Summary: "When nine-year-old Henry Turner sneaks aboard the Flying Dutchman in search of his father, three generations of Turner men are forced to reflect on fatherhood, abandoned sons, and the promises they make to each other. Takes place directly after the post-credits scene of AWE but heavily inspired by DMTNT."

A/N: I wrote this before the fifth POTC movie came out and began as a speculative fic / AU / welding of DMTNT / extension of scenes I thought would be in DMTNT. However, when I finally saw the film, this fic became a full-blown AU for reasons that will be seen in the story, though I suppose it can fit into the fifth film if you try really hard. I've always been a sucker for father-son relationships and POTC was no exception, and this came out of my desire to see more of it. References events in CotBP, DMC, and AWE, some Willabeth references as well, but the main focus will be on the Turner boys and men. I don't interact much with the fandom, so I'm probably playing fast and loose with fan-established canon. Also, the last time I was on a ship was in the fourth grade, so much apologies for ship enthusiasts when I make my inevitable mistakes. Otherwise, enjoy!

On the Children

Chapter 1

For as long as Henry could remember, it was just him and his mother, living in the small house by the cliff side near a tiny fishing village.

He loved his mother. She was a governor's daughter, which made her practically royal to Henry, but even if she wasn't, she was Pirate King. Not a Queen (he had once tried to correct her – "A woman can't be a king!"), but an actual King. But she didn't dress like it. Once or twice he had seen ladies with their narrow waists and bustled skirts walking through the village, but she liked to wear simple dresses and jackets made for men. But sometimes men would call upon her too, kissing her hand and calling her "Miss Swann" while Henry watched from the upper level, and only then would he see her pull out her sweetest smile and her extra gracious lilt in her speech, in order to tell them that, no, she was Mrs. Turner now and as honored as she was by their attentions, she was waiting for her husband, and would they care for a cup of tea?

Her husband. His father.

She had told him the day he would come back; it was one of his first memories. She had told him that he had left her on this island and would return on that exact day, ten years later; that he would sail over the horizon, heralded by the green flash that meant that one had returned from the land of the dead.

It had been ten years. Henry had awoken at dawn with a fluttering in his stomach, to see his mother almost the same as always, her hair loose and wearing one of her loose dresses with only a jacket over it, and with a tiny, half-hidden smile on her face. His mother smiled much and often, but never quite like that, and never at him. That smile was reserved for his father.

Sunset had taken a very long time to come. Henry had skipped out to the cliff, humming the song his mother had taught him when he was just a little boy, and waited. Part of him wasn't sure if it would happen, was thinking that nothing would disturb their idyll – but then his mother had put an arm around his shoulders and smiled faithfully out at the sea…

And just like that, he saw the light.

As soon it had faded, however, his mother was hurrying him back to the house.

Henry looked back in time to see the dark profile of the ship lit against the horizon, before the slope of the cliff obscured it. His mother rushed him down the hilly path, grass and small stones brushing underfoot.

"But I want to see my father," Henry protested. His hat – a pirate's hat, his mother had always teased – bobbed up and down on his head; a ring of sweat was forming along his brow. "Why can't I see him?"

His mother stopped at the foot of the hill that led up to the cliff; only a few feet away lay the small house that was all Henry knew.

"One day, Henry," his mother said. Her hands gripped his shoulders gently. "Remember what I told you, the stories of the captain of the Flying Dutchman?"

"Ten years at sea, one day on land," Henry repeated for her. His blue eyes gazed up at her. "But you've waited for him, just like you said. If you waited, the curse would be broken, wouldn't it?"

His mother smiled, but there was a tightness to it that bothered him. "We still have to see, Henry. There might be…" She stopped, eyes going distant. Henry waited, swinging his arms by his side impatiently. Shaking herself, his mother directed her gaze back at him. "Just one day, Henry. One day, and then you can have your father." She placed a hand on his back, guiding him past the front door into their home. "Stay in your bedroom, please? Let me have our one day… and in the morning, you can see your father."

Henry nodded glumly, tugging off his hat as he ascended the staircase. Through the railing, he saw his mother turn her attention away, her body a taut line against the sunlight filtering through windows. Waiting. In the next moment, she was out, closing the door behind her.

The hours passed slowly. Through his window, the yellow glow of the sky turned to a dim blue, then into the darkness of night, but though he waited at his window, he caught no glimpse of his mother or father. So Henry played with his toys: a set of Royal Navy men and a more battered set of the same that he had labeled 'pirates' in his head, wobbling them through the adventures of Captain Will Turner and Pirate King Elizabeth Swann. Only once, late at night, did he hear the front door open, then slam shut. It was enough to interrupt his pirate adventures, making him sit up and crane his ears for any sound. He was sorely tempted to leave his room and look at them, at his mother and father reunited at last, but his mother's admonition remained. So he settled for listening, his pirates lying forgotten on his bed. He wanted to at least hear his father's voice, after having spent so long imagining what the man looked.

But there were no voices – only footsteps up the stairs, once coming right outside his room, then the closing of his mother's bedroom door.

Henry sighed and returned to his toys. Setting up two ships in his bed, he arranged the bedcovers into a round nest that resembled the swirling waters of a maelstrom.

"She's taking us down with her!" One ship bobbed along the edges while the other circled deeper towards its center. A toy soldier balancing on the deck fell into the blankets. "Man overboard! It's the captain of the Flying Dutchman! He's gone! Davy Jones is dead!" Several of the little soldiers cheered, hopping up and down. The outer ship drifted back into the calmer waters while the other tipped over and was buried under blankets. "We've won! The pirates have defeated the East India Trading Company! But where's the Dutchman?" A particularly worn piece hopped towards the downed ship as it shook off the heavy blankets, and Henry spoke in a low voice: "'It is back. I am captain of the Dutchman – I, Captain William Turner.'" Pitching his voice higher, he set on the other ship another figure. "'And I, Elizabeth Turner, am Pirate King.'" The other 'pirate' figures did a celebratory dance as the two ships sailed off together, side-by-side.

He wished his father was here to tell him about it.

His mother had taught him almost everything he knew. She had taught him reading and writing and arithmetic, had taken him out to see the stars and pointed out the birds and the creatures of the sky and land and sea, and how to navigate the island they lived on. She had shown him swordfighting and how to sail a ship, though he hadn't ever been on one – not a big one, at least, though the fishermen would take him out on their small boats now and then. She had given him the toys and whispered to him that, yes, the men of the Royal Navy were good, brave men, men she had known (with a strange sad look to her eyes then) – but so were the pirates they sometimes fought again. Most of all she had told him all about her adventures on the Caribbean, tracing out maps and whispering of strange beings and half-forgotten myths – first the curse of the Aztec gold, then seeking out the heart of Davy Jones, and the fight against the evil East India Trading Company, and even a goddess bound to human form. But there were gaps, sometimes.

"Tell me about how my father stole the Interceptor from the Royal Navy."

His mother had laughed. "Oh, I don't know the full story. Your father did that, when I was on the Black Pearl."

Or, "How did my father escape from the Pelegostos tribe?"

"That was quite an adventure… but one he'll have to tell you."

Always, her best stories were about pirates. Everyone in the village thought pirates were evil men, but she had smiled when they were alone and told him about his father – "Will Turner," she said, the name singing along her tongue, "a pirate, and a good man."

"Did you name me after him?" he had asked her one time. He had an unusually long name: William Weatherby Henry Turner III, though most had called him Henry.

"Of course I did." She tapped his nose. "William, for your father, and his father. Weatherby, for my father. And Henry all for yourself." He had giggled – he had been very young then – and she had laughed and pulled him onto her lap, but still he had seen the flash of sadness, felt the slight change of emotion in that moment when she mentioned his father's name.

He loved his mother, and she loved him, but she always felt distant, a part of her that kept itself unreachable. It always seemed clearest when she would stand on the cliff, looking out at the sea, eyes focused on the horizon. It felt like she was waiting. And no matter how he would swing her arm, and beg for more tales, or tell her about what the fishermen were doing, or how the village boys had seen an octopus along the water's edges, it would remain, even if she was looking at him and smiling and saying all the right things. He always knew that there was a part was not there with him.

But now his father was back, and his mother would stop looking like that, and he could hear the full stories of all their adventures together.

When he awoke, dawn was lightening the sky and his ships were askew on his bed. Toy soldiers were scattered along his sheets; one in particular was stuck under his pillow, making a hard lump against his head. He brushed them aside and ran to the window, wondering if he might see his mother and father out there. But the sunlight showed only the glimmer of dew on the grass and the slope down to the village, empty of people save for the fishermen striking out for their morning catch.

Except… he squinted as he ran to the other window, which looked out to the shores. Mainly it was the fishermen's boats pitching among the currents, but along another cliff to south, almost hidden, he could see a ship, vast and majestic and floating on the waves.

Henry grinned. The Dutchman – with his father.

But he had promised his mother he would stay in his room. One day. So he stayed. Sometimes he heard footsteps, lightly stepping down the stairs, accompanied by voices muffled against his closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood, but could not discern anything being said, or even what his father's voice was like, other than that it sounded slightly deeper than his mother's. Then footsteps back up the stairs, and the closing of the door.

Eventually he had to venture out – he was hungry, and thought his mother might have left food downstairs. Guilt wormed in him, but he didn't think his mother would want him to starve, and he was sure the two of them were in their room. So he stole out, half-hoping the door to their bedroom would be open and they might see him. But luck was not on his side – or perhaps it was – because their door was closed.

Downstairs, the dining table was set for two meals, just like always. But now, the second plate was half-eaten, a roll and butter and milk left out. Henry could not help himself; he went over, sitting in that spot. It still felt a bit warm, and he imagined his father sitting there, wishing he had remained downstairs to see him. He even sniffed a bit at the roll, wondering if he could detect a smell. But there was nothing.

At his mother's usual place, the plate was empty save for some crumbs, and so Henry grabbed the roll, spread butter over it quickly, then dashed back up with the milk, trying to make his steps as quiet as possible. For a second before entering the room, he wondered what would happen if he burst into his mother's bedroom, announced his name. But his mother's command was too deeply impressed on him for him to do more than consider the thought.

The morning and afternoon wore on. Henry went down around dinner time to pick at the meals, and even dared to go outdoors for a few moments to get some fresh air, tossing around his hat. The sun had reached its midpoint and was slowly beginning to dip towards the horizon when he returned to his room, to have another adventure between Pirate King Elizabeth Turner, Captain Will Turner, and their respective ships. He was just beginning to get hungry and to wonder about supper when he heard a door bang open in the distance. Henry sat up in bed, straining to listen.

There were voices, louder than he had heard all day, his mother's tones recognizable above all. Henry knew he had to stay in his room, but he had never heard his mother sound this way, voice loud enough to reach through his bedroom door. Leaping out of bed, he dashed across his room and pulled open the door.

The setting sun had cast a golden light through the windows and open door, turning the furnishings into dark profiles of themselves. As he crept towards the railing, he could hear his mother, and for the first time, she sounded like she was crying.

"-said if I remained faithful, you would be free. That's what she said!"

"I know."

"Then why? Why must you go, why-"

Henry drew closer, pressing his face against the railing. Against the open door, he could see two figures. His mother's shape, in a thin undergown, was immediately recognizable; he could see the shape of her arms pressed against the other figure…

His father.

"I have to." His father's voice, sounding like it was emerging from between clenched teeth. The two figures drew closer, becoming almost one dark shape. "I can't stay here. I know I can't stay here, I have to return-"

A small, broken sound; it took a moment for Henry to realize it was his mother. "Eternity, then? Ten years until you'll be back again, and one day…"

The taller shape seemed to wrap itself around the smaller.

"I can bear it," Henry's mother murmured.

"I know you will." The figures seemed to pull even closer. "You're strong, Elizabeth. You'll bear it, even when I won't return."

Henry's stomach fell.

"No." His mother's words were an echo of his thoughts. "No, don't say that. Will, I'll wait-"

"Don't," the man commanded. "Don't wait. Not for me. Live your life. I won't keep coming back, keep opening up this wound, watching you go on while I stay as... this. Not this – pain. I couldn't bear it."

His mother was desperate now. "But I will. I'll always wait. Will – there must be a way, something to break this curse…"

"There's only one way that I know of," his father said, voice just as low. "You know what it is."

The shadow of his mother shook her head. "No. There must be another. I'll find it." The other figure began to move, and she grasped at him. "Will!"

"I must go." There was something hard, implacable, about those words. But then the man, Henry's father, turned to rest his head against Elizabeth. He heard a whisper pass between them, too quiet to make out. Then, just like that, the shadow retreated, closing the door behind him.

Henry's mother collapsed.

That couldn't be it, Henry thought, panic beginning to rise in him. It couldn't, his mother had promised him that his father would return – and they hadn't even met. His own father!

He leaped back from the railing and back to his room, not caring if his mother heard him. Slamming the door shut, he ran to the window. The sun was continuing to fall, sending the long shadows of the cliff and house stretching over the grass. Below him, Henry could just see a tall figure striding down the path, disappearing behind the slope, the sun shading him into a dark profile so that Henry could not discern any of his features.

He couldn't be leaving!

Grabbing his hat, Henry pushed open the window and hauled himself onto the sill, swinging his legs over the expanse below. The wind nearly whipped his hat off, but he clung onto it and rolled onto his stomach and slid out, legs dangling and kicking until he found the wall edge. There was a trellis of vines and ivy crawling up the wall to his window, and he carefully hooked his feet into one of the openings before pushing himself off the sill until only his fingers were grasping onto the window edge. Stretching out his other leg, he found a lower foothold, then another. As fast as possible he scrambled down, glancing behind him to check on the sun. Its edge was already below the horizon; as soon as it fell, his father would be gone.

He leaped the last few feet; the drop was higher than expected and it knocked the wind from him, but he could not stop. A quarter of the sun was gone; he had to hurry.

Down the slope he went, taking the same path as his father. His ship had to be moored in the same place, but he could not swim there – it'd take too long. As he reached the edge of the village, he turned, taking the path to the docks. His feet slid along the wet wood as he searched the ocean. Most of the boats were devoid of people, their fishing done for the day, but he could see one man in the middle of tying up his boat.

"Mr. Petcher!" Henry ran down to the end, skidding at the end.

"Whoa, Master Turner!" The old man, face wrinkled and tanned from years under the sun, reached out and grabbed Henry before he could go sliding into the water. "What be your hurry? Almost nightfall – your mother-"

"That ship!" Henry interrupted, not caring if he was rude. He gestured wildly at what he knew was the Dutchman, moored behind the cliff. "Take me to that ship!" There was a boat floating along the waters towards it – his father, making his return.

The grizzled old fisherman lifted a hand, narrowing his eyes. "Aye, I saw that ship. Ye have no business being on that, young Master Turner."

"Yes I do!" Henry leaped off the dock and into the boat. He fell, banging a knee painfully against the slabs as the old man shouted in surprise. "I need to go there! Please, take me there!"

"My fishing be all done for the day, lad, and your mother-"

"But I have to go there!" Henry grabbed the man's sleeve, damp from sea spray. "Mr. Petcher, my father is on that ship!"

Mr. Petcher seemed to grow pale even under the golden light of the sunset; he reached out and tried to pull Henry out. "Master Turner, that be a pirate ship. It cannot be your father-"

"It is!" He tore himself loose from the old man's hand. In his desperation, the boat rocked under his feet. "Please, just row me out, we don't have much time! We don't have to go too near it, I just want to see!" The sun was almost halfway down, and he could no longer see the small boat.

"This be a bad a idea," Mr. Petcher muttered, but he undid the knots and laid out the oars. "A very bad idea, Master Turner, you mark me. Best hold on, boy, but I don't think we're going to make it."

Henry could only wait, staring at the ship in the distance. He could see the sails being unfurled, ropes swinging in the wind. Tiny moving specks that had to be men ran up and down the decks, waves buffeting the hull. Nearer they drew, along the edge of the cliff near where it was docked, and they came under its shadow, the cooler wind blowing along his hair. The sun continued to fall, and the ship had not launched yet. Henry was starting to make out the individual cannon ports, the bowsprit that resembled the mouth of some great sea creature.

A shout broke the air, and Henry ducked instinctively, not that it would have helped. But no – it was the ship, beginning to move, and they were still many feet from it.

"Row faster!" Henry yelled, clambering onto the edge of the boat closest to it.

"We'll not be catching up to it if it goes!" Mr. Petcher exclaimed, but he tried to do as ordered. The waves rocked the tiny boat up and down, but Henry could see the ship bow turning slowly, its bowsprit coming to aim at them like some giant sword. The sun continued to sink and rowing in the shadow of the cliff, they could not be seen by anyone on the ship.

Mr. Petcher said, "It's going, boy! We won't catch up!" but Henry had already made his decision.

He stood up on the edge of the boat, struggling to balance, then threw himself into the water. He heard Mr. Petcher's shout of surprise before his head sank under the water.

Luckily, his mother had also taught him to swim, and swim well. He kicked out in the dark water and emerged, taking a gasp of air. The choppy waters swept away his hat before he could remember to grab ahold of it, and soon it was bobbing out of reach, but he couldn't stop to retrieve it – the ship was beginning to swing away into the currents. Taking another breath, Henry threw himself forward, swinging his arms just as his mother had taught him. The water was salty in his mouth and the wind cold as it blew against his wet face. He wondered what happened to Mr. Petcher; he could not hear any of the old man's shouts over the waves slapping into his face. He hoped he had rescued his hat.

The ship was still circling around to face the right direction and avoid the cliff face, and that gave him a little extra time. By then he was close enough to see the individual planks of the hull, but his arms and legs were aching and it seemed no matter how much he gasped, there wasn't enough air. And he still had to get near enough to get on the ship, and he could not see any ropes…

The bowsprit! Taking another giant breath, he launched himself forward, but the waters were churning where the ship was cutting through the waves, and if he wasn't careful, he'd be swept back and miss his chance. Struggling along the edges, he pumped his limbs – faster, faster –

With his left hand, he grasped onto the wood, but slipped off. Again he tried to – the bowsprit beginning to move past him – but he was too small. Once more; he couldn't miss his chance. The waves pushed against him. He paddled for a second longer, gathering energy, then leaped up, letting the water push him up like a cork.

There! He grabbed the edge of the bowsprit firmly and tugged himself up with his other hand. Up into the teeth-like ridges, out of the water, where he sat, shivering as the sun continued to fall – now over three-quarters of the way past the horizon. The island was fast fading behind him, and he could not see Mr. Petcher's boat anymore. Another breath - then a jump up, careful not to fall, onto what looks like the upper "jaw" – and finally over it and the railing. With a sigh, he fell on solid wood. His breaths were quivering in his chest, his arms and legs weak from their swim, and for a moment he merely rested against the walls of the cabin, gulping in air.

He was on the ship. Henry took a look around. He could hear rough voices, commands being barked out and coarse swears breaking the air. But he had no idea where his father was, or what he looked like, and for the first time Mr. Petcher's warning – "That be a pirate ship!" – and all the terrifying stories the villagers used to tell of pirates pillaging the shores, came back to him. What if they found him? What if they didn't let him stay and didn't tell his father? His mother had been marooned on an island once…

He was dripping with cold and seawater, but he sucked in a breath and made his way around the bow, keeping low. There had to be a place to hide, maybe somewhere below deck… and then he would see if he could find his father.

A/N: Why yes, I did squash both of Henry's names ("William Weatherby Turner III" and "Henry Turner") into one. Like I said, I was trying to weld AWE to DMTNT. Also, "Petcher" literally means fisherman and was one of those occupational names often used (like, I dunno, "Smith" or "Cooper").