AUTHOR’S NOTE:  A post-AWE one-shot. Set on the Flying Dutchman 10 years after Will began his tour of duty as captain. Also posted at FanFiction.Net.***

“Well then,” Bootstrap said, kneeling down in front of the boy.  “You must be William Turner.”

“William Turner the third, sir.”  William looked at the old man curiously.  He’d met a lot of pirates in his short life, but none with eyes as kind as this man’s.

“William Turner the third!  Well, what a coincidence, I’m William Turner the first.  I be yer grandpop.”

“You’re Bootstrap Bill?”  William asked, his excitement bubbling in his chest.  “You’re a famous pirate.  Just like my father.”

“Famous, eh?”  The older man said with a chuckle.  “You’re pretty famous yourself, lad.”

William shook his head.  “I’m not famous.  I’m not even ten yet.”

“Your father’s captain of the Flying Dutchman.  And your mother’s the Pirate King.  Pirates all over the world know who you are.”

William’s eyes grew wide.  “Really?”

“O’ course.  Your father is mighty proud of you.  He keeps all them drawings you made in his cabin, nailed to the wall.”

“My drawings?”

“Aye.  Do you want to see?”

“Yes, sir!”

The elder Turner laid his rough hand on his grandson’s shoulder and steered him toward the captain’s quarters.  Young William crept through the door as if entering a museum.  He stared at the swords mounted on the wall.  The bookshelf filled with leather-bound books.  The desk covered in maps.  His grandfather turned him gently to face the wall where they’d entered.

There, hung in neat rows were all the drawings William had sent his father over the years.  The first one was just a tracing of his own hand that his mother had helped him make when he was three.  He had written W.T. in shaky letters underneath it.  He was a bit embarrassed about some of them from when he was small.  But toward the end of the row were the two he’d sent in the last year.  One was a drawing of Regal, a horse he liked that belonged to his neighbor.  He’d been taking riding lessons, but Regal was too skittish for a nine-year-old.  So he’d had to admire him from afar.  The other was a drawing of a ship, how he imagined the Flying Dutchman might look.  His mother had a book about different ships, and he’d based his drawing on a Dutch ship that she said resembled his father’s.  Above the collection of drawings, there was a wooden plaque mounted on the wall.  On it was inscribed in delicate script “Turner,” and beneath it “Will, Elizabeth and William.”

William wandered around the room, soaking up everything, trying to learn who his father was from all his possessions.  There was an armoire and a chest, probably filled with his clothing.  The desk where he wrote all his letters and poured over maps of the world.

Bootstrap walked over to the armoire.  “You’ll probably like these too.”

He opened the door, and instead of piles of clothes like in his mother’s wardrobe, there were rows and rows of wooden figures.  There were sea creatures, birds, ships, and even people.  Hanging on the door of the armoire was an assortment of wooden spoons.  Each had a distinct shape and interesting figures carved into the handle.

“He makes the spoons fer your mother.  He’s made one for each year they’ve been apart.”

Bootstrap then pointed to the lowest shelf in the armoire.  “These are the ones he made for you.”

There was an assortment of interesting wooden items on this shelf.  There was a wooden hat that perfectly resembled the one he’d received for his seventh birthday.  There was also an entire chess-set with each piece carved to represent a ship or a sea creature.  There was also a carving of a horse that looked just like his own drawing of Regal.  And most amazing, a perfect model of the Flying Dutchman.


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