byhisbootstraps: (young Bill Turner)
Tortuga never changes.

Oh, it's a different blowsy whore offering to relieve him of his troubles and his last few coins, and it's a different pack of drunks shouting uproariously at each other, and a different poor sod sleeping it off in the pigpen, but nothing's really changed since the last few times Bootstrap Bill Turner was here.

Except, of course, himself.

Bill manages to put off the painted trollop, sidestep the developing brawl, and get to a corner table with his tankard mostly unspilled. He sits down, takes a drink, and hunches slightly over.

Another drink, maybe two, and then maybe he'll see if anyone in port is taking on crew.
byhisbootstraps: (part of the ship; part of the crew)
It's been a few days -- they've blurred together so he couldn't say how many -- since his term in the brig ended and his punishment assignment of guard duty began. There's very little difference, truth be told; he's sitting alone and staring at the bars from the other side now, is all.

He doesn't mind. Being alone suits him.

Dimly, from somewhere above, he can hear the distant wail of the captain's pipe organ. That's good; it means he won't be coming down here.

The wall behind him is thick with folds of waterweed like decaying curtains, yielding a little as he leans back. Once you get used to the sensation, it's almost comfortable. And you can get used to anything, really.

Bootstrap sits hunched, turning his one bright thought over and over in his mind. The shine's worn off of it by now, but it's no less warm: my boy will come for me.

He doesn't notice that he's begun to hum under his breath along with the organ. Doesn't notice when the tune he's humming changes subtly, no longer quite what the captain's playing.

William will come for me. He promised.

Doesn't notice when the humming begins to fragment here and there into unconnected words: bound and the seas and where we will and haul together.
byhisbootstraps: (Default)
It's quiet down here. It's been quiet for a while now, since the cannons stopped.

Since the screaming stopped.

Bootstrap Bill Turner sits in the tangled seaweed that strews the sodden floor of the Dutchman's brig, knees drawn up (there isn't room to stretch out his legs), and watches a tiny crab make its way down the opposite wall.


byhisbootstraps: (Default)

September 2007

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