Potatoes, an enemy, and children


Right, so, I guess you've noticed, but I often change points of view even if I keep using the third person. So, just to be clear about Will and Will:

To other people, older Will will be: "Wilhem", "Carter", "the young man", and similars.
To younger Will, older Will will be: "Carter" at first, then "Will" because he knows he's not talking about himself as Dobby does.
When there's no particular point of view, older Will is "Will", "the young man", "the former captain", etc.

To other people, younger Will will be: "William", "Will", "Turner", "the Turner boy", and similars.
To older Will, younger Will will be; "the boy", "his past/younger/other self", "Will" because he too knows he's not talking about himself as Dobby does.
When there's no particular point of view, younger Will is "the young boy", "the orphan", "Will the younger", "Will's other self", and later "the young blacksmith", etc.

I can't say that's exclusive. I'm trying to be understandable, but there maybe moments when it'll be difficult. If there's a whole passage or a chapter that too confusing, don't fear to say it. If I read it and think the same, or if there's more than one person who complain, I'll try to fix it. But of course, that's the danger when sending people back to their own past, and I certainly won't call them "Will 1 and Will 2", it'd be atrocious.
I hope it won't be too confusing.


Chapter 4: Trust

James' first reaction had been to grip the hilt of his sword, when Carter had told them the boy they had rescued was the son of a pirate. But that reaction had lasted no more than one second.

He had seen Will Turner live for a whole day aboard the Dauntless, and the boy had been only one thing: shy. Piracy apparently wasn't in blood, though similar personalities could be seen from one member of a family to another. With the proper upbringing, the boy would maybe be a good man once adult. After all, from the story they had just been told, his father hadn't been the worst kind of pirate and had had some kind of loyalty, if no honor...

Maybe, if he kept an eye on the boy, James could make an honorable man out of him. A pity, though, that the young Turner should better be kept away from the sea.

James blinked as he realized he was being worried about the boy.

Of course, it was perfectly understandable to be interested by the immediate well-being of a child who had just escaped a pirate attack, but that wasn't quite the same thing. If he didn't get his act together now, he'd soon find himself caring. And that was out of the question.

It wasn't that he was heartless or wanted to be so. He simply couldn't afford to care for a boy he'd get to see only once in a while, if Will Turner even stayed in Port Royal. He wasn't well-off enough to take care financially of an orphan, he wasn't willing to be emotionally bound to someone he had no ties to, and he simply wasn't supposed to take a liking to some random boy. People might get ideas, and he certainly didn't want to be hanged for being soft-hearted. It'd be quite insightly.

But why...?

His eyes flickered to Wilhem Carter, and he instantly knew why he was being so drawn to the boy. Somehow, the man's protectiveness of the boy was rubbing on him. For a strange reason, he felt compelled to agree with Carter. The man's words reached him like no one else's did.

Still, why was Carter reacting so strongly to William Turner's fate? They didn't know each other, and yet, the man had gone as far as to threaten two Navy officials for the boy's sake. It was something a father, or a brother, would have done, not a perfect stranger. But Carter was too young to be Turner's father, and anyway, the boy would have said something if he was a family member.

But that aside, how had they gone from story-telling to threats, exactly?

James sighed, and decided to ignore what had just happened. The captain seemed to be unfazed, and so he saw no reason to complain. Carter had uttered a threat, right, but he hadn't done anything threatening.

But if he wondered why Carter was so taken with the boy, the lieutenant failed to wonder why he was himself so interested in what the man thought... He could feel a desire to protect in the man, and he certainly knew that feeling, hell, it was the exact reason he was in the Navy, but that surely wasn't enough for him to take Carter's side instinctly?

Was it?

If it was...

Then why was it?

Then again, all those questions, James failed to ask them. He could tell there was something, in the back of his mind, that was nudging him to think about it, but he couldn't figure what the "it" was. He felt there was something he didn't get about the man, but he couldn't tell what.

So for now, he put these thoughts aside.

Those were his thoughts as he walked Carter back to the deck.

Will, on the other hand, hadn't missed how Norrington was staring at him, and for a time he wondered if he had done something wrong or said something suspicious.

That is, something else that was suspicious and that he hadn't already recognized as such.

Because for now, he had been pretty suspiscious, and even worst, aware of it.

But it wasn't his fault if he had landed with his very own past self and had been quite shocked by this unexpected turn of event, was it? Not that he had ever expected to be thrown back into time either, mind you. And he had discovered both facts at the same time. So he had every right to have messed up a bit.

He only hoped he hadn't messed up too much.

The crew let him rest for the day, and even if he didn't exactly need resting time, Will was grateful for it.

The evening came, the sun sank in the sea, the night took over the sky, and then went away to let the world and its worries reveal themselves to daylight once again.

The next day, Norrington had found him something to do while aboard, and Will gladly accepted the offer, because he wasn't sure he could stand to see his young self following Elizabeth shyly all day long. Not yet, at least.

So Will was sitting on a stool, and wondered about how much time had passed since he had last peeled potatoes.

He wasn't so sure, but as he looked critically to the potatoes next to him and what he had done to them, he could tell it had been quite some time. He hadn't exactly done a bad job of it, and the potatoes looked quite decent. But he wasn't really happy with himself for all that. Considering the cook hadn't sneered at him for almost half an hour, it was most likely all right, and yet he had already cut himself thrice in the process.

The first time he had stared dumbly at the blood coloring the potato he was holding red and then at the wound that was already closing itself. He hadn't cooked for years, as he had had no need to, and a good enough cook aboard the Dutchman, and he had forgotten how to be cautious with a knife when cooking.

Funny, considering he was doing so fine with any kind of blades when fighting.

William Turner, possibly-former/future/whatever-captain-of-the-Flying-Dutchman, defeated by a kitchen knife and a bunch of potatoes.

He had snapped out of it, though, when the cook had called him out, and he had hidden the reddened potato under the others, hoping it would dry enough to go unnoticed when the cook would use them. He wasn't feeling ready to explain anyone how he had hurt himself without having any wound left.

Will didn't intend to tell anyone he was immortal, or close to being it, eitherway. Nor that he had travelled back from the future. Or that cursed pirates, krakens and the locker were real, for that matter. He'd just shut up about the whole supernatural thing, and, hopefully, no one would ask him. He didn't fancy hanging or burning in a witch trial. He fancied it even less as to his knowledge, he wouldn't die of it, and simply suffer until his executionner understood he was still alive and then...

Bad news, very bad news if it came to this.

And that meant, no passing through objects or teleporting in full sight of people. If he could still do that. Could he?

In this time, Jones was the captain of the Flying Dutchman, and ferryman of the dead. William had always assumed many of his powers came from his position, as a way to make the task possible. But he still was immortal, while Jones was still alive, and he didn't have his heart. He healed as fast as before. So what had come from being captain, and what was due to being undead?

Will would have to test his past abilities, once alone again. He didn't want them to activate on instinct if he found himself in a tight spot and give him away because he wasn't prudent enough.

What were they, again?

Calling to the dead for help, though not enslaving them. Jones had never done that, because no soul had wanted to help him. If he had, they would have been in deep shit back then. Very, very deep and stinking shit. Might have more to do with the position of ferryman than with his nature as an undead being.

Travel back and forth to the land of the dead. Being undead himself, it was possible he could still do that, but Will didn't believe he could bring anything or anyone with him anymore. He could pass, and the Flying Dutchman could pass, but the captain wasn't the one allowing the ship to pass, only the one maneuvering her. The Dutchman was a ghost ship, and he was a living dead.

Control of the locker. Unlikely, because it was still Jones', and so the captain's. And if he had been able to, Will wouldn't have used it. A territory war over an infinite desert wasn't something he wanted to happen.

Teleport and passing through material things. Possible. After all, Jones had been able to do that not only on the Dutchman, but about everywhere he could go. And it looked more like something to do with being dead-like, and so ghost-like.

A disturbing ability to get sea monsters to obey him, if they didn't threw him against a rock first. Will wasn't sure about that one, then again, he wasn't sure about any of his other abilities. And he didn't care. It wasn't as if he was going to search for sea monsters.

And, of course, recognizing haunted things at first glance. That, he could say for sure he still was able to do it. After all, he was dead/undead/immortal/a freak/whatever, one foot in Death's realm.

If the ominous glare the Dauntless' cat was giving him right now was anything to go by, said cat knew it too. Will squinted at the ship's cat and pursed his lips.

The animal had been watching him as if he was a rat for more than an hour. Will didn't like it at all.

But as he was glaring at the damned cat, and as he was still peeling potatoes, the inevitable happened. He felt something cold and hard break the skin of his left forefinger. Will winced and looked at his hand. His knife wasn't where it was meant to be, he could say that much.

The young man removed the blade from his flesh once more, while glancing at the cook, luckily too busy swearing at his saucepan to notice anything else. The wound closed. Will sighed and put the potato he had been peeling under others. He definitely had to stop thinking and just do what he had been told, or his luck would ran out very soon.

Of course, his determination to concentrate on his task and not let anything unnatural happen didn't last long.

A low hissing came from the damned cat, who was now staring at his bloodied finger as if it had seen the devil itself performing some dark magic ritual involving skinned kittens.

Will muttered something about it all being because of the dratted animal distracting him, and the blasted thing hissed louder, its ears flattened against its head. The cat apparently didn't like being criticized by a man who oozed death and power just by being here, though Will didn't know that. If he had, maybe he wouldn't have been so worried about Norrington watching him, it being because the lieutenant wasn't an idiot and had subconsciously understood there was something different with him, something not quite human, and not because he was suspecting him of felony.

Or maybe he'd have been twice as worried, no one could tell.

Will tried to go back to peeling potatoes, but the cat had other ideas. It kept hissing at a safe distance, eyeing the frightening being warily in case it would try something. The cat was a guardian of this ship, and it wasn't going to accept just anyone on her. And that particular castaway was not normal, and so, suspicious as hell. It wasn't going to leave him alone as long as it wasn't sure he meant no harm to the crew or the passengers.

At some point, even the cook noticed something was off and turned to look at Carter, wondering what exactly was going on for the cat to behave like that. But he saw nothing, except Carter peeling potatoes and ignoring the cat, so he frowned and went back to insulting the soup in whispers.

As soon as the cook looked back at his saucepan, Will turned violently to the offending animal and glared at it with all his might. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't just a glare, and something happened.

Nothing much, really.

Nothing worth troubling one's mind about, in fact, something really harmless.

But something strange enough to one who didn't know what was going on. Cat, and William Turner included in that group, for the young man hadn't intended to do anything like that.

Simply, a wave of raw power and sheer intimidation shook the cat when their eyes met, and the animal leapt away in fear, before scurrying out of the ship's kitchen.

Will blinked blankly after that, not sure of what exactly had just happened.

Then he shrugged it off and went back to work. Peeling potatoes was the perfect thing to do if he wanted to keep his mind away from the important questions about his very uncertain future. So he peeled potatoes for the rest of the day.

Two people, though, had seen the mad race of the ship's cat out of the kitchen. These people had then took a look to see if anything in the room could have been the reason of the frantic escape, but all they had seen was a blinking Carter with a potato in his hand. They had shared a curious look, before going back on deck. Elizabeth had had a book with her, having taken upon herself to teach the young Will how to read. But of course, the lesson soon turned into the development of rather intriguing hypotheses, and the children decided they'd stalk Wilhem Carter from tomorrow onwards.

If Will had known how it was all about to turn out, he'd have cursed the damned cat to another realm in seven languages. Yes, because you have to pick up some words, especially insults, when you deal with the souls of people from all over the world. He spoke french, japanese and turkish rather well, for some of his crew had been speaking those languages, and knew a bit of spanish, italian, russian, chinese and arabic. And he certainly could swear in any living language existing.

The next morning, when Will got up and went to the deck to see if there was anything he could do, because he had already peeled enough potatoes for three days, the children were up and awake, and waiting for him.

They first walked around the deck, circling him as if they were vultures, all that while trying to look innocent. Well, Elizabeth tried to do that. Will the younger was simply hiding in her shadow, more inconspicuous and timid than ever, even if it wasn't very effective because Elizabeth wasn't discreet at all.

Then, when Gibbs went towards Will to speak with him about one thing or another, the children simply tagged along and listened intently to anything that was said. Gibbs sat on a barrel, and Elizabeth, still a girl of good upbringing, kept standing, but both Wills sat on the deck as they had nothing to do.

It turned out Gibbs was wondering what exactly Will knew about sailing. The young man didn't tell him half of the truth, because he felt he couldn't explain seven decades of experience, but he still made himself look quite accomplished. It wasn't a lie, and some people started sailing very young. In his case, it certainly seemed odd, because he couldn't have been training to be a blacksmith and sailing at the same time, but he couldn't tell Gibbs he had no idea how to do a fisherman's bend and then be seen doing it without thinking, which was bound to happen before the end of the trip.

When the sailor started telling stories instead of checking the ropes, Will knew he was doomed: his younger self had somehow managed to sit on his lap without him noticing he was becoming an armchair, not before it was too late.

This little boy on his lap was so shy and terrified. The young man had seen the younger himself, and more, he had lived it, years before, keeping away from most of the crew and soldiers. It wasn't that they were mean or particularly frightening, but most of them weren't exactly polite and comforting. The boy was still thinking of the attack, he knew it.

And the fact that his younger self was trusting him enough and using him as a sitting chair was somehow making Will feel better. He had had no one to do that, no father, no mother left to comfort him after he had seen death so closely. He had clung to Elizabeth, and Will the younger surely was doing the same thing, but he was also trusting another person, and that was important.

Even if the other person was himself.

Well, at least Will knew this person would never will do any harm to the boy, seeing as the person was him and the boy was him too.

Confusing, wasn't it?

No matter. If he was to be a brotherly figure to this still fragile Will, he would be. Or at least, for some time. As the boy would become a teenager, and then a man, Will knew he'd have to be there less often. They'd look exactly the same, and he wouldn't age. Staying would be suspicious...

Unless...

Not the right time.

Will stroked the boy's hair absent-mindedly, as Gibbs started talking about tales and tails. Mermaids... It had been a while since he had last seen one. Will watched the kids. They were listening with wide eyes and weren't paying attention to anything else. He smiled.

A few meters away, Norrington was observing the two men and the children. Carter had gained the trust of the Turner boy awfully fast, and maybe it'd be better if he asked him to keep an eye on the children from now on. He seemed very gifted with that.

As for himself, James thought he'd better keep on eye on Carter. The man was too much of a mystery to be left alone.