Chapter Four
An Irrelevant Argument

March had come in like a lamb, but it was going to going out like a lion; full of dreadful winds and rain. March was, like usual, much the same as November was, it was however far more dangerous. By November, the horrid weather that had been plaguing them all through the summer, had started to die down, and the Winter calm was coming upon them. March though, was much the opposite. With the Spring and Winter coming, and with them the hurricane season, the weather instead of dying down, only grew worse and worse.

This year, the year 1726 of the Lord, was going so far much like the last year had, weather wise that is. Last year in the middle of March Port Royale had been unlucky enough to have such a severe tropical storm that the hurricane season was nearly announced three months before its official start. Oh how the winds had raged. The winds came first, driving icy rain that lashed at the port from all sides. Trees had been ripped out of the earth, animals driven out of their dens. It was though two countries were at war, and Port Royale happened to be on the very middle border between the two kingdoms. The storm had at that time lasted for four days and nights, finally on the fifth day it started to ease, while normality slowly returned to the colony. By the end of the sixth day, the daily clamour that filled the streets had returned to normal.

But there were those that had been unfortunate in that storm. Several houses of the lower-class had been completely destroyed. For weeks while those people remained homeless, starvation and pestilence ran wild through the streets. If one had no need to leave the home, they were ordered not to, by decree of Governor Swann. And although the houses had been rebuilt, many of the people that had been left exposed had succumbed to the disease, or the climate, and had died. They had been buried in a five-day funeral on the other side of the port, where the tropical forest stretched on, sheltering a cemetery. The headstones, dating back to 1655 when the British had founded Port Royale, after seizing the island of Jamaica from the Spanish, were horribly decayed. Though it had been only seventy years, it seemed as though three hundred had passed. Each of the tombstones were covered in a thick green moss, that spread so quickly, it seemed as though a living beast, devouring everything in its path. If one would look closely in the graveyard, they would see the sudden influx of graves, and all ready the same. Died July 7th, 1692.

The morning of the seventh of July, 1692, a terrible earthquake, and the following tidal wave had crippled the city of Port Royale, bringing with it wide-spread destruction. Two thirds of the port, or more, crumbled into the sea, claiming all those people that had been living there. This was back in the time that Port Royale had been the most notorious Pirate Hideout in the Caribbean. Port Royale at the time was not known for its law-abiding citizens. Drunkenness, looting, and public prostitution ran wild. At the time of the earthquake, Port Royale was known to both residents, and outsiders, as far as the King himself worlds away, as the Sodom of the New World. It was believed that when the city fell, now thirty-three years passed, that it was God's retribution. A plague, a justice sent to punish the city that was drowning in sin.

Although theses graves were marked with names, and ages ranking from the most sorrowfully young, to the anciently old, the bodies themselves had been lost to the sea, and to the fissure in the rock that had split open when the quake hit. Surely the earth was opening up to Hell to take those that needed to be condemned. These graves were empty, but stood as a way of remembering those had lost their lives on the morning of July the seventh, 1692. No matter if they were decent, hard-working citizen, upper-class, or Pirate filth. Each was remembered for the life they lived (or in the case of a new born and its mother) the life they had not had the chance to live.

It seemed to those in the port that were highly religious, that the reason such a horrible storm had plagued them this passed year, in 1728, was as a warning from God that should the port slip to its former shameful ways, that he would once again, claim it with the sea, and this time rid the world of it, and wipe away all traces of those that inhabited it, good, bad, evil and all.

Nothing could be easy, could it? No, of course it couldn't. it was following some natural law of the universe that every time something seemed to be going in the favor of her, that it was unexpectedly thrown against her. Some wrench in the pot as it were.

Though perhaps it was by her own hand this time, yes perhaps it was. She was the one that had put herself into this situation in which she did not need to be in. She was the one that had told herself to go out and about when it was prohibited by the Governor, simply for the sake of everyone's safety, yes, it had been no other but herself. But it wasn't as though she was trying to end her own life, as she would later be questioned, it was simply that after so long being kept inside, she had thought enough was enough of it. She couldn't take it much longer, for fear that she would lose her mind to cabin fever; as the maids had already started to show signs of.

Five days had it been. Five long and highly eventless days. By now she had learned that the ceiling of her room had exactly 7,927 stucco-ed daubs, eight hundred nails in the floor to hold the polished and sealed floorboards down; eight hundred nails hand made by a Blacksmith, the Blacksmith… each nail was individual, each held its own personality, or that is to say that each held a different sliver of its crafter's personality. Some were obvious by sight, the others you had to touch to feel the soul inside of it. There was one such nail, nearing the head of her bed that had caught her attention. This nail had started to come loose of its residential floorboard, and she had been unlucky enough to step on it, the rounded iron head leaving a red and aching impression in the ball of her foot. As she knelt down, and looked to the nail, her fingers graced it for a second, just a moment, and she felt a rush inside her heart. Caught by surprise, she pulled back from the floorboard, before calming and once again putting her fingers upon the nail. She worked it out of the warped parquet, and let it rest in the palm of her white hand. The nail rolled around slightly, before resting snugly in the slight fold of her warm hand. It was perfect; symmetry and perfection shone forth into her eyes. She turned it over carefully in her hand, inspecting the back side that had been hidden against her flesh. This was not the work of J. Brown. He had never put this much care, this much devotion, and love into any of his pieces, not from the smallest and most insignificant as a single nail, even to that of the grand sabres that the King's Royal Navy carried. All those sabres were once marked with a small stamped "J. Brown", to show the work of Port Royale's last Blacksmith. However roughly five years before there had been a shift in power within the commanding ranks of the Navy, and with it came a shift in the way the Navy was equipped. When the new commanding officer had learned that J. Brown had been dead then already for a year, his heart sank; knowing that Navy would not have the quality of sabres they needed for their duties. Until that is, one day he had caught the glimpse of what one of his younger recruits wore as his weapon upon his belt; a fine sword, perfectly balanced with the tang nearly the full width of the blade. This sabre that he had seen on the belt of this young man was everything that the Navy deserved, in his mind. It was both a piece of artwork that should be admired, as much as it was a hard and punishing weapon, capable of cleaving a man in two when applied the proper way. Its creator deserved praise and reward. But when he learned that the creator, the master crafter that had made such a beautiful, and deadly sabre, he grew weary, and jealous; the Blacksmith was no more than sixteen years of age at that time. And yet they gave to him the commission. Over the course of two years, he was to craft 1,500 sabres for the King's Navy. For two years the young man worked day and night, night and day and miraculously at the end of those two years, he had in fact filled the order, fashioning 1,500 beautifully identical and yet strikingly different blades for the Navy. The commander had no choice but to give the young Blacksmith his commission. They paid him sixty pieces of eight; triple what any other man made in the course of two years. But what was that worth, when he did ten fold the amount of work in those two years than any other man had done. Where was the justice in that? Somehow, in seven hundred and thirty days, he had shaped 1,500 sabres. And although to the common man, this made the young Blacksmith rather wealthy, the small fortune of his sixty pieces of eight, plus another ten that he had been saving, where gone within a month; spent. The news traveled the port from the poorest of the poor, to the richest of the rich fast as wild fire. All assumed that the coins had been flittered away on drink and pleasurable company. Though the young man neither had time for company, of any sort, pleasurable or not, he wouldn't have spent his money on such a trivial feat anyway, what was the point of pleasurable company if he was not in love with the partner in which he shared it? As for the rumours that he had flittered his coinage away upon drink, it was soon learned that the young man drank nothing stronger than tea. Tea with lemon if he was feeling particularly adventurous on that day. Its not that he was boring; its that he simply did not want to draw attention to himself that needn't be there. No one but he himself and a select few ever knew what the money was spent so quickly on; and those that did know wouldn't admit it, for his sake. It seemed that those that did not know, but wished to, never noticed the starving children of peasants, and poor parents, had full bellies for a year. That the peasant children, with tattered clothing had new and clean clothing; and a set a little finer for their Sunday best. No one ever noticed the children that couldn't afford books and schooling because of their dyer situations, were in school with new books. No one ever noticed the poor, except the poor themselves. Unknown to all the middle and upper-class, the young Blacksmith had given away his sixty pieces of eight commission, as well as an extra ten that he had been saving, in order to make the lives of the children all around him just a little brighter. He did so without every being asked too, he did it with a heart of gold, only caring for others and not for himself. He did it to see those that needed aid, be given it, for it had been denied to him when he needed it in his darkest hours, now seemingly so long ago. It was just a nail, a small nail from among the eight hundred in the parquet, but behind it was a legacy.

She couldn't help but smile, seeing the little iron nail in the palm of her hand. It was perfectly fashioned. She remembered now that three years earlier, when the Blacksmith was eighteen and finally finished his commission for the Navy, her father had had the floor boards in her room replaced. With it the old wooden pegs used as the nails had been discarded, and the Blacksmith commissioned to make eight hundred iron spikes to hold the wood down. Each nail was individual, each held its own personality, or that is to say that each held a different sliver of its crafter's personality. Some were obvious by sight, the others you had to touch to feel the soul inside of it. This was one you could feel its creator's soul inside it. So much toil and dedication had been poured into such a tiny thing that it positively glowed with the heart and soul of the Blacksmith.

She smiled to herself, unable to let go of the little nail, and knowing she could not put it back, in fear of once again stepping upon it, or worse (in her mind) that such a beautiful and loved object be hidden and eventually lost. No, she could not let something so plain, yet so loved, go without remembrance. No. She walked to the bureau on the other side of her room, and pulled out the middle drawer. A faint blush came to her normally white cheeks, colouring them rose for a mere moment. In front of her, folded up carefully was a man's clothing. It was a well worn, and slightly hole filled billowing white cotton shirt, and a pair of worn-soft sepia breeches, with five brass buttons. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric, taking in the feeling of the once crisp weave, before moving the clothing aside, reaching into the bottom of the drawer. She pulled forth sewing scissors, and a spool of leather lace. She moved back to the bed and sat down slowly on the white cotton, flower embroidered, duvet cover. She set the spool and the scissors down, taking the end of the leather lace and tying it to the very bottom of the nail, before wrapping around the shaft, and the point, making it harmless. She tied it again, and lifting the old antique scissors that squeaked in need of both oiling, and sharpening, she cut the cord. Running a careful fingertip over the wrapped leather, she decided that it was safe enough, and lifted the spool of lace again. Setting the nail into the folds of her skirt where she could see it, she measured out two feet of the tan leather lace. She wrapped the middle of it around the nail, just beneath its flattened top, before tying it together, and then once more at the very ends of the lace length. She lifted the primitive necklace over her fair head, and tossed her flaxen hair out of its way. The cool metal of the nail came to rest between her breasts, and against her heart, inside of her dress. And there it would stay, like a little second heart to her.

But now, two days later and the storm was just as badly raging as it had been on the third day; when she had found the perfect spike, which still now hung between her breasts on its leather thong. Since the morning however, the lashing rains and choking winds had started to dissipate and it seemed as though the storm was dying out. Rebecca had decided to take her chances, going against all of her family's and the Governor's direct orders.

At first it had been an easy enough travel experience. She walked along the beach, while the waves licked high at her dress, and she knew the salt stains would ruin the silk, but she didn't seem to mind all that much. The waves licked high, while the sky remained bleak, and blackened with the storm; the winds still swirling, though now far lessened, still toyed with her golden curls. As she walked, the heightened heel of her shoe became trapped within the wet sand, and she stopped walking, pausing to step out of her shoes, and pick them up. She brushed the damp sand from the silk brocade that covered the healed leather "skeletal" base of her shoes. She sighed to herself, slowly looking up and around; having been so lost in her thoughts as she had walked, she had failed to see where she now was. Looking around she took in the part of the beach, and half laughed to herself, thinking back to the end of last October, when it had happened.

When young Master Turner (for though he was an adult he was still called "master" for he was yet unwedded) had pulled her out of the water, thinking that she had been drowning. She bit her lip, trying to suppress a grin as she remembered how he specifically told her that she was drowning, or at least thrashing and flailing like some sort of beached sea creature. She stoned her features once more. Turner had been very rude to say something so crass as that had been, to her. That was not the way that a lady was to be talked to, hell, you wouldn't even talk to a sailor like that, though perhaps that was different when you took into consideration that he was in fact a pirate. Blacksmith by day, Pirate by night it seemed to be. That was certainly how it had seemed in the last few months.

In the last few months, young Master Turner had been showing her both his sides. Once again, Blacksmith by day, Pirate by night. Or perhaps it would have been more to the point to say, Blacksmith by morning and eve, and Pirate by mid-afternoon, for that was certainly how his life had been going in the months since the Celebratory Ball. Since the night that he had offered to teach Becka how to defend herself, he had shown her two opposing personalities, and together they seemed to not match, but one viewed without the other did not seem to make a whole person, at least not on William Turner; possibly on another man it would have been different. Each day when Rebecca walked into the door of the Smithy to have her daily lesson, she saw the change in the man that she had come to call friend, and hopefully he had finally arrived at the same conclusion. Her lesson ranged from one o'clock, till four or five o'clock, depending on how deeply involved into the lesson plan her instructor had become. And each day when she left she did so with an aching, and exhausted body, but she enjoyed her lessons, and knew that someday, though everyone told her that a lady need not know how to defend herself, that she very well might need the skill; even against her own husband should he be abusive. Will wouldn't always be there to pull her out of chaotic situations; not unless it was he that she married. Unlikely, she still did not feel comfortable even being seen going into his Smithy. But unless he was either one that she ended up marrying, or he remained close friends with her, and by close it was meant so close that it would be a shock to learn that he was not her older brother to people that did not know either of their histories. But even if it was the case that she should be wedded to William Turner, what use would the skill be against him? He was her teacher, and the teacher would rather unlikely be surpassed by the student, so if he chose to be abusive there was nothing that could be done. Yet that did not sound like the Will she knew, neither of his personalities, not the Blacksmith, the gentle and kind Blacksmith, or the fierce-some and wild pirate. He did not seem the type to beat his wife; he wasn't like Nolan Ralph. And even if it was he that she did wed in the very end, what would the need be in fighting him but for the same fun that she was having with him now? There would be no point. Because neither would fight the other without a just cause; each caring for the other too much to truly hurt them, either physically or emotionally. But when she walked in that door she saw his first side; the Blacksmith, the one side that everyone had been used to. The side that was safe, but it wasn't the side that the other women in the port (though it still remained true that none of them would dare to admit this) seemed attracted to, the mysterious side, the side none of them had experienced, except for Rebecca. But as she walked in that door she always received a kind and courtly bow of his head, before he looked up to his small, ticking, clock to check to make sure she was on time, and that so was he in his work. As soon as he looked down from that clock she could almost see the change in his eyes; like a switch turning out the lights and turning on a new set. He would walk around from his anvil, and grab his cutlass up from the table to his right, his hand fitting into the grip. He would flick his wrist around a few times, working loose his joint so that he may fight; cutting the air into figure eights with his blade. He would tilt his head to each side, his vertebrae making a soft cracking sound as he worked out the kinks from his job; his head always hanged low to see his work. He would step his feet apart, opening up his stance, and bracing his body, waiting for Rebecca. And she would take her slightly smaller cutlass into her hand, and brace herself to match her teacher, and make the first move. She would lunge forth, and he would parry her easily. She would lunge again, and he would parry once more, turning himself around this time in order to use her force against her. As he turned he would put his arm out to the side of his body, this blade coming around to her throat gently, and harmlessly, as she almost fell into his back with her previous forward momentum; her sword always going passed his right side, harmlessly, though there was one awkward time that she had shredded the side of his shirt by accident as her newly sharpened blade passed by him. His shirt had fallen open, and therefore off of him, hanging on by the still attached seems of the left side; he pulled the rest of the shirt off, and faced her, bare-chested. Each day the routine was the same until after a few weeks she started to realize that in order to lunge first, she would never beat her master, not unless she grew better than him in her skill, and without submitting to his lessons and trying something different, how could she ever be expected to rival her opponent? Finally one day she tried a new approach. She lunged for her first movement, yes, but for her second she did not. Instead she side-stepped him and hacked back at him, for the first time catching his blade. And in his surprise, William's vanity and desire to win clicked on, his eyes flashing. He attacked, not playing anymore, and Becka was thrust into a very real battle for her life. They fought and fought, till Becka eventually fell over, and William was over her quickly, his blade tip at the soft spot of her throat. She had swallowed nervously, and looked up at him, and spoke softly,

"Will! Please stop! Will I'm sorry!"

And just as quickly as it had come, the anger and competitiveness in Will Turner's eyes vanished away. The sweat was rolling down him just as badly as it was rolling down Becka, if not worse. His hair dripped, at least all the loose pieces that had fallen out of his tie, around his face as they had fought. He was panting, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he looked down at her. He pulled his blade away and offered to her his hand, and she had looked to him nervously, still in fear for her life, but seeing no anger or malice in his eyes, she nodded ever so faintly, and took his rough and calloused hand, as he pulled her up. He grinned, half laughing as he panted,

"You fought well…It was about time you actually tried to antagonize me, when you're in a fight for your life, you will do anything to save yourself, and I'm glad you eventually realized that."

"But I didn't know you were going to try and kill me! Well, at least now I know you would have stopped before you killed me, but still--"

But Will interjected, his brow raising slightly, looking at her with a faint, slightly evil smirk upon his lips. He turned his face slightly, so the right side of his jaw was almost touching his right shoulder, his spiced rum eyes looking back at her, the brow still raised.

"Would I have?"

In his voice there was neither any question, nor any bantering tone. Rebecca's eyes widened, and she had gasped in horror; would he have truly continued until he had murdered her? Was that what he was truly trying to say? No, surely he didn't have heart enough in him to do so. Than again, the old rumours that he had murdered his former master, slave-driver was more to the point however, J. Brown, came once again into her mind, and she had to know…

"Will? Did… did you murder J. Brown? I mean… did you kill him and take his shop that way?'

Will looked only half surprised, most likely having been expecting this question. He looked to her, turning his face slowly back to the very front, his eyes never leaving hers. There was no slight smirk anymore on his lips, only a look of extreme seriousness, and for a moment Becka sighed inwardly, knowing he was going to tell her no he had not killed James, and that it was just all a stupid rumour. But that's not what came from his velvet lips when he finally did open them to speak.

"I was fifteen! And had been his slave for two years at the time... He was supposed to teach me, but he didn't…What he did do, was he rather forced me to learn how to work with burning metal on my own, through my mistakes and many burns and injuries. Now I may not be the world's richest man, though neither am I the poorest, and by no means am I any man's slave! James got exactly what he was deserving of!"

He panted slightly, with the increasing volume and fierce passion in his voice and in his words.

Becka's eyes widened passed the point she believed that they could open. Horror etched itself into her face, she was just learning the truth, and she was now the only other person other than Will, who was alive in this world, that knew it. She dropped her cutlass in surprise, it clattered to the compact earth floor. Will watched the blade fall and rattle on the floor as he looked back up to Becka. She clutched at her heart in shock, and she fell over on her rump, looking up at him in fear once more, but this fear was beyond that of even just then when his blade had been to her throat; she had never believed then that he would have been capable of killing her, she didn't want to believe he was capable of killing any man. How could this man be trusted? At fifteen he had murdered a man, and felt absolutely no remorse about it, at least none that he had been showing to her. She couldn't believe her ears, she didn't want to. Tears actually came to her eyes, and she hiccupped as she fought back her sobs. She was beyond afraid, but she was also extremely disheartened; Will had seemed like the kind of gentle, trust worthy man, the kind someone could love deeply, or hate totally, and both could be done very easily. She turned away from him, not wanting him to see as the tears poured down her dirtied cheeks; and Will seeing the pain he had caused her, took no chances in waiting. He grabbed her hand and pulled her up to her feet and into his arms, hugging her almost bone-crushingly tightly as she sobbed. Becka gripped at his shirt, hiccupping and sobbing as she cried into him, still in complete fear. He softly tried to hush her as he rubbed up and down her back, specifically between her shoulder blades.

"Shh… Shhhh Becka… I would never kill you, or injure you purposely. I am your friend, your ally, I have no need to harm you. But you must know the truth; yes I killed J. Brown, my former master. But you cannot tell a soul, do you understand me?"

He pulled back from her ever so slightly, looking down upon her, her cheeks stained with tears and dirt and sweat. Becka's large hazel eyes moved up, looking upon him. In his eyes there was sorrow, a sorrow he had not seen before; and she felt inclined to believe what he said, yet she did not know why she felt so. She nodded her head, swallowing.

"I promise no one will ever find out from my lips."

Will nodded his head, watching her without blinking,

"I will hold you to that. Please, please don't cry. You act as though you see before you a monster that was mere moments ago a man, and your friend. But I'm telling you, it is not I that is, or was, the monster. Brown got exactly what was coming to him, I am sure I was not the first child that he has worked so hard it almost brought death too them, and I am sure I am one of the few lucky ones that escaped it with their lives. Rebecca, its not as though I do not feel terrible for what I did, I committed a great sin against God; I took a life. But I do not regret what I did, no I do not regret it. Because of me and my actions he can never harm another person again. Rebecca, please, I am not a monster. I am no different now than I was when you walked in this door a few hours ago."

But Becka looked out the open window, and eventually back to Will, nervously. She gathered up her few belongings that she had brought with her, and put her cutlass onto her belt.

"I... I have to be going. Good-day Mr. Turner"

It was obvious that she was fighting with herself as she walked out of the Smithy; forcing herself not to run away from where he was standing. He noticed too, with a pang of guilt and pain in his heart that she had once again returned to calling him 'Mr. Turner' when it had taken him so long to have her start to call him by his given name. It was only in the last few weeks, over the course of the lessons that they had become friends, that Becka had started to use the name 'Will' more and more easily, until it was the first thing that came off of her tongue when she saw him, not 'Mr. Turner', not 'William', but 'Will'. He watched her leave, his heart breaking in his breast; there went his best friend and only person he had wanted as company. He moved slowly, as though in a trance, and that was as close of a thing as it could be called, towards his bed. He sank into the straw-stuffed thin mattress as his thoughts turned black. Outside a terrible storm was rolling in…

Becka stood, still on the beach where she had first met William "Will" Turner. Memories of that day washed over her, as she smiled to herself. The nail that he had crafted, on its leather thong between her breasts served as a reminder of her friend, the port Blacksmith. As long as that necklace hung there, it was like having a piece of him with her at all times.

Looking out to the horizon, the storming skies still dark, she knew what she had to do. She couldn't stay away any longer, it had been too long as it was. She needed to see him. Turning away from the water she gathered up her now sand stained skirts and hurried back from the beach, along through the town. Along her way though she noticed how eerily silent the streets were; not a single person about but herself; the market was deserted, as it never was, even the chickens weren't running about the streets; or the stray dogs. It was like a plague port; with not a living soul remaining; and she the only visitor. The wind was picking up again, and quite suddenly. Lashing and pounding against the buildings; all around her the structures creaked threateningly. The wind was strong hands, clawing and tearing away at her; pulling her hair and matting it together, while the seems of her brocade dress started to loosen, the force of the wind jerking at it snapping several threads. Knowing she didn't have as much time as she desperately needed to get to where she wished to be, she started to run, stumbling as the wind pushed her in her heeled shoes. She was practically thrown against the Smithy door as she reached it.

The wind was terribly cold, as she rubbed her arms, banging on the door of the Smithy; praying that he answered the door without delay. Inside, young Master Turner was busy working away, it was just another work day to him; though with the imposed laws for the storm he was not permitted to leave his Shop; for his own safety of course. With a strong force, the hammer he held came down and clanged, meeting his project, and the anvil with as much force as his body could generate. The beating came rhythmically; every three seconds the clang of the metal rang out. But from somewhere between the metallic clashing he heard a soft noise, almost lost in the furious winds. A knocking on his door. At first he shook it off, deeming it to be the wind playing with his mind after all there was no one allowed out of their homes, and therefore no one could be knocking on his door. Something in him made him pause in his work however, waiting to see if the knocking came again. Outside Rebecca was getting more and more desperate for him to answer his door; she pounded again and again, praying that he was there, and simply had not heard her the first time. She kept pounding, nearing tears of fright as she waited for him, the winds tearing at her. William, hearing that it was someone knocking on his door, and was now crying out his name; though it was easily lost in the winds, dropped his hammer and dashed from his anvil; passing his trusted donkey, Theo. He scaled the steps up to the door within on large step from the lowest stair, and hurriedly lifted the barring plank; the metal gears turning and raising a weight, unlocking his door. Heaving the heavy wooden door, for which he was always thankful during storms, he caught sight of the pathetic, cowering, young woman with now matted gold hair.

He was in shock; for one thing he did not think she would ever come back to see him (and he could certainly not go to visit her, with his station it simply wasn't proper) and secondly, she was not supposed to be out in this storm. With his pink lips slightly agape, and disbelief in his eyes, he grabbed her arm, none to lightly, and jerked her into the Smithy, onto the top step as he closed the door , as the wind tried to whistle through. He had to force his shoulder into the wood, using all the weight of his lean body to push the heavy oak door closed. He quickly lowered the barring plank, as the gears turned and the weights lowered; locking the door. He had designed this lock himself in his spare time, but that was another story.

Becka was in shock due to the brute force that he had used to both pull her inside (because of which she had nearly stumbled down the stairs into the shop) and that he had used to force the door of his shop closed behind her. William turned to her, though his features were not set in the smile that she had grown accustomed to her greeting him with. Instead they were twisted with a dark anger, an anger beyond that which she had ever seen in him before. It frightened her, horribly, knowing that she had caused this anger.

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

Finally Will's hardened voice cut through the tension between them; starting to double it. Becka looked to him in shock, mouthing words before she too found her voice, answering him.

"I needed to see. I missed you and I'm sorry that I ran out on you as such the other day-"

"But WHY are you here?! Its by decree of the Governor that no one is to be out, for their own safety! Damn it Becka you could have been killed!"

The worry was obvious in his voice; at least to himself, and to someone that was not being lectured on their actions, by him. Becka crossed her arms, her stubborn streak showing.

"Yes I suppose so, but I wasn't! Will why can't you just be happy to see me!?"

"Because you're not supposed to be out!"

Becka, who had never gotten along with her father, was starting to see the truth behind the theory that women choose men that are like their fathers…not only for love, but also for friendship. And Will was starting to sound just like her father, Maverick Sparrow.

"Oh you are INSUFFERABLE! You're just like my father! Maybe it was a bad idea to come here in the first place!"

Will didn't like that comparison one bit, and he was about to show her exactly what he thought of it. His teeth gritted, and whatever loving friendship that he had held for her was lost now in a sea of boiling anger, that threatened to flood his entire mind, which would leave them in a steady-state of hatred for one another.

"Oh really!? Is that what you think? Well I would hate to be your father with the way you run about doing exactly the opposite of what you should be doing! Shouldn't you be married by now?!"

"Shouldn't you, MASTER Turner!? You should be a husband! A FATHER !"

Will growled, he didn't need reminding that he had yet to fulfill both of those titles; that he had yet to even do the act that could make him the second of those titles; the one that he desired to be the most. Grinding his teeth together, a dark malice in his eyes he moved closer to her, to growl at her in her face.

"I'm well aware of that! But unlike you, YOUR HIGHNESS, I have not turned down every person that has come my way, that wanted to be involved with me! As for it being a bad idea to come here, of course it was! We're only in the eye of the storm!"

Becka bared her teeth angrily, pushing him back slightly, her hands on his partially exposed tan chest.

"I don't care if it's the brunt of the storm! I'm going home!"

She pulled back from him, turning around, and gathering her skirts, moving to leave the Smithy. But something inside of Will broke; and it wasn't anger. It was fear, fear for her life. He panted silently, as one does when terrified and it seems that everything is moving in slow motion; he'd never seen his world move like this before, not even the countless times his own life had been in danger. It was as though his actions were not his own; like he was watching this all happen through the eyes of another. His dirty and rough hand reached out, grabbing her white wrist and he pulled her back. Becka turned towards him in surprise, her brows still knit in anger. But he was going to take this chance, as it might be the very last that he had to do so. He pulled her close, putting his arms around her, as though to hug her as he had countless other times. But as he pulled her into the hug, he tilted his head gently to the right, his hair falling loose on the right side of the face, and framing his soot-covered features. Everything was still moving painfully slowly to him; and now to Becka, whose eyes were slowly widening as he grew closer and closer. He leaned in all the way, finally, and captured her lips beneath his own velvet soft lips.

He gripped her tightly, hugging her as though afraid to let go of her as he kissed her; afraid that she may fade away. His eyes were closed, his brows knit and raised in desperation as he slowly kissed her, longing for her to know how he felt. Becka was in shock, she tensed from head to toe at first when the Blacksmith's soft lips took hers, but after the split second, for that was all that it had been, of uncomfortable feels she lifted her arms, wrapping them around his neck, pulling him just a little closer, and kissed him back. Closing her eyes she melted into his warm kiss, gripping him tightly against her. Will's eyes opened in shock and for a moment he paused in his kiss, while she kissed him, looking at her in surprise. But that too passed and once more he closed his chocolate eyes, kissing her lovingly.

After a few long moments they slowly eased back from one another; Becka's eyes were closed, her lips slightly agape as she remained close to him, breathing deeply. Will opened his eyes just a little, peering through his eyelashes at her, watching the look on her beautiful face as the golden waves fell into her eyes. Slowly once the young woman had caught her breath she opened her sparkling hazel eyes and looked up at her friend, the Blacksmith. She smiled gently, oh so gently, and ran her soft finger tips over his tan cheek.

"I was not expecting that"

Will half laughed, both nervously, and without having fully catching his breath yet,

"Neither was I…"

Becka smirked as she looked to him, she laughed and kept caressing his tanned, and soot covered cheek.

"How can that be? It was you who kissed me"

Will smiled embarrassedly, nodding his head, his chocolate hair swaying around his eyes and framing his handsome face. He was still holding her, his arms still around her corseted waist, as one of hers remained around his neck, the other stroking his cheek.

"I know… I meant I was not expecting you to kiss me in return… I expected you to slap me"

She smiled and nuzzled his cheek gently, a little of the black soot remaining on her nose as she pulled away.

"After a kiss like that, even if I wanted too, I do not believe I could slap you. But why Will? Why did you kiss me?"

Will looked down embarrassedly, looking at their feet as he fought with himself over the answer. There were so many reasons. One being he was afraid of losing her, another being he was in love with her since he had met her. He swallowed and tried to work out his answer. Becka watched him for a moment, still stroking his cheek. But her fingers moved down once more, stroking to his jaw, before slowly tilting his chin up so that he was forced too look into her eyes,

"You can tell me anything Will…"

He smiled, hearing her words, and he knew that his reason would mean only anything to her, and to himself. He smiled and nodded, clearing his throat gently.

"Before you left I had to let you know that I love you, in case I never saw you again."

Becka looked at him, her jaw opening in shock once more, before she broke into a bright grin. Her voice remained calm, however if just barely as she looked into his dark eyes, seeing only truth.

"You love me?"

The Blacksmith nodded his head, looking back at her,

"With all of my heart… I have since the day I laid eyes on you…"

Becka grinned brighter, and kissed the tip of his nose, which was obvious that he had broken as a child. It curved almost imperceptibly towards the right, up in the bridge; only obvious in harsh lighting. Smiling, with her eyes gently closed, she pulled back from the young man once more.

"I love you too… very much so…"