Disclaimer: I do not have permission to be using these characters.

Author's Note (10/02/06): First of all, I do not know what's going to happen in the third Pirates movie. This is all speculation. Secondly, I know it's short in comparison to my other fanfics, but it needs to be short. Thirdly, I promise to update quickly if you leave a review. Fourthly…er…oh, right. I got this idea while playing the Sims 2. Hope you enjoy it! And, remember, I will put up the next chapter (which I've already got written) if you leave me lovely reviews.

Chapter One: The Accident

A large quaking aspen tree stood next to the modest brick house situated on the outskirts of Port Royal. Its shimmering leaves were turning yellow in the warm Caribbean sunlight, contrasting sharply with the rest of the tropical foliage. The tree, which bore the initials A.J. and B.S., was planted by Anton James before he started construction on his new home years ago. An immigrant from the colony of Rhode Island and a budding horticulturalist, Anton had brought numerous plants indigenous to the New World to his new home in the Caribbean. All of the other plants had died, unable to adjust to a climate that was perpetually warm except when being battered by a hurricane, but the aspen had flourished.

The white bark of the aspen made the beige house particularly dull in the intense sunlight. It was far from the most decorated or grandiose building in town, but the moment one crossed the threshold, it felt like home. Often, visitors caught whiffs of mostly burned experimental meals lingering near the chartreuse pillows atop a threadbare and meticulously clean couch. There were two levels and only four rooms in the simplistic home, but it seemed larger. To make the most of the limited space, the kitchen, parlor, and dining room had been married together. They bickered at times, especially when a meal was being created, but generally seemed to get along. The extra room was full of all sorts of intriguing oddities: shiny swords, decorative scimitars, falchions, hammers, fabric, a cradle, rusting cutlasses, broken toys, and an extra straw mattress bedecked with webs and dust. The door was kept shut and locked to that room nearly all the time. The second floor was divided into two rooms as well: one had a reasonably comfortable straw mattress that had just been re-ticked and the other had a goose-down feather mattress that had likely been a wedding present.

There was a woman in one of the upper rooms, hunched over as she picked up clothes strewn carelessly on the floor by her young sons now asleep on the straw mattress. There were dark circles underneath her eyes as she silently straightened to an upright position. She looked lovingly at the young toddler and child that had inherited their father's dark brown hair before heading down the narrow staircase. She deposited her burden inside a washtub she'd already filled. A woman's work truly was never done. Once she finished scrubbing the laundry she would have to start preparing a warm meal for her husband as she kept her four year old from terrorizing the one and a half year old. After that, she would inevitably have to ready her sons for bed before catering to her husband's desires.

She had long since stopped remarking aloud or internally how she hadn't expected life to be this way. It shouldn't have been. She'd been the pampered daughter of a wealthy politician without a care in the world; destined to marry the wealthiest suitor to cross her path until she fell in love with a blacksmith. She'd tossed aside her glorious future for a blacksmith. He hadn't even been able to afford the house when they'd wed. It was a present, somewhat grudgingly given, from her father as her dowry. He refused to offer them further monetary assistance. Fortunately, J. Brown retired and left his entire smithy to his apprentice, her husband. Money wasn't quite as tight as it had been during that first dreadful year as she'd tried to learn homemaking skills while carrying the fruit of their love. Complaining about the difficulty of adopting foreign chores had done nothing to help her, so she'd simply stopped. She was no longer who she had been before her marriage.

As she started to scrub a soiled nappy, a knock at the door startled her. Standing, she dried her hands on her stained apron, brushed a strand of messy blondish-brown hair behind her ear, and walked towards the door. She opened it after another series of knocks, not particularly in the mood to be hit by whoever was knocking. "Yes?" she asked as she stifled a yawn, blinking so she couldn't see who it was.

"Missus Turner-" The unmistakable dulcet tones stopped for a moment as the owner of the voice looked down towards his immaculate boots. "Elizabeth-"

Elizabeth Turner, the beautiful wife of Port Royal's finest blacksmith, felt her heart catch in her throat at the tone of Admiral James Norrington's voice. "What happened?" Her brown eyes widened.

"William…" Norrington paused for a moment before looking up and into Elizabeth's eyes. "There was an accident in the smithy."

"And?" Her voice was as soft as a kitten's step.

"Your husband is dead." His voice was as unemotional as when he directed his officers, but there was a flicker of emotion unmistakably shining in his green eyes.

Elizabeth stared at Norrington. There seemed to be a large church bell ringing right next to her head in tune with a thousand women screaming as her skin tingled and squirmed. The sound of the aspen's leaves, the sound of chirping birds and buzzing flies all stopped as a glass bowl descended upon her face. All feeling stopped. The sun seemed cold. "What?" fell from her lips.

"Your husband is dead," Norrington reiterated. "William." He put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder for a moment. "He died saving the life of his new apprentice. It was a good, honorable death."

"What does that mean?" Elizabeth asked, suddenly assaulted with grief and tears. She seemed to be on fire.

Norrington blinked and moved his back, uncomfortable suddenly. "Your husband pulled his apprentice away from the foundry, shielding him with his own body as it exploded. We're not entirely sure what the catalyst was, but we believe it was something accidentally placed into the fire."

Flashes of images danced across Elizabeth's mind of the apprentice, a young homeless waif. Will had found Kyle on the street and had brought him home, crawling with lice. Elizabeth served him a warm meal and cleaned him up, pleased with Will's generosity. She'd encouraged him to take Kyle to the smithy to learn something. However, Kyle was a very slow learner and caused nothing but anguish for Will as he tried to devise ways to get his point across. "Will sacrificed his life for him?"

Norrington seemed not to notice the bitterness in Elizabeth's voice. "The boy will be taken care of, I can assure you Missus Turner." He smiled reassuringly. "Your husband died a hero."

"For Kyle?" Tears washed down Elizabeth's face. That wretch's life was not equal to Will's. Kyle had no one. Will had a family to care for. He had two young boys who were going to grow up without a father and a wife who couldn't bear the burden alone. What were they to do for money? All that Elizabeth had would only last a few months, at the most.

"Yes," Norrington repeated, looking faintly annoyed. "Missus Turner, I want you to know that, should you need assistance, we are poised to give you assistance."

"Does that include my father?" Elizabeth asked, wiping at some of the tears streaming down her face. If she and Admiral Norrington hadn't been on such distant terms, she'd be tempted to melt into his arms and break down. What was she going to do?

Norrington smiled grimly, as he always did, and didn't give a direct answer. He merely shrugged his shoulders. "Governor Swann did express his lament when informed of the matter."

Elizabeth scoffed softly. "I find that no consolation at all." It was still sinking in. She would never see Will again. Her boys would never know their father. Nothing would be the same.

"Rightly so." Norrington's demeanor seemed to soften slightly as he looked at Elizabeth. After the birth of her second child, she'd filled out considerably in contrast to how thin she'd been before. Life had given her a cruel lot. Of course, it was nothing on what life had given him, and he'd made it out alright. "If you ever need anything," he said softly, "please come and visit."

"Thank you." Elizabeth managed a fake smile. She suddenly wanted to be alone. "I shall."

Norrington nodded, regaining his normal composure of having no emotions at all. "I must attend to my duties." Perhaps he sensed her desire to be alone, but he likely just wanted to escape from a potentially worrisome situation.

Elizabeth plastered another sick smile on her face before shutting the door practically in the Admiral's face. Once it was closed, she collapsed onto it, sliding to the floor as sobs wracked her small frame. William Turner, blacksmith extraordinaire, was dead.