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The Turning of the Tides
folder
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › Slash - Male/Male › Jack/Will
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
14
Views:
7,004
Reviews:
48
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Pirates of the Caribbean (All) › Slash - Male/Male › Jack/Will
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
14
Views:
7,004
Reviews:
48
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 12
TITLE: The Turning of the Tides 12/?
AUTHOR: Seraphina )
PAIRING: eventual Jack/Will slash
RATING: eventual NC-17
SUMMARY: The aftermath of Will’s first raid that was more violent than expected.
DISCLAIMER: not mine, never were and unfortunately never will be
AUTHOR´S NOTE: Miya Sparrow: You´re right, i could not get around using humour when Jack is involved...it would be next to impossible! But then again, theya re pirates, and pirates don´t generally just prance around all day cracking jokes so i had to have some violence in there somewhere. Glad you like!
.bennizzle.jizzle. :it was difficult deciding what Will´s exact reaction was going to be...i didn´t want him turning into a blubbering mess and crying like a girl, but there needed to be some sense of...i don´t know...disgust? horror even at what he saw Jack do. Glad you think i got it right and thanks!
CHAPTER 12
Will was thirteen when he was formally introduced to the craft of smithing. During the two years leading up to this, his duties had included sweeping up the metal slag left behind from his master’s toils, looking after Xavier the donkey, and other menial tasks. But the day that Brown drew the young Turner to his side after the lad had finished stoking the forge, and began to teach his apprentice the way of hammer and tongs, Will knew that he had found his vocation.
His first commission had been nothing as delicate or as intricate as the swords he would later slave over. Brown showed him patiently how to heat and shape the metal, first with a piece of scrap iron and then, when Will proved to be a quick study, with the desired strip of metal for the job. Will was so talented that, on the very first job, Brown did little more than stand by him, giving the odd instruction but generally just encouraging him. And while it took Will maybe five times as long as it would have taken the old man, by sunset the blacksmith’s apprentice had created a fine stock brand, perfectly matching all desired specifications.
Will had not received much praise in his life, never having had the chance to do something to warrant it, but that day, he heard much. First from Brown, who was evidently pleased to discover that his work load could perhaps be lessened in the near future, and then from the well-dressed gentleman to whom the mark of the brand belonged. He took the piece from the blushing youth, giving impressed whistles as he looked at it from all angles, commenting especially on the almost invisible join of the brand itself to the handle. At this point, Brown piped in proudly that Will had had sense enough to put the handle on the right side of the brand without being told, something that he, Brown had overlooked himself in the past, resulting in a brand that would sear only the mirror image of the intended mark into a hide.
Will, clearly pleased with the compliments but uncomfortable with the attention, gladly ran off to find a piece of virgin wood of suitable size when the man expressed the wish to test the brand immediately. Will himself was curious to see the mark his brand would make and rushed excitedly back into the forge, block of wood in hand, only to pull up short in confusion: he saw a young dark girl, who could not have been much older than himself, barely dressed and cowering in fear at the feet of the man - the man who had only minutes ago kindly praised Will for his workmanship. He stood now, this kindly man, with Will’s brand in his grasp, pulling it from the embers of the forge. The girl had scrambled desperately in Will’s direction but she wasn’t fast enough. Her ankle was grabbed and her leg pinned to the ground as the brand was thrust against the soft skin of a bared thigh.
The scream was horrible in Will’s ears but the smell was worse. The scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils, and if he had not been so rooted to the spot and utterly shocked, he would have run out back to the alley and vomited. Will stared dumbfounded and open-mouthed as the man pulled the brand away and gave a grunt of satisfaction. Will’s hand may have been shaken then, and words were perhaps spoken…words like ‘perfect’, and ‘wonderful’…but Will thought it was ugly, this scar he had helped create. Ugly and brutal and cruel. As the man paid Brown, tipped his hat to Will, and dragged the weeping slave girl away muttering harsh words at her all the while, Will began to cry. He had not cried in a long time; not since his mother had died. Even when he had arrived at Port Royal and realised his situation, he had not cried. But he cried then. As he stood rubbing his tears away angrily with his fists, he felt he could not bear to have part in making anything used to harm a defenseless creature. With a firm hand resting on the boy's shoulder, Brown solemnly and soberly remarked that there was not much money to be made in horse shoes in a port-side town, and that it would be a shame to waste talent on such things. The old man pointed out that nothing illegal had been done there that day and if Will wished to be successful, he would have to accept that this was the way things were.
Even before he took up the habit of practicing swordplay for three hours a day Will was never under the misconception that such weapons were not used to maim and kill.
Will had debated whether he could simply refuse to make weaponry, though he knew any mention of this school of thought to Brown would surely have earnt him a sharp critisizm for his 'fanciful ideas'. So Will decided that his work would primarily be, at least to him, an art. If he could succeed in making these objects beautiful, then Will reasoned that he could perhaps block out the ugliness for which they were constructed.
Now, as he stood leaning over the side of the Pearl, blood pounding in his ears and head hurting like Hades, these boyish and altogether childish ideas revisited him. The confusion he’d been wallowing in for most of the evening turned swiftly to anger, primarily at himself for even entertaining these naïve delusions; swords were not art, they were made for duelling, brands for branding, and knives…Well it appeared that knives were used to slit the throats of merchant captains who were unarmed and had surrendered.
Will was naturally headstrong, something that he had demonstrated on many occasion and at that moment, it came to the fore. As far as he was concerned, he had every right to question Jack’s actions. To think that the pirate had even tried to justify himself! Moreau had surrendered, it was as simple as that. “He had surrendered!” The loud and furious exclamation did little to dispel Will's anger.
He turned swiftly, intent on finding Jack, whom he would never again call ‘Captain’, only to pull himself up short, finding several dozen pairs of startled eyes staring at him with fright. Will's anger was suddenly forgotten. He did not know what kind of stupor he had been in to miss this lot coming on board behind him, but the sight of them on the deck of the pirate ship was enough to send his morals, which he thought he’d just worked out, spiralling out of control. The battle within Will raged on as he watched the emaciated slaves being helped onto the Pearl in the fading light, many of them not able to walk unaided, and most, by the looks of them, victims of physical cruelty.
One old man, eyes milky with cataracts, stared unseeing from the foot of the main mast, hands out-stretched and voice cracking as he begged for something in a language Will could not understand. It did not take an idiot, however, to see that the slave was dehydrated and required water. Momentarily forgetting his design to seek Jack, Will rushed to one of the rain barrels and scooped up a ladle full of the cool, fresh liquid and knelt before the shrivelled figure, noting with some pity and slight disgust that the man had lost control of his bowels. Will held the water to him nonetheless, as cracked lips parted to guzzle greedily.
“Slow down, old man,” Will muttered, easing the ladle away slightly. “You’ll make yourself ill.” He rolled his eyes as the words left his mouth; the slave could hardly get any sicker than he already was.
During the next half hour, his anger with Jack and his moral indecision pushed firmly to the back of his mind, Will made the rounds of the deck, helping the crew there to water the slaves well enough to remain topside, and watching on warily as those who were ill enough to require medical attention - of which there were many - were taken down to Spinoza.
Young Robby appeared from below deck and wove his way through the deluge towards the former blacksmith. The boy looked pale, his hands stained red with blood, and for a split second Will was reminded of the pirate captain, reaching out to him with bloody hands to help him to his feet.
“Mister Turner,” Robby panted, looking a little shaky on his feet. “Thank God I found ye.”
Will shook his head, straightening from his crouched position in front of a rather pregnant black woman. “Will, Robby, it’s Will.”
Robbie nodded and gratefully took some water that Will offered him. The gawky-looking pirate youth gasped as he finished it, began to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, then thought better of it as he caught sight of the blood. “Yer wan’ed below deck to ’elp the physician. ’e says ’e needs a steadier ’and than mine. Not tha’ I’m complainin’, like. Rather you than me, eh?”
Despite the ominous sound of it all, Will nodded and motioned to the deck littered with people. “You continue on here then, alright? One ladle each and then do another round. They’ll try to take more but it’s better that they take only a bit at a time.”
“Right ye are, Mister Turner, I mean, Will,” Robbie corrected at the look Will gave him. After washing his hands in a bucket of sea water he set off to water those who needed it most.
Will stared after him for moment, did a quick scan of the deck to make sure everyone who needed desperate attention was getting it, and then walked briskly to the hatch and disappeared below deck.
AUTHOR: Seraphina )
PAIRING: eventual Jack/Will slash
RATING: eventual NC-17
SUMMARY: The aftermath of Will’s first raid that was more violent than expected.
DISCLAIMER: not mine, never were and unfortunately never will be
AUTHOR´S NOTE: Miya Sparrow: You´re right, i could not get around using humour when Jack is involved...it would be next to impossible! But then again, theya re pirates, and pirates don´t generally just prance around all day cracking jokes so i had to have some violence in there somewhere. Glad you like!
.bennizzle.jizzle. :it was difficult deciding what Will´s exact reaction was going to be...i didn´t want him turning into a blubbering mess and crying like a girl, but there needed to be some sense of...i don´t know...disgust? horror even at what he saw Jack do. Glad you think i got it right and thanks!
CHAPTER 12
Will was thirteen when he was formally introduced to the craft of smithing. During the two years leading up to this, his duties had included sweeping up the metal slag left behind from his master’s toils, looking after Xavier the donkey, and other menial tasks. But the day that Brown drew the young Turner to his side after the lad had finished stoking the forge, and began to teach his apprentice the way of hammer and tongs, Will knew that he had found his vocation.
His first commission had been nothing as delicate or as intricate as the swords he would later slave over. Brown showed him patiently how to heat and shape the metal, first with a piece of scrap iron and then, when Will proved to be a quick study, with the desired strip of metal for the job. Will was so talented that, on the very first job, Brown did little more than stand by him, giving the odd instruction but generally just encouraging him. And while it took Will maybe five times as long as it would have taken the old man, by sunset the blacksmith’s apprentice had created a fine stock brand, perfectly matching all desired specifications.
Will had not received much praise in his life, never having had the chance to do something to warrant it, but that day, he heard much. First from Brown, who was evidently pleased to discover that his work load could perhaps be lessened in the near future, and then from the well-dressed gentleman to whom the mark of the brand belonged. He took the piece from the blushing youth, giving impressed whistles as he looked at it from all angles, commenting especially on the almost invisible join of the brand itself to the handle. At this point, Brown piped in proudly that Will had had sense enough to put the handle on the right side of the brand without being told, something that he, Brown had overlooked himself in the past, resulting in a brand that would sear only the mirror image of the intended mark into a hide.
Will, clearly pleased with the compliments but uncomfortable with the attention, gladly ran off to find a piece of virgin wood of suitable size when the man expressed the wish to test the brand immediately. Will himself was curious to see the mark his brand would make and rushed excitedly back into the forge, block of wood in hand, only to pull up short in confusion: he saw a young dark girl, who could not have been much older than himself, barely dressed and cowering in fear at the feet of the man - the man who had only minutes ago kindly praised Will for his workmanship. He stood now, this kindly man, with Will’s brand in his grasp, pulling it from the embers of the forge. The girl had scrambled desperately in Will’s direction but she wasn’t fast enough. Her ankle was grabbed and her leg pinned to the ground as the brand was thrust against the soft skin of a bared thigh.
The scream was horrible in Will’s ears but the smell was worse. The scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils, and if he had not been so rooted to the spot and utterly shocked, he would have run out back to the alley and vomited. Will stared dumbfounded and open-mouthed as the man pulled the brand away and gave a grunt of satisfaction. Will’s hand may have been shaken then, and words were perhaps spoken…words like ‘perfect’, and ‘wonderful’…but Will thought it was ugly, this scar he had helped create. Ugly and brutal and cruel. As the man paid Brown, tipped his hat to Will, and dragged the weeping slave girl away muttering harsh words at her all the while, Will began to cry. He had not cried in a long time; not since his mother had died. Even when he had arrived at Port Royal and realised his situation, he had not cried. But he cried then. As he stood rubbing his tears away angrily with his fists, he felt he could not bear to have part in making anything used to harm a defenseless creature. With a firm hand resting on the boy's shoulder, Brown solemnly and soberly remarked that there was not much money to be made in horse shoes in a port-side town, and that it would be a shame to waste talent on such things. The old man pointed out that nothing illegal had been done there that day and if Will wished to be successful, he would have to accept that this was the way things were.
Even before he took up the habit of practicing swordplay for three hours a day Will was never under the misconception that such weapons were not used to maim and kill.
Will had debated whether he could simply refuse to make weaponry, though he knew any mention of this school of thought to Brown would surely have earnt him a sharp critisizm for his 'fanciful ideas'. So Will decided that his work would primarily be, at least to him, an art. If he could succeed in making these objects beautiful, then Will reasoned that he could perhaps block out the ugliness for which they were constructed.
Now, as he stood leaning over the side of the Pearl, blood pounding in his ears and head hurting like Hades, these boyish and altogether childish ideas revisited him. The confusion he’d been wallowing in for most of the evening turned swiftly to anger, primarily at himself for even entertaining these naïve delusions; swords were not art, they were made for duelling, brands for branding, and knives…Well it appeared that knives were used to slit the throats of merchant captains who were unarmed and had surrendered.
Will was naturally headstrong, something that he had demonstrated on many occasion and at that moment, it came to the fore. As far as he was concerned, he had every right to question Jack’s actions. To think that the pirate had even tried to justify himself! Moreau had surrendered, it was as simple as that. “He had surrendered!” The loud and furious exclamation did little to dispel Will's anger.
He turned swiftly, intent on finding Jack, whom he would never again call ‘Captain’, only to pull himself up short, finding several dozen pairs of startled eyes staring at him with fright. Will's anger was suddenly forgotten. He did not know what kind of stupor he had been in to miss this lot coming on board behind him, but the sight of them on the deck of the pirate ship was enough to send his morals, which he thought he’d just worked out, spiralling out of control. The battle within Will raged on as he watched the emaciated slaves being helped onto the Pearl in the fading light, many of them not able to walk unaided, and most, by the looks of them, victims of physical cruelty.
One old man, eyes milky with cataracts, stared unseeing from the foot of the main mast, hands out-stretched and voice cracking as he begged for something in a language Will could not understand. It did not take an idiot, however, to see that the slave was dehydrated and required water. Momentarily forgetting his design to seek Jack, Will rushed to one of the rain barrels and scooped up a ladle full of the cool, fresh liquid and knelt before the shrivelled figure, noting with some pity and slight disgust that the man had lost control of his bowels. Will held the water to him nonetheless, as cracked lips parted to guzzle greedily.
“Slow down, old man,” Will muttered, easing the ladle away slightly. “You’ll make yourself ill.” He rolled his eyes as the words left his mouth; the slave could hardly get any sicker than he already was.
During the next half hour, his anger with Jack and his moral indecision pushed firmly to the back of his mind, Will made the rounds of the deck, helping the crew there to water the slaves well enough to remain topside, and watching on warily as those who were ill enough to require medical attention - of which there were many - were taken down to Spinoza.
Young Robby appeared from below deck and wove his way through the deluge towards the former blacksmith. The boy looked pale, his hands stained red with blood, and for a split second Will was reminded of the pirate captain, reaching out to him with bloody hands to help him to his feet.
“Mister Turner,” Robby panted, looking a little shaky on his feet. “Thank God I found ye.”
Will shook his head, straightening from his crouched position in front of a rather pregnant black woman. “Will, Robby, it’s Will.”
Robbie nodded and gratefully took some water that Will offered him. The gawky-looking pirate youth gasped as he finished it, began to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, then thought better of it as he caught sight of the blood. “Yer wan’ed below deck to ’elp the physician. ’e says ’e needs a steadier ’and than mine. Not tha’ I’m complainin’, like. Rather you than me, eh?”
Despite the ominous sound of it all, Will nodded and motioned to the deck littered with people. “You continue on here then, alright? One ladle each and then do another round. They’ll try to take more but it’s better that they take only a bit at a time.”
“Right ye are, Mister Turner, I mean, Will,” Robbie corrected at the look Will gave him. After washing his hands in a bucket of sea water he set off to water those who needed it most.
Will stared after him for moment, did a quick scan of the deck to make sure everyone who needed desperate attention was getting it, and then walked briskly to the hatch and disappeared below deck.