The End of the World

"Is it windward ye be wantin' to go, Capt'n?"

Will started, his thoughts far away from commanding the Dutchman. He smiled at his father.

"Aye. We'll go where the wind takes us."

Bootstrap touched him gently on the shoulder. "It's one dream you've given up for another, lad."

"Aye," Will nodded, his smile fading. He looked out at the endless horizon. "Man the helm, father."

"Aye."

Below decks the Dutchman held secrets Will could never have imagined. With the curse of Davey Jones lifted, the ship was transformed. Gone were the barnacles and monstrous faces of tormented sailors. The polished wood, now smooth and unmarred, gleamed in the lamplight. A large table dominated the hold, several rolls of charts upon it. Would he need charts in these waters? All he knew about sailing, he'd learned from Jack.

Jack.

Certainly, not the best example.

Where are ye bound now, Jack?

The captain's quarters held a platform for a bed, but no mattress. He would see to that when they made port. If there were a port. Even so, he would not be able to set foot upon it.

For ten years.

He sat heavily on edge of the fine wood.

Elizabeth.

Will never felt more alive than when he was with her. Her love-making had been as fierce as her fighting. As fierce as the winds and seas that had dragged him from her down to the murky depths of....

Hell?

And without her...

He suddenly knew exactly what Barbosa must have felt all those years.

We are cursed men...