CHAPTER 11: THE BLACKSMITH'S SON
Morning brought Will Turner and a tangled rope.
I found him at midship, wrestling with a line that had somehow knotted itself into a bird's nest of hemp and frustration. His technique was wrong—merchant-style, just like mine had been before Anamaria fixed it.
"Here." I grabbed the loose end before he could object. "Pull this while I work the center."
He hesitated, pride warring with practicality. Practicality won.
We worked in silence for several minutes. The knot was bad but not impossible—someone had probably coiled it wet and let it dry twisted. Amateur mistake. My fingers found the pattern, loosened the worst tangles, fed slack through to the center.
"You're good at this," Will said eventually.
"Had a demanding teacher."
"Anamaria?" At my nod, he almost smiled. "She's terrifying."
"She's competent. The terrifying part comes free."
The knot surrendered. Will coiled the now-free line properly—at least he'd learned that much—and leaned against the mast.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on what."
"You don't seem afraid." He gestured toward the horizon, where Isla de Muerta was taking shape through the morning mist. "We're sailing toward an island full of cursed pirates who can't be killed, and you're... calm. Why?"
Because I know how this ends. Because I've seen the movie. Because I'm more worried about Jack dying and taking me with him than any curse.
"I've seen strange things before," I said instead. "After a while, you stop being surprised."
"What kind of strange things?"
The question was genuine. Will Turner was an earnest soul—honest, straightforward, terrible at deception. Everything I wasn't.
"I drowned," I said. "Few weeks back. Went under and everything went dark. And then it didn't." I met his eyes. "After that, cursed pirates seem almost normal."
Will absorbed this without the superstitious warding I'd gotten from Gibbs.
"Is that why you're here? Chasing answers about what happened to you?"
"Something like that." It wasn't entirely a lie. "What about you? You're not a pirate. A blacksmith from Port Royal doesn't usually volunteer for suicide missions."
His expression shifted. The guard came down.
"Elizabeth."
One word. Loaded with everything.
"Elizabeth Swann," he continued. "The governor's daughter. She was—is—" He stopped, collected himself. "Barbossa took her. They think her blood will break their curse."
"Will it?"
"I don't know." His jaw tightened. "But I'm going to find her. Whatever it takes."
I listened as he talked about her. The way she challenged him. The way she saw past his station. The way she'd kept a pirate medallion all these years, a secret she shared with no one.
Except it's not her blood they need, I thought. It's yours. You're Bootstrap Bill's son, and your blood is the key to everything.
"Your father," I said carefully. "What happened to him?"
Will's face closed off slightly. "Bill Turner. He left when I was young. My mother didn't speak of him often." A pause. "Why?"
"Just curious. Trying to understand why a blacksmith would risk everything for a governor's daughter."
"It's not about risk." Something fierce entered his voice. "She's worth any risk. Every risk."
I believed him. That was the problem with earnest people—you couldn't doubt their sincerity, even when their sincerity was going to get them killed.
"She's lucky to have someone like you," I said.
Will looked at me strangely. "That's... not what most people say."
"Most people are idiots."
He laughed—surprised, genuine. It transformed his face, made him look younger. Less like a man marching toward death.
"Here." He pulled something from his pocket. A medallion, but not the cursed one. This was copper, handcrafted, showing a small ship in rough detail. "I made this last year. Practice piece. Keep it."
"I can't—"
"You helped with the rope." He pressed it into my palm. "And you're the first person who hasn't told me I'm a fool for loving someone above my station."
The copper was warm from his body heat. I closed my fingers around it.
"Thank you."
"Land ho!" The cry came from the crow's nest. "Isla de Muerta off the starboard bow!"
Will's expression hardened. The frightened young man disappeared; the determined rescuer took his place.
"This is it," he said.
I looked toward the island—dark rock, darker mist, the entrance to the cave barely visible through the gloom. The place where everything would change.
"This is it," I agreed.
Will strode toward the helm to join Jack's planning. I stayed where I was, turning the copper medallion in my fingers, thinking about blood and curses and the fate of a blacksmith's son who didn't know what he was.
He's the key, I thought. His blood breaks the curse. And I can't tell him.
The secret sat heavy in my chest, alongside the pull toward Jack, alongside the knowledge of horrors to come.
Isla de Muerta grew on the horizon like a tumor.
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