The Best-Laid Plans

by etsfanfics

Pre-DMC courtship of Elizabeth and Will. After Will and Elizabeth free Jack from the gallows, the couple battles with class differences, political intrigue and an entire smithy of swords, as they set out together to explore the expanding boundaries of their relationship and build their dreams for a shared future of new adventures.

19. To Be Heard

"Do you have it?"

For a moment and a half, Will stared straight through Denys and into another realm entirely, mentally reviewing which of his many recent offenses against one god or another could have been the one to summon this cruel chain of misfortune upon him. He'd only just stepped out of his master's quarters when a rapid and persistent string of knocks had begun to attack the front door. Now he found Denys standing on the porch, staring back up at him with squinted eyes.

And why now?

'It's because I stayed home and slept with Elizabeth on Sunday instead of attending services, isn't it? I took a nap on the Lord's time, and now I'm cursed to never sleep again as long as I live.'

"Will? Do you have it?"

"Have what?" he asked dumbly, his mind struggling to remind him what Denys' question had been to begin with. He closed his eyes and pressed a palm into his forehead—thinking was beginning to feel painful. "What are you doing here? Step inside."

Denys obeyed, practically bouncing just far enough through the door to escape the drizzles of rain striking him from the roof's overhang.

"You said you'd have that letter today. Can I have it?" he chirped brightly.

The letter?

Oh… Now he remembered last… not night. Day? Was it really yesterday and not this morning that he'd shooed Denys away? And how could he have forgotten how he'd told him that he'd have a letter to deliver today? That made two times he'd apparently promised the child something inattentively—something Will had once swore to himself he'd never do.

He sighed so deeply, it felt as though his breath was drawn from his fingertips.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't have a letter ready for you yet," he admitted, exhausted and ashamed.

Denys' grinning hope bent into a gaping frown of offended consternation. "You said you would!"

"I know. I'm sorry," Will apologized under an air of disappointment in… well, everything in general. "But even if I did have the letter for you, I wouldn't send it today. It's raining, and you don't have a proper satchel for it."

He waved a finger at the bit of cloth the lad wrapped up for a makeshift parcel bag.

Denys didn't even blink. "The rain stopped."

Will looked out the still-open door. It hadn't stopped, truly. But at the moment the raindrops had reduced into sporadic mists, and compared to the fat-dropped deluge from before, it certainly felt like the storm had "stopped" for the moment. That didn't mean very much, unfortunately.

"It'll come back—the storm's still blowing. And there could be lightning. Rain or no rain, you shouldn't be out walking in that," Will explained outwardly, while a separate part of his mind shot him an unamused look. He was one to talk, walking through the storm the way he had. But it was the truth, even if he didn't heed his own advice. And in his mind, that settled the argument. He gestured in a sweeping motion with the hand not currently holding the door open, signaling Denys to step back out the door. "If your mother didn't send you here, I think you ought to go back home now and come back tomorrow."

"She sent me on an errand," Denys declared stubbornly, his little hands clenching the knot of his improvised satchel, on his chest.

'God, not this again. Why's he so stubborn?'

"Not this errand, surely," Will shot back. Then waved the boy back outside again with an even bigger swing of his arm. "Go do it, then!"

The lad raised his chin, eyes shining insistently. "I can do both. I'll go right quick, I will!"

"No, Denys!" Will answered lowly, quickly losing his patience. Then with a hand pressed firmly against the boy's back, he routed him towards the door.

After his feet crossed the threshold, Denys turned back around and caught Will's hand with all ten of his fingers. He pinned Will's eyes with the earnestness of his gaze. "You said yesterday you'd have a letter!"

The expression twisted Will's heart like a rag, it wrung out fresh droplets of guilt in him. He knew that tone of voice and the hurt behind it, all too well—the pains of waiting for promised things which never came to be had lasted him a lifetime. He'd understood well enough that things changed, accidents and acts of god happened that tore things out of people's hands. But if he could have only known…

He sighed to himself. It didn't matter if plans changed a little—what mattered was that a boy could be a small child and still understand when his simplest expectations were bandied about as something unimportant. He hadn't dismissed Mister Dodson's demands for an explanation yesterday. Even if he'd managed to negotiate an extension to the order's delivery date, he wouldn't have remotely considered avoiding to communicate clearly about their shift in expectations. And why? Because that man held the strings to his master's purse?

Did Denys deserve anything less in the face of his failed expectations, because he was a child without coin? Was that what really mattered to Will Turner in the end, deep down: silver and gold and getting what he wanted out of the world around him first?

No. It couldn't. He'd promised his mother—promised himself, he'd be honest in his affairs with those around him. He'd been failing that promise lately.

And there were few things he resented more than a broken promise.

Lowering himself stiffly down to one knee, Will looked Denys square in the face.

"I know," he admitted. "And I'm sorry, but I do not have one ready for you."

To his surprise, the boy's sharp edge softened significantly. With shoulders fallen and scowl melting away, he simply asked, "Why not?"

There was an impulse to make an excuse—to relay to the lad the entirety of the past two days' events, and make him see that it wasn't his fault he'd failed to do as he'd said he would, but the world's fault. Mister Dodson had been the one to dump a cartload of demands on his shoulders. Mister Brown had been the one to fail to handle that cartload before.

But that wasn't the answer that mattered. It wasn't the answer Denys needed. There would always be other men in the world, tying people down and tossing all them with all their promises into the sea…

Will cast his eyes down for a moment thoughtfully. "Because… I made a mistake." He looked back at Denys again and the visible lines of hurt beginning to cross his face. "I had a letter with me all day. But I let my work and the rain distract me, and I sent my letter with a different messenger without thinking of what I'd said to you. I'm sorry."

Denys pursed his lips against a swift rise of emotion in him, tremulous wrinkles in his chin revealing how mightily he was battling to hold it in. He took a deep breath. "You said you'd have a letter for me to take."

"I did," Will agreed. "And I meant it. I just didn't expect today would be as miserable as it is. I was overwhelmed. But that doesn't change how I'd forgotten you. And I am sorry for it."

There were things the lad wished to say, Will could tell. But the tide inside him was rising swiftly, with its evidence beginning to well in his eyes. He looked away in childish shame, lips pressed even tighter together than before, waiting for his tears to pass him over.

Will waited as well. Then once Denys turned his gaze back in his direction, he lowered his head and his voice. "If you'll give me a chance, I'd like to make it up to you."

Denys took another steadying breath. "How?"

"Well, I'll need a chance to sleep, first. And I need to collect a payment from an important customer, second. But after that, I'll give you double the letters when the sun comes back." Will held up two fingers for emphasis. "And if my master approves of it, when I come talk to your mother about your sword, we could also discuss paying you for a little bit of help fetching water or taking care of the donkey for us. If you like."

The lines of distress were smoothed from Denys face, as he ran a quick pass of his sleeve over his eyes. "I want to work in the smithy, with you."

Will felt himself wince a little, and tried to cover it up with a sympathetic smile. "You're still a little too young for that…"

"Am not!" Denys protested in an instant, bouncing back much closer to normal.

Will shook his head a little as he put his hands to his knee and rose back up to his feet. "Most boys don't start an apprenticeship like this until they're fourteen—twelve if you can afford it. That's still four years away. And besides, I'm still an apprentice, and apprentices can't have their own apprentices. I can't take care of you without my own money—the guild would never accept it. And Mister Brown would not…"

Will trailed off. The expression on the lad's face showed he was deeply unimpressed with the rules Will was rattling off.

He had been focusing on a lot of "can't"s lately, hadn't he? But if there was one thing he'd learned from that raggedy old Sparrow, it was that every thing they could not do simply pointed to another thing which they could do…

"I'll tell you what…!" Will began, as an idea came to mind.

"What…?" Denys inquired through a surly pout.

"I'm ending my apprenticeship soon. I'll spend a while as a journeyman next. But by the time you're fourteen, I'm going to be a master swordsmith, for certain. I'll get my own house with room for an apprentice to stay in, my own kitchen, even my own forge! When I do, if you still want it, I'll make you my apprentice then—first thing. Deal?"

Denys all but tipped his hat off his head as he nodded like his life depended on it. "Yessir!"

---

Will snarled as he aimlessly paced his quarters, glaring daggers at the wall dividing his room from Brown's. The pain in his head had spread. From a slow pulse like an aggravated firefly living behind his right eye, it swelled into flares like a raging firefly… which had somehow been given a knife to stab his face from the inside. Repeatedly. Each pulse of pain now penetrated into his eyeball itself, then climbed up his brow where it grew wider, sharper, more persistent. Though both his eyes begged for reprieve, closing them only brought more pictures to his mind than if they were opened—staring at the ceiling wasn't any more helpful. His mind was toilworn yet trapped racing a downhill sprint at the same time. His body craved rest for itself, and yet he knew that lying down would nonsensically flood his limbs with the urge to get up and run, work, swim—anything.

Still, he probably ought to at least try.

He had dozens of things he felt he ought to be doing, and couldn't resist reviewing them like a task list to tackle as soon as his nap was over. He hadn't started a single one of his own orders for the Brookes, the Walkers, Mister Papiol. And if he closed his eyes now, opening them would take him most of the way towards Thursday. Half the week was gone—two days' labor! He should have been preparing to deliver his second order by now!

And those debts… How many of them were there? How big were they? He wanted to reassure himself that it was likely fine, that the amount Brown owed to Mister Hanson was more than likely the final sum tallied after every other place had turned his emptied pockets away. But the truth was that he didn't know. He didn't know how many places his master had gone, which ones had cut him off from his debauchery, or which ones had been willing to allow him to dig himself into a six-foot-deep hole.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be! He wasn't the master of this smithy, he was an apprentice! Masters were meant to take care of their apprentices, not the other way around! Why was he the one scraping meals together? Managing the accounts? Fretting over debts? If he was going to handle all the smithy's business, then why could his master simply run off with the profits? If he closed his eyes now, was there anything preventing the fool from rising and disappearing again with every last penny?

What was happening now that things had begun to grow so terrible? Had it always been this out of control, and he was only now seeing it, now that the money really mattered…?

He could feel the beats of his pulse beginning to kick up into a quicker, frantic trot at the thought. A tracing of sweat was working up along the collar round his neck, and an anxious quiver had worked itself deep into his hands, when he held them out for his study.

He forced himself to still his fidgety circle-walk. Tearing his eyes away from the wall, he then made quick work dropping his breeches and kicking them off his ankles. He needed to be calm, needed to be willing to at least lie quietly, to wait and build his strength back up…

And there was one thing he knew he could always do to take his mind off everything else, when sleep became hard to call.

Rifling through the borrowed satchel and digging through his clothing trunk, Will withdrew two pieces of paper he would use as magic charms against the evil thoughts stealing his rest away. As he sat upon his bed, he read Elizabeth's two choice letters beside each other, lingering on her words like a child rolling hard candies around his mouth.

'Mine, with all my amusement—'

'My most handsomest of pirates~'

'I've been thinking about you far more constantly than I ought to admit… am counting the moments between the minutes without you.'

'I wish to make love to you at your earliest convenience.'

He threw his head back with a sigh.

While his bottom half sank into his creaky, sagging tick, he let his upper half fall back, limp with exhaustion. His bedding caught him in an embrace that was equally tired. While the ropes netted beneath him stretched under his weight, firm yet forgiving, the compressed straws inside his pillow crackled and shifted under his nestling head. He tucked the letters away, perched on his bedstead against his wall, with a hope their whispers would fill his dreams.

And as he closed his eyes, the world tipped its axis. Though the bed beneath him had caught and cradled him, he felt like the entire furniture and the room it sat in was moving with him, tipping backwards, carrying him on a precarious tumble to crash with the ground. The crash never came. Instead, the world shifted, and he felt he was standing and falling backwards a second time, then a third… Then when he finally felt himself come to rest, even then his bed wasn't quite still, yawing to one side and the next like a boat moored in the shallows.

For a moment, the world itself had become water.

And then it became Elizabeth.

The glimpses of light teasing his cloaked eyes were in fact the glimmers of the moon. In place of his pillow, his cheek was pressed to hers—just as warm, but so much more soft it had to be velvet. They were there now: standing as close and private as they had been behind the stables, with midnight all around them.

He could practically feel it.

Her hand had found a place upon his chest, crossing his heart—his fingers covered hers to seal the promise tight. They swayed like palm fronds and the faraway tops of jungle trees, as he heard her whispering back the words he had first read in hours which felt half a lifetime before:

'Please do not forget… I am here, standing right alongside you. Take my ears…'

His lips parted at once, tongue hovering ready to pour out every frustration, resentment, and ache which had begun to fill his heart over the course of his day—over the course of his life, really. But when he looked at her, with dark eyes so wide and shining, he suddenly found he could not. Why should she bear these burdens now? Not even he cared to think of them more than he needed—they had consumed days of his life already.

But they weren't here in this moment, in his arms. She was.

Elizabeth.

And he would much prefer his mouth greet her words with whispers woven thick with his wanting, leaving a space far too thin between them… or perhaps even no space at all.

He drew her closer, a tentative request. When she didn't turn her head away, when she cajoled him with her touch the way she had so often before, when she held him like she had last night, he could nuzzle in close to let his lips graze her skin, to breathe in the first warnings of the storm she always stirred inside him. He wished to confess again how he loved her, in whatever new ways or languages he could invent. The words seemed so shapeless to him, despite the fire igniting them. In time, and not much of it, there was no weaver left to craft the adulations he'd kept so long gathered inside himself like bundles of twine piling, tangling into knots. How could there be, when his fingers could make such quicker work finding where her skin was warmest? When his tongue could instead trace her, taste her, take the tip of her earlobe back towards him to tease between such hungry lips…?

'Let me love you, let me love you, let me love you…'

And what did she taste like then, in places where fruit and wine had never touched? Like the scent of the sun on a lazy afternoon? Like the memories of flowers in her hair, after they had been cast aside by the ocean's salty whims?

Like the softness in her neck, left warm and willing…

Her fingers were searching him out, pleading for something else besides the beating dances their hearts took about her garden. His gaze roved her face, considering which favorite vantage he should first carve into the caverns inside his chest.

She tipped her chin up, as though knowing he would drink of her kisses again, if he could.

How well she knew him!

Athirst, he dove headfirst into her offer. Willfully, he drowned himself with her open mouthed until he was utterly drunk, unbridled with her intoxications. He pushed off the wall she'd pressed him to, and lay her on her bed to pour back into her every loving libation he'd ever partaken of her. She coiled her locked knees to one side, baring her thighs, and he tucked one hand between them, a place as close to silk as anything he could imagine ever touching. Then wrapping himself around her, he kissed her with the world about them continuing to sway like a sailing ship, and he had fulfilled his promise to leave her, as they both hoped, finally breathless…

Almost.

'Take my hands…' he heard her whisper, with her breast heaving and her hair cast about her in wild waves.

Then he felt her clasp his wrist, and he drew back to watch her guide his fingers as she had once done another time they'd escape to uncharted waters, this time up her hip and along the length of her waist. As if to ask…

'Let me love you, let me love you, let me love you…'

Flutters of disappointment brushed him when his caress was halted below her breast, to instead interwind with her fingers and draw them out to their sides against the coverlet. When his questions drove him to the secrets in her eyes, there was a taunt waiting for him, sharp and laughing. She meant to torment him on purpose. He half-considered wrenching his right hand free to turn it all back onto her first.

But he was too slow—the thought had hardly been formed before she freed her own hands, and pressed them into her tick to lift herself up.

They were reunited chest-to-chest, lip-to-lip, tongue-to-ravenous-tongue.

Her arms encircled him with desire. He enfolded her with his own. She spoke honey without words. Though he barely recognized the flavor, he understood every moment and movement in her message. While he clutched her head, he was already fallen—not only through the effortless devastation of her charms, but with his back now becoming the one pressed into her bed.

Her ears had accepted his oaths. Now her hands were dancing at the waist of his breeches, pinching the hip buttons loose, slipping beneath the flap, while her eyes pinned him down far more firmly than her lithe body.

She stroked pleasure into him, dancing featherlike fingers down his piece in flagrant teases of enticement that swiftly brought his body to stand at rapt attention. Then with a wicked look in her eye, she delicately drew his breeches' flap all the way back. She bent herself forward across his legs, with lips parted and tongue perched at the ready.

'Take my tongue to your advantage…'

He watched in bemused wonder as she laved his length languidly, swiftly stoking fires in him head and tail, so hot he could feel flares begin to leap inside him, warning of lost control. No, not lost—given away. Entrusted. The peril of his pain and the promise of his pleasure he left entirely to her keen hands, to her piercing eyes, to her mischievous mouth. His heart had plummeted from his chest, and settled into the pulse now in her grasp. The samplings of her tongue whet his own appetites like the softest, most luscious and effective stone that ever could be laid to his sharpening. When it touched his tip, and her lips came to enclose him, he could feel himself beginning to slip.

But no! Not yet!

He wanted more than this. And the madness of it drove him upward, twisting them both until he'd turned her beneath him once again.

'Let me love you, let me love you, let me love you…!'

Her offerings remained ever too much—her ears, her hands, her tongue, and he was certain he had her heart, most prized of all. He would take it all with an iron grip, filled and fueled by thanks and avarice.

But not until he'd fulfilled his promise.

He melded his mouth to hers with a voracious heat she returned, before falling back on his heels. Still she breathed heavy and wanton, one step away from the state he knew she craved to be thrust into. He was determined to give back what she had just given, parting her thighs with careful hands, wide enough for him to slip between. Then copying her early motions, he lifted the hems of her smock to her hips. All the while, he kept his eyes fastened on hers, smoldering like smoke—for he now was beginning to realize that he'd more certainly fallen into a dream. And not even these desires so enflamed could conjure up a truth from a mystery he had never seen before.

Yet his instinct, matched to the sordid words he'd overheard from others once or twice before, told him there was a hole somewhere in her nothing. So with their gazes linked, he slipped one arm beneath her hips, and nestled two fingers inside her. He wasn't exactly sure where or why he was doing it—something about it just seemed right. Before he ever worked his metals, he made sure they were warmed and ready for his makings. And though this woman was not made of steel or iron, she was made to moan all the same, as he stroked and stoked within her. On and on he went, pumping his hand in and out like bellows for the forge inside her, until he couldn't bear any longer the vision she made, sighing and fuming with her inner flames fanned so hot and high.

Their desires were glowing white, almost ready to ruinously burn. It was time for him to begin his work.

He drew their centers together to join—a softer, more heavenly version of the meeting between hammer and anvil. Sparks flew between them. She curled her eager limbs around his form, a sweltry embrace, an itching brace for more. Then with mounting exuberance driven forward by mad rapture, he sought out the same rhythms his arm already knew. Steadily grinding at his gradual effort to take that stubborn, lingering breath from her at last. But unlike the work he already knew, he could feel the glow between them worked hotter through each indulgent, sensuous motion.

She gasped.

He panted.

Never cooling.

Only blazing,

blooming,

and building,

building,

building…

Until a sound rang through the depths of the house, bringing Will to a tense and sudden halt.

Knock, knock, knock, knock!

Who…? Why? Where?

The source couldn't have been far—it sounded like it had come from the door of her drawing room. And when the voice of Elizabeth's father called out her name, Will's breath caught in his throat. The too-close clicks of polished heels clattered like rain somewhere outside her door. If she was being searched for, they were certain to be discovered. It was the fuss made when they'd hid in the cupboard all over again—only far, far worse. They could not continue like this…!

But this wasn't a cupboard they were in. This was her private chambers, and her doors were locked, he was certain.

Yet even if they weren't, even if he could not steal himself away without her father's knowledge, he was weary of all the concealment. What wrong was there with the world knowing what she was to him, he to her? None! Every supposed wrong that was slapped in his face was something false and fabricated for the sake of someone who had nothing to do with William Turner or Elizabeth Swann.

And the only one whom he cared to please was her.

He felt the urge to move on anyway, to slip his hands beneath her head, kiss her wildly, and complete the making of his love to her without hesitation or shame.

He would have.

Except her ears, once turned toward him, were now turning reluctantly away. Her hands, once so inviting, now pressed against him to signal stillness. Her tongue and its gifts now requested his patience, as she separated herself from him and slipped out of the room to chase away her father's voice.

And now he lay in a familiar agony: wanting her while she wandered far away from him.

'Let me love you, let me love you, let me love you…!'

He wished to chase after her, to take her hands and run with her out of whitewashed walls and doors, past manicured gardens, and into the wild jungles beyond—to places they would not be followed. He lifted himself on his knees, half-prepared to do just that.

But she had asked him to wait. She was coming back.

He knew she would come back.

So he carried himself to the head of her bed and fell onto his lover's pillow. Reacquainting himself with its powdery softness came with a generous weight of sleep, barreling over him, sudden and heavy. In his desperation to let time pass more quickly, he gave in under it.

And as he closed his eyes, the world tipped its axis. Though the bed beneath him had caught and cradled him, he felt like it was moving with him, tipping backwards, carrying him on a precarious tumble to crash with the ground. The crash never came. Instead, the world shifted, and he felt he was standing and falling backwards a second time, then a third… Then when he finally felt himself come to rest, even then his bed wasn't quite still, yawing to one side and the next like a boat moored in the shallows.

For a moment, the world itself had become water.

And then it became night.

It had already been night, he realized. Yet somehow it was night again—deeper and with less light in it. No candles. No fires. Only shadows inside of shapes of other shadows.

Elizabeth had not come back yet. But he knew why—her muddled voice came creeping through her door's framing shutters, mingling with her father's in obviously heated argument. He could not hear the words they exchanged, but he could tell their edges were sharp.

And somehow he knew the contention between them had much to do with him.

Guilt settled into his stomach—a piece of the wedge he realized was his devotion and desire for Elizabeth, driving itself between her and her father despite his wishes to avoid such unpleasantness. She was fighting a battle of sacrifice for his sake, and the pain in her voice smote him deep with his own wound, even from afar. This wasn't right—waiting here like this. He needed to be beside her, not behind her. He leapt to his feet and wrenched open the door of her chambers, which looked now so much more like his master's humble home. And as he peered across what should have been her drawing room, he felt as though he was staring from one life into the next—a blacksmith's pennies at his back and a governor's fortunes before his face.

Out of the inky blue, he realized through a gently aching horror that their situation had been backwards this entire time—he hadn't been waiting for her, she had been waiting for him.

And now he was late.

The argument, whatever it had been, was over. Elizabeth was already in a fury, fleeing from her father's house. Will followed her, realizing as they wound down an impossibly long version of the mansion's staircase, that she'd donned her fencing breeches and riding boots. This would not be a garden excursion after all.

Only after she had passed outside the mansion's gate did she pause, turning to look at him with an expression set by a secret determination.

"You're here," she stated simply.

"I am."

At last. And he was sorry it wasn't sooner, though the words of his regret frustratingly refused to leave his tongue.

She nodded with a sober weight falling into her eyes."Come."

Confusion began to stir Will's mind about. Where were they going? What for? Had something happened with her father?

Though blind to her purpose, he did as she asked, stumbling through the dark as he found his footing around the road's deepening carriage ruts, interlaced with webbings of large, far-reaching tree roots. Then like the wind itself had swept into wide-spread wings, Elizabeth began to rush down the hill, racing for the edge of town, her feet knock, knock, knocking as she sprang from one encroaching root to the next.

Though he quickly lost sight of her, he knew where she would go.

His feet found the strength and momentum to carry him more swiftly, letting him practically fly in long leaps down the hill. Puzzles still stirred within him, mingling with a rising regret. Why was she flying so hell for leather? Was she upset with him? Why hadn't he followed her sooner? What had he been thinking, lying in her bed, simply waiting for her like an animal? Why hadn't he been beside her, facing her father eye-to-eye, shoulder-to-shoulder? What had he actually been waiting for? He should have done what his heart and guts had cried out for, and taken her hand to the places they both wished to go.

To the beach of their childhood with the gnarled, rotting buttonwood tree.

A frown overtook his face as he left the road and stepped onto the hidden shore's sands. He was certain this was the place, yet things were not quite right. The tree was somehow bigger than ever before, with its branches weaving overhead into a canopy shaped like rafters, from which a plethora of swords dangled by their knots, imitating wind chimes which could not sing. Below, where he and Elizabeth had once hidden their play swords from the world, there was an orange glow.

Fire.

And as he approached through the dark, he realized the flames shone from a smoldering forge, wedged within the tree's roots and flaring hot from the breaths of the sea. The sight was strange and alarming. Who would be foolish enough to put such a hot fire in so old and dried-out a tree? Living trees provided much longer lasting flues before they combust.

However, these older trees did help make far better swords, with their hotter flames. And he needed his and Elizabeth's blades to be stronger and more flexible than all the rest, if they were to survive the journey ahead.

His sword was already waiting for him in the fire, making his heart leap in distress that the blade's steel would be burnt and crumbling. He drew it. And to his discerning eyes, the cooling red-orange revealed a blade so perfect, he wondered whether he had actually made it. Only one other could compare to this…

But where was it? Had she already taken it? And where was she?

To sea, to sea… like his father, she must have gone to sea. To the Isla de Muerta. And in his heart, he knew he was meant to follow. She needed the perfect hanger in his hand. And he needed to go to her, to place it in her hand, so she could take to the waves prepared. He could not be late in this. He had to stand beside her!

He took a step…

But then a shadow stepped before him, with the glow of a pipe of breathing light across the smoker's ice blue eyes.

"Hezekiah…?"

Were his eyes always blue? He couldn't remember anymore…

The grizzled man only let slip a cluster of smoky tendrils, which glistened subtly under the meager sky lights, captured amongst night's pitch.

"Ye ought not tread into the borderlands during midwatch, son."

The world began to tip again, but with a disorientation unsettling Will from deep inside his chest and head, while his body kept its balance. That wasn't Hezekiah's voice, was it? And what was that supposed to mean, anyhow? What borderlands?

Son…?

Somehow, his mind was able to answer a few of its own questions. All of the sudden, Will realized that he knew this warning meant he shouldn't step onto the foreshore, shouldn't touch the water's tides until the start of the dog watch. But his father was already there. His footprints were the only marks in the darkened, water-smoothed sands behind him.

Wait… his father? No… Elizabeth.

Why had he thought of his father? He already had followed his footsteps to the sea and the unwanted answers spread throughout those tumultuous waves. That journey had come to its end. This trail led to a new path, pointing to the true destination, the true person his heart desired.

And yet her footsteps broke across sands he was not yet meant to touch?

"Why?" he found himself asking, fully intending to disobey and tread a second path to her.

'Let me love her…!'

The figure did not answer, simply drawing once more on his pipe, before turning and continuing to walk on his way past the buttonwood tree.

Unease settled in Will's stomach, while his gaze followed the sand tracks to fix back on the shape of Elizabeth, dark and completely still, except for where the wind tossed her hair. Not once had he gotten to see her face since she'd fled her father's home. What would be written there now? Would any of it be meant for him—any of it good? He clenched his fingers tighter around the hilt in his hands. Whatever consequences came would come—he would face them. Whatever curse threatened to befall her, he would take upon himself.

He struck out with wide steps, crossing the threshold past the high tide line until he could walk across densely packed sands to meet her figure in the shadows. The walk seemed longer than he expected, with ten paces not bringing her much closer. Twenty paces. Thirty? What was happening? Was he moving at all? The wet sand beneath his feet felt compact and solid enough, yet she didn't seem any closer to him than before. Was this what Hezekiah's warning was about?

In a burst of aggravation and fear, Will stabbed his sword deep into the earth before him, sizzling and steaming. Then he pulled himself forward. It worked—he seemed to come closer to Elizabeth at last. He walked from there as he would have rowed, dipping his blade into the sands like a fiery oar, and pulling himself forward a few steps at a time.

However, it occurred to him as he progressed that something seemed off about the shape of this silhouette. So still it stood—not once had she turned in his direction, to smile, to frown, or even to brush the hair from her face.

"Elizabeth…?"

Shoulders tensed, he drew himself ahead with all the might and main he could muster, until his hand came down at last to rest upon her shoulder.

It was cold.

And the chill beneath Will's fingertips shot up his arm to clench him around his heart and stomach.

This was only the bone-like broken mast of a recent shipwreck, buried deep enough in the sand to remain upright. There was no hair in the wind after all, only tattered pieces of canvas and tendrils of seaweed creating a vague resemblance of a human's form. Where was she, if not here? Why was the Commodore's sword here, run through the remains of this ship, instead of in her hand?

In the midst of his confusion, Will reached for the weapon's hilt and wrenched it out of the driftwood monument.

Knock, knock, knock, knock!

Will's head swiveled—where had that come from out here, with no door?

A loud hiss and sputtering made him jump back into the surf before he could answer that, wetting his stockings and shoes up to the ankle. After spinning about again, looking for the source of both sounds, his eyes returned to the forge in the buttonwood. Another abandoned piece of some ship had washed up into the eddies, tapping against its roots. And a fountain was now spewing forth from the tree's fiery depths, drowning the coals inside with furious billows of ashy clouds. The water flooded out into the sea, and the sea began to rise around him—far too quickly to run from. Waves swept his feet out from under him, slammed over him in a mighty surge, before ripping him out towards open waters. His fingers raked through the sound, finding and catching onto the half-buried anvil. He strove to hold fast to it.

He was not strong enough—the ocean's hold on him was far stronger. The water was alive, bandying him about like a simple plaything. He was torn out to sea, tumbling wildly and struggling not to breathe before his face could find the surface. For many moments he simply tumbled and turned, lost in forests of foam and bubbles.

Then he settled in an expanse calm and infinite—no signs of shore any direction, no sounds except the steady pounding of his own heartbeat.

No… not his heart.

That thundering in his ears was the firing of cannons muted by the depths he was now swirling in, battle cries from twin hulls now churning through wreckage-laden waters, flickering and flaring at war over his head. Fire erupted through the ship farther away, her hull bursting into blasts of shattered faith. Through the depths the flotsam began to fall: planks of wood, cuts of canvas, bits of barrels…

Then the bodies.

Life-robbed corpses fell from the skies above the surface, through the sea's hungry arms, down, down, down. One man, then two, a woman, a child… Passengers lost to one journey, now drifting away on a dire detour that could never be turned back.

And he had the strangest feeling…

Down, down, down, like slow, sickly raindrops, and he followed them while peering in gruesome fascination as their vacant, unfamiliar faces passed him and settled quietly upon a sea bed covered in twisting, craggly rocks, jutting out like headstones for their shared grave.

No… not like. That was what he was seeing: rows and rows crowning the dead with distorted, worn versions of monuments which could have been squared, rounded, pointed. Searching more closely across the sea floor, he found in every upset stone, every gnarled column of coral concealed shapes of angry, empty eye sockets, hollowed noses, and gaping grins. Names there were, but most of them were worn away or covered in sea growths that obscured who these souls were to him. The sea made certain no one down here mattered anymore—what were names to those hidden so far away from the rest of the world, anyhow?

And yet he couldn't help the dreadful feeling that there was a name here that did matter.

He didn't let himself think it. This was still a dream, and if he thought about it here, it would come to be. He had no desire to see something that could rend him into such agonized pieces. He began to search for that one that mattered, still feeling the strangest, ugliest feeling that it might be…

Hours and hours he combed, drifting past row and rows of name-struck plates with scattered bodies and forgotten bones in between. It started to feel like he was trapped in a moment, repeating the motions and non-discoveries over and over, while his anxieties and confusion built higher and higher instead of being assuaged.

Why was he here? What if he never found it?

And what if he did…?

His heart clenched tightly.

There! An outer edge to his unending submerged cemetery! And amongst the remaining unreadable signs lay a larger mass before him, a shape which seemed to suggest a burial marked by no simple slate. He was far enough and so deep in the dark, it was hard to tell for certain—hadn't he thought Elizabeth had awaited him on the beach above, only to be fooled in the end? Still, he couldn't help but wonder whether what he saw was the face of a tomb. Either way, it had to be the stone he sought, with the answers he did not wish for but somehow could not turn away from. He had made chase in earnest, and needed to know for certain where this piece of his heart could have landed—if it was buried here after all.

The murkiness of the water cleared as he approached, unveiling the truth before him until crystal clear moonlight was able to pierce through the water and make it absolutely certain: it was the stone chest of Isla de Muerte, with every drop of blood ever taken locked tight inside.

How strange it was to see it here, buried in abandoned waters.

But stranger still was what he found resting atop it: a headstone freshly carved with a name so legible he didn't need to approach to read it:

WILLIAM TURNER

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock! came from inside the chest.

Or was it…?

---

Will's eyes were bleary, his mind trapped swirling in perplexed stumblings for several seconds, as he began to slowly recognize the sight of rain-veiled daylight creeping past his shutters. Between two worlds he was, both dark but in such different ways. And his body only ceased to feel the swaying of water, the gnawing coil in his limbs, measure by little measure.

He was in his bed. There were no haunted ghosts in his company—though he still felt their specters nearby. And a pull remained inside him, like a hand had grasped his heart and wished to draw him plunging back into the sea again, determined to make him look, make him witness the name of the man he'd damned with certain eyes…

He swallowed.

And it was the realization that he was breathing, deep and easy, which finally pulled him back to his real self. He was awake. And unfortunate as that was, he couldn't help but feel a little grateful—his dream had begun to disturb him in a way which had started to sink into his bones.

Thank god for his flesh.

He breathed out some of the tension still clinging to him. How much time had passed in sleep? He couldn't be certain. The dream had felt like it had crept in days yet sped by in a single breath at once. But he could still hear the rain outside, suggesting the same storm was pouring over him. And the cloudy glow that barely invaded his room seemed to say it was at least not yet evening. A cynical part of him made him wonder whether he hadn't slept for only a measly ten minutes—that would have been his luck really shining through. If he waited long enough, perhaps the church bells would ring and give him better bearings. Although, waiting seemed like a dangerous thing, when his body had found a way to sink into a comfortable position, and it was so very tempting to simply shut his eyes and fall back into a new dream.

Maybe he could fall back into the beginning of the same dream, and simply hold onto that indulgent moment a little longer. If he kept his grip on his own will tightly enough, he could resist the call of unexpected diversions like strange knocking sounds…

Oh. That was right… The knocking. Was there actually someone knocking in this living world, like he'd thought? Or had it been an odd part of his dream, after all? That was what he really needed to wait and listen for.

But who could be calling in this weather? Not Elizabeth, surely. Mister Dodson wouldn't be here, if Mister Egbo was right about him not bothering to come out to his property in the rain. Had Mister Hanson come back? Denys, looking for another letter again? Or another tavern keeper, seeking his master out?

A thought struck Will sharply, and he suddenly sat bolt upright.

His master!

What if it wasn't a caller at all he had heard, but the man making an escape? What if Will had heard his footsteps on the stairs outside his window, as he made his way back to the smithy, to raid the last of the coffer's coins?

Fear sent up bolting to his feet and stumbling awkwardly out his room towards that of his master's. With hands fumbling from sleep, he flung the bedroom door open…

… to find his master just as he'd left him, passed out cold.

Will frowned in confusion and shut his master's door again quietly. If that wasn't what he'd heard, then that could mean there really had been someone at the door, and he'd simply been too absorbed in his dreams to pay it a proper mind. What if it had been something important? Were they still there? He turned to look at the crack below the house's main door.

A small jolt shot through him—there were definitely shadows cast from visitors!

He took one pace towards the door, before the soles of his feet hitting the ground suddenly reminded him: he was undressed! Bare-legged and all, clothed only by his white shirt. He'd left his breeches in a thoughtless pile on the floor of his room, and the rest of his clothes were still hanging near the fireplace!

"Bleeding hell," he cursed under his breath.

Then he began to rush as quietly as he could about the house, pulling on his breeches, and taking down the makeshift clothing line. He wadded his damp laundry into a ball and hurled it through his bedroom door. Ah, but as his mind pulled against the sleep still holding onto him, he realized belatedly: if he had visitors he shouldn't have tossed his waistcoat away, he should have put it on.

Also he could have chosen to drape his clothes across his bedside trunk rather than toss it in an open mess like that, however small. Sloppiness wasn't his way, and he had enough pride awake in him that he didn't care for anyone to believe otherwise. Especially if it turned out his visitor was, in fact, Mister Dodson.

Still, it was with an annoyed growl that he wandered back towards his room to shut the door.

But just as he'd picked up his waistcoat, his ears caught wind of one of the voices outside, cutting through the rain's shushes at last. He realized it was decidedly feminine… and familiar.

Was it really…? But no. He was still so groggy—it had to be a leftover from his dream, leaving him hearing things.

He lifted the latch and hauled the door open.

---

Outdoor brilliance blasted Will's eyes with the shock of filtered daylight, and for a minute all he could do was squint and blink through temporary blindness. Neither he nor his two visitors said anything for a good while—Will because he was still half-uncertain whether or not it really was Elizabeth standing right before him. The blackish blob could have had a head of golden hair, or they could have just been wearing a straw hat. It was unusually hard to tell. The other person was even more of a black blob, but had white of a… bob wig probably on their head.

So not Elizabeth? Or yes? Was that Miss Trattles' bonnet?

'What the hell is going on…?'

His eyes were having an unusual amount of trouble unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It felt like once his left eye began to see clearly, the right one got twice as worse—then suddenly they'd switch places, and the bad eye would become good while his good eye became bad. It was a disorienting cycle, and it aggravated the headache he was slowly beginning to realize had not truly left him after his nap.

Scrunching his eyes and blinking slowly seemed to help—it was almost like he was clearing invisible muck from his vision that refused to stay away. But eventually things settled, and at last he was able to wonder:

"Elizabeth? What are you doing here?"

It was one question of many, but it was the one that rose up in his mind the loudest. Actually… no. Beneath the automatic thrill that shot through him of seeing her radiant face again so suddenly, the loudest question in his mind was swiftly becoming a concern for why she was gawking at him like he'd just rolled out of—

'Will Turner, you bleedin' idiot—of course she's going to gawk! You're half dressed and probably look like you crawled out of your grave! You didn't even bother to run a comb through your hair!'

"Bringing you supper, of course! What else does it look like?" she was replying all of the sudden, pointing to a basket in Miss Trattles hands which looked very different from the one passed between them recently.

… huh?

Why did she say that? Had he asked her a question…?

Oh! Right. He'd just asked her why she was here. He must have said it aloud without thinking—it felt like he hadn't really asked it. But apparently he had.

Or… Wait, did she just say—?

"I have some cold cuts and beer for you. And I brought a little cake…"

What? Meat and beer? For him? Truly? Why? They hadn't agreed to meet today, had they? Had he invited her in his letter and forgotten about it? Had she sent a reply that he'd somehow missed while away? Was she trying to make up for their postponed outing now? Or had he written something which sounded like a plea for food by accident? He'd thought he'd kept his complaints so quiet. Wait, what had he said to her in his last letter? It had been so late in the night, he was already beginning to forget.

Was he still dreaming after all? He was starting to have a little difficulty telling. He was certainly tired enough to have fallen back asleep again, and dreaming about her appearance wasn't exactly unusual. But the rainy air certainly felt a lot more damp and real than it normally felt in a dream, and he could feel the drops splashing on his fe—

Wait, the rain!

'Oi, wake up! It's pouring all over them both, and you're just standing there?! Be a gentleman and let them in!'

He shook his head to himself. Then, feeling somewhat like an awkward, newborn calf, he stumbled back enough to admit the two rain-soaked women into his master's house. The world began to tip a little as he did so, and he was forced to lean back against the door to steady himself. Did he feel worse after his nap, instead of better? His headache now certainly seemed much more strong than it had been when he'd fallen asleep—like his crown had been laid in a vice and squeezed tight. His arms and legs gave off a sensation like they simply wanted to fall off and sleep without him. He was so… off-kilter. How was it he felt worse for sleeping instead of better? And why did he feel so goddamn confused for no good reason? He was waking up so slowly…

But he was waking up.

And now that he was, and the sparkling bits of excitement he'd experienced at Elizabeth's appearance were beginning to settle into an accepted reality, he was starting to feel a little… irritated.

It had taken him so long to fall asleep, after so many delays and interruptions—including two other callers at the door, and disturbances from his own mind. Those other visitors had made some sense for why they'd come by unannounced—although Denys had been pushing it, he was a child; and Mister Hanson was being helpful… and politely leaving a bill. But as Elizabeth and Miss Trattles took their time walking through the door, it was increasingly apparent that their visit had nothing to do with anything urgent, and was merely meant to be a cordial visit.

As much as it thrilled him, it also made his teeth grind together.

The sounds of the women's clogs clomping upon the house's floor felt like sharp taps against his skull with their toes. They could have been playfully punting his head around like a foot ball—the effect would have been the same. Rain was trailing into the house, with bits of mud he'd have to walk over in his bare feet now and clean up later. And when Elizabeth paused before him to set her hand upon his shoulders and press her lips to his, an old yet new conflict arose in him:

He loved Elizabeth with all his heart. As long as he'd known her, she'd always had a kind, generous soul at her center—the basket her servant now deposited upon his master's table could attest to it. She also had a wonderfully open mind, and the combination between a mighty heart and head gave her a headstrong determination which remained a fundamental part of what he loved most about her. Particularly since he doubted she'd have ever chosen to befriend him, let alone love him, if she were made of anything else more cold or timid. She did love him—and her kisses were like a soothing balm against the rising irritations within him, once, twice, three times over. So sweet was her affection, as their lips parted that third time, a large part of Will couldn't help feeling it was irrational and ungrateful to be anything but joy over her sudden appearance—especially when he craved for and adored her company so.

But it wasn't her appearing here that was the problem, was it?

No. It was the way he couldn't help starting to feel he would lose his mind if he couldn't lie down and finally get some proper sleep—one that lasted more than a few minutes or how long he'd just enjoyed. If "enjoyed" was even the right word, with that baffling dream… So, even as his heart fluttered for her, Will couldn't suppress the nagging little voice inside him that deigned to whisper:

'Could she not have at least sent a request ahead for this?'

That wasn't wrong to ask for, was it? It wasn't ungrateful or irrational? The practice was common sense, a practical and reasonable part of modern etiquette. If she'd requested permission for her visit—he would have still said yes. He simply would have asked that she call a little later, instead. In that way, he could have slept longer, then broken bread with her in the evening, before heading to the guild house. Hell, he could have invited her to walk with him there, and they could have enjoyed the evening air together—rain or no.

Yes, she should have asked—he wasn't unreasonable to wish it.

In fact, in an odd twist of events, it seemed that he now was beginning to better understand her frustrations during their practice duel: when she'd complained that he assumed too much and asked for her thoughts too little. Was that not what she was doing now to him? Guessing that he would have been here, ready to receive her with open arms? It was a safe guess, to be fair, but still… Why did she get to complain when he made false or half-informed presumptions with the best intentions, then turn around and do herself that very thing she'd complained of?

Was that even fair?

No, it wasn't. And if she had had rights to complain yesterday… no, the day before yesterday, then what was fair was that he got to share his grievances on the matter as well.

His eyes found their way outside his mind and into hers—where as his thoughts and convictions faded from his focus, he realized she was staring up at him with obvious worries written across her brow, pouting in her lips.

"You were sleeping…" she surmised in a pained whisper.

Will's lips parted for a moment, a shallow eddy of surprise washing over him, before they slipped into a smile of relieved acknowledgement that she'd guessed right.

So she did understand. Of course she did—she was sharp-eyed and even sharper-minded. That reassurance alone quelled the last of whatever slow-simmering vexation in Will might have flared into open frustration. He relaxed a little, and allowed the exhaustion still lapping at his limbs to wash over him again, drowning out his pretenses and surprises—no need to hide the truth now.

As he let his mask slip, he watched her eyes study him a little longer, as though re-confirming to herself the truth of her conclusions. Then at last, her lips parted in a remorseful sigh, and her fingers began to slip from his chest.

"I'm sorry, Will. You made yourself sound so tired and busy, I didn't think you would be taking your break today. I wanted to surprise you and persuade you into one."

The gentle stroke of her hand against his cheek provided another happy boon, and he closed his eyes to lean into her touch, her concern for a moment. She meant well. His letter had left her thinking about him, fretting and worried—that was why she'd rushed to his side so quickly, without mentioning anything in advance. She'd even attempted to arrive when she knew he was likely to have already parted from his work…

It was an innocent and honest mistake, made with unselfish intentions.

He felt the familiar gentle stirrings inside his chest, reminding him: he was loved. This was love, even if it came at a minor inconvenience. And the thought crept up from his chest back into the corners of his lips, the tip of his nose, the edges of his vision, warm and soft in the comfort of her gaze.

He was able to answer in full sincerity, "I appreciate the effort."

His words seemed to carry the softness awakening inside him back to her. For a moment, her face mirrored his relieved satisfaction, her lips pursing plush and pleased… until little flickers of fretfulness began to reflect again off the deep, wood-stained sheen of her eyes. Here, then gone—a light caught on a candle, until it was overcome by the stronger gust of familiar storms of determination.

Then as quick as a sea surge, she'd turned away, admitting herself the rest of the way into the house at last. Mindlessly, she shed her cloak, as her head swiveled around the room seemingly searching for something—for what he wasn't certain. Until her focus settled on the hearth, and she laid her cloak on the table, as though she intended to stay for more than a moment's chat.

The dispelled tension Will had felt returned—that awful tugging between joy and regret.

He was grateful that she'd thought of him, overjoyed that she cared enough to call and bring another thoughtful gift for his help and benefit. Truly. But his head still throbbed and ached. And as fantastically stimulating as her presence was, it simply could not make up for the sleep he lacked. His eyes craved to shut themselves so terribly, he could almost feel them drying up out of protest:

'Go back to bed! Go back to bed!'

He wouldn't dismiss his visitors—not right away, anyhow. As misguided as it was, they'd still made an effort to come down the hill. And now that Elizabeth was here, he couldn't deny how much he did want her nearby. But he also couldn't help being a little bothered by how quickly her mind had seemed to shift from seeing her regrets, back to doing whatever it was she wanted anyway.

It was something she'd done ever since they were children.

As much as she seemed to loathe admitting it, as kind and gracious and thoughtful as she could be, she was also still a daughter of a rich and powerful man—and she had an obvious tendency to act like it. Living in the mansion long ago, he'd quickly seen it. She demanded something, people complied without complaint. It was simply the way life was, with everything bending in her direction so thoroughly, it seemed as though she simply didn't notice when or how her whims overlooked the thoughts or feelings of those around her.

But how could she know if no one ever pointed it out to her?

She had made a mistake, and he saw that she understood that much. What he wasn't certain of was what her intentions were in avoiding its repetition. If they were to complain of each other's presumptions, wouldn't it be most fair to plan a solution together instead of apart? And just as she had informed him of the hurtfulness of his own bad habit, it was only fair that he voiced his own frustrations as well.

So as he pushed the door back into its latch, he sorted through his words in his mind before speaking them aloud, "You know, next time you visit, Elizabeth, I think it might be—"

"What do you think about a little bit of tea or coffee today—" he barely heard her ask at the same time, before sharply deviating into a curse, "Oh, hell!"

He watched as she threw her hands down and rolled her eyes to herself, obviously frustrated by her awkward string of accidental offenses. His eyebrows rose in surprised amusement. Admittedly, it seemed they were off-balance today, stumbling over each other as though they'd never truly spoken before. But it wasn't as though a little awkwardness had never happened between them in the past. He wasn't sure why she felt so strongly about their joint gaffe to start swearing about it.

With her fingers brushing her chest regretfully, Elizabeth apologized earnestly, "I didn't mean to interrupt you, Will."

"That's alright," he answered with a wave of his hand, and barely stifled a laugh steeped deeper with bemusements.

He had to admit there was something a little funny and even charming to her vehemence—it was like the tables had been turned, and she was the one trying to impress or please him, somehow. But why…? Did he seem angry? He'd been told he had a tendency to sulk and scowl when he became lost in tired thoughts. And he had been brooding quite a lot since she arrived—if he'd been paying more attention, perhaps they wouldn't have spoken in the same turn.

So he made his way from the door, back to her side in two strides, intent on coming back out of his brooding thoughts and back into the light of her company.

"What was your question?" he asked, and kept his eyes and ears fixed on her answer.

A baffled laugh puffed from her chest, as her eyes darted about again, as though his response had somehow vexed her, or she was hesitant to repeat her question. Was she offended..?

He wouldn't know—within another fleeting instant, she'd raised her chin and caught his gaze again with eyes polished with a fresh, merry glimmer.

"Would you like tea or coffee?" she asked, grinning and bobbing her head from one side to the other with the listed offerings.

He noticed Miss Trattles perk up behind her mistress at the question. For a moment, their gazes locked by accident, and together they shared a surprised glance—evidently the option of a hot beverage was news to Elizabeth's maid as much as it was to him. And both of them knew that the work of preparation would fall to one of them.

If he were honest, and he tried to be, it needed to be him. He was the real host of this house now, wasn't he? Forewarnings or no, it was only right that he provided the drink, if his guests were going through all the trouble of bringing the food.

Except he really, really had no interest in doing anything over the fire again today. The thought alone made him want to groan and crawl back face-down into his bed immediately. Perhaps he could make a counter offer? There really was no reason they had to drink tea or coffee in particular. He had water and… Well, not much else.

But thinking back to what she'd said in the doorway: hadn't Elizabeth mentioned bringing a drink along?

"I thought we were having beer?" he tried to offer, hoping he wasn't misremembering what she'd said. He doubted there were enough reserves in Brown's cellar left to share.

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, although he thought he heard a note of resistance in her voice. "We may—I just wondered whether you wouldn't prefer something else."

Will sighed to himself, and passed his hand over his sleep-itching eyes, barely resisting the urge to rub them awake. God, he wanted to sleep. And he could feel that need loading a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, like a shot of exhaustion rolling unpacked inside the barrel of a gun.

'Don't lose patience,' the better part of himself chided. 'She means well—she's excited.'

He dropped his hand. What the hell! He needed to be up and about after the dinner hour anyway. If she was planning on staying through it, he could at least take advantage of her help and prop his stamina up one more meal, one more drink. And when she turned her head and looked at him that way, he could hardly say no to her. Even in the middle of her offenses, she could make his heart puddle like melted candle wax.

So Will answered simply, "I have no preference. Surprise me."

Her expression burst wide and bright, eyes locked tightly with his for a pleased moment, before turning on her heels in the direction of Miss Trattles.

"Would you mind helping me with some coffee, Estrella?"

Will's sigh seemed to be timed with the rise and fall of Miss Trattles' shoulders. The task was hers to complete after all, and for whatever reason she seemed less-than-enthused about it. Had Elizabeth been overtaxing her? Even so, what else was she supposed to say? "No?" It was her job to fulfill Elizabeth's various whims and wishes.

"Of course, miss…" came her expected answer. Then she turned to face him, with a strange sort of amusement tugging at her lips. "Your kettle, Mister Turner? And the grinder."

So perhaps Miss Trattles wasn't put off the task itself that much, with that look in her eye? Well, it wasn't much of his business anyway. And he truly was too tired to weigh out the complexities of other people's… anything, right now. In fact, it was only after he'd wordlessly pointed to the corner table of kitchen implements that it occurred to him the more gentlemanly thing to do would have been to step up and offer to take up the task himself.

He opened his mouth to do so—and instead found himself waylaid by a jaw-stretching yawn, so wide it was almost painful, pulling on his throbbing headache. His hand flew to cover his mouth belatedly, his offer soundly and clumsily stifled as tears leaked from his pinched-shut eyes. The darkness was so soothing, and as tempting as a siren song. He would have liked to linger in it a little longer, and could feel himself swaying a little as though his body wished to fall into it right away.

The sudden touch of Elizabeth's fingers nestling into the crook of his left arm surprised him, and bid him wait with her a bit longer.

Her voice was in his ear, a melodious reassurance, "I promise we won't be long. I only wanted to make sure you were eating well. I thought perhaps going to the tavern probably isn't the most convenient for you now."

"That is true…" Will had to concede, with a tired and somewhat bashful shrug. He blinked residual tears from his eyes, wiping them against his palm to better meet her smile before they made their way to the table.

But Elizabeth surprised him a second time, when the expected tug on his arm moved to lead him in the opposite direction—towards the back of the house and his bedroom door. He looked at her in search for an explanation.

"Why don't you go lie down for another moment?" she coaxed lightly, while leading another step towards his open door.

His lips twitched upward by reflex—despite the inconvenience in the timing of her visit, she was doing a grand job of reading his mind for what he hadn't yet said. Hardly anything sounded more enticing than an offer to return to his rest. She could have led him with the strength of her little finger, and his feet would have still followed the direction she drew him in, towards his own pillow.

"You can come out and eat when you're done sleeping. I'm sure Mister Brown won't mind finding us here?"

Mister Brown?

Oh, no! If nothing else could wake Will up—the shock of that suggestion could. That man was going to be sick as a dog from the effects of his barrel fever—likely for several days—and was stark naked to boot. And here Will was thinking about drifting off to sleep, while Elizabeth and her made tended to the house in his stead? Elizabeth Swann! The woman whose shadow quite literally lived in his dreams was trying to take care of him, and here he'd been sulking and considering closing his eyes and paying the real her no mind?

Absolutely not!

The thought suddenly reminded him anew how lucky he was that he could feel such things—it was only a few weeks ago the sleep of his nights were stolen from him by the belief that he would die never having loved her the way he wished. He was lucky that he hadn't been forced to lock his heart in a case of stone with all the love that he'd already lost, that her love hadn't been lost as well.

How easy it was to forget in moments like these: time with her was precious, because it would not last forever.

And neither would these days of sleeplessness.

Mister Brown would eventually wake, and Elizabeth would return home. Night would greet him. And god willing, if the city wouldn't light on fire to burn his luck away, he'd simply be able to greet the night back again. Then he'd dance with her in her dreams, happy knowing that those dreams were now real.

Because all things passed, good and bad. He'd paid witness to it already too many times.

So he shook his head at her offer, and carefully slipped his arm free from Elizabeth's caring grasp.

"I could not sleep with you here like this," he insisted, looking for that glorious storm inside her eyes.

But before he found it, he did as he should have done from the beginning. With his fingers slipping beneath the silks of her hair, he cupped her face with every ounce of tender attention he could muster. And he kissed her the way he felt she'd deserved the first time, lending himself to every brush, and breath, and beat of her heart and the priceless fortune it was. Her answer was to weave her fingers through the wrinkles of his shirt. And knowing again how much she truly wanted him brought a weakness to his knees which had nothing to do with missing his rest.

When they parted, it was to offer his own reassurance, "Your company is far too important. But thank you for offering."

And oh, there it was, churning in her eyes like a swirl of dying sunlight within a restless gloaming! With his hands he framed her face, so he could gaze more deeply into the depths of her regard, wondering again over why she would concern herself with so lowly a fool like him. He ran his thumb across her cheek, as though doing so could smooth away her wasted worries.

"Are you certain?" she asked, and in her breath, in the paths she brushed across his shoulders, there was so much more than he could have asked for. "You look so tired."

Oh, how backwards this was! They stood together in the closest place to anything he could call his own home—she was his guest, and more importantly, the most indulgent caretaker he had never known. She'd tended his body and healed his spirit, over and over and over. It was not right to take her baskets, her encouragements, her kisses, and offer no comforts of his own in return.

"I'm certain, yes," Will replied firmly.

To seal his certainty and share his gratitude, he moved one hand to cup her once more behind her head, and press his lips to the center of her brow. She'd done far more than enough. The sleeping feelings inside were awake and overflowing, so when he looked at her again he couldn't help but smile.

She returned it with her lips, her eyes, and that overwhelming light she always carried within.

His heart fluttered like it was nervous, though that wasn't the case. When neither of them seemed inclined to move, his tired legs made the decision for them—he would stay out here with her, but he would do so seated at the table. His hands left her head, and with one gentle nudge to her back, he signaled his desires to settle into a chair.

"You came all this way for me, I'll remain awake for you. Now, you sit down. You're supposed to be my guest."

"Oh, no!" Elizabeth balked, and he nearly stumbled forward when she sidestepped away from his guiding hand. Before he could register the steps she'd taken, he found himself in front of her, obeying the press of two firm hands upon the backs of his shoulders, taking the reins from him once more with great insistence. "You'll have to fight me for that honor, Mister Turner. I came here to spoil you, and I'm all but determined to do so."

Though he sighed and shook his head, he couldn't suppress the smile of acquiescence. So today would be her day again—clearly she wouldn't accept it otherwise. But one day, one day soon he hoped, he would be the one to pour his care and affections out over her. And when that day came, it would be more than a simple shower—it would be a deluge.

---

There were many times in his life Will had wished he were made of sturdier stuff than a mere mortal's flesh and bones. His work was hard on his body, and sometimes the sport he made himself could be as well. When buckets of water became too heavy, or when men like giants scoffed at him in competitions, he would sigh to himself and wish he were stronger.

Yet he could hardly remember a time where he had wished it more than in his fight to keep his eyelids lifted for Elizabeth now.

Despite his moment of energy, the weight of sleep had come crushing down on him nearly the moment he let himself sit down. He felt like Hercules… No. Hera—Arch.. Achilles? One of those old Greek fellows who held up impossibly-sized rocks. He thought he remembered seeing an etching once of a man bent over with an enormous boulder on his back.

That man.

That was what his sleep felt like now. Or staying awake. Whichever one made most sense. It was heavy as hell.

He wished he could say it would have been easier if the conversation were livelier, but Elizabeth was as chipper and chatty as she'd ever been. And Miss Trattles was here, offering all her cheeky remarks to sprinkle over their talk like dashes of ginger. He smiled often and honestly, observing their banter with curious ears. But he was growing slow and stupid, struggling to find answers to Elizabeth's questions that didn't halt the topic with their dead-ended simplicity. Soon, it became clear his uninspiring remarks were incapable of keeping Elizabeth's attention, and she quickly became more engrossed in watching Miss Trattles toss beans in a skillet than she was in trying to keep a proper conversation going.

It was shameful, to be honest. He would have put his head down, if it wouldn't have turned the table over.

At least he wasn't yawning over again.

"Where is Mister Brown, anyhow?" asked Elizabeth quite out of the blue.

Will frowned. It was a fair question. And he'd been candid with Elizabeth in the past about Mister Brown's poor habits—they weren't uncommon, after all. Neither were they all that humiliating to relay. The times he had shared before were mostly times when Brown had simply slept too late or worked through their shift in a foul mood. But today…

"Sleeping," he admitted once more. Then he hesitated.

His mind felt like it was filled with water he had to wade through to gather his words. Adding to the struggle, his master's situation was far worse than it had ever been before. And with the sharpness of his irritations over the situation, he had a great many words festering inside him he would have liked to say. And he might have spat it all out…

… if not for Miss Trattles' wide-open ears, or the blanket of sleep covering his tongue.

Now was not the time. Perhaps in a future meeting, when his thoughts were more collected, and when Miss Trattles sat much farther away again, he could say more. For now he needed to say…

Something. Yet he had nothing—his mind was a puddle in the street. Eventually, he took a breath and lamely tried, "We've had a rough few days."

It was an unsatisfying answer. Elizabeth made it clear with the face she made, lips pressed thin with displeasure, eyes narrowing with scrutiny and lists of questions. When an air of determination began to settle in her face, and her mouth opened with the start of an interrogation perched on her tongue, he tensed.

Then a muted fit of coughing chattered out from the master bedroom's door.

Will let his head fall in a silent sigh, crossed between relief and distress. Brown must have been woken up by their noise.

Elizabeth's pout pursed for a moment, somehow appearing both partially satisfied and yet even more unimpressed with the situation.

"Is he ill? Or is it…?" she asked in a voice that sounded like delicate tiptoes.

Will felt himself beginning to scowl. There was no "or" about it—the man's condition was an illness, one that had begun to take a grave turn. But try as he might, Will could think of no tactful way to explain it.

"Turner…" a weak voice called through the door.

'Shit.' The sorry sot really was awake—Will had hoped he would follow the smell of his coffee, take a drink, and put himself back to sleep, for now. Of course he had to need something instead. And if he tried to come out here in the state that he was…

Will sighed, then gingerly stood from his chair, muttering apologetically, "Just a moment."

Then crossing over to his master's door, he lifted the latch and slipped inside the darker room as quickly, quietly, carefully as he could.

"Sir…?" he called lowly, and shut the door with a gentle hand.

He had little doubt that Elizabeth would have her ears turned in their direction, and felt particularly wary of the ways his master's temper could shift when he was recovering from a long round of drinks.

He could just make out Brown lifting his head off his pillow, straining as though it were a stone. "Did you let the girl back in here? Or am I hearing things?"

'Oh, please don't get it in your head to join us,' Will thought in a minor panic. The man was in no state to converse with anyone, let alone women as refined as their guests. He himself was already struggling to keep a decent conversation—the last thing he needed was his master suddenly rambling about his failures or picking up a pointless argument.

After a steadying breath, he answered plainly, "She came to call on short notice. She doesn't mean to—"

"I don't want her here."

Will's excuse fell off his lips, and a startled bemusement over the sternness in his master's voice settled in his brow. That wasn't the reaction he expected.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, unable to think of anything else to say. The dark was making that weight of sleep feel even heavier than before.

Mister Brown raised one hand and swatted at the air in front of him.

"You send her away!" he growled. "I don't want that rich gilfurt in here anymore, treating us like poor folk. She thinks she's better'n us. She don't belong here."

Prickling anger flared inside Will, and even though he knew his master could not see his face, he snarled. "You seemed plenty happy to receive her gifts and her company not two days ago."

"I didn't want nothing to do with her. You brought her here, and you made me stay."

"That isn't true," Will snapped, struggling to keep his voice level.

"You made me stay," Brown insisted. "And now she'll know… You know who her father is—she'll tell him… She'll tell him what we are."

'What you are, you mean,' Will barely resisted accusing.

He knew his master could turn belligerent and irrational like this, and therefore knew how little point there was falling into a fight. Still, the impulse to retaliate against hurled slanders remained strong, and he could feel his temperature spiking high, forcing him to grind his teeth and count to five, with one deep, cooling breath.

Still, his words were stiff when he tried to reassure, "You needn't worry about your reputation, sir. We have plenty else to talk about."

He may as well have said nothing at all.

Unappeased, Brown grunted as he tried to raise himself on one elbow while pointing an accusing hand in Will's direction. "You told him what we are. That's why he's sending the money—to save poor old Jonathan Brown from his demons, aye? You think I'm charity? That I need people like them? That I don't give you enough, when I've given you the run of this entire damn house?"

His voice grew louder, and Will's anger grew hotter.

But so did his alarm—it had been a long time since his master had fallen into a mood like this, so bitter and senselessly vile. If it continued the way things had gone last time he'd fallen this far, it was all but guaranteed there'd be a scene.

"You're talking out of the bottle again, sir," Will hissed tremulously, anxious to bring the volume down and yet ready to burst with accusations of his own. "You take a drink or two out of that kettle, I'll see you get some hair of the dog in a few hours. Try to sleep it off."

Perhaps there was a way he could convince Elizabeth to open the beer now, without making it look suspicious to Miss Trattles. If he could use it to mix something weak, perhaps it could draw the man more gently out of his hell pit.

And it did seem to be a hell pit—Brown appeared to be in no mood for sympathy or advice, as he sat himself all the way up, his hand shaking as it continued to point at Will.

"You think you're better than me, Turner, but you're not," he growled, stumbling in an effort to rise to his knees. "I made you what you are. And it ain't right for you to be going behind my back, making your own name off mine."

"What are you talking about?" Will asked, equally confused and impatient. "An apprentice is supposed to find his way—everyone knows you're the master guiding me."

"Fuck you," Brown leaned forward to hiss, a sound that felt like a slap in the face. Then he brought his hand to his chest like a claw. "You're not taking this place from me. Not you, not your pretty little gift basket or her pompous father—"

Will tensed his jaw and clenched his fists, while his legs began to coil tight like a spring. He was half-ready to launch forward to force Brown's words back into his throat. But then he heard through the door the chimes of Elizabeth's voice, a shockingly bright and beautiful contrast with this dark and pathetic scene—and a timely reminder of how thin the walls of this house remained. He held himself back, grinding his teeth and digging his fingers into his palms with the effort.

"—And you can try to stick it out as long as you like, but my sons—they're coming back for me. This is a family business, and you don't belong in it."

If knives could be thrown from a man's eyes, Will would have shot an entire arsenal at his master. There were a few times in the past when his tongue turned cruel after a bad round of drinking, but never anything like this. The man he'd known in the early days of his apprenticeship had been a jolly soul, with words filled with wit and wisdom. These words cut with intention. To see and hear such an unrecognizable tiny brute standing in his old master's place, spitting such things in his directions made him shake with an awful mix of rage, disgust, and shock.

Who the hell was this wretched person? Where had he come from? And what could Will possibly say to him, when all he wanted to do was punch him straight in the mouth?

He didn't belong, did he? He who had dedicated years of his life not just to perfecting his own craft, but who had dedicated the craft itself to the name of the smithy named after his master? He who sacrificed his sleep and sanity upon the anvil like a demented altar to someone else's god, just so he could be turned up and called an interloper? What the hell would he want with a place or employer like this? They lived in the biggest city in the Caribbean—there were forges by the dozens he could run to the moment he was a journeyman.

Just like this fool's sons had.

And after hearing nothing from them for years, Brown wanted to believe that he could turn things back to the better days, without him?

"For your sake, I hope so," Will whispered furiously. "I would hate to see what happens here the day I walk away, and you're finally forced to accept there's no one else willing to hold your head above the waterline."

They were silent for a moment, though Will could have sworn his ears were ringing. Mister Brown huffed and breathed angry, shaking breaths that failed to shape whatever words were running through his head.

Then he was crying.

With his breathing melting into shudders, Will's master fell back on his heels and slumped onto his tick into a pained ball of regrets. It was a transformation as quick and baffling as the vindictive monster that had been here mere seconds before. He looked broken and pathetic.

But Will was too worn down, too deeply cut to be moved. Instead, he merely stood and watched with unmoving eyes, as the outburst passed as quickly as it had come. Soon the room fell into quiet.

Brown was asleep again.

And with nothing left for him there, Will stepped back out of the darkness, back into a room that had been flooded with light. He squinted for a few seconds. The windows and door had been propped open, probably to let brighter light or breaths of outside air to fill the room. And with the rain dying down, it looked and felt a great respite. After securing the door's latch, he turned to find Elizabeth watching him with round, inquisitive eyes. He tried to offer a smile and nod hello, to make it seem as though everything was as normal as it could be.

He returned to his seat at the table, pushing aside the way he could feel his legs shaking beneath him jelly-like as he walked.

"My apologies. Thank you for waiting," he offered in a voice he hoped sounded steady, hoped they didn't see the way he pressed his fingers on the table's wobbling edge for balance as he joined the women in standing by the fire.

There were questions in Elizabeth's gaze he could practically sense digging into his skin, begging him to tell her what in the world was going on.

Will pressed his lips together, his frustration leaking out of him through a rough breath out his nose.

"He's just indisposed, Elizabeth—that's simply the way of it," he answered with more coldness than he intended, still smarting and a little off-balance from the strangeness of his master's encounter. He would have liked to say more, to have a chance to let the confusion swirling in him out for someone who cared to listen and remind him how this wouldn't last forever. But…

He glanced one more time in Miss Trattles' direction.

No. He could not now. "Let's change the subject."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed again, and he could almost imagine the sensation of her long and elegant fingernails probing around his face for the edges of his shoddy mask. It tempted him, as aching and exhausted as he was, to ask her if he could walk her back to her carriage, just to find an excuse to speak to her more closely and quietly, and satisfy her curiosity with the soothing of his pains.

But the moment passed before he could truly consider it.

"Alright," Elizabeth conceded, though it was accompanied by a sigh. Then, thankfully, she too walked back to her chair, waiting for her at the table. In a blink the scrutinizing hardness in her face was gone, while her warmer and more pleasant smile took its place. "How is Master Hackley today? You made it sound as though he was biting your ankles yesterday."

Will breathed out a quiet laugh of relief as he more fully drew out Elizabeth's chair. He held it in place as she gracefully settled herself into it, and a gentle breeze cut into the room and lifted the scent of her hair powders to his face.

No, better than a carriage ride, he wished he could have invited her into his room. How he wanted to nestle together brow-against-brow like they'd done the other day, wrapping each other in quiet conversation and even quieter dreams while the sun dried up the world's tears. He wanted to breathe only her for an hour, and think of nothing else.

"He is well," he answered her question instead, then paused as he helped her tuck her chair back into its place beneath the table. "He was very put out with me when I sent my reply without him this morning…"

With her seated, the smell of brewing coffee rose up to take her place, mixing merrily with the remaining essences of rain, sea, and smoke. Miss Trattles had all but finished her work, and drinks would need to be poured soon.

He could feel his stomach begin to toss and turn hungrily, as he retrieved some cups for the table.

"As am I!" he was surprised to hear Elizabeth chide behind his back.

"Are you?" he asked, feeling bubbles of amusement rise inside him, washing bits of sad and ugly muck away from his insides.

He returned to the table and held out a cup for her to take.

She accepted it with both hands, then announced, "Yes, I had struck a deal with him you know!"

Will shook his head. Of course they had.

"Ah! I was uncertain whether he was telling the truth about that." He walked around the table to lay the last two cups in their places, grateful for the distraction this conversation was now turning towards.

Elizabeth pivoted in her seat to face him, frowning thoughtfully. "I thought I told you in my letter."

"You did not, I'm afraid." Or if she had, he didn't remember it.

"Oh!" she responded, her head dipping into her memories with a furrowed brow. "I suppose we did discuss it after I'd already sealed it. In any case, if his mother would allow it, I'd like him to become our messenger at least once a day…"

Will offered her a smile as she mused aloud. But he couldn't keep his eyes from glancing at the door behind her, fastened shut between him and the troubles concealed behind it.

---

A strong brew and good tales filled the remainder of the hour. What began as a simple and humorous retelling of the conversation which Elizabeth had shared with Denys somehow diverged down several paths of debate. The coffee did a better job of making Will notice his own heartbeat than it managed to wake him up. Still, he felt just re-invigorated enough to join Elizabeth in figuring out who she secretly wished to murder, or asserting to Miss Trattles that her tale about walking, cursed, moonlit skeletons was not just a fabrication meant to spook children. Oaths and chastisements and good-natured ribbings were passed as quickly as the kettle and cakes.

By the end, he'd become content enough that, when Elizabeth declared it was time to leave, he felt the same tinges of disappointment he always felt at their partings—enough to nearly overcome the feelings of relief he felt over the thought of being able to return to his bed.

However, the disappointment wasn't permitted to linger in the face of other distractions. When he made to begin tidying up the table, Elizabeth surprised him by snatching the cleaning rag from his fingers. He was forbidden from brushing a single crumb, as she intended to take up his tasks in his stead. At first, he watched with charmed amusement, as her good intentions began to wipe their dinner mess onto the floor. But after a light-hearted argument, he convinced her to at least let him show her how to make sure their messes successfully were disposed of outside, and not in the floorboards of the house.

Once she felt she understood the process, he was banished to a corner to let Miss Trattles and her work as she wished. And Will found himself watching in a strange combination of baffled wonder and guilt, while Elizabeth Swann, practically the princess of Port Royal, chewed her lip in such lovely concentrations upon a pair of simple household chores. The only other manual work he'd ever seen her done before was work related to… well, pirates. Cutting down branches or building sandcastles for their playtime; loading and firing muskets in a fight for their lives… It made sense why someone like her, with servants for each room of her home, would feel compelled to do those other things—fun and survival were both very compelling incentives. But this…?

'She don't belong here…'

Will felt his heart clench, and pushed the thought aside.

True enough, it wasn't Elizabeth's normal inclination to tidy up after herself. But she hadn't been pressed into the task—she'd chosen it. Today it seemed her motivation had truly been a simple, earnest effort to make his day a little better, his life a little easier.

Elizabeth caught him watching. And when she curved her lips in a charming little smile, eyes sparkling with excitement over something so mundane, he felt a lump form in his throat, his eyes turn just a little less like a desert. He couldn't resist smiling back.

She would belong. Even if it took the rest of his life working days like this one to ensure she didn't have to do these menial things for him, he would make a place for her to belong.

By the end of it all, his doubts were made silent. For Will felt both his heart and belly had been filled to satisfaction by the things he had actually, truly needed.

Besides the sleep, of course.

But that had been an honest mistake. And if he confirmed with her before she left the need for planning her visits together, he could make certain it wouldn't happen again without good reason.

In any case, once the dishes, rags, and broom were all put away, Elizabeth beamed with pride as she granted him permission to approach her again at last. Will met his heart by the door. And without concern for their chaperone or a single word of warning he pressed his grateful smile to Elizabeth's lips for as long as she held him like it mattered. In their kisses he craved to go with her to a place where others didn't follow, and the sun was their only other companion.

Where they both belonged.

Though their mouths eventually parted, she did not. For a few moments longer, their eyes danced together slowly, while their hands continued to leave behind whispers of their wishes for one another.

"Thank you for the gifts. Again," Will managed to say at last.

He ran his palms along Elizabeth's shoulders, fighting the urge to wrap himself around her again, and implore her to stay and take what little space he could make for her on his bed. He could press himself against the wall or lie on the floor beside her, if he had to. If he could just have her ears, her hands, her tongue like she had offered, as they both drifted into dreams, he could be satisfied…

"Of course," she responded, the happy wrinkle returning to her nose, while her fingers toyed with the frays in his shirt's collar. "Anything you need to help you through these long hours, I will give you."

He was moved—the hour of sleep he lost was more than a worthy trade for her blessings. She was so much more than he deserved. She was…

'…your pretty little gift basket…' Brown's voice intruded in his mind.

And Will felt his smile slip as a sick feeling began to settle in his stomach, thinking again of the ungrateful words his master had hurled at him—at them both—like sticks and stones thrown at a mangy dog or cat. Now that the anger had been allowed to pass, he could feel the hurt left behind—it was more than a sting from passing offenses.

Because in a way, while the man's words had been unnecessarily cruel, there was a truth buried inside them that Will found himself less and less capable of denying.

And when his eyes returned to Elizabeth, he wasn't certain anymore of what to say to her. His heart was full but it was also sore, and so very tired. He somehow wanted to apologize, but for words she hadn't heard and the things he'd made her do, the changes he was bringing upon her. He wanted to feel less like he was failing to give back the things she needed, and more like… more…

Her fingers brushed along his jaw, and she graced him with another soft smile. She saw something inside him—he couldn't begin to tell what.

"I am so proud of you."

His throat seized up again, as a surge of thoughts rushed through him, battling to be the loudest question, the strongest answer.

'Proud of you? For what?' he felt the cynical part of his mind spit back, no longer able to be restrained by his sleep-deprived resolve. 'For turning pirate one time in your life, then crawling back into your old yoke like a pathetic ass?'

But his heart was full, and while he was not strong enough to contest such thorny thoughts, the gentleness he heard echoed in Elizabeth's voices gave him presence of mind to turn away to other considerations: it was the missing sleep talking. It had to be. Because the love in her eyes was here. And it was real. And how else could he look at it so intently and still doubt it?

He could tell her now, so these other thoughts wouldn't be here again to taint their escapes.

"And I am so very grateful to you, truly," he professed with all the meaning filling the corners of his heart. Then he took a breath, and added, "But Elizabeth—"

"No protests!" she interrupted, with a finger upon her lips.

And he felt a returning flash of irritation. She was trying to be playful, that was obvious. But this wasn't a protest, it was a request. And even if it was a protest, she ought to hear it before arguing against it, even in jest.

Right?

Elizabeth continued, "This is my love for you, as we've discussed. I only accept your kisses for payment, and nothing less."

She sealed her point with one more kiss, which he couldn't help but answer.

But she had misunderstood what he meant to say, and he couldn't let it lie. Yes, admittedly, he was feeling more doubts about her gifts, and they were beginning to weigh on his mind. But he had something different to say. And the way that she… that she assumed instead of asking or listening felt frustrating in a way that made it only more important to express.

So once they parted again, he immediately began to explain, "Elizabeth, I'm not—"

But to his chagrin, she would not listen. Her mind was made up that she would not. Instead, she slipped from his arms, turned on her heel, and skipped out the door, calling out a playful, "Until our next meeting, Will Turner!"

She was flirting, teasing. And yet her refusal to hear him still made a part of him sink inside.

"When will that be?" he called after her, trying to at least begin a conversation about their plans, if he couldn't yet convince her to hear his reasons for them. He followed Miss Trattles out the door, onto the outside steps of the house.

"Who can say?" Elizabeth threw back over her shoulder with a coy smirk, and she scurried down the stairs, well out of his reach. "We'll both find out soon, I'm certain!"

It was meant as a joke, he knew it. All of this was in the name of play. And maybe he was being sensitive, maybe he was simply too tired to see the fun in it… But he couldn't find a way to answer her, when all he wanted now was to be heard.

Her steps slowed as she seemed to notice how frozen he'd become, and when she turned to look at him she had deep questions in her eyes.

"Let me know, please," he implored her.

She blinked at him as though he'd asked for the moon. Did she really not understand what he meant, when she was so clever and perceptive? Perhaps he ought to follow her, and say something more clearly. But his head was awhirl with too many things at once, and he found himself once again fumbling over what to say anymore.

It didn't matter in the end. Miss Trattles had already made her way down the stairs, and Elizabeth, noticing her approach, turned back to make the rest of the way down to the street. But before she left, she offered him one last parting smile—less confidently blissful, but no less radiant. And when she dared to blow him one last kiss, it calmed the turbulence inside him for a little moment, making his heart flutter.

He laid his palm over his chest, to signal she had found her mark as true as cupid, lips bent up with a gentle assurance: he could tell her. She would listen, when things were a little different.

Everything would be better after a good night's sleep.

---

Dusk had fallen by the time Will had woken up from the second half of his nap—a sleep so deep he hardly remembered closing his eyes, let alone dreaming. He still felt heavy pulling himself out of bed, but after splashes of water—and several swallows as well—he finally began to feel enough like himself to get dressed and set out into the night.

The guild would be closed by now, but he had another place he knew he could go.

It had been several weeks since Will had set foot in a tavern with an intent to stay. Apprentices rarely were granted the time or allowance to spend in such spaces to begin with, and the past few weeks had been especially limiting. So, stepping into The Three Crowns to finally search for a face he meant to join made him feel almost as though he was entering for the first time all over again.

There were many taverns in Port Royal, all with their different quirks and benefits. This particular one was a cheery place, with music almost always greeting him nearly every time he walked past. Sometimes rousing choruses from the tavern's patrons poured out onto the street; sometimes lively jigs played on varying assortments of country instruments—official and improvised alike; and sometimes there would even be visitors of notable enough talent to sing a song or two, keeping anyone in earshot spellbound.

Tonight, as he neared the mansion-like brick building tucked in between the rows of shops and houses, Will could only hear the familiar sound of a single fiddle ringing out from the dining hall windows. Alone as the melody was, its player had such light and lively fingers, they made its tune dance through the evening air with a joy that dismissed the need for any other instrument. The sound of it mingling with people's laughter was heartening to hear.

Crossing over the threshold of the tavern's wide-open entrance brought guests like Will to a comfortably furnished hallway. While the walls were white-washed, the doors and trim all featured polished wooden frames. Cheery orange hardwoods laid the floors, with a colorful, hand-painted canvas rug leading the way to a richly carved switchback staircase tucked into the back of the hall. Beneath these stairs, a door led out the back of the house to the cook house, now propped open for tavern staff to hustle through more easily. While the entry was usually quiet, that was only when compared to the rest of the house. Guests' ballyhoo could not be fully contained from seeping out of the rooms on either side or trickling down the stairs from the floors above, where the private rooms where kept.

Four additional closed doors framed the hallway, two on the left and two on the right. While both doors on the right-hand side of this hall led to the main dining room, the fore door just to Will's left led to the tavern's main parlor. And at the rear of the hall, the door on the same side was double-hung, with the bottom half left shut while its top was kept propped open. This enabled the night's bartender and waiters to take and deliver orders to the house's patrons. Tonight that duty seemed to be Missus Hanson's. Although, at the moment she was tending less to the bar and more to the lively conversation she was sharing with Miss Riley, the Hansons' most recently hired barmaid.

Both women did swift double-takes as soon as Will walked in from the street.

"Evening, Mister Turner!" Missus Hanson chimed like a welcome bell. "You looking to stay a bit tonight, or you looking for your master again?"

"Good evening, Missus Hanson, Miss Riley," he replied with a courteous wave. "I'll be staying in for a minute, thank you."

"Glad to hear it, lad," she replied cheerily, while Miss Riley pressed her lips together in a tight approximation of a smile and greeted him through a shy bob of her head.

"Have you seen any members of my master's guild tonight?"

Missus Hanson scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. "You ought to know I don't keep track of whose guild or company is which-what! As long as you pay your dues, I couldn't care less what you lot do for a living."

Will shook his head to himself, thinking it was probably better to keep his master's bill out of the question for now.

"Speaking of which," Missus Hanson pushed on with her own business, "We've a fine ale tonight, if'n you've got a taste for it. But the cider is as good as any, if'n that's what you'll be wanting again instead. And there's chicken pudding, if'n you're not keen on the pepper pot."

All of it sounded delicious. Even though he was already well-fed, and probably had more than his fill of peppers for today, thoughts of the pudding and pepper pot made Will's mouth salivate a little.

The food was one of the main things that kept him coming back to this particular tavern, the few times he was free to do so. The Hansons were generous people—the sort the world was far too short of, as they shared a love for feeding good food to folk from all walks of life, including those of lower status. And they pursued their passion with figurative and literal relish. Not only were the hot and cold meals available at The Three Crowns much better than the merely decent fare at other places, they were served with some of the best beer on the Palisadoes, all for the remarkable price of one shilling—several pennies less than the other taverns or inns in the area.

If a shilling was still a steep sum somehow, they kept an enormous stew pot going in the outdoor kitchen, with patrons welcomed to donate their own offerings into the soup, changing it day to day and week to week—a practice not uncommon around here. A few months ago, someone had been placing increasingly spicy peppers into the stew, turning it into something more akin to a pepper pot, and they'd referred to it as a pepper pot ever since. While it was nothing as hot as Mister Egbo's callaloo, a bowl of this punchy stew always left a bit of a surprise to its changing flavors. And along with a morsel of fresh bread, one serving set its diner back for almost half the sum of the tavern's heftier hot meals. It was one of the best deals to be found anywhere in the city.

If that were not enough: the few times before where Will had been caught without the proper sum in his pocket, Mister Hanson had been amenable, allowing him to take his meal with a small rum toddy and an agreement to clean up after his own dishes.

Will appreciated their kindness.

However, tonight he had no need for food. Elizabeth had once again fed him generously, and he had his own cauldron waiting for him at the smithy for later. Yet, even if things were different and he'd found himself wanting something to eat, even though he knew that the Hansons would never turn a hungry soul away, he would have found himself looking for an excuse to turn the offer down. He couldn't indebt himself further when his master already had drunk them into a bit of a hole. He could not forget the way he'd been scraping the absolute bottom of the smithy's barrel—the empty coffer tucked beneath the workbench…

So he offered the kindly tavern keeper another polite smile.

"Thank you! I'll let you know if anything takes my interest," he dismissed as courteously as he could.

After a few seconds with the elder woman studying him, as though attempting to guess at his thoughts through looks alone, she only nodded, satisfied that her duties were tended to for the time being. She then turned back to her business with her barmaid.

With a low breath set loose, Will pressed open the door closest to his hand, and stepped into a room occupied with song, laughter, a smoky haze, and just enough bustling bodies to make it seem not quite as hot as the forge somehow—or certainly more stuffy. He was lucky it was only a Wednesday, and not the weekend, when the place seemed to nearly overflow with people.

He scrutinized the room and the faces in it.

The room was a large and open space that spanned the building's entire southern wing. Windows lined the walls along the building's front and back—three windows to Wills left and three to the right. All these were thrown open to allow the night air in, and booths and smaller tables had been placed strategically beside each one. These prized seats had long been claimed for the evening by patrons hoping to catch as much breeze as they could, to cool their evening meals and pastimes.

While there were faces he recognized, not one of these tables along the perimeter sat the men Will needed to speak to. His eyes kept searching, while a few heads began to turn in his direction with inquisitive expressions on their faces.

'Well, you haven't been back here since the attack…' he thought to himself, and ignored the stares as he walked deeper into the room.

Those who were not fortunate enough to claim a window seat often ended up sitting at one of four smaller tables spaced in between the "good tables," away from the walls. So patrons in these windowless spaces made up for their losses in prime seating with the common use of fans waved in their faces. Many had properly made ones, yes, but several "fans" were also improvised from hats, the cards in their gambling hands, newspapers, pamphlets and other such things. On hotter evenings, the room was positively astir with the flaps and flutters of parties cooling themselves in the day's lingering swelter.

Tonight, the room wasn't quite as unbearable as usual, thanks to the long day's rain coming before the evening's breezes. Still, any gathering of bodies was bound to stuff up a room—especially when there were dancers.

Which there were.

A pair of supporting columns held up the center of the room under the weight of the house's upper level. Tonight, the farther column had been enclosed by three longer tables set in a triangle formation, with benches for seating. While this was a rather unusual set up, it did not surprise Will entirely. Those tables were meant for more communal eating and revelry, and patrons moved them about the room to make space for the night's entertainment. Sometimes they stretched the very center of the room, end to end like one long table, with benches on both sides, making it possible to let many people in and out for eating. Other times, they striped the center of the room in the crossways direction, to give patrons a good view of performances or lectures on the room's far end, before the fireplace. And still other times, they would be clustered towards one side of the hall, to open the floor for more energetic activities. When this was done, the tables' movers enjoyed finding unusual or amusing ways to tuck the tables away, which would explain this odd triangular configuration tonight.

However, there was no special event that called for the tables' moving. At least, not yet. The fiddler Will had heard turned out to be Mister Robertson, an elderly man with a puffy beard who wandered around town playing wherever suited him. He always preferred meandering about his space when he played. As such, not much floor was needed for himself. However, as happened on most nights filled with jauntier music, there were a few people who had taken to dancing a reel. And it was for these dancers that the communal tables had been pushed aside, and the room's temperature rose.

Will spotted Mister Hanson at his usual work, tending to one of these smaller tables and chatting away with patrons in a booming voice.

And there! At the table Mister Hanson stood beside, in the far corner of the hall to Will's right, he spotted three men seated with their coats and hats draped over the backs of their chairs, chatting with the tavern keeper and each other around a game of cards. One of the men Will did not recognize, and one had his back towards Will. But there was one he recognized as a fellow blacksmith—or future fellow, technically, as Will's apprenticeship held him back from full and proper guild membership.

Barty Barker. He was a talented smith who specialized in farming tools. But most importantly, he was the beadle of the blacksmith guild's court—and someone Will had at least been introduced to once in the past.

Realizing his entrance hadn't caught the attention of anyone seated at that table, Will began to cross the hall in the direction of their corner. Only a few steps had been taken before he heard a voice cry out, "Oi! Turner!" from somewhere to his left.

'Please not today…' Will rolled his eyes when he recognized its caller.

Then, in a piss-poor pretense that he hadn't heard his name over the clapping and stomping of the dancers, he chose to try and veer a little more to the right, so he could inconveniently wind between the dining hall's inner and outer tables, and make himself not worth catching. However, the move wasn't quick enough—and he'd known it. So when an arm was thrown around Will's shoulders, and he was pinned to the side of a tall beanpole of a man in a brown queue wig, Will only rolled his eyes to himself.

Even if he hadn't come here with a particular goal in mind, he was far from in the right mood to put up with the antics of Nathaniel Marshe tonight.

"The hell you going?!" Marshe demanded, and tried to route Will towards one of the tables on the opposite side of the hall. "We've got a tune about you, and we've been dying for you to show up to sing it with us!"

Will felt his face flush with humiliation. That probably was the ballad Elizabeth had mentioned. Like hell he was going to sit through something like that!

"Fuck off, Gnat," Will snapped. "Last thing I want to hear tonight is some badly written song coming out of your stupid mouth."

"Don't, 'fuck off,' me—not when you've been fucking off this entire time! Where the hell have you been?!" Nathaniel tried to curl his arm around Will's neck in a headlock.

With a growl, Will ducked his head under his assailant's sweaty arm, freeing himself with a backwards step from the reek of beer and clothing gone sour from a damp drying. In doing so, he bumped into a second person, who had come to corner him further—Howey Gunnage, another member of the fencing club and one of Nathaniel's closer friends.

"Busy," Will groused back flatly, and considered whether he could escape this encounter by stepping around Nathaniel's left side.

"Oh aye, bet so," Nathaniel scoffed, stepping to block Will's way.

"Ohhh!" Gunnage chimed a false realization at nearly the same time with his deep baritone, then grabbed Will by the shoulders and gave him a teasing shake. "Is that the way you want to call it, then?"

Will felt his teeth set on edge, as he quickly picked up on the pair's mostly-unpronounced insinuation. That was something he would not be discussing—here or anywhere with the likes of these. He was quickly feeling more and more ready to wallop Marshe in the teeth, and accept getting thrown out of another establishment, just for the satisfaction of shutting the idiot up again.

Too bad he had a very big reason for being here—and staying out of trouble.

"Yes! I've been working. Not that it matters to any of you," he shot back, dodging around the real topic they seemed so keen to dive into. "I was away for a bit, in case you didn't notice. And you know how Brown gets when left on his own."

Perhaps a mention of his infamous pirate turn would entice them to a different angle in their ribbing.

Nathaniel smirked at Will's answer. "Funny that. We've been by the smithy a few times this weekend, and each time you've been out."

Will scowled as Howey concurred, "Aye, and you haven't popped by the arena in nearly a month, like you normally would under such burdensome circumstances."

Anger began to simmer in Will's guts. He'd already put up with enough slander elsewhere today. If their lips even began to make the shape of her name with these randy airs, they'd be kissing his fist before they could finish speaking it.

'And then her father will hear about it, and that will improve your suit for Elizabeth very well,' his wiser mind chided sarcastically.

He took a breath and let it back out his nose in an aggravated puff.

"I'm allowed time to myself when I can have it," he answered as evenly as he could manage—which wasn't very much,

However, Nathaniel's smirk widened at Will's answer. "Something tells me the time you've been taking hasn't all been to yourself, though, has it?"

A flash of alarmed rage made Will try and take a step towards Marshe, but Gunnage held him in place. He settled for spitting daggers in his retaliation, "Fuck you."

"No—fuck you!" Marshe simpered with a proud flourish, as though he felt he was terribly clever. Then coming up close to Will's face, bringing down the volume of their conversation to a secret as he tapped Will in the chest with a prodding finger. "That's the point, isn't it? Big man isn't boiling over with all that extra pent-up energy anymore, now that his little man's finally occupied."

He gave a pointed look downward in the direction of Will's "little man."

Gunnage squeezed Will's shoulders and leaned into his ear, chortling the question, "Who's got you occupied, Willy?"

"Fuck you, too," Will snarled, as he pinched one of Howey's hands from off his shoulder.

This prompted a low but sharp, "Ow! Shit!" as Gunnage withdrew his hold from Will with a hiss.

Then he shoved Marshe in the chest, sending him two steps back and earning a few head swivels from nearby patrons.

"I don't have to explain myself to any of you," he hissed, and feinted his way left-right around Marshe, to finally make a pass towards the back of the hall.

Marshe tried to keep pace with him, walking with him side-by-side for a few strides, chattering away, "No, but you could have at least told us you weren't planning on running the show anymore. We've been an odd man out this entire time, and half the time we—"

Will managed to squeeze his way into the awkward spaces between inner and outer tables at last, brushing the backs and heads of a few revelers as he shuffled past them and left Nathaniel Marshe and his taunts behind.

"Oi! Will Turner!"" Marshe barked after him, but a new song from the fiddle had kicked the dancers up to livelier leaps, and the sounds drowned him out. "I'm taking you down, Turner! This year!"

'I'd like to see you try, you slow pile of shit,' Will thought with a roll of his eyes, then threw an insulting gesture over his shoulder for good measure.

After weaving past two tables with muttered apologies, Will wove back out towards the center of the room and cast nervous eyes at the guild's table. Thankfully, Mister Hanson wasn't there anymore. And the three card players weren't watching him now, seemingly engrossed in their game. But he worried his minor scrap with Marshe and Gunnage might have caught their attention in a bad way. Not that it could be helped much now, if they did—hopefully they could tell it wasn't exactly his fault to begin with. But…

With a fresh, steadying breath, a straightening of his back, and a flex of his fingers to force them out of their clenched fists, Will approached Mister Barker's table with a wide and steady stride.

Once he was close enough to recognize the third card player—one of the guild's court assistants—he cleared his throat

"Mister Stabler, Mister Barker—good evening!" he greeted in a volume that he hoped was loud enough to be heard over the dancing, yet not so loud as to be more impertinent than he already was, approaching the men's table uninvited.

Loud enough he was, at least, as the wigged heads of all three men turned in his direction together, before their faces broke out in expressions varying in degrees of surprise and confusion.

It was Mister Barker who recognized him first in the dim lamplight. Leaning back in his seat, he responded with a jovial, "Well, if it isn't young William Turner!" as though he were taking up the role of introducing him to the rest of the table.

The faces of Mister Stabler and their third companion lit up with their own recognition upon hearing his name, with their mouths opening in little expressions of surprise before offering courteous smiles of their own. It could have been an act to save his pride, but the motion encouraged Will that they hadn't noticed the minor tiff he'd had at the front of the hall. He breathed a little more easily.

A little.

He really wanted to fill up his lungs and just shout out, "I need you to make me a journeyman!"

But he swallowed his impulses down, thinking, 'Don't get too far ahead of yourself, William. Opportune moments, opportune moments…'

"Evening, Turner," Mister Stabler greeted with a nod and wheezy voice. "Haven't seen heads or tails of you or Brown in some time—hope you're surviving alright."

"Surviving, yes," Will answered, while resisting the urge to rub his fingers and thumbs together at his sides, nervously. He took a breath to steady himself. "I'm looking for something more, however."

That raised the brow and lips of one side of Mister Stabler's mouth.

"Are you?" he asked.

"Oi, Rick!" Will jumped a little when Mister Barker's voice suddenly boomed at someone sitting at one of the communal tables near the center of the room. "Look it—this here's the kid's what broke out Sparrow and made off with the Interceptor!"

More than one person turned to glance in their direction at this announcement. But the head of a bearded man with ruddy cheeks and arms as thick as barrels popped up from his seat, took one look at Will, then laughed. After wriggling himself free from his seat upon the bench, he approached Mister Barker's table, and slammed his hands down heavily on Will's shoulders, nearly compressing his spine down like a sponge.

Why was everyone grabbing him like this tonight?

"Hell of a favor that was, kid!" Mister Rick guffawed. Then he dipped his whiskers near Will's ear, and told the loudest secret that could be told, "Between you'n me'n us, kickin' ol' Norrington's nose out of everyone's business has been a right blessin'. Haven't been able to buy lead or paper this cheap in years."

The table hummed and rose their tankards in agreement.

"Aye," a man in the booth behind Mister Stabler chimed in, "I'd kiss ye on the mouth if ye'd let me."

Will felt his brow furrow, uncertain of what to do under this unexpected wave of praise—he'd never experienced anything like it before. And it was a far cry from the reactions he'd received from Commodore Norrington or Elizabeth's father.

"Maybe start by buying me a pint first, then we'll talk," he stammered back in an attempted joke.

It landed well enough. The gathered men chortled and shook their heads, some of them taking swigs of their own drinks in a 'cheers' to his reply. Will felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders ease.

Meanwhile Mister Barker offered Will a ruddy-faced smile. "I'll do ye more'n that—ye supped yet, son?"

Will's furrowed brows were raised in more surprise at the continued extension of the group's favor, beginning to feel overwhelmed and like the conversation was running away from him. Would this get in the way of him making his request? Or could he perhaps use their approvals to his advantage…?

"I have not, sir," he answered honestly. "But that is far too generous an offer. I cannot—"

"Shut yer face up and sit yer arse down. We owe you, and we're treatin' you!" Mister Barker insisted, before waving at Mister Stabler to scoot deeper into the booth and free Will up a seat on his bench.

While Mister Stabler complied, the large man named Rick gave Will one last hearty pat on the shoulder before wandering back to his old companions at the communal table, voice booming boisterously.

Then Mister Barker started to call, "Martha! Where's Martha? MARTHAAAA!"

Will turned his head to scan the room for the person who answered to that casual address. The bonnet-capped head of Missus Hanson's barmaid friend popped up from another table across the room, where she was carrying a tray of drinks. With a raised finger she signaled for their patience while acknowledging that she'd heard them just fine.

His curiosity satisfied, Will finally took his offered seat besides Mister Stabler.

"So, how's ol' Brown doing, boy?" Mister Stabler asked politely, as he stacked the cards in his hand together and set them face down on the table in a neat little pile. "He hasn't dropped by the house in quite some time. Been wondering if he's joining us for Ol' Clem's this year."

Will felt a little jolt run through him, as he had completely overlooked how soon the blacksmiths' holiday would be. Normally it was one of the smithy's most important days of the entire year. And with the Black Pearl's attack leaving good and bad impacts on the town's smithy's, creating both the need and opportunity to rebuild the town and recover lost funds, it was only logical that the entire guild would already be planning for it.

It was also easy to see why they would ask such a specific question about Mister Brown—though what they would do with its answer, Will wasn't certain of.

"He hasn't said anything about it," he responded after some hesitation. "I'll pass along your regards and reminders, tell him to reach out to you."

Will watched with pinched brows as the other three men sitting at the table exchanged looks of what appeared to be types of concern. And for a moment nothing else was said, while wordless messages seemed to be sent back and forth between the two smiths. Mister Stabler tipped his chin in Mister Barkers' direction, and Mister Barker made an odd expression, a cross between a twitch and a sigh.

He couldn't tell what it all meant, but it put an unsettled feeling in Will's stomach, making him press the pads of his fingers into the table. Was there something going on with Mister Brown and the council? Or were they just worried for a friend?

Was it possible for a member to be thrown out of the guild?

"Well, you're not exactly one to stop by and chat with us by habit, Turner," Mister Stabler's breathy voice turned in Will's direction, and pulled him out of his thoughts before they could begin to run away. "Accuse me of overreaching if you must, but I get the impression there's something you must be wanting from us in particular."

He raised a similarly pointed yet good-natured eyebrow in Will's direction, pretending as though he had been discovered up to something.

Will smiled a little in return, glad to have the topic shifted back towards his original goal, even if it made his nerves feel like grasshoppers were leaping about his guts.

"You're a step ahead of me," he said. Then after another fortifying breath, he pressed on, "I'm looking for a chance to discuss the terms of fulfillment for my apprenticeship."

Much as they'd done before, Mister Barker, Mister Stabler, and their guest exchanged candid glances, although this time their expressions appeared to be far more amused than anything else. The nervous twitches inside Will stirred up restlessly. What was so funny? Was he out of line? Had Brown been wrong to advise him to consult the guild?

"That so?" Mister Barker wondered with a humored upturn to his lips.

Mister Stabler nodded to himself, before lifting his tankard for a drink, musing, "I suppose seven years would be coming up at some point in the near future, wouldn't it?"

Will nodded. "This coming summer, yes."

"God…" Mister Barker sighed to himself, and began to stroke the stubble about his lips thoughtfully, while a distant look fell over his eyes. "That's not right at all. Feels as though ye joined us not two years ago. How'd that happen…?"

"You blinked," answered Mister Barker's neighbor with a teasing nudge. "Happens to the best of us."

The elder men chuckled together. Will noted the matching wrinkles gathering around each of their eyes as they did so. And he was suddenly struck by a stray thought, which took his vision out past the wall behind Mister Barker's head, back into depths without light or sound beyond his own pulse: would his father have had wrinkles like that, if he'd survived? If he hadn't been…?

"What is it ye be wanting to discuss about it, Turner?"

Will blinked, and re-affixed his eyes on Mister Barker's friendly face, forced his heart to settle back down to a rhythm more anchored to the land beneath him.

"I was hoping…" he began to answer, then paused as he pushed himself back into the thoughts he needed, away from the thoughts that suddenly seemed to need him. He shut his eyes one last time against them. Then he asked, "What precedents are there for promoting an apprentice to journeyman... early?"

The friendly smile on Mister Barker's face remained fixed in place. But the mood in his eyes and brow shifted like flickers of lamplight between a little surprise, a little confusion, a little curiosity.

"How early?"

Will almost answered with his chosen goal of three months—until his mind called back the sounds of Jack Sparrow and Captain Barbossa heckling over their plunder, finding an agreement in the middle. If the answer was "no" at three months, then he'd have a harder time making his argument. But if he did like Jack, like he'd tried to do with his negotiated commission with Mister Brown, then…

Well, who knew if it would matter? And if he happened to get what he wanted a little early, then he couldn't complain about that…

He evened the wetness in his mouth with a bit of a swallow.

"Six months early," he declared.

That earned him a look like he'd lost his mind, with Mister Barker, Mister Stabler and their friend, all raising their eyebrows as though to ask whether he was truly serious. Mister Stabler shook his head to himself, while Mister Barker laughed a little.

"Well… none," he answered frankly. He touched the table with his fingers as he spoke, as though pointing to listed points on an invisible sheet of paper. "Yer meant to do the full seven years' work. It's the way everyone does it—the way people know they can trust the craftsmanship of shops tied to our emblem. Full and proper trainin'."

Will felt tense, but kept his focus fixed on his ambition. To be rejected here after surviving his failed encounters with Barbossa felt much like dueling in a planned space after fighting for his life. He didn't need to hold a gun to his head, didn't need to panic. The men he was negotiating with were not out to kill him or do him any harm at all. He could slow down and think things through.

And right now, he thought he had a chance so long as the blacksmiths' ears were open.

"Yes, I understand that," he answered, and called to mind all the arguments he'd been muttering to himself over the past week. "But I also believe that the work I have completed thus far is enough to compare to seven years' work. And I believe I can prove it to the council."

Mister Barker and Mister Stabler exchanged expressions that seemed not only unconvinced, but somewhat unimpressed with Will's assertion. Mister Barker's friend simply laughed to himself, shook his head, and began shuffling his cards.

"Why would you want to prove something like that to begin with?" Mister Stabler asked in a quiet yet astute voice. "What's the point? Six months isn't much in the grand scheme of things—winter or summer, you'll get your due all the same."

Mister Barker's friend shook his head, before adding his own advice directly to Will, "Young ones are always in a rush. You should be making use of those last six months of training."

Will opened his mouth to answer, hesitated. Then remembering the sound of his master's voice straining through his latest outburst, he replied, "Brown has nothing left to teach me."

Mister Stabler cocked an unconvinced eyebrow. "He told you that?"

Familiar flustered blends of feelings of inadequacy, of being doubted and overlooked, began to stir back up in Will.

"No," he admitted, annoyed that he needed to validate his assertions with the word of a man who had hurled more excuses and accusations in his direction than he had helpful advice. "But he would agree if you asked him."

That earned a round of silence—thoughtful, doubting, awkward.

Will pushed through, launching into his argument shakily, "As a journeyman, I will continue to learn—ending my apprenticeship will not end that. But I may earn my keep and have more freedom to choose whom I work for, where my learning will continue."

He was stating the obvious, and Mister Barker shook his head at him.

"Aye, and ye'll have to feed yerself, clothe yerself, house yerself," he answered, while holding up one finger for each new responsibility coming out of apprenticeship would entail. As though that were argument enough, he waved his hand dismissively and added, "Enjoy yer master's keepin' while you can, Turner. All you have to worry about is your trainin'. It's to yer advantage."

Will didn't bother to hide the sardonic sound behind the laugh that broke from his breath. He'd been conducting his business so carefully, trying to ensure that his master's image had remained somewhat acceptable in the public's eyes. Yet he could tell from the course of the conversation that Brown's condition was more than an open secret among their peers in the guild.

And he could still hear the hiss of his insults.

"If that were so, I would agree," Will answered, trusting that Misters Barker and Stabler would understand what he meant. "But at this point in my life, promotion is what I need to survive."

While his friend gave a little laugh, seeming to assume Will's sentiments were merely exaggerations of youthful inexperience, Mister Barker's eyes softened and fell in conflicted pondering.

"I don't know…" he muttered, with a rub along the back of his neck.

His friend's humor dissolved into a look of curious concern.

"Everyone's working hard and struggling, not just you," Mister Stabler remarked airily. Then he turned to look at Will with serious eyes. "If you request an exception, and it's granted, what would that say to the rest of our apprentices and journeymen? They work just as hard as you do."

The events of the past few days—of the past few years—of Will's work life flipped before his mind's eye like pages in a book flipped through for reminder. He shook his head.

"With all due respect, I don't believe that is true, sir," he asserted. When airs of doubt and offense began to stir amongst the table, he hastily continued to explain, "I do not mean to sound as though the work of the rest of the guild's apprenticeship is of lesser value. That is not the case! But I believe most apprentices are placed on tighter leads and more solid foundations than my experience. I have been alone for the past f—"

"You're not a slave, Turner," Mister Barker returned for a firm reminder. "You've got all the same opportunities as the rest of us who went through our indenture."

Will frowned—that was a good point. Many craftsmen in the Caribbean took on enslaved apprentices, not merely indentured ones. In more ways than one, he'd been lucky to secure the apprenticeship he had to begin with.

But…

He opened his mouth to argue back.

Mister Stabler saw the motion and clapped Will on the shoulder, to interrupt with his own point, saying, "Plenty of apprentices only have their master to guide them, Turner. It'd be a gross miscalculation to believe everyone else is working shoulder-to-shoulder in a workshop with multiple masters and journeymen teaching them. You're not unique in your solitude."

Impatience flared back to life in Will. He knew that—he wasn't stupid! If people would just listen to him, they'd hear what it was he meant!

"But how many other apprentices have had to work as their own master?" he countered in a single breath, his heart beginning to pound again as his argument seemed to be making little headway. "Is that solitude common as well, or may I consider myself sufficiently unique in that?"

Mister Barker tipped his chin up at that, with eyebrows raised—though whether it was because he thought Will had raised a good point, or, as Will dreaded, because he thought that meant Will's training was in a worse state that it ought to be, Will couldn't tell.

"Unique or not," Mister Stabler retaliated, "I would think that that argument would make your promotion even more concerning."

Will felt the fire in his belly begin to drain away with dread. That had been a risky card to play. A little sting of ice panic began to rise up in him, as he worried that the next part of his argument could fall through. What if he'd just made the case for the opposite solution he needed? What if they mandated he needed more years in his apprenticeship to make up for Brown's negligence?

Mister Stabler waved a dismissive hand, as he unwittingly reinforced Will's fears, saying, "You want to claim you're trained while saying to the council you've gone months or years without a proper mentor? Be my guest. But I doubt it'll turn out the way you hope, if you do so. Could give you the opposite result, even."

'Don't you dare fuck this up…' Will told himself, as he slowed his breathing and looked Mister Stabler right in the eye.

"As I've said, I believe I am capable and willing to prove myself as sufficiently learned, beyond argument," he avowed firmly. Then trying to run ahead of the waves of dismissal rolling over the guild members' thoughts, he hastily added, "If I can have Master Hardaway and the guild council's attention for even one afternoon, I am willing to present any of my pieces, any of my skills, for evaluation—"

"You mean you want to be let out of your apprenticeship early, and you want to do so by being assessed for a mastership?" Mister Barker's friend deduced, incredulous.

After a moment's hesitation, Will committed to his answer: "Yes."

The concerned eyes and dropped jaws surrounding him told Will exactly how far out of his mind he appeared to be to the elder blacksmiths. For a moment, they merely looked at each other, as though hoping to confirm the other was thinking the same thing. Then with a look steeped in sympathy they turned their eyes back on Will.

Mister Barker laid a cautious hand upon the table. "No offense, lad, but I think yer drawin' the longbow, here."

"Aye," Mister Stabler agreed. "I don't doubt you've grown in your skills considerably, Mister Turner, but it's a rare thing to—"

"If that is the case, you'll be able to judge it as such, and I will wait my turn," Will interjected with his hands balled into fists upon the table. He was no longer willing to listen to more dismissals. It felt as though there were only a few choice seconds he had left to spend in his life—mere moments that would point him either to or away from his greatest heart's desire… and that this was one such moment. He could not let it simply pass. "I am not asking you to determine what the decision would be now."

"Well, I'm tellin' ye anyway: I think the answer will be no," Mister Barker returned immediately, with his index finger stabbing down at the table again like it had done before.

Will shook his head, unwilling to accept that prediction for a final verdict. He lifted his right fist to tap the table lightly, a restrained touch of his desperation. He needed this. His life with Elizabeth depended on it.

A life he could love at last.

"I am only asking," he began again, voice growing a little shaken, "for the opportunity of consideration. Please." He paused to search each man's eyes for any opening, any hope that he would be heard, before fixing his imploring gaze on Mister Barker's consoling one. "Will you speak to the rest of the council, and see if they will consider an assessment of my work?"

Mister Barker said nothing. Mister Stabler said nothing. Mister No-Name said nothing. God, did he need to get on his knees and beg?

He leaned forward, and declared boldly, "I believe I can make a masterpiece now that will satisfy the expectations of quality for all of you."

While Will could feel Mister Stabler move beside him, he watched Mister Barker scoff a little, with a twitch of his head in half a shake of disbelief. It was obvious what they thought of his proposal: he was brash, ignorant, probably even daft.

And then a small, thoughtful chuckle left Mister Barker's lips. "I did hear a few things about a sword or two ye've made recently…" He shot a questioning look at his fellow guild member. "There's nothin' to say he can't apply a little early, is there?"

Will turned his head to watch Mister Stabler as he ran his fingers over his own bushy eyebrows.

"No," the elder smith replied. "But there's definitely something that says he needs to complete his full indenture."

"Come by Brown's forge," Will insisted, spurred ahead by this small window of opportunity. "Let me show at least one of the wardens what I've accomplished, to give my suggestion fair consideration." He paused as the guild members exchanged another glance, and debated whether it would be worth it to say… Yes, he would say it. "I believe we all know what my master's circumstances actually are—who's really been keeping his forge lit and his name on the lips of our military. I have done the work of two men, often entirely alone for years now. I can do more for this town, for this guild, if you let me prove myself for my independence."

More thoughtful silence passed, and as chins were stroked, Will's impatience fumed hot. What else could there be to consider?

With all the weight he had to offer, he threw himself behind the leverage of one last-ditch argument, just now coming to mind: "You said you owe me. I'm not asking much."

A smirk pursed Mister Barker's lips as he nodded, while Mister Stabler and their friend began to laugh.

"Alright," Barker agreed, and waved his hands up in defeat. "It'll take a day or two to arrange, but I'll see if I can convince Mister Todd or Mister Hartley to pay ye a visit tomorrow afternoon."

Will slapped the table, elated and grinning. "Thank you, sir!"