This is part three… but wait, there's more.
Forty-three-year-old William Turner brought the hammer down onto the piece of metal he was working out to be a sword with tremendous force. Though he was clearly aging, his arms had not lost their strength and his fingers had not lost their skill. He was not well known, but those who knew of his skill and prowess with a hammer and anvil would never ask another for items to be made. He grunted as he put the metal into the nearby barrel of cool water. He judged by the ache in his arms that he needed a rest.
He put the hammer down, out of the way, and sat down against the wall. He looked down at his calloused hands with a sigh. He hated needing breaks, because it was then that his mind wandered. He hadn't slept much on Elizabeth's wedding night. Come to think of it, he hadn't slept that well for almost twenty years. He let his exhaustion get the best of him and he fell asleep, his head bowed.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and he looked up. There Jack Sparrow stood, a sword in his tanned hand. He looked the same as he always did, dreadlocks, kohl on his face, the same crooked smirk. Will Turner stood up with a groan, brushing off his backside. He gave the pirate a small smile.
"Jack Sparrow. I can't believe it." Will said, clearing his throat. "It's been, what, ten years? Where have you been?"
Jack swaggered over to the anvil and touched it experimentally, pulling his finger away when he found it was hot. He pulled out a handy bottle of rum and offered it to Will and when it was rejected, he took a large draught. He smacked his lips and turned to the blacksmith.
"I've been in the market, as they say. Something about a treasure that wasn't real. Anamaria wasn't happy at all." He said in his signature cryptic, and yet drunken, manner. "What of you? How have you been holding up?"
Will ran his hand over the head of his new donkey, for the other one died four years previous. He touched the handle of one of his many swords and sighed. "I still miss her. I've been working almost nonstop for twenty years, trying to get her off of my mind, and yet, whenever I pause for a moment, images of her and what could have been with us…" He raked a hand through his hair in frustration.
"Really, mate, you've got to let her go. Truth of the matter is, she's married to bloody Norrington. Nothing you can do about it." Jack waved his hands around. "I know you loved her, but death till they part is a long time to wait."
"But I've waited thirty years. I'm very good at being patient." Will replied, defeated. He was not used to being defeated. There was always a small, foolish, youthful part of him that kept his hope locked up in a cage, but the hope had finally died and burnt out, and he was left feeling cold and helpless. "I love her, Jack, and it refuses to die simply because she's married."
Jack patted him awkwardly on the back, holding out the bottle of rum to Will once more. "I know you do, mate."
Will looked at the bottle and accepted it, taking a long draught, attempting to wash the memories and possibilities away in a wave of alcohol.