James Norrington watched the pale dawn rising over the eastern wall and wondered at the lead in his chest. He had been lucky, too lucky. Once more, the land had given Sparrow into his hands and once more, he waited for the hour to watch him die. They had promised him a knighthood and he should have been elated, but all he felt was the heaviness of a void. He had slept ill, dreams disturbed and vague, of black sails and blacker waters. He wrapped a coat around himself and stepped outside his quarters into the causeway where the wind caught at his collar and clung to him with salt fingers.

Below him, Sparrow was waiting. Some force pushed his feet down the stone steps, the echo of his footfalls mired in the whistling wind.

Sparrow was siting against the wall, bolt upright, eyes trained on the sky which darkened and blacked out the coming day.

"Storm's risin'" he whispered into the topsy turvey that busied itself pushing back the dawn.

"Indeed."

Sparrow's eyes slid sideways and he smiled.

"Come t'gloat, Commodore?" he asked affably.

Really, the pirate was incorrigibly good-humoured, even now with death so close they both could taste it.

Norrington looked out at the darkening horizon. "No. I came to tell you it won't be today."

Sparrow laughed shortly. "Must hang me i' the sunlight, mustn't ya." He looked back out at the iron sky. "It's comin'. It's time."

Norrington leaned against the bars, his eyes straining into the dim cell. "Are you afraid?"

"Now, there's a question. Afraid? Nah, it's time f'me. Why? Would you be afraid?"

The Commodore took a long breath and considered. "Yes, I think I would be."

Sparrow moved a little and shuddered. "Ah well, tis all the same t'me, luv. It's time." he repeated, statue still again.

Norrington looked over at Sparrow, real pity in his eyes now. "You're sure you don't want something? A priest? Rum?"

His tired eyes blurred and the pirate seemed to stare at him sidelong with black eyes that had no whites through black hair that lifted in a wind that wasn't there; long, long hair that snaked down his back. The Commodore shivered and took a long gasp of a breath and, through a wave of dizziness, heard a low laugh.

"Yer one of 'em. I know it. You hear 'em singin'. You feel her, dontcha? Feel her callin'."

Sparrow's face seemed narrower, all sharp angles and deep hollows in the faint light. His hands moved restlessly against his knees, long-fingered and sharp-nailed.

"You plannin' on lettin' me hang there? "

Norrington's eyes cleared a bit and the pity returned to his gut. "I'm afraid it's the price of your crimes." His words were pompous, even to his own ears.

"My crimes, " Sparrow laughed again softly. "Only one crime, mate. And I be fergiven. It's time."

Outside, the wind was churning the waters into steel grey soup that spat flecks of foam into the lowering skies. A sudden gust blew through the barred window with a whine.

"She won't let ya. She'll take me back." Sparrow waved one hand languidly and the fingers seemed so impossibly long, boneless, the nails glinting in the flickering lamplight, bright claws.

Norrington slid down to crouch outside the bars, wondering how he felt the cage he knew Sparrow did not.

Sparrow's hair tumbled in the rising wind, long, so long. Norrington eyes blurred again, watching the sinuous strands dance away from the pirate's back, moving of their own accord, then resting down past his waist to puddle on the dirty straw.

The wind moaned outside.

Something had happened to the pirate's knees, they seemed to melt and shift, although Sparrow sat still as death. Then he turned his head.

Norrington gasped slightly, and sat back, gripping the bars with tense fingers.

Sparrow smiled slowly, black eyes gleaming, sharp teeth gleaming, tentacles of hair whipping about his narrow face.

"Ya believe in fish tales, Jimmy-boy?" he laughed softly and Norrington was rivetted to those shark's eyes, black as death above a shark's maw.

A nervous movement near the pirate's feet and Norrington tore his eyes away.

The wind roared and the ocean answered, a wave beginning to churn off the eastern horizon, racing with the gale towards the fragile stone fort piled on the shore.

Norrington bolted up and grabbed the keys. "Get out of there. Now." he shouted over the wind.

The wave roared its calling and Sparrow reached out a hand.

"Come wi' me, Jim." his voice was a whisper that sounded below the shrieking wind, black eyes dancing in the light of the wildly swinging lantern.

Norrington stared at that hand, extended impossibly from across the cell, pallid flesh barely covering spider-crab fingers, razor claws inviting.

"Dear God, what are you?"

Sparrow stretched, his back elongating, tearing free of clothing as the wave gained strength, warning rain pelting through the bars.

He turned, sliding sideways towards the open cell door, rising waist-high in front of the trembling officer with shocking speed.

"Home." he hissed through double rows of deadly teeth. For a moment, he rose up to face Norrington, sharp features and sharper smile at once threatening and caressing.

// Come wi' me. // the words danced in the Commodore's head and he gulped in a shuddering breath.

Sparrow—or whatever it was—undulated around him, tangling his legs in the grip of cartilage and deathly strong muscle sheathed in rasping scales, squeezing suggestively. The black eyes were even with Norrington's terror-stricken blue ones, the sharpened, fearful face inches away from his. The promise in those eyes was drowning him, erotic ripples strangling his limbs wound in that snaking body.

// She comes.//

The wave crashed into the walls like the steeds of hell and Norrington was engulfed in it, still wound in twining hair and tail. He was dragged out to sea as Sparrow sped through the water, riding the current. He swallowed seawater and those black eyes caught his sideways and he heard laughter through the waves. Then he sagged against the sinuous body and delivered himself to the deep. He never felt himself lifted and laid on the shore.

They always said it was a pity about James Norrington, after the hurricane. He sat in his cell staring out to sea, mumbling distractedly. Most of the time, no one could make out any words. Sometimes, he said "Sparrow" and his keepers wondered at his worry for the condemned pirate who had washed out to sea when the walls collapsed. And sometimes he sang to himself, nonsensical songs without a tune about the Sea Witch's son.

FIN

Heed the warning!