He heaved a heavy sigh as he sat at the dingy bar, his elbows rested on the wood with the weight of a heavy heart and his head hung wearily to his chest. The ripped hem of his hat hid his expression, and a grim one it was, but no matter how tired he was, or how down trodden his discoveries, the man was still among the living, so the moonlight pouring into the bar from the open doors and windows was a thing to be avoided.

He'd spent eight years searching for any news of his beloved wife, but had returned to the Caribbean without the woman, learning only that she had left London with their child, and never returned.

"Damn the woman anyway." He muttered into a mug and studied the dirt caked on his hand. His skin was a dark tan that spread over his muscled arms and legs, his face was hard and rarely smiled in the past ten years, ever since that mangy first mate had convinced the crew to dash their Captain to a deserted island. He hadn't approved, but with the odds running the entire ship to himself, it was obvious what his choice would be.

"He didn't deserve it." His oily brown hair hung messily around his head, he hadn't invested in a good cake of soap in what seemed like years, and the knots that occurred as a result was probably the only thing keeping him from choking on it as he tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep at night.

A young maid in the far corner, delivering ale and sharp tongued refusals to the patrons, caught his attention. She would be about his kids age, if the young one was still alive, that was. Though he lamented the loss of his family, as he studied the dirt under his nails, he figured it was better off for all of them that he didn't know where they were. A scream brought him to his feet. The young lady tried to pull her hand away from the drunk, but only succeeded in unbalancing herself as he tugged her into his lap.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling as the men around her laughed. Suddenly the laughter cut off, an evil glare quieted the young men as the bootlace around the drunks neck grew taut.

"Put her away and out of your mind lad, I'll let you go once you do." His voice was a deep growl, a silent threat was added as the noose was tugged. The girl was released, and she quickly ran to the kitchen to escape the gathered men. The atmosphere was tense as the man drew the noose away, nodded his head briefly, and went back to the bar to bury his nose in a mug he would never drink from, not that it didn't smell heavenly.

"Hey! You!" the young man got to his feet, swaying a bit from his drunk. His friends sneered in likewise manners until the older man looked over with disinterest plain on his fine-featured face. Even growing a rough beard in his younger years had done nothing to disguise the basic prettiness of his looks, so the piercing blue of his eyes, he'd learned and developed, were enough to make the bravest man flush. Though in this case rum seemed to have a dumbing effect on his adversary.

"What is it young one?" he turned back to his drink.

"You, I challenge!" he growled and gripped the back of the mans jacket.

"Fine, tomorrow, in the light of day, I'll fight you. In the meantime, go get sobered up, you'll need it." He ignored the boy and pushed the mug across the bar.

"No." he insisted. "Now."

"Fine." The man sighed, finally the disappointment of the last few years caught up with him, the weariness of his bones and the pure anger of one truly cursed by whatever gods there were in the world, pushed him to fight anything he could. And beating the piss out of a young drunk was something he could do, whereas his fate was something he could never change.

"Lets go outside then, fighting indoors makes me feel inhibited." He got to his feet, paid for the ale he hadn't tasted, and looked the unsteady boy calmly in the eyes.

"They call me Bootstrap Bill, and I'd be happy to make your acquaintance."

Clouds had rushed in, covering the moon and dimming the light shining from it. Bill could only thank it at the current moment, not having the patience to deal with the shrieks that normally occurred at the bathing of the moons rays. He stood in the alley, the shadows of the buildings only made the dreamlike scene more surreal, and sighed as the young man drew his sword from what could only be a brand new scabbard. The blade was so shiny it practically screamed, "never been used". Bill merely crouched defensively, his own sword still stuck in the locked scabbard at his side.

"Draw your sword old man!" the youth tittered as his friends cat called from the sidelines.

"Trust me young one, I have no wish to kill you this night, so with that wish me drawing my sword will not be necessary." Bill fingered the tools in his pockets, satisfied as he came across a metal buckle and the leather strap it was attached to. As the youth charged he tugged the leather free, whipped it around his head as he avoided the blade, and grabbed the sword arm in a vice grip. He looped the leather around the boys wrist and secured it with one end of the buckle, while yanking the boy back to possess his other wrist. When he had the youth tied, his wrists behind his back, and the magnificent sword clanged to the ground, the rest of the group stared in awe and disbelief.

This dirty old man had disarmed the best fighter amongst them, with nothing but the strap of an old boot!

"Leave now if you wish your lives to stay pleasant." He muttered as he picked the sword up with gentle hands. Folded steal and a perfect balance greeted him like an old friend. "I'll take this as my prize, this an the name of the man who made it." Bill grabbed the youth's arms and yanked. He moaned as the pain of his shoulders bending the wrong way made itself known.

"William Turner of Port Royal!" he almost screamed as he began to struggle. It didn't take much for the man to release him, the shock of hearing that name had turned Bills bones to jelly.

"You do not lie?" he asked as the boy tried to scoot away. In the process of escaping he got all the way to the entrance of the alley, turned at the old mans voice, and stared with wide eyes as the man entered the moonlit street.

"Wha... what?" he got to his feet with an almost inhuman strength, panic made its way into his voice. "Gho... ghos... gho.. gho.. ghost?" he whimpered.

Bootstrap Bill, once known as William Turner of London, looked down at his hand in disgust. "We deserved it, we did." The bones of a rotting skeleton greeted him as he stepped into the moonlight. His own fingers, and the clothing that covered him, rotted in the dim glow. Tendons hung messily as skin and muscle disappeared, the glowing white of his bones only made the impression of a ghost more apparent. And though he was tangible, Bill preferred to think of his current state as nothing more than an illusion.

"No, young man. I'm not a ghost, though I am damned to walk forever as this thing..." he scratched his skull with a pointed bony finger and shrugged as he stalked forward and grabbed the youths hair with a grisly hand. "Port Royal, William Turner?"

"Ye...yes!" he managed as his eyes rolled back in his head. Bill only shook his head as the boy fainted.

"Weakling." He admonished, but disappeared into the alley as he heard the boys friends begin to gather back. He'd have a story to tell his friends when he awoke, noone would believe him, and Bill was once again to be dismissed as a drunk dream.

"My son." He muttered as he walked toward the beach, and therefore the docks that housed the boats. He'd need to steal one, he thought, so he could get to Port Royal. "William Turner."

Two months later...

"You forget your place Turner." The Commodore announced in a stiff voice. His powdered wig looked dignified on his stubborn expression, his hat was precise in his disciplined attire.

"Its right here." Will grinned as the sword at his throat wavered. "In between you and Jack." He heard the gasp as Jack grinned and a sword point was most likely poking into the Pirates throat.

"As is mine." Will felt his resolve deepen as Elizabeth stood next to him and her father demanded the swords be dropped. Will almost lost track of what he was saying as Elizabeth Swan chose him over Norington, and Jack expressed his gratitude the only way he knew how- by escaping.

But Will knew it wasn't over, Jack would be back to haunt his life, he was sure, as Norington commended his work on the Commodores sword during a thinly veiled threat to take care of Miss. Swan.

As if I could do naught but... he thought as he took her sweet lips with his own.

"I love you Liz." He muttered against her lips as he hooked her arms around his neck.

"Will... I should have told you before how much I love you... I'm sorry I let it get swept away."

"Lets not worry about that now." He laughed as he swung her around, the sky above them blue and perfect as he set her down and captured her hand with his own.

"No, lets not." She agreed and let him lead her from the fort. "Lets just be still, together." He grinned at her phrase.

"We haven't had much time to be... still... these past few days, have we?" He thought of pirates and the curse the medallion his long dead father had sent him contained. He caught a brief glance of black sails against the horizon as Jacks ship, the Black Pearl, disappeared into the blue of the never-ending sky.

"I think he'll be happy for quiet a while, getting his freedom, his ship, back. Don't you?" Elizabeth sighed, "And really bad eggs... drink up me hearties yo-ho."

"Don't tell me you're the one who taught him that." Will laughed, "He'd been driving the jailers crazy with that song the entire trip back from the caves."

"He liked the tune, and he got me drunk on rum... I couldn't help myself." She defended.

"I guess I can forgive you then." Will chuckled. "I wonder what other secrets you gave up while you got drunk on that island paradise with the Famous, Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Not as much as you'd think." She protested, "I wasn't that drunk!" She stopped giggling as she realized he'd brought her to her house.

"I'll see you later Elizabeth, we'll have more time to talk tomorrow, I'll come over and we'll speak with your father, together." He kissed her gently, once, then again as she smiled gently. She opened the door with one hand as her other lingered in his.

"Yes, together... its such a fine word Will."

Will hung his hat on the inside of the door; his smile never left his face. "She loves me." he muttered, just to hear it again.

"Well tha's all well and good lad." A dry dusty voice came from his left, near the bellows that serviced his forge. "Glad to hear it." Will pivoted on his heels and faced the dirty man, half hidden by shadows and dust. Blue eyes, piercing and hopeful, met his own with a shock of recognition.

"Father..." Will almost stumbled down the stairs and he went to get a better look. Under the dirt and grime, the unwashed hair and the scuffed leather jacket, this man had his face. It was older for sure, more years of sailing to toughen the skin and deepen the tone, wear as Wills skin was pale for staying inside all day, but tough from the fires he played with. Will tugged his hands up, placed them together as he had when he was young, a memory half forgotten.

"My son..." Bill choked out as Will pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"I thought... that bastard told me they'd..." Will couldn't say it, he couldn't push the words through his mouth now that he knew they were false.

"They tied me to a cannon Will. They forgot that I'd been cursed too."

"So when they tried to drown you?"

"It didn't kill me, I was just bait for the nearest shark, which was stupid really, even a shark wouldn't eat one cursed as myself." Bills laugh made Will chuckle.

"So how does it feel?" Will asked as he put is father at arms length to look once more at that dirty face that resembled his own. "And would you like to take a bath?" he grinned as Bill looked down at himself.

"Oy, looks like I should take you up on that doesn't it?" he shrugged philosophically. "Been cursed so long I couldn't smell myself." He looked at his son and smiled, "Thank you by the way."

"For what?" Will asked as they released each other.

"Breaking the curse. And since you're my son and I saw that Black Pearl sailing away earlier with a very happy Jack Sparrow on board, that you helped put things to right." Bill looked at his feet and shook his head, "Barbosa's dead isn't he? The bilge-rat."

"Yes, Jack killed him with one shot." Will nodded as he sat on the stairs weary in the telling.

"He saved that shot from when we marooned him?" Bill sat next to him, worrying the hem of his hat in his nervous hands.

"Yes, he was murderous for Barbosa."

"Poor lad. Never had to think about killing like that until we turned him to it." Bill sighed, then seemed to shake himself out of his memory's. "I believe there was the hint of a bath?" he smiled. There was more to discuss, Will figured, but first...

"You smell like the inside of a swamp father... I think we can do one better than a simple bath." Having access to a fire that was never out, and a good amount of space behind it that was never to be used for anything volatile, Will had figured out a way to build a bathhouse that kept him from developing back pores from the ash that was constantly flung in his way. He washed his face religiously, and that lead to his commissioning a bath to soak out the tight muscles of the day. It was here, behind the forge, that he brought his father.

"You pull this lever," Will began pointing to a stick jutting out from the ceiling, And rain water dumps in here. You have to wait for a while until it warms, but its not really that long of a wait. Then just pull this little toggle, and the water from the bath empties out into the storm drains."

"Clever." Bill hung his hat on a spike sticking out of the wall, and peeled the old leather from his back. It was stiff with dirt and spilled ale, and as he was about to hand it also Will grabbed it from his hands.

"We'll wash this too," he studied it, "Good construction, you wouldn't want to be rid of it."

"No, you're mother made that for me." he agreed as Wills hands tightened on the leather, doubly precious now that he knew. Bill ran his fingers over his hair and laughed, "Do have scissors lad? I can't imagine trying to comb this mess out. We could chop it while the bathwater warms."

So Will sat there, on a stool as his father sat on the ground, and cut the knots from the filthy hair. "Maybe we should have Elizabeth tidy this up." he muttered then realized he'd yet to tell his father about Elizabeth, and how would she react to the fact that his father was still alive, though she knew what the Pirates had told him as well.

"So you're in love then son?" Bill asked as the scissors paused. "She'd be pretty then, all Turners get the pretty ones. Your mother... ah... lovely lass... miss her everyday." Bill sighed, "She'd be dead then? She's not here with you?" Will blinked as the tears came to his eyes. He'd long ago stopped crying for his mother, but the fact that Bill wouldn't know never occurred to him.

"She got sick." He choked out, "I couldn't do anything for her, I was twelve. I tried, commissioned myself out as a ships boy and gave her all the money I could until we set sail. By then the fever had taken her, and they let me bury her before we left."

"Will, lad, it wasn't your fault." Bill turned to look his son in the eye, his dingy hand patted Wills knee to comfort. "It was mine for leaving in the first place. Then you're mother packed you up so I couldn't find you. She didn't think I deserved such a fine family, seeing as how I'd gotten mixed in Pirates. She hated me, and it's my own fault I wasn't there to keep her safe."

"She didn't hate you." Will turned his fathers head back around and went back to chopping hair. "She told me you were a merchant." He smiled as his father barked out a laugh. "She gave me the pendant because she knew that I would find you. Until that day she wore it around her own neck, and when I saw her take it out she'd look at it and smile."

"Will, lad, maybe we should change the subject." Bill felt the tears roll down his cheeks, as Will began to cry as well. If anyone had walked in at that moment, with a large man sitting cross legged on the floor, a younger man on a stool above him, tears falling from both cheeks, the transformation of the father and son, smiling as the clipped hair fell to mask the wet spots on the floor would have convinced them that two men with such masks could not be trusted.