Author's Notes: You know the drill.

THE VIOLINIST

Chapter Eight - Farewell, My Child

As Jack blocked another slash to his face, he came to realize that William Turner the Junior had not at all lost his sword-fighting techniques. His form was as excellent as ever, and his parries were expertly laid out. Despite it all, Jack remained unfazed as he dodged a blow.

"Come now, Will, my lad," he taunted. "You know it takes more than good form to beat one such as I."

But Will Turner wasn't fighting to beat the pirate captain. He was still trying to talk some sense into Jack, not knowing that it was an impossible feat. Jack had no clear thought left in him.

"Come on, Jack," Will begged through gritted teeth. "I know you're in there, old friend. Come now, you know you don't want to kill us."

Jack let a grin dance upon his face and his eyes glinted with a crazed glow as he glanced in the corner. There was the dead Elizabeth, her honey-colored hair in loose ringlets tumbling in torrents down her shoulders like water down a rock. Blood flowed steadily from her head, due to a smash with a mallet.

In her arms was a child, obviously unaware that his mother had passed. It was a boy, no older than five, but he was wise enough to know to stay there and keep shut up. His eyes, honey-colored, like his mother's, were wide with a fear. His father had often told him tales of the great Jack Sparrow, captain of the Black Pearl.

But was this he? Could this truly be the man his father had meant? Could it be the man who was going to kill them now?

"What, kill the both of you?" Jack said, mock-astonishment cruelly creeping into his tone. "You and that little boy? Now, Will, why would I ever do such a thing? It truly hurts me to think you'd believe that."

"Jack, please, listen to me," Will pleaded. "What's happened to you?"

Jack sliced the flesh on Will's left forearm and the young Turner hissed in pain as his shirt showed his strawberry gash. When he glanced up from his wound, Jack had a pistol pointed to his head, and the pirate's face was suddenly devoid of humor, cruel as it were.

"What has happened to me, Will, my boy?" he asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer. "What indeed? I was great once, you know. Do you remember when I was great?"

Will gulped and dropped his sword, knowing that as long as he was in gaze of Jack Sparrow he could not fight back. "I reckon I did, Jack," he whispered. "I remember very well when you earned back the Pearl."

A smile appeared on Jack's face as he bared a few golden teeth mingled among uncared for white ones. "Aye, I do recall that incident," he said, in almost a dream-like remembrance. "Twas a fine adventure, eh, Will?"

Will nodded. "Yes, it was, Jack," he said softly.

"I was greater than that, you know," Jack continued, never breaking his hold with Will's dark brown eyes as he kept the pistol aimed at his head and his hand grasped about the hilt of his sword. "I mean, that wasn't exactly the high point of me life, when you met me. I was better after it, far better. Do you remember, Will? Remember Anamaria?"

Will nodded again, wiping some sweat from his face with a dirty hand, leaving tear-streaks on his eyes. "Aye, I do," he answered.

Jack's eyes glistened, but Will was sure they weren't from tears. "I loved her, Will, my lad," he confessed with a smile. "I truly did. She was the only woman I ever really loved." His smile faded. "And they killed her, William. People like you and your lovely Elizabeth killed my Anamaria."

"Jack, you know that's not true," Will whispered. "You know I'd never do something like that, not to you, or to Anamaria…"

Jack suddenly lashed out with his sword and landed a blow on the side of Will's face, slicing the perfect, slightly tanned skin on his high-set cheek. Will stumbled backwards in shock, placing his hand instinctively over the wound. The crimson liquid slowly leaked through the gaps between each of his fingers, drizzling in slow-moving trails down his hand until they pitter-pattered upon the dusty floor that was the blacksmith shop Will now owned.

"Now, Will," Jack said, his face suddenly devoid of any emotion as Will stared at him in horror. He didn't expect him to actually hurt him, not Jack Sparrow. "If I knew people like you wouldn't dare do such a thing to me as Commodore Norrington did, would I have done that just now?"

Will grimaced and withdrew his hand from his cheek, leaving a long, streaky red line running across his face and dripping down to his shoulder, where it stopped to stain the crisp white fabric that had not yet been tarnished with the hours of work Will usually endured.

"No, Jack," he answered softly. "I suppose you wouldn't have."

"One last thing, Will," Jack said quietly. "Do you think I'm mad, my boy?"

Will's chest heaved with fearful breath as he took his time to truly consider. Finally he licked his parched lips and looked back into Jack's eyes. "Yes, Jack," he answered truthfully. "You've gone mad, my friend."

Jack shrugged. "When you lose everything, Will," he said softly. "Then you'll go mad, too."

Will blinked. "I suppose I shall," he agreed in a near-whisper.

"That's a good lad," Jack said, suddenly equal in his voice volume with Will. He clicked the safety off of his pistol and pushed some of his dreaded hair back into his bandana. "Now be a dear and turn around."

Will's eyes widened with fear. The brown pools leapt over to the limp form of Elizabeth and the wide-eyed child in her arms with tears streaming down his face. Then Will glanced back at Jack, pleadingly so.

"Not in front of my son, Jack," he begged. "Please, God, don't let my little boy see this."

Jack's brow furled and he stroked his beard thoughtfully, having sheathed his sword and having a free hand. He glanced over at the little boy and frowned.

"How old is that boy?" he asked doubtfully.

Will swallowed a growing lump in his throat. "He's just a child, Jack. Please, he's just a little boy. Only five years old, Jack. I don't want him to see."

Jack licked his chapped lips, pondering. Then he sighed. "Five years is still so young," he agreed. Then he grinned, a lifeless grin, as if someone was using him as a hand puppet and making him follow moves and orders at command. "Too young to see blood spilt, eh, Will?"

Will blinked away tears he was sure were forming in his eyes and beckoned his son over with one hand. The boy cautiously crept out of his mother's arms and dashed to his father, who grasped him tightly in an embrace.

"Go outside and wait, alright, my boy?" Will said softly, wiping away some tears in his son's eyes. Mimicking his father, the boy did the same and Will laughed a strange little laugh that caught in the back of his throat.

The boy nodded and started out, but not without staring at Jack first. And Jack could not help but feel that this little child was judging him. It made him writhe in loathing. How dare a mere child judge him? He was judged by no one.

As soon as the boy left, Will turned around and let his hands drop to his sides. He glanced over his shoulder. "Jack," he said softly.

The pirate captain cocked his head as he aimed the pistol. "Aye?" he answered, his eyebrows narrowed so that they came to a knot in the center of his forehead.

Will sighed deeply. "I forgive you," he breathed. "And I shan't remember you this way. I'll remember you the way you were before. When you were great."

Jack blinked several times before responding. "The dead are not blessed with memories, Will Turner," he said quietly, and squeezed the trigger.

When Jack came out, several minutes later, the boy was standing at the door. Jack was astounded at how much he looked like his father. He had the same high cheekbones and the unruly mop of dark brown hair sat upon his hair, almost like a wig. But, ah, yes, he had some of his mother's features, too. Those perfect lips, eternally parted in a little pout, and those eyes: those honey-brown, big eyes.

When Jack came out, the boy shot up. Tear streaks streamed down his dirty cheeks, but there was no wetness in his eyes now. He wiped his eyes just to make sure before clearing his little throat. "Captain Sparrow," he said slowly.

Jack looked down and frowned at the little child. "Aye, lad?" he answered without a real tone about his voice.

The boy took a deep breath and swallowed a lump that Jack watched bob down his throat. "Sir, did you just murder my parents?"

Jack's frown deepened at the boy's quick-to-the-point mannerisms. He paused, as if weighing his answers. Moments later he squatted down so that he was nearly at eye-level with the child. "No, lad, I did not," he lied without a speck of conscious to hold him back. "You're father did not want to come out because he wants for you to come with me, lad. Have you heard of the Black Pearl, my boy?"

The child frowned doubtfully before rubbing the back of his head, still not sure what to think. "Yes, Sir," he said softly. "My father and mother have oft told me stories of it. And you, of course."

A smile tugged at the corner of Jack's lips and he stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Would you like to come aboard that ship, lad?"

The boy beamed, all his doubts gone. "Yes, Sir," he answered. "I think I'd like that very much."

Jack ruffled his hair. "That's a good lad," he praised. "Just like your father. Now, what's your name, my boy?"

The child stood taller, on his tiptoes, and his grin shone at Jack. "Venice Turner, Captain," he responded, the eyes of his that were his mother's dancing in the dimming light of mid-afternoon.

"NO!" Jack roared, bolting up in bed, his sweaty hands wrapped around the bed sheets in a death grip. Sweat poured from his face and his deep brown eyes were as big as dinner plates. He frantically looked around at his surroundings, his chest madly rising and falling with stressed breaths. He put his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes as he realized he was aboard the Pearl.

It had all been a dream, he realized thankfully.

But still…

Jack's eyes popped open once again and he leaped out of bed, not bothering to put on a shirt as he dashed madly out of his room in naught but his trousers. He leaped up the stairs three at a time, his feet thudding heavily each time he landed. Jack finally reached the deck and looked up at the crow's nest.

"Venice!" he roared. "Get down NOW!"

The teenager peered over the side of the nest and then slid down a rope until he softly padded to the deck, standing in front of his captain. "Yes, Sir?" he answered, an obedient response. Jack quickly gripped his shoulders and searched his face.

Dreadfully, he found what he was looking for:

Honey-brown eyes.

"Oh, gods," Jack whispered, his eyes trailing over the rest of Venice's face. The curly brown hair, the high cheekbones, the pouty lips…everything was there.

Venice blinked at his captain quizzically. "Captain…?" he inquired quietly.

Jack snapped back into reality and released the boy's shoulders. He suddenly realized that the younger man was already taller than him. Just as Will had been…

"Venice, I need for you to answer me a question," Jack said, his breathing quick and heavy. Venice looked at him with inquisitive eyes.

"Er…all right, Captain," he answered suspiciously.

"Who were your parents, lad?" Jack said quickly.

Venice's face immediately darkened and his eyes grew cold. How dare the captain bring something like that up. "Sir, why would you ask such a thing?" Venice growled dangerously.

"Answer the bloody question," Jack screamed, drawing his pistol and aiming it at Venice's throat. The teenage pirate swallowed and licked his lips.

"William and Elizabeth Turner," Venice answered quietly.

Jack's heart sunk in his chest and time seemed to freeze. He could only hear his own breathing, despite the fact that he saw Venice's lips moving in front of him. He had done it, then. He had killed the Turners.

Jack's Shadow Man cackled at him. You ignorant fool, it hissed. You were too weak and blind to see…

Jack felt something rise in his chest, but he couldn't quite identify what is was. Could it be fear? Guilt? Remorse? He certainly couldn't recognize it and analyze it…perhaps it was because it had been so long since he had lost something he had cared for and been conscious of it…

His eyes left Venice's face and burned into the floor. Oh, Bootstrap, he prayed to the first William Turner. Forgive me, my old friend. Please, forgive me for what I've done. I've really made a mess of things this time, eh, Bootstrap? Forgive me, dear old friend, for I knew not what I did.

But oddly enough, Jack got the strange feeling he had known…and had enjoyed it.

Closing Notes: Betcha didn't see that coming. New chappies coming soon, I promise!