"What news, Mr. Gibbs?" Jack drawled into his now-empty pint, only half paying attention to the man.

"The commodore's dead, apparently," Gibbs said, as he sat down at Jack's table in their preferred Tortuga tavern.

Jack's head swiveled about. "Wot?"

"The commodore. You remember: lad from Port Royal who almost stretched yer neck the twice, and nearly caught us half a dozen times in these waters. Norrington."

"Aye. And he..."

"He's dead. Killed about a month ago."

Jack tried to work out why on earth the words made his stomach plummet. "Oh," he said, rather flatly. Then, with some difficulty, he inquired, "How?"

"A naval battle with the French, I believe. They found his ship limpin' home with her mainmast fallen. He saved the ship, and the fight, but not 'imself. Sounds like Norrington to me, from what I remember of him." Gibbs quaffed his own rum, but still looked all too sober.

Jack ran a hand over his hair, his fingers finding a brass button he'd stolen from the commodore on his last visit to Port Royal. He'd liked being chased by the man, he realized, and often wondered if Ja—if the commodore had ever liked the chasing as much in his turn. It was a game they played, whenever they crossed paths.

No one, navy or otherwise, had ever come so close to catching Captain Jack Sparrow and his ship (without mutiny) as Commodore James Norrington, but once or twice, Jack thought he had sensed something off about it; Norrington would get too close, and then make a single careless mistake, minimal and not usually Norrington's fault directly, so much as the fault of one or a dozen of Norrington's men, but still...

Jack had wondered, more than once, if the good commodore had let him go intentionally, and if he had, was it for the sake of his continued friendship with the young Turners, or something more selfish?

Now, it seemed, the game was over, and Jack would never know. While he wasn't even looking, something strange and pretty and valuable had been cut away; James Norrington had been snuffed out.

"You all right, Jack?" Gibbs, who had noted in an ill-at-ease manner how much glee Jack had always seemed to take in running from the commodore, wasn't wholly surprised by his captain's solemn quiet immediately after hearing the news; he was, however, a little disturbed to see that Jack hadn't so much as reached for another drop of rum, which surely boded ill.

"I'm right as rain, mate. What reason have I not to be? The commodore's caused us plenty of trouble in the past." He pulled himself to his feet, silently telling himself, No reason, no reason at all, in tones that were, even in his own head, less than convincing. "Thanks for the news, Gibbs. I'm headed back to the Pearl." Pulling on his coat, he wove his way through the crowd, and hardly noticed when the density of it first thinned, then ebbed away, as he approached the docks.

"No reason," he muttered. "None at all. Never bothered to..." he stopped himself, swore profusely, and paused in the middle of the dock, feeling a damned fool as he rubbed his eyes with the forefinger and thumb of one hand, smearing his kohl carelessly as the corners of his eyes stung. "Damned. Bloody. Fool." He swallowed tightly, straightened his coat-lapels, and started walking again, his pace clipped and his hand-motions agitated.

He fairly leapt aboard the Pearl—his love, his safe harbor, his freedom, his life—and retreated immediately to his cabin. The few men on watch were slightly puzzled by his haste and his visibly seething anger, but thought little of it. Jack Sparrow was mad, after all, and they had long since ceased trying to make sense of his every change of mood.

Jack did not look at his surroundings as he slammed the door shut behind him.

After lighting a couple of candles with unsteady fingers, standing with his back toward his bed, facing the opposite wall, Jack planted his hands flat, palms-down, on the small, sturdy table that he'd long since had bolted to the middle of the floor in his cabin. The smooth, only slightly scuffed surface was comfortingly familiar and solid, and he leaned his weight on it heavily, because his legs seemed to be having trouble with it. "Damn," Jack bit out, his voice sounding strangely hoarse even to his own ears.

He faced a few things with bitter regret, which was almost more painful than the actual (inexplicable, he tried to tell himself) grief that he felt.

One: truth be told, he had little or no reason to visit the Turner whelps back in Port Royal; he'd sent them a fine enough wedding gift of plunder from the Isla de Muerta, which was more than good enough. Two: this made his almost-regular visits to their house every three or four months rather suspect. Three: truth be told, Jack had looked forward to the visits with far less anticipation than he had the sneaking in and sneaking out, especially the latter, wherein the commodore appeared. Four: James had a distinct habit of giving chase himself instead of calling the militia, apparently without giving it much thought despite how thoughtful the man tended to be in general. Five: on the few occasions that the commodore had surprised Jack—instead of the usual set of events wherein Jack could control matters better and prevent unwanted publicity for the chase as well as the whole of the militia following him instead of one little commodore weaving after him through Port Royal's side-streets and alleys—the man had never fully seized the advantage of his position, but had instead let the game continue, as though he wanted the satisfaction of the capture to be his alone. Six: on at least three occasions, one at sea, and two on land, James had appeared, quite clearly, to let Jack go when the opportunity to capture and/or kill him had been within reach. Seven: the Christmas incident.

Jack swore again.