A/N: Many, many thanks to meowbooks for multiple reviews full of wonderful feedback. You made my day!

Once again, jedipati did a wonderful betaing job - thank you!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

The comforting clucking of chickens woke Will Turner. He scrunched his eyelids against the bright sunlight and breathed deeply. The air smelled of morning and wood smoke and charred meat.

The meat smell was what made Will realize that he was not sleeping in his bed. His eyes opened wide. Ow. Slowly, he sat up and brushed a stiff hand over his tangled hair.

The sky was an unforgiving blue. Broken glass made the dirt and cobbles glitter wetly. Everything imaginable was strewn around the street, fruit, sheets, empty bottles, hats, clubs…a baby rattle. Animals wandered about the stumps of awnings and nosed about in shattered foundations. With them stumbled dull-eyed people, shoulders slumped, picking at this and that.

It was mercifully quiet.

Will grimaced as he stood and stared at the harbor. Peaceful under the midmorning sun, the only major vessels floating in the island's embrace were the Dauntless by the cliffs and Interceptor at its smoking dock. The pirates had left before completely looting the town.

Confused, Will rubbed his forehead. He wondered where Mrs. Brown had ended up, with Mellie and innocent Abbey and...

Elizabeth.

Staggered, Will lifted the hatchet in his hand, wondering that his fingers still curved about the carefully sanded handle. The girl who had so kindly cared for him, so selflessly given whatever he had needed, had been dragged into a monster's maw. He saw her again, calling to him as she was dragged past, and felt physical pain. He had been her last hope. And he'd gotten himself hit over the head.

He started forward, and the world swayed sickeningly. He'd been hit harder than he–

"Watch yerself, lad." A firm hand grasped his arm. He looked at the tall man beside him, took in the singed cheek and bleeding neck. Then he looked away. Elizabeth.

"Been waitin' for you to wake up." The man towed Will over to a slashed cherry wardrobe that lay on its side and shoved the youth onto it. "Here." He pushed a canteen into Will's hand. "Drink."

Numbly, Will did. The man sat down beside him. The wardrobe creaked. "I see you there in th' street with that hatchet in a bloody hand and I thinks t'meself, There's a fighter. He'll wake hisself up right soon." The man massaged his wrist and winced. "An' so you did."

Will wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tried to hand the canteen back. "I thank you–"

The man pushed it back. "Clean up that hand, lad."

Will blinked. He looked at his hand holding the hatchet. Brown dribbles snaked over it. He poured water on it then scrubbed, and the brown turned to red drips that splattered on the dirt.

This time when Will held out the canteen the man took it. Will stood, and the world remained steady. "I've got to–"

The man raised an eyebrow. "Then do so. An' lad…" he pointed to the swelling goose egg on Will's head, "if you can wake up from a noggin-hit like that…you can do whatever else easy."

I sincerely doubt it. Will barely nodded. He hurried up the street. He would be foolish to despair just yet: there was still a chance that someone else had saved Elizabeth. Yes, any number of people could've killed her captors. He would go to her home and see if she was there, because that's where she always was. She would've gone straight back.

Or would she have gone to the fort?

Ignoring protests from every limb, Will broke into a run.

The gates of the Governor's mansion hung wide open. Will saw the front door of the house gaped as well. Several servants sat on the steps. Above, another stepped out onto a balcony and looked hopelessly about.

The sound of weeping made Will turn. A maid sat on the ground against one of the white gate columns. Looking out to sea, she sobbed, her apron held over her mouth with one hand. She looked up at Will's approach and lowered her hand. Her eyes fastened briefly on the hatchet in his hand. "Mr. Turner." Her voice was thick.

Will said, "Elizabeth."

The maid's eyes welled; she balled her apron in her fists. "She told me t'run. I did, thought she was on my heels…she was. The fort was burning. I hid, then saw the pirates running for the water." She shook her head, brow furrowed. "I ran all the way back here, calling her name." Tears ran down her cheeks. Will watched her knuckles grow whiter and whiter. "She never came back."

"Where's the Governor?"

"Fort."

"Alive?"

"Alive. Mr. Turner–"

Will ran.

He was toiling past St. Paul's and the victims being tended there when someone called his name. He turned just in time to see it was Abbey before she threw her arms around him. "You're alive!" she exclaimed.

"What about Mrs. Brown?" he demanded, guilt washing over him for his forgetfulness. "What about you?" he touched the blood on her shoulder.

"I was shoved and I fell on a bottle. But I've been bandaged." Abbey pulled away, blinked her red-rimmed eyes. "Mrs. Brown…a piece of chimney got her on the head right before we found a hiding spot. She woke up just a while ago and…" Abbey's eyes dimmed. "Come along." She took Will's hand and headed for the church.

He was reluctant. She felt the tug on her hand, turned, and gave him a sad nod. "I heard the Governor's daughter is missing." She pulled him along faster. "You're going to want to put that hatchet in your belt, Will."

"I'm sorry," he managed, and moved up beside her. They hurried past growing piles of dead.

"Mellie made it," Abbey murmured, gesturing to the donkey, who was tethered under some trees. Will tried to feel relieved, but they were on the threshold of the church.

Stuffed with victims, the place of peace was no more. Pain submerged the floors, the polished pews, the broken stained glass, gurgling at the ethereal arches in prickly waves. Will was thankful when Abbey hesitated a few feet inside and led him between an old couple and a mother to where Mr. Kempe sat beside Mrs. Brown.

With a nod to Mr. Kempe, Will dropped to his knees beside Mrs. Brown, sweat trickling down his forehead and behind his ears. The woman's hair was caked with blood, but there was some color in her cheeks. She looked to be sleeping. Abbey squeezed Will's shoulder then slipped back outside.

"How is she?"

Mr. Kempe pursed his lips. "She'll live." His cleavers were gone, but his arms were just as blood-spattered as they were after a long day in the shop. "Will," he paused. "She's lucky to be alive after being hit. The stone was big as her head. But she's…" the butcher ran his thumb along his chin, "she's never going to be like she was. She can barely speak."

Will nodded, wondering why he couldn't react. It was as if his mind had been frozen ten minutes back, and had yet to melt. He looked back at Mrs. Brown's face. Her eyes moved quickly beneath her lids.

"Did you ever find her husband?"

Will couldn't help but notice the disgust with which Mr. Kempe said the last word. He shook his head. "Not alive or dead."

Mr. Kempe nodded.

Someone shrieked with pain and a baby began to cry. Will hunched, immobilized by the needs that ripped at his mind. He could not abandon the woman who had shown him tenderness. He could not abandon the young woman who had to selflessly given him a new life.

"Mr. Turner."

Surprised, Will looked at Mr. Kempe. The butcher's blue eyes, so like his daughter's, were both uncomfortable and understanding. "Abbey and I…my shop was not badly damaged. Turns out the pirates wanted fresher blood." He grimaced. "We think we can care for her better than you can, what with the demands of your shop and any other things you may need to attend to. Abbey mentioned you might have some pressing matters."

Devoid of embarrassment Will waited, feeling slightly hopeful for the first time in a long while.

"We'll take care of her and Mellie, Will, if you need us to. It would be," the man looked down at Mrs. Brown, "a pleasure."

Will blinked at the gentle look that softened the face of the widower who had clearly butchered more than livestock. He took a deep breath, trying to think of what to say.

Mr. Kempe lifted his head and one corner of his mouth quirked. He held out a beefy hand. Swallowing, Will grasped it tightly.

One shake and words were no longer necessary. Will touched Mrs. Brown's arm then stood and walked away, the image of Mrs. Brown's other hand in Mr. Kempe's lingering in his mind until he stepped into the sunlight. Head down, he rushed past the dead, wails ringing in his ears.

Once in the street he broke into a run. Someone called his name. Impatient, he stopped, and saw Abbey on the other side, carrying a water jug. "Check your pocket!" she shouted.

A cart filled with more dead clattered between them. Will shoved his hand into his pocket, and his fingers curled around something like a pebble. He brought it out.

The yellow-brown kernel rolled into his palm. Something in his chest twisted; he looked up. Abbey waved.

That was when he realized that he no longer had to wish to reach up and touch Elizabeth's world. The pirates had brought hers down. All he needed to do was leap.

I've got to go.

Still clutching his hatchet, Will hastened to Fort Charles.

No one tried to stop him from entering the scorched doorway. He jogged by muddled troops and scrambled down some steps into the sunny main courtyard. Beyond the remains of what might have been a gallows, he spotted the Governor, who was under a raised stone porch built into the fort wall. He darted around two Marines carrying a limp comrade and leaped up into the coolness. "They've taken her. They've taken Elizabeth!"

Startled, the Governor turned.

A table covered by a large map of the Caribbean dominated the space. The man who had been studying it straightened to fix Will in an icy green gaze. "Mr. Murtogg, remove this man," Commodore Norrington snapped.

Of the two soldiers that stood near, the skinny one grabbed Will's arm. Will shook him off. "We have to hunt them down! We must save her!"

"And where do you suppose we start?" Governor Swann snapped. "If you have any information concerning my daughter, please, share it."

Will miserably averted his eyes. The Governor miserably turned away. Norrington miserably returned to scrutinizing the map.

"That–Jack Sparrow." Slender Mr. Murtogg spoke up. "He talked about the Black Pearl."

Across the way, Mullroy straightened, staring at his friend. "Mentioned it is more what he did."

The Commodore didn't even look up. Will tensed desperately. "Ask him where it is! Make a deal with him, he can lead us to it!"

"No," Norrington sighed. "The pirates who invaded this fort left Sparrow locked in his cell, ergo they are not his allies." He straightened, turned. "Governor, we will establish their most likely course and launch a search mission th–"

"That's not good enough!" Will slammed his hatchet into the map.

"Mr. Turner." Frigidly, the Commodore grasped the hatchet and pulled it free. It left a dented slit in the map. "You are not a military man, you are not a sailor," he strode around the table to Will, smiled sourly, "you are a blacksmith. This is not" –he seized Will's arm and propelled the younger man into the sunlight– "the time for rash actions."

Will gazed off to reclaim his temper then looked at the Commodore. The man's tired eyes brimmed with worry, and Will felt stabs of both resentment and shame.

"Do not make the mistake of believing you are the only man here who cares for Elizabeth," the Commodore said softly, then shoved Will's hatchet into his hand. "Now go home."

Alone, Will stepped slowly down into the courtyard, mind scrambling furiously. He kept walking, stepping around a Marine who bent over a comrade's leg. When he reached the portico leading out, he stopped and looked back.

He was forgotten.

He turned further, toward the remains of the jail door.

O spirit of the Bone of Ineffective Temptation, do not develop acrimonious behavior against a humble prisoner who destroyed your vessel in an attempt to–

To–

Captain Jack Sparrow was pressed against the bars of his cell. He had one hand through the bars and wiggling a shard of the Bone inside the lock on his door. "Please," he whispered.

A loud creak sounded from the stairs. Clattering footfalls approached, and then a painfully familiar youth rushed up to Jack's cell.

The agile fanatic.

"You. Sparrow," he announced.

Jack, lying on his back in the straw and trying not to look like he'd just thrown himself there, lifted his head. "Aye?"

"You're familiar with that ship the Black Pearl."

Jack let his head fall back to the floor. "I've 'eard of it."

"Where does it make berth?"

"Where does it make berth?" Jack's head came back up. "Have you not heard the stories?"

The agile fanatic was silent.

Jack spoke to the ceiling. "Captain Barbossa and his crew of miscreants sail from the dreaded Isla de Muerta. It is an island that cannot be found except" –he lifted his head and gestured delicately with a smile– "by those who already know where it is."

The young man's eyes caught the light and gleamed with reckless obstinacy. "The ship is real enough, therefore its anchorage must be a real place. Where is it?"

Jack pleasantly disregarded the youth's frantic tone, lay his head down again, and inspected his fingernails. "Why ask me?"

"Because you're a pirate."

"And you wanted to turn pirate yourself, is that it?"

The young blacksmith's hands slammed savagely against the bars. "Never."

Tut, tut. Jack had lifted his head yet again, but his neck was beginning to protest. He lay calmly back down, continued to hold up his hand as if to inspect it, but kept his eyes slanted to the young man on the other side of the bars.

The fanatic stepped back, bowed his head, and placed a hand uncomfortably on his hip. "They took Miss Swann."

"Oh, so it is that you've found a girl!" Absurdly smug, Jack sat right up. "I see. Well, if you're intending to brave all, hasten to a rescue, and so win fair lady's heart, you'll have t'do it alone, mate." Comfortably, he watched the younger man. "I see no profit in it for me."

A pause. "I can get you out of here."

"How's that? The keys run off."

The fanatic looked at the cell door, hands on hips. "I helped build these cells. These," he brushed a hinge with his fingers, "are half-pin barrel hinges."

Frowning, Jack watched the youth turn and grab the bench that had been the jailer's hiding place. "With the right leverage, and the proper application of strength," the lad propped one end of the bench on the floor, bracing the legs between the bars, "the door will lift free."

Jack leaned back on cocked elbows, considering how this young one's attitude and face were so very familiar. "What's your name?"

"Will Turner."

Turner...oh, praise be to every saint. Jack sat up, carefully slow. "That would be short for William, I imagine." He cocked his head, eyes curiously intense. "Good, strong name. No doubt named for your father, aye?"

Will stared. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Uhuh." Jack looked down at his lap. "Well, Mr. Turner, I've changed me mind." He stood, beads clinking jauntily. "If you spring me from this cell I swear on pain of death I shall take you to the Black Pearl and your bonny lass. Do we have an accord?" He thrust an open hand through the bars.

Will looked dubiously at that hand, then clasped and shook it. "Agreed."

"Agreed." Jack drew back. "Get me out."

Will grasped the bench, yanked back on it, and wrenched the door right up and off its hinges. A dazed Bugger was Jack's only thought as he watched Will toss everything aside with a terrific crash.

"Hurry," Will said. "Someone will have heard that."

"Not without my effects!" Jack ran to a shelf and snatched up his precious belongings with a private sigh of relief. Hurriedly he strapped on his sword belt and slapped his hat on his head.

He looked at Will. "An'…we make ourselves scarce by which method?"

Will looked up the stairs. He turned and looked down the hall. Then he looked up the stairs again.

All the rigidity in Jack's spine leaked out. "Desire before planning, aye?"

Will glared.

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