::Author's notes:: As I promised in the last update, this chapter will deal with flashbacks containing child abuseIf reading that bothers you, please don't continue

Moreover, I've received several requests to show my horrible imaginings of Will's childhood through his own eyes, so I've attempted to do that here. Hopefully, that isn't too jarring, given that the whole rest of the story is from James POV. Also, I know absolutely NOTHING about blacksmithing or sword crafting, so if there are any inaccuracies here I'm sorry. Sorry for taking so long to update. I do this during my lunchbreak at work and work has been nuts and besides, I've been really struggling with this chapter after all the buildup.

Will watched Norrington's hasty retreat with a growing sense of guilt. He knew he was being unfair to the former commodore. Norrington was, after all, a product of his environment and upbringing. Everyone knew that Officers of His Majesty's Royal Navy did not get involved with the common people any more than was necessary to maintain order. James was no worse than any of the other members of the upper class that Will had encountered in England or in the Caribbean. In all honesty, the captain had to admit the mere fact that James allowed Will to live after helping a wanted pirate commandeer a Navy vessel, then helping said pirate escape in front of the entire population of Port Royal, made Norrington a more lenient man than most of his kind. And to be fair, James could not possibly have known just how much damage Beckett had planned once he controlled Davy Jones. No one—with the possible exception of interfering heathen goddesses—could predict the future.

Ever since the day his father had cut out his heart, Will had been intimately connected to the ship. He could sense every member of its crew at all times, even when he was sleeping. The crew's eerie chant, "Part of the ship, part of the crew" had proven to be prophetic. Nothing was said or done while he was on board without his knowledge. And although Will knew that he had just unfairly used Norrington as a convenient target for his own pain and frustration, he also instinctively knew that James wanted, no needed, to be left alone. An apology now would only make Norrington feel worse, which was exactly the opposite of what Will wanted.

Will flopped down onto his bed, exhausted to the core. He couldn't recall the last time he'd slept. The very sight of everyone here—Davy Jones' crew, Norrington, his father—reminded him of the most painful parts of his past. Will Turner was never one to wallow in self-pity, even when it was well deserved, but he could feel his mind crumbling from the pressure and pain. He was constantly on edge, always ready to snap at anyone around him. He was losing himself, bit by bit, every day—so much so he feared that when the decade passed, Elizabeth Turner would hardly recognize him. Alarmingly, he found himself beginning to understand how it was that Davy Jones was driven to such cruel madness.

Will grimaced at that last thought. That was completely unacceptable. Jones was a monster—an evil beast who could not bear to see anyone else experience pleasure while the Dutchman himself was consumed with nothing but pain. Jones' hate had been so bitter and all-consuming that he had preferred ruining Will and Elizabeth's chances at happiness over saving his own heart from Jack. Will could never be like that…..could he?

Much as he wanted to believe he couldn't, there was no denying the overpowering rage that had filled him when arguing with James earlier. Will never felt such irrational anger and hate before, and it frightened him to no end. After all, Davy Jones had been a man too once…

Dammit!

He couldn't think like this anymore. He was nothing like Jones. He was William Turner, humble blacksmith, son of the gentle Bootstrap Bill, husband of the brave and passionate Elizabeth Swann, and father of her innocent child. He was a man who tried so hard to be honest, noble, and pure, that Jack had once declared him a hopeless git who couldn't enjoy himself if he tried. If being around Norrington and the rest of the crew put him on edge, if their very presence made him feel such dark urges for vengeance, he would simply have to continue to avoid them. James may not understand it, and Bill certainly never would, but that was how it had to be. Will's eternal soul, not to mention the souls of everyone in his charge, depended on his ability to maintain his sanity and keep the darkness at bay.

I have no heart. I feel nothing.

That's what Will kept telling himself as he finally drifted into a restless and desperately needed sleep.

Will's arms trembled with exhaustion as he held the steel to the fire. He was painfully aware of Master Brown hovering over him, itching for the boy to give his teacher an excuse to beat him.

It was very difficult to concentrate with the blacksmith glaring such hateful daggers at him, but for the sake of his own skin, Will gave it his all. The boy knew that, if he made a mistake, Brown would choose to interpret the error as an act of willful disobedience on his apprentice's part. It didn't matter that Will's fingers were singed and blistered from the heat, or that the boy had not been allowed to eat or drink since yesterday morning. The withholding of sustenance was among the Master Blacksmith's favorite ways of tormenting the child, and Brown didn't see hunger, thirst, soreness, or exhaustion as an excuse for any missteps. As if that weren't enough, the perpetually bitter man had awoken in an even fouler mood than usual, and had been snapping at his apprentice all morning over trifles that would not come to a more rational man's attention.

It was so hot in the forge that Will's vision was getting blurred. His throat was so dry he could hardly breathe, and the smoke, ash, and dehydration only made it that much worse. His mouth may have been parched, but his palms were slicked with sweat. Biting his lip in concentration, he told himself he wouldnot spill the liquefying metal into the fire. Even though he felt ready to collapse from weakness and exhaustion, he knew that discomfort would be nothing compared to the pain that would await him if he lost even a few drops.

To say that Will hated it here would have been a grand understatement. Day after day, he worked himself to the bone for Master Brown, but it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he was never good enough. The master blacksmith took a great deal of joy in taking his own misery out on his apprentice. Will's body bore the marks of Brown's displeasure, his skin covered in a patchwork of cuts and bruises. Day after day the master found an excuse to punish his apprentice for some trifle or other, and at night, when the rum took hold, it was even worse.

The metal was almost heated to the proper temperature now, and Will allowed himself a tiny smile of relief. Maybe today, if he tried very hard, he could do the impossible and please his master.

Brown apparently had other plans.

Will was so focused on holding his aching arms steady that he didn't notice his master inching closer. Apparently, for all of the blacksmith's complaints about wasting materials, money was less important to him than having an excuse to mistreat his charge. Will was completely caught off guard as Brown "accidentally" bumped into him, brushing against wounds from a recent beating. Will gasped, from pain and surprise, as the tongs slipped out of his fingers, the precious steel spilling into the fire with a hiss.

It was no surprise what came next. With a roar of anger, Brown grabbed the cowering boy by his hair and threw him over a workbench that was kept clear for such occasions. Will squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table so hard his fingers turned white as his master tore at the boy's clothing until his back and backside were bare. An admonishment from his mother echoed from his memory—Sarah Turner frowning, a half-empty bottle of wine in her hand, snapping at him that it was a disgrace for boys to whimper and cry. Will tried hard to honor his mother's expectations, but as the strap cracked against already bruised and battered skin, he couldn't hold it in. The screams came, like they always did, tearing out of his dry throat, and then the tears, seeping out through his tightly closed eyes. He felt his flesh tear and blood run down his legs and back. He wondered how he had any skin left.

After what felt like an eternity, Brown's arm finally began to tire, and he dropped the strap on the filthy smithy floor, panting and rubbing his overexerted limb. He stalked over to the sobbing child, grabbed him by a handful of hair and flung him on the ground. The blacksmith's arms were tired from hammering at both the boy and the metals, but his legs were holding strong, and he put them to good use on the fetal form of his apprentice. Will curled in on himself as tightly as possible, his arms instinctively wrapping around his head. He cried out that he was sorry, that it would never happen again, but Brown could not hear the boy over his own shouting.

"You stupid, worthless, ungrateful li'l bastard! Are you trying ta ruin me? I take you in, I feed and clothe you, and this is the thanks I get? I've lost more stock 'cause of you in the last month than I did the whole year before ya came! If it weren't for the good Guv'nor's interest in you, I'd 'ave turned you out on the streets long ago!"

Brown continued on for some time, screaming at Will that he was less than worthless, kicking mercilessly. Will had become accustomed to frequent beatings since he had come here, but this was even worse than usual and he had no idea why. There had not been much metal lost to the fire because the small project had been meant as practice—no customers would be kept waiting for Will's loss.

Whatever the reason, the master blacksmith was in a rage so intense, it put his other rampages to shame. Curled up in on himself, trying hard to protect his head and vital organs, Will began to believe this would never end. Not since the pirates had attacked on the crossing from England had he been so afraid for his life. He could taste blood in his mouth and the screams he had been producing earlier were muted down to a dull whimper by his ragged throat. For the first time, Will feared that Brown might not actually stop until he was dead. He would die here, on the filthy smithy floor, and no one would care.

Abruptly, the kicking stopped. Will kept himself tightly curled for several moments. He could hear Brown panting above him, out of breath from overexertion, but no more blows came. After long moments, Will cautiously risked peeking over his bruised arms and was surprised to see Brown staring at him with a look of utter shock. It was as though the master blacksmith had no idea why he had just beaten his apprentice within an inch of his life, and that he could not believe just how much damage he had done.

Will stared up at his master, watching the dawning horror on the man's face. Brown's mouth worked for a moment as if he were trying to speak, then he abruptly turned on his heel and fled the shop.

This was not the first time that Brown had emerged from such a violent fit looking surprised and sickened at what he had just done. The last time, Brown had perversely decided to soothe his conscience by drinking himself into an even bigger rage than the one that had sent him seeking the bottle in the first place. Will began to tremble. He could not survive a repeat of that night.

Will pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling and his vision blurred. He had tried to be good and serve Brown to the best of his ability, but that was never enough. He had to leave. He wouldn't survive here.

Besides, his father must be looking for him. He was sure of it. It was a belief he had clung to from the day he had found his mother's body stiff and still in their tiny home. Their neighbor from across the street, a woman Sarah Turner's age named Ruth, had come to see him after the constable had left. Ruth was always been kind to Will (though she couldn't have made it more clear that she hated the boy's mother), and the look in her eyes had been sad and gentle as she crouched down and hugged the weeping boy tight to her.

"Go and find your Papa, Dearie," she said. "Take what li'l money he sent your Mum that she didn' spend and go. I won't have you in tha' awful orphanage."

"How will I know him when I see him?" Will sobbed. "I never met him really. I was a baby when he left."

Ruth wiped at his eyes and smiled sadly, her gaze far away. "No father ever loved 'is boy the way your Papa loved you. You may not know 'is face, but even with you grown, 'e'll know yours." Her eyes lowered, gazing at the medallion that Bill had sent his son just a few months before. She smiled sadly and stroked at the large piece of gold. "Bill Turner would never abandon his precious boy to the orphanage. No doubt in me mind abou' that."

Will's fingers went to the place where the medallion had once hung before he lost it in the crossing. There was no reason to doubt Miss Ruth's words. She was one of the few people in Will's life who had always treated him kindly. How could his father ever find him locked away in this miserable smithy? More importantly, how could his father ever find him if he were dead?

Steeling his resolve, Will walked out of the shop as quickly as his aching body would allow, determined to find his father once and for all—no matter what it took.