Will Turner stared first at the serious pirate in front of him, then at the door over the pirate's shoulder, and after that at the pirate once more. Jack's eyes glinted at him in the darkness so much so that Will wondered if perhaps the man had tears in his eyes. For a long moment he wished to ask if such was so, but the pirate turned 'fore he had the chance. Will frowned and watched as Jack Sparrow took an embellished key, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

Dark the space beyond it was, and Will squinted to see in but could not. He turned curious eyes upon the solemn pirate who nodded t'ward the torch he'd fixed upon the wall. Brows knit, Will took it and tread cautiously to the threshold where he lifted the light.

Inside was much space o'er which shadows danced. In the center gleamed gold. Stepping cautiously through the darkness, Will went to it. The flame passing under revealed it to be a round candelabrum. Twelve candles he lit in succession, each flame illuminating more of the room. As the last flickered alight, he stepped back and saw that his family had joined him. His son stood at the edge of a table, eyeing with interest the sword that lay atop it. Little Lucy gazed open-mouthed upon the painted ceiling as she held her mother's hand; Elizabeth's other cupping her own mouth.

Wary, Will followed her gaze down to the floor where beside a bed sat a pair of brown boots. Made of a dark tannin they were, and they looked soft, their tall tops folded over. Beneath one such fold gleamed the silver blade of a dagger. The weapon was fixed to the side, tucked neatly under a brown boot strap.

Behind the whirring in Will's ears he heard the heavy steps of Jack Sparrow as the pirate stepped into the room. It was with a slow toe he approached, and with a tentative step that he settled. For a moment all was still, and then there was the near-silent drawing of breath that Will would not have heard had the pirate not stood only a pace away.

"Bootstrap," said Jack, "stowed his boots here."

"Grandfather?" Young Jack had turned and was gaping at the pirate. "Bullocks! You're full o'—"

"Boy—"

"It's true," Will cut in, preventing any argument that might arise. He reached forward to run his fingertips o'er the taut strap holding the dagger and was glad to hear the swish of Elizabeth's skirt. He looked up at her as she knelt beside him and touched the embellished handle of the weapon. "Twas my grandfather's." Seeing her frown he shook his head. "My mother's father. She must have given it to him."

"Aye," said Samson, "always kept it close by, Bill did."

"Then why is it here?" Will turned to glare up at the other pirate. "Why is it not sunk into the sea like he? Why did he not take it with him?"

All eyes turned to the pirate held in question but Jack Sparrow's dark gaze was steady upon the man who'd asked. Black his eyes were, and flare up they did in the soft candlelight. Amber they smoldered. For an instant they blazed, Will's narrowing in turn, but cooled just as quickly. The silence that had been heavy, weighing upon the room and those within, turned chill with the pirate's terse voice.

"That is a question I haven't an answer for."

Will shrugged off Elizabeth's sudden grasp of his arm and stood to face the pirate. Upon the tip of his tongue was an acetic retort but it stayed there as up close he saw in Jack's eyes a mire of hurt. Will's brows drew together with a determination for patience he knew not he had.

"Answer for your father I can not." Unblinking, Jack caught Will's turning shoulder with deft fingers and gripped it. The grim intensity of Jack's solemnity showed not only in his eyes but also in the low, steady voice he rarely spoke with. "Tis not a matter of choice, son. You know, for I've told you before, that a man knows his limitations…I can not now nor could I ever fill the boots William Turner walked in. Savvy?"

To that Will found that he had no retort. Uneasy as it made him, the pirate's gaze held his. Strange it was, Will thought, that he felt so strong the pull of the dark eyes that so often shut him out. Stranger still was his inability to turn away when for once it was what he wanted to do. Strangest of all was that he could not refute what Jack had said, for Will suddenly knew, looking into the man's eyes, that he was right. Eyes stinging, and with a lump in his throat, Will nodded.

"Naet how I remember it," Samson said. The big man who'd at long last interrupted the strange silence eyed suspiciously the room around them. His green eyes darted from one thing to another, hooking to one sketch tacked to the wall above the desk before continuing their search, and he frowned at Jack. "Lot more orderly than last I saw it."

Giving Will's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Jack stepped back and glanced about. "Well you know," he said with a shrug,
"perhaps William finally figured out the meaning of spring cleaning."

"Do you mean to tell me, Captain Sparrow," Elizabeth said, brushing the dust off of her skirt as she stood to join them, "that Will's inclination to make a mess was inherited from his father?"

Will scowled at his smiling wife.

"My dear Elizabeth," said Jack, raising a brow as did the big man, "of that, there is no doubt in my mind." His dark eyes shifted quickly to the glowering man in question and, with a nervous smile, back again. "Not that that's a bad thing! Could be good—who knows? Messy folk are sometimes great artisans. You know, Michaelangelo—well, he was the messiest. Got paint all over the chapel ceiling once and everyone said it was his best—"

"Shut up, Jack," Will said, glaring at him.

The pirate looked decidedly relieved. "Alright," he agreed, winking at Elizabeth when Will pushed past him.

To the desk Will went. Above it on the wall was tacked the sketch the big man had ogled, and, curious, he studied it. Drawn on a large piece of yellowed parchment in a hand he recognized as Jack's were three men standing together beside a grove of palm trees. Grinning, the tallest had his big, strong arms around the other two. One, lean and smirking, leaned a shoulder lazily upon the closest tree trunk and the other, broad-shouldered and smiling, stood straight, arms folded over his chest.

"Twas the day we three found this place," Samson said, nodding at the sketch. "Jacky drew it for your Da."

Will nodded. That the men in the picture were Samson, Jack, and Bootstrap he'd known quick as he looked at each of them. Samson's immensity had given him away, as did the slouchy grace of Jack Sparrow and Bootstrap's stanch strength. But whereas Samson looked in the drawing much the same as he did standing a few paces away from Will, Jack could've been easily confused for Isaac Faust. The pirate's mane was long and without much embellishment—save for one braid amidst the free, flowing hair at the side of his face—and his face quite a bit younger. Bootstrap, on the other hand, looked much as Will knew he'd look if he glanced in the mirror.

"I do look just like him."

"Aye, you do," Jack said, glancing between he and the sketch upon the wall. "But," he said, narrowing his eyes at Bootstrap's face and then Will's, "you're prettier." At Will's glare he threw his hands up innocently. "In a manly way, of course."

Will rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the desk. Behind it ran a shelf peppered with various items of pirated interest—several silver rings, a jade statuette seemingly of orient origin, two small rosewood boxes both carved with strange symbols, an emerald the size of a small cannon ball, a dish of round, shiny gems the size of grapeshot, several golden coins, a very big and very pink conch shell, and three different colored strips of faded fabric in a coil—the last of which Will could not help but frown at. He'd seen similar pieces woven into Jack's mangy mane and so turned his puzzlement at the pirate.

"Some of us who are left behind," said Jack, plucking out the silver button the fabric was coiled around and eyeing it disdainfully before dropping it in Will's hand, "we refuse to let stay behind."

Will looked at it. He watched Jack study with great interest the greatly uninteresting wax dripping down the candles and frowned, first down at the button and then up at the pirate. "This was yours," he said, "from your coat." Upon seeing Jack frown down at the dissimilar buttons, he scowled, knowing as well as Jack that the coat the pirate wore was the wrong one. "The other coat, Jack."

Jack's brow furrowed. "The green one?"

"No."

"The tan one?"

"No."

"Ah," said Jack as he brightened, "the one trimmed in gold!"

"No," Will said tiredly, "not that one."

Jack, noting the tone of voice, badly feigned a ceiling-searching look of contemplation as well as the resulting wide-eyed realization. "The blue one!" He sauntered toward him and feigned examination of the button, poking it in Will's palm to turn it over. "Blessed be, you're right," he said, plucking it up and placing it back in the wreath of fabric, "it is from me coat."

"Jack."

"Will," he growled, fishing a flask from his pocket. He paused to uncork it and lift it to his lips. "Shut up."

"Alright," Will agreed, turning to eye the strands of beads hanging from a statue of the blessed virgin. "Rosaries?" He picked up one dangling crucifix and examined the amethyst beads of the rosary it was attached to. "My father was a religious man?"

"Of course he was religious," said Jack. "He was a pirate afterall."

Will raised his brows.

The pirate shrugged and twitched a smile. "God loves us all."

"T'were a gift," explained Samson, tapping the virgin's veil with a big fingertip, "from a Spanish nun. Spent the eve supping with us she did. Slipped off with Jacky and your Da 'fore I knew what was happenin'. Said she needn't be searching for God anymore."

Will frowned. "Why not?"

"Well," Jack put in quickly, "she must have found him."

"Aye, if me ears did'n deceive me, she found God plenty that night."

Will turned disapproving eyes upon a red-faced Jack Sparrow who instantly brightened and treated him to a charming, glinting smile. There was a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue but his attention was drawn down to the lad who'd pushed between he and Jack. His son was nodding sagely at all three skeptical men.

"Every eve of the Sabbath me mum finds God," he said.

Such delighted the pirates, Samson and Jack twitching smiles at each other as well as at the reddened faces of both Will and Elizabeth. Little Lucy, giggling, let go of her mother's hand and bounded toward the boys. She smiled up at all of them and nodded her assent.

"Jesus too!"

"Always sounds exhausting," said her brother, "Pretty sure that's why she don't go to church in the morn."

"Elizabeth," Jack Sparrow crowed, "What a lovely revelation! I would've never known, darling, that faith's fire so burns within you."

"Faith," she spat, "is not the only thing that burns, Jack Sparrow."

To that, the pirate's eyes grew wide. The smirk fell from his face as his gaze fell upon the flask in his hand. Promptly he pressed it into a coat pocket. With a dissatisfied look on his face he withdrew the thing and tucked it quickly inside his coat, raising his brows in defiance at Elizabeth.

Will cast both of them an aggrieved look and turned back to his examination of the desk. In truth he was not upset with their behavior, for their acting in the vein of normalcy was much a comfort to him. If it weren't for the distraction he felt quite certain he'd succumb to the suffocation that threatened his throat, pressing upon him like the weight of so many years without a trace of his father crushing him to the black oblivion of his own abyss.

Quickly he blinked away the heat in his misty eyes to see clearly the books in front of him. All leather bound and yellow-paged, some dog-eared and others with a crinkled spine, they sat in a pile on the left of the desk. The embossed title of the topmost tome he couldn't read, for it stood out in strange symbols. Unwillingness to listen to another debauched tale turned his gaze instead to the swinging brass pendulum of a clock. Small and jade it was, and carved as if a dragon. Around its faceplate were oriental numbers, dashes and slashes of gold, and in its center two gilt hands. Under the feet of the jade beast lay an ivory springblade. Beside it was a gem-encrusted silver inkwell and matching cup in which a variety of fancy quills, one festooned with a great white feather, were stuck.

"William was much the writer."

Jack's words turned him around. The pirate had slunk to the corner where he leaned against a tall cupboard. Its shelves were, Will realized as he crossed the space, rather full of books and scrolls of paper. With narrow eyes he accepted and inspected the piece Jack held out to him. In a perfect hand, letters rigid in slant and precise in scale, was written a song. As Will read he recognized the words as those he'd only just learned.

"Pirates all are we," he read. "Attributed to… Blacklabel?"

"Scary, that one," said Samson with a shiver. "A wretched wench if ever there was."

"But," Jack pointed out with a flourish of his fingers, "a fine songwriter."

Will raised a brow.

Placing the paper back where Jack had taken it from, his fingertips grazed a thick tome. He frowned and pulled it from the pile, unconcerned with the shower of sheets and dust that consequently fell. Covered in what looked suspiciously like one of Jack's elaborate maps—indeed, with the telltale tiny bird where on the compass rose 'N' should've been—and tied tightly with braided cord, it piqued his curiosity. Quickly he undid the knot and flipped over the cover.

"Twas your father's journal."

Just as fast he snapped it shut, face coloring.

Jack Sparrow folded his arms and studied him. After a long moment passed he looked decidedly pleased, his lips curling into a very slight but rather amused smile, and nodded. "A noble reaction," he said, glancing at the book, "but I don't think he'd mind."

"All the same," said Will, replacing it. He heard a snicker and frowned down at the lad at his feet. Sensing that a snicker was never quite a good thing to hear, especially in the presence of pirates—or children—he whipped from his son's hands a piece of paper and eyed it. "Well," he said with a shrug at Jack Sparrow, "he certainly had a sense of humor."

Upon the page was drawn a rather sour-faced donkey—his mane and fur braided and embellished with beads. Around its head was drawn a headscarf. Below the hooves was writ the short, but poignant, statement, "An ass for an ass."

"Oh yes, very clever he was," Jack agreed, inclining his head as to get a gander at the page. When he could not he raised up on his feet, and when Will tilted it further out of his sight he stood on his toes. Suddenly, something happened, for the pirate's eyes grew wide and he toppled forward in a whirl of brocade and lace. Hard on the floor he landed with a thud and glared menacingly over his shoulder where one heeled shoe dangled from a stockinged foot. "I hate these bloody shoes. Torture devices, Will. That is all they are. Probably designed by a woman."

"Funny," said Elizabeth from her perch on the bed with Little Lucy, "women tend to think it's a man ridiculous notions that've ended us up in stockings, heeled shoes, and corsets."

"Oh no," Jack said, picking himself up off the floor, "my dear Elizabeth, the corset has a purpose, darling, and that purpose is to tuck and lift that which nature decided not to." He frowned down at his shoes. "Dainty heels are completely unnecessary, however. Rather make a nice sight of me legs though, aye? Oh, but I almost forgot" he said, snatching parchment from unwatched fingers as Will's gaze fell upon his ankles, "what's this?" Ignoring Will's glare he cast his gaze upon the paper. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped and, with brows together, frowned.

"Beast looks a bit like a lemonface," said Samson, pointing over Jack's shoulder at the ass upon the paper. At the pirate's glare he shrugged. "Just sayin…"

Not wishing to be dragged into an argument that no one would win, Will turned his back on them. He went instead to the table upon which lay the sword his son had so admired. It was a beautiful piece. Not a cutlass nor a hanger was it, nor rapier nor foil. No, it was a long sword, the sort of sword fit for a knight. Silver was the blade and silver the handle. As with all beautiful things, he found he longed to touch it and so, with a lip bit, he did. The blade was cool under his fingertips, its carvings fine and almost imperceptible to the touch.

Tiny webs and flower blossoms swirled upon the blade, engraved with what Will knew had to have been a meticulous hand, and posies, smoky gems shining at the center of their bloom, grew up in swirls around the handle as if nature had intended them to. His careful caress he brought up over them, admiring their intricacy. Even toiling day and night he was not certain he could yet make such a sword himself.

Beside it lay a long leather sheath, toiled upon in much the same design. Roses and daisies sprang up, their edges dark and recessed into the hide. Wrapped round its top was a soft string. A cord of it lay free and was looped around a small piece of parchment. Folded over it was and without decoration save for the tiny spots of ink that had bled through. Still, it was impossible to discern its message, and so without thinking he slipped the note from its noose.

Holding it in his hand, though, Will paused. A sudden flush rose into his face for he was all too well aware that all eyes had fallen upon him. Jack Sparrow had abandoned the other piece of parchment to stroll across the room. A soft, sweet smell tickled Will's nose and as he heard in his ear the telltale clack and jingle of Jack Sparrow's lavish locks he recognized the herbal scent and knew that the pirate stood behind him. Close behind him, for the man's warmth was less than a pace away. Over his shoulder Will felt Jack's gaze fall upon him and then upon his shaking hand. He watched as the dark hand, wrist cuffed in lace, reached around his arm, and when the long fingers wrapped gently around his knuckles to steady it relief washed over him.

Drawing a deep breath he flicked it open. The writing was that which he'd only just come to know as his father's. Penned in precise black ink the note was, and he read it quietly.

What once belonged to a great Scot was passed to me by way of a gentleman's passing. A fine man he was and this his fine sword. It was crafted for his hand by a skilled artisan once touched by his kindness. A noble Scotsman was Mack McGregor and honourably did he wield his weapon in the Great Raid. In sacrifice he died for the good of our men, bequeathing this masterpiece to me. Shall the name Mack McGregor live on the tips of tongues in the passing of his blade from man to man.

It was my express wish to start first and foremost with my son William Turner, but I fear that that day has disappeared amongst the shadows upon the horizon. If ever should he happen upon this tale, or upon the sword itself, blessed be Mack's beloved sisters three.

"Sisters of fate," said Jack, his voice quite soft. "The Norns."

"From blessed light of fate's moonbeams three sisters weave my blessed dreams." Glancing over his shoulder, Will found Jack's narrow gaze upon him. Instinctively he reached for the portrait still tucked in his pocket but he did not withdraw it, for his son's startled cry drew his and the pirate's gaze to the boy across the room. Jack had thrown open an enormous trunk and was bent over it, his backside wiggling excitedly for all to see. Arching a brow at his son's namesake, Will crossed the room.

"Holy smokes!" Jack lifted a hand in the light and watched as gemstones poured through his fingers. His eyes glinted gold with their splendor, and he looked up at his father with a wide grin. "Grandfather was rich!"

"Boy…" Jack Sparrow frowned and, patting his pocket, hissed. Muttering curses he began a search of all his pockets. Fingers sought each and upon coming up empty he growled. "You picked me pocket!"

"No I didn't." The lad's eyes widened up at him and then at the key stuck in the lock of the chest. He smiled sheepishly. "Twas sticking out your pocket. I merely lifted it out. There was no need for picking."

Jack glared down at him.

Will sighed. "Jack…" When the both of them responded to his scolding he decided not to press the issue and instead knelt down to look upon the contents of the open trunk. Gold coins, strands of pearls and beads, and gemstones winked up at him. In the midst of all the sparkle he caught sight of a small leather pouch and lifted it. Its contents spilled out onto his palm. A ring it was, and a style he remembered well, for a smaller version of the twined golden vines had rested upon his mother's finger. It was the only trinket he'd managed to keep on the passage from England and rested now on the hand of the woman who as a girl had taken the only other trinket that had been upon him. With a glance at Jack, who looked just as startled by the sight of it, he stood and went to her.

"Will?" Her brown eyes sought his. "What is it?"

"My father's wedding band."

In one hand she took and with the other she took his hand. With gentle fingers she slid it onto his ring finger until it rested over the wedding band she'd once placed there. A soft kiss she pressed to both, and with a smile up at him, soothed his soul.

"Mama an' Da," said Little Lucy, eyes big as she took both their ringed hands and brought them together. "They match!"

"Yes, Lucy," Will said, smiling down at her, "they were meant to."