Passages

Chapter 1

by

Garnet

"There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea,
and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates."
– James Russell Lowell

Jack winced back from it a little, bringing his bound hands up as if they could shield him from the light. Let alone from what was waiting for him this morn. Only to have one of his guards shove him out into the square with an impatient sound. He stumbled and almost fell and they hauled him back up between hard hands.

Almost, he protested, but as his eyes fell on the gallows silhouetted against the fresh dawn, he swallowed his words back.

Not as if there was any use for it, not anymore.

He glanced around as they ruthlessly marched him forward. There was a moderate sized crowd waiting, some of them looking at him as he passed between them, a few with hard enough eyes, but most seeming almost indifferent. But then, mayhap, they were; having witnessed no fewer than thirty some other hangings already in the last week.

Some of the crew of the Pearl had died harder than others, but they all had died.

Commodore Norrington had seen to that. Just as he had seen to the fact that Captain Jack Sparrow would be the last. That he would not have to share this dawn with any other of the condemned.

Jack wasn't sure if he should be flattered by that or not. After so many days alone, in a damp cell without even a window or bars, with only a four stone walls, a stout door, a few rats and the unremitting darkness for company, he wasn't sure of much right now. Except that he did not wish to die. Well, he didn't want to return to that cell either, but he'd take that over the noose any day.

Too bad it didn't look as if they were going to be giving him his choice in the matter.

He closed his eyes for a moment and just let them keep on walking him forward across the square. The land felt as unsteady as it always did beneath his feet and he shivered a little, though not with cold. He had been close to death many times before, but not like this. A bullet, a blade, cannon fire, even drowning... these were the deaths he'd faced in his years at sea. And, to be sure, the threat of the gallows had always hung over him, as it had hung over them all, but he'd never really thought he would end his days on one.

Foolish, perhaps, but there it was.

Just as it had been foolish to hope that his good deeds these past few weeks would have earned him a respite. No surprises there, since it hadn't even earned him a trial.

Jack opened his eyes again and discovered to his dismay that they were already at the block. He stared at the steps, then looked up at the man waiting at the top of them. Implacable eyes gazed back at him from the depths of a black hood. As they had stared, no doubt, at dozens, if not hundreds, of the Brethren before him.

His two guards pulled at him, but he resisted them for a few seconds. Enough to make his point, before he freely placed his foot on the first step. He took the rest of them with equal aplomb thereafter, as if he were actually pleased to be going where he was going. Even though his heart was shuddering in his chest, his stomach twisting into tighter and tighter knots inside him.

Another man was waiting for him there as well. His wig slightly askew, as if he'd been waked from bed entirely too early, and a roll of paper tucked beneath one arm. He looked at Jack and his lip turned up slightly, the bridge of his nose crinkling as if he'd smelled something bad, then he turned away and walked to the front of the block. Playing to his audience, no doubt.

They took Jack to the other end and left him standing there, the shadow of the rope directly before him. He glanced at it, then through it. Over the heads of the waiting crowd.

He saw Elizabeth first. Lovely as a dream in gold and cream. She seemed to be looking right at him, as well, but he couldn't see her expression very well from this distance. She stood next to her father, the Governor, but he wasn't looking at either Jack or her daughter. Instead, he had his head bent towards the man on his other side.

Norrington. And Jack could feel the weight of that cool gaze even from across the square.

Though he could only speculate at what the other man must be feeling right now. A sense of satisfaction, at the very least. Both at having won the hand, if not the heart, of the woman standing near him and at seeing him delivered to the noose at long last.

The very noose that the somber man in the hood was stepping forward to put about his neck. It was rough and entirely too real and he found he couldn't hardly breathe already. That fear was a heavy weight in his chest, his head almost dizzy with it. Most men would be praying or cursing at this point, but he felt the urge for neither.

Instead, he found the image of the Black Pearl filling his mind. Not the way she had been the last time he'd seen her, but how she had looked ten years or more ago. How she had felt beneath his hands. The sound of the wind filling her sails and the waves lapping at her hull. The way she used to rock him to sleep.

The speed of her as she chased the elusive sky.

It gave him at least a small portion of peace that he couldn't have expected to know at this point. Even though his heart continued to thunder in his chest, and he was feeling more than a little sick to his stomach.

The man with the crooked wig unrolled a scroll and began to read, but Jack was only half-listening. After all, he'd heard most of these charges before and there was truth enough to most of them. Though a few had come from stories that had grown over the years, some until he could barely recognize them himself. Let alone that he had been the author of the original tale.

Yes, he had smuggled and flown false colors, but his plundering had always been accomplished in a gentlemanly enough manner—with as little loss of life as possible—and there was a fine line between what some might consider looting and others simply taking advantage of some man's bad turn of fortune. As for the charge of arson, that had been an accident pure and simple and kidnapping was such a harsh term, completely out of keeping with the circumstances. Poaching and pilfering he hadn't a clue about. But as for impersonating a cleric of the church, well, that was only half the story and he wasn't about to lay claim to the rest. Not under present company, anyhow.

Though the thought of it did make him smile. A smile which the hangman didn't return.

But then that officious man was done and the other was stepping forward to the lever and the drums were beating fast and faster and he wasn't ready and there was no more time and he didn't want to die, not like this, not today...

Oh, please... no... run me through, shoot me, anything but the noose...

The sound of raised voices caught his attention even through the fear and he glanced down at the expectant crowd. A man with a fancy feathered hat and a naked sword was roughly trying to push his way through it, and a sudden surge of hope and despair fired his belly as he realized that it was Will Turner.

But it was late, too late, and he turned his head away from the lad as he saw the hoodsman's hand on the lever. As he yanked it back.

And the world dropped away beneath him.

The pain was sudden, compressive, cutting through his head sharp as any blade. And now all he could feel was the blood shuddering in his throat, the bite of the rope against it, as his lungs sucked on nothing and nothing came to fill them. He was dimly aware that his eyes were still open, that he could see blue skies spinning far above him, that his feet were kicking and dangling over nothingness, but none of that mattered.

Panic beat at him like frantic wings, rushed through him black and black, a spinning whirling roar that drowned out everything else before it. He tried to fight it, but it was relentless, all consuming, utterly without mercy.

Dimly, he was aware of his fingers twitching in their bonds, of his whole body struggling against the rough grip of the noose. Struggling for just one more breath. But he couldn't get away and it just wouldn't stop and he couldn't breathe... he couldn't breathe...

But then, ever so distantly, he heard a voice calling out his name and somehow he managed to open his eyes a little and, as through a thick veil, he saw Will standing there below him. The lad was disarmed and completely surrounded by a sea of soldiers in their red coats, yet still he was struggling for all he was worth.

His face stricken and his eyes burning.

Ah, lad...

Pride and regret surged through him and, for one brief precious moment, the pain and panic eased the tiniest bit. But even as his eyes met Will's, that veil was growing ever thicker, darkness narrowing his vision down and down to one single bright spark. A spark that he clung to as the rushing poured through him fast and faster. A terrible sound that finally stole even that last point of light from him. Leaving him nothing but this hollow impotent clutching in his chest, this cruel pain, and the terrible weight of his own dying flesh pressing down on him.

Black and bleak and relentless.

And then no more.

***

Even now, standing here across from the very scaffold set up to take his life, she was still arguing for mercy for the other man. Mercy for a pirate. For Jack Sparrow.

It was more than enough to give his stomach ill humors, but that he hadn't had the appetite to break his fast with even a piece of bread before making his way down to the square. For which it was now favoring him with a sourness that filled his throat as well.

What was it about this man, that normally reasonable and respectable people could not see what a brigand and scoundrel he was. What a worthless cause. No man who freely chose to sail beneath the black flag merited such loyalty as the Governor's daughter seemed to be showing him, let alone an ounce of compassion. His own opinion had never swayed, his regard for those who willingly chose to flout authority and the King's law. No matter the charm of the lawbreaker, himself. No matter that he had aided them somewhat in their struggles with the cursed crew of that dark ship.

A short drop and a sudden stop. Well he knew that it was all any such men deserved. Let alone one Jack Sparrow, a man with a distinct lack of repentance in his soul and probably many more crimes to his name as were now being read aloud. Who, even now, was smiling at his own executioner, as if it were of no matter to him that it was his own neck about to be stretched.

Norrington heard the Governor arguing with his daughter—as they had been arguing for a good week now—and bowed his head as Swann told her, yet again, that they were both bound by the law in this matter.

She kept insisting that they were wrong. And he knew that she was misled in her belief—too tender hearted by far was his Elizabeth, and most probably at the mercy of having succumbed in mind, if not in body, to the honeyed words of very pirate standing on the block this moment—but still...

He raised his head again, forcing himself to stand straight, even though his stomach roiled once more. He fought back a shiver and the increasing cold in his veins made him wonder if he were in danger of coming down with a fever. Though, most likely, he was simply in need of rest; he hadn't slept overly well for at least a fortnight now and last night had been no exception.

He remembered naught of his dreams, but he woke filled with dread of them. Aware only that he had just barely escaped from some darkness, from something which hunted in the darkness.

Not even a posset had cured him of that fear, let alone of his exhaustion.

But then Will Turner was suddenly standing there before him and he looked well enough. His eyes were bright as he glanced up at them, a jaunty new cap on his head and one of his own swords strapped to his belt. As if he'd turned from blacksmith to bravo in just one night.

Still, Turner was polite enough as he greeted both him and the Governor. But his face betrayed something rather more as he turned at last to Elizabeth. Something that had never been there before—a clarity of purpose, a daring as sharp as the edge he put to those blades he made—and Norrington abruptly realized this was no lad before him now, no more a mere apprentice, but a man.

A man who was telling his own betrothed that he loved her. That he had always loved her.

Before he turned and began to push his way through the crowd.

And that sick feeling in his own stomach—which had worsened at Turner's confession—suddenly shifted to a purpose of his own as he realized the younger man's intent.

Did everyone who consorted with Sparrow simply lose their minds, or were there more dire forces at work here than that?

He stepped forward and began to call for the marines, only to have Elizabeth whisper that she couldn't breathe and then she was on the ground and he turned back to her. Her face was pale and her eyes closed and her skirts sprawled around her and though he heard shouts behind him, knew that Turner was still charging towards the gallows, he couldn't do more than gape at her.

Remembering his own failure that morning on the wall of the fort. How she had nearly died that day, and he had done nothing to aid her.

Leaving her instead to the tender mercies of a pirate, the very pirate he was about to have hung.

But then the drums stopped and Elizabeth herself shot up, her mouth open and her eyes wide, and he knew that he'd been duped. That he'd been a fool. And something closed tight inside him, something fragile, something helpless, leaving only the cold behind.

Norrington turned away from her, pulling his sword as he ran down the steps. He began to shout for his men, only to discover that they had done what he had not been able to. They had hold of Will Turner, just a few steps away from the foot of the scaffold, and his eyes moved from there up to the man struggling in the grip of the rope right over his head.

Jack Sparrow.

That smiling face showing only pain now, a terrible desperation, a look that did not sit well on him at all. A look that shocked Norrington to the core. As did the sudden sense of regret and guilt that flooded through him.

What had he done...

Jack's feet kicked at the wind and he looked away before he could stop himself. Unable to watch that dreadful dance, to watch the other man die. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head bowed under the weight of both law and mute responsibility, then opened them again and forced himself to look for the same reasons.

It was the least he could do. To witness what his own hands had wrought.

But the pirate had already gone quiet and somehow, that sight was even worse. As if it was a crime against nature for him to be to very silent, so very still.

Slowly, feeling the weight of all his years in that moment, Norrington walked towards the scaffold. The crowd seemed to part before him and he finally realized his sword was still in hand, still raised, and he sheathed it with an impatient gesture. Finally, he stood near his own men—Gillette turning to him with an obvious question on his face, with one hand on Will Turner's shoulder—but he could only shake his head at him.

Before glancing back up at the gallows.

Dead, Jack Sparrow seemed so small somehow, almost impossibly so, and Norrington found himself suddenly, irrationally, wondering if it was but yet another trick of the man. That he had been duped in this as well. But as he looked at that body swinging slowly from the end of its rope, at the white face, leeched of both life and color, he realized that the light of the dawn seemed to have gone with him. That the sky was suddenly overcast, gone a flat grey, and even now a cold wind was rising up off the ocean. Reeking of salt and other less savory things.

Even the soldiers standing around in their normally brilliant scarlet and white uniforms seemed dulled and subdued. As subdued as the now silent William Turner standing in their grip. As he stared up at the gallows with this singularly lost expression on his face.

Until the younger man looked at him instead and his expression changed to something more akin to hatred. Though he said nothing, nothing at all.

"Sir?" Gillette asked, glancing briefly and pointedly at the younger man.

Norrington forced himself to meet that caustic gaze.

"Lock Mister Turner up," he ordered at the last, amazed to find his own voice steady, as calm as if nothing untoward had just happened. "Let's see if a night or two spent in the cells will bring him to his senses."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant bobbed his head and gestured at the other men holding Will.

As they began hauling him away, Norrington glanced back through the dissipating crowd and saw the Governor put a hand on his daughter's arm to stop her from stepping down into the square. As he stopped her from going after the smith. She started to shrug her father off, but then stopped and her gaze abruptly turned towards him. Her eyes far too bright and this terrible expression of disappointment and sorrow on her lovely face.

Right before she raised her chin and, slowly and quite deliberately, turned away from him.

It began to rain even as she disappeared back into the fort, her father following her with this helpless expression on his face, and Norrington raised his face to the droplets. It was colder than it should have been—almost like the rain he remembered as a young man in England—and he began to shiver in earnest as the heavens opened themselves up completely.

Thunder rolled, louder than any drum had ever been, louder even than cannon fire, and through the mist of steadily falling rain he saw the two men who worked with the headsman move to take the pirate's body down. He stepped back, but then couldn't make himself move any further. Even to seek shelter from the sudden deluge.

From that cutting wind.

The rope broke with a snap and the body fell hard to the paving stones. It fell before either of them could catch it.

And Norrington found himself holding his own breath as he saw that Sparrow's eyes were still slightly open, though nothing intelligent showed in their black depths now.

Nothing but more emptiness. That unmistakable quietude of flesh and spirit that marked the loss of whatever had once moved it. One painted bead lay across the pirate's cheek, too bright against the pale skin, and his mouth was parted as well, his teeth glinting gold against lips that had turned an ever so faint shade of blue.

But someone had come up to his side, was talking to him, and he tore his eyes away from the man on the ground before him.

"Yes?"

"Sir." Gillette's face was wet with rain, but delighted for all that. As if he'd taken a personal glee in what had just transpired. "I was inquiring as the disposition of the body. What with this storm, it might be best to wait till the morrow to take it down to Deadman's Cay. It needs tarring first, of course, anyway."

"No," Norrington replied. A twinge of something almost approaching pain went through him as he saw the headsman bend down near Jack, as he began stripping the pirate of his boots. It was no more than his due, but still... he couldn't bear to watch it.

He looked back up at the fort. At the rain-shrouded figures of his men on the battlements, the hollow mouths of the waiting cannons. Gillette moved a little closer and suddenly he smelled the every so faint scent of lavender and realized that water was running down his face, that his wig was soaked, his coat damp, and that he didn't want to remain here one moment more. But the other officer just wouldn't let it go.

"Sir? You wish it done today?" Eager, still so eager. "If so, I can... "

"No." Norrington interrupted him, his tone harsher than he wished it to be. With an effort that seemed to take what remained of his strength, he moderated his tone. "No, I would have him buried. Take as many men as you need and see to it yourself. Let him keep what remains of his dignity."

Gillette frowned, but obedience was too strongly engrained in him for him to continue the argument.

Norrington glanced back at the gallows and saw that they had cut the rope from Jack's wrists now, that one of his hands was lying loose on the ground near him. Palm upturned, fingers slightly bent. As if reaching for something. Or someone. There was still dirt under his nails, but it was a fine enough hand for all that. A hand that had once moved so very gracefully, as if in a dance all its own.

He swallowed hard, damning his own errant imagination, then shook his head as one of the men went to take the compass from the pirate's belt. They would take that silver ring as well from his hand, the beads and bangles from his hair, and the gold from his mouth if one did not put stop to it. It was no more than they had done to the rest and the items in question were most probably stolen goods already, what good to lay them in the ground with the very thief who had taken them, but he had quite enough of thievery today.

"Leave it," he ordered.

The man glanced up, staring at him in evident surprise at being interrupted. And then Gillette, who finally took his cue, stepped forward.

"The compass," the lieutenant said. "Give it to me."

The other man handed it up to Gillette, who then turned and gave it over to his own hand. The dark wood was slick, almost oddly so, but he folded his fingers close around it and only then realized that he did, in fact, desire to keep it.

"Anything else, sir?" Gillette inquired.

He shook his head. "Just take care that nothing else of his is removed. We are not so desperate for a few baubles, Leftenant, as to take them from the dead. Unlike the men we hang."

"Yes, sir," the other man replied. His eyes were still puzzled, but he gestured at the other two men and they stood and stepped away. One of them turned a sullen look upon him, but he returned the gaze until the other man's eyes dropped. A coward then, except when it came to looting the dead.

Though he found he himself could no more look at the body anymore than he could seem to stop his fingers from stroking across the compass in his hand. Broken it may be, but it had once been valued. As this man had been valued, even if that regard had been born of an overabundance of charm and a definite lack of proper sense, of necessary misgivings.

Ah, God... he was a fool and more than a fool...

This would all make sense once he had gotten a good night's sleep. What mattered was that one more pirate had met his Maker and was even now being adjudged to the depths of Hell. Jack Sparrow had been no better and no worse than any of the rest who'd ended their days here. It was only his own weariness that had seemed to make of it more than that.

That, and Elizabeth's obvious machinations. Turner's declaration. It was clear to him now that they loved each other and that he would get no good of marrying the woman. Her heart already belonged to another and he would take no man's leavings.

Still, something twisted deep inside him, something sharp as shattered glass, as broken bone, and he winced away from it. Forced himself to swallow down the rising tide of his nausea.

"See to it immediately," Norrington repeated, giving Gillette one more sharp glance. "In the meantime, I shall be retiring for the day. If any urgent dispatches come in, please have them sent to my apartments immediately."

"Sir."

He gave the empty gallows once more look, then turned away before his eyes could fall to the man lying on the ground below them. Knowing himself a coward in that moment, but unable to do otherwise.

That open hand...

Yes, yes, a drink, perhaps another posset, a good night's sleep, and then all would be well. Even if all his fondest dreams had been dashed. His greatest hope for a kind wife, a warm and welcoming home, children to carry on the family name. Even if he had to be alone forever more or settle for less than he might have wished for.

Even if those damned dreams came back again and again.

No matter, he knew full well that he would eventually overcome them, banish them back to the depths where they belonged. Do what he had to do. After all, he was a sworn officer of the greatest naval force in all the known world and, more than that, he was a gentleman and an honorable man and he could win through this. He had to. It was the only life he knew.

It was the only life there was.

***

The Pearl rolled with the waves, icy water crashing across her decks, her tattered sails screaming with power of the gales.

Bone manned her rigging, stood at her wheel. Men, but not men. Their eyes gleaming as they stood upon her decks, uncaring of the waves rushing over them, uncaring of the storm. As if it could not really touch them.

He stood among them and bone shown through his own rotted clothing.

He held up his hands before him and they were bone as well, yellowed as if he'd been years dead. While the ring on his finger was tarnished, the gem stolen from its setting. Or lost somewhere, perhaps to pay for this very passage.

If not two gold coins, then he doubted not that a ruby would do. It was the color of blood, after all.

"Well met, Jack," a familiar voice said. Despite the sound of the storm, he could hear the words quite clearly. As he could hear how self-possessed the other man was, how very pleased. As if he had only but tarried here, just to finally see the fruits of his labor made manifest.

A hand fell on his shoulder then and he turned beneath its naked grip to see Barbossa smile right at him. And worm eaten or not, it still had the power to make him shudder.

***

He wanted to be alone.

He wanted the pain to go away.

But as he stared into the flames, he kept seeing familiar faces. Elizabeth's, Will's... even Jack's.

He kept remembering the oddest things—the scent of Elizabeth's hair, how the shift had clung to her that day on the docks, the moment when she had sworn to be his. The look in her eyes when she'd turned away from him. No apology could ever mend what had gone amiss between them. No words could make her love him more and love Will Turner less.

As for Will... he both envied and resented him. A brash young man with his whole life yet ahead of him, a man who obviously had an unsullied belief that love could and would conquer all. And, maybe it could for him, since Elizabeth clearly had been moved by his declaration.

Elizabeth had been willing to marry him in order to keep Turner safe. As Turner had been willing to die to rescue the pirate from his fate on the gallows. To die for what he believed in, even if those self same beliefs were quite patently false ones.

Or were they?

Jack Sparrow had done all that he had sworn himself to do. And, more than that, he had rescued Elizabeth from the sea that day—without thought, one must imagine, as to the dire consequences it may have on his own life and liberty. Of course, he had then used her to further his own escape, but that did not mitigate the selflessness of the initial act.

Pirates lied. Pirates were dishonorable. Pirates took advantage when and wherever they could. But Jack had not lied when he said he'd send out Barbossa's men to meet their doom at the guns of the Dauntless. And, more telling still, Jack had forborne taking advantage of Elizabeth when they had been trapped together on that small island, when he would have had any reason to do otherwise.

For that alone, he should have suspected the essential honor of the man. But he had not. He had mistrusted him, and it had nearly cost him the Dauntless. Just as it appeared now that Jack's execution had cost him Elizabeth. Well, that and the fact that Turner had finally found the courage to be the man he always could have been. To speak his mind.

Both of which, he doubted the younger man would have ever done if he had not spent time with Sparrow.

Norrington drained the last of the brandy from his glass and rose to get more. The blanket fell at his feet and he nearly stumbled over it and had to put out a hand to catch himself, only then realizing that he was actually more than slightly drunk. Not that he ever got drunk. To overindulge was the sin of the lesser man, and he had never been one to see the smallest bit of good in it. Drink could not makes one's troubles go away; it only allowed you to fool yourself into thinking that you could forget about them for a little while.

For certain, even the best brandy could not undo what had been done.

Still, he went over to the sideboard and poured out another glassful. Then stood by the window for a long time, forcing himself to but sip at it this time, watching as a great golden moon began to rise over the hills beyond the curve of the bay.

The storm had broken up at the last, leaving a soft night sky behind. A few distant stars. The faint glimmer of the waves as they washed upon the shore and rocked the few ships currently at anchor. The place where the Interceptor should have been was like a hollow ache inside him, only slightly assuaged by the passage of near on a month since her loss. She had not been the first ship he'd ever lost, nor was it likely that she would be the last, but she had been a lovely little vessel and he had enjoyed putting to sea in her far more than commanding the Dauntless.

She had been his one guilty pleasure, and now that was gone as well.

Damn the man, anyway. Damn them all.

He threw back the rest of the brandy and was about to pour himself another, when his eyes fell on the compass. It was sitting on his desk, next to his discarded wig and hat, and he found himself immediately drawn back to it. Again, he ran his fingers across that worn black wood, then slowly opened it up.

The needle was pointing to the west, as if to mark the ascendancy of the moon.

It was useless.

But it had been his and now it was all that remained of one Captain Jack Sparrow. A broken compass and an ill assorted collection of memories.

And he could not have done otherwise, the Governor had had the truth of it—the law was the law, and Sparrow had been condemned to hang long before he'd ever met the man—but that could not explain his reaction to the pirate's death. That could not explain why he had felt such a sense of wrongness at seeing him lying there, never more to laugh, to smile, to offer his hands for the irons as if it were but some great joke between them.

Life was not a game and death even less so, but Sparrow hadn't seemed to know that.

Though well he must know now. Now that it was much too late.

Norrington sighed and closed the compass with a definitive snap. He set it back down on his desk, then went in pursuit of a posset and perhaps a bit of bread and broth to settle his stomach and all the brandy he had drunk.

***

Something thick and solid lay across his face like a leaden veil and it was in his nose and mouth as well, black and cloying and dense. He fought to turn over, to sit up, but the weight held him down, impossibly heavy on his arms and legs and chest, heavier still upon his face. It felt as if he was being slowly crushed and with each breath he fought to take the sensation only grew worse.

His hands clenched on the darkness and he struggled harder, desperation driving him to twist and strain upwards even against that impossible weight and finally something seemed to reluctantly give way before him. And he could hear the blood rushing through his veins now, pounding behind his eyes and in his throat. It hurt and he hurt and the darkness around him had turned damp, was slipping through his fingers, gritty and slick upon his skin.

Then one hand broke through to emptiness and the veil surrounding him tore completely. Releasing him from the dark, from whatever had held him captive.

And air rushed into his straining lungs, fresh and pure and the best he had ever known.

Jack took one breath, two, then his stomach surged and yet more blackness came spewing out of him, his whole body twisting with each spasm. It was foul in his mouth, rancid, and it was only slowly that he became aware that it was dirt and mud and blood that he was tasting. Along with other things which he didn't care to speculate on.

His stomach finally eased a little and he managed to push himself up. He scrubbed at his face, finding more mud caked across his nose and eyes, then slowly blinked them open. For a moment, it was as if there was naught but darkness here as well—wherever here was—and then something bright caught his eye.

He glanced up, the abrupt movement making his head spin and his gut clench once more, but he swallowed hard and eventually his vision cleared. Enough to see that it was the moon he was looking at. The night sky. Cloudless and serene. And, lovely though it was, it didn't make any sense.

Nothing made sense, not even when he looked around and saw that he was kneeling over a mound of dirt, with yet more mounds of dirt around him. The rocky edge of an outcropping in the hillside lay several yards away, lined by trees and brush, and, beyond that, yet more rocks fell away sharply until they met the sea below. The water looking as calm as the sky above, glowing silver with reflected moonlight.

A rough path curved down to his left, and he could see small points of light there. He could see the faint outlines of distant buildings, as well, and what looked like a part of a harbor beyond. It seemed familiar and yet, at the same time, completely unfamiliar. But then nothing seemed clear right now. Least of all, his own memories.

There had been a storm and the Pearl and bones... but there had been soldiers there as well, and a man looking up at him... as something grew tight about his throat, so very tight... a noose...

Jack reached up and touched his neck, almost expecting to feel the ghostly echo of the rope there, but there was nothing and his throat hurt no worse than the rest of him. Though it should have, it should...

He frowned and closed his eyes, bowing his head a little. What had happened to him? What was happening to him? Everything seemed so muddled in his head. He had taken AnaMaria's little boat and found himself in Port Royal. There had been a girl, fallen into the sea from up the fort, and he had gone in after her. Elizabeth... that was it, that was her name...

And she had been taken by the Pearl. And her young swain had come to him, wanting his aid in rescuing her. Bootstrap's boy, Will, though none of them had ever suspected before that the man had had a child, let alone that he was in the Caribees now. And there had been gold and a curse and... that was it, all those bones, the men of the Pearl, his former crew. The whole mutinous lot of them had been dead men by moonlight, dead men looking to end their cursed existence.

He had fought Barbossa, of that he was suddenly sure. And then... and then...

He remembered pain and caught his breath, putting a hand to his chest. Cold, he had felt so cold, and Will and Elizabeth had been there, fighting with men made of bones, and Barbossa had laughed at him... had said something about judgment day... about all his sins, his crimes... the Pearl sailing away... leaving him alone, leaving him with Elizabeth... leaving nothing but dark and mists...

Jack folded up around himself, gasping as he forced the memories back, his head hurting so badly now that he couldn't hardly bear it. He ran his fingers up through his hair and they caught and tangled in braids full of jangling beads and dirt, on the tattered edge of a scarf. Desperately, he tore the piece of cloth off and pressed his fingers hard and harder to his skull, even though they hurt as well. They ached from tearing himself out of the ground.

Bones, and he had been bones and bones he yet remained.

And this before him... he knew it for a grave now. His own grave.

How had he gotten here? What had happened?

The feel of the noose came back to him and now one memory did come clear—seeing Will Turner staring up at him, seeing mute horror in his eyes.

Jack raised his head and looked back up at the moon, then glanced down at himself. Flesh he was and flesh he remained, but if he had been hung—if he had died, only to be brought back somehow—then shouldn't the moonlight show him for what he was? But it didn't feel the same as before, he could feel...

He put a hand to his chest and felt his heart beating. "Well, that's interesting," he said at the last.

"Exactly what we thought," a voice replied. A man stepped out of the shadows of the trees and the rocks, followed by another and another, near thirty men in all he thought. Most of them had dirt in their hair and torn clothing and one or two were covered with mud from head to foot. But still, he recognized them.

"You're supposed to be dead," he commented.

"Aye," Pintel replied, his best mate standing just behind him, that one wooden eye staring off into the middle distance. "We are. And so are you, Jack Sparrow. Dead and buried."

"Well, that would explain all the dirt, then," Jack said.

***

Feeling entirely vexed with himself and the world, Norrington put a shirt and breeches on, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots back on. His sword followed next, though he bothered with neither wig nor hat. The same as he didn't bother with the lamp; the moonlight pouring in through the windows provided more than enough illumination to see by. Which may have been part of the problem. Nights like this reminded him far too much of things he'd sooner forget; and even if he could sleep, odds were that he would only awaken again, rather worse for wear and for the dreams that haunted him these days.

Some fresh air sounded good at the moment. And, barring that, a turn at his desk. A few hours hard work could do wonders, and goodness knows he had enough papers to wade through at the moment. Since becoming a Commodore, his means had increased but so had the amount of time he had to spend reading and formulating letters, lists, and requests. Even taking into account the little jaunt with the Dauntless in pursuit of Miss Swann and a none too jolly assortment of pirates.

The house was silent around him, so silent that he almost felt like a thief as he crept down the hall and the back stairs, turning left at the bottom into the kitchens. The servant's door there opened directly into the cook's garden and, after re-latching the door behind him, he made his escape through the cabbages and turnips. The iron gate beyond had been freshly greased and opened smoothly onto the road. He locked the gate behind him as well, then paused to stare up at the fort.

From this vantage point, he could only see a corner of it and for a moment he remembered the way it had looked the night that the Black Pearl had sailed into the bay and taken aim at the stone walls. When the night had been lit with fire and the moon covered by thick black smoke as much as by the evening's clouds.

The fort had survived the pounding fairly well, all things considered, but they were still making repairs even today. Just as the town itself was still rebuilding after the attack. Less hard to replace—or explain—was the grave loss of life and the empty place at the dock where the swiftest ship in the West Indies should have been at anchor.

Though, obviously, that claim had turned out to be rather more fancy than fact.

As the pirate's curse had turned out to be more fact than fancy.

Suddenly, he didn't wish to go up to the fort either. Especially since he would have to walk across the square where the scaffolding still stood. Where he had watched a man die this very morning. Not to mention the fact that, even now, young Will Turner was residing in the cells for the presumption of attempting to thwart that very act.

He hadn't yet decided whether or not he wished to bring charges against the smith. Though, no doubt, it wasn't entirely in his hands anyway. The Governor had already pardoned the man once, for far more grievous acts to be sure, and unless he had mistaken Elizabeth's responses this morn, she and the younger man would be announcing their banns soon enough. A small thing like being a lawbreaker couldn't stand in the way of that.

The Governor may have preferred a Commodore of the Fleet for his daughter, rather than a common smithy—and one with dubious breeding to boot—but anyone in Port Royal who knew Elizabeth and her father knew that, at least in matters of home and heart, she always won her way eventually. Even as a small child. And she had only grown more stubborn since.

Norrington started down the road towards town. There would be marines on guard down on the docks and he could always spend some time inspecting them. It would give him something to do and it would also serve the purpose of keeping his men alert, especially if they began to believe that their commanding officer could turn up at any moment to check on them, even if it was near on the middle of the night.

Especially if it were near on the middle of the night. After all, pirates knew no timetable but their own and the Pearl's attack had been all the more devastating for that. Though, come to think of it, he had been awake then as well, though for rather different reasons.

One of which had been Elizabeth Swann and the other Jack Sparrow.

A woman who would no longer look at him, and all because of a man he would never see the likes of again in this world. Not that he should want to. Despite the empty feeling that had surged up inside him at the sight of that lifeless body.

No, honestly, he couldn't think about that either. Not tonight. Not when he had lost so very much, and had so very little to show for it.

To put it simply, life was unfair all round.

***

Better that than the taste that had been in his mouth.

As hereafters went, this one was turning out to be rather less than he had expected. Or rather more. Of course, this could still be Hell, but if it were, then Hell looked an awful lot like the back alleyways of Port Royal and smelt like them, too.

Jack stepped over a dead cat, then found himself pulled back into the brawny arms of the man following him.

"Shhh..." Someone whispered in his ear, Bo'sun by the sound of it. By the feel of it, too, since the man was half-squeezing the life out of him.

He looked up and saw that they were near the docks and that all the pirates had paused, Pintel with his hand up as he peered around the farthest corner.

This looked to be a good time to try and escape, except for a few small details. One, he was vastly outnumbered and, two, he had nowhere to go if he could manage to lose them somewhere in Port Royal. Somehow, he just couldn't see himself walking up to the smithy or the Governor's house and announcing his presence. Hulloo, Captain Jack Sparrow here and, by the by, did I happen to mention that I'm just a wee bit dead this fine day.

So pay no mind if ye please that I'm here bare of foot because the hangman has me boots now, if not the rest of me effects and, yes, lest we forget, never no mind the reek o' the bone yard if ye would as well—oh, aye, they would set him a place at their table first thing and pour him out the guest's glass.

An here's our good friend, Jack, late from the grave, but not too late for dinner.

Pintel glanced back, then gestured at them to move forward. Bo'sun kept a tight grip on his arm as they walked out into the narrow street beyond. A few lanterns drove the shadows back, but not enough, especially as they went down the slight slope beyond. One last squeeze between two buildings and the shore was directly ahead of them.

The sand gleamed white and wet by the light of the moon, and silver gilded the masts and rigging of the dozen or more boats tied up to the docks. Down at the far end, the Navy dock—where he had once made his escape from and where that lovely little ship, the Interceptor, had once been at berth—he could see the faint outline of men standing guard. Their red and white uniforms were faded to near grey and black in the dark.

But then he was being dragged past some stacked boxes and barrels and down onto the sands. Five smaller boats were pulled up past the high tide mark and the pirates took hold of them and shoved them down into the water, put the oars out. Jack paused to glance back up at the town, but Bo'sun frowned at him and the next moment the much larger man was hoisting him up over his shoulder, all as if he were a sack of grain.

It was an uncomfortable position and he suddenly felt more than slightly dizzy. It didn't help when he was rather unceremoniously dumped into the nearest boat and pushed down into the bottom. Where he made the company of several fish more than a few days dead and a soggy partially chewed blanket that smelled strongly of dog.

There were a few whispered words over his head, then he felt the sweeps begin to pull at the water. Buccaneers were the best oarsmen in the sea when they wished to be, when there was something to be gained of it, and tonight was no exception. There was just the smallest sound as they strove through the water, a soft splash here and there—something that could easily be mistaken for the sound of a fish breaking the surface—and barely perceptible grunts of strain and effort.

Not that he himself could see anything; every time he attempted to lift his head or to shift to a more comfortable position, large hands cuffed the back of his head and then shoved him back down. Finally, he just clenched his teeth around the gag and settled in for the wait, and was eventually rewarded when he felt the gentle bump of the hull up against another.

Fingers closed on his hair and hauled him back, and he glanced up to see the massive stern of the Dauntless looming over them. The others were already climbing up her side, using odd bits of rope and finger and toeholds that he swore no one should have been able to use. Not that he and Will had found it much trouble to climb aboard her, though they had been forced to do it in broad daylight.

Of course, they had only made a pretense out of commandeering the ship. He suspected his old mates were quite a bit more serious about taking her. After all, they had just barely been thwarted in the attempt before. He rather doubted that a full compliment of marines would be aboard her tonight however, especially so close to the guns of the fort.

First, the Interceptor and now the Dauntless—the Commodore would be fit to be tied at the rate of which he was losing the ships under his command.

Not that Jack could muster all that much pity for the man. He would insist on making mortal enemies of every pirate he ran across, even those who quite honestly wished him little enough ill will. Still, as a rope slithered down towards them, and Bo'sun pushed him forward towards it, he wondered if he shouldn't make some attempt at least to raise the alarm, to thwart his fellows in their efforts. After all, the former crew of the Pearl had every reason to wish him more than a modicum of ill will.

And he had already hanged once for his crimes. What more harm could he come to under the doubtful largess of Commodore and Crown.

It went against the grain, though, considering bringing aid to those who had laid him low. And the man even now chucking him head-down over his shoulder and taking hold of the rope seemed quite disinclined to give him any chance of making any such attempt even if he wanted to.

Bo'sun had never been a great thinker, but once he got an idea fixed in his head it was the very devil to shake him loose of it.

Jack narrowed his eyes as the large man began to climb, the black moon-silvered waters swaying dizzily beneath them, his own blood pounding quick time in his head. Odd thoughts swam through his head, making him feel even more woozy. Would he drown if he were dropped? Despite not being bone by the light of the moon, this time, despite being able to feel pain, were they immortal once more? Of course, his feet were not tied, so he imagined if he did not, in fact, drown like any other man that he could always walk out, walk back to shore.

Oh, aye. That would do. Find a blade to split his remaining bonds. Steal a ship of his own. And sail far away from both Navy and Brethren both.

Gods' bells, for all that, he might even be able to persuade Will Turner to go with him. After all, the lad could not be in the good graces of the law at the moment. Not after his attempt to save a condemned man from the block. He may well be glad to be quit of this place, and better still if they could persuade the lovely Elizabeth to accompany them. She would make a grand pirate. He had very little doubt of that. But then she was the daughter of a nobleman and behind every nobleman, if you went back far enough in the family line, you would find the very blood of cutthroats and thieves and swindlers.

How else had they come by their wealth and their land alike? Their ancestors had simply been rather more successful pirates.

He judged they were more than half way up the stern now and Jack clenched his teeth and began to struggle, twisting himself against the other man's body. Deciding he would take his chances with the sea and his little plan; after all, Dame Fortune had served him well more than once. But Bo'sun must have been waiting for him to try something, because the man immediately paused in his climb and then a great roundhouse fist caught him hard in the small of his back. Once, twice, three times, driving all the air from his lungs and making him dizzy with pain and shock.

His stomach rose and he desperately swallowed down spit and bile. Blackness sparking through his head, edging around his vision. Gods, but that hurt.

Dimly then, as if from some great distance, he realized that the other man was moving steadily upwards once more, as if nothing untoward had happened. As if it had been the matter of no moment to pummel him into submission. But then Bo'sun had never had much respect for any man he did not fear, and he had never truly been afraid of his former captain.

But then Jack had not wanted his own men to fear him. He had simply trusted them and had expected that trust in return. He had been a fool then, and worse than a fool. Would that he could ever stop paying for that mistake...

Jack's stomach roiled again when he was finally dumped rather unceremoniously onto the deck. He started to roll over, to try and sit up—his only thought in that moment to try and make it back over the side after all, down into the waiting waters—but a big hand dug into his hair and pulled his head back sharply, and then Bo'sun was frowning down at him, looking more than a trifle annoyed. His own dark gaze narrowing even as his other hand moved to cover the entire lower half of Jack's face.

Before his thumb and forefinger abruptly pinched his nose tight shut.

Jack fought again, but there was no use to it. Bo'sun was simply too strong. Indeed, his very efforts seemed more an amusement to him than anything else. And all too soon he found himself slumping in the other man's arms as the smothering blackness returned tenfold, and with it the sharp memory of struggling against the noose. Of waking to find himself trapped beneath the ground. Fighting and straining for a breath which never came, which was denied him yet again.

A man could get heartily tired of this...

But then even that thought faded away, as the moon poured pale through the rigging and furled sails of the Dauntless, as it poured full into his eyes, drowning the last lingering shreds of his awareness as well.

***

He inspected their ranks, finding little to fault them of, then walked past them and down the planking to the point where the Interceptor would have been. Where only empty waters remained greeted him now. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the feel of her beneath his feet, the ready way she had always took to the seas, then raised his gaze to the skies above. Taking in a deep lingering breath, before letting it out equally slowly.

Still, it was a lovely night and the air itself was especially fresh and clean—a benefit, no doubt, of the sudden storm which had just passed through—and he watched the moon as it slowly climbed higher against a brilliant scattering of stars. It tinged the waves below with faint traceries of silver and cast a long reflection of itself across the bay to the open waters beyond.

And Norrington felt a sharp surge of mingled pain and desire run through him at the sight. What he wouldn't give to just take ship and set sail in this moment, to feel those clean winds taking him across those dark waters, that pale mirror. To leave his rank and his possessions and, better still, all his responsibilities far behind, exchanging them for a freedom and joy he had so rarely felt in his life. A foolish notion, indeed, but for a moment or two he pondered it.

What it might have been like to be Jack Sparrow.

Wanting nothing but his ship and acknowledging no laws but those he chose to honor. Free to go whither he would, wherever the winds and tides would take him, and answerable to no man but himself.

A heady thought, as much as it was a wicked one. Mankind needed restriction. It needed the rule of law, or all of society would suffer for it. He understood that implicitly, as he understood his own need to enforce those laws. After all, it was this which had brought him to the Caribees nigh on eight years ago now. And he had never faltered in his dedication, in his inherent belief in the essential rightness of what he was doing... at least, not until now.

Because, now that it was too late, far far too late, he was forced to acknowledge that Jack Sparrow had not truly deserved the fate that had been given him. He understood that the man had not truly deserved to hang. And that, though the law may have been served in this case, justice had not. For true justice was composed of both truth and mercy—and the truth was that Sparrow had helped them at some cost to himself and mercy had not been shown him for it.

No mercy at all, if he was to be completely honest.

And, certainly, no other death had affected him quite like this before. No other death had raised so many doubts within him. Nor lay quite so heavy in his heart.

"Damn you," he whispered. "I should have just... "

Just what? Given him back the baubles he had taken from the island and let him go at the first port they'd come to? Turned his back once they'd reached Port Royal and given him fair chance to escape, quite possibly in one of their own ships again?

No, that was foolishness beyond anything he could bear to consider. The man was a pirate and would never be anything more than a pirate, and of the crimes he had no doubt committed there had been more than enough to lend him to the end he had met this day. And, if not this day, then it would only have been a matter of time before he would have come face to face with the noose once more.

He had done his duty; what more could be asked of him? What more could be asked of any man?

Norrington glanced back at the town, before looking up at the fort. This was his home, his responsibility, the bounds of his world. His men, Port Royal, all the lands and properties that lay beneath English colors. All that he had sworn to protect and defend, even onto his own death.

That was what truly mattered and all the rest was but empty speculation. Even the thought of the life he might have led if he had succeeded in his wooing of Miss Swann. If she had accepted his plight that day, rather than nearly dying. If it had all gone as it should have gone, rather than turning into such a farce that even now he couldn't think back on it without wincing.

To have been forced to see her rescued by another man, a common pirate. Or, rather, a not so common pirate, if truth be told.

Oh, Elizabeth... I could have loved you...

He turned back to the sea, suddenly finding himself remembering the first time he had seen her. A young girl on her first ocean voyage, bright of cheek and brighter still of eye and smiling up at him as he'd given her his hand to help her board the Lyme, the ship which had brought them to Jamaica and their new lives. Before the vessel had gone on to her own post in Virginia, to aid in suppression of the pirate threat along that wild coast.

Near on two months they had spent together, and he had to admit now that he had taken very little mind of her. Aside from having to listen to the men's superstitious mumblings about her presence aboard ship, and trying to stop her from taking to the rigging when her father was not about. Or to keep her from listening in on the tales the men told when their time was slack.

Though he did remember finding it amusing how she'd tried to get someone to let her take the wheel.

She had been mad about pirates even then. Small wonder, she had chosen at the last to wed one. Or, at the very least, to wed a man who carried the blood of one of her fabulous buccaneers. Proving that, though she had grown into the figure of a fine young woman, she had never truly changed from that wide-eyed girl he'd met so many years ago now.

Clearly, she still believed as that little girl had believed... certainly enough to abjure him over the death of a pirate, a man she had obviously admired, at least in part.

Norrington clasped his hands tight behind his back, glancing out the mouth of the bay to the open ocean beyond. Well, she was entitled to her beliefs, misguided though they were. She was, after all, a woman and the daughter of the Governor. Men such as himself, however, could not afford such flights of fancy.

Anymore than he could afford to imagine doing what her own dashing young Will Turner had done; to throw himself in the company of a condemned pirate, to steal a ship, to pit himself against all odds and common sense in a vain attempt to save the woman he claimed to love. That woman that, it appeared now, that he did love. As she loved him in return.

He could only consider it luck and blind fortune that it had all ended as well as it had for both Elizabeth and Turner. Certainly, it had not ended so well for Jack Sparrow.

Nor for himself, if truth be told.

For a moment, the rest of his life seemed to stretch before him, empty of anything to give it meaning. Empty of home and hearth most of all.

But then he took in a deep breath and forcibly banished his own misgivings. He could not afford such thoughts and so they would needs be put to an end. For cert, he had been dealt a set back, but he was not the sort of man who could or would allow it to rule his life.

He still had his rank and his duty and, even though his dignity had come under attack recently, enough of it remained to sustain him. Elizabeth was not the only woman in Port Royal, let alone in all of Jamaica, and he was a young enough man yet with position and fair prospects. Someone else would have him, even if she would not.

Norrington started to turn away, but movement out over the water caught his eye.

The Dauntless was no longer in the position she had been in a moment ago. He stepped up to the edge of the dock, then narrowed his eyes. There were only a couple of lanterns lit on the deck of the ship, but he could see figures moving about—figures which did not look as if they belonged there.

Norrington felt a cold shiver run through him, followed by grim determination. He started back down the dock at a half-run, coming up on his men before they were entirely aware of his presence. Surprised faced turned towards him.

"You," he said, giving the youngest one of them a sharp look. "To the fort now. Get a detachment down here and hurry, man—someone is attempting to take the Dauntless even as we speak. The rest of you follow me."

There were two boats tied up to the opposite end of the dock and they got them moving as quickly as possible, but still he felt urgency like a heavy weight in his veins. Making him furious with fear and indignation. This could not be happening. Not again. As they cleared the end of the dock, he glanced back over at the Dauntless and now she was clearly underway.

Her mainsail was billowing pale in the darkness and even more canvas was dropped as he watched. Shadows scurrying amongst her rigging. Shadows who obviously seemed to know what they were about.

"Sir... " Something was tapped against his shoulder and he glanced back, meeting the eyes of one soldier—who looked just as angry and appalled as he felt—and then he reached up and took the spyglass the other was attempting to hand him.

He nodded his thanks, then faced forward again. He put the glass to his eye, seeing nothing but darkness at first, before a flare of light brought his aim up. He saw a man in ragged clothes dropping down to the deck. Another man turning to look at him, then gesturing at the mizzenmast.

His face was familiar...

His face was familiar.

Dear God... Norrington caught his breath as he realized just where he had last seen that face, that form. He didn't know the man's name—he hadn't honestly cared to know it—but he had been one of the crew of the Black Pearl. Taken when they had tried to commandeer the Dauntless on that moonlit night and had nearly succeeded.

Taken and put to trial and hung.

The weight in his veins grew even heavier and he grew even a touch dizzy as he swung the glass and saw more familiar faces. Familiar dead faces.

No, this was not possible.

"We'll never catch her, sir," a voice said. "She has the wind already."

Norrington lowered the glass and closed his eyes for a moment. But what he had just seen could not so easily be dismissed. No matter how improbable it was.

"Sir?"

"Yes, yes," he replied impatiently. "Take us back to shore."

He opened his eyes again and saw that the Dauntless was even now clearing the bay, picking up speed as she met the open sea. He closed the glass and lowered it to his lap, his hands clenching tight on the cool metal.

First the Interceptor and now the Dauntless. Stolen right from the harbor, right from under his very nose. He would be lucky to remain a midshipman at this rate, let alone be allowed command of a vessel—and, God forbid, a ship of the line—ever again.

But there was no help for it. The only vessel that remained that could possibly catch her was the Shark, a sloop that had come in for repair a week ago. But at only fourteen guns, even if she did manage to come into range, the men who'd commandeered the Dauntless could simply blow her out of the water.

They pulled back up to the dock and he clambered out. In the distance, lights moved towards them and he knew it was the young soldier returning with the men he'd asked for—quicker then he had honestly expected, but far too late all the same.

"Your orders, sir?" The man who had handed him the spyglass was standing there at attention, gun at the ready, but though his voice was even, the Commodore swore he could hear accusation in it. Just as he could feel all eyes turning towards him, as if he could with just the right word somehow turn this turn of ill fortune into some sort of miracle instead.

"Rouse the watch and search the town," Norrington ordered. "Bring in anyone suspicious. Bring in anyone who may have seen or heard anything untoward. These men could not have just appeared out of nowhere."

He well knew it was a case of too little too late, but he was unable to just stand here and do nothing. Yet again.

Any more than he wanted to think about where these men were more likely to have appeared from...

"Sir." "Aye, sir."

The men scattered, joining up with those from up the fort, shouts sounding through the sleeping streets, more lights appearing at once dark windows, but Norrington turned to look out at the sea once more. The Dauntless was no more than a distant shimmer of white sails now, nearly lost in the dazzling reflection of the moon upon the waves. Whoever was handling her certainly knew their trade; it would have taken a bare minimum of twenty odd men to set her sails so quickly. Men who knew what they were doing.

But then, of course, they were pirates.

Yes, pirates...

Dead pirates...

His flesh suddenly turned icy cold as the realization sank in, inescapable and dreadful. But, no, his eyes must have deceived him. Despite what he had just seen, despite what he had seen that night at the Isla de Muerta, such things were just not possible. Except that they clearly were and he had just seen what he had seen and he could not ignore that. Anymore than he could not afford to consider the complete ramifications of what had just happened.

It was inescapable. Especially since, bearing well in mind recent events, he had made sure to leave a good-sized crew about the Dauntless, plus a dozen more than capable marines, and clearly they had failed in their duty to protect the ship all the same. Even with the element of surprise on their side, a goodly number of pirates should never have been able to take the ship so easily as it seemed they had. Without even a single shot being fired in her defense.

No number of ordinary pirates, that is.

No, he could not deny what he had seen. And that did not bode well for anyone. For the dead had obviously come back to life once again and were set on the ruination of all that was good and proper and civilized. Everything he had been sworn to protect.

The dead had come back...

Norrington stifled a curse that would have done any seaman proud, then opened his eyes again and started back down the dock towards the town. Still not running, but moving as quickly as his remaining hopes of dignity would allow just the same.

***

Distantly, he could hear voices, but they didn't sound alarmed. And, more than that, he could feel the ship moving and knew that they were already underway and out of the bay. The other men must have taken the vessel and, since he seemed to be the only one down here, they must have either put the legitimate crew off or had simply killed them all. Though he had little doubt, if given the choice, which was the more likely possibility.

His former crew had never been leery of shedding blood—at least, if it was none of their own—and he well knew they had grown even more merciless over time.

Being cursed could do that to you.

He found a rough edge on one of the joinings inside the cell and used it to work the cloth free of his mouth and was ever so glad to finally be able spit it out onto the floor. After which, he took his teeth to the ropes which still bound his wrists. His jaw was aching by the time they were finally loose enough that he could twist his hands free, but the pain was already fading away as he flung the bit of damp and foul-tasting rope after the even more foul-tasting cloth and took himself back to the front of his prison. Quietly testing the strength of the oak and iron there, even though he already knew it was a useless enough exercise.

Of late, it really seemed to him, that he was forever either being thrown into a cell, making his escape from one, or having the threat being dandled over his head. It was enough to make a man wonder what god he had offended. That is, if one actually believed in any in particular.

Jack raised his head then as he felt the ship turn to starboard, far more ponderously than the Pearl, and take up a fresh heading. He didn't have to be topside to know that they were making for the Isla de Muerta once more. All that hoarded swag made for a siren's call that few if any of a freebooting nature could hope to long resist.

Not to mention the fact that if, for whatever reason, the old crew of the Pearl was alive again, then it was quite possible that Barbossa was as well. Despite the piece of lead shot that he'd put directly into the man's heart. And if he was alive again, then they would be wanting him back as their captain. He had little doubt of it. Ten long years and he suspected that most of them knew little better any more, that few of them could conceive of having anyone but Barbossa as master of their fortunes.

As for himself, even knowing all too well about the value of all accumulated treasure, he'd not had the desire to return there himself for he well suspected that no good could likely come of it. A suspicion which seemed proven now. For even with the last coin returned to the stone chest and the curse finally lifted, it chanced that the power of the place—of all that bloody gold—had once more reached out from beyond the grave to touch them. How else could one explain the fact that both he and the other men had not rested quiet in the ground.

Unhallowed earth, to be sure, but on normal occasion it held the bones of the dead well enough, blessing of the church or no. At least, before these last few months, he would have thought so. That dead was dead and there was no coming back from that.

Except that it wasn't and he had.

Jack shuffled back into the dark corner where he'd slept many a time before and settled down, his legs sprawled out loosely before him. Feeling suddenly very weary. He held out his hands out before him in the dim line of light that found its way into the cell and curiously studied the unmistakable proofs of his own resurrection. The dirt beneath his nails was thick and black, more evidence of that same unhallowed earth he had woke beneath. But where his nails had been torn from his efforts to escape his own grave, his knuckles scratched and bloodied, there was not now a single mark remaining.

Not even upon his wrists, which he could have sworn the ropes had rubbed raw.

Though, if this was the work of the curse again, then it wasn't as it had been before. Even if the sight of his own flesh—and the flesh of those other men—by moonlight hadn't already told him that. He could bleed, he could feel pain, and yet it did not kill him, the wounds did not linger o'er long.

He knew himself dead, yet felt alive.

It seemed rather too good to be true, and that made it all the more suspect in his opinion. They could not have simply been granted their lives back without their being something given in return. Everything came with a price.

And the greater the prize, the greater the price.

He had little doubt of that. The Pearl had already proved more costly than he had ever once imagined, and now it appeared that he was still not done paying her price.

Jack pulled his legs up close to him and rested his head on his knees. He closed his eyes, only to start up again as he abruptly found himself remembering the feel of the trapdoor swinging open beneath his feet, the rope snapping taut on his neck. He gasped and put a hand to his throat.

Bloody hell...

Well, he had known that in living the life he had that the threat of the gallows had always hung over him. But, somehow, he had believed in his heart of hearts that such a fate was not for him. Not for Captain Jack Sparrow. Even at the last, some part of him had not believed it. Had imagined, instead, that he would find a way to escape, to gain his freedom.

Freedom... oh, aye...

He had told Elizabeth that the Pearl was his freedom, and he had been honest enough in that. What he hadn't told her that night on the sand and deep into his cups, was that she had been his love as well. And that she had forsaken him. And that, aye, it had been Barbossa, his traitorous First Mate, who had fostered the mutiny, but if the Pearl had not wished to leave him, then no measure in all of Heaven or Hell could have moved her from his grip.

Perhaps, she had grown weary of him. Perhaps, she had longed for blood, much as Barbossa and the majority of the crew. To fight and kill and maim, even if there were always other ways of obtaining swag, methods which didn't have to involve the murder of innocents or the torture of honest men. He didn't wish to believe it of her, but then she had always been a chancy ship.

Born from the mists and tides, and taking to the waves like one born of ancient seas, ancient darkness. Found abandoned by his own good self, floating in fog and weedy water, covered with soot and powder burns, he well recalled how her rigging had glowed blue by moonlight that first night aboard her. Aye, she had been a sort of ghost ship, long before she had come to be crewed by dead men.

And though he had loved her from the first—and he loved her, still—he could not claim to have ever truly known her. She kept her own council, much as most women did, and though a man may have the entirety of her love, he could not pretend to the secret depths of her heart. Knowing that, perhaps she had tested him and found him wanting, or perhaps she was testing him still. Though it did leave him to wonder that if he could in all honestly claim her as his but once more, then she would be his in truth.

For eternity, or for so long as his life may last.

But that his life hadn't lasted, nor his death either, and he did not know where he was bound beyond this day, this hour, the next breath to follow the last. What he was and what he might yet become. And, mayhap, the Pearl might not wish him back like this, or perhaps she would in truth more than welcome him with open arms now that he had become as much a thing of dream and fancy and sheer impossibility as she was.

After all, she had served Barbossa faithfully for nigh on ten years. And he could not have loved her half as well.

Nor longed for her even a fraction as deeply.

Jack lowered his head to his knees again and closed his eyes and, this time, he saw the Pearl instead. Not as he had last seen her, all torn and tattered and reeking of dead men and long years of despair, but bright and high and sailing black against the moon. Against silver waters.

A grand and gallant lady. His lost love. Free, as he was not.

Leaving him behind once more.

***

The ground here was disturbed, thrown up, and the few wooden markers that had been planted were cracked asunder, tossed down and trampled into the damp earth. As if those who had climbed up out of the graves beneath them had found the proofs of their own deaths somehow offensive.

Taking bleak refuge in practicality, he went quickly from plot to plot, counting each one that looked to have been recently disturbed. It was only when he had reached thirty seven graves, thirty seven empty graves, that something finally succeeded in tearing his hastily erected composure from him.

Uncaring of the state of his breeches, he knelt down and ran his fingers through the muck and mire until they caught on the edge of a strip of cloth he had seen at the last. Until he could peel that cloth from the possessive clutch of the earth.

Norrington held it up before his eyes, his lungs closing up tight all of a sudden and his pulse stuttering as the moon betrayed what he held.

A stained scarf. One that had once been red. A scarf that still had a string of beads and baubles dangling from one end, red beads and white and yellow and blue, though they all looked grey and waxy by the pale lamp of night.

"Jack... "

Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)

Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)