Chapter 2 : Noble Pirates

It was a good day for tea. The sun was shining high in the sky in the early afternoon, interrupted only by the occasional passing cloud. A soft breeze came in from the ocean, giving the hint of salt and spice. The ocean itself seemed to stretch into the horizon as if it went on forever. It was really a beautiful day, will thought, a perfect day, in fact.

Will Turner, excellent blacksmith and fiancée to Miss Elizabeth Swann, was utterly bored.

He'd been called to the manor earlier that day by a messenger who had told him that "Miss Swann requests your attendance for High Tea this afternoon at one o'clock," then promptly left the Smithy without a second glance. He'd actually been excited by the chance to see Elizabeth, the back orders having kept him extremely busy as of late, but when he arrived wearing his best attire he'd been sorely disappointed by the results.

So there he sat, in between Commodore Norrington and Elizabeth, dutifully sipping his tea and pretending to pay attention to what Governor Swann's guest were talking about. ‘At least’, he thought, ‘Elizabeth is happy.’ She had been very pleased when he had arrived; awarding him with a glowing smile, then, as all women of his acquaintance did, brushing him down as if he had just rolled in the dust. He supposed it came with working in a forge all day; he was doomed to be permanently sooty for the rest of his life. But Elizabeth really hadn't minded, she had just smiled again and brought him to the table where the good Commodore had glared daggers at him.

Elizabeth herself was currently involved in a conversation with a wealthy young merchant friend of her father's. Will wasn't quite sure what he thought of this, since the lad, only a few years senior to Will himself, had been desperately trying to impress Elizabeth throughout the whole afternoon. He had claimed, earlier, while Will was examining what he thought was possibly a sandwich with cucumbers in it, to have fought off three armed and dangerous pirates bare handed during his last voyage to Port Royal. Will had choked on the sandwich, and he felt Norrington, who had also been half listening to the conversation Elizabeth had been having, stiffen slightly in his seat. Elizabeth had just smiled indulgently and asked if the newest load of cotton that had just come in was still safe. ‘She was amazing in that way, Will thought, able to easily steer a conversation from pirates to merchandise without the other person even realizing the subject had been changed.’

Pirates . . . Good Lord, had it really been two and a half months since that whole adventure? It hardly seemed real anymore, like an intricate and exciting dream that, when you wake, fades into a memory and real life reasserts itself. It all seemed so distant now, like it had never happened.

Except that it had. And it seemed that he was going to spend the rest of his life paying the price of that event.

When everything had finally died down from notorious Captain Jack Sparrow's escape from the gallows (assisted, as it were, by Will), people had started to see Will Turner a little differently than they had before. That is to say, they now finally saw him period, but not in the kind light that Will would have preferred. Before everything with the Black Pearl had happened Will had always been just Mr. Brown's, the Blacksmith's, young apprentice, as he'd been since he first set foot on Port Royal's docks. Governor Swann had been most adamant about getting young Will a home, or at the very least a bed. Mr. Brown hadn't needed much convincing once he'd seen the gold, and Will had stayed at the smithy since.

"Poor boy," he'd over heard an old lady telling her daughter once in the market, "No family ta speak of, no land nor capital, just spends all day working in tha shop, or prancing about waving a sword for hours at a time. 'Tain't right! Honestly, what's that lad up to I thinks to meself. And," she added in a stage whisper, having noticed that Will was paying attention, "people 'round 'ere says he's got his sights set on Miss Elizabeth, the Governor's daughter of all people! Well, if tha's not wishful thinkin', I tell you. He should just find himself a nice girl and settle down!"

It had annoyed him at the time. He’d thought that people should mind their own business about him and leave him to his work. He had desperately wanted to prove his worth to them, to make them all stop seeing him as the little boy that had been dragged from a burning wreckage and see him as. . . as . . . as something else, something strong and powerful. He had known even than that he was more then what they thought, and he had wanted the whole town to see it too. And he'd gotten his wish, in a way. The town now saw him and something very strong. So strong, in fact, that what they saw was a threat more then anything else.

He'd give anything to make the town see him as 'delusional young Will Turner' again, but since his return from Isla de Muerta Port Royal now considered him a wanted criminal, regardless of Commodore Norrington's views on the matter, which also weren't very nice. People on the streets wouldn't meet his eyes any more, nor would they greet him if not absolutely necessary. And even then the greetings were short, cold, and forced. The smithy wasn't being hurt per se, orders were still coming in the same manner as they always had, but there had been some "conversations" and "advice" given to Mr. Brown concerning his choice of apprentice. To the town, he was a pirate, one that wasn't doing anything at the moment, but still a pirate, so he was feared and hated for it.

It was only his great love for Elizabeth that kept him from throwing up his hands and giving up on Port Royal all together, but even so, it was starting become too much for him to take. The only people left who'd talk to him were Mr. Brown, who relied a great deal on Will’s work in the smithy even though the town was still blind to it, Elizabeth, and her father.

At least Norrington still met him in the eye, though that was more of a challenge in that respect. Hell, he'd take Barbossa and undead pirates any day to the silence that had met him in the local tavern when he'd stopped by for a meal and a drink last night. Mr. Thatcher had refused to serve him, and though his elderly mother, Widow Thatcher, had pulled him aside and given him a small bottle of gin and a loaf of bread for the trouble her son had caused him, it was only a small condolence that no one had tried to attack him that night. It was times like that he missed Jack.

Jack Sparrow. There was a name that he'd thought of quite often as of late. He'd found himself missing the oddball pirate more and more as time went on, and things got worse. Thinking of his smiles, laugh, the way he swaggered through life with the surety that everything would right it's self eventually, given that the opportune moment presented itself when it was needed.

He'd miss Jack most when his new reality had, again, managed to depress him. He would think of Jack to amuse himself. Jack, in all probability, would find Will’s situation laughable at best, and probably tell Will to get a good strong drink to drown his worries in. Jack would probably figure out a way to clear up the whole mess if he wanted too, woo the town to his whims like he did everything else. Will often wished he could see Jack again, if only for a little while. He'd often found himself wishing that he'd jumped after Captain Jack on the ledge that day and escaped this life he now lived.

He'd had two directions in his life to choose from, and he'd chosen Elizabeth. He'd never regret that choice, ever, for Elizabeth was everything he'd ever dreamed for and more. But considering what the town now thought of him, running off to be a pirate was very tempting.

'Jack would probably understand me,' he thought sipping his lukewarm tea. Elizabeth was in a three way conversation with the young merchant and her father, 'Jack would probably even try to make me feel better about the whole situation. Though all things considered, it'd involve some form of rum.' He sighed mentally, 'Who'd have thought that tea with Elizabeth would be so dull, she could at least talk to me.'

Will let his gaze drift out over the balcony where they sat and to the waves down below the cliffs. He'd been watching the waves quite a lot as of late as well, staring for hours, waiting, not really looking, but alert nonetheless. The sea and Jack, thinking of one always lead to the other. Jack was very much like the sea, he'd decided a while ago. Always moving, exotic, tricky, and alluring in strange unfathomable way. Will often wondered if Jack himself had popped out of the sea one day, ship and all, and just started pillaging for the fun of it.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Elizabeth glance at him then follow his gaze to the ocean, with a knowing glimmer in her eye. The first few times he'd done this she'd been upset, annoyed that he was ignoring her. But the third time she had stayed quite, watching the waves with him, a considering look on her face. There was something else in her gaze though; something that Will knew was different from his. There was an understanding there, as well as a longing, and not for the first time Will wondered how their adventure with Captain Jack Sparrow had affected her as well as himself.

Elizabeth turned to him again, standing up. "Will darling, would you care for a walk on the beach? After all, it's a lovely day, wouldn't want to waste it by sitting here all day." She smiled as she said this, her eyes lighting up with happiness, but also something else that he didn't quite recognize. Will was speechless for only a moment, but then smiled back and nodded.

"Yes, I'd like that very much," he said, standing up as well and taking Elizabeth's arm in his. As he turned he failed to notice dark eyes glaring hatred at him as he left with Elizabeth through the balcony doors.

~~~~~

She considered the form of Jack Sparrow as he silently watched his crew celebrate the new booty they had gained off a merchant ship. It had been an easy battle, hardly an effort to take what they had wanted from the vessel, but the crew still looked for anything to celebrate over. It had helped that the Pearl's reputation was still very large around ports these days.

But something wasn't right.

'Something is up with the captain,' Anamaria thought as she looked up at him from the stairway, 'he's not right today. Well, more not right then normal anyway.' She walked up the stairs and stood next to him, a polite distance away (that being just out of arms reach, never be too sure). "Anything wrong, captain?" she said eyeing him as he stared into his compass, shifting it this way and that.

Jack Sparrow looked up at her with an unreadable expression. He blinked once, then shook himself, and seemed to return to reality. "Ready sail and weigh anchor, we're heading back to Port Royal," he commanded and took his place at the helm.

If Anamaria found this strange, she chose to make no comment as she bellowed orders to the crew.

Chapter: 3: Far Out of Reach

Sweat clung to his body as he brought the hammer down on the white-hot metal. The sword he was working on wasn't terribly complicated, just a regular uniform sword that the navy used, but he put all his effort into it. He didn't want to think that he was running from himself, his own thoughts, but Will was never very good at lying, especially to himself.

It had been a week since the high tea with Elizabeth. It hadn't gone badly really; actually it had gone rather smoothly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had failed at something that day. He had gone to the beach with Elizabeth, and they had walked to the cliffs and back, exchanging small talk and such, but never really talking. It was never really talking with Elizabeth, ever.

It was not through lack of trying. It seemed, more, that they'd never gotten into the practice of it. Before the whole situation with Captain Barbossa, Will had never been given the proper opportunity to talk to Elizabeth at the manor outside of a social visit, and Governor Swann would never allow Elizabeth to visit such a place as the blacksmith's shop. So both had dealt with a "love from afar" as it were. But they were together now, and every day it became more and more clear to Will that aside from the beautiful and strong woman that he always had seen in her, Will had no idea who Elizabeth Swann was.

Will sighed and hit the metal one final time, then thrust the metal in a bucket of water to cool. He stretched his back and moved to the window to let a breeze to cool his heated body.

He'd once thought that he understood everything there was about himself. He had fallen in love with Elizabeth when he had been picked up by the Dauntless. She had been the one who had stayed with him the entire way to Port Royal and who had cared for his injuries. He'd felt eternally grateful for what she had done, and had sworn to himself that he would protect her from whatever might threaten her. He had known for eight years that he was in love with Elizabeth, and also, that he would probably never have her because he was just a blacksmith's apprentice. And that was it.

'It seems I was wrong,' Will thought as a cool breeze drifted over his skin, 'but how was I wrong? Elizabeth cares for me, I know. We are engaged! But why does it feel like I'm making the biggest mistake of my life getting married to her?' Will sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hand tiredly. He had said the same thing to himself every night for the last week, and he had yet to find an answer. He had no doubts that he loved Elizabeth and that she loved him in return, but it felt like he was hurting her some how.

There was a clank and the door of the smithy opened to let in Mr. Brown. Will stood straighter and turned to him. There was something odd in the way Mr. Brown walked, Will decided. It wasn't the way he usually walked when he came home from the taverns. Latching the door behind him, Mr. Brown walked down the ramp and looked around, his eyes finally finding Will leaning on the window frame. "Ah, lad," Mr. Brown said, turning fully towards him, "y'er done already are ye?"

With a jolt, Will realized that he was seeing something that he had not seen since he was a young boy barely able to lift a hammer. Mr. Brown was sober.

Will's brows creased in concern, but he nodded anyway. "Yes sir, I just finished. The sword is cooling and should be ready to pick up by the morning." Will gestured over to the bucket of water where the sword had been placed. Mr. Brown nodded and walked to it and took the sword out to inspect it. Will tensed as Mr. Brown's eyes and hands swept over the blade. He silently berated himself. 'Honestly Turner, you are no longer fourteen. The blade is fine, but . . .' he gazed at Mr. Brown who was testing the balance, 'Mr. Brown hasn't come home without smelling of spirits since the late Mrs. Brown was taken by the fever six years ago. Something going to happen,' he thought with a sense of dread.

Mr. Brown huffed and set the blade back in the water. He turned and gave Will a disapproving look which made the boy stand straight before he knew he realized what he was doing.

" I's a good sword, lad, but no' up t' yer usual standards. What's gottn' int' ye lately?" Mr. Brown said with his arms crossed, giving Will a steady stare.

"I. . . I'm not sure what you mean, sir," Will said after a beat.

"What I means is, ye' re not working as 'ard as ye used t'," He he said with a note of irritation as he waved away the protest forming on Will's face. "Yes, ye be working 'ard as ever, bu' what I means 's . . ." He paused and looked around at the scores of swords that were held here and there about the shop. "What 'm trying t' say is tha' ye used t' make art, Will. Now all ye merely makes is simple blades."

Will stared at Mr. Brown in confusion. Then he too looked around the smithy at the many swords he had made when there wasn't anything else to do for the smithy.

"Yer swords were perfect, Will. Even I wasn't too drunk not t' realize tha'. Which was probably why I took most o' the credit fer 'em. Tha' . . . must 'ave been 'ard-- I apol'gize." He paused again, this time walking up to a sabre that was hanging from a rack above the giant wheel that took up most of the smithy's interior. "I realize I 'aven't been the best master t' ye lad, but it seems tha' ye learned t' create beauty without me. I'm proud."

Will stood, mute. He honestly didn't know what to say. Mr. Brown had never acted like this, ever. He'd been a demanding master when Will had first apprenticed himself to him, and when his wife died, he'd been a lousy drunk in the corner, leaving Will to fend for himself with only the basic knowledge of what to do to guide him. Will wondered if this was how the blacksmith had acted before Will had come to Port Royal, the hard working man whom he'd heard stories of but never had truly believed existed. Will felt his eyes pulled to a small rack in the back of the smithy; it had a half a dozen swords on it and an axe. He'd been told the day he got there that these where Mr. Brown's favorite pieces that he had done in his youth, the axe itself having gained him his mastership. They had grown dull with neglect, but Mr. Brown, even drunk, had not ever let him touch them. As if he were protecting the memory of them somehow.

Mr. Brown followed Will's gaze and his eyes grew soft. There was a silence in the forge that lasted for a few moments. Mr. Brown finally turned from Will and the rack and spoke to the opposite wall. "I put me recommendation t' the guild a while ago, lad, an' Commodore Norrington presented 'is sword ye made o' while back t' a representative fer inspection. They've decided t' give ye yer mastership."

Wide brown eyes regarded the elder blacksmith's back. 'My. . . me. . . a master? This . . . this cannot be real. This is a strange dream for sure, one that I will wake up from very soon,' he though frantically. 'This is just is not happening.'

But Mr. Brown wasn't finished. "I've also sold the forge. There is nothing keeping ye here anymore, Will Turner. Leave! Marry Elizabeth or sail t'a new town and make yer life anew."

"What?" Will blurted out after a stunned moment. "W. . . But why? When?" He walked swiftly around to face Mr. Brown. "Why? I get no say in this at all? I. . ."

"No you don'!" Mr. Brown shouted and looked suddenly angry, yet it seemed to be not directed at Will himself, but at the world around them. "Will, you can't stay 'ere. I can't be the man I used t' be and run this forge without ye, and people 're talking boy, an' I can't stand ter listen t' it anymore." He was breathing heavily. "Ye 've 'eard them; 'pirate' they say, 'can't be trusted.' 'Cheater, thief, an' scoundrel!' They won't accept me business anymore, Will."

"But I am not those things! I am not a pirate!" Will shouted, watching his life slip away through his fingers. "You know I am not! I have worked here under you half my life, this is my home!" He drew a long breath and continued softly, "Where will I go?"

/Pirate is in your blood, boy, so you'll have to square with that some day. . ./ 'Shut up you. This is entirely your fault!' he thought furiously.

Will was breathing heavily, staring pleadingly at Mr. Brown, who seemed to deflate into the drunken slump that he'd had for the past years. "Aye, I knows ye aren't, Will. Ye 're a good lad, an' loyal too. And if I'd 'ad any sense I should 'ave given ye yer mastership and the forge a long while before now. But as it 's . . . Will, you can't stay 'ere anymore. I can stand the talk no longer, an' this place is not for you no more," he said, glancing at the cooled blade still in the bucket. "Leave Will, lad, clean out yer room, take yer pick o' yer blades," he said, gesturing to the swords that decorated the room, "and jus' go. Go anywhere, anywhere ya like, go t' yer Miss Swann and live. Or find a place where the eyes and mouths o' this god's damned port willn't haunt yer steps. There is nothing t' tie ye here no more. Ye 're a master now, Will Turner, and I gave ye all I could a long time ago. Ye deserve better then this run down shack."

Mr. Brown's eyes were bright as they regarded Will, who had slumped against the anvil during Mr. Brown's speech. He blinked slowly. It still seemed too unreal; everything was happening too quickly. He knew this would have happen eventually, but he had never thought of what he would do when it actually did. He looked up into the tired face of his former master.

"What is to become of you then?" he asked slowly.

"The forge 'as been sold to the representative from the guild, and a replacement will be sen' within the week. I am t' return t' England an' live with my sister and 'er children," he said distractedly moving to a far back door to the smithy, which led to a stairway to the rooms above the shop. On the way, his foot tapped an empty bottle of ale. Mr. Brown stilled a minute before reaching down and picking it up. He stared at it for a long time, turning he glass around in his hand, before he threw it, hard, at the wall. He turned back to Will, an almost desperate glint in his eyes. "Best hurry up lad, we've t' clean and clear this forge o' us tomorrow. Get some sleep, 't will be a hard, long day," he commanded, sounding, for a moment, like the man Will had first met on the docks eight years ago. And with that, he stormed up to his room.

Will stared at the shards of glass before purposefully turning himself away and dragging himself up the stairs as well.

~~~~~

'Blast. . .' Jack thought miserably. 'What /is/ it with women and burnin' me rum?'

Jack was standing on the side of Black Pearl, leaning heavily on the rail as he watched two of his rowboats burn, a barrel of rum in each. It was a thoroughly depressing sight, but it had to be done. The Pearl creaked sympathetically in response to his sighs.

He turned to Anamaria, who was sitting on a barrel nearby drinking tankard of water. "Honestly, Anamaria, did it have t' be the rum?" he pleaded, though it would do him no good now. Anamaria smirked and took a large draft of water before replying.
"You're the one who wants to get back to Port Royal, Cap'n. And there ain't enough grog to make a proper signal."

Jack sighed in defeat and looked back to the burning boats. His poor rum. Ana was going to make this up to him. But technically speaking, if the plan went as it should--and unless there were any monkeys or oar-wielding whelps about, it was sure to--it wouldn't be necessary.

As if mirroring his thoughts, Anamaria looked out at the horizon. "Some poor sod's gonna see the smoke soon, I reckon. Merchant ships are by here almost daily these days, this being Port Royal's main trading route an' all." Whether she said this to reassure her Captain or to reassure herself she wasn't quite sure, and it showed clear as day on her face as Jack glanced up at her. He nodded once and continued to stare off into the distance, watching for any glimpse of sail. Anamaria sighed wistfully and took another swig of her water before she set the mug down to watch the horizon with the Captain.

The Pearl swayed with the ocean's current, almost softly as if the boat were anxious to get the plan in motion as well. The crew itself had optioned to not mention their own feelings, but most were becoming restless with the wait, and almost all did not approve of the Captain's plan to return to Port Royal.

Mr. Gibbs fiddled with his flask, bouncing back and forth from watching Jack to glancing to the horizon himself. He'd known this would have happened sooner or later; it had just been a matter of time, really. He cleared his throat as he walked up behind Jack. "So supposing we do manage t' attract a passing merchant inta coming close enough fer us t' commandeer, what be the plan then fer the rest o' us?"

Jack didn't move an inch from his spot as he answered Gibbs, "Anamaria, Squint, Johnson, Cotton, and I will be commandeering our ride to Port Royal, which I'm sure the Captain of our said ride will be happy to oblige us once he and me sword finish negotiations. I want ye, " he said with a slight nod to Gibbs' direction, "t' take the Pearl along t' Tortuga and wait for us there, restock a bit and give the crew some shore leave. I don't plan on bein' long."

Anamaria and Mr. Gibbs exchanged a quick glance, half-intrigued, and half-apprehensive. Gibbs voiced their thought first. "So, ye really think it will work. Do ye think he'll come?"

Jack said nothing and continued to stare off into the horizon. Anamaria leaned back on her perch and gave an almost sympathetic look to Gibbs' expression of suppressed dismay. Though most of the crew had, at least, accepted Jack's wish to return to Port Royal, none of then relished the idea of the Captain landing himself back into a situation that could possibly have very disastrous results, especially after they had gone all the way there to rescue him in the first place.

Jack stood up suddenly and gave a wide grin. He said one single word, one that sounded almost cherished as it fell from his mouth. "Sails."

Gibbs' demeanor changed in an instant. What was a slightly defeated slump of a man was suddenly a strong and seasoned sailor, shouting orders at the top of him lungs and quickly bringing the crew to activity.

Anamaria gave a small smile of relief and jumped down from the railing. A hand grabbed her wrist as she walked and she turned sharply to look at Jack's profile. He was staring determinedly out towards the sails that were appearing in the distance. Without looking at her, he murmured quietly so only she could hear. "I always go back for what's mine."

"You're sure he'll want to come back with you? He has everything he's always wanted now, his future . . . his lady. You sure he'll leave all that for the life of a pirate, blood or no, even if it /is/ you?"

The hand on her arm tightened at the mention of Elizabeth, but Jack didn't even blink. "He doesn't have everything, and he knows it. He'll come. With the right leverage he'll be free of that . . . life. He'll be back where he should be."

Anamaria was silent for only a moment, contemplating the best way to reveal her fears to her captain. Cheating, bloody-minded scoundrel or not, she didn't want him hurt more than was necessary. "Just . . . be sure you have enough strength to use that leverage when the time comes Captain, the Black Pearl will be mightily upset if you come back . . . if it doesn't go well for you."

The hand on her arm released her and she made her way to help the crew make a good show of being distressed. Jack didn't move from where he stood, one hand caressing the rail as he watched the sails approach.