Chapter Text
The muscles of his back rippled with each rhythmic movement of the hammer descending onto the red-hot bar of steel, tan skin gleaming in the low light, and filmed with a light sheen of sweat.
The smithy was fairly dark, the only remaining light emanating from two wicker candlesticks, each placed on opposite ends of the wooden workbench, shedding light on the young blacksmith’s work, lending a sparkle to his normally warm brown eyes, and rendering them dark and brooding. The sweltering heat of the darkened room had driven the man to throw aside his jacket and shirt several hours ago, when his master had retired to the local pub for a drink (as though he hadn’t been drinking for most of the day). Caught up in the heavy repetitive manual labour, Turner had entirely lost track of the time as he immersed himself in his work, moulding the metal to a fine work of craftsmanship, a masterpiece forged by his work-roughened yet meticulous hands.
He looked around, eyes slightly furtive as he wondered whether his master had returned or was still drinking himself into oblivion. A quick scan of the smithy assured him that he was alone, and he felt his hands already itching to wrap themselves around the cold, smooth handle of a sword.
It was but the work of a moment to remedy that desire, and he was soon grasping one of his newest creations, to be delivered to a recently-promoted captain, a Commodore James Norrington, he believed the name was. Will wouldn’t be delivering it until tomorrow, so he was free to use it for his daily practise.
He assumed the appropriate stance that felt so familiar to him after hours of tireless practise. Arm extended, hand clutching the sword in a steady grip, one foot slightly in front of the other, shoulder-width apart. There was no sound in the smithy but the crackling of the fire, the whistling of the Caribbean wind rattling through the trees, and the whisper of Will’s breathing. A voice in his head commanded: begin!
With that he was surging forward, arm directing his sword in a fast-paced series of strokes, whistling through the air as he rallied with an invisible opponent, face transforming into an expression of deep-set determination, eyes darkening into black pools of fire as he spun and danced, feet crossing over each other again and again in movements that had been practised countless times. He used everything around him to his advantage, knowing every inch of the smithy better than he knew the lines of his own face; agile as an acrobat, his body lean and toned from hours of exercise and a limited diet (many a night had he pushed himself to his limits in an effort to distract himself from the emptiness of hunger and the heat of the smithy, let alone the hot humid Caribbean temperatures).
As he worked, it was as though everything around him receded, dwindling in importance in the wake of his body and his sword, and the burning desire to bypass his limits, overcome his weaknesses, grow stronger, always stronger. Nothing was enough, he always had to be better, train harder. And in his mind the image never ceased to dance behind his glowing eyes, as he wiped the sweat from his brow time and time again. The image of himself battling law-breakers, mercenaries, pirates, making a name for himself and proving himself, earning respect and an honourable living, his bravery winning the admiration of the governor’s pretty daughter who he had known since childhood and whose beauty he had long admired.
But he couldn't ignore the fact that, as he danced around the heat-hazy smithy, blade flashing, muscles tensing and and spasming as he worked harder than his body could stand, the image was often distorted, and more often than not, he found himself envisioning himself as one of those pirates, fighting for what they believed, for freedom and their own livelihoods, taking what they could and giving nothing back. And instead of it being the pretty girl who was impressed and won over by his strength and bravery, it was that smooth-talking, dark-eyed pirate he’d encountered one unforgettable day several months ago, when he’d been delivering a sword to the governor for one of his officers.
The man had been hiding behind a boot boy’s stand, and Will had caught his eye as he’d paid for a mug of hot soup from his earnings, to warm him up on the cold wintry day. The pirate’s gaze had been electric, riveting the boy to the spot as he was almost magnetically drawn to those dark, kohl-lined eyes, unable to look away, the intensity of the gaze preventing him from calling to the guards who appeared to be looking for the man.
‘Don’t move,' the pirate had mouthed, a playful upward tilt to his lips, and Will couldn’t help but obey.
A multitude of colourful emotions had flooded his body; fear, adrenaline, interest, conflict, curiosity, but most bizarrely and yet most powerfully, desire. There was something about the pirate that had screamed to Will to approach him, to conspire with him, to listen to whatever mad scheme he was undoubtedly currently planning, being a pirate and all, and with a certain mischievous glint in his mysterious eyes. He had wanted to discover who he was and where he was going, but what frightened Will most of all was his sudden desire for that kind of freedom. He'd been gripped by the dizzying urge to experience the feel of an ocean breeze ripple through his dark hair and the touch of a rough wooden deck beneath his palms, to fall asleep to the rocking of a wave-tossed ship, and to taste the bittersweet tang of sea salt as he bit into rough, tanned skin.
The moment of eye contact could only have lasted but half a minute, but to Will it had felt like weeks, and the raw intensity of the expression that the pirate fixed on him had the blacksmith nearly gasping for breath as thoughts flitted from one to the other as though spoken out loud. Eventually the soldiers had moved on and the pirate had hurried away from his hiding place, heading towards the sea with one last look back at Will, however the encounter had not left the young man unscarred. Even now, as the blacksmith drove his sword into thin air again and again, he was battling with the memory and the desires that flooded him, desires that had only grown more specific, and more sinful, over the years since the meeting.
Visions of those sultry eyes looking into his soul, eyelashes fluttering like temptation itself, dark locks brushing Will’s shoulders as the pirate stepped into his personal space, crowding him into a wall and stealing the breath from his lungs in anticipation. The thought of smooth, golden expanses of calloused skin whispering across Will’s own, the idea of a warm body pressing against his, bathed in the smell of the sea, of rum, of his own dark intangible scent... Will could feel the frustration inside him building and he suddenly released a grunt of anger as he let loose the sword and sent it flying into the wall in front of him, embedding itself deep into the wood.
The all-encompassing silence suddenly flooded the smithy, only punctuated by Will’s harsh breaths as he calmed down. He was flawed, and weak, yes, but he could continue to work hard. He could push himself, drive himself to his limits, grow stronger, and be a master of his own emotions. He would win Elizabeth’s heart, and become an honourable man, and gain a respectable office that would be more impressive to her than that of a humble blacksmith. And he would not think of that... pirate, again.
He knew it was useless, as the image of those dark eyes surged within him again, but he fought to push it down, and told himself he would be stronger tomorrow. He obviously didn’t know what tomorrow would bring...