Passages

Chapter 3

by

Garnet

Once the door had closed behind the last of them, he caught Captain Reade's eyes on him, though. As if the other man was aware that this wasn't simply a dinner like any other. Perhaps, the best brandy had been rather a give away.

Griffiths, however, seemed less aware, as he leaned back in his chair and looked as though he wished he though prop his boots up somewhere. While, the surgeon only swirled his glass and smiled, glancing up only as Norrington cleared his throat.

"Commodore?" Reade asked.

"Yes," Norrington replied. He took in a deep breath, then glanced over at Groves, who gave him the slightest smile of reassurance. It wasn't necessary, but it was more than welcome. And also served to remind him, as if he truly needed reminding, of just what was at stake here.

"Captain, Mister Avery, Leftenant Griffiths," Norrington said, looking at each one in turn, keeping his tone as crisp and matter-of-fact as he could make it. "You may find what I am about to tell you rather hard to believe. In fact, but a few months ago, if anyone had approached me with the self same story I am about to relate to you, I would have thought them to have quite taken leave of their senses, I must admit."

Reade frowned, but nodded all the same. "Go on, Commodore. Please."

Avery leaned back in his own chair, looking intrigued now. While Griffiths still seemed engrossed in his own glass.

"Yes," Norrington said again. Nothing could make this easier, he was well aware of that, but he did wish he knew the other men a bit better. "Then... I imagine I must ask what your opinion is regarding such things as... curses, for example... "

All the other men looked surprised, though Reade hid his reaction rather better. Obviously, whatever they had been expecting, they hadn't expected this.

"I must admit," the Captain said. "I have heard tell of someone possessing what the more ignorant might call the 'evil eye,' but I have had no experience of any such myself. Though, the county were I grew up was rife with stories about haunted mountains and caves and the like. Spirit dogs and faeries and witches. But if you are asking, sir, what I believe in personally... then I must tell you that I believe in Almighty God, and that the existence of ghosts or ghoulies has never been proved to my satisfaction, nor do I imagine that they ever will be."

"Yes," Avery seconded his comment. "Though, on some occasions, I must admit that I even doubt the existence of an all mighty God."

"I believe in haunts," Griffiths commented then. "Even saw one once, though I were sore drunk at the time so p'raps that don't much count."

Reade shot his fellow Welshman a glance, but the look was moderated by a slight smile and shake of the head, before he turned his attention back to the Commodore.

"I do not doubt that some men of good repute and sober mien have on the occasion seen such that they could not easily explain," he went on. "But I must admit that I require more than just their good word."

"Quite understandable," Norrington replied himself, nodding slightly. "And quite similar to my own opinion on the matter of things supernatural, at least until recent events—events that my men can bear witness to, including some men who are aboard this ship even now—forced me to accept that such things may be possible, indeed. Well, not only possible, but exactly what we were facing on this occasion, to our possible detriment."

"Right," Reade said, his frown deepening. "If you would, Commodore, please speak plain. What exactly are you saying? What exactly are we facing?"

"Pirates," Norrington said darkly. "Pirates and... cursed treasure, if you will. Plainly put, the men who commandeered the Dauntless had tried once before to steal her. They were, in fact, the very same pirates who attacked Port Royal and kidnapped the Governor's daughter from her home. The same pirates who... were subsequently hanged for their crimes, of which there were many."

"Pardon me," Avery said, sitting forward in his chair now. "But are you saying, sir, that the men were are in pursuit of are... dead men?"

Norrington glanced around the table, seeing that he had not gotten even Lieutenant Griffiths full attention at the last. He wasn't certain if that was a good response or a bad one.

"Yes," Norrington replied at the last. "That is exactly what I am telling you. We are in pursuit of dead men. Men who cannot be killed because they already have been killed. Pirates who once found a great treasure and made it their own, only to discover too late, and to their own detriment, that the gold came with a most dire curse. One that, apparently, they spend the next ten years attempting to lift. We had imagined they accomplished this in the end—a belief the pirates themselves seemed to share, since once the curse was no more, they hastened to surrender to us—however, a recently emptied graveyard and a stolen ship have proved that belief to be, perhaps, a bit rash."

"Rash," Reade repeated. "I see."

Again, he exchanged glances with his First Mate, who was scowling slightly now. While the surgeon's face had gone quite carefully bland.

"Many of my men died that night," he went on all the same, forcing himself to relate details that were not only insufficient to render the horrors of that evening, but that also seemed were not falling upon very receptive ears. Which was what he had expected, but still it did not give him much in the way of comfort. "Giving their lives in a vain attempt to stop those who could not, after all, be stopped. Those who lived... well, they would tell you the same tale as I, I am afraid. That the men they fought were but tattered clothing and bones by moonlight. Bones which did not bleed and did not stop and could not die, not until the flesh was returned to them by the breaking of the curse."

"Ah," Avery said, almost under his breath. "Bones... yes... "

"Please," Norrington said, forcibly keeping his own tone as reasonable as he could. "I am well aware, good sirs, of how very... insane this all sounds."

And, before he could stop himself, he glanced over at Groves, who stepped forward and straightened.

Reade's eye was caught by him, and he turned and nodded at the lieutenant to come forward.

"Leftenant... Groves, is it?"

The other man nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Can you... vouch for what happened that evening?"

He shook his head. "No, sir. I was not aboard Dauntless at the time. However, I have spoken with many men who were and they all tell the same tale. Reluctant as some of them are to speak of it."

Thankfully, he did not mention Lieutenant Gillette and his... doubts...

"I see," Reade commented quietly.

"Well," Avery said with a bit more vigor, his brows knitted together now. "I, for one, do not. The common sailor is well known for his flights of fancy and the seas are rife with improbable tales of all kinds because of it. Tales which have absolutely no basis in reality and never have. It's all superstitious nonsense really. Talk of curses and walking skeletons by the light of the moon... what is next, I ask you, sirens and sea monsters? Perhaps a mermaid come to bask upon the deck and comb the shells out of her long green hair."

"Now that I would like to see," Griffiths said under his breath, only to subside as his captain gave him a sharp glance.

"It is a rather... improbable tale," Reade replied. "And not one I would have expected to hear from a man such as yourself, I must admit. After all, Commodore, you are quite highly spoken of back in England, especially in regards to your dedication in ridding the Caribbean of its scourge of piracy, and most, if not all, acknowledge that you are a very reasonable and dedicated young officer. The events of recent weeks, the loss of Interceptor and the attack on both fort and town—not to mention the unfortunate theft of the Dauntless—will come as rather a shock, I imagine. Let alone if you freely choose to... go about relating such a story as you have now told us."

"I am well aware of that," Norrington said heavily. "But I also could not, in good conscious, allow you or any of your men to go into a situation without telling you the facts as I know them. Improbable though they may sound."

Reade's eyes bored into his, then the other man finally nodded. "Thank you, Commodore," he said, quite formally now. "But then you will also understand that I must think upon what you have told me. That I cannot simply... accept your word for something like this. So... " and he rose to his feet, Griffiths and the surgeon following suit a moment or two later, "if you will excuse me?"

"Of course," Norrington said, rising to his own feet. He nodded at Groves, who nodded back, then provided an escort to the door. The lieutenant stood there then with one hand to the door, even as Norrington glanced down at the remains of their repast. His own supper sitting heavy in his stomach now and his taste for further drink having suddenly vanished. Especially so when he heard Avery speak in an undertone to Captain Reade just before Groves closed the door behind them all.

Two words which clearly had not been intended to be overheard, but were all the same.

"Brain fever."

***

Jack knew them, just as he knew the woman struggling with the wheel, trying to keep the wind and waves from sending them all to the depths.

"Jack, Jack," AnaMaria called, her eyes flashing at him. "I can't hold her."

He ran across the quarterdeck towards her, knowing he had to help, knowing that of all of them the Pearl would respond best to his hand, but lightning seared across the sky and when he could see again, there was no one before him. No one at the wheel. No one upon the deck below. Not even those who had just fallen from aloft.

He was alone.

"Ana?" he shouted, taking hold of the wheel. But even as the name cleared his throat, the sound of the storm began to die away. The flare of the lightning subsiding, the thunder rolling to a stop. The wind dying down so quick it was if all the air had suddenly been stolen away. Leaving this unnatural calm, this unnatural quietude.

Though the sea and sky remained black. So very black, as if they had never known any other color.

"Ho," he yelled, but his voice was swallowed up as well.

And the mists were rolling in now, not pale and smoky, but grey and black, as if tinged by India ink. They slunk across the decks of the Pearl, then rose to shroud her sails and rigging. A mist that swirled and drifted and then seemed to alter itself, to resolve into something like feathers. Until it seemed the whole ship was draped with birds, black birds. Graveyard and midden scavengers all. Magpies and crows and ravens.

As if the scent of death had somehow brought them all here.

Jack let go of the wheel and stepped towards them.

"Get off," he said loudly, making wide shooing gestures. "This be my ship. We don't need your kind here. Savvy?"

And perhaps they did, for all of a sudden one of larger ravens took wing. It flew up higher than the main topmast, then turned in a wink, and was suddenly diving towards where he stood upon the quarterdeck. A harsh cry breaking out of it as it drove right for him. Its eyes glittering like stolen jewels and its feet already outstretched, needle-sharp claws aiming straight for his own eyes. As if it fancied them jewels as well.

He ducked down, feeling the wind of its passage right over his head, only to find himself no longer aboard the Pearl, but on his knees in the dirt. An open grave lay before him and as he raised his eyes he saw Will Turner standing there on the opposite side of it. The younger man was dressed in that same jaunty new clothing, red cloak, and feathered hat he had last seen him in. The younger man was dressed in that same jaunty new clothing, red cloak, and feathered hat he had last seen him in. With an unsheathed sword in one hand and a lantern held high in the other, though the flickering light could barely hold back the gloom, let alone the mists that writhed around them both.

"Will?" he asked. "Be that you?"

"Go on," Will said, nodding down at the grave that lay between them. A familiar grave, he realized—in fact, the very same one he had escaped from upon the hill overlooking Port Royal.

He shook his head, struck mute for once in his life.

"But you're dead, Jack," the younger man went on reasonably enough. "This is where you belong now. I'm sorry."

"No," he protested, but when he tried to back away, to get to his feet, he found another figure stepping forward from the mist. Slender and pale as a shaft of moonlight and dressed in the same stained shift she had worn while marooned with him on that tiny island. Her hair a tangle of salt curls and this pleading look on her lovely face.

"Please, Jack," Elizabeth said, pleasantly enough. "You know it's for the best."

He shook his head, raising his hands in appeal. "But I'm not dead, love. Not really. I don't belong here."

"Sorry, Jack," Will said again, this ever so sad look on his face now. His voice was incredibly gentle. "But there is no other place for you. Not anymore."

"Yes," another, far more brusque voice chimed in. "Do get in, Sparrow."

And there was Commodore Norrington himself, come striding out of the dark and the fog in a powder blue and white uniform, a gleaming silver pistol pointed directly at him. His face stern and spare as ever, his whole manner ever so matter-of-fact, as if he found himself confronting pirates over their own graves every day of the week. And twice again on the Sabbath.

"No," Jack said. "Ye can't make me go back, Commodore. Tis naught to do with you. Not anymore."

"You refuse?" the other man said. "Come now, Captain, don't make things more difficult for yourself. You're in over your head as it is."

He had to laugh a little at that, even despite the way the three of them continued to stare at him. The way their eyes suddenly seemed to be turning black, pure black, as if they were but windows to some even darker place.

"Am I now?"

"Oh, yes," Norrington—or the thing that looked like Norrington—replied. Thumbing back the cock of the pistol he was holding with something almost like a smile on his face now. "There are worse places than Davey Jones' locker, as well you should know. As well you will."

And then he pulled the trigger.

Jack awoke to darkness and the sound of cannon fire, grape and pistol shot and the shouts of men well pleased with themselves. His heart was still pounding quick and loud in his ears and his chest was aching all as if he really had been shot. His whole body shook as he strained to catch his breath, but the darkness seemed thick around him.

As thick as when he had first woke beneath the earth.

Finally, he put a hand to his chest and held it there as he forced himself to take slower and slower breaths.

"Aye," he mumbled at last. "No more sleep for a bit now, Jack. That's the ticket."

He rolled to his other side, one hand going out to touch the deck beneath him. The timbers were rough and real beneath his palm. Overhead, there was one more ragged salute from the guns of the Dauntless, followed this time not by pistol fire but by what sounded like singing. Of course, it was hard to tell since not only did several decks separate him from the singers, but none of them seemed to be able to agree on a note, let alone exact wordage.

A celebration of sorts, then. Though for exactly what it was hard to tell from down here. Though he could well imagine. Pirates only celebrated two things with as much fervor as this—coming in to the welcome of an open port after many months at sea or a most successful spot of plundering and mayhem. And being that he had thought he'd heard the jollyboats leave not a few hours ago, he could only suspect the latter. Even a buccaneer took more time with the ladies than that. Especially if they were paying their own hard won gold for the pleasure.

He closed his eyes and let himself imagine just such remembered pleasures. How even the most powdered and painted whore looked lovely after six month at sea, and how very good the taste of fresh shore baked bread could be when a man had been living off ship's biscuit and the like.

Though he would have gladly accepted a bit of biscuit right now, weevils and all. Anything to soothe the familiar hollow ache in his stomach.

Jack curled back up again and rested his ear against the hull. Feeling as much as listening to the ocean lap at the outside of the ship, letting it soothe him to something near again to sleep. Aye, he was hungry and likely to remain that way, but the pangs of thirst pained him far more.

He had seen no one for several days now, as far as he could figure. Neither had they brought him any food nor water and, though his other hurts had long since healed, the need for water preyed heavily upon him. Leaving him to wonder if it was a deliberate lack or if they had simply forgotten about him. That Barbossa may not, in truth, be thinking to leave him down here forever—never to see the light of day again or breathe in the salt air from off the sea. Slowly dying, yet unable to die.

Though, of course, having the full attentions of the crew had not proved overly pleasant, either.

No more his dreams either, it seemed.

Will and Elizabeth and Norrington. And though he could well understand the Commodore taking central part in a nightmare of sorts, he found far more distressing the brief appearance of the lad and his young lady. Except that they had let him die, hadn't they? They had stood there as he had hung. Though that was more than a bit unfair, to be sure, since Will had tried valiantly to save him at the last. And had quite possibly even paid with his own life and freedom for that deed for all he knew.

Aye, he could well see that. Have the lad locked away or even go so far as to hang him from the same ready scaffold and it would leave the Elizabeth free and clear to marry the man to whom she had gone promised herself to in the first place, imagine that. Though, goodness knows, most everyone had known it for the ruse it was right from the start—swearing herself to Norrington so that he might save Will for her.

Aye, everyone had known the truth of it. Everyone but the Commodore, himself, it seemed. But then it was a vile fact indeed that those who fancied themselves in love often found themselves struck quite blind, as well.

As a man of the world and a pirate to boot, he was not above such usage of charm and a promise or two himself if needs be—and, sometimes, even if it did not—so he had to respect her for that at the least. Not that he would have ever fallen for it himself. Not believing overmuch in either love or the ever so sweet words of a maid. Especially a maid as lovely and well born as Miss Elizabeth Swann.

But then the Commodore had to be a fool as much as dead blind to want to wed a woman fair mad for another. Marriage being such a muddle as it was, without adding the further complication of love, whether that be the love of a husband for his wife or wife for another man entire.

Love, aye, the whole thing were more curse than blessing, if truth be told.

Jack curled up even tighter, feeling the ship turn and take up a new course a few moments later. And found himself drifting off again a little as well, not wanting to, but unable to resist a most lovely memory, the one that came with the sound of the waves dashing themselves against the hull. Smiling ever so slightly to himself, as he remembered the first time he had put hand to the Black Pearl and sent her wheeling towards that distant horizon.

Now there was love for you. The only love that really mattered. Even if he, himself, were struck blind for the presumption of it. But then no maid, nor lad either if it came to that, could ever match the likes of a ship in a man's heart. For what did they have to offer but yet another shackle, no matter how well intentioned. While, the Pearl offered freedom, and there was naught better than that.

Aye, and most like never would be.

***

Let alone Dauntless. Which, God willing, they may yet discover at anchor within the mists of that dreaded island. Tomorrow, if fortune favored them. Yes, tomorrow, they would see.

He turned from the sunset, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Leftenant," he said calmly.

"Commodore," Groves replied quietly, with a small nod. "A word, if you please."

Norrington smiled a little and proceeded the other man over to the stairs that led to the quarterdeck. Groves struck an equally nonchalant pose, marred only by the quick backward looks he gave the men working upon the decks. Finally, he must have been satisfied that no one was overtly watching, and looked him straight in the eye at the last. He lowered his voice even further.

"Captain Reade, sir," he said, almost apologetically. "I must tell you that, this morning, he approached me and... well, asked me a few rather pointed question."

"About my state of mind, perhaps?"

One of the other man's eyebrows rose, but he recovered himself again almost immediately. "Yes. Quite, sir. Understandably, I must admit, considering the... pirate issue you raised last night."

"Yes. Eminently understandable. Go on, Leftenant."

Groves nodded. His eyes again glanced around them, clearly marking where every sailor was. As if he feared they were being spied upon even now.

"Then I fear I must tell you, sir, that it is my feeling that Captain Reade may be contemplating having you removed from your command."

Norrington nodded. His eyes fell to his feet for a moment, then he looked back at his First Lieutenant. Knowing what it had cost the other man to come to him like this, how torn he must be by his own loyalties and personal confusion of belief.

"I am not surprised," he said softly. "I would quite probably be considering the same thing if I had found myself in his position. Most especially since he would have been entirely within his rights to place me under court-martial when first he learned of the loss of the Interceptor, let alone the Dauntless."

"But, Commodore," Groves shook his head. "Did not the Governor... "

"Governor Swann is not here. And, to be honest, if even he speaks out too much about walking skeletons and the like, there is a very real possibility that he may find himself in danger of losing his position as well. No, John, I cannot rely on him to back me up should it come to that. But, equally, in regards to Captain Reade and this pursuit, I could not have stood by and said nothing and accounted myself a good commander."

"Sir, a court-martial... " The other man paused, then lightly laid a hand upon his arm. A boldness that betrayed the depths of his concern.

Norrington deliberately overlooked the familiarity of the gesture, though he did smile ever so slightly. "I will stand by my actions, Leftenant. Or lack thereof. Both the Interceptor and the Dauntless were lost while under my watch, and I must bear the responsibility for that. Dead pirates and curses or not, it does not forgive nor excuse my own failures in that regard."

Groves' mouth thinned out, but he nodded and gently removed his hand. "Yes, sir," he said. "I understand."

"Thank you," Norrington responded. He glanced back out across the waters, to where the last of the sun was disappearing over the far edge of the ocean. Turning the drifts of clouds above to lingering shades of crimson and rose and black.

"Clear sailing," he commented. "We should reach the island tomorrow and proceed from there. Whether that is to the recapture of Dauntless or to her own unfortunate destruction. Though, I must admit that, despite the fact that this is a fine ship, indeed—and a credit to both her Captain and crew—if I had my own choice upon the matter, I would trade both this ship and the Dauntless for a chance to have the Interceptor back. Now, there was a sweet ship. And one that deserved a far better end than she received."

"You commanded her once, did you not?" Groves asked.

"Yes," Norrington answered. "Before Dauntless was commissioned and I made Post-Captain. A damned shame to have lost her, even if I quite understand Master Turner's impulse to commandeer her in the first place. As much as Mister Sparrow's rather more selfish reasons for taking her."

"I'm sure they would have saved her, if they could have," the other man ventured.

Norrington's smile was a little more forced now, a little sour. "Which does not excuse her theft nor her destruction, though I take your sentiment, Leftenant."

Groves nodded. "And should we retake her, and those upon her, Commodore... what do you intend to do with them? If hanging is of no use and we cannot undo whatever curse or spell it is which binds them to their unnatural lives. We cannot simply keep them locked away forever."

"Can we not," he replied, imagining just that very thing for the moment. Oh, yes, the whole worthless lot of them hauled away in irons and put away in the dark somewhere, never to taint the minds and hearts of honest men again. Including Jack Sparrow. Especially Jack Sparrow, whose influence was even more insidious than the rest due to the fact that he could seem so very charming and disarming when he wished to.

"It's inhumane, sir," Groves protested, though mildly, as if he of all people should be well aware of that.

"I fear I must disagree, Leftenant," he responded. "It's no more than any of them deserve."

***

Jack steadied himself with one hand, then took the moment to glance around the room. The wooden walls were golden and warm with the light of dozens of candles, far more than strictly necessary to drive back the growing dark. But it certainly suited the table placed in the very center of the room; a table arranged as if for a grand feast, with clean linen cloth and six gleaming silver candlesticks, even though there were but two plate settings and those at opposite ends to each other.

Jack swallowed hard, his stomach twisting on familiar emptiness and need as he stared at the food and drink, more than enough for any dozen men. Apples and bananas and sweet oranges vied with rounds of cheese and sliced pineapple. There were plates of cakes and fried oysters and plantains and, wonder of wonders, several loaves of freshly baked bread. Two entire roast chickens lay surrounded by eggs stuffed with pickled onion and breadcrumbs. And both sweet and savory puddings filled several good-sized bowls to the very brim, some of them still steaming. With a small suckling pig taking center place in a veritable mound of baked eels, its skin crisped perfectly brown and golden with juice.

It stared at him, with eyes nearly as black as his own.

He pushed himself to his feet, then, despite his hunger, paused to glance around the room.

There was no way he had been left alone with all this bounty, free and for the taking. And his suspicions were realized when he heard the doors open and close behind him again, then footsteps.

A hand settled familiarly on his shoulder before he could turn all the way around. It squeezed down hard enough to leave marks, then let go again just as brusquely, and Barbossa brushed by him.

"So glad ye've seen fit to accept me invitation, Jack," he said. He pulled out the nearest chair and then tilted his head at him expectantly. Polite as any gentleman and half again as deadly. With a mocking grin, the monkey tilted his head at him as well, then scampered down from the pirate captain and snatched up a cake.

"As if I had any choice in the matter," Jack commented, forcing the words out, even though there was barely enough spit in his mouth to swallow, let alone speak.

"Come now," Barbossa replied, his manner both coaxing and chastising, as if Jack were some errant child who needed calling to his supper. "I'll not be having ye spoilin' such a night as this. After all, we've much to celebrate and ye are my guest, are ye not?"

And, as if to prove his point, he poured out a cup of wine and handed it over to him.

Jack took it without hesitation and drank down half of it in one go. It was well-watered, but decent for all that. Though, of course, that may have been his thirst speaking. He finished it off, then held out the cup again and Barbossa obligingly refilled it.

"Funny about that," Jack said then, savoring this second cup more. "An here was I thinking I was your prisoner all this time. Imaging that's why I found meself locked in the brig for this past week, give or take a day or two. So, what might we be celebratin' then, if ye don't mind me asking?"

Barbossa pulled out a chair, made a precise little half-bow, then went around the table to the far end. He settled down in his own chair, this air of utter assurance and eminent pleasure all about him. His smile was slow, knowing, and all for Jack.

"Why, me new ship, 'o course," he replied. "Me flagship, as once was promised. Can you not see it? Tis but the beginning of that grand fleet ye convinced me I had a right of. Ah, Jack... don't tell me you can't see it now. She looks so much the better, don't ye think, flying free beneath the black, as she ever could have stuck to her paces with that Naval gaud hanging o'er her stern. She'll make a fine pirate, freshly painted as she is in her widow's weeds, and with such men as know their business laying hand to all those lovely guns. Fearsome, I doubt not and fair glorious in battle and more than a match for any ship of the line they may set upon us. I fear not that they'll soon learn her name to their own regret. As well as they'll come to know mine own, I imagine."

Jack frowned at him, but he approached the table all the same. The sight of all that food was a temptation past even the coarseness of the company he was being forced to keep because of it. Sure, and he may not die of hunger, but it was not his fondest companion at the moment.

But Barbossa only nodded encouragingly as one of his hands snaked out to steal an apple, as if he was the proverbial snake indeed and Jack well set upon the proper course to sin and perdition. The monkey took another cake, then jumped down to the floor, as if disdaining to feast with the two of them. Or perhaps just with his namesake.

"Name?" Jack asked mildly, inspecting the fruit he'd nicked carefully, before scrubbing it on the one cleanish spot he could yet find on what remained of his shirt.

He was about to take a bite, when he saw Barbossa man pour out a glassful of what was clearly rum this time, the bottle plied even more generously than with the wine. He leaned across the table and held the second goblet out to Jack, who hurriedly finished off his watered wine, then put that cup away and took the offered rum instead. Forgoing the apple for the moment, he drank this down with far greater relish, though well aware that the other man was watching him the entire time.

"There's a good lad," Barbossa said only slightly mockingly when he was done and the rum drained to the dregs. He nodded at the bottle in a clear acknowledgement of Jack's continued thirst, obviously indicating that he should pour himself a second if he'd a mind to, then poured himself a goblet of wine and held up the glass up to the shimmering light of all those candles. As if to admire the undimmed scarlet of the liquid within. As if imaging that it was something else entirely.

Jack frowned at him and Barbossa might have caught sight of it from out of the corner of his eye. He set his wine down still untasted, but smiled broadly enough all the same.

"Aye," he said. "Let me be the first to welcome ye aboard the Raven, Jack Sparrow. The new and greatest scourge the Caribbean has ever seen or ever shall ever see."

"Raven?" Jack asked, with a small laugh. "What kind of name is that now for a ship? I thought ye had more imagination, mate. Though, o' course, a surplus of black paint may well have had something to do with it. An here I thought ye were just missin' the Pearl."

Deciding to make the best and the most of it, he sat himself down in the previously proffered chair and plied the bottle once more. He drank a good half of it down, then took up with his apple. The flesh was crisp and white and better tasting than anything he'd had in... oh, a good ten day, it must be. At the very least. Probably much longer than that, though, if one numbered up the time he'd spent in the less than pleasing accommodations that His Majesty's navy had provided him on the journey from the Isla de Muerta to the cell up the fort and finally to his unfortunate appointment with the noose.

"Not for very long," Barbossa replied.

Jack frowned at him over his apple. "Eh?"

"The Black Pearl, Jack," the other man said. "What would ye give to have her back? To be her captain again? Would ye give your life, your soul. Your every last breath. For that's what a ship demands, innit? The best an the worst a man can be. She takes it all at the last and leaves thee naught but longing for her embrace. A longing that no mere doxie can meet, let alone hope to ever slake."

Rather than answering the question—well aware that the other man knew his answer already—Jack polished off the apple, then reached for the roasted chicken. He pulled a leg off and put his concentration to stripping the meat off it. Washing it down with the thankfully ready supply of rum.

"Aye," Barbossa said softly. "The Pearl is a lovely one, true enough, even once she'd gone to rags an rot. But she were never mine, sad to say. Even though I took her from ye. Even though I claimed the name o' captain and bound meself to her in the old way. She never accepted me. She never wanted me, for all that she longed for thee, Jack. For ten year and more. My ship she were, but n'er my ship. Not in any of the ways that truly mattered."

Jack tossed down the chicken bone, bare of any lingering shreds of meat and near on polished clean besides. He reached for the fresh bread and tore off a chunk, then appropriated a couple of the eggs while he was at it, plus some of the cheese. Tucking into it all as if he hadn't eaten in days, which he hadn't.

"I would say that I felt sorry for ye," he commented. "But that I do not. What is it you want of me? You know all too well what I would give up to have me own ship back again."

"Tis true," Barbossa acknowledged. He lifted his own glass of wine again and sipped from it reflectively. "Then what I ask of ye is no more than ye may be willing to give, no more than ye once freely made offer of already. To captain the Pearl beneath me colors and surrender a quarter o' your plunder to me own hand. To be the start of me fleet. A fleet which shall teach all in time to fear our names, and bring us riches beyond wonder."

"A man may well wonder a great deal," Jack said quietly, reaching for one of the sweet oranges and hiding it safely away beneath his tattered sash as Barbossa's eyes seemed to glaze over for an instant. As if he was seeing something else entirely than this room and the feast laid out before them. "An here was I thinking that ye were done with hoarding swag, mate. Or else why leave all that precious gold behind. Gold o' the uncursed sort, that is."

"There be riches," Barbossa replied. "An then there be riches."

"Ah," Jack said, busily pouring himself yet more rum. "An what riches did ye plunder but a few days ago? Or am I looking upon it now?"

The other man waved a negligible hand. "Oh, aye," he said. "Food and drink enough were provided us by the work of but a few hours, but that be not the riches o' which I speak, Jack. Nor silver or gold either, though the men did take what they could find. Old habits bein' what they are."

Jack leaned back in his chair, sated for the moment anyway, and with a handful of cakes tucked in besides his stolen orange now.

"Then spell it out, man," he said. "For if we are to be mates again, and I to serve beneath ye besides, captain to your commodore, then I would know the desire o' your heart, same as ye know mine. Savvy?"

"Why now," Barbossa replied. He drained the last of his wine and then held up the empty glass, as if to admire what could no longer be seen. "Tis simple enough. My ambition. My dream. For I would be more than captain o' a single ship, more than commodore to entire fleet of ships. Nay, I would be king, Jack. King o' the Brethren and king o' this new world, land and sea alike."

Jack drained the last of the rum in his glass, then eyed it with a speculative look of his own. Even though all the food he had just eaten seemed to gone and settled into the very pit of his stomach and twisted itself into a hard unpalatable knot all of a sudden.

"Oh," he said. "Is that all?"

***

Norrington caught Groves giving him a sidelong look, before the lieutenant dropped his eyes again. As for himself, he took up his spyglass and gazed through it for several more long minutes, hoping against hope that what he sought for would suddenly put in an appearance on the horizon. But, though he strained his eyes in all directions, there was only sea and sky and nothing in-between.

What should have been there was not, and there was no help for that. Nor for what a fool he suddenly must look, and what a fool he certainly felt himself to be.

He closed the glass with a snap and turned back to stare up at their sails. Imagining them black and ragged for a moment. Imagining himself anywhere but here. Looking half a fool and half a madman and feeling done over once again by a certain pirate who it appeared did not even have to be here in order to dun him.

"Commodore?" Groves ventured softly, moving near to him. As if to stand support, despite his own misgivings. "Are you sure this is where we aught to be?"

"Yes," he replied, and then took in a long, slow breath and tried to curb the sharpness of his tone. "Quite sure."

His eyes followed the line of the shrouds back to the deck below, even as he thought back. To the Dauntless and Sparrow standing vigil at his side as they made approach to the bearings he had handed over to them, as the mist suddenly rose up out of the ocean before them, then the rocks they hid, as if to tempt the unwary. And, yes, he was quite quite sure they were at the correct position. It was just that... the island was not.

As mad as that sounded. About as mad as having trusted a pirate—that Gods be damned annoyingly particular pirate—in the first place to tell the truth.

"Sir?" Groves asked, still quietly. "Your orders?"

He turned back to the other man, but found only honest enough concern in the lieutenant's eyes. He handed the spyglass to him and then turned his head slightly to look over at the Captain standing in his place near the helm instead of immediately answering.

Reade was looking at him rather measuringly, though his general expression seemed bland enough for any two men. But Norrington could well imagine what the commander of the Endeavor was thinking about now—first, that the story he had told him about cursed pirates and heathen gods and men but shortly put into their graves before they were rising again, and now an island that appeared to have vanished, as if islands were ever wont to do so.

Except that Jack had somehow managed to lead them to it once before, and he could have sworn he had followed his directions to the letter. Except that the empty ocean before him belied that. Clearly, there had to be something that he had missed... some secret Jack Sparrow had forgone to tell him of.

Norrington closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the man himself standing near to the wheel rather than Reade. Remembering how he'd turned to look at him with those enigmatic eyes, eyes darker than the breathless night around them. His shirt stained and his vest torn and one hand raised to stroke at the air as he made some point that made sense only to himself. The other hand closed tight around that useless black compass of his...

That compass... that compass...

God, he was a fool.

He raised a hand to gesture Groves over to him, but then saw Reade nodding towards the front of the quarterdeck. And as he slowly turned towards the front himself, he saw that both Griffiths and the surgeon of the Endeavor were heading up the stairs towards him. Two of his own marines bringing up the rear.

So, it had come to this, after all.

He looked back at the Captain, whose eyes were hard now. Though, he thought he could detect the smallest portion of pity in them, as well.

"Sir," the Welshman said. "I regret... I'm afraid that I must see fit to remove you from your position. If you would please accompany these men below decks, they will see to your comfort... Master Avery... "

And the ships' surgeon stepped forward, a determined though sympathetic look on his face.

"Commodore?" he heard Groves say softly behind him.

He shook his head, knowing the other man was offering to fight for him if he but asked. Even if all it would serve was to get the two of them thrown into the brig for the day, if not for the rest of the duration of the voyage.

"Sir?" Griffiths asked, standing next to him now as well, one hand gesturing at the stairs to the lower deck. "Please, sir. The good doctor simply wishes a word with ye, naught else."

"Yes," he replied pensively. "The good doctor."

Who suddenly had the common courtesy to look uncomfortable to the extreme, even as he shook his head at him. "Commodore," he said. "This is... only for the best. You must know that."

"Your sword, sir," the First Mate of the Endeavor added then. He put out a hand, then straightened ever so slightly as Norrington put his own hand to the hilt of the requested item.

Norrington looked into his eyes, then glanced around the quarterdeck, finding no aid there. Even though he could still feel Groves behind him, could feel his agitation and his desire to be of use to him. Not that he could. Not in this.

His gaze was caught by the two marines, who were even now exchanging worried glances—as if afraid of what they might be forced to do if he did, indeed, chose to resist—but he nodded encouragement at them and they shouldered themselves into a semblance of order again. Puzzled, but doing their job all the same.

But then they were good men, all of them. They knew their duty the same as he did.

"But of course," he said, slowly unbuckling both belt and sword. But, instead of handing it to Griffiths, he held it out until Groves came forward and took it instead. As he had expected him to, though the other man's eyes looked stricken.

"John," he said then, half under his breath, and the Lieutenant immediately straightened and his face went completely expressionless. Though his eyes still bore his pain.

As for Norrington, he masked his own humiliation and pain with a brutally cool demeanor even as he left the quarterdeck and went below decks as requested. Escorted the whole way by two armed marines and the First Mate, besides. As if he was a dangerous criminal as much as a potential mad man.

Though he found he could not ignore the sidelong looks of both the crew of the Endeavor and his own men as he passed them by, despite being quite unable to bear the sight of either their accusation or their pity.

***

King of the Brethren. Well, and many a man had tried to claim that honor, and been laughed at even as he was walked off the plank. Buccaneers not being known for forgiving those who would presume to give themselves airs over and above their station, let alone their peers. After all, that was half the reason why they had gone pirate in the first place; to avoid having to pledge themselves to any one country, let alone any one man.

And as for the rest...

To fancy setting himself up as a Pirate King was one thing, no matter how short-lived the reality might be, but to think that he could lay claim to the whole of the Caribees, never mind all the Americas...

Oh, aye, Barbossa had quite taken leave of his senses.

Though none of his cunning, it seemed.

For when he told the man he needed time to think upon his answer, Barbossa had but shrugged and then had him tossed back in the brig quick as a two-penny whore. Leaving him here in the dark once more. Though, this time, with an orange and a few cakes to tide him over until next they remembered him.

Though, to be perfectly honest, he well wished he had thought to filch the bottle of rum instead.

For if it could not have made any of this make more sense, at least its company would have made the hours in these close confines the easier to bear. Confines he doubted he would be escaping from any time soon. Since there was no question of ever giving in to Barbossa, not even in the hopes of reclaiming his precious Pearl for his very own.

Though, he wasn't about to tell the other man that. Not until he absolutely had to, and certainly not before he'd had another chance at the rum.

A man had his priorities to think of, after all. As much as his honor.

***

No, Captain Reade and Samuel Avery had actually proved more than generous towards him, all things considered. At the last, Reade hadn't even had him thrown in the brig. Simply confined to a small, though comfortable enough, cabin that normally belonged to his own First Lieutenant.

Still, the door was guarded by two men no less, and Norrington was fairly certain that proceedings against him would readily commence once they returned to Port Royal. And if he wasn't found culpable for the loss of Interceptor and Dauntless, then there was still a very good chance that he would lose his position all the same. It may be of little occasion for a King to be thought of as mad when the mood was upon him, but not so a Commodore of the King's own navy. He would be lucky not to find himself brought back to London and put into Bedlam, especially if he insisted on telling his tale to any more men with ties back to the Lords of the Admiralty.

Speaking of which, despite having begun this letter yesterday, he still couldn't find the right words to start with, let alone know quite how to compose the rest of it. Not to save his life, which it very well might at that, if it could not save the rest of his career.

Norrington picked up his teacup, then set it back down again, right next to the untouched plate of biscuits. But then his appetite seemed to have vanished along with his freedom. And his normal ready turn of phrase. Forcing him to stare at the salutation yet again, wondering at the same time if Admiral Lewis would take the revelations he needed to make with any less aplomb than his protégé had or if he should simply swallow his pride and lie and say that, yes, he must have been suffering from a brain fever of some sort.

One caused by too much association with pirates of the worst kind.

Pirates who evidently knew how to find an island that otherwise couldn't be found. And who had a compass that he very well suspected was the trick of it, but that he couldn't make work for himself no matter how many hours he had spent staring at it after being locked away with nothing much else to contemplate. Except for his own impending court-martial, of course.

An equally frustrating proposition.

He was still considering this, when there was a knock at the door.

"Yes?" he called.

"It's Leftenant Groves, sir," came the response.

"Ah, yes," he replied. He set the quill down and rose to his feet, his face carefully neutral as the other man opened the door and stepped inside the small room. Behind him, the two marines glanced in as well, clearly curious, then went back to standing to attention at their posts.

"Good news, sir," Groves said.

Norrington nodded. "Go on."

"Captain Reade has agreed that you need not remain confined, as long as you are accompanied at all times by myself and two armed men. That you may go where you wish under those circumstances, excepting the arms and powder rooms, the Captain's own cabin, and the quarterdeck, unless otherwise indicated. If those terms are amenable to you, sir, then we may proceed this very moment."

"Fresh air and at least the illusion of freedom," Norrington said quietly. "Yes, I agree to the Captain's terms. Thank you, Leftenant."

And he gave the other man a slight smile, acknowledging additional thanks. Since he had little doubt just who was behind this sudden largess. He shrugged back into his coat and then turned to find Groves perusing his unfinished letter. The lieutenant snapped to once he realized that Norrington was looking at him expectantly, but his eyes remained warm all the same.

He gestured at the door. "Sir."

Good to his word, Groves then proceeded him all the way topside, while the two marines took up their own positions behind them both, several respectable paces to the rear. Far enough that, should he and the other man keep their voices low, they would not be easily overheard. He well imagined it was a deliberate courtesy on their part, since they were two of his best and had fought alongside him the night the pirates had first made their attempt to take the Dauntless.

Even if Murtogg did have the occasional tendency to speak out of turn.

They walked nearly the allowed length of the ship and then back again, before Groves gestured him over to the near rail.

"Commodore," he said in a low tone. "I must tell you that the men have been talking. Those that took part in the battle aboard Dauntless are speaking out on your behalf, both to our own who were not there, and to the crew of Endeavor. They are not in agreement, either about what to believe or how to proceed, and it has almost come to blows more than once already."

Norrington nodded. Discord among the ranks was not something he liked to hear, even less so when they might be facing a fight at any moment—let alone a fight with men who could not easily be stopped or killed—but it was moving that so many seemed willing to speak out for his sake.

"Captain Reade is quite beside himself," Groves went on, a wary eye now going to the crew on deck at the moment. "He has been heard to say that he may in fact abandon this effort as the errand of a fool and return to Port Royal forthwith."

"No," Norrington said. "He must not do that. We need the Dauntless returned to our hands. And if we cannot retake her, we must at the very least make an effort to sink her."

"My feelings exactly," Groves replied.

Norrington glanced sidelong at him. "You seemed rather less eager to see me fire upon the Interceptor that day, Leftenant. Don't tell me that you have revised your opinion of pirates recently."

"No, sir," the other man said. "No more so than you. I simply thought the action was a trifle unwarranted that day, sir. After all, it was one of our own who was aboard her, a man who had been a good citizen all his life until then. And as for Captain Sparrow... "

"Yes," Norrington interrupted. "What of Sparrow?"

The other man's eyes dropped to the sea below for a moment, then lifted to confront him quite directly. "I believe he deserved a chance, sir. If only for his good services in the rescue of the Governor's daughter."

Norrington let out a small sound, unsure himself if it sounded more amused or annoyed.

"That particular sentiment appears to be highly contagious."

"Sir?"

Norrington shook his head, then reached inside his vest and slowly pulled out Sparrow's compass. He held it out and Groves frowned at it, before he took it in hand himself.

"What is this?"

"Another small token of Jack Sparrow's," Norrington replied. "One that I've been thinking about of late. Especially in regards to our failure at finding the Isla de Muerta where it most certainly should have been."

Groves pried it open, then moved it around, his frown deepening. "It doesn't seem to be capable of pointing out North, sir."

"I am well aware of that."

"Then why would Captain Sparrow keep it, if it is of no use?"

"The real question, Leftenant, may more be of what other use is it?" He glanced down at the compass—knowing that there had to be a trick to it, but one that he had not yet been able to fathom, despite his best efforts—then frowned himself as he saw the needle suddenly move, angling over until it was pointed due West.

"Sir?"

"What were you just thinking of, Leftenant?"

"Why, Captain Sparrow, sir."

"Mmm... "

Norrington held out his hand and Groves placed the worn black compass back in his palm. Quite deliberately, feeling a trifle foolish at the same time, he thought of Port Royal. Of home. Of the way the sun came in through the windows of his apartments and lay across the fine linen of his bed, waking him early every morn. Of the smell of oranges from the small orchard across the way and his housekeeper's cat curled up near the hearth. Seeing his men drilling in the courtyard of Fort Charles, their uniforms glowing in the hot tropic sun. The shimmer of raised swords and Elizabeth's fair turn of ankle in that ivory dress the day of his confirmation as Commodore of the Fleet.

An age ago now, it seemed...

And the needle quivered and then shifted yet again. Swinging all the way round until it was pointing South South-East.

Mmm... indeed.

Then, steeling himself a little for it, but feeling slightly less foolish than before, he thought of Jack Sparrow.

Of the pirate's slanting easy walk and his even easier smile and the way he had of ignoring personal propriety by going right up to a man and looking them square in the eye, as if he had no idea of just whom his betters were and even less sense of respect for same. That rough dark hair of his twisted and braided and set upon by beads of every size and color, decorated by oddments from goodness knows what strange parts of the world he seen fit to visit himself upon. Those rough sailors' hands dancing wildly in the air, stained by tar, the nails ragged and none too clean, but entrancing for all that.

But, most of all, he found himself dwelling—albeit reluctantly—on the thought of the other man's eyes. Eyes that he had never seen the like of before in his life. Black, so very black, and always taunting, always daunting. Roguish and charming and challenging at the same time.

Eyes that betrayed the quick mind that lay behind them, even though the man would make himself out to be a drunken fool half the time.

"Commodore?"

Grove's excited whisper drew him back to himself, and Norrington glanced down to see the needle of the compass pointing due West again. And was mildly surprised that he was not more surprised by it.

A fool, indeed...

He gave a wry smile, one that Groves matched. As if they were but two curious schoolboys who had just found out purely by chance that they shared a most marvelous secret. One that they couldn't hardly bear to contain between them.

"Captain Sparrow, sir," the other man said, a blend of appreciation and vindication in his voice, clearly both for the compass itself and for the man who had once owned it.

Norrington let out a soft breath. "So it would seem."

Groves shot a circumspect glance towards the West. "What lies in that direction, Commodore?"

Norrington glanced up at the sun himself, then made some quick calculations. "The island of Nombre de Dios, perhaps, by our current heading. Under Spanish rule, of course, and with two towns and few sugar and indigo plantations. Santa Rosita, I believe, is the port town, though the harbor is in no way deep enough for much more than a sloop."

The lieutenant frowned. "Doesn't sound like much to tempt a pirate, let alone one with a ship like Dauntless at his disposal."

"No, it doesn't," Norrington replied. "You're quite right. But you really must see if you can influence the Captain to sail there all the same. For even if this is purely foolishness on our part," and he clicked the compass shut again, stowing it away carefully, "we must start our search somewhere. And Nombre de Dios is as good a place as any other to begin, is it not?"

"Oh yes, sir," Groves said, smiling brightly now. "I quite agree."

***

And though James Norrington wasn't surprised, the depths of his anger rather shocked him. As it also gained him a sharp look from Lieutenant Groves as he snapped the spyglass shut with rather more force than was strictly necessary and handed it off to him. Burning buildings and boats he should have expected, and some part of him had, but not the number of bodies he could see within the streets or lying sprawled upon the shore.

He bowed his head, attempting to stow the worst of his temper away, even as his hands curled around the side rail. Feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life, and not appreciating the experience in the least.

Still, he somehow managed to keep his silence for the next quarter hour, despite how Groves kept glancing over at him from out of the corner of his eye, his own face alternating between concern and anger of its own, as the Endeavor ponderously sailed in and took up position just outside the mouth of the small harbor. The anchors dropping into the pure blue waters. The sails being taken in briskly, men scurrying busily along the decks and rigging.

But then if Groves had actually opened his mouth and asked him his thoughts, he wasn't sure he could have shared them. Not without losing what remained to him of his composure, anyway.

He only took his hands from the rail and glanced around at the last when he heard them start to put a couple of jollyboats into the water, the First Mate barking orders at them the whole while. Lapsing into Welsh upon occasion, as if he too was unnerved by the possibility of what more might await them ashore.

To his eye, the officers on the quarterdeck seemed on edge as well. The youngest of the midshipmen still peering through glasses at the town beyond, while the Captain stood next to the steersman. Too far away for him to clearly see his expression, though well he could imagine the other man's concern. Both over what may have happened and over the continued security of his own ship. For, even if whoever did this did not return—and he had little doubt it was the men aboard the Dauntless—if a ship of the Spanish Royal Navy appeared now, they would quite probably shoot first and ask questions later, if at all.

"I know I have no authority remaining to me," he said quietly as he turned to look at Groves at the last, after sparing a glance for the two marines waiting a respectable pace or two away and seeing they were still out of earshot, and was quite pleased to hear his voice sounded calm enough. "But I would ask, Leftenant, if you would please go ashore as well and be my eyes and ears for me. Since I very much doubt... well, the run of the deck is one thing, but I suspect the Captain's generosity of spirit shall not extend to my taking a stroll around town."

"Of course, sir," the other man responded. He seemed calm, as well, but his eyes betrayed how disconcerted he was. "But I am afraid, Commodore, that if I am not here to accompany you..."

"I will retire below," Norrington said, smiling a little as he nodded. "And await your return."

"Thank you, sir," Groves said softly, relief evident in his own voice.

For a moment, he wished he could say more—to give him the reassurance he himself did not feel—but the men were already lowering themselves into the boats and the Lieutenant had yet to ascend to the quarterdeck and ask permission to go ashore with them. It would not do to keep them waiting, especially when there may yet be injured needing attention in Santa Rosita.

Speaking of which, Avery was climbing down now as well, sparing him a singular glance just before he disappeared over the side of the ship.

And Norrington felt the full weight of his shame settle on him once more; to be so ill thought of by his own, by a learned man, a man who could so easily damn him by virtue of a single letter to the Lords of the Admiralty. So that even if he was exonerated of the loss of both the Interceptor and the Dauntless, slight as that possibility seemed at the moment, there would still be the issue of his own state of mind, or lack thereof, to potentially condemn him.

"Escort the Commodore back, if you would," Groves said to the marines, before turning back to him and lowering his voice again. "Sir...do you believe it was Dauntless?"

Norrington nodded. "Yes, I do," he replied. "But find me some proof, if you can. Something the others will take account of."

Groves straightened. "Yes, sir."

He gestured at the marines and they came up to flank Norrington, as he walked away from the railing and descended below. Not looking back and ignoring the bustle around him as if it was beneath him, as if the guards with him were a mark of honor instead shame, his face ever so carefully remote. At least, until the door of the borrowed cabin was closed behind him. When he let his shoulders slump for a moment, before he turned in one quick move and slammed his closed fist down on the top of the desk.

Damn it. It galled him to be forced to remain aboard ship like this, under lock and key no less. He had no doubt that the good lieutenant would relate to him all he had seen ashore, but it was almost more than he could stand to have to remain here. Helpless to what was going on. Helpless, indeed, and it was not an emotion he was comfortable, let alone familiar with, and certainly not something he'd ever considered himself to be.

After all, he prided himself on being a man of action as much as of education, and he had made his life's career out of ridding the Caribbean of just such a scourge as these pirates and their stolen vessel presented. Of course, Santa Rosita was a Spanish town and, as such, under the considerable protection of the Spanish fleet and not his own, but he could hardly stand by all the same. Most especially with the memory of what had happened to Port Royal so very fresh in his mind.

As far as he knew, this tiny town did not even have an honest fortification to guard it. Not that his own, nor all the men at his command, had seemed capable of preventing these men from entering the confines of Fort Charles itself when it came down to it. From killing and looting where and from whom they wished, with no care or regard for anything but the satisfaction of their own greed and lusts.

Pirates... they deserved nothing less than death. He would freely hang the lot of them if he could. Send them all down to the Hell that they deserved.

Norrington sat down at the desk and closed his eyes, then pressed the heels of both hands against his forehead a moment later. Hard and harder still. Feeling a headache coming on, and his stomach twisting itself into tight and tighter knots, and the weight of a dirty scarf and that odd black compass pressing against his stomach from where they were safely hidden away in his vest.

Pirates... oh, yes, hang them. Hang them all.

Even if they only came back for more.

***

He woke to the whisper of his own name, and to an amber flare of light in the darkness. He rolled over and glanced up at the window of the cell. Pale blue eyes stared in at him, before they turned to peruse his rather limited surroundings.

"Cozy," Barbossa commented. "I can see why ye are not of much mind to be leavin' it."

"The company's better than some I might name," Jack said.

That earned him a small smile, which was something he would have preferred not to see. Not from this man, anyhow.

"Oh, no doubt o' that," the other man said. "But, I was just curious, Jack. Have ye decided yet whether or no to accept me proposal? For if ye have, then I am of a mind to a private celebration of me own. Bein' that the previous captain o' this ship saw fit to leave such a treasure trove o' fine brandies and such behind. Drinkables which the rest of this lot no more deserve than they would see fit to appreciate."

Jack pried himself up off the floor, brushing a whole slew of nonexistent crumbs off his shirt and breeches—having long polished off every last bit of the cakes he'd nicked, and the orange as well, rind and all—before standing up straight and staring Barbossa right in the eye.

Aye, two days, and that was as far as the other man's patience would allow it seemed. He'd already been given a taste of honey, and now would come the sting.

"Come now, Jack, me love," Barbossa went on, his voice dropping a little, ever so intimate now and both rough and warm at the same time. Though his eyes remained as cool and appraising as ever. "Ye must be despairing of this most ill treatment. I would treat ye as ye well deserve. Hanged ye were and shown no kindness since, an I would put stop to all that if ye would but allow me. If ye would but say yea to my own good self, an to the fate which I've freely offered ye."

Jack met those pale eyes for a long moment, then dropped his own. "I could use a bit o' water," he mumbled, rather than answering the real question.

There was a long silence, then a soft laugh. "O' course," Barbossa said. "Pardon me for presuming to offer ye spirits, when ye've no water for nigh on two day now, an little enough before that."

"Well, some spirits wouldn't go amiss either," Jack mumbled under his breath, even as he heard the lock being withdrawn.

The door swung open and Barbossa stepped inside, making the small room seem even smaller by his presence. He hung the lantern overhead and it cast a shadow over his face, one that hid even his eyes. Then held out a cup to Jack with an encouraging tilt of his head.

Jack hesitated, curling his fingers thoughtfully, before daring to reach out. But the other man pulled the cup back before he could touch it.

"Nay," Barbossa said. "Bein' that we are not exactly mates yet, ye must pay for the privilege."

Jack gave him a wary look.

"Ah, Jack, Jack," came the reply. "Can ye not trust me, just this once? For I've quite given up on the idea of killing ye, bein' that even before ye became fair immortal, it seemed ye had the knack o' coming back all the same."

"There's aught worse than death," he said. Imprisonment being one that came trippingly to mind, without much effort on his part at all. And, though he wasn't about to admit to it yet, choosing to serve the man in front of him came in a close second to that.

"Aye, that there be," Barbossa said. "That there be."

Jack didn't wish to take that as a threat, but there was little use in denying it was meant as one.

He swallowed and his throat closed up tight. To be honest, he didn't wish to go another day without something to drink, let alone as long as Barbossa was quite able and willing to leave him here without. It wasn't as if there was any use to it, after all. Even if the man was no longer inclined towards his death—even if he could accomplish it, and Jack had little doubt that if anyone could figure out a way to see him done to death, Barbossa could—he was more than capable of leaving him down here to rot.

The only question was how long he could draw this out, in the hopes of some other, more palatable choices presenting themselves. And how much he would have to give in order to get what he needed in the meantime.

Oh, aye, he trusted in Dame Fortune... but She took Her own good time, sometimes. Even if he was Her most favored son.

"What do ye want?" he asked, resignation in his voice.

"A small thing only," Barbossa replied. "Naught but a token, given in trust for the rest."

And he took another step forward, one hand moving to rest on the hilt of his sword and the other still holding tight to that scant cup of water.

"A kiss, Jack," he said, softly and ever so reasonably. The light now falling full into his eyes, betraying the silvery hue caught within their ocean blue hue. Betraying the lust that he clearly wasn't even making the slightest attempt to hide. A lust Jack had known of old, but had dearly hoped against hope that the last ten years had dimmed.

He couldn't help the grimace, but Barbossa seemed to pay it no mind. Or had, in fact, been expecting it.

"An if I tell ye no?" he said.

The other man shrugged slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on him. "If ye will not accept my affections, then there are others here who are more than willing to tender their own onto thee, Jack Sparrow. I, at least, offer thee a choice. A position of authority. Plunder o' ye own. But if ye insist..."

And the cup suddenly slipped from his hand, spilling the precious water across the deck, which drank it down as thirstily as Jack would have. Jack frowned down at its loss, then glanced up again when he heard the rasp of steel being loosed from it's sheathe. Only to find the needle point of a blade already at his throat.

"If ye insist," Barbossa went on. "Then I shall take what I want, and give the rest the leavings. An ye shall be servant to even the least o' them. Bootlick and bumboy for the rest o' your unnatural life, Jack. Be that what ye truly want, for if tis... then I will readily grant it to ye."

"Grown soft, have ye?" he replied. "In your dotage, as it were."

"Hardly that," the other man said. And, though he didn't seem to move, the point of the sword nicked him all the same and Jack winced as he felt a twinge of sharp pain, followed by a trickle of something hot and wet winding its way down his neck.

"Now look what ye've gone and done, Jack," Barbossa hissed, and those pale eyes slid down, as if he found the sight of all that blood almost impossible to resist. Even as a shadow seemed to fall over his face once more.

"My apologies," Jack said, trying to circumspectly arch his head further away from the point of that blade. But it only seemed to follow him, even as Barbossa's eyes narrowed and he smiled, feral and amused at once.

"Come now, Jack," he said, ever so softly. "One kiss for your old mate. One would think it of no mind to ye, bein' that ye've always been a man of great affections. Though of little enough fidelity."

"Pot and kettle, mate," Jack replied, through his own teeth.

"Aye," Barbossa said. "An we're both black as sin when it comes to that. So why not throw in our lot together then? Raise a fleet that shall put all the rest to shame, that shall make honest folk and Kings alike shiver at the sound o' our names. True immortality, Jack. To put our mark upon history, for good or for ill."

"For ill, I rather imagine," Jack commented.

Barbossa shrugged at that and, to Jack's relief, the sword in his hand lowered a little, then dropped altogether. Until the point actually touched the floor and the other man could lean upon it. As he looked at Jack with this almost sad expression on his face.

"An ye call yourself a pirate," he said in a softly mocking tone. "Soft enough ye were, Jack, ten year ago, but I fear ye've grown softer still since then. Still, tis of little matter. Since, though ye will not come to me willingly, ye shall yet come to me. For there be no life left to ye, but that which I offer."

"So sure of that, are ye?"

"Oh, aye," came the reply, even as every last vestige of humor, good or otherwise, vanished from the other man. "For even truly dead, ye shall be mine. I have that on good account."

And, with that, he kicked the fallen cup across the floor to Jack's feet and spun around to leave. Slamming and locking the door behind him with what seemed like more force than entirely necessary, the sounds of iron and stout oak closing tight shut on him once more echoing over and over in Jack's head. Their weight pulling at him, pulling him down until he found himself on the floor once again.

The dark close around him, and his shoulders slumping down as if all of their own, hardly able to breathe for the pressure in his chest. A pressure he had not felt since he'd found himself on the gallows that bright morning. Since he'd woke beneath the earth and had to claw his way free.

"Please..."

The bare whisper of a word somehow escaped before he could stop it, but there was no one there to hear it. No one at all.

***

"Yes?" he said, pulling himself to his feet and smoothing down his coat, tightening his neck cloth.

"It's Groves, sir. If I may come in?"

"Of course."

Norrington further composed himself, though one look into the lieutenant's eyes just about undid it all in the work of a moment. The eyes of the matched set of men behind him weren't much better, which told him that—whatever had been found on the island—that the word had already spread throughout the entire ship, and that even hardened marines were finding it difficult to bear.

Groves closed the door behind him, then gave a crisp little nod. "Sir," he said as a preamble.

"Barely two hours," Norrington said. "And we were underway again. I take it that whatever was discovered upon shore, there was little to be done? Or am I entirely off base, Leftenant."

"No, sir," Groves said quietly. "They were... all dead. We found only two who somehow survived, though both were grievously wounded and the ship's surgeon fears the worst. An old woman and a very young boy, both of which have been brought aboard. All the rest were... were..."

The other man hesitated, briefly closing his eyes and turning his head slightly away, before forcing himself to face him again and go on. "There was blood everywhere, sir. They didn't see fit to spare the women, let alone any of the children. Even the youngest babe in arms. Oh, God... I've never... I never would have imagined..."

"Leftenant."

"Yes, sir," Groves replied, hurriedly collecting himself once more. "But I must admit that I don't understand. There was not rhyme nor reason to it, Commodore. These people had so little and no defenses to speak of. Certainly, nothing to drive a pirate to murder, let alone a whole ship full."

Norrington nodded. "How does the Captain intend to proceed?"

Groves dropped his eyes again. "Sir, Captain Reade seems most unwilling to further involve himself or the Endeavor. He claims that there is absolutely no proof that the men we are looking for had anything to do with what happened here. Especially since no one actually saw the ship which attacked the town, just the sound and flash of cannon fire from beyond the mouth of the harbor. Which is, to me anyway, a clear indication that whatever ship was there could not enter, which meant it was not a shallow draft ship like a sloop. And, as well, the damage I saw clearly came from 12 pound guns, sir. At the very least."

Norrington nodded. The Dauntless, as a 3rd Rate ship-of-the-line, carried a range of cannon, from the nine and 12 pounders to 24 and 36 weight guns. 98 cannon in all and more than enough to take on the average pirate sloop with just their six or nine pound cannon or even the more rare brigantine of thirty-eight guns or less. A formidable force, especially when pitted against all but defenseless town.

And, from what he had observed that night when the Black Pearl had attacked Port Royal, these men knew what they were doing. Even if they didn't have enough crew to man all the guns.

"What can you tell me about the attack then?" he asked.

Groves frowned. "Of course, being there were no living witnesses but two and the boy barely young enough to speak intelligibly, there is not much. However, the old woman claimed that that the marauders just seemed to appear out of the dark a few minutes after the cannon fire began. Tearing into all they found as if they were 'more beast than man,' I believe would be the best translation of her words. No warning beforehand and no mercy shown besides. Though she also said, when pressed to it, that she did hear them speaking English."

"What did Reade have to say to that?"

The other man shook his head. "That she was a Spaniard and this a Spanish town and that we had no right nor responsibility here, not even to give what succor we already had by bringing them aboard, and we would not be thanked for our involvement either way."

"Probably quite true," Norrington said. "But still, rather heartless. And the Captain did not strike me as a heartless sort."

"No," Groves said shortly. "But, equally, he does not seem the sort who has much sympathy for the Spanish, sir. If you would pardon me for speaking out of turn."

Norrington nodded curtly. "So he does not believe it was Dauntless."

"No, sir. Or, at least, will not admit to the possibility of it. Which is much the same thing."

"I assume then that we are already on course for Port Royal."

"Actually, sir," Groves replied. "Captain Reade does intend on a quick sail by Tortuga of all things, before proceeding on home. Apparently, he has heard tell of the pirate isle and wishes to see it for himself."

"Well, that's something anyway," Norrington said, even though part of him took the news as rather a slap in the face. It was no fault of his own that he had never been able to take on the most infamous abode of pirates and other undesirables in all the Caribbean—the Governor had requested both authority and ships and men enough to make the attempt on more than one occasion, and had been told rather firmly that there were far more urgent needs at hand and neither could be spared.

He himself had intended on making the same request, now that his promotion had come through, but there had not been time enough since. And now it looked as if there would never be.

"Tortuga," he repeated.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I hope it lives up to his expectations."

***

That's what he had told the lad he had in his veins. And Bill Turner had been a good pirate. One of the best, if a bit extravagant when it came to the ladies whenever they would put to shore. An honorably married wife and child back home, but his "wives" here in the Caribbean had stretched from port to port—large women and small, quiet and loud, dark or light of hair, it had not seemed to matter much to him. Not that he hadn't been good to them all, a jewel among men as it were, as generous as he was charming, but perhaps he had always given too much of himself away.

And left not nearly enough for ones left behind. For his only son.

Jack rolled over and let his arms flop wide. He stared up at the ceiling, not that there was very much light to see it by.

Aye, a charming lad to be sure. Spitting image of his own dearly departed father. Who may not have been all that dearly departed, after all, even though he had most like been at the bottom of the sea now for near on ten years. Dead, not dead, unable to die. Until the curse was broken at the last, perhaps.

And Jack did not wish to imagine what may have happened then—not to the man who had only ever faltered once in his friendship, and who had regretted his failure soon after. Enough to condemn himself and all his mates to an everlasting torment of hunger and thirst and lust. But then he did not wish to imagine spending ten years in the darkness and eternal cold of the depths either.

All for that he knew the signs. He knew that Barbossa would soon lose patience with him and that could very well end up his fate once himself and his crew had wrung their last amusement out of him. Or something worse even, for he could not afford to doubt that the other man's threats were naught but bluster and brag.

For even truly dead, ye shall be mine...

Aye, that did not sound as if Barbossa intended to let him go anytime soon, even to the tender embrace of the deeps. Where he could share what remained of eternity with his old mate, Bootstrap. Be he dead or alive or some state caught between.

It was a shame that young Will had never truly known his father. He had been reluctant to tell the lad at first, knowing his view on those of a piratical nature, but Will had deserved to know. For the sea called to those with salt in their veins. And, now that he had tasted the life for himself, he rather doubted that the lad would rest easy upon the shore. Even if he did finally get himself a girl.

Ah, but Elizabeth...

He could not fault the lad's taste, even if he feared she was a bit too much a firebrand even for the son of a pirate. But, no matter, for they fancied each other something awful, and each was more stubborn that the last.

He could respect that. He fancied himself as being stubborn enough. After all, many a man had tried over the years to sway him from the belief that someday he might get his Pearl back. That he would be captain in fact, as well as in name, again.

And, to be sure, Barbossa knew how much she meant to him. Though, it was not much of a secret when it came to that. But even though she was his heart, his soul, everything he had ever desired in life, he would not willingly surrender to the other man in order to get her back. Not if he could at all help it.

Jack closed his eyes, then opened them again, but this time he did not see the dim confines of his cell. Instead, he glimpsed blue waters, distant skies, and felt the surge of the Pearl beneath his feet as she rode the waves between them. Ten years since he had known the living presence of her beneath his hands. Ten years since he had heard the snap of her sails overhead and felt them fill with the wind, making his own breath catch in his lungs with mute longing and almost more love than he could bear.

Ten years, and yet he had never forgotten a moment of it.

Though he sometimes feared that the Pearl had forgotten him.

***

It had been both demeaning and trying, especially to contain his temper by the very end of it, and did not bode well for what awaited him once they returned to Port Royal.

He was just turning to inform Lieutenant Groves and the requisite two marines in attendance that he was ready to go below when the cry rang out from above.

"Sail ho!"

He and Groves immediately moved to the rail as the lookout far above followed that up with the location of the sails he had sighted. Still, it was a fairly long wait before the ship's hull rose up and he finally caught sight of something dark against dark on the horizon. He squinted at it, but the on-coming wall of thick clouds and the swiftly gathering night made it difficult to make out just what he was seeing.

"What is it?" Groves asked, handing him his own spyglass before he could ask for one.

Norrington didn't immediately answer—not wanting to be wrong, to expect too much—but what the glass revealed made his heart tighten. A dark shape, indeed, but a shape that was eminently recognizable even from this distance for someone who knew her as well as he did, even despite her change of hue.

The Dauntless. Painted black as pitch and heighing directly into the path of an on-coming squall as if she had not a care in the world.

He swallowed hard, then handed the glass over to Groves. Up on the quarterdeck, he saw the First Mate was looking towards the East as well. Then one of the Midshipmen was send running for the Captain. For a moment, he contemplated making the attempt to join them on the forbidden quarterdeck, then decided that his dignity would not allow the rebuff he was most likely to get.

Even so, he could hardly contain himself from turning and immediately issuing orders to send them after the other ship.

But Groves was lowering the glass, shaking his head slightly. "We'll never catch her before that storm breaks. Not if she keeps to her present course."

"No," Norrington said brusquely. "You're quite correct, Leftenant."

But it looked as though Reade was going to make a good show of it, because the hands were already going aloft with renewed vigor and then they were turning, heading on a course to intercept the Dauntless. The call to Quarters had gone out as well and the marines were gathering, readying their own weapons for when they might make close approach.

Norrington reclaimed the glass, alternating his view between the ship ahead of them and the man standing near the wheel on the quarterdeck, a small part of him wondering if he would be ordered below at any moment. The greater part hardly able to bear the thought of not being up there right now.

"He's a good captain," Groves said quietly. "And this is a good ship."

But when Norrington glanced at him, he could see the tension in the other man's face. For the Dauntless was a good ship, as well, and even if the pirates didn't have the ability to man all the guns aboard her, they had a distinct advantage all the same.

For they had nothing to lose, not even their lives.

Still, he was surprised when, a few minutes later, he saw Dauntless suddenly come about and begin to head in their direction.

Groves frowned and leaned forward a little. "Are they mad?"

Norrington spared him a quick glance. "Overconfident, no doubt, but as to the state of their sanity... if they actually intend to engage us, then the result of said engagement shall certainly be telling."

The other man gave him a brief smile, then looked back out across the water.

Norrington raised the glass again, half-listening to the orders and bustle going on behind him as the crew of the Endeavor readied for battle. He judged that they had perhaps a quarter hour before the Dauntless would be within range of the long nines. Not that they would do much good against her solid oaken hull.

Her repainted hull. A rather stolid unremitting black hue from this distance and a color which he didn't think flattered her at all. Well, no ship really, with one rather memorable and slightly grudging exception.

He lowered the glass again and obligingly handed it off to Groves. Who eagerly put it to his own eye. The sky was darkening fast now, the seas beneath turning a matching shade of greenish-grey, with white caps dashing spray high into the air.

The taste of salt on his lips. The snap of the canvas above. The shouts and calls of men. The rumble below his feet as the cannon were run out. And his heart was beating fast and his mouth was dry, and the sails of the opposing ship were looming closer and closer. The white sails all the more stark against the black masts, the black clouds and ocean expanse beyond.

Thunder rumbled, and lightning sparked in the darkness, briefly connecting the sea and the sky. The wind shifted, then shifted again. There was more thunder and, seemingly under the cover of it, the Dauntless suddenly fired a cannonade from her deck. Geysers of white water rose up several cable lengths away from them, and a few moments later the order was shouted past and they returned fire.

Their shot also fell short, but that was of no matter, since Dauntless was turning again, her sails filling as they caught the wind fully. The great ship suddenly surging towards them, even as a flag began to rise over her decks. An entirely too familiar black flag, with a bone-white skull and crossed swords sewn upon it.

Endeavor angled to catch the best of the winds, as well, but with the storm at her back, Dauntless had the advantage for the moment.

But the sky was growing ever darker, the seas rougher, and Norrington took tight hold of the rail as the ship bucked and rolled, even as Reade had them fire again upon the other ship. Smoke briefly obscured the sight of the oncoming Dauntless, then the winds tore it to shreds, just in time for Norrington to see the answering flash from the other ship.

"Sir!" Groves shouted, a moment before the ship shuddered and something tore clean through the mizzen maincourse just behind them. The crew aboard Dauntless were still firing the long nines, but they were closing fast now and he had little doubt that soon the heavier cannon would come into play.

A dozen marines rushed by and took up position in the waist, their Lieutenant barking orders at them. Lightning arched across the sky and the winds shifted yet again, the sails bucking overhead. The Endeavor pitched, then struck a new course, still closing on the other ship at good speed. Orders were shouted again and then the deck rumbled beneath his feet as the 24 pounders finally spat their own load of lead and smoke, deafeningly loud and deadly even at this range.

Despite himself, Norrington winced as the shot struck home in the sides of the Dauntless. But he didn't have much time for more than that, before iron was again screaming by and it was the Endeavor's turn to stagger. Smoke and splinters of oak flew and he heard the screams of men as they were struck. A piece of rope with a tattered bit of bloody sail still attached to it landed right behind him.

He saw Groves glance back at it, then turn to him with this anguished look in his eyes. An expression which he masked a moment later, though he did go so far as to briefly touch him on the arm.

"Sir," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the smatter of return fire from the Marines, intermixed with the louder cannonade from the chase guns on the forecastle. "We should take cover!"

But Norrington shook his head, then gazed out upon their enemy. The Dauntless was now less than a fifth of a mile away and closing on them fast, even though there were a few matching holes in her own sail. Two more men struggled by, carrying a moaning warrant office between them, his hands clutched hard to his stomach.

Lieutenant Groves took hold of a boy as he tried to skitter past and whispered something in his ear, sending him off again with a slap to the back. When Norrington gave him a look of inquiry, though, the other man only shrugged.

He heard more orders passed along, and then the Endeavor managed another full broadside on the up roll, cannon crashing as one. He saw Dauntless stagger, but then she was turning to present as well—only about 200 yards separating them now—and a plume of smoke rose up all along her side as her cannon also sounded.

Something tore past just over his head and he heard more screams, followed by a shouted warning as a goodly portion of the mainyard suddenly came crashing down from above. One unfortunate didn't get out from below in time and was buried beneath solid oak and tattered and torn canvas and rigging.

"Help him," Norrington snapped at the two marines still standing guard upon him. With a quick look between them, they snapped to and then hurried off to obey.

"They know what they're about," Groves took occasion to comment, calmly this time, but still insistent. "Sir, I really do think..."

Norrington spared him a glance. "I may be on the verge of court martial, Leftenant, but I will not have it be said that I am a coward."

"Of course not, sir, but..."

Another volley from Dauntless cut him off, and even Norrington ducked down as round and grapeshot poured by, tearing up wood and flesh indiscriminately.

"God save me!" he heard a voice cry and looked around to see that a man had fallen by his still-smoking cannon, both his legs all but gone from the waist down. His mates hurriedly shuffled him out of the way, then went back to the task of reloading. His attention was drawn to an argument on the quarterdeck and when next he looked back, two of the powderboys were tipping the now unconscious man over the side.

Light suddenly sparked across his eyes, all but blinding him, as the setting sun took the opportunity to break out from behind the clouds for one last moment. It turned the sails of both Dauntless and Endeavor to the hue of blood, coloring the smoke that rose between the ships red and orange and purple.

Another broadside raked the Endeavor by that sudden flare of light and she shuddered, even as a good half her cannon returned fire a few moments later. But then the fickle winds shifted yet again, lighting arching from cloud to cloud, and darkness closed in upon them again.

Thick smoke flooded back across the waist of the ship, filling his mouth and nose with the taste of black powder, and he hung on tight as the Endeavor suddenly turned hard to port, attempting to bring her guns back to bear on the other ship. But, despite the Endeavor's famed greater maneuverability, the Dauntless seemed to turn even quicker and then she was coming up upon them once more. The men overhead shouting, Groves pulling on his arm, trying to pull him back from the rail, even as the other ship took them with a full broadside.

The deck shook beneath him and he felt something brush his shoulder, then a greater shudder knocked both him and the other men off their feet. He rolled to his side and then glanced down to see a ragged tear in his coat, one that spotted with blood as he put his fingers to it.

"Commodore?"

He tried to speak, but the Endeavor was returning fire now—the cannon sounding right beneath their feet—even though it was sporadic at best and the Dauntless was already heeling away from them.

He pushed himself to his feet, keeping a hand clapped to his shoulder, then glanced back. A fire had broken out near the forecastle and part of the mizzenmast was splintered, the men scrambling down from it even as he watched. Griffiths stalked by, not sparing any of them a glance, and then he saw that the mainsail was torn to shreds. That a man was dangling laxly by a slender rope a good forty feet above the deck, while another sailor fought to reach him.

It was then that the boy appeared, his arms full, and Groves took command of the belt and sword he was holding, as well as the two pistols, powder and shot laid out on top.

"Your sword, sir," he said. "I fear we shall be in need of it."

Norrington looked into the other man's eyes—seeing determination and loyalty there, loyalty that made him smile a little despite himself.

"Thank you, Leftenant," he said, buckling both on. Groves handed him a pistol as well, then began loading the one he held.

Norrington began the job of readying his own, a difficult job as the ship pitched and rolled beneath them. Still, it was a calming exercise and he found himself feeling steadier inside as he turned to face the sea once more. Steady and cool, as any good office should be in the face of battle.

Especially a battle it seemed they were on the losing side of.

Still, Endeavor angled over fair enough a minute or so later and, this time, they managed to chase free of the smoke in time to catch Dauntless almost unawares as she appeared back out of the dark and rising storm spray.

A good return of fire took the newly painted vessel square amidships and Norrington was pleased to see the dim shapes of several men go down, followed by a large portion of sail and shroud as one last volley from their guns managed to strike the Dauntless' foremast in passing. Ragged cheering rose from their own, but quickly dimmed as the smoke took the other ship from sight again.

Smoke and the quickly gathering night.

Black ship, black night. Small wonder then that they almost did not see until it was too late what the pirate ship was about.

As Dauntless lived up to her name and suddenly appeared out of the darkness like a vengeful ghost, a fallen angel, still making incredible speed despite her own loss of canvas. She cut directly across their bow, so close that it was a small miracle that their jib didn't get tangled in her shrouds. The Endeavor's chase guns fired as she passed, but too late. For Dauntless was already turning, coming about so quickly that Norrington doubted the evidence of his own senses for a moment.

But then the other ship let loose and all thoughts fled from his mind, everything but dumb awe and rage and fear as pieces of wood and iron and bodies flew in all directions and the ship pitched beneath him. The scent of spent power seared his nostrils and when a flare of lightning lit up the sky, he saw that the last exchange had done dreadful damage to their forward gun deck.

"Damn all," he snarled. "What is that man playing at."

"Sir?" Groves was picking himself up. A thin tendril of blood wound its way down the side of his face, and he wiped it off absently. But then his eyes widened and he pushed forward, tumbling the two of them back down to the deck. A bare moment later a spray of grape slewed through the air right where they had been standing.

"No," Groves said then, almost right in his ear. Norrington looked to see that the lieutenant was gazing back and up from where they lay, the lieutenant half on top of him. Seemingly ignorant of that fact for the moment. "She's going to go."

Norrington pushed himself up a little and craned his head back to glance at the mast as well. The mizzen had, indeed, been hit badly—he could see great pale chunks of wood gouged and torn out of its base, and it was listing badly. As he watched, men swarmed down from its heights as fast as they could, but the last still had not reached the relative safety of the deck when it cracked clear through with a sound that send a frisson of ice clear through his heart.

The mast began to fall and sailors and marines scrambled as one to get clear, but still several were caught and trapped beneath the weight of wood and damp canvas as it came crashing down onto the timbers below.

Both he and Groves levered back to their feet and were starting to go to their aid, when frantically shouted orders brought him up short. He spun around, but it appeared it was already too late. As he watched the other ship surge towards them, eating up the little distance between as if it was nothing. And then the winds failed, just like that, the sails hanging slack and the Endeavor went dead in the water. Even as Dauntless was swinging round to present once more—her cannon sounding as one, a full broadside, deafeningly loud. The whole ship seemed to sink and roll beneath him and he found himself thrown back into the nearest railing.

His head hit something hard and, for a moment, the whole world went away. Then, slowly, it began to come back to him, only it no longer seemed to make any sense. Distantly, he could still hear voices, shouting, screams, and what sounded like pistol fire, but it was a jumble more than anything.

Somehow, he gained his feet again—putting a hand to his head as the world spun around him—and then Groves suddenly was there, taking hold of his arm as he swayed and almost fell again.

"Commodore," he said urgently. "Are you all right?"

"One moment," Norrington replied. He glanced up, and saw figures moving around them, heard another explosion. The sound of cannon, seemingly right beneath their feet. The ship shook. The black smoke rising up around them was choking thick and edged with the smell of hot metal and the unmistakable scent of burning flesh.

"Now it comes," Groves said. He rechecked his pistol for readiness, then straightened, this look of determination settling into place on his face.

Norrington nodded, pain lancing through his head with the movement, then peered through the smoke and gloom to see that the two ships were lying almost abreast each other now, that ropes were snaking through the air. Pale shapes swinging over the railings.

They were being boarded.

Norrington took the stairs down to the waist as quick as he could, Groves following right behind him, but then both of them almost fell again as the Endeavor listed to one side following another one more bout of sporadic cannon fire.

But then they were in the thick of it and he had no more time to think.

***

From the sound of it, it wasn't just some wayward sloop they had found and engaged, but another ship-of-the-line. A fair match for the Dauntless, even if she was commanded by a crew of buccaneers who had seen more of bloodshed in the past ten years than most men knew in a lifetime.

Still, even if the other ship should defeat Barbossa and his men, it would be a short-lived victory. They would simply take over the other ship instead and go on their merry way plundering and pillaging and marauding and murdering their way through ever fortification, town, village, and port this side of the Atlantic, and perhaps even further a field than that.

After all, who could put stop to them? A crew of ruthless men who can't be killed, a pirate captain with that damned coin in his pocket and a taste for blood, and a 3rd Rate already dressed in her best mourning rags to match the flare and flash of her many guns.

The ship shook again, turning quickly—though not so quick as the Pearl could and might—and something crashed directly overhead. Though no blessed shot took occasion to tear its way through his cell and release him, as had happened once before. He supposed it would have been too much to ask, even of Lady Fortune, who had a lust for the ironic and exotic to fair match his own.

Not that there was likely to be anywhere to go to, really, even if he should find a way free of his prison. He very much doubted that whoever had taken on the Raven would open their arms to another pirate, even if that pirate was Jack Sparrow.

Of course, the Commodore himself could very well be aboard the other ship. Not that finding himself in the capable hands of Norrington again would be much better, even if he was a known quantity. After all, the man had already had him hung the once; it was likely, considering his view on those of a piratical nature, that he would relish a chance to do it all over again. And once had been quite enough. Even if a second swing upon the noose would have the same results as the first.

Jack closed his eyes and laid his head upon his knees.

And what would he do if the man himself came crashing through the door the next moment? Sword in hand and any number of lumbering marines on his heels. All of them half again as big as his own good self and without any sense of humor to speak of.

Ask the Commodore if he would see fit to drop him off at the nearest port or see if he could be persuaded to join in a hunt for the Pearl? Not to sink her, of course—even though that would likely be their plan—but so that he could find a way to get his ship back and get away again, hopefully leaving Norrington and all his lovely marines foundering in their wake.

Well, it was something to dream of, anyway.

Here in the dark, with the dust coming down on him and God or the Devil knows who busy dying above.

***

Oddly enough, a man he'd killed but a minute before.

He met the fall of the blade with his own sword, then swept the edge away. But the pirate only smiled and came back at him again—his style more forged of enthusiasm than of any form of discipline.

Norrington parried and thrust, driving his opponent back, only to sense movement behind him. He spun around and brought his blade up, blocking the ax coming towards his neck.

The man holding it stared at him, then his eyes went wide.

"You!"

Norrington took ready opportunity of his moment of surprise to drive the point of his blade into the pirate's stomach, sending him slipping down to the deck. But then something crashed into the side of his head and he found himself falling as well. Sight and sound melded into each other, then faded away, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

When next he knew, he was hauled roughly to his feet and being passed from hand to hand. Calloused fingers all, some slippery with what he dimly realized was blood. Darkness rose up to claim him once more, and when the world came back again, he found he was being held on his knees, a hand tangled in his hair keeping him from tipping forward onto his face once more.

He forced himself to take stock—his sword was gone and he was further dismayed to discover that he was no longer aboard Endeavor. And that he was not alone. He glanced over and saw a handful of sailors and marines also being held captive, but then a large hand slapped the side of his head and a pistol was pressed into the back of his neck; it was still hot and it burned his skin and he tried to pull away, but then hesitated as he realized that another man was being forced to his knees alongside him, also with the point of a pistol. He turned his head a little more and shot a look at his fellow prisoner, seeing the familiar face with an acute sense of dismay.

"Leftenant?"

Another sharp cuff to the back of his head with one of those big hands almost knocked him over, and he was pulled even more roughly back to his knees. That pistol returned, grinding ever harder into the back of his neck as the man holding it leaned down and hissed directly into his ear.

"No talk now."

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Groves struggling gamely with his own captor, clearing attempting to come to his aid, but then another pirate joined the fray a moment later and the two of them took the lieutenant down to the deck, his wig falling forward in the process. A cutlass rose over his exposed neck, the blade catching deadly even the dim light of the single lantern.

"No," Norrington said. Damning the pistol still upon him, he started to his feet again, but the pirate behind him closed an arm about his throat and pushed him down beneath his greater weight.

"I said quiet," his captor snarled. Then tightened that hold until he couldn't hardly breathe anymore, let alone attempt to speak.

Desperately, he tried to pry the other's grip off him, but the arm was like iron itself and it didn't seem as if there was any give to it at all. And then it was tightening even further, and he realized that he couldn't breathe at all. He continued to fight, but it was useless, and then he didn't have the strength anymore and he still couldn't breathe and his heart was pounding too fast and his head was growing light...

"Ease off there, Bo'sun," a distant voice said. "That be an officer ye're tying to choke to death, man. An we can't have that, can we?"

"Aye, Cap'n," the man holding him replied, though reluctantly enough.

Still that dire grip relaxed a little at a time, until he found himself gasping for air, his head almost on the deck. Feeling the blackness lift ever so slightly. Until he could finally raise himself up again a little.

Only to see a tall lean man with a somewhat scraggly beard and the palest of blue eyes standing directly over him. He had a wide-brimmed, once jaunty, but now rather worse for wear hat upon his head and his face was lined and worn by years of sea and sun. He was wearing an equally worn coat and a fine-enough linen shirt beneath that, though it was stained and torn in places. Several great worked silver buckles caught the light where they crossed his chest and his eyes looked almost silver as well as he gazed down at him.

He rode the swell of the deck easily, despite the lingering storm, and there was a long exquisitely chased pistol thrust through his belt and an unsheathed sword in his right hand, the blade tarnished with fresh blood. Oddly enough, a monkey sat directly on his left shoulder, clad in a wee shirt and vest himself, and as he glanced up, the small animal stared right at him and bared its teeth in a parody of a man's smile.

The tall man's regard was sure, steady, and more than a little unnerving.

"Well, well, what have we here? A Commodore no less, if a man's braid is to be believed."

Those pale eyes swung around then, taking in the other captives, and this entirely too pleasant expression took hold on his face.

"Aye, a fine catch all told for a single night's work. Though I must admit, lads, that the sight of that grand ship turning tail as she did were an even finer sight."

There were a few scattered "ayes" from among the assembled pirates. Norrington glanced at their faces and steeled himself as he realized that there was nothing of mercy about them. Not that he had expected any different.

"An what shall we do with this lot then?" the tall man went on. "Ransom them for a King's portion? Dump em in the briny deep and see how long they take to sink? Or just string em up for the gulls to have at them. For cert, they do love their eyes and entrails."

The pirates were all nodding now, as if each idea sounded but better than the last. But then one of them met Norrington's eyes directly and frowned. And the Commodore realized that he knew the man as well. That he had seen him upon the deck of Dauntless the very night she had been taken. And, before that, struggling upon the scaffold. A man who he had never taken the time nor interest to learn the name of.

The man kept his eyes on him—as if he might somehow escape otherwise—even as he stepped forward. A thinner pirate followed immediately in his wake, as if drawn there by the man's own currents.

"Captain," the stouter man said, using his own pistol to gesture with. "I know this one."

The tall man glanced curiously between them. "Oh? Do ye now?"

"Aye," the other pirate snarled. "That be a Commodore, all right. That be Commodore Norrington hisself, straight from old Port Royal. The very one who saw to it that we all hanged. I'll never ferget his face. No never."

"Never ferget," the thinner pirate said as well, his own lean face taking on a feral edge. His yellowed teeth bared and one eye fixed right to him, even as the other rolled to the taller man, as if it had a life of its own.

"Well, well," the tall man they named Captain said thoughtfully, scrubbing a hand across his chin. "Commodore Norrington. Aye, then this be the man who's made it his own life's work to eradicate our kind. To see all good Brethren to the gallows. To feed em to the tides."

And he fixed that cool stare to him, this almost amused look on his face now. "Be that you, then? You that I always heard as to say that all a pirate's good for at the last is a short drop an a sudden stop an naught else?"

"Yes," Norrington replied, his voice snapping into the darkness surrounding them even over the sound of the winds. "And I would begin and end with all of you in my own good time."

"Oh," the tall man said softly, this odd twist to his mouth now. His eyes almost glittering. "So very enthusiastic. I like that in a man, I most certainly do."

"Give em to us, Captain," the stout man pleaded loudly, and there was a veritable shout of "ayes," this time. "He killed us. Tis only fair we return the favor."

"Yeah," another man snarled, lifting his own bloody cutlass for emphasis. "Give em all to us."

Norrington caught the flash of a panicked eye and saw that Groves was looked sideways at him from where he was still pinioned to the deck. He spared him a slight smile of reassurance, even though he was feeling far from that himself. He lifted his head again.

"Captain," he said politely enough. "A word if you please?"

The other man lifted his head, giving him a thoughtful look. "A word now, is it? Hm... an why should I indulge thee, then? For all yer past kindnesses, perhaps?"

Norrington raised himself up as far as he could. "Keep me, if you will. But I will pay ransom for the rest if you see to it that they do not come to any harm."

Those pale blue eyes narrowed. "You value yerself so lightly, Commodore? Or is it that ye find yerself enjoying our own good company and are wroth to part from us so quickly."

"What do you imagine?"

The man looked around, as if he might find his answers everywhere but from the man in front of him.

"Where be the Commodore's effects, then?" he said at the last, obviously not in the least interested in prolonging their conversation. "C'mon, gents, cough em up. Ye can keep what else ye find off his own poor lads here, but I'll have me own share, I will."

To Norrington's surprise, there was no grumbling, and soon he saw his own wig and sword and Jack Sparrow's compass being passed along from hand to hand until it had reached the captain. He took the compass with a small frown, one that smoothed over as he proceeded to stow it away inside his coat. He turned up his nose, however at the wig, so that it was promptly dropped upon the deck and spat upon by the next nearest man.

The sword, however, was treated with rather more respect. Barbossa held it up, squinting his eyes at it, then gave a long slow smile. A smile which disappeared, however, as he looked back at his captives.

"Take em below," he ordered. "All save him."

And he used the tip of the blade to point at Norrington. Who found himself being hustled to his feet by the stout pirate and his fellow and then dragged along the deck towards the great cabin, even as the rest were yanked up as well and a round of complaints burst out around them.

"Aw, Captain... at least give us some o' the others then... tis no fair..."

Barbossa turned on them all and the look on his face seemed to quell them more than the raised sword.

"Stop your bellyaching, the lot o' ye." He gazed over at the big man who'd tried to choke him, nodding. "Break out a double portion o' rum, an if ye must amuse yourselves, then have at your old mate. He needs a lesson in manners as it tis. Just see that ye put him back safe an sound, once ye be done with him."

"Aye, Cap'n," the large man said, then began barking orders of his own at the other pirates. Who began scurrying off, reminding Norrington of just so many rats. Filthy, always underfoot, and sore difficult to kill.

But then the pirates holding him tightened their grip and he found himself in the familiar great cabin of the Dauntless, which had not changed as much as the outside of the ship, but that it was darn sight less clean than it had ever been kept before. The thin pirate keep a pistol pressed tight to his side, as his companion went about lighting candle after candle, then laid out a bottle and a set of glasses next to a large silver bowl of apples of all things already claiming pride of place in the middle of the table.

"Cap'n," he said when he was done, standing up straight in a miserable attempt to be at attention.

Barbossa waved a hand at him. "Off with ye now. The both of ye."

"Cap'n?" This time, it was an obvious question, especially as the stout pirate shot him a glance.

"I said... leave," the other man replied, rounding on his own man now. Only to have his furious glare abruptly dissolve into a rather more bemused look. "An what would ye be thinkin' that this man could do to the likes o' me, eh Pintel? As I said, off with ye. We'll just be having a wee chat o' our own, that's all."

"Aye, aye," the pirate said, then backed away, gathering his thinner partner with him on the way out.

The door closed behind the two of them with a quiet sound, even as a round of cheering started up outside. No doubt, the double portion of grog was even now being doled out.

Barbossa shot him an unreadable look, then moved out into the center of the room and took several long passes with the sword. He held up before him then with evident pleasure, the steel catching silver from the light of the assembled candles.

"Now, this be a fine blade, indeed," he commented. "Well made. Well kept. Sharp as a fair maid's tongue. Aye, and more than suited to the hand o' a Commodore."

"Then you should return it forthwith," Norrington said. "For I see but one upon this ship."

The look Barbossa gave him was full of sly good humor, but there was still a dark edge to those pale blue eyes of his that made him briefly wonder if he had gone too far.

"Take care, sir," the pirate captain replied, his voice mellow, almost too much so. "Lest ye find your jest to have more truth to it than ye may like."

Norrington drew himself up. "Kill me if you like," he said. "But I shall not tender myself to your amusement. Nor any of my men, either."

"Nay," Barbossa replied. "I would not think it o' ye."

But that look of sly humor continued, even as he sheathed the blade and went to pour out a glassful of brandy from the bottle on the table. He offered it to Norrington, who refused it with a cool look of his own, raising his chin a little.

"No, thank you," he said disdainfully.

The pirate captain only smiled all the wider at his refusal, and took a drink from the glass himself.

"I don't believe you entirely understand your situation, Commodore," he said mildly enough. He cocked his head then at the sound of shouts and the sudden pop and crash of pistol fire from out on deck, and an even more pleased look came over his face. His eyes glinting almost silver themselves in that moment.

"I understand completely," Norrington commented.

"Do ye now?" The other man turned his full attention back to him. "Do you understand that tis only me good nature keeping ye from that? After all, ye be the man who had the lot of them hanged and they've no forgotten that, to be sure. They would gladly take payment out of yer own flesh, but that I think you may yet be of more use to us alive."

"I'd have thought you had gold enough back on that island to satisfy any man."

Barbossa sat down at the table, though his eyes remained fixed on him, as bright and unblinking as a snake's.

"Aye," the pirate replied. "But I've little interest in swag these days. Ships, on the other hand... this be one fine vessel, true enough, but I've a mind to me own fleet. An with the Dauntless—or, rather, the Raven—here and, soon enough I am thinking, the Black Pearl, as well, I'll have the makings of just that. Not to mention that fine ship ye brought out to engage us. I swear I've already taken quite a fancy to her."

Norrington shook his head. "You'll never take the Endeavor."

Barbossa took an apple from the bowl on the table, then leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the piece of fruit on his sleeve and made to take a bit, only to hesitate and look back up at him once more.

"You mean, same as none could take the Dauntless?"

"That was done through trickery, as you well know," Norrington retorted. "In a fair fight..."

"In a fair fight," Barbossa interrupted. "The outcome would be much the same. The men out there canna die, at least not as easily as mortal men, and in any sort o' fight that's what counts. An, aye, tis not fair, but they have paid the price for it. Ten years in Hell, Commodore, only to be brought straight to the gallows after by such as yourself. Did ye think that at all fair?"

"They were found guilty of piracy. Under the law they all deserved to be hanged and they were. Justice was satisfied."

"Even in the case of Jack Sparrow?"

Norrington schooled his face to a calm he didn't feel. "Of course."

Barbossa raised an eyebrow and took a large bite of his apple. Chewing it thoughtfully, he gazed serenely at the man in front of him. "So his death didna matter to ye either. The man who saved yer own true love from death or a fate worse than. You're a hard man, Commodore."

With that, the pirate got back to his feet and walked towards him. Stopping near him, close enough that Norrington could feel an almost unnatural coolness rising up off his flesh. Along with a faint smell that he couldn't quite identify—not the normal smell of salt and sweat and tar—but something far more unnerving. An oddly sweet scent. Almost, the scent of flowers and smoke and something else, something that smelled rather like fresh spilled blood.

"Men gossip," Barbossa said, his face just a few inches from his own. "Even dead men. They say she threw you over for young William Turner. A blacksmith and the son of a pirate. But then, that's not terribly surprising. His father always did have more charm than sense himself. Much like another man we both have had the pleasure of knowing."

"Sparrow."

"Aye," Barbossa replied. Taking another bite of his apple, he went over to the opposite end of the cabin and busied himself there with another bottle. He took it back and poured it into the other glass there on the table and then returned to where he stood, offering a drink to him once more.

"So, if brandy be not to your taste... some Madeira, perhaps?"

Norrington hesitated—well aware of just where they might have acquired the wine, and the cost of it—but his mouth prickled uncomfortably, and he realized it was actually rather stupid to provoke the pirate captain if he really didn't need to. Not over something like this, anyhow.

"Thank you," he said politely and took the glass, this time.

Barbossa shrugged, tearing another chunk out of his apple with yellowed teeth. "I imagine he's told you that I was once his First Mate," he said in a conversational enough tone. "Back aboard the Pearl."

Norrington shook his head. He sipped the wine and found it good enough, though strong.

"Well," the other man went on. "Tis a long story and not altogether a pleasing one. You see, Commodore, Jack Sparrow were a fair enough captain, to be sure. An not a man you'd wish to cross in a fight, God's own truth on it. But, an I don't know whether it was his youth or no, he would do most all he could to avoid a fight in the first place. Not that his plans and schemes didn't bring us in a goodly portion of swag, aye, but it galled the men to wait, to make fools of themselves, especially since most couldna understand the man's plans in the first place."

"It galled the men?" he asked. "Or did it gall you?"

"One and the same, Commodore," Barbossa replied. "It were time for a change and I saw me chance and took it."

"You mean mutiny?"

Barbossa shook his head. He inspected the partially eaten apple in his hand, as if it was some jewel he was appraising. "Now, that tis a foul word. Especially for something it were entirely within our right to do."

"From what I know of your Code," Norrington replied. "You could have simply voted yourselves a new captain, rather than resorting to an act of mutiny. Or were you afraid that the crew would have picked somebody else than yourself in that eventuality. That they not have chosen you to be captain of the Black Pearl if given the free choice."

"I were captain of the Pearl," Barbossa said softly. "For ten long years. Through Hell an... through Hell. While Jack Sparrow lived and even made something of a name for himself. That is, until such as yourself clapped him in irons and tried to hang him, with little success I must say. The first time, anyway. It was Jack Sparrow who led you and this very ship to that island and took me crew and the Pearl from me. An it's Jack Sparrow who has to pay for that and you as well, Commodore. Or were you thinking I'd be forgetting your own part in all this?"

"Never," Norrington replied dryly.

Abruptly, Barbossa lifted his glass and drained the last of the wine. He swiped his sleeve across his mouth, then looked at him once more. His eyes had an odd sheen to them in that moment, as if something else entirely was peering out from them. Something born of deep waters and caves, of the blackness that lay at the heart of the sea. The darkness that waited for them all.

"An it were Jack who killed me at the last an I'll no be forgetting that either. Though I have an eternity to reflect upon it."

"Revenge is an altogether unsatisfactory business, Captain," Norrington said. "As well as being rather costly much of the time."

"Costly, aye," Barbossa replied. "But no for me. No this time."

And with that, he stalked over to the doors and shouted out a name. He stood there, until a man appeared—big and gruff, with another man showing just over his shoulder the next moment, as if you could never find one without the other.

"Take him below," the pirate captain ordered. "An when you've done with the other, have him join him. They should keep each other company well enough, all things considered..."

"Aye, Cap'n," the bigger pirate responded. The man behind him nodded, this malicious smile twisting across his face. One eye fixed on Norrington and the other looking at some other place entirely.

The two pirates took him by the arms, even as Barbossa stepped forward to take his glass, to drain it himself, all the way to the dregs.

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