The blade flashed in the sunlight that poked its way through the scattered gaps in the wooden building. Tilting it slightly, the sun slid up the blade, illuminating the fine craftsmanship that had gone into making it.

Will admired his our handiwork for a moment, before flipping the blade round with an expert wrist and taking a few experimental swipes. Years of experience had tuned his ear to the sound a good blade made as it swiped through the air. This one was almost perfect. He took it now in both ends and cut into a thick wooden post, already riddled with the cuts from previous tests. Pulling the sword out again with ease, he examined the mark it had left - it was strong and clean as it should be, and the blade had cut deeply with little effort. Yes, a fine weapon indeed. He had a positive feeling while he had still been making it, but you could never tell until you tried it out.

The weapon had been made at the request of Governor Swann as a gift for a visit dignitary he would be entertaining for the next few weeks. Will smiled, the Governor had been uncommonly kind to him since he had helped rescue Elizabeth from Barbossa eight long months ago. After his initial disbelief at her choice he had grown to accept it, realising to not do so would mean the loss of his daughter. He had set up Will as a master sword maker who not only required to make weapons for the fleet, but also any special commissions such as his current one. His current role in life was clearly a more acceptable one than previously, Governor Swann having clearly decided if his daughter was not going to marry an officer and a gentleman, at least she could marry a successful business man.

Successful he was too. He had two apprentices working under him - something highly unusual for a young man of his tender years - and he was saving his pennies tirelessly. He knew he could never keep Elizabeth in the way she had become accustomed to, but he at least wanted them to be comfortable. She had protested that she needed only him, but wanted to give her more than that - a comfortable home, good food on the table, fine clothes, security. And he wanted to give them to her himself, not rely on handouts from her father.

It wouldn't be long now though, he realised with a smile. He'd been living particularly frugally, sleeping in his shop so as to not pay rent. A small cosy house nearby had been put for sale and he had been delighted to find that the asking price was within his means. It needed a little decorative work doing, but Elizabeth had been overjoyed that she would be able to give the place her own touches, and he hadn't argued. No particular wedding date had been set up until now, but he hoped to speak to her about it today.

He didn't know why he was so nervous. Hadn't she already accepted him? Hadn't she said over and over again how she longed for the day when she could call herself Mrs Elizabeth Turner?

Will smiled again. That sounded so perfect. So right.

His moment of peace was interrupted by the arrival of one of his two apprentices, holding out a piece of folded paper in his grubby hands.

"It's for you, Mr Turner," he stated plainly, allowing Will to take it from him.

Yes, it was addressed to him, written in a scrawling handwriting he didn't recognise.

"Did you see who left it?" he asked, frowning.

"No, sir," the boy answered, "I found it pushed under the door."

"Very well, you can return to your work."

Return the blade he had been testing to its case, he curiously opened the letter wondering who on earth would be writing to him. His initial thought was the rather hopeful one of Jack Sparrow. Although he would never have admitted it, he had rather missed the rouge pirate having not seen hide nor hair of him since he had sailed away from Port Royal after barely escaping a hanging. Whispered rumours of the Black Pearl were still heard, but nothing he gave serious merit to.

He dismissed the idea of it being from Jack rather quickly though. He didn't exactly strike him as a letter writing man. More the sort to stagger his way in unannounced, bringing with him a whole heap load of trouble.

Which brought him back to the question of who would be writing to him.

The handwriting inside was also rather scrawled and while he had trouble at some points, overal it was legible.

'People tell me you are my image but I always saw more of your mother in you. Her dark eyes. Her spirit........If you wish to find me, follow the dead men to where the sun dare not shine yet the sky burns. I'll be waiting there, where all those who are lost eventually go to wait...Bootstrap"

Will held his breath for many a long moment as he read the letter over and over again, his knees giving way so he slid to the floor.

It was from Bootstrap Bill Turner.

His dead father...