"'ere now, what's this 'bout?"

James Norrington deliberately became dead weight in the clutches of the drunkard with one fist in the cape, at the sound of the bored drawl from the door. Heavy. He pulled free of not-too-coordinated fingers, and slumped onto the ground against the altar, already gingerly fingering the reddened mark a not-too-coordinated left hook had left him, on the chin. It would purple soon.

"Ye stay out'er this, Jack Sparrow," the drunken sailor growled, tottering a little to his left. James wrinkled his nose as he was assailed by waves of alcohol-soaked rotting-teeth breath. He didn't look up at the suddenly servile yelp, or at the sounds of retreating, unsteady footsteps, or when bucket-topped boots suddenly filled his peripheral vision. He ignored the hand extended to pull him up, waved before his nose, instead continuing to probe the developing bruise.

"Ye know, this so called turnin' the other cheek, goin' t'get ye killed, mate," Sparrow swaggers away, holstering the pistol he had drawn on the drunkard, slumping into a pew. "That was 'One-Ear' Johnson, I be thinkin'—ye sank his Cap'ns ship an' hung all his mates, few years back."

"It's in the Book," James says, mildly, settling down more comfortably against the altar and the carefully swept slate floor. He had recognized the drunkard.

"Didn't stop lots o' tin-plated lords ridin' off t'the East an' turnin' the other cheek on the Muslims, way back," Sparrow responded, with an impish grin. "Could be, y'know, 'tis really a metaphor, turnin' the other cheek, for not getting caught while layin' the fear o' God into the heathens, eh?"

"I find it difficult to follow your logic, as always," James said, as he absently straightened the clerical collar and pulled the dull brown cape back into place. "Back in port already? I thought you were headed off to North Carolina."

"If I leave ye by yer ownsies fer too long, priest, ye tend t'attract more an' more o' the funny sorts. The armed, funny sorts," Sparrow grumbled. "Honestly, mate, even if ye had t'run off t'a higher callin' an' all that, did ye have t'try an' set up shop in Tortuga?"

"I have a decent congregation," James said, carefully. He was in no mood to argue, having been in the midst of attempting to prepare for this Sunday's sermon, and running into a blank.

"Aye, half o' it lookin' fer a chance t'kill ye, the other just curious t'see what's become o' the Pirate Hunter," Sparrow countered. "Someday ye'll end up wi' yer throat cut at the back o' yer bloody little Church, priest."

"You know why I did this, Sparrow," James said, keeping his voice bland, surrounding himself with the peace of assumed spirituality preemptively. This was a conversation they had every time the pirate captain was in port, and he was getting better at evading the self-doubt and hurt.

"I know why ye did it, don't know if ye know yet," Sparrow said, leaning back, head tilting at an alarming angle, the tricorn hat somehow managing to adhere to his head. "Don't give me the repentance an' restitution bullshit, mate. Yer still hidin'."

"From?" James said, with a faint smile.

"From yerself, mate," Sparrow shrugged. "Dropped by Port Royal on the way back. Ye could've retaken yer commission. They need ye."

"Better to resign than to be arrested and hanged," James replied, finally getting to his feet and patting out the cassock, walking over to sit in the pew behind Sparrow. "A Commodore who would lead his men through a hurricane for pride?"

"Humans make mistakes."

"Hah. I don't trust my judgment anymore, Sparrow."

"So ye found God."

"Yes."

A snort. "Bullshit."

"I know what you think of religion," James shrugged. "Perhaps it's true—a little—for me. But as hard as it may be for you to understand, Sparrow, I do feel at peace. I do feel like I'm doing something, giving something back, maybe for the first time in my life. Only the other day, Miss Cesmby..."

"Mellie? Heh. What she tell ye?"

"That she'll save up and..."

"That's what she tell all her marks an' anyone wot'll listen when she's in her cups, mate," Sparrow's voice was hard, even if he allowed James a backward grin. "Couldn't say 'tis all her fault. Her ma' was a whore, an' her grandma before that, she was born in a brothel out o' the wrong side o' the wrong sort o' bed, her kids'll be whores, if she can still birth 'em." A harsh laugh. "She be all right though, 'specially under the sheets."

James didn't blink—he shrugged, again. "I believe her. Maybe that's all she needs."

"Hah." Sparrow's fingers curled in the pews.

"Why do you keep coming back?" James asked (probably the sixth time he's tried asking, and he always only asks whenever Sparrow says something particularly ugly—he knows Sparrow hates the question). "Guilt?"

"What happened t'ye? Not me fault, an' I won't be tearin' meself up over it," Sparrow said, though he didn't look back, scratching his shifting dreadlocks for a moment. "Nothin' much else t'do in Tortuga, pretty bird."

James knew that Sparrow knew he merely asked that question to get a reaction—Sparrow only called James 'pretty bird' when he wanted to get a reaction. Their verbal dance was so habitual that it had almost become a ritual. "Nothing to do in Tortuga? You?" A soft laugh.

"Even I need some time off from me adorin' fans, priest," Sparrow rolled his shoulders in a boneless shrug. "Could also be that I'm tryin' t'score the last person on the Caribbee's only free port wot hasn't fallen prey t'me charms." Facetious. James laughed.

"I'm a priest."

"Priests o' the Church o' England ain't celibate," With surprising speed and agility, Sparrow clambered over the pew, and straddled James' lap. James didn't blink—he only smirked, and he stayed woodenly still as arms stretched over his shoulders and the pirate wriggled his hips in a salaciously fluid suggestion. Eventually, Sparrow stopped, and pouted, poking James' nose. "Yer no fun at all."

"Priests aren't meant to be fun," James said, keeping a rigid grip on his self-control. This occasionally happened during Sparrow's visits, enough for him to be able to guard against any unwanted reaction, concentrating instead on the rank scent of unwashed bodies and old rum, which killed any hint of desire. Most of the time. Mostly. He didn't protest or try to push Sparrow away—experience informed him that doing so merely led to undignified struggles which amused the pirate far too much for James' comfort.

"Commodores?"

"Neither are Commodores, and besides, that's a moot point."

"Ex-Commodores?"

"Now a priest," James pointed out.

"Circular."

"As things are, with you," James decided it was about time to change the topic. "You said you stopped by Port Royal. How are the Turners?"

Sparrow settled comfortably on his lap, tilting his cheek back and tugging absently on the beaded braids on his chin. "Fine. 'Lizabeth is expectin', give or take a month, probably have a bundle o' joy in six months. They want ye t'preside over the baptism."

"Really." James arched an eyebrow.

"Well, ye did give way t'Will... hence makin' it possible, wot t'have a wee mite wot'll need baptisin'," Sparrow pointed out. "If ye don't want t'go to Port Royal, 'Lizabeth threatened t'travel over here."

"To Tortuga? With a baby?" James was somewhat aghast.

"Has t'be ye or nothin'," Sparrow said, triumphantly, and James wondered how much manipulation had been exercised to get the malleable young Turners to conclude that, and exactly what his intention was. Sparrow had been trying to dig him out of Tortuga for quite a while, without success.

"Then I trust that you will provide all necessities that a new mother might require on your Black Pearl for their voyage to Tortuga," James smiled. Sharply.

"Who said I'll be offerin' me Pearl?" Sparrow made a face, obviously unhappy with the potential noise, bother and luck issues of having a newborn on board.

"You'll trust the Turners and their infant to any chartered merchant through these waters?"

"T'aint me fault 'these waters' be infested wi' the Brethren now, aye? Now that the Hunter's gone an' had his fangs pulled." Sparrow's answering smile was sharp.

"Exactly why you will feel a moral obligation to provide an escort," James said amiably, "Especially since you likely suggested me in the first place."

Sparrow pouted, recognizing that he had been outmaneuvered for the moment. "The wolf lyin' down wi' the lambs, an' the lion eatin' grass as the cows do."

"I would hardly call the denizens of Tortuga cows and lambs." Dryly. "And I wouldn't take my retirement as a sign of the oncoming apocalypse."

"Won't matter t'ye, seein' as yer actin' as though yer world's already ended." Sparrow glanced over at the neatly polished rows of benches. "Dedicatin' the rest o' yer life tryin' t'find answers in abstract, when ye really have t'look a little bit closer inside yerself."

James chuckled. "Sparrow. You know, the rest of your kind—those that aren't bitter, like Johnson—are pretty happy I've retired. Some of them even contributed to the construction of this church. You're probably the only pirate I know who's been staunchly against the idea since the outset. Are you sure you don't feel the least bit of responsibility?"

"Nope." Sparrow grinned, though it didn't quite show in his eyes. "Just as much as ye've really found religion an' absolution an' spiritual peace, I don't feel the least bit obligated t'ye over yer conversion. Yer in no way runnin' away, an' I'm in no way even the slightest bit guilty."

"Just so we understand each other," James said, with a tight smile. As confessions went, he had heard worse.

"Just so we do," Sparrow inclined his head.

--

James was surprised to see that Sparrow had lingered in port long enough to attend the Sunday sermon—the pirate sat in the third row, next to Gibbs and Cotton (both of whom looked as though they had actually scrubbed for the occasion), and Anamaria (slouched back between Sparrow and Gibbs, with crossed arms, looking bored). The parrot sat on Cotton's head, but was mercifully silent. He waited at the altar until the congregation trickled in and took their places—if seated neatly, they would but fill half of the church. Whores and sailors, merchants and pirates, shopkeepers and innkeepers.

He waited for a lull in the buzz of conversation, and opened his battered Bible, reading from Revelations. "I saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of Heaven from God, made ready like a bride adorned for her husband... One of the seven angels who had the seven bowls, who were loaded with the seven last plagues came, and he spoke with me, saying, 'Come here. I will show you the wife, the Lamb's bride.'"

"Her light was like a most precious stone, as if it was a jasper stone, clear as crystal... He who spoke with me had for a measure, a golden reed, to measure the city, its gates, and its walls... The construction of its wall was jasper. The city was pure gold, like pure glass. The foundations of the city's wall were adorned with all kinds of precious stones... The twelve gates were twelve pearls. Each one of the gates was made of one pearl. The street of the city was pure gold, like transparent glass."

"I saw no temple in it, for the Lord God, the Almighty, and the Lamb, are its temple... The city has no need for the sun, neither of the moon, to shine, for the very glory of God illuminated it, and its lamp is the Lamb... There will in no way enter into it anything profane, or one who causes an abomination or a lie, but only those who are written in the Lamb's book of life."

"Such is the vision of Heaven left for us by the holy Book," James said, noting the slightly glassy expressions of his 'flock' and the murmurs after the mention of 'pure gold' streets wryly. "Today we will look at this image of Jerusalem, and the questions it asks of humanity."

"The holy city is first described as like a bride—and later referred to as wife to the Lamb. Marriage is a sacred union between man and woman, where the man protects and the woman—perhaps rather unfairly—is expected to serve. What is hers becomes his, and she must bend to his will; he may discipline her, he has power over her. That is the union dictated by our law.  Jerusalem, then, as an ideal, is protected by the Lamb; but even as the City is linked to our savior, it must bend to the will of the Son, and hence subjugate to the will of God. The use of 'wife', 'bride' to speak of their link evocates a sense of humanity, seeded in this spiritual link between Paradise and God."

"This mortal flavor seems to permeate its very appearance. Jerusalem's depiction is rife with material wealth. What good are gems and gold, in Heaven? In life, they are but a means by which one can measure one's selflessness—a man who wishes to fully follow God must give away all his wealth, and dedicate himself to the Spirit—so it is written. In Heaven, then, material wealth serves merely as decoration—we can perhaps see this in how 'pure gold' is likened to 'pure glass'. Gold is valued far above glass, but pure gold is itself useless—it is too malleable to serve any purpose, let alone form brickwork and cobblestones. Glass? Glass is sand."

"Gold, likened to sand. Gold holds as much value in Jerusalem as sand. Why make walls and streets of malleable gold? Because they serve as mere decoration—no walls are needed in Heaven, nor streets to travel on. The root of the urge to travel is based in desire, and there is no desire in Heaven—I will elaborate on this afterwards."

"Notice that in God's original conception of Heaven, there were no gems and gold—the original Paradise was a garden—the Garden of Eden. Yet this final vision we are left with is not Eden, but of a gaudy sand-gold-City constructed of items of worth only to men, in their mayfly lives. The magpie may collect shiny shards of glass with which to decorate its nest, but it is men who will fight and die over gold and gems."

"So, then, this original Paradise is not mentioned. Why? Because we have been cast out of Eden forever, due to our original sin, and what has been done cannot be undone. We can never re-attain true inner peace, which comes from perfect purity, perfect innocence, for we have eaten from the fruit of Good and Evil, and with awareness comes a sundering with innocence. Name me any holy man, and I am sure that in the course of his entire life he will have sinned, and known that he had sinned. We are all made in such a way that a part of us will always damn us for this, somehow—all we do in our lives is carry a burden of forgiven sins—forgiven by God, with His son—but damned by ourselves."

"We can never re-enter Eden—perhaps not only because of the commission of the original sin, but because few—if any—of us can be content with an eternity of a garden of fruit. We expect luxury in 'our' Paradise; the glory of God expressed not in grass and trees and animals but in things we attribute to glory—precious metals and jewels. The only creatures that may pass the angel with the burning sword are animals, for they have retained true innocence—we must instead be content with a city of gold-sand."

"The Book speaks not of Jerusalem as a place of peace and content—merely that there is no Death, and there will be no 'mourning, nor crying, nor pain'—instead devoting several lines to its description of glory couched in material wealth. In Jerusalem, it seems, there is no desire—desire is the root of pain, whether it be for objects or people or ideals—conflicting interests create strife. It seems we seek an afterlife of being only partially human—for it is the knowledge of pain and grief that makes joy precious."

"That is the closest we can return to our original state of grace—when Adam and Eve lived in Eden—for we have been ruined by our sins and our awareness and our complex human needs, and can only begin to be content surrounded by the familiar gloss of items of value."

"Outside Jerusalem will reside the cowardly, the unbelieving; sinners, the abominable, murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and liars—their 'part is in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death'. So says the Book. But how many people have never been cowardly, never doubted God, never sinned, never lied? New Jerusalem, then, must be a very empty place indeed, if that were so."

"And God is said to forgive. If his forgiveness is so great, why would we need this mention of Hell? But if all men are treated equal upon death, regardless of the weight of their sin, why have this dichotomy between reward and punishment?"

"I feel the difference—the feather on the scale—is repentance. It is human to sin, but to repent, to remember, to act in contrition... with each act done to balance our sin, we move one glass-gold brick closer to our Jerusalem. We must seek Jerusalem, not wait passively for its gates to find us."

"For we are all of us sinners, and we will always blindly seek absolution—from God, from ourselves. And may we all some day find peace. Amen."

--

After speaking to the few members of the insalubrious congregation who still had questions after the sermon and hymns, James listened to grievances, confessions (although he wasn't qualified for this, really, not being Roman Catholic), gave assurances, blessings, promises, and, when he was finally finished, decided he was in need of something fortifying.

He arched an eyebrow when he realized Sparrow was still slouched on the pew, watching him—his crew long departed for the taverns. James hesitated, then smiled, wryly. "Tea?"

"Don't mind if I do," Sparrow shrugged, rolling to his feet. James led him out of the side door, into the tiny rectory—really a small attached cottage to the Church, a room partitioned into a kitchen, a tiny study, and a cot up against a wall. Sparrow settled at one of three chairs against a rickety table, as James put the kettle on the boil.

"Hope you didn't find me boring," James said, when Sparrow surprisingly didn't seem inclined towards conversation.

"What? Eh, no." A chuckle. "Just not sure how much o' what ye said actually was understood by them that were there, priest."

"I'm open to questions," James shrugged, seating himself opposite Sparrow.

"I'm not sure how much ye believe in what ye just said, either," the pirate said, slouching further back against his chair. "Yer really doin' this in repentance?"

"It's as good a reason as any."

"Cowardly, unbelieving; sinners, abominable, murderers, sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and liars..." Sparrow mused—James found he wasn't surprised that the pirate had remembered not only the 'crimes' stated in question but also the exact order with which they had been used in the sermon. "Funny old thing, that. S'pose I don't count on sorcerer, mebbe not idolaters, but the rest? Hah."

"It's the lake for you, pirate," James said, a little playfully, and Sparrow laughed.

"Oh aye. 'Tis the lake for me." A wink. "Could be also, that this unbeliever, still be interested in the doin' o' sexual immorality, wi' certain handsome priests."

"Really." James was exhausted from the sermon, and definitely didn't have the patience for the pirate's little games. "Sparrow. I'm not in the mood for your teasing."

"Ye sure 'tis all teasin'? I'm dead serious, here," Sparrow smiled for a little longer than was necessary, for a joke.

"I'm not in the mood," James repeated, quickly and firmly, before his mind convinced him otherwise.

Sparrow (looked disappointed?) pouted. "Well, if ye change yer mind..."

"I wont."

"Fine, fine," Sparrow fluttered fingers absently.

"When are you... the Pearl..."

"Leavin'? Tomorrow mornin'," Sparrow said, playing with one of the long string of beads in his hair. "North Carolina."

"Ah," James kept his tone carefully neutral.

"Want t'come?" Sparrow asked, with a grin—the same question he asked every time, before he left. "Could be we could use a minister aboard the Pearl."

"You," James looked at his hands, "Are the voice of temptation."

"Meanin' yes?"

"Meaning no."

Sparrow sighed.

"Sparrow."

"Just in the spirit o' not worryin' 'bout ye, mate, so t'speak..."

"What?"

"Means ye have t'take care, mate," Sparrow said, when the silence lingered. "Could be someday one o' the One-Ear Johnsons o' the world, be a little more drunk than usual, an' have a knife, or a pistol, a sword 'bout his persons, an' he be doin' a little more than layin' into ye wi' his fists, eh? Could be ye'll die." A stare. "And don't give me any o' that blather 'bout God's will. God's never has anythin' t'do wi' this sort o' thing. Only human stupidity."

James opened his mouth, closed it, then looked away, out into the neatly tilled plot of vegetables against the rectory. And smiled—distantly, gloriously, painfully, at peace, the hurt and regret within him buried under bibles and clerical clothes. "If it happens, so it happens."

"What 'bout yer so-called search for Jerusalem? Can't be doin' that beaten half t'death whenever Cap'n Sparrow ain't around, eh?"

James held Sparrow's eyes, evenly. "If it happens, so it happens."

Sparrow stared at him, then was the first to look away, up to the cracked ceiling. "Bloody bullshit."

James shrugged, controlled, still and serene, wondering if Sparrow was, for the first time in his life, regretting his wanderlust (and for such a curious reason as guilt, and no other that James cared to examine too closely). "See you in a month."

-fin-