the characters you see here that are not mine are mine, except for the ones that are mine. The situations, happenstance, and occurrences are mine, except for the ones that are not mine.
Note: A hefty thank you to Erinya! You rock, girl! May your harem be filled with Johnny Depp clones.
And now, without further ado....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Turner stared into the sea spray unblinkingly. The briny droplets splashed into his eyes. He didn't feel the pain. Nor did he feel the blazing sun beating down on his bare head, nor the powerful and gentle rocking motions of the ship. Whether it was pleasure or pain, he didn't feel much any more. The last three years had seen to that. In a way, he was grateful. Those wide eyes of his had been opened even further. Once the numbness came over him, it was easier to go about everyday life. More often than not, the people he made trade with knew if you were dull, inexperienced, or just plain innocent. People responded to him differently now, since he had stopped caring.
Since Elizabeth left him.
In truth, he should have known it would be this way from the very first. In the moments before their first kiss when she had insisted to her father that he was a pirate, not a blacksmith, he should have known. It was true, pirate's blood ran through his veins. His thirst for adventure was undeniable. But his upbringing was too strong to be overcome by an obsession with water and treasure. It had seemed perfectly natural to test for his captain's papers, secure a commission with a local shipping company, and begin building a house.
Nor could Elizabeth entirely be blamed. They had looked at each other with longing since they were children. With the taste of adventure still fresh in her mouth, it seemed sensible to marry the dashing man that set out to claim her affections. She had tried so to hide her disappointment with the practical plans being laid down by her new husband. After all, he really was doing what was best. But she had grown more distant as the months went on. Will could tell she was dying inside.
He remembered the night they discussed it--the last real discussion they had. A fierce tropical storm had kept them inside the house all day. By the time the rain stopped, the night had already fallen. Will had gone to find Elizabeth, to see if she wanted to take a walk on the nearby beach.
He found her on the balcony of their new bedroom looking out onto the sea, gulping in the salt air and weeping softly into the waves below. She was pale, drawn, and tense.
"Elizabeth, stop trying to hide it from me," he said softly, without puzzling out a reason as to why. With those instinctive words, the realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. He had been a blind fool to think that the ideal life he had built was anything more than a pretty cage for her. She hung her head with the look of a wild horse that had been pinned in a stable.
"You are my life, Will. I love you."
"But you never wanted to be a merchant's wife, did you? You want to live with a scream, not a sigh." Will's voice was gentle, his words slow and carefully chosen. She was quiet. Though he could ask what would relieve her suffocated heart, he knew it would be pointless. She wouldn't ask him to leave the life he had so tenderly built, knowing that eventually, being an outlaw would be nothing but a source of misery to him. He couldn't ask her to stay marooned in this prison like a house cat. They were at an impasse.
Two weeks later, he awoke to find her gone. There was a simple note pinned to her pillow, saying only that she loved him. Her father didn't deny knowing where she had fled, and no search was made. Will waited a year before shutting down their new house and advertising for new owners. He had not left his ship since then.
Maybe it was the blood of Bootstraps, his father, that made the sea his refuge. When he looked over the waves, his mind ran wild and his heart beat faster. For a few minutes, what happened didn't matter, and he wasn't lonely. The deep, dangerous green of the spray lit his blood on fire and made him feel as he had so long ago--like an adventurer. His crew quickly learned not to disturb him when he was looking over the railing. He may have looked peaceful, but in his mind he was reliving battles with the sword, the cannon, and the fist. He was swinging from the rigging with the cool wind on his face, on his way to rescue his lady love. He was fighting by her side, each movement smooth as though choreographed, responding to her movements as though they were one mind in two bodies.
But the moment always ended, and a numb reality returned. The world may as well have existed in black and white. They were pulling into Portsmouth now, and he needed to get to the quarterdeck and issue shore leave. Tonight he would spend some time on solid ground, eat some fresh food, and sleep on a bed that stayed in one spot on the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julie laughed hysterically as her attacker's head collided with the bricks under her feet. The rank-smelling man quivered, emitted a loud and drunken belch, and went still. His downfall had been foolishly easy, but that was not the reason for Julie's laughter. It was the fact that his pants had come down in the middle of the fight (So eager was he to his self-appointed task that he had removed his belt and dropped it on the ground), and rather than kicking them away as a sober man would, he seemed to think the best course of action was to take off his shirt as well. He thought he may as well complete the nudity, she supposed.
Still trying to quell the wave of chuckles, Julie turned on her heel and walked back toward a busier part of the street.
Her skirts were too heavy, soaked in the sandy rain puddles that were scattered all over the streets. The water had crept up the cotton of her petticoats until the skin on her thighs was numb. Strands of her hair had come down from the bun she had tried so carefully to pin her hair in. The humidity had curled them into frayed, twisting corkscrews that interfered when she tried to see and tickled her nose when she breathed in. She was hungry, and the coins that jangled in her pocket reminded her of the inn where she was staying and the loaves of bread they baked. Her step quickened as her mouth began to water, and before long the warm glow of the Cavorting Mule Inn beckoned her inside.
The innkeeper, Mr. York, took one look at her sodden clothes and ordered a fresh loaf put in. At Julie's request, he handed her a steaming-hot grog--a watered down ale with honey. Tea for real men, as the proprietor called it.
"Ye mought wanna 'ave a sit by the fire, luv." He said in his gravelly, cockney way. "Gentleman's already ower there, but I knaw 'im. 'E won't mind." She glanced in the direction indicated by the thick, calloused finger. Seated comfortably with legs propped up by the roaring fire was a dark-haired man. He was well-dressed and clean looking, which made him stand out in the room full of working men and drunken miscreants. Julie hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded and thanked the innkeeper. He didn't look so bad...and she was so very cold.
With hot grog in hand, she lifted her damp skirts slightly and made her way toward the fire to "'ave a sit." The man at the table didn't look up as she approached. He stared into the snapping, waving flames of the fire as though in a trance. It wasn't until she cleared her throat softly that he started and turned. When his eyes focused on her, his feet immediately dropped to the ground and he stood.
"I beg your pardon, miss. I must have been daydreaming. What can I do for you?" His polite behavior and quick apology made Julie suddenly realize how bedraggled she must look. She probably should have gone up to her room to dry off, but in truth the hot meal downstairs held a more immediate appeal to her, not to mention that the fireplace was roughly three times bigger than the little stove in her room. She smiled sheepishly.
"Please sit, sir. I only came to see if you were willing to share your place by the fire." His already-wide eyes softened as they scanned over her wet hair, blue lips, and damp clothing.
"Of course. Please, come sit." He picked up one of the rickety old tavern chairs and moved it even closer to the glowing brick mantle. Julie thanked him again, then sank gratefully into the chair. Her sore flesh complained loudly at the sudden bending, then settled down as she relaxed. A tingling in her fingers reminded her of the hot grog in her hand. She lifted the mug and buried her face in the steam, taking tiny sips of the scalding liquid. Her nose and lips began to regain feeling, and she closed her eyes in bliss as the alcohol and steam revived her nerves.
A soft chuckle made her eyes snap back open. The man sitting across the table was watching her, his expression now deeply amused. Slowly, she lowered the tankard back onto the table, thinking that perhaps she had spilled some of the liquid on herself in her eagerness. The man glanced at the fire as a boy added more logs, then looked back at her.
"Forgive me. You just seemed to be enjoying yourself so thoroughly." Julie nodded slowly, rubbing her stiff neck.
"I was very cold."
"Did you get caught in the rain?"
Not exactly, Julie thought. Shaking off one attack only to be met by another and running through back alleys in the rain to avoid being tracked couldn't really be called a sudden misfortune. She doubted that was the answer he wanted, however.
"Yes,"
She had always prided herself on witty conversation. Luckily, at that moment the inn's proprietor appeared at her elbow with two platters of cheese, butter, and bread.
"'Ere ye are, roit steamin' from t' oven. Ye'll be lettin' me know if there's anythin' else?" The dark-haired man smiled.
"Thank you, Mr. York. This is perfect."
"Thank you so much, sir." Julie replied, an eager grin spreading across her face. She grasped the knife and, with quick, deft motions, began cutting into the bread. It was still steaming from the oven. She would have to remember to leave a few extra coins for the excellent Mr. York. Julie cut a very thick slice of bread off the loaf and laid a slice of cheese on top of it. There were no forks or knives, but the setting was less than formal, and so hands and fingers sufficed for eating utensils. Julie chewed with rapt enjoyment. The coarse brown bread was intensely satisfying, and again she closed her eyes to gain full effect. This time the man kept his eyes to himself, but she could have sworn she heard another deep-throated chuckle.
As the meal went on and the knifepoint of her hunger was blunted some, Julie began to wonder about the man's dress. He was wearing good clothes, but they looked sweaty and even a little bit dirty. He had a jacket draped over the back of his chair, but the chair was turned toward the wall and she could not see it.
"I am a merchant ship's captain." Startled, Julie dropped her bread.
"Come again?"
"Is that not what you were wondering? I'm William Turner, captain of the ship 'Portal.' My ship is docked here for two days."
"I see." Julie bit into the bread and chewed pensively. Perhaps this was what she had been waiting and praying for. She swallowed her mouthful quickly, then opened her mouth to speak. Her attempt at speech was too hasty, however, and she began to choke. What little grace or dignity she had purported to have was shot as she hacked and spluttered, trying to swallow the thick bread crust caught in her throat. The man pressed her drink into her hand, and after several deep swallows she regained her composure.
"Are you all right?" Captain Turner was trying to hide laughter and to show concern for her predicament. Julie nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, and cleared her throat gently. He picked up his slice of bread again. "Now, what was so important that you attempted to speak with your lungs full?"
"I...I was going to ask, sir, if you were hiring sailors." He looked her up and down, then raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I could likely be persuaded to, but if you'll forgive me..."
"The job is not for me." She hastened. "It's for my younger brother." The well-practiced speech rolled off her tongue. "He was a cabin boy, and now he's looking for experience as a sailor. He's a hard worker, and accustomed to life at sea, but none of the ships here have given him the time of day." Captain Turner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Julie did her best not to look too eager, but she could feel her eyes growing bigger. Father God, she prayed, don't let him be too sensible. At length, he spoke.
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen, sir."
"And you say he works hard?"
"Yes, sir, and he's smart, ready to learn."
"Very well, have him meet me at the docks tomorrow. I should conclude my business for the day around three o'clock." Julie's mouth split in what she deeply hoped was an appealing grin.
"Thank you, Captain. I shall relay the message." Thus relieved, Julie returned to chewing her bread...but more carefully this time.
Note: A hefty thank you to Erinya! You rock, girl! May your harem be filled with Johnny Depp clones.
And now, without further ado....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Turner stared into the sea spray unblinkingly. The briny droplets splashed into his eyes. He didn't feel the pain. Nor did he feel the blazing sun beating down on his bare head, nor the powerful and gentle rocking motions of the ship. Whether it was pleasure or pain, he didn't feel much any more. The last three years had seen to that. In a way, he was grateful. Those wide eyes of his had been opened even further. Once the numbness came over him, it was easier to go about everyday life. More often than not, the people he made trade with knew if you were dull, inexperienced, or just plain innocent. People responded to him differently now, since he had stopped caring.
Since Elizabeth left him.
In truth, he should have known it would be this way from the very first. In the moments before their first kiss when she had insisted to her father that he was a pirate, not a blacksmith, he should have known. It was true, pirate's blood ran through his veins. His thirst for adventure was undeniable. But his upbringing was too strong to be overcome by an obsession with water and treasure. It had seemed perfectly natural to test for his captain's papers, secure a commission with a local shipping company, and begin building a house.
Nor could Elizabeth entirely be blamed. They had looked at each other with longing since they were children. With the taste of adventure still fresh in her mouth, it seemed sensible to marry the dashing man that set out to claim her affections. She had tried so to hide her disappointment with the practical plans being laid down by her new husband. After all, he really was doing what was best. But she had grown more distant as the months went on. Will could tell she was dying inside.
He remembered the night they discussed it--the last real discussion they had. A fierce tropical storm had kept them inside the house all day. By the time the rain stopped, the night had already fallen. Will had gone to find Elizabeth, to see if she wanted to take a walk on the nearby beach.
He found her on the balcony of their new bedroom looking out onto the sea, gulping in the salt air and weeping softly into the waves below. She was pale, drawn, and tense.
"Elizabeth, stop trying to hide it from me," he said softly, without puzzling out a reason as to why. With those instinctive words, the realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. He had been a blind fool to think that the ideal life he had built was anything more than a pretty cage for her. She hung her head with the look of a wild horse that had been pinned in a stable.
"You are my life, Will. I love you."
"But you never wanted to be a merchant's wife, did you? You want to live with a scream, not a sigh." Will's voice was gentle, his words slow and carefully chosen. She was quiet. Though he could ask what would relieve her suffocated heart, he knew it would be pointless. She wouldn't ask him to leave the life he had so tenderly built, knowing that eventually, being an outlaw would be nothing but a source of misery to him. He couldn't ask her to stay marooned in this prison like a house cat. They were at an impasse.
Two weeks later, he awoke to find her gone. There was a simple note pinned to her pillow, saying only that she loved him. Her father didn't deny knowing where she had fled, and no search was made. Will waited a year before shutting down their new house and advertising for new owners. He had not left his ship since then.
Maybe it was the blood of Bootstraps, his father, that made the sea his refuge. When he looked over the waves, his mind ran wild and his heart beat faster. For a few minutes, what happened didn't matter, and he wasn't lonely. The deep, dangerous green of the spray lit his blood on fire and made him feel as he had so long ago--like an adventurer. His crew quickly learned not to disturb him when he was looking over the railing. He may have looked peaceful, but in his mind he was reliving battles with the sword, the cannon, and the fist. He was swinging from the rigging with the cool wind on his face, on his way to rescue his lady love. He was fighting by her side, each movement smooth as though choreographed, responding to her movements as though they were one mind in two bodies.
But the moment always ended, and a numb reality returned. The world may as well have existed in black and white. They were pulling into Portsmouth now, and he needed to get to the quarterdeck and issue shore leave. Tonight he would spend some time on solid ground, eat some fresh food, and sleep on a bed that stayed in one spot on the floor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julie laughed hysterically as her attacker's head collided with the bricks under her feet. The rank-smelling man quivered, emitted a loud and drunken belch, and went still. His downfall had been foolishly easy, but that was not the reason for Julie's laughter. It was the fact that his pants had come down in the middle of the fight (So eager was he to his self-appointed task that he had removed his belt and dropped it on the ground), and rather than kicking them away as a sober man would, he seemed to think the best course of action was to take off his shirt as well. He thought he may as well complete the nudity, she supposed.
Still trying to quell the wave of chuckles, Julie turned on her heel and walked back toward a busier part of the street.
Her skirts were too heavy, soaked in the sandy rain puddles that were scattered all over the streets. The water had crept up the cotton of her petticoats until the skin on her thighs was numb. Strands of her hair had come down from the bun she had tried so carefully to pin her hair in. The humidity had curled them into frayed, twisting corkscrews that interfered when she tried to see and tickled her nose when she breathed in. She was hungry, and the coins that jangled in her pocket reminded her of the inn where she was staying and the loaves of bread they baked. Her step quickened as her mouth began to water, and before long the warm glow of the Cavorting Mule Inn beckoned her inside.
The innkeeper, Mr. York, took one look at her sodden clothes and ordered a fresh loaf put in. At Julie's request, he handed her a steaming-hot grog--a watered down ale with honey. Tea for real men, as the proprietor called it.
"Ye mought wanna 'ave a sit by the fire, luv." He said in his gravelly, cockney way. "Gentleman's already ower there, but I knaw 'im. 'E won't mind." She glanced in the direction indicated by the thick, calloused finger. Seated comfortably with legs propped up by the roaring fire was a dark-haired man. He was well-dressed and clean looking, which made him stand out in the room full of working men and drunken miscreants. Julie hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded and thanked the innkeeper. He didn't look so bad...and she was so very cold.
With hot grog in hand, she lifted her damp skirts slightly and made her way toward the fire to "'ave a sit." The man at the table didn't look up as she approached. He stared into the snapping, waving flames of the fire as though in a trance. It wasn't until she cleared her throat softly that he started and turned. When his eyes focused on her, his feet immediately dropped to the ground and he stood.
"I beg your pardon, miss. I must have been daydreaming. What can I do for you?" His polite behavior and quick apology made Julie suddenly realize how bedraggled she must look. She probably should have gone up to her room to dry off, but in truth the hot meal downstairs held a more immediate appeal to her, not to mention that the fireplace was roughly three times bigger than the little stove in her room. She smiled sheepishly.
"Please sit, sir. I only came to see if you were willing to share your place by the fire." His already-wide eyes softened as they scanned over her wet hair, blue lips, and damp clothing.
"Of course. Please, come sit." He picked up one of the rickety old tavern chairs and moved it even closer to the glowing brick mantle. Julie thanked him again, then sank gratefully into the chair. Her sore flesh complained loudly at the sudden bending, then settled down as she relaxed. A tingling in her fingers reminded her of the hot grog in her hand. She lifted the mug and buried her face in the steam, taking tiny sips of the scalding liquid. Her nose and lips began to regain feeling, and she closed her eyes in bliss as the alcohol and steam revived her nerves.
A soft chuckle made her eyes snap back open. The man sitting across the table was watching her, his expression now deeply amused. Slowly, she lowered the tankard back onto the table, thinking that perhaps she had spilled some of the liquid on herself in her eagerness. The man glanced at the fire as a boy added more logs, then looked back at her.
"Forgive me. You just seemed to be enjoying yourself so thoroughly." Julie nodded slowly, rubbing her stiff neck.
"I was very cold."
"Did you get caught in the rain?"
Not exactly, Julie thought. Shaking off one attack only to be met by another and running through back alleys in the rain to avoid being tracked couldn't really be called a sudden misfortune. She doubted that was the answer he wanted, however.
"Yes,"
She had always prided herself on witty conversation. Luckily, at that moment the inn's proprietor appeared at her elbow with two platters of cheese, butter, and bread.
"'Ere ye are, roit steamin' from t' oven. Ye'll be lettin' me know if there's anythin' else?" The dark-haired man smiled.
"Thank you, Mr. York. This is perfect."
"Thank you so much, sir." Julie replied, an eager grin spreading across her face. She grasped the knife and, with quick, deft motions, began cutting into the bread. It was still steaming from the oven. She would have to remember to leave a few extra coins for the excellent Mr. York. Julie cut a very thick slice of bread off the loaf and laid a slice of cheese on top of it. There were no forks or knives, but the setting was less than formal, and so hands and fingers sufficed for eating utensils. Julie chewed with rapt enjoyment. The coarse brown bread was intensely satisfying, and again she closed her eyes to gain full effect. This time the man kept his eyes to himself, but she could have sworn she heard another deep-throated chuckle.
As the meal went on and the knifepoint of her hunger was blunted some, Julie began to wonder about the man's dress. He was wearing good clothes, but they looked sweaty and even a little bit dirty. He had a jacket draped over the back of his chair, but the chair was turned toward the wall and she could not see it.
"I am a merchant ship's captain." Startled, Julie dropped her bread.
"Come again?"
"Is that not what you were wondering? I'm William Turner, captain of the ship 'Portal.' My ship is docked here for two days."
"I see." Julie bit into the bread and chewed pensively. Perhaps this was what she had been waiting and praying for. She swallowed her mouthful quickly, then opened her mouth to speak. Her attempt at speech was too hasty, however, and she began to choke. What little grace or dignity she had purported to have was shot as she hacked and spluttered, trying to swallow the thick bread crust caught in her throat. The man pressed her drink into her hand, and after several deep swallows she regained her composure.
"Are you all right?" Captain Turner was trying to hide laughter and to show concern for her predicament. Julie nodded, wiping tears from her eyes, and cleared her throat gently. He picked up his slice of bread again. "Now, what was so important that you attempted to speak with your lungs full?"
"I...I was going to ask, sir, if you were hiring sailors." He looked her up and down, then raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I could likely be persuaded to, but if you'll forgive me..."
"The job is not for me." She hastened. "It's for my younger brother." The well-practiced speech rolled off her tongue. "He was a cabin boy, and now he's looking for experience as a sailor. He's a hard worker, and accustomed to life at sea, but none of the ships here have given him the time of day." Captain Turner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Julie did her best not to look too eager, but she could feel her eyes growing bigger. Father God, she prayed, don't let him be too sensible. At length, he spoke.
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen, sir."
"And you say he works hard?"
"Yes, sir, and he's smart, ready to learn."
"Very well, have him meet me at the docks tomorrow. I should conclude my business for the day around three o'clock." Julie's mouth split in what she deeply hoped was an appealing grin.
"Thank you, Captain. I shall relay the message." Thus relieved, Julie returned to chewing her bread...but more carefully this time.
