WIP Fanfiction: Pirates of the Caribbean: Blow Winds (2/?)

[lebensbaum]

Title: Blow Winds (2/?)
Rating: PG for now. Rating will most likely change as the story progresses.
Genre: Angst, reflection, eventual action.
Pairing: None overt so far. This is a piece about Will and the actions he's taken after the movie.
Length: Long, WIP
Squicks: None so far.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the movie by now, you wouldn't be reading this.
Author's notes: Click for notes


Finally clean, Will lay on his bed, hands under his head, looking up at the ceiling. His jaw was clenched, and he seemed for all the world to be waiting for the roof to cave in. His eyes flicked back and forth; he should have been in the shop working, or at least with his tools, working on some of the jewellery that would be inset and inlaid into his trinkets. Anything but lying here in his empty, cold bedroom, waiting for nothing, ears straining to hear the clomp of boots that never stepped, aching for the soft slupping of nonexistent waves against a hull that wasn’t there.

You’re going to end up by that tree again, staring out at the sea, his inner voice taunted him.

“I’m not going to the tree,” Will gritted out with a flick of his eyes as if he could glare at the back of his head by rolling his dark orbs backwards. “I’m not going to the tree, I’m not staring at the stars, and I’m not looking at the moonlight sparkling off the black sea.”

Just like you’re not thinking about working on that hummingbird pendant you received a commission for? You need to get going on that, and on the tortoise jewellery for the mayor’s wife.

“Ah, yes, turtles for the Lady of Tortuga…” Will mused, eyes flicking to the door . “Turtle, schmurtle, yertel… are those even words?” He levered himself up into a sitting position. He was decent, even in his sleep--his outfit was older and even more threadbare, but in the dark, nobody would notice, especially if he buttoned himself into his vest--he’d always used it to cover up holes and such in his clothing, and it was second nature by now. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he reached down to pick up the pair of boots he’d purchased after seeing the dearth of buckled shoes in the town--he’d traded them off, really, as the shoemaker was eager to get his hands on something a little more mainstream so he could copy and market them. Will’s boots were a deep, neutral grey, an didn’t flare out like Jack’s had--they were a simple slimline design that came up to his calves, just under the knee. They kept the water and the sparks out, and protected his toes from unfair stomps in swordfights.

“Boring, useful boots. Pretty in their own way, but boring, useful boots nonetheless,” Will sighed, pulling them on before reaching to the small table by his bed for his leather thong, using it to bind his hair back, out of his face. “I might as well go to the tree… there’s enough light from the harbour to see by, and I can rest for a bit.”

Rest? Is that what you call it? Breathing in the salt of the sea and the clearer air by the water? Watching the moonlight break and dance on the waves and wonder just where the hell that man is? You call this a life, Will Turner?

“No, it’s an existence,” the young man replied honestly, standing before heading to the door, reaching out for his vest, slipping into it and buttoning it shut before pushing the light wood out of the way. Two glitters in the hall caught his attention, and he smiled at their slow, methodical blink. “Ah, you’ve come back,” he murmured, sinking to one knee, holding his fingers out. His face took on the small smile it only did around the small bundle of fur that came and went as it pleased. “Noche, here Noche…” he murmured, calling to the black cat he’d named for the night it liked to hide in.

“Niao?” the feline purred, slinking closer. He watched it as it stepped first one, then another inky paw into the shaft of moonlight, turning up its face to him expectantly. “Mrrrow?”

Will let the cat touch his fingers with its dark nose, after which it butted its head into the smith’s hand to be petted. His smile deepened as the cat stepped and twined under his hands, its loud purr rumbling through the air. “I’ve missed you, pretty little thing,” Will noised, noticing it stopped to blink at him before insisting that Will scratch behind one ear. “I don’t know how you manage to never bring fleas into this place, though. Maybe there’s something about me they just don’t like, eh?” The feline purred at him as he lavished attention at the small, dark presence, the only hint of colour being the thing’s large, green eyes. “Then again, all that tea tree oil I get from the Mizu no Koneko probably helps keep the damn things away.” Giving the creature a final pat, he stood, heading for the small pantry where he kept a limited supply of dry goods.

“Now, I expect you to catch some mice while you’re here,” the young man noised, pulling out a small plate to set some dried, shredded meat on for the cat to sate itself. “But, I don’t mind giving you a welcome-back snack.” He set the plate on the floor, watching as the creature sped over to it, ravenously attacking the dried beef. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you?” he asked, petting its back softly as it chewed. “Well, you’re welcome here as long as you want to stay. Should probably put some of that oil on your back again… makes your fur sleek as well, and it’s good for you.” His only response was a rumbling purr as the cat continued eating.

The young man straightened, head still down to watch the ball off fur. “Well, you eat up, and then go hunt some rodents… I’m going to go get some work done.” He turned, heading back to the workshop. Stepping into the work area, he took in the shadows cast from the glowing coals, their dim, red heat permeating the room. “Looks like something from a minor room of hell,” he mused to himself as he went to his shelves, opening the door to the cabinet. Two bottles of brandy, a flask of port, rum for treating wounds… project boxes. He kept his small jewellery commissions tucked away in boxes in this very shelf to keep them safe; if anyone were to break in, they’d see the myriad hangings and swipe those before anything important. He pulled out two of the boxes, opening the lids to check the contents. The gold mouldings were set, merely waiting for the stones to be inset. Will disliked working with true gemstones, finding semiprecious more rewarding to handle. They were generally smoother and not as brittle, and didn’t have to be as carefully faceted to look nice. He was working with rhodonite in the hummingbird, as well as a different flavour of green chrysoprase that was really quite deep, as opposed to the lighter, milky pieces he was using to make up the tortoise shells.

He tucked the boxes in a small leather satchel, picking up his small carving kit and several assorted bladed weapons to hide upon his person. Tortuga was fortunate enough to have a few gas lamps outside, though not many were needed with the lights spilling out of the ever-present taverns and brothels, and the constant flashes of light from stray gunfire. He stepped out of the shop, locking the door behind him, shivering a bit in the night chill. Purposefully, he headed down to the docks, waving at some of the whores who hailed him. They knew he would never take them up on their offers, and even felt safe around him… There were several who made jokes about the young blacksmith’s lack of visitation to these disreputable places, but many of them could tell that there was something the young man was waiting for, was looking for, that the over-painted women could never provide. Whether the boy would ever figure it himself out was questionable, but there were many who wondered just who or what had caught the handsome lad’s eye to the exclusion of all else.

As Will moved farther from the city and came closer to the harbour, he was able to catch more of that sweet salt musk that always accompanied the large body of water. He loved it, and when he was able to surround himself in it instead of the cesspool stench of the city, he found himself pausing to breathe it in before continuing. There was a small stand of trees not far form the dock, far enough away to be out of the path of traffic, but near enough that he could hear the night traffic on the water. His keen ears were able to pick up the soft sound of the water slupping against the shore and the hulls of the boats, the licking, teasing sound that he wished he could hear for the rest of his life. He loved the sound of water, had fallen in love with it again aboard the Interceptor, on his hunt for Elizabeth.

Will smiled as he saw the well-worn dent at the roots of the trees, and he pulled out a roll of leather to lay out and seat himself upon, stretching his back out against the tree, smiling at the moonlight. Pulling the smaller box from his satchel, he opened it, plucking out the pink rhodonite he’d chosen instead of the carnelian he’d originally thought to use. He fitted the piece to the bird’s chest to test the shape, then skated his fingers over it before dipping them into the hollow in the gold, mentally mapping out how the two would need to fit together. He lifted the containing flap on his toolkit, his fingers seeking out the familiar implement, bringing it to bear as his mind began to wander.

The sea… Fell in love with the sea. It’s beautiful, even when it’s angry. So alive, so roiling… Our blood carries the same exact salt content as the sea. Pausing a moment, Will frowned before flaking off more of the material, fingers constantly questing over the stone to compare it to his ideal. Jack is so fiery, though. I wonder why he likes water so much. Aren’t they supposed to be opposites? The young man heaved a sigh as he worked, testing the fit every so often with the mould, feeling more than seeing as his eyes defocused along with his thoughts.

It’s so strange being so on my own like this, the smith mused. I’m used to having someone always there to watch over me. Will had always had someone, whether it had been his mother, or Elizabeth, or Mr. Brown, someone there to praise or ignore him, to teach him or talk to him. It was odd being so alone. He found he often missed Elizabeth, missed having her to talk to. He’d once referred to her as his angel, when they were still children and able to play together without frowns or disapproving stares. His angel with the ivory wings. He smiled, shaking his head. Not white, of course, not her, but ivory. She was not nearly as “pure” as many people liked to think, though she was a far cry from some of the women he had come to know in his life. Elizabeth had always been there to talk to, to share things with, until the governor had decided she should study back in England for a time. The young woman had been gone for about three years, and when she returned, she was no longer Lizzie, his angel, but the removed, distanced Miss Swan, a young woman with extensive education who had matured beyond her years. Will often felt left behind, after his father’s complete disappearance and his mother’s death, and he had grown to both hate and accept the emotion. In Elizabeth, he’d had a friend who he thought would never leave him behind. They’d written often in the time she’d been gone, but he could tell that in every one of her letters that she was growing, changing. When she’d returned, she was some ethereal creature of the air, flitting and fluttering beautifully by while he kept his feet on the ground, rooted in his work.

“Boring young Will Turner,” he chuffed, selecting a lighter tool to make more delicate shavings to precisely fit the pink gem. She didn’t want a blacksmith. She wanted a pirate. Someone worldly and dashing and learned, who could chase her with words until her head spun and she couldn’t tell which way was up. Will only knew of one person who could do that, and he often found himself pursuing some of the remembrances of the bearded man’s convoluted logic to try to puzzle them out. Sometimes he was successful, most often, he was not. He still couldn’t pinpoint the time where he had gone from puzzling ponderance over the man’s behaviour to the gaping, chasmic ache to see the man again, to share in that easy camaraderie they’d developed near the end of their adventure.

Satisfied that the throat piece would sit precisely as he wanted in the mould, he began to work the top of it, carving feather pieces into it so that the white of the milky quartz he was using for the top of the breast would flutter up over the pink a touch. He’d become an expert at working with birds and feathers in stone, from his first, faltering attempts to the full-scale reproduction of the pirate’s tattoo he remembered so well. He took the time to insert care into his work, and it showed in each vein in his feathers, each careful, lifelike lick of the wind tossing them a bit. Feathers, fluttery, like that hair and the scarf, he reflected. The smith paused, stretching out his arms, which had begun to cramp at the effort of holding them so still for so long. As he did so, he felt a delicious heat flow through him as the fibres rubbed against each other, friction warming him up. Was never so warm as I was on the Interceptor. Always something to do, something to be tightened or raised or untangled. Then again, I was always around Jack, and he was never cold. Just like the forge, always hot, radiating as he shined in the sunlight. Will looked up, his eyes drinking in the deep, rolling black of the water broken up by the silver moonlight scattering on its surface, contrasting with the steady eternity of the night sky, black with diamonds of all colours embedded in its fabric. I want to see it blue again, Will realised. I want to see it blue and green and rolling under me. I’m not scared of leaving anymore; I want to go.

He was not quite sure why he wanted to go, though… The pirate in question was filthy, had no sense of propriety (or modesty, Will would bet), and had the habit of irritating the smith to no end with his foppishness and know-it-all attitude. He was just so much a leaping, licking, flaming…. flame. It was amazing he’d never been doused by the sea.

Fire and water, fire and water, Will pondered, turning the concepts around in his mind as he squinted at the stone, trading his detailer for his chasing tool. “Water douses fire; fire turns water to steam. Jack is fire, I’m sure of that. I wonder who is water…” His brow-crease returned as his stream-of-consciousness tumbled by like a rockslide, burying him in his own thoughts. I’m earth, obviously. Don’t change, but I make and create things. The earth has trees, I have swords… I work with the bones of the earth, the rock and metal that hold it together. I use fire, and water to do what I do. Can’t change the metal without it. And, I suppose, air… but air is so fickle. It can’t make up its mind… it can fan flames out of control, or make the fire go out completely… have to know air as well as I do fire, but it’s just so touchy.

“Like Elizabeth,” he noised without thinking, startling himself. However, when he pondered a bit more as he traced in indentations of feathers across the deep pink stone, it made sense. She was flighty, capricious… she could go from warm and buoyant one moment to cold and biting the next. Will wasn’t built to handle those kinds of mood changes, not when they whipped over him so fast he couldn’t keep up. Jack had been different… he’d had reason for his actions, no mater how twisting and jumping those reasons were, they were always there. He knew, or could eventually find out the reasons to his actions, from the drunken, stumbling gait, to the incessant bargaining and positioning. Leaping back and forth, flicking up and around, limber and licking, like a shaft of fire.

Will snorted, turning the stone to start another row of feathers. It’s almost silly to see how much like elements we are. I’m sure there’s more to people, to us than that, but it just fits so well. His hands were deft and sure as he worked in the moonlight, hearing the chatter of the shiphands as they moved about their business.

“Stop that, stop that, you’re going to ruin the rigging!”

“’Ow th’ bleedin’ ‘ell ‘s the cap’n ‘spect me t’ fix this in th’ dark?”

“But Master Taggins, I cannot simply sit here and let him get away with my knives!”

“Ye los’ ‘em in a poker game, fair an’ square… Give ‘tup, lad.”

“’Ere, didja hear ‘bout the latest run that Sparra fella done?”

Will’s head raised and his ears perked at the loud, drunkenly boisterous voice that beamed out from one of the vessels. Jack?

“Aye, I ‘ear he’s gone bloomin’ mad… Me Ana says ‘es gone all cross-like, an’ willnae lighten up.”

“You an’ that sissa’ yours, George. Wha’s she done t’ the poor bugga now?”

Will’s brow creased yet again as his face took on a puzzled expression. Jack’s gone mad? Madder, maybe… But, why would he do that? He has his ship back, his freedom back, and all the plunder he could ask for. What more does he need?

“Didn’ do nothin’ to ‘im, ‘parrently,” the first man answered, who Will assumed was George. “Says th’ dog’s been pinin’ after somefin’, an’ won’ let it go.”

“Bleedin’ ‘ell,” replied the other man. “Rap’s got ‘is ship back, what more’s ‘e need?”

“Dinna know, Ran, dinna know… ‘e’s been plunderin’ ‘arder ‘n usual though. Ana’s sayin’ ‘e’s tryin’ ta forget somefin…”

“Betcha ‘s some strumpet ‘e couldna bed…”

Will’s gaze darkened in the general direction of the boats as the raucous laughter poured from them. Jack’s not that shallow! Will thought at them balefully. He frowned, continuing his careful incising, small curls of pink falling on the leather he’d laid across his lap to both hold his objects and protect himself from being cut. He’s capricious, smart, canny, and spontaneously planned, but he’s not shallow! He didn’t know the man too awfully well; they’d only been shipmates for a little over a month, but he felt he knew Jack well enough to make that kind of assertion. If he’d been shallow, he would have actually seduced Elizabeth on the beach, rum or no rum. Instead, he allowed himself to drink enough to pass out, blissfully unaware of the harsh world around him. The smith chuckled at that thought: Captain Sparrow was in love with the firewater… “Combining the best of both worlds?” he pondered idly to the stone he was working.

Will’s head snapped up so fast that he nearly cut himself in the wake of the movement, one feather vein ending up a little longer than the others. “Norrington,” Will murmured to himself. “That’s it. That’s the water. Still when on his own, but when the air is there, it ruffles it, churning it… and When Jack’s there, he boils… Fire and water.” Will brought the pink stone to his lips to blow away some of the tendrils of rock, thumb coming up to brush away what wouldn’t blow. Is fire stronger than water, then? Norrington tried to douse Jack several times, but he never quite managed to…It’s all about balance… Jack taunting Norrington and leaping away at the last minute… Norrington occasionally catching him and tossing him in jail..

The young smith looked up at irregular footsteps to see a pair of sailors stumbling back to their ship. They were laughing softly, attempting to be quiet in such a manner that Will knew they’d been up to something, but then again, who wasn’t up to something in Tortuga--except maybe for him. He sighed, adding the final touches to the scarlet throat before picking up the milky quartz to start shaping it. So, which is stronger, I wonder, earth or air? I suppose air. It blows and buffets, changing its mood at a whim, whipping over the earth without any regard for the land. His hands were smoothing over the moulding again, settling against the bird’s breast, testing the indentation against the side of the rhodonite where the two would have to fit. Though, Earth can block the flow of air. Trees and mountains can redirect its flow, but air will always find a way around it. Earth doesn’t change much unless someone shapes it to his will, like me. Is that why I’m good at this? I’m working with things of the earth? And Elizabeth is learning to work with words, things which, without air, would never come out. The commodore is on the water, at home in his element--but without wind in his sails, he’d never go anywhere. Water and air… maybe they are naturally paired. I’m with the earth, working with fire to purify my craft… but what about Jack? He works with the air the same as Norrington… And with the water, too. But, he’s a fire.

The smith’s brow creased as he began carefully working the brittle material with a ginger touch so as to not shatter it. The trigonal crystals were tricky to shape, but worth it. His intensity of thought was always reflected in his creations; merely by the manner of the incisions and the heft of the fit, a person who was familiar with the smith could tell how the man was feeling when he carved it… lighter thoughts brought thinner, finer lines, where more brooding or absorptive thoughts caused a deeper, keener edge. So, how does that work? What’s fire’s partner, then? It works with air, works with water… the earth’s trees feed it, keep it going… However, a hearth of rocks can contain it, help keep it from spreading… Flame can heat those rocks without letting them catch fire. He deftly worked on fracturing the crystals, setting them at an angle on a steel plate he held between his knees, applying percussion with a small handaxe. He’d learned a bit about flint knapping from one of the many people who passed through his town, and was willing to trade technique for technique. Although no expert at the ancient art, Will had picked up on it very quickly, learning how to best judge the pressure and percussion needed to fracture stone along its grain.

“You are an idiot, Will Turner,” the smith muttered as he cleaved the milky-white crystal into the proper size. “Thinking about elements like some sort of medieval alchemist. What is wrong with you? You work with gold and silver and steel all the time, and yet it doesn’t call to your greed... You don’t see a glittering bartering chip, you see craftsmanship and artistry, or a vision of what you could shape it into. You are not obsessed with treasure.” With a final tap, Will felt the last bump give, and he held the thick, cloudy chunk up to check it in the moonlight. He nodded and picked up one of his more delicate carving tools so start smoothing the quartz into the curved breast of the hummingbird. It’s true. I’m not obsessed with treasure. I’m not obsessed with anything except creating, really. “And the sea,” he whispered softly, hands working. “I miss it so much, despite being here. If I were a child, I could creep aboard one of the ships in the night and feel it rocking me again.” His mind once again drifted to the Interceptor, long nights of gazing out to sea with the help of the astrolabe that had been carefully tucked away in the captain’s cabin. Unlike Jack, he was unable to tell the course merely by the stars as they travelled; he needed the instrument to tell him where they were. Even when they were buffeted by storms, the wind whipping the water up to blast them in the faces, Jack’s fire was unsquelched, and Will found himself enjoying working to keep the ship afloat, scrambling around on the deck with Gibbs--another earth, I’ll bet--a challenge, a test, something to fight back against, to envelop and control and learn from. It was thrilling, it was fascinating…

Will paused, leaning his head back to bonk against the tree. “Dear God, my life is so boring!”

Comments and constructive criticism are welcome.