Freedom

Chapter 1

by

Garnet

Dedicated to the Lady on every ship and to Her Sparrow...

Sailor's Song
Thomas Lovell Beddoes

No, it could not have come to this... not for him... please, God...

Distantly, Jack heard the mumbling of the waiting crowd, then shouting. But the man in the black hood was already reaching for the lever and he knew it was too late. That it had always been too late.

Then the sun was in his eyes, dazzling and blinding him at the same time, and he felt the floor drop out from under him, leaving nothingness below. He fell and the rope snapped taut, tightening to the point of pain and beyond, stealing his breath, before one of his feet caught on something and, desperately, almost instinctively, he managed to find his balance once more.

A sword, somehow he knew it was a sword, and well he knew that trick. The one that had once damned him and now returned to save him. Just like the man who'd thrown it. The young man even now racing up the stairs of the scaffold, charging straight for the executioner. Fighting to save his life, even if it condemned him in the process.

Will Turner. A good man. The son of a good man. Pirate blood or no.

One of Jack's boots slipped and the rope tightened even further and now he couldn't breathe at all and blackness sparked through him, a darkness sharp and merciless as the edge of a blade, but in the next instant it gave way entirely and he fell off the slender sword and down to the ground below. He hit hard, but was up in a moment, cutting the ropes from his hands with that ever so fine steel.

And Will was there quick as a wink to catch the other end of the rope, the two of them working together as if they had never been enemies, as if they had always been true brethren before the mast, and the guards were tumbling before them. Falling away. With freedom, best beloved freedom, beckoning just beyond.

But then it was gone just like that as they were surrounded, a sea of bloody red coats and pointed guns. Before which Will surrendered his sword, only to step forward in the face of death and speak out for him anyway. Fixed and firm and sure as ever.

And suddenly Elizabeth was there as well, the two of them straight-backed and resolute in their beliefs that he was a good man, that he should not be condemned. That they would stand with him no matter what. The eyes of the Commodore turning stricken as he realized what his lady love was really saying and the Governor himself calling for the guards to put down their weapons.

Then the bright colors of the parrot caught his eye, making his heart pound in his bruised throat, as he stared up at the walls of the fort. And he knew he was truly free as he made his farewells—the eyes of the soldiers glinting at him as he backed away from them, Will smiling broadly beneath that marvelous new hat of his—only to tip over the wall and fall to the ocean below.

The breath knocked clean out of him again by the impact with the warm waters. Then once more by the sight of those dark sails catching the winds before him. As the Black Pearl came to claim him, his own lady love. The ache in his heart one of both joy and regret at the same time at the sight of her—regret that they had spent so many years apart from each other and joy at this long denied reunion.

And, never would he let her go again, as he took up his hat, was given his coat and his command by the crew that had braved their own deaths to come back for him. As he felt the polished wood of her wheel come alive beneath his hands. His eyes already on the grand horizon, the compass in his hand spinning out their next destination, their destiny.

The ship turning to catch the wind, graceful as ever, already picking up speed, uncatchable, lovely, his...

The shock of cold water striking his face woke him and Jack half-started up, blindly choking. The dream fading away like mist on the water. Familiar laughter bringing him back to himself, as well as the rattle of chains and the jarring pain as cold metal caught him up short.

He raised his head up from the damp straw beneath him and looked through the bars at the two guardsmen standing there, the taller of the two still holding a bucket in his hands. The smile on his face made all the more cruel by the scar that pulled the corner of his mouth up on one side. He dropped the empty bucket on the floor.

"That'll do ye," he said. "No good sleeping the day away, now is it? What few remain to ye."

Jack glared at him, but the soldier seemed oblivious. Instead, he just watched as Jack pushed himself up against the wall and rested his arms on his knees. He was drenched through and shivering a little already, though he tried to disguise it as quick as he could. It would never do to let them see him at less than his best, even if he was clearly at less than his best.

Considering that his whole body ached and his head hurt and he seemed to have lost yet another day. At least, the light coming in through the window at the far wall was soft now, nearing dusk he would reckon. And was this his sixth day here or the seventh? He wasn't sure anymore.

All he was sure of was that he was alone. That no one, not even Will or Elizabeth had come to see him, to speak with him. Not even to say their farewells. Ah, but then what right had he to expect anything more? Elizabeth was the very daughter of the Governor and Will was a respectable man at heart, no matter his bloodline, and he was... well, he was a pirate and a condemned man and that's all there was to that.

"This last lot had a few fine words to say before the end," the second guard commented, his higher voice betraying his youth far more than the smooth skin of his face, and the first man turned to look at him. "You think this one might do them a sight better?"

"Aye, that he might." And the older guard turned back to leer at Jack, before his eyes fell to the hunk of dark bread on the floor just inside the cell. "Unless he starves himself to death first. The ungrateful dog."

"Not been eating has he?" the second guard asked. He knelt down and carefully reached into the cell and picked up the piece of bread. He inspected it, wrinkling up his nose, then shrugged. "Seems perfectly fine to me. Better than such as he deserves, I imagine."

"Aye, much better," the other man commented.

The second guard threw the bread back into the cell and it landed almost as Jack's feet. He ignored it, as he had been ignoring it all day. As he had been ignoring all the other food they had brought him. Only the water he had drunk, giving in to his thirst, albeit reluctantly.

Rum he might have drunk willingly enough, but that he doubted they would provide. Even if he could have brought himself to ask for it.

"Not much to look at," the second guard said, an honest enough curiosity in his voice. "For someone they tell so many tales about."

"Aye," the first one replied. "And tales be what they are. What we have here be just a man and, like any other man, his neck will stretch as well as any other."

"And a good job of it, too." His shouldered his gun and started to turn away.

The other joined him, kicking the bucket away down the stairs as he did so.

"Aye, a short drop and a sudden stop. Tis all a pirate's good for in the end. Not that he were good for much else before then."

They both laughed again and then were gone.

Jack immediately huddled closer into himself as the shivers grew worse. He rested his forehand on his knees and closed his eyes. Feeling the cool air prickling at his damp skin and shirt, the dank breath of the thick stone walls around him.

They had taken no chances, this time.

Not only was he locked in a different cell than the last, but they'd chained him to the far wall by his right leg as well. With only just enough length to the chain for him to let him be able to touch the iron bars of his prison with the barest tips of his fingers. Three stone walls, good strong iron, and a scattering of dirt and straw, that had been his home for the last... a week was it now? With a near two weeks before that, locked up in the brig of the Dauntless.

The only good thing that he could name these days was that at least he hadn't been forced to share the small cell. The former crew of the Pearl—those that still remained breathing, that is—were packed into a couple of slighter larger cells at the far end of the corridor. He couldn't see them, though he could hear them night and day. As they complained steadily to anyone who passed, about the lack of fresh water, the scarcity of fresh straw, how jolly well crowded they were.

Other times, when there was no one else about, they would amuse themselves by shouting and cursing at him, mostly threats and insults; insults that he just found moderately amusing and threats that no one would bother to take seriously. Being that their numbers were being steadily whittled down.

He never stirred himself to answer, anymore than he spoke to the guards.

As for his own lack of fresh straw and water and the cruelty of the pair of guards who had decided to make what remained of his life their own, he didn't care enough to bother overmuch with that either. Nor hardly to move from the corner of the cell he had staked out. Where the darkest shadows fell. Where he couldn't see the sea through the one small window.

They had hung another three of the Pearl's crew just this morning. At this rate, he figured they should be finishing up with the last of them and taking himself to the block in another two or three days.

After which, they would most likely string his body up with those other unfortunates at the entrance to the bay—giving fair warning as it were to the other free brethren of the coast. With naught but rotting flesh and bone to remain at the last of Captain Jack Sparrow, would-be scourge of the Spanish Main.

Well he knew what that felt like. Not that he would be exactly alive to feel it, this time.

Not that any of it truly mattered anymore.

He had lost the Pearl once and it had nearly destroyed him. For ten years her loss had haunted him. And then, when she had been in his grasp once more, when he had schemed and fought and been cursed and nearly died to gain it once more, she had slipped away again. Lost to the night and lost to the fog and with her had gone his heart, his hope, his last chance of reclaiming the life he had once had.

The only life left worth living.

The chain rattled as he lay back down on the rotting straw and curled his legs up closer to him, the iron rubbing raw on the bare skin of his ankle. His boots they had taken first thing they had chained him in this cell and his sword and pistol as a matter of course back on the Dauntless. Only his compass they had left him, as if they had known full well if was of no use to him anymore. That he would sail the seas no more, never chase that horizon. Never know freedom, true freedom, again.

He had done his best by his word and still it had proved not enough.

A pirate he was and a pirate he always would be and as a pirate he would soon die. As guilty in the eyes of the law as any of the miscreants in the far cells. With a common ending awaited them all. The same rope, the same knot, the same short drop.

Full circle he had come and it had availed him naught. Ten years and it had availed him naught. And he was weary now, so very weary. Sometimes it felt as if all his strength had drained away into this great hole deep inside him where once his heart had been. A hole as black and empty as that stretch of water where the Pearl should have been and was not. Leaving him alone and to the tender mercies of the Crown.

And now in two, mayhap three days, and his own waiting would be over at the last. He would either see the island of the dead again or join Barbossa in hell's blackest depths. Still, be he Heathen or Christian—and he counted himself as neither, not really, not quite—one thing was clear. He felt as if his soul was already slipping from his body, fleeing from this simple husk of flesh and bone. And that if he had any say in the matter he would go to neither place after they had hung him, but right straight to the Pearl. Where he truly belonged. Where he could soar with black wings, black sails, to distant parts he had never seen.

He had so sworn, upon the sea, upon his heart, with his own blood, and it was the only thing that made him keep on drawing breath right now—till at last they took it from him, that is. He had sworn that he would be with her again, no matter what it took. Even if it took his life.

As well it seemed it soon would.

He had dreamt last night, but they hadn't been pleasant dreams. Any more than they were pleasant memories.

Ten years ago, but he could remember it clear well. How they had all taken their turns tormenting him during the days between the mutiny and his being marooned on that hot lick of land. How they had all spit on him and cursed him and struck at every turn. Not that they wouldn't have done far more and worse than that, but for that Barbossa had denied them the chance of that last indignation on their former captain.

Not out of any form of kindness, most certainly, but simply because he wanted him still alive to be marooned. Break the Code he might, but only so far.

Besides, what the men may do to one captain they may all the readily do to another.

Wearily, Jack closed his eyes again, but now all he could see was Barbossa. Standing there as he had that day, as Jack had been forced to the plank, and smiling that cruel little smile of his. The monkey on his shoulder hissing its own approval as the pistol with its single shot was shoved into his belt and he was forced out over the sea.

All the men shouting and the wind rippling in the sails and the sky so blue that it hurt to look at it. Before it all went whirling away as he tumbled off by a quick fired shot that singed the side of his head. Before he were forced to swim to land as best he could, his hands still tied before him and the Pearl already turning away behind him.

Disappearing into the shimmer of water and sky.

At least, he had not been alone the second time they'd left him there. That had been the worst of it on that day so long ago; the thought of starving to death slowly and all alone, with no one to ever know what had become of Captain Jack Sparrow. Not that it would have gotten to that. He would have given himself to the sea before then, swum out as far as he could and then let the waves and the tides have their use of him.

Since he would never have taken that single shot to himself, no matter how bad it got. He wouldn't have given his betrayer the satisfaction.

There was a rattling down the corridor and the men fell suddenly silent except for a muttered curse or two. No doubt, they were being fed. Even those who were scheduled to be hung today. One last meal, even if be but bread and water.

Slowly, Jack rolled over to face the wall and closed his arms about his head. He was so tired. He hurt so much. Mayhap, if he roused himself enough to plead his case they would put him before the others, but he doubted it. He was the prize. T'wasn't every day they caught a pirate such as him. Norrington and his men were, no doubt, savoring the thought of his demise. Certainly, the two guards who he had gotten to know this last week were making the most of it.

Speaking of which...

"Here you go then, Mister Sparrow," a familiar and oddly almost friendly voice said. "Some fresh water for ye and some stew even today with your bread. I'd lay into it before it gets too cold, though. Can't be bringing you another bowl, you understand."

Distantly, he heard the clunk of metal against metal and then something being set down inside his cell.

"Ah, now that's a waste of a good bit of meat, Murtogg," a second voice replied, the voice of his younger tormentor from last night.

"An why is that?" the first man asked, honestly curious.

"He won't be eating it, that's all. Picket says he hasn't touched a crumb since he were brought here. Turned up his nose at the lot."

"Has he now?" The first man, Murtogg, sounded genuinely concerned now.

Suddenly, his voice drew closer, as if he'd knelt down beside the door of the cell. "Mister Sparrow? Is that true? Have ye not been eating?"

Jack simply closed his eyes tighter, his head starting to hurt again now, too. He knew that voice—he'd been one of the two guards with him that day on the dock, the day he'd rescued Elizabeth and this had all began. Not too bright, but seemingly honest enough. For a moment, he tasted salt and remembered the sharp look in Norrington's eyes, the hard way he had grasped his arm and pulled up his sleeve to reveal the brand the East India Company had laid upon him.

Before he'd ordered him to be clapped in irons.

He would have hung with that dawn, as well, if the man had anything to say about it.

"Captain Sparrow?"

He let himself drift away from the voice, drift back to that day. To Will lifting his sword to him in the gloom of the blacksmith's shop... to the sound of the Pearl's guns as they relentlessly pounded the town and the fort... to the first feel of the Interceptor catching the wind beneath his hands, taking him far away from Port Royal, taking the both of them to Tortuga.

Taking them to the Isla de Muerta.

He could almost see it now...

That he had missed the passing of the day.

That he was not alone.

"Mister Sparrow..."

The tone was sharp, dignified, ever so used to being obeyed.

Slowly, he rolled over and then had to close his eyes again as his head swam. When he opened them again, he looked up to see Commodore James Norrington looking in at him. His cap and hair perfectly in place and every last button polished. Not a speck of dirt on his boots.

His back was straight as a rod and his hands were clasped behind his back. As if he were out reviewing his men, instead of visiting a convicted prisoner.

"Mister Sparrow," the man repeated. "I have been informed that you have not found the food entirely to your liking. Whereas, your fellows seem well enough pleased by it. Is there a problem?"

He shrugged and swallowed hard as the movement made him slightly dizzy.

"Because if you intend on cheating the gallows," Norrington went on. "You know this is not the way to accomplish it."

That oh so reasonable tone grated on him, but then most probably it had been intended to. Why wouldn't the damn man just go away and leave him in peace? One more day was done and soon enough it would all be over. Soon, he would be brought out to that waiting crowd. Soon they would be gasping and cheering for him. Mayhap, even Will and Elizabeth would be there, watching as he took the drop. Certainly, the man looking at him now would be. Well pleased with himself and the law and glad to be rid of such a scoundrel as Jack Sparrow.

The sudden rattle of iron made him instinctively glance up. The Commodore's face was bland as he tested the strength of the door once more and then stood back to attention just outside it. The light from the setting sun caught on the buttons of his coat, turning them briefly to gold.

"Seems solid enough," Norrington said. "Though appearances can be deceptive, wouldn't you say, Mister Sparrow? You had aid escaping the noose last time, what makes you think the same might not hold true again?"

There were many answers to that, but Jack chose the least painful one. He raised his head and stared directly into the other man's eyes, managed the ghost of his normal insolent smile.

"Every man's luck must run out eventually." His voice sounded rough even to his own ears.

Norrington nodded. "Does that mean that you believe that you've reached the end of yours then?"

"The end of something," he replied softly. "Why not it be my life?"

The Commodore's eyebrow went up. "Why not, indeed."

Jack closed his eyes again, but he could still feel the gaze of the other man on him. One more day or two, that's all he had left. That's all that kept him from his Pearl. But, of course, they had to go on making it difficult...

"Perhaps you would not be so quick to condemn yourself," Norrington spoke again. "If you knew how hard young master Turner and Miss Swann are working towards your release."

"My release?" He opened his eyes, but the Commodore was now glancing across the cell, out the window beyond. Perhaps watching as the sun went down over the horizon.

"Yes, I believe the words 'full pardon' have crossed their lips more than once. The Governor is still considering it, but with his own daughter advocating your innocence, your honor, how you put your own life on the line to save her own and her new fiancé's... well, I imagine that she will get her way eventually. And then you will be free to go on yours."

The words were carefully cool, but Jack could detect an edge beneath them. Whether that was because of Norrington's own thwarted suit with the Governor's daughter or because he couldn't bear the thought of a convicted pirate being set free, he couldn't quite tell.

"Will I now?" Jack said.

One of Norrington's eyebrows rose at that. "Yes, of course," he replied. "So, in the meantime, while you're still my responsibility, I would prefer you not expire through any lack of your own or mine."

"Would you?" Jack asked. "Well, that's not how I heard tell of it. A hard man when it comes to a buccaneer's life, or rather for the ending of it. Don't tell me this last little trip has changed your mind of that?"

Norrington glanced down and, seemingly quite deliberately, brushed a non-existent speck of dust off his coat.

"In general, no," he replied at last, his eyes coming back to rest on Jack. Unreadable and cool as steel. "But you did not play false by me, even though I must admit that I expected it, and for that alone I would rather not see you hang. One good deed may not redeem a lifetime of wickedness, as I said, but reluctantly I find myself in your debt. Both for the capture of the men who attacked this town and this fort and for Miss Swann's return."

His eyes lifted, seemingly looking into nothingness, and he hesitated a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "And for the safe return of Mister Turner, as well, of course. Even if you did lead him astray in the first place."

Jack could have corrected him on that, but prudently held his tongue. Far better any black marks fall on him than on the boy. He already had so many, after all. Even, if it seemed, that Will and Elizabeth might actually be working to wipe them clean. Give him a fresh start.

A pardon from the Governor, himself.

Oh, aye, a pardon that was only good so long as he didn't turn pirate again. An how much chance was there of that? Still, a pardon would save him from the noose and that's what most mattered, right?

Again, he saw black night and empty waves and that self-same emptiness swept over him as when he'd first seen that the Pearl was gone. Ten years—and he couldn't wait another ten years to get her back. He hadn't it in him. He hadn't...

But Norrington was still standing there, as if waiting for some response from him, and he nodded.

"As you like," he said. "When might you know whether or no I'll be going free?"

"By dawn tomorrow, I imagine," the other man replied. "Since you're the last of the lot, it will be either that or the block, after all."

"Even if, as you say, you don't wish to see me hang?"

Norrington lifted his head slightly. "Even so, Mister Sparrow. In this matter, I am as bound by the law as you are."

"Aye, that may be so," Jack replied. "But since you're the one out there and I'm the one in irons, I'll not be feeling too sorry for ye."

The other man looked almost amused for a moment, then his face cleared of all expression again. He straightened minutely and his voice was clipped and precise. "I'll have the guards bring you something to eat. See that you do, this time."

"Or I'll have to answer to you?" Jack couldn't keep back the smile, nor the slightly insolent tone of his voice.

"Or you'll have to answer to me," Norrington replied. He didn't respond to either the smile or the insolence, but Jack thought he caught a hint of something in the other man's eyes for a moment, something that almost bordered on amusement.

With that, the other man turned on his heel and walked away. And Jack sank down to the floor again, more exhausted than he would readily admit. Not just his head aching, this time, but his whole body.

It was almost too good to be believed. That Will and Elizabeth hadn't forgotten him, but were working to secure his freedom. An almost he could see it. Elizabeth was a woman to be reckoned with, both in cunning and in determination. While, Will... well, Will was young and eager and earnest and still believed in doing the right thing.

No matter the cost.

Jack let his eyes sink shut again and he remembered the last sight of them he'd had aboard the Dauntless. Will starting half-forward towards him as the irons were put about his wrists, as he was roughly pulled below decks by two soldiers. Elizabeth staring after him, then glancing over at Will as if expecting him to do something about it right then and there. Not that they'd gotten the chance. As more soldiers closed about them and they were led away to the captain's cabin, Elizabeth's father coming forward with his wig askew and this relieved look on his face.

Embracing his daughter and then, after a hesitation, shaking young Will's hand. Norrington frowning at the exchange, before stalking off, undoubtedly to get the ship underway.

He had eaten and drunk most of what they'd given him then, still hopeful that he might make his escape once more, but when they'd finally reached Port Royal and the metal bars of the Dauntless' brig had been exchanged for the metal bars of the fort's prison, he had found even that slight appetite fading.

As had any interest in escape, slight enough chance as there were of that.

And now the very thought of eating actually made his stomach turn, but he had promised and he had no intention of breaking his word. Least of all to a man who had only begun to respect him. Pirate or no.

Still, it was several hours and full dark before a guard appeared at the last. Clattering down the stairs and humming some song just beneath his breath. It didn't sound like the one Elizabeth had taught him, but it seemed cheery enough.

Jack forced himself to sit up, then had to stop and just breathe for a while. There was a sour taste to his mouth that didn't help his stomach at all and he felt another chill run through him, even though no one had thrown water at him today. Yet anyway.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice said. "Look what we have here. You must be terrible hungry by now. Well, I've got what you need. There's a good boy."

Jack looked up and the guard—the older man, Picket he believed his name was—grinned in at him. He had a bowl with a bit of bread sticking up over one side in one hand and a jug in the other. And, as Jack watched, the other man knelt down and whistled. The self-same dog that Jack had tried to bribe once immediately sauntered into view and let the man take the keys from his mouth. After which, the mongrel immediately started into eating Jack's supper.

The guard watched him for a moment, then stood up and tossed the ring of keys into the air, catching them again easily. He took a swig from the jug and water ran down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and smiled.

"One more night," he said. "An then I can watch you swing. In the meantime, you see, if I'm asked, I can honestly say your bit of beef and bread were eaten well enough."

"And if'n I don't hang?" Jack asked. "I can always tell the truth of it. I doubt the Commodore will be well pleased at how his order were carried out."

"Oh, you'll hang," Picket replied, this avid look to his eyes. As if he was seeing it even now. "An as for the rest, tis well known what Norrington truly feels about such as you. No matter that you've managed to fool all the rest, even the Governor's own daughter, he can see through you, right enough. All the way to your black heart."

Jack glared at him, but the man only laughed again.

The dog was licking the bowl clean by then and the other man picked it up and gave the keys back with a little flourish. The dog took them in his mouth and immediately disappeared back into the darkness once more. Just the clicking of toenails and the rattle of the keys to mark where he had been.

"Well, and a good night to ye, Mister Sparrow," he said, briefly mimicking the tones of the more friendly guard from earlier. "I'd promise to pray for your immortal soul on the morrow, if I'd actually believed you'd got one. As it is, I'll pray the drop won't be breaking your neck right off. A man can last a long time I hear, stranglin' on the rope and his own weight. Now that would be a fine sight. A black tongue to go with your black heart."

He turned and started off towards the stairs, taking the bowl and jug with him. At the last, just as he was about to go out of sight, Jack realized what he was doing and forced himself over to the bars. He reached out to touch them, called after him.

"Wait! At least give me my water..."

But he knew the plea was already useless even as he offered it. His fingers trailed down the metal and then dropped to his side. After a moment, his head dropped as well. Well, that was as it would be and, most probably, it wouldn't have mattered if the man had given him the food; the way he felt right now it wouldn't have settled for long.

But the loss of the water was harder felt. He was so thirsty right now. His throat seemed as dry and scratchy as the straw he was sitting on and a nice long draught of cool water wouldn't have gone amiss.

Finally, Jack crawled back over to his corner and lay down again, curling up tightly. After a little while, he realized that he was shivering slightly again. That the pain behind his eyes was sharper even than before.

That there were none of the usual sounds coming from the men down the corridor.

He raised himself up and listened intently for a long minute, then sank back down again as it quickly grew to be too much effort to keep his head up.

Nothing. Not a whisper. Either the last of them were already asleep or he was the only one left. He suspected it was the latter, since Norrington had said he would either be pardoned or hang on the morrow. Not that he mourned their loss, not in the least, but it meant that he really was alone tonight. Mayhap, his last night on this earth.

Life or death... his life or death, and it was all dependent on the mood and moral judgment of one man. Elizabeth's father. A man who hadn't seemed any more keen on pirates than the Commodore. Mayhap, he even less so. Most especially since it had been such who had stolen his beloved daughter in the first place.

Not that Jack had had anything to do with that, but he couldn't see Master Swann as seeing much beyond the mast he was sworn to.

The flag he had sailed under.

After all, he had only just found out Jack were a pirate that day on the docks and he was already calling for the noose for him. When he hadn't been commanding them to shoot him in the first place—even before he'd been found out as a buccaneer—just for cutting that gods-be-damned corset off'n her. He couldn't see the man changing his mind all that readily about him, even if Elizabeth knew all the ways to turn him to it.

Even if Norrington thought there was still a chance of it.

Jack closed his eyes and saw again the man standing there beyond the bars. So precise, so perfect, his stance proud and his eyes determined. A smart man, an honest man, one to be reckoned on. A man well used to duty and doing what needs must be done.

Even if it had taken Elizabeth's acceptance of his proposal to send him and the Dauntless off after the Pearl at the last.

But then men in love did foolish things. Men in love oft times saw only what they most wanted to see.

She had changed her mind after, of course, once William Turner was safe; everyone aboard Dauntless had known how it had gone well before they reached Port Royal again, even Jack moldering away down in the deepest bowels of the ship. He hadn't heard most of the details, but a fair number of the Commodore's men had been angry with her for jilting him and several had had a few choice words for young master Will, as well.

Especially since some of them had thought the blacksmith should be sharing Jack's cell with him and not be roaming free about the ship. Let alone getting himself engaged to the Governor's daughter. A man well below her station and with bad blood, to boot. Pirate's blood.

That story, too, had gone the rounds. Give it some months and few in all the Caribbean wouldn't not know about what had happened on the Isla de Muerta. About the breaking of the curse and the battle aboard ship and how the Pearl had stolen away into the night, leaving her crew behind to face the noose. Soldiers talked near as much as sailors and a tale like that were a hard one to pass up. Even if most would never know the whole truth of it.

And would never know, not if they expected him to do the telling of it.

Some things were best left secret.

Some things were best forgotten about, even if they could never be forgiven.

"Well now, Jack," Barbossa whispered. "I warned ye it might come to this one day, but heed me you would not."

He didn't respond. He wouldn't have even if his throat and mouth hadn't been so dry he could hardly swallow then and there, let alone speak. Two full days it had been since they had seen fit to give him any water and the sun and the salt had well done its work in the meantime.

But then the other man ran his hand down his neck and across his chest, before settling between his legs at the last, and Jack did fight to pull back, to get away. Not that the ropes binding him to the mast gave him any leeway, well he knew that already.

Barbossa only smiled at his muted struggles, though. His fingers squeezing tight for a moment, before starting in to caressing him instead.

"An now this ship is mine at the last," the other man continued in a dreamy soft voice. "As you never would be. An damn ye for that, Jack, but I still want ye more than your ship. An for that, tis sorry to say, but ye must die. I'll not be having you be my downfall. I'll not be having ye own me heart, cold as it is. Though, I'll not be having your blood on me hands, either. Tis why I saved you... for the nonce."

Jack somehow managed to swallow, though it pained him terribly. "Saved? You betrayed me, mate. There's none lower than that."

Barbossa's eyes flashed and he leaned in abruptly, as if to kiss him, but instead he only dropped his voice to something hardly a whisper at all. Something rough and cool and relentless.

"Then we're square, Jack me lad. We're square."

"We're square..."

And Elizabeth was wet and warm in his arms and he was triumphant with his gear returned to him and with freedom beckoning just a rope and tackle away. They would never catch him, not if they had a thousand men and a thousand years between them... because he was Captain Jack Sparrow and that's all there was to it.

But as he tossed the girl at them and went for the rope, the ground shifted beneath him and he half-fell, dizzy as sin, only to suddenly realize that his hands were bound in front of him and he was surrounded by men in red coats and the block was right in front of him. He struggled, but they laid hands on him and bundled him forward as if he were of no weight, right up the stairs and to the waiting noose.

And he couldn't see for a second with the sun dazzling his eyes and, when it finally cleared, he saw faces staring up at him and their eyes were hungry, angry, avid. As if they all had good reason to want to see him hang. As if they hated him, every man jack of them.

"Jack Sparrow," a man stepped forward and started to read from his scroll, "you stand accused..."

Accused, condemned, executed. One, two, three and it were done. Would that he had had only one person to speak up for him.

But hadn't he? Hadn't Norrington said as much?

Over the heads of the crowd, then, he saw the forms of his salvation, but they didn't acknowledge his look at all, let alone the charges that were being read over him. Will, Elizabeth, the Governor and the Commodore. All of them dressed in their best—as if for a ball or some other grand event—all of them cool-eyed and distant, even Will, whose eyes had always before been filled with his own heat.

"Did you think it would be any different?" a voice said. "You're one of ours, mate, not one of theirs."

Jack turned his head to see another man right beside him, standing bound and sullen before his own noose.

It was Twig, and as he looked at him the other man's mouth twisted up into a familiar cruel smile.

"Aye, Captain," he went on. "Tis your fate as much as ours. Brothers we were and brothers we are and none such as they will ever see beyond that."

"Norrington..." he said, but another voice cut him off.

"Norrington, Norrington... aye, an you believed the man? You believed the Governor himself would send you down a pardon? Give ye a last minute reprieve? An who's the fool now, Jack Sparrow."

He turned his head the other way and saw Pintel glaring at him. Before he bared his own yellowed teeth in something almost a smile.

"You're the one who killed me, Captain, much as them," he said. "We've not forgotten that, Jack, nor are we likely to forgive. You think we didn't learn a thing or two about death, being dead for so long. Being trapped, as we were, between this world an the next."

"Aye," Twig muttered. "As we learned a fair thing or two about sufferin'. Be glad to share it with ye, most glad, as you'll most like see once this rope has had its way with ye.

"No," Jack said, but the others were already laughing.

"Oh, aye. Deny it all you like, but you've been promised to us, you see. Promised to us one and all and fair and free. Was Barbossa, himself, swore that once you were dead you'd be ours again."

"Only proper," Pintel added. "After he's had his own fill of ye first, o'course. Been waiting a fair bit longer, he has. An he is the Captain, after all. Entitled to the first spoils."

Jack shook his head, but the man with the scroll had long finished and the executioner was stepping forward, his eyes unreadable beneath his black mask. Fixing the noose first around Twig's neck, before stepping up to him and looping it around his own. And the rope was rough and far too tight already and he couldn't swallow and he couldn't hardly breathe. Sweat trickling down his back as he raised his face to the sky and wished desperately to be anywhere but here. As he heard Twig laugh and laugh and Pintel cursing hard enough to scorch hell itself as the rope were placed around his own thick neck.

No... please...

But hadn't he been here before. Hadn't he been saved?

Over the heads of the waiting crowd, he caught the eye of Will Turner, but the lad was turning away from him. Turning to Elizabeth. And as he watched, the two enfolded each other and kissed, uncaring of any who might see. Of the man who was about to die before them.

And the Governor was nodding and the Commodore had this ever-so-pleased look on his face and then there was a sharp sound and a sudden roar and something both hot and cold poured over him at the same time.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. It hurt, oh Jesus, it hurt...

He awoke with a start, his heart pounding like cannon shot in his chest, his throat tight, and his blood feeling as if it had been set on fire. He rolled over and coughed and coughed over and over again, each effort making his head ache and his heart pound louder. Finally it subsided, but when he opened his eyes at the last he realized that the moon was pouring in through the window and, for a moment, he saw his clothing in tatters, his flesh and skin decayed, his hands as bones.

He shut his eyes tight and, when he opened them again, the vision was gone, but it didn't much help.

He was going to die tomorrow and then it would be true enough. No matter what the Commodore had said, he knew the right of it.

But then it was what he wanted... it was the only way... he believed that as well, didn't he?

Oh yes, he believed it. But it still hurt and it scared him half to death.

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