Passages

Chapter 4

by

Garnet

Everyone was in high spirits after the rout of the Endeavor—of which they were still boasting—and a good application of rum all round didn't help matters any. Their current state insured no sore heads would be found come morning, but they would regret having drunk so much of the ship's stores in one go if nothing else. And pirates with not enough to drink were pirates who were just spoiling for a fight, or for someone take their life's disappointments out on.

A boot landed full in his side for the third time, making him curl up even tighter in a futile attempt to protect even more vulnerable spots. But fingers wove themselves into his hair and pulled him half to his knees. He found a blade being held before his eyes by Monk, the carpenter's mate, whose fascination with knives extended both to the whittling of men as much as of wood.

"Now, mate..." Jack started to say. Only to wince as the fist in his hair twisted.

Then another crashed into his face and he was on the deck once more, light spiraling to black inside his head. Laughter intertwining with the dizziness. Then a full mug of rum was being slowly poured over his head as one of the other men sang "An another for thee... my fair maid, my love..." to alternating laughter and moans of protest over the waste of perfectly good drink on the likes of him.

Jack licked his lips, and couldn't quite keep from smiling even a little. He was so thirsty and it was good rum, quite good rum, even flavored with blood. More ran into his eyes and he raised a hand to wipe them clean, planning on sucking more of the fiery liquid off his fingers if he could, only to have his wrist caught in a tight grip. A grip he knew full well.

Even as another hand took hold of his shoulder and turned him, pressed him flat to the deck. As furious dark eyes stared down at him, then narrowed speculatively.

"Cap'n says ye haven't been cooperatin'," Bo'sun said. "I says why not throw him overboard then and be done with it. Give em what Bootstrap got. We got cannon enough aboard this ship. We can well spare one to see ye off."

"Aye," Twigg seconded the notion. "This here can't be a real pirate ship, lads, till someone's walked the plank. An I say it should be him."

"We could keelhaul him," another voice spoke up. "I haven't seen a good one o' those in years."

But there was only a mumbling response to that; many of the men aboard had once been in one royal navy or another and did not have the fondest of memories of their times there.

"Now, gents," Jack said. "Tis a most fine night, and this be some o' the best rum I've ever had poured upon me head... let's not ruin it by arguing', shall we?"

"We wasn't talkin' to ye, Cap'n," Twigg sneered.

"Well, mayhap ye should be," Jack replied. "For it seems to me that your own good Captain is keeping secrets from ye."

"What'd ya mean?" This came from Pintel, who was always quick to take suspicion to heart.

Jack raised an eyebrow at him, and he shouldered through the crowd, followed by his constant shadow and confidant, Ragetti. The thinner man was wearing a Naval coat far too large for him, torn at the shoulder and stained with blood and soot.

"Let him up," he said to Bo'sun. The big man growled at him, but then looked around at the avid faces surrounding him and finally got up, hauling Jack up with him. Who gazed around at them all and then smiled. Despite the fingers digging into his shoulder.

"Well, ye all know the Pearl, lads," he said. "Well, Barbossa intends to get her back. An, if I swear to him, it will be me own good self who shall be her captain, again. An not that I haven't been enjoying the pleasure o' your company these last weeks, so much so that I doubt I shall be forgettin' just who were the most kind to me. Especially those of ye who shall perhaps be me mates aboard that lovely ship."

Pintel frowned at him. "Thas a lie," he said, his voice gruff.

"He'd never be givin' the Pearl back to ye," Twigg added.

Jack shrugged. "If'n ye don't believe me, then ask the man for yourself. That is if ye truly believe he is as he was."

At first, the only response to that was a series of perplexed looks, then a few gazes slid sidelong. And a few more men swallowed. Telling him clearly that he wasn't the only one who was wary of Barbossa's behavior of late. That his comment had fallen upon most fertile ground.

Now, it would only remain to see what sort of fruit it might bear.

***

He heard the muffled quibbling, probably over who would get his stolen apparel, all the way up the ladder, as well as even more muffled shouts and thuds, which he suspected was his own captured men as they made their obvious displeasure felt on the walls of their nearby prisons. Noises which continued for a few minutes, before they subsided as well.

And silence settled close around him. Silence, except for the sound of the waves on the hull and the distant rattle of thunder. The only light a thin streamer of pale reflection coming in around one side of the closed window. Barely enough to see by, not that there was much to look at.

Just the curve of the far wall and the bare deck beneath his feet, solid oak timbers and iron specifically built to confine, and nothing else to commend it. Not even a thin pallet on the floor, just a single bucket in the corner to take care of more earthy matters. A bucket which smelled as if it had been used sometime in the past and never emptied.

His nose crinkled, and then he gingerly settled himself down to the floor as far away from that corner as possible. His hands resting on his raised knees and his back to the wall. His shoulder twinging in earnest now, even though it really wasn't much more than a scratch and had long since stopped bleeding. His head hurt far more, and even that he could ignore if he had to.

Far more painful was the feeling of mingled mortification and fury knotted up inside him. To find himself taken prisoner by pirates, the very men he had once seen behind bars and brought to death for their crimes. Mercy was a rare enough commodity among their kind, but after what had happened back at Santa Rosita, he very much doubted that these particular pirates even knew the meaning of the word. And as for their Captain...

Though courteous enough, and with a thin veneer of gentility that hinted at a far more exalted upbringing than was otherwise indicated by both dress and accent, he had little doubt that the man was well-suited to both his trade and position. A cunning ruffian, indeed, but then he would have to be in order to have once deceived a certain Jack Sparrow.

Speaking of which, he had not seen him among the others gathered upon the deck. He would have thought the man could not have resisted seeing him being brought low, let alone not be there while this Barbossa was making such free usage of his name. Perhaps, he had been wrong about the whole thing and Sparrow wasn't on the Dauntless at all. Or, perhaps, he had been at first and now...

Well, these men undoubtedly had a grudge against their former captain and a current captain who seemed more than willing to indulge them. And who had his own revenge to consider, ten years worth of it apparently. They had marooned Sparrow twice now—though both times he had managed to escape the lingering death intended—but well he knew that marooning was not the extent of their cruelties. To others or to their own kind.

Even if death wasn't exactly in the offing.

An advantage which he had to find a way around. Most especially if he intended to see his men freed and the Dauntless herself either set free, as well, or destroyed at the last. The pirates did not seem immune to injury, nor to pain for that matter, but neither did it put an end to their career. One might assume that a complete severing of limbs would slow them down most definitely, and as for beheading...

Norrington grimaced at the thought of a headless pirate careening after him down the deck. He had no reason to believe that such a thing was possible, but then neither would he have thought that skeletons could walk about as ordinary men either. It was almost enough to drive a man mad, as opposed to being simply thought as such by others who had not seen what he had seen, fought what he had fought.

He wondered if Captain Reade and Master Avery believed him now, if they were still alive, that is. Certainly, the Endeavor and her crew had come out rather worse for wear in the battle. She had slipped away into the dark like a chastised dog after her fight with Dauntless, not a pleasant image and not one he would soon forget.

And he couldn't help thinking that if he had been in command that things might have proceeded very differently. Certainly, he would have accorded the other ship and its crew a bit more respect. Though, to give Reade his own, no one could have anticipated the change in the wind which had allowed the Dauntless to close and fire a full broadside at them, while they had sat there, all but becalmed.

Certainly, not even a man like Barbossa could control the vagaries of wind and weather.

The even more distant rumble of thunder seemed to belie that thought, even as he suddenly heard footsteps approaching, the muffled sound of voices. Followed by the rattle of lock and key, and then the door to his cell opened. An almost painful flare of lantern light blinded him for an instant, before something was tossed full force into the small room with him.

The door slammed back shut, and he blinked several times before his eyes began to readjust to the dimness.

It was another man, but not one of his own sailors or marines. A smallish man in the remains of a once-white shirt and grey-blue breeches that also were much abused, both torn and stained in places with blood. While there looked to be more blood in his hair and on his hands. He had a familiar tangled mass of dark hair and braids and beads. Familiar hands, fingers curving and curling in on themselves, as if seeking for something solid to hold on to.

And then he found his breath catching in his lungs as he realized just who it was who had been sent to join him. Just who it must have been that the crew of the Raven had been making sport with while he had been sequestered with Barbossa.

Norrington leaned forward. "Mister Sparrow?"

The breathing hitched to a sudden stop. The man's head came up slightly, far enough that he could see dark eyes peering at him through a curtain of hair. They didn't look surprised to see him, but neither did they look particularly pleased.

Then the man's head sank back down for a moment, before he slowly pushed himself up to his knees and looked at him again. A hint of a smile on his face now, even though Norrington could see the ghost of pain still in those black eyes.

"Well," Jack said. "If it isn't the good Commodore himself. Why, haven't seen ye since... let me think... the day ye had me hanged, I believe it was."

"Quite," he replied, unable to think of anything to say to that. At least, nothing that wouldn't sound entirely too apologetic or vindictive, neither of which he was particularly feeling at the moment.

"Well, I'd bid ye welcome," the pirate went on. "But that I would not wish this place upon any man, even one of a Naval persuasion."

"Thank you for that," Norrington said dryly.

Jack smiled in return, but it was half-hearted at best. He pushed himself over to the wall opposite and took up a similar position to his own. Looking at him for a long, inscrutable moment, before slowly letting his head settle down until his face was hidden by his raised knees. To Norrington's surprise, he realized that the pirate was shaking ever so slightly.

"Mister Sparrow?" he asked. When there was no answer, he raised his voice and put a snap to it that took even hardened marines aback. "Sparrow, are you quite all right?"

"No," came the muffled reply and Sparrow seemed to pull himself in tight, as if trying to make himself appear as small as possible.

Norrington paused and drew in a soft breath, looking down at him. Clearly, the other man looked to be near the end of his tolerance right now. And who could blame him? Captured and imprisoned by his own orders, and then hung and buried according to the dictates of the law, only to wake beneath the ground and have to dig his way out. Not to mention, being captured once more and hauled off to face men who had more than good reason to bear a grudge against him.

The Dauntless had been more than a week out from the Isla de Muerta when they'd found her and engaged her. Which meant, most like, that Sparrow had been given over to Barbossa for at least that long, and a good two weeks in the hands of his former mutinous crew before that. Who also had little desire to see him safe and sound.

And though the man might not be able to be easily killed right now, obviously he could still feel pain. Certainly, the man he had run through during the battle had. Though it had not killed him, nor stopped him from continuing the fight.

"You know Captain Barbossa," he said, not exactly a question.

"Aye," came the quiet, slightly reluctant reply, though the other man still did not lift his head.

"Then I must ask you... do you believe that he shall ransom my men or simply butcher them as seems to be their wont."

There was a long silence, then the pirate moved just enough so that a pair of dark eyes peered out at him from behind the curtain of black matted hair and beads.

"Eh?"

But before Norrington could respond, those same eyes closed and the other man seemed to slump a little.

"Tis true," he said then, softly, so very softly. "He were ever a hard man. But these last ten year seem to have taught him to be cruel, as well. Sorry to say, but I fear he will not have much interest in giving any o' ye up alive."

Norrington nodded. "This is also my belief. Unfortunately."

Then he drew himself up and sharpened his voice again. "We must escape then, Sparrow. And, to do so, it would be best if we worked together."

There was no response for a long moment, then the other man's body shook even harder and Norrington belatedly realized that Jack Sparrow was actually laughing.

"Escape, Commodore? Aye, go right ahead."

Norrington sighed and leaned his head back again on the seasoned timbers, suddenly feeling inexpressibly weary.

"Yes, escape," he repeated, more quietly this time, with as much patience as he could muster. "And you are going to help me to do so."

"Am I now?" Sparrow raised his head at the last, though his eyes seemed fixed on some fascinating point somewhere just over his shoulder rather than directly on his face. "An why should I be doing that?"

"One good turn," Norrington replied, his voice growing sharper. Why did the man always have to be so contrary? "We can ill afford not to aid each other, circumstances being what they are."

"Pardon me. My previous 'one good turn' earned me a drop at the end of a rope. So tell me, why should I help ye now?"

"So it is your wish to remain here?"

Jack laughed again, breathlessly soft, and shook his head. "Nay. I've enough of Barbossa's hospitality to last me a lifetime. As it were. But where would I go? Being what I am now. Not many would gladly welcome a dead man. Even if I do have all me flesh about me this time."

"I don't have any answers for you," he replied. "I have no understanding of what's been done to bring you back, let alone how to undo it."

"Aye," Jack sighed. "Well, then. At least ye can tell me how ye ended up here, sharing these pleasant surrounds with me own good self."

"We were attempting to take back the Dauntless."

A sharp noise. "Didn't make a very good job of it now, did ye? Unless ye intended yourself to be taken?"

Norrington graced him with a rather cold look.

"I'll take that as a no."

***

"Sparrow?" The voice was annoyed as much as it was annoying right now. Still, he ignored it as he took in a couple of carefully shallow breaths, then managed to shift himself around a little until the pain wasn't quite so bad. Only then did he open his eyes again and look over at his new cellmate.

Who was staring at him with something that looked suspiciously akin to honest concern in those imperial eyes of his. A look which, however, all too quickly turned back to cool disdain once their gazes chanced upon each other. Not that there was all too much else to look upon in the small room they were being forced to share. Just the one small window, dark timbers, a scattering of fresh dust, and a bucket that hadn't been attended to in over a week and all concerned were better off ignoring.

"Twill heal," he said quietly, answering the other man's unspoken question. "It all does, right well. One turn of the glass, perhaps two, and I shall be right as rain. Graver injury takes a wee bit longer, and mortal wounds—or what would chance to be mortal in some other—sometimes takes a few hours, depending on just how one were injured."

Norrington didn't ask how Jack knew all that, and Jack wasn't feeling exactly in the mood to be illuminating. Especially with knowledge that had been gained mostly at his own expense.

"Interesting," was all the other man said, one of his eyebrows going up slightly. "And convenient, I must imagine."

Jack smiled slightly, but it was rueful enough. "Believe you me, mate, tis not all it's cracked up to be."

At Norrington's somewhat skeptical look, Jack closed his eyes again and let his head fall back against the solid timbers behind him. He shifted again, but the edge had already gone off the worst of the hurt, though he continued to take shallow breaths. He was so very weary—of being beat upon, of confinement in the darkness and damp of this place.

He wanted his freedom back and he wanted his Pearl and, most of all—for the moment anyway—he wanted to be away from these men who fancied him a fool to their court of petty kings all. Men, who it seemed, did not even make a pretense of following the Code anymore. For he had heard the subdued horror in the other man's voice, and could well imagine the destruction his old mates must have left for a hardened Navy man such as Commodore Norrington to reveal himself so.

Speaking of which, Jack heard the other man push himself to his feet, followed by the faint rattle of the inner bars upon the one window as Norrington tried his own strength against them.

"I wouldn't bother yourself, mate," he said. "Tis quite firmly built. As well ye should know. Take me word on it."

"You will pardon me," Norrington replied gruffly. "If I do not."

There was another rattle—sounding a little more frustrated this time—then blessed silence fell again. And Jack finally pried one eye open to find the Commodore standing there in front of the door, both his hands laid flat to the solid wood and his forehead resting on the iron bars. His shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.

"Will Turner," Jack said, opening his eyes again completely.

Norrington's head started up and he straightened and turned to look at him. "What about Turner?" he asked.

"Just that," Jack replied. "Please would ye tell me that the lad is safe and sound back in Port Royal as he should be. That ye did not hang him for trying to save me own self from the noose that day."

Norrington's mouth thinned, but he shook his head. "No, I did not hang the boy," he responded, emphasizing the word as if to make a point there, his voice as clipped and precise as if he were measuring out each and every word. "And though he strongly desired to chase after you, I managed to make him see that his obligations lay far nearer to home and hearth."

"Ah," Jack said softly. "By that, I assume the lass threw ye over then. Despite her fine words on the matter."

There was nothing at all friendly, not especially pleasant, about the look that came over Norrington's face then.

"My relationship with Miss Swann is not a topic which is free for discussion, Mister Sparrow. No matter that, for whatever reason, you fancy yourself her friend and confidant."

Jack matched the man's icy tone with a sheepish look, but Norrington did not seem in the least impressed by it, so he dropped it in favor of a his sauciest smile instead.

"To be completely honest," Jack said.

"Oh, yes?"

"Aye," Jack went on. "To be honest, I believe ye would have made a far better husband for the young missy."

"And just why, Mister Sparrow, do you believe that? As if it were any of your business in the first place."

Norrington's tone was sounding almost resigned now—as if he'd already learned to his misfortune that he could not stop him from expressing his own opinions, no matter how unwelcome—but Jack could see that his comment had struck home inside the man. Certainly, he was not currently avoiding his eyes for nothing. It wasn't as if there was much else to contemplate in the darkness of their tiny cell.

"Well," Jack said. "We did spend some time together, Elizabeth and me..."

"Miss Swann," Norrington corrected, but wearily.

"Oh, aye," Jack continued. "Miss Swann and me... an from what I observed she seemed the sort who would ere get her own way, even if the other were a more reasonable course. Now, ye seem a fair reasonable man, Commodore, but I fear that our young Will is rather less so. Especially where Elizabeth—excuse me, Miss Swann—may be concerned. I mean the lad all but turned pirate for her. An he was certain right quick to risk life and limb and even chance a stretch upon the gallows, when he could not even be sure of her own affections towards him. An, aye, that be love, but love must ere be tempered, lest it more easy break than hold fast once it be put to the test."

"And what makes you so very knowledgeable about 'love,' Mister Sparrow? The fact that you quite probably have a woman waiting for you in every port of call?"

Jack shrugged, but if ever he had heard a back handed compliment, here it was. Even though the other man probably hadn't intended it as such.

"Woman, man, what have ye," he agreed. "Aye, true enough, but I know of what I speak all the same."

But Norrington was staring at him now, his eyes catching the narrow band of light from the window and turning abruptly more grey than green. His face betrayed a rather appalled fascination.

"Are you saying you are a sodomist, Mister Sparrow?"

Jack couldn't help but smile at that. So prim, so proper. As if it didn't go on under his very nose half the time, and as if the man had never even considered it the once—beyond acknowledging it for the sin it was, and a crime punishable by death if ever it was brought to his attention that any two of his own were engaging in the entirely worldly pleasures that it could provide.

"I'm saying, Commodore, that I take what I can, when I can... same as your Miss Swann."

Norrington's voice was hard. "I don't believe I care for your insinuations, Sparrow. Are you actually trying to imply that Miss Swann is no better than a common pirate?"

Jack raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture that was only partially mocking, then let them fall back to his side.

"That is as it may be," he replied. "But ye must admit the lass is headstrong and rather too used to getting her own, and ye would stand better chance against her than Will Turner. A lad who also could use some tempering, not to mention the learning of a little more caution when it comes to the risking of his life. Not to mention the lives of those around him."

"He risked his life for yours," Norrington said to that. "Would you count that against him?"

So, the man had teeth after all. Jack frowned at him, then drew himself up a little. "I would not have had him die for the saving of me own life, if that's what ye wish to know."

"Fortunate then, that he did not succeed or, odds are, he would have ended up swinging for it, after all."

"Ye would have treated him so ill?"

"I would have had little choice in the matter."

"Ah," Jack replied, and let his head fall back and his eyes sink closed once more. "But now there's where ye be wrong. There always be choices, Commodore, whether ye desire em or no."

***

"Yes?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Jack backed away only the slightest bit, but the speculative look on his face got stronger still.

"I was just wondering, mate," he said. "Bein' a sworn Navy man as ye are, do ye dream o' hanging pirates as well. Or do ye allow yourself to dream, at least, of more pleasant diversions."

Norrington pushed himself up a little to lean against the wall. To his relief, the other man sat back as well, though he was still far closer than he would have desired. Not that there was enough space in the cell they were sharing to allow the pirate to be as far away as he desired him to be.

"Perhaps," he replied. "I find hanging pirates all the diversion I need."

"Ah," Jack said, managing to sway a little even though he was seated. "Perhaps. But I doubt it."

"Perhaps I find that hanging a pirate each and every morning before breakfast improves the digestion no end," he added, then added a coolly raised eyebrow for good measure. The other problem was that both his comment and his best make-the-midshipmen-shuffle-their-feet-and-wonder-what-they-were-guilty-of look only made Jack Sparrow smile. A mingled white and gold and insolently cheerful smile.

"Does it now?" the other man said, his voice equally cheery. "Well, it's been me own experience that a spot o' rum makes all things go down the better, so p'raps ye should put mind to the bottle instead and leave us poor pirates alone."

"An interesting proposal, Sparrow," Norrington replied dryly. "But I fear I must decline. And not simply for the fact that rum is one of the most vile of all drinks in creation. But also for the fact that, if your own life is any example of what may become of a man who sups rum before breakfast, then I truly have not the least inclination towards it."

Jack nodded thoughtfully, though he looked more amused than insulted.

"Now I know where she gets it from," he mumbled.

Norrington frowned at him, unsure of just who the "she" was meant to be, but having his suspicions. Not that he wished to bring up Elizabeth between them again, and not simply for the fact that the other man seemed determined to act as if the two of them were the closest of friends. After all, bad enough that he and Jack Sparrow had anything in common, let alone the acquaintanceship of the very same young woman who had thrown him over.

"Not that there's any rum to be had," Jack was going on, still mumbling, but yet somehow managing to speak loudly enough that he could hear could hear just about every word.

"An even if there were, they wouldn't be giving any to me... mumble... drink it all themselves, they would... and such a nice lot o' rum back on that island there were... mumble... bloody great shame she burnt the lot... no respect for a man, that's always the problem... mumble... taking advantage when he were asleep... as if a man could sleep with all that female nattering goin' on... mumble... oh, can we be getting off this island, Jack... we must see to the savin' of Will, dear Will, bloody Will... mumble... well, I'd drink to bloody Will if'n I had any rum, which I don't..."

"Oh, do be quiet," Norrington said at the last.

Jack gave him a look of affront, but it was more mocking than anything. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Be quiet he says," the pirate muttered. "I says he should be glad for the pleasure of me company."

Norrington gave an only slightly exaggerated sigh, and one of Jack's eyes opened and squinted at him.

"Well," the other man said. "Being that there's not likely to be any sort o' breakfast, at least that's one less pirate that needs hanging today."

And then that single eye closed again, as if that were the final word on the matter. For a long moment, Norrington looked at the now silent pirate, and then pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around the small room, then grimaced and went over to make use of the bucket in the far corner. Thankfully, his companion made no comment at that, even though he had half expected him to.

He was hungry and, more than that, quite thirsty. But, from the sounds of it, neither food nor water seemed to be forthcoming anytime in the near future. But then the hospitality of pirates towards their captives was well known, and he should perhaps count himself lucky to even be alive right now.

He went back over to the door, unable to resist the urge to test his strength against it again. When he held his breath, he could hear the muffled sound of nearby voices rising and falling, and couldn't help but wonder how Lieutenant Groves was getting along. Whether the other man was perhaps wondering the same about him.

Intolerable. This situation was quite intolerable. But, as yet, he had little idea how to remedy it.

Other than to enlist the aid of the man sitting on the floor behind him, no matter that he seemed rather less than willing to throw in his lot with either him or his men. Which wasn't all that surprising, all things considered, but he had to convince him otherwise. Jack Sparrow knew their captors and, more than that, he was immortal as well. And they could use all the advantages they could get.

Norrington let his fingers trail down the rough surface of the door, then reached inside his vest and pulled out the wadded up bit of cloth that had managed to elude the rapacious hands of the pirates who had captured him. He ran it briefly between thumb and finger, idly wondering if it would serve well enough as a peace offering of sorts, then slowly turned around.

"Mister Sparrow?" he said, gentling his voice.

The man on the floor made a face, then opened his eyes and gazed up at him. "Yes, Commodore?" he said in this very put-upon tone.

"I believe that this is yours," Norrington said. And he held out the crumpled bit of cloth towards him. "I would have given your compass back to you as well, saving that it was taken from me."

Jack looked at it for a heartbeat or two, then back at him. And if the pirate's eyes were normally unreadable, if rather agreeable, they were enigmatic in that moment. As if there were depths to them that no man could ever hope to explore, let alone come to understand.

Finally, Jack pushed to his feet and came towards him. He hesitated a moment or two, his hands making these half-hearted little gestures, as if he was unsure if this was some sort of trick or not, if he could really take what was being offered. But then, he finally reached out and slipped the faded scarf from his grip with ever so careful fingers. Fingers which then smoothed over the silk, obviously discovering the rub of the beads and baubles hidden safe inside. And something in his face seemed to ease all at once.

"Twas a gift," he said quietly. "Many the year ago now, an in a far away land."

"From the East Indies, is it not?" Norrington asked.

Jack nodded, those clever fingers of his working it open until the beads fell free, red, white, amber and that intricate silver piece with its symbol of sun and moon entwined. Their colors were faded in the dim light, but seemingly no less desired for that.

"Aye, that it be," the pirate replied. "It were given me for luck upon the journey home. Was special blessed by a holy man and gifted to me by a flower in the guise of a most fair maid."

"And did it bring you luck, or need I ask?" As Norrington's gaze slowly fell to the "P" brand showing on his forearm.

Jack didn't bother with looking himself; instead his dark eyes were bemused as he shook out the scarf and then folded it once more.

"Fortune is not so easy bought nor sold," he said quietly in response. "More's the pity. But ye've heard the tale, I have no doubt, so judge for yourself, mate."

"Be most assured," Norrington replied. "That I intend to."

Not that he believed half, if even, of the story that he had heard about Jack Sparrow's capture and subsequent miraculous escape from seven agents—the number seemed to grow with each re-telling—of the East India Trading Company. A company whose policy towards the pirates that they apprehended was as notorious as it was applauded among polite circles of government and trade.

"Oh yes, m' sorry," Jack said, deftly tying the scarf tightly back around his head and tucking braids and beads back into their places beneath it. "I forgot for a moment just who I'm bloody well speaking to. For well I know it is your intent, my fine Commodore, to personally hang every last free pirate in the Caribbean if ye be are able. Though, I canna be wishing ye luck on that endeavor, anymore than I believe it can be done."

"Oh it can," he replied. "It will. And luck will have nothing to do with it, Mister Sparrow. Any man of worth makes his own fortunes, as he makes his own way in the world."

"Ah," Jack said, gazing back over at him, once more the roguish pirate he had first made his acquaintance of down on the docks of Port Royal that long ago day. Even if his clothes were rather worse for wear and the look in his eye far more familiar. "But that's where ye be wrong, mate. For Fortune wears a lady's face and is, as such, fair as capricious as any woman may chance to be. It's her ye'll have to be convincing of your worth, Commodore, most especially since tis not just some scurvy pirates ye're seeking to bring to justice this time, but a thirsty old Aztec god or two."

"Aztec gods?"

"Aye." Jack's smile was knowing and only a little amused, gold flashing faintly in the gloom. "Same as put the curse on the gold an on the men who took it in the first place. Seems as though they've gone and changed their minds an now are best of friends with Barbossa. Well, long as Barbossa gives em what they want."

"And what might that be?"

The amusement abruptly faded from the pirate's face. "Why, blood o' course," Jack replied. "Blood an death, an lots of it. What else would a heathen god desire?"

"I'm quite sure I have no idea," Norrington said dryly.

"Too bad," Jack commented. "'Cause I have more than a few meself."

The pirate's tone seemed morose at that moment, but Norrington caught the renewed twinkle in the other man's eyes and felt something uncomfortable move through him, leaving heat in its wake. What would a heathen god desire, indeed? In truth, he could think of any number of things himself—not that he had any intention of admitting it to the man before him—and very few of them pleasant, let alone civilized.

"And where exactly, knowing this, do you fall into the picture, Mister Sparrow? For this bargain must have included you, or else you would not be here now, would you?"

"As well ye know," the pirate said darkly. "An as for that, I suspect ye will not believe me, but I have not a clue. An if Barbossa is equally to be believed, he does not either. Perhaps those gods are not as all knowing, all seeing, all powerful as they make themselves out to be. Or, perhaps tis simpler still than that. Perhaps, they just raised all the freshly dead in that graveyard and was me own luck—for good or for ill—that found me among their number."

Norrington felt his own eyes dropping, staring down at his own hands as if he had never really seem them before. Luck indeed, or the fact that he had countermanded having him strung up down on Deadman's Cay and had had him sent to that lonely graveyard instead. If not... well, if not, it was quite possible that Jack would still be dead, quite dead, and his body already part way to being picked down to the bone by bird and tide.

A shiver ran through him and he suppressed it viciously. If the choice were presented to him all over again, he would not have seen the man hanged. He would have found some way to see Jack Sparrow pardoned. And with both himself and his own dearest daughter bending his ear on the matter, he well imagined that the Governor could have been persuaded at the last to show some measure of leniency.

Yes, the law was the law and he sworn to uphold it. And, most probably, Sparrow deserved to die for the crimes of his past, but he would prefer it to be not on his own watch if it could be at all helped. Seeing him die like that once had proved to be more than enough for him.

"Commodore?" Jack's voice was soft, slightly puzzled.

Norrington looked up again and directly into the other man's eyes, which regarded him calmly, the pirate's expression completely serious for once. It was a curiously disconcerting as well as discerning gaze, as if the other man was looking more into him than at him in that moment.

"I know you have no reason to wish me well," he said quietly. "Which is quite understandable. But I would ask that you give my proposal all due consideration."

"Aye," Jack said softly, his eyes narrowing a little. "Some might very well wish ye ill for being the hand which wrought their own end. An I am not saying that I am pleased by it. Quite the contrary. But I do still believe ye are a fair man at heart, Commodore. If a bit too much a stickler for the vagaries of right an wrong."

"Indeed," Norrington replied, oddly feeling both complimented and insulted at the same time.

"An as for the thought of escape," Jack went on. "It has crossed me mind more than the once to be sure."

"I rather imagined it would have."

Jack raised his hand, putting a finger briefly to his lips, before making a grand gesture of acquiescence. "So upon speculation, Commodore, if ye wish to throw in your lot with me, I am not completely adverse to the idea."

Somehow, the other man made it sound as if he were being granted the privilege of a lifetime. Which irked him almost as much as it was welcome to hear.

"Kind of you," Norrington replied, a forced smile upon his own lips.

"Well now," Jack said, that hand still playing expansively in the air. "Tis the least I can do for a fond friend of me own dear Will and the most lovely missy Elizabeth."

Norrington didn't even attempt to correct him, this time.

Instead, he went back and took up his place on the floor, resting his head back against the nearest wall. Jack settled back down as well, directly opposite, his legs folding beneath him and one elbow resting on his thigh. His chin resting upon a convenient fist. His dark eyes both curious and oddly amused.

"So tell me then," the pirate said. "Have ye a plan to win us free, or did ye intend to leave the details of our grand escape up to old Jack?"

***

Norrington had been half-dozing, trying to ignore his hunger and thirst as best he could—neither food nor drink nor a single one of their captors putting in an appearance all the day—while still allowing himself to idly mull over the ideas he and the other man had come up with for possible ways to free themselves.

Jack had told him of the crew's unease with their captain. That Barbossa wanted his acquiescence and was offering him his own captaincy of the Pearl in return for same. And that he was rapidly losing patience with him for not jumping at the chance.

He himself had been rather surprised at the seeming scruples of the man. Most of the pirates he had ever known—for as little time as he had known them, before they had been shown the hand of justice—would have been quite willing to agree to the terms as offered. The fact that Jack was currently imprisoned with him, when there was no godly reason he could not already be free if he was at all like the pirate he had always named himself to be, proved that he was not a pirate like many others. Or, perhaps, like any other.

It had disturbed him to find his grudging respect for Jack turning into something that felt almost like admiration. Into an appreciation, not for the pirate necessarily, but for the man. Not that Jack didn't have his bad qualities—above and beyond said tendency towards piracy—bad qualities that quite drove him to distraction, but as the hours passed in the man's company he found he could not deny that he had his good qualities as well. And that they more than made up for the bad.

No, it was more than disturbing; it was annoying. For if having watched Jack Sparrow die the once had created all these doubts in him, then being in his presence like this was further confirming that at least some of the principles he had built his life upon were rather too uncompromising.

Certainly, if he could continue to call himself a reasonable man.

But then this was not a reasonable situation. Not finding himself a prisoner of a crew of dead-alive men, nor sharing the sparse comforts of a small cell with yet another. In fact, little had been reasonable since that day upon the parapets—when his dear Elizabeth had fallen into the sea, like some sort of pagan sacrifice, and been brought back to life by a fool who had risked life and freedom for her, when it should have been the last thought upon his mind.

The last thought upon the mind of any self-respecting pirate.

A contradiction which had, of course, occurred to him before. But now that he found himself on the edges of making an alliance with the man, he found it a contradiction that gnawed at him, that would not allow him to fall asleep, even though his exhaustion all but begged it of him.

Jack had turned out to be of fairly good spirits in regards to the possibilities of them eventually making an escape. Even though he seemed to base the greatest benefit to that upon his own self being a pivotal part of that attempt. He, himself, was rather less optimistic.

Most especially since the most practical plan that they had come up with so far involved himself and his men making off in the jollyboats to the safety of some so-far unfathomable island, while Jack stayed behind to set the Dauntless' powder room on fire, after which he would jump into the ocean and somehow find his way to the waiting boats. Well, in actuality, it wasn't all that practical a solution—and one he was not much in favor of, considering he had absolutely no desire to destroy his own ship unless absolutely necessary—but it had been the most sane of all those that Jack had volunteered so far. Which wasn't saying much.

His own idea, that they actually try and retake the ship, had only rated him a patently false smile and comment that a Commodore's neck would stretch just as well as a pirate's when it came to that and there were yardarms galore to test that upon, mind you.

So, perhaps, it wasn't surprising that when Norrington heard a rattling at the door that he found himself considering that very thing. For certainly, it wasn't supper they had come to serve.

He pushed to his feet as two men appeared in the doorway, one of them holding up a lantern. The other man pointed a pistol right at him, but his eyes went to Jack instead.

Who stared back at them from his place on the floor, as if it was entirely too much trouble to rouse himself at his captor's whimsies.

"Up," the one holding the pistol snarled. "Cap'n wants to talk to ye."

"Does he now?" Jack asked, but then sighed and got to his own feet. He stepped towards the door, with only a quick sideways glance at him—one that Norrington couldn't read at all—before opening his arms wide and gracing the other two pirates with an acquiescent smile. "Well, let's not keep him waiting then, lads."

But, still, he paused right before the open door, half-turning in that haphazard way of his to give him a stern look.

"Behave yourself now, Commodore," he said. "Don't be getting into trouble while I be gone. For it wouldn't do, it purely wouldn't do at all."

"I shall try to restrain myself," he returned dryly.

"Ye do that..."

The man with the pistol had clearly had enough, though, because he reached out and took Jack hard by the arm, pulling him through the door and away. Leaving the pirate holding the lantern to glance briefly around the small confines of their shared cell, as if looking for contraband even here, before closing and locking the door again behind him.

The darkness taking its own opportunity to close in around him, so much so that he had to feel his way to the front of the room. Where he listened to the clatter of footsteps up the ladder, to Jack's mumbled protests—which made him smile a little, before the smile faded away under the thought of what they might have in store for the man.

For most certainly, they bore him no good will. And if Captain Barbossa had, indeed, lost his patience with Jack Sparrow at the last...

"Damn the man," Norrington hissed. And wasn't sure, even himself, just who he was cursing in that moment.

***

The room was dark, just a single candle lit and that not near enough to cast back the dark. The table in the center was empty, this time, save for a single bottle and glass. The bottle was more than half-empty and Jack suspected that it wasn't the first of the evening for his former First Mate. Not that the other man showed even the slightest hint of drunkenness; instead, his back was perfectly straight as he stood by the back windows of the great cabin, seemingly gazing at the slender squares of moonlight that had crept into the room.

Barbossa's very stillness was warning. Even more so than the look in his eye as he slowly turned around to gaze at him.

"The sea may be a cruel mistress," he said softly. "Or so I have heard tell. But I have never found her to be more cruel than any other, man or maid, who would take all a man had to offer, an yet demand the more of him."

Jack simply stared back at him, well aware that any answer he would offer in that moment would be the wrong one.

Barbossa's eyes turned themselves to the dark beyond the candle flame, before he scrubbed a hand across his face, as if testing the reality of his own flesh. As if contemplating something he really didn't wish, at the last, to contemplate.

"The Black Pearl," he went on. "As well ye know, be like no other. An tis for that reason, as much as any other, that I be wanting her back, Jack. Even though she were always more yours than mine, even when she were mine. Aye, sometimes I swear she were pining for thee all along. Even as she gentled to me own hand at the last."

Jack quashed the sharp feeling that rose inside him at that image, the hurt a familiar friend after ten long years. Never looked for, but unable to be denied.

Barbossa stalked over to the table and sat, then gave him leave as well with a raised eyebrow, as if he wasn't already half in the chair opposite already. But once they were both seated, he did little more than stare at him. His eyes visible even beneath the shadow of his hat, pensive, almost puzzled looking. As if he truly could not decide what to do with him.

As lies went, it was a jolly good one. But then if Barbossa wasn't exactly King of all the Pirates—nor ever like to be, if Jack had aught to say about it—he was most certainly a Prince among Liars.

Jack simply leaned back and made himself at home, knowing he was unlikely to win this waiting game, but willing to make the attempt all the same.

But Barbossa did end up breaking first, as he moved to take the bottle and poured himself out a glass of deep red wine. Wine that looked entirely too much like blood for Jack's comfort.

Even though the sight and smell of it made his mouth ache all the same.

"So," the other man said, an even, conversational tone. "How do ye find your turn o' company, Jack?"

He let his head fall back a little, then smiled and shrugged at the same time. "Much as ye might expect. No appreciation for the finer things in life, an almost entirely lacking when it comes to a proper sense o' humor. Most especially about our little... situation."

"I fancy ye must have quite caught the good Commodore's ear then. All them stories about the 'Captain Jack Sparrow' we've all heard tell of. Scourge of the high seas and devilish clever if even half o' the tales be true." Barbossa's voice was scoffing, almost scornful, but Jack knew the other man better than that. He knew how much it galled his old First Mate that the stories that men told about him had nothing much of admiration about them.

"A man must pass the time somehow."

"Aye," Barbossa replied, before giving a quick smile of his own. One that never quite touched the glitter of pure malice in his eyes.

"Wine?" he asked abruptly, pushing the full glass towards him.

Jack glanced at it, but didn't reach out. "An what might I be required to pay for it, this time?"

A shrug answered him. "The price remains the same."

"Then thankee for the offer, but I fear I am not... thirsty."

Barbossa nodded, his eyes slowly sliding away to gaze into the darkness gathered around them. As if he saw something more there than shadows. He looked old all of a sudden, far older even than his years.

"An what of other... thirsts, Jack? Will ye swear to me now in exchange for your own precious Pearl then? In exchange for your freedom?"

It was the question. And Jack well knew his answer, but he tried to forestall the man a little all the same.

"One problem," he said. "She's not yours to offer, mate."

"A piddling detail." Barbossa was dismissive. "An well beside the point. My fleet I shall have, with or without ye to command the Pearl for me, an if ye will no stand beside me beneath that flag, then I must admit to having little remaining use for ye. Little use, but one, I dare well say."

"Ah," Jack said. "An what might that be then?"

Barbossa gazed back at him and those pale eyes slowly turned warm, even as a slow smile spread upon the other man's face. His voice was warmer still, though it never quite lost its edge of threat.

"Well ye know what so many desire of ye, Jack. An if ye will no pledge yourself to me in faith of arms, then ye shall come to warm me bed. Knowingly or not."

"Tis a hard choice," Jack replied, and his voice sounded cold, even to his own ears. "But I imagine I must do neither."

"Think ye not?" And, with that, Barbossa got to his feet, seemingly towering over the table, his voice so soft all of a sudden it might as well have been a ghost of itself. "Ye have no idea, Jack, of what waits in the dark. A curse such as was laid upon me and me crew for ten long years were naught to them. They who have fed upon the blood of centuries, commoner and king alike. Whose hearts are cold, Jack... so very cold..."

Jack rose from his own chair, but suddenly Barbossa wasn't looking at him, hardly seemed to notice him at all. Instead, his face betrayed uncertainty and even fear. As if he was caught up in remembering something he would as soon forget. And he no longer looked old—he looked ancient. As if all that was still holding him together was his own unfed desires.

Abruptly, Barbossa turned and his hand swept out, knocking the glass of wine clean off the table and into the nearest wall. Wine splattered across the timbers and floor, and Jack felt a few droplets strike his face.

"Damn ye, Jack," Barbossa snarled, spinning back around towards him. "Why can ye not just yield the once to me? Ye be too proud by half. But then ye've always been. Too proud an too grand for an old salt like meself. Ah, Jack... once I might have been convinced to believe the sun might rise and set upon thee, if ye would have but spared me a single word o' kindness, the smallest o' sweetling glances, but I fear those days are long gone. Your word I will have upon this, or I shall take what I want from ye all the same, an leave ye the worst for it."

Jack stared back at the man; his face felt hot, but the rest of him felt cold. As if ice coiled in his veins.

"Then kill me," he said quietly. "An have done with it. For there be no other way."

Barbossa's head jerked up and he stared at Jack as if he had just proposed some wonderful, though entirely foolish, bit of whimsy.

"Kill ye? Oh, were it as simple as that. As simple as was done to Bootstrap. But we... we stand on the edge of the abyss, Jack, an there's no going back from that."

Jack looked into those cool blue eyes for a long moment, then dropped his own. He felt cold through and through now, his very flesh weighing on him. And suddenly the dark around them was the dark of the grave, the dark of his grave. The long fall that had proceeded it, as the life had been slowly strangled from him. Stolen from him.

Unbidden, his hand crept to his throat.

Where he could feel his pulse, the alien pulse of this unasked for gift, this unlooked for curse.

"Aye," Barbossa breathed. "I would have ye taste it. An then tell me... tell me if ye would still choose the dark o'er me."

Jack looked up, but the other man was already there in front of him, reaching for him, drawing him close. The dark suddenly chokingly thick around them as long fingers spread themselves upon his chest, pressed down, reached inside...

And cold agony took him as something in the dark reached back.

***

But it seemed that time was not yet, since once the door was hauled open, a figure was simply sent tumbling through it. Harsh laughter sounded, was followed up by a curse and a quick glare of eye and spit in his general direction, then the door was slammed tight again.

His eyes fell to the man on the floor, who was not only silent, but shivering. Though still somehow managing to move, crawling away in broken little motions until he was pressed up against the wall. His face turned away from him, his shoulders hunched.

"Sparrow?" he asked, then raised his voice when there was answer. "Jack Sparrow?"

When the man didn't immediately correct him with his usual "Captain Jack Sparrow..." he grew even more concerned.

He moved towards the other man, kneeling down next to him. But when he reached out a hand he was shocked to see the pirate wince away from his touch. He quickly withdrew his hand again.

"Jack?" he asked, his voice as gentle this time as he could make it.

"Leave me be," a rough whisper answered.

"No," he replied. Once more, he reached out to touch the other man, but Jack spun around at the attempt and grabbed his wrist in a bruising grip.

"I said," he hissed, his eyes burning black with pain and something Norrington couldn't begin to recognize. "Leave. Me. Be."

Norrington was taken aback, even more so by icy tendril of fear that ran down his spine at those harsh words; he had never before considered Jack a threat, not to life and limb anyhow, but in that moment he realized the other man could be dangerous when he wanted to be. When he was pushed to it. And, clearly, he had been pushed to the limit right now, and perhaps even beyond it.

"My apologies," he said softly, and leaned away. And found himself even more taken aback by depths of the concern that moved through him as he watched Jack turn away from him and hide his face again, the shivers seeming to intensify even as he watched. As if they would quite tear the other man apart.

Still, that didn't stop him from steeling himself, from rising and going back to the door of their shared cell. Distantly, he could hear the mumble of voices now and desperately wished that he could speak to them, see them. To be among his own. For clearly, he was not wished for here. Nor even required.

For a moment, he dearly wished to turn back around, to raise his voice if not his hand to the man behind him, even though it was quite uncalled for.

Though he imagined it would be quite a sop to his present state of mind all the same.

***

As if all the cold in the world had been poured into him. So much so that his skin couldn't contain it.

It had taken a terrible effort to get those final words out and now he felt like he was coming apart at the seams, like a canvas badly mended, and he felt completely and utterly alone. And terrified that he was drifting back into that darkness, back towards what waited in it.

Something that he hadn't seen clearly, but had felt all the same. Had tasted. Same as he could taste it now-cloying sweet at the back of his throat. As if something had crawled down inside him and died there. As if he were back in his own grave. Alone in the dark... lost... everything real and solid falling away from him... old bones and blood and...

Falling...

He heard a sound then, but it made no sense to him. As if from some great distance, he felt hands on him, felt them pulling him around and turning his head up, but he hadn't the strength or the will to open his eyes, let alone to struggle against them anymore.

There was a sudden fleeting pain to his cheek—as if someone had struck him—and then a sharper one to his other cheek. But the cold was consuming him, the darkness calling... telling him that it was useless to fight, that everything he'd ever loved was lost to him, that no one cared... that none of it mattered anymore...

But then arms enfolded him completely, arms so very warm that they felt white-hot, and they were so strong, so right, so real. More real than anything he had ever felt before in his life.

"Jack...?"

Somehow, he heard his name this time, whispered right into his ear. "Come on, man... come back..."

Spurred by those soft words far more than the shouting, the physical blows to his face, he began to fight against the pull, against the cold, and could almost see past the darkness surrounding him for a moment. But it was so difficult and he was so very tired.

"Please..." he somehow managed to say, a word so awfully thin that no one could have heard it.

But someone must have, because now there was even more heat. Those arms were tightening around him and there was a mouth settling on his, breathing into him, for him, something less than a kiss and yet so much more. It burned him and he accepted the pain, reaching out for it as if sure that it could save him after all. When part of him already believed that nothing could.

***

"Jack?" He rolled him over and was appalled to see the other man was completely limp. He shook him and there was no response to that either. Finally, he half lifted him up and struck him smartly across the face. The pirate lolled in his grip, as if his bones had all turned to water. Gritting his teeth, Norrington struck him a second time and Sparrow's hand fell loosely to the floor, palm upwards.

He froze at the sight—remembering when he had last seen the other man like this, that pale hand spilled out across the ground, with the rain just coming down and the gallows standing over him—and something jagged twisted inside him.

"No," he said, pulling Sparrow tighter to him. The pirate's head fell back, his mouth partially open, and he swore he could feel the cool of the grave coming from between those pale blue lips. "Come on, man... come back..."

His only response was the smallest of gasping breaths. One that died almost as soon as it was born.

"Please..." Jack's voice was so quiet it seemed almost faded away to nothing. Even as the man himself seemed to be fading away right before his eyes.

Obeying some instinct he hadn't known he had, Norrington bent and put his own warm lips to those cool ones. He breathed into that open mouth. His own heart pounding in his ears even as he wondered if the other man's was even still beating.

God, no... don't let him be dead.

Not again. Not again.

And almost as of some normally uncaring God had heard his plea, he felt as much as heard Jack gasp again, then strain in his arms. Fingers reached out, clutched at him, and held taut.

"Jack?" he asked and the pirate's eyes opened a little. But his gaze still seemed distant, unfocussed, as if unaware of where he was or who he was. Or who he was with. For a brief instant, he thought he saw something move behind those eyes, something darker than they were, but then it was gone and Jack was struggling against him.

"No... no..."

Instead of letting go, now that the man was clearly coming round, Norrington tightened his grip instead. As if he couldn't help himself.

All the same, he was pleased to see some color had returned to Jack's face and that there was recognition in his eyes as he raised his head and looked at him again. Recognition, though clearly puzzled for all that.

"Commodore... what?"

"You seemed to take ill," he responded.

The line between Jack's eyes deepened, then smoothed out a little again. "Ah... I see."

The pirate closed his eyes again for a moment or two, wincing slightly, his hands flinching up before him.

"What is it?" Norrington asked.

But Jack didn't respond, except to open his eyes and frown up at him once more. And then began to try and free himself from his arms.

Norrington let go of him and backed away a little. But Jack only sat up, though he still continued to glance into odd corners of the room from beneath the fall of his own braids and trinkets. As if expecting something to come leaping out of the dark at any moment. His breathing was still rough, but he was starting to seem a shade calmer, more in control of himself.

"Mister Sparrow?"

Jack's head came around, and again Norrington was struck by the unyielding look in those dark eyes. "Commodore?"

"What happened?"

Several emotions flashed across the pirate's face, so fast that he couldn't begin to sort them out, then Jack straightened up, absolutely still for once.

"Barbossa... he touched me here," Jack said quietly, putting those long fingers on his heart. "An it felt as if... as if he were tearing something out of me. An then there were naught beneath me and I... I fell into it. I fell down into the dark an then there were something else there with me... something old... the sound o' bones cracking an breathing... so close, an I could smell it, Commodore. Smell it all around me... like cold iron an... blood... it..."

He paused and closed his eyes tightly. "A day he's given me. An then, if I still refuse him, he swears that he'll let... that have me. He said it were... an eater o' souls, an once it were done with me, that he could do what he liked with the rest o' me."

Norrington stared at him, then looked away. The edge of pain and fear was still in Jack's voice and he found it more disturbing than he cared to admit. But the man's story... he was growing heartily tired of tales of ghosts and goblins.

Even more so because it was his own insistence on what he'd seen that had lost him his command, and perhaps had even cost him his freedom.

Not that he thought that Jack was lying exactly—something terrible must have happened to bring the pirate to these straits, something that had left a mark upon him—but he simply could not believe he was telling the whole truth either. Something in his manner must have betrayed him, though, because he saw Jack shake his head slowly, his eyes dropping once more.

"I should have known ye'd no believe me," the other man said. "But I tell ye, tis truth. He's made an accord with these... heathen Gods that brought us back. The power not just to take life, to give them the blood that they wish, but to steal men's spirits from them while they're still living. Leaving naught behind but an empty vessel that he may make use of. Any use he's pleased to."

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack push himself to his feet, if possible, even more unsteady than usual. And then something about the other man's words, his tone of voice, finally sank in.

"Any use," he repeated.

"Aye," Jack replied, whisper-soft.

"You can't mean..."

Jack's head swung around, those dark eyes answer enough in that moment. But he said nothing, just walked to the front of the cell and put a hand to the door, as if to steady himself. Looking small all of a sudden, looking as if he wished to be anywhere but here. Barefoot and sad and battered and yet with a dignity still about him that Norrington could only marvel at, even as it made him feel suddenly ashamed for having doubted him.

"Mister Sparrow," he started to say, meaning to apologize for that, if nothing else, only to have Jack abruptly turn on him, a flash of fury in his eyes making him seem more than a little mad.

Jack raised a finger to him, admonishing and silencing him at the same time. "Nay," he said roughly. "Ye've seen the same as me, but yet ye would deny. Deny what your own eyes tell ye, and ye be but a fool for that. This life be not what ye would have it, Commodore. This life be what it is, and no man may gainsay that."

"Not even the famous Captain Jack Sparrow?" he couldn't help but ask.

For a moment, he thought he had finally put one over on the man, because a confused look crossed the pirate's face. But then he was suddenly sinking down towards the floor, folding up almost gracefully as he went—as if he even had to faint with a style all his own—and Norrington found himself stepping forward to catch him before he could really think about what he was doing.

He ended up on the floor with a handful of limp pirate in his arms, Jack's eyes half-closed now and his whole body shaking again. As if it were trying to loosen the very bones from his flesh. His breathing was ragged as well, and as Norrington gathered him even closer, he made this small sound that seemed to come less of pain than of some other desperate desire.

For exactly what, Norrington didn't know, but as he continued to hold the man, long shivers running through him one after the other, he found to his own shock and amazement that he truly never wanted to let go of the pirate again.

Something that he should most certainly not be feeling. And let alone that a fellow like Jack would stand for something like that; he definitely did not seem the sort who would hunger to be coddled.

Except that the pirate did seem highly disinclined to remove himself from his arms, at least for the time being.

"Are you sure that you are quite recovered?" he asked quietly.

A soft laugh was his answer, despite the man's continued shivering. "Do ye... require honest truth to that? Or would... a more polite lie... do ye as well?"

"The truth," he replied. "In all things, the truth."

"Then... me answer is... no, not as may be." And, as if to reinforce the honesty of his words, another shudder ravaged him and his breath caught.

Norrington tightened his arms, then was both pleased and disturbed as Jack's own arm moved to lay itself atop his, long fingers slipping down between his own. He closed his own grip on them, binding their hands together.

And, obeying some odd impulse—much like the one that had led him to lend the pirate his own breath in an effort to get him back from whatever Hell had devoured him—Norrington pressed his cheek against the side of Jack's head and closed his eyes. The pirate's hair was coarse with salt and tangled by wind and wave and braid, and had obviously not seen soap nor comb in a good year's time, if not far longer, but he found he did not mind so very much. He who had always worked so very hard to keep his own person and clothing as clean and neat and well groomed as possible.

Jack smelled of sweat and blood and the sea, but it suited him. And, after all, what else should a pirate smell of? Well, besides of powder and rum, of course.

And as the two of them just sat there, easy in the dark, Jack slowly began to breathe more evenly and the shivers tapered off and finally seemed to die altogether.

"Commodore?" Jack asked then, what felt like a long, long time later, his voice soft as may be.

"Yes?" Norrington replied without opening his eyes.

"I just wanted to tell ye," Jack said, then paused for a small, hitching breath. "That I would that she had not hurt thee so."

Norrington's throat closed up tight at that and his eyes burned. But he still refused to open them, just as he refused to give in to the grief that Jack's comment had raised within him.

"I imagine it was for the best," he somehow managed to reply, surprising even himself with the even tone of his voice.

"For the lassie, aye," Jack commented. "For she loves the lad something fierce. But that simple truth does not make amends by any means, nor put stop to the beating of your own heart."

"If by that, you mean I shall in time find someone else, someone who shall take her place in my affections, then spare your breath, Mister Sparrow. For I am well resolved to my life as it is, and it suits me full well."

"Oh, aye," the pirate replied. "An it be a fine life, Commodore. Fine enough for most men, I dare say. But that thee are not most men, and I have thought, upon me own reflection, that it suits ye by half, if even that much."

"Indeed," he said scathingly. "And what do you think suits me then... pirate?"

Jack shifted around until he could face him. "To live," he said simply. "To see your affections returned. To know such loyalty as any may bear towards them they truly love."

Norrington met those black eyes with a hard look of his own. "I have played the fool for love once," he replied. "I shall not make the same mistake a second time."

Jack's gaze narrowed. "Mark well what ye may swear to, man. I would not that it be your own undoing."

He let out a soft breath and looked away, discomfited by both the other man's words and by his steady regard. Still, when Jack's other hand slid up to pull his head back down and around, he didn't resist or pull away.

"Commodore," Jack said softly, his eyes glowing, strangely dark and luminous at the same time. "Pirate or no, I would not lie to thee."

Oddly enough, in that moment, he found he believed him. More than he should and more than he liked. And something stirred inside him as he continued to stare into sea and sun weathered face, into those black black eyes. Feeling Jack's hand caught between his own, warm now instead of cold. That lean body tucked up against his, still breathing a bit roughly, but no longer shivering.

Obeying an even odder impulse, Norrington smoothed over the pirate's palm with his thumb, then slowly, slowly uncurled the fingers. He looked at them, feeling he was noticing them for the very first time, knowing he should have seen before now how very long they were, how elegant, even though calloused and stained and hard-used as any good sailor's should be.

All of a sudden—part of him shocked by what he was doing, part of him almost relieved by it—he found himself bending forward to place a kiss of all things into the cup of that exposed palm. And when he glanced up again, he felt even more disturbing feelings washing through him as he saw the look of mingled pleasure and mild disbelief in the other man's eyes. As if even he, even Captain Jack Sparrow, were surprised by what must have been exposed by his own expression in that moment, let alone by that intimate touch.

"Commodore," Jack said ever so softly. "Methinks your heart suits itself to be laid upon your sleeve far better than yon braid ever did. Still, take care what ye've a mind to. Even if ye only toy with me, I'll not have ye cry foul and claim twas my own doing and ye but an innocent."

"No," he replied. "No innocent. Nor yet a jade, either."

"Ah," Jack said, the faintest of smiles forming on his face now. Even as those long fingers turned and closed fast about his own, hard enough that it seemed almost as if the pirate had no intention of ever letting go again.

Jack's eyes dark and warm and appraising, raising an answering heat in his own cheeks so that he had to glance away. No one had ever looked at him quite like that before, neither man nor maid. And most especially not his intended betrothed. If she had, he would certainly never have let her go so easily, most especially into the arms of another.

"Commodore," Jack said again, even more softly this time. A teasing, gently coaxing tone to his voice now.

"Please," he replied, before he could regret the impulse. "If you would, my Christian name is James."

"Aye, so tis," Jack said to that. "James..."

Norrington glanced up at that, and then could no more take his eyes off the other man than it seemed he could draw decent breath. The way Jack had said his name had sent a quick rush of both fear and need through him. As if he had given away something vital to the pirate, only to have it returned unexpectedly in equal or even greater measure. Even while part of him was appalled at what he was feeling, let alone what he was contemplating, and with a pirate of all people. It was unpardonable sin, and would fair ruin him if any should ever come to know.

But if there remained a world outside the steady regard of those night black eyes which would condemn him for this moment, then he no longer cared to recall it, for it was as if they would make a private little creation for all for themselves if they could. And, knowing Jack, they could well indeed.

"Jack..." he said, and allowed himself to smile.

A smile which the pirate returned full well, laughing at little at the same time, gold teeth gleaming even in the dim light and the sound delightful with familiar enough bedevilment, only to have it fade but a moment later. To be replaced with a rather more solemn look, a look he had but rarely seen on the other man before.

"Not that I'm not flattered," he said. "An more than that, if truth be told. Ye're a fine figure of a man, James Norrington. King's blood in yer veins or no. But I must say, ye've chosen a fair odd moment to bare your soul, especially to such as the likes of me."

"What better moment is there," Norrington answered. "When the odds are there may not be many more."

"Aye, there is that," Jack said, nodding a little, this slightly rueful look crossing his face.

"And as for the likes of you," Norrington went on. "You know better than most that there are none that as could compare. To many a regret."

Jack frowned. "I'm not quite sure as that was a compliment or no."

"Take it as you will. You always seem to anyway." Norrington straightened up slightly then, holding the other man's eyes full with his own. "Because I must admit that, after contemplating more than even I care to admit to these last few weeks, that I have indeed wronged you. That I have been blind. And, more than that, callous and indifferent. Both Miss Swann and Mister Turner tried to convince me that you were an honorable man, and I simply refused to see it. I refused to see until it was far, far too late. And only by God's good graces, has that terrible mistake of mine been undone. I should not have hanged you. You did not deserve to die, let alone for your 'one good turn.' You are a good man, Jack Sparrow. Pirate or not."

"By God's graces," Jack repeated forlornly. "Is that truly what you believe? That this has anything at all of Heaven about it?" And he pulled his hand away, holding it out before him as if it was something separate from himself, or something he wished with his whole heart to be separate from himself. Staring at it as if he could see through the firm flesh to what must lie hidden within. "Well you say I am a good man, but I am a dead one, as well. An not all the pleasantries in the world can change that."

Norrington caught that hand and claimed it for his own lips once more. Jack let him, as if he could not prevent him in that moment, but his eyes were bleak all the same. It was not a look which suited him, and nor did Norrington like to see it. Better the charming fool and the insufferable rogue he had grown used to, than to be forced to watch the other man reduced to this.

"Yes," he said, lowering Jack's hand, but not releasing it. "To answer your question, I do so believe that there is both reason and right in this. In all of this."

Jack's eyes narrowed, but he didn't pull away. "I am a pirate," he said, his voice more than a little rough. "Same as all them who put us down here. Who killed your men and put sword to your town. Who thieved this great ship of yours from under your nose. Don't forget that, and don't be paintin' a picture of me that I can't be living up to, mate. For ye'll be sore disappointed."

Norrington shook his head. "I've not forgotten, Jack. I know what you are. And I am not... disappointed. Far from it."

His reward was a smile, pure and uncomplicated, before Jack took his own hand and brought it to his lips. Beard and beads brushing across his palm as he slowly kissed the tip of each one of his fingers in turn. Before pausing and, with a wicked glimmer in his eyes, took his thumb quite into his mouth for a bit of a suck.

"This is madness," Norrington commented, even as his prick jumped at the feel of it, at the broad imaginings the touch stirred within him.

"Aye, so tis," Jack replied, letting go of his thumb, but not completely releasing him. Not in the least. "An what be wrong with that?"

***

"Madness," the other man repeated. "But I wish..."

"Aye?"

Norrington gave a small discomforted laugh, followed by a shake of his head. His normal composure seemed to have given way to an almost boyish uncertainty. "No. I don't know what I wish anymore. I only know... even though I should not... what I... want."

"Is that so?" Jack inquired. "An what might that be, mate?"

Those storm green eyes caught his and held them, then slowly turned almost as implacable as that day they had taken stock of him down on the docks of Port Royal. And found him wanting. Though, somehow, Jack thought he wasn't being found wanting anymore. Which, knowing the man like he did, was probably a large part of the problem.

The habits of a lifetime of discipline no doubt came easy to a man like Commodore James Norrington, the indulgences of debauchery, no matter how necessary or appealing or even entirely natural, much less so. Which, considering the cut and kindnesses of the man, was a bloody great shame, and one Jack was more than willing to attempt to correct.

"What do ye want, James?" he asked again, honey-sweet.

"A pirate," Norrington answered at the last, his voice going soft as well. "A very... wicked pirate."

Jack laid a finger to his cheek in blatant contemplation. "Hmmm... an here's me thinking I just might know where one may be found. Fancy the luck on that."

Norrington blinked, and then chuckled a little. Probably more out of discomfort than any particular humor.

"Oh, I fancy it," he admitted, his tone growing somewhat flat again, his mouth thinning out just a trifle. "I fancy it rather too much. Which is more than I should and far and away more than is wise."

"To be sure," Jack replied. And then, unable to help himself at the sight of the other man's uncertainty, at his rather vain attempt to reclaim his composure, he bridged the gap between them quick as a wink and kissed the other man. Just like that. As if he had already done it a hundred times and rather fancied himself doing it a hundred more. A long, lingering slow, thorough and thoughtful kiss, that left very little to the imagination, and even less to intention.

And Norrington's lips were warm beneath his, firm and taut. But they softened beneath his onslaught easily enough, far more quickly than he had truly expected they would, parting at the last to accept his tongue almost submissively. But if it was a submission, it only lasted but a moment or two, because then the other man made a small sound and suddenly his arms were closing fast around him, pulling him tighter into him. As if he might mold them into one being if he could only fit the pieces together well enough or, barring that, applied enough pure brute force.

The kiss turning rapidly into something that held little of kindness or tenderness to it. A meshing of lips and teeth and tongue that was more fire than flesh, that sent its own fierce power pounding through his veins. Turning his prick to iron, to steel, to liquid flame. Making him wonder if he would fair forget his own name before it was done. Before the other man would ever let him go again.

And he found his hands rising to touch Norrington's face, fingers tracing across smooth skin and the first faint whiskery roughness, and realized that Norrington's own fingers had sunk into his own hair long since. Taking such tight hold of the tangled braids and beads there that it almost hurt.

Especially as the other man used his grip to pull his head back just a little, enough that they could finally breathe again. Though, from the sound of it, it appeared that neither of them could recall quite how.

"Jack..." Norrington gasped. "Oh, dear God..."

He couldn't help the smile. Even though he was gasping hard as well. "Aye, pray if ye like... pray for... the both of us."

Then he lost the smile as he moved to nuzzle at the other man's neck, sucking in the scent of Norrington's own distinctive sweat, underlain by just the faintest lingering traces of powder—both sweet and acrid, the tang of distant blooms and more recent battles.

"An was wicked enough for you?" he asked, following the line of that clean throat down and down with both nose and lips, all the while his right hand dropping even lower. Finding a hard thigh, then something harder still. Something which twitched beneath his hand, even as Norrington made a soft noise and shivered a little.

Jack ran his thumb along the length of the man's member, instinctively measuring and not coming up wanting in the least. Aye, it appeared the Commodore was a fine prize, indeed. Though not half so fine a prize as the look that he caught in the other man's eyes as he pulled back a little to gaze at him.

Dazed green and melting dark, near as black as his own in the gloomy confines of their small cell, they still met his own squarely enough. Almost seeming to challenge him even, despite the intimate awareness the other had to have of just where Jack's hand was at the moment.

"No," Norrington replied then. "I believe in you, Jack Sparrow. That you are... eminately capable of the most vile of deeds."

"Vile, is it?" Jack returned, his fingers squeezing down briefly, watching as the other man's eyes flickered and his chin lifted a little. "Tis a fine opinion ye have of me, love. I've half a mind to take offense."

"Take what you like," Norrington answered. "As long as you do not take your hand from my person."

"No problem, mate."

***

But then this wasn't just any other man. It was Jack. And Jack, he had learned to both his own misfortune and a surprising amount of indulgence in this particular moment, was not someone you could long resist. Not even with the engrained habits of a lifetime of just such resistance.

But then who could deny those long fingers as they cupped and pressed what clearly Jack thought of as some new trinket he had just managed to acquire. Jack's smile wicked indeed as he gazed raptly into his face at the same time.

"A fine braw man ye are," the pirate commented. "Though I well suspected it."

"Did you?" He should have been embarrassed by that confession. But, somehow, he found it even more arousing that Jack had taken the time to consider him and his attributes in that particular light, especially considering how little time they had spent together and under what circumstances. Though, for all he knew, perhaps Jack contemplated the bed-ability of everyone he stumbled across.

"Aye," Jack replied, never faltering in that long slow stroking of him through his breeches; a most distracting touch, not that he was about to make complaint of it. "The first I saw ye, with that lovely sword still at me throat. So angry an yet... ah, love... you were a sight, all decked out in yer royal best. Though, 'o course, I couldna trust ye. Even before ye saw what were inked upon me arm."

"Do you trust me now?" he couldn't but ask.

Jack gazed down for a moment or two, and when he looked up again that somber expression was back. And Norrington found he couldn't help but wonder if this was the real Jack Sparrow at long last-self-possessed and rather more serious and quite admittedly honorable in his own fashion, all for the fact that he spent a good deal of the time hiding behind the mask of a playful fool.

"Trust," Jack said. "Tis not to be given lightly, to be sure. But well ye know that."

Norrington nodded. Then, as if in answer to his own question, he reached out and drew the other man to him and kissed him. A gentle kiss that promised much and asked more. A kiss that was returned just as carefully, sharing breath and more sweetness than he would have ever expected to feel with or from another man.

It left him feeling curiously shaken and steady at once, and wishing quite sincerely that he could have discovered the pure necessity of this without the trials that had come before, not the least the part he had played in Jack's untimely death.

Clearly, though, the thought of the gallows was not preying upon the mind of the other man, for he suddenly found Jack's hand delving into his breeches, then closing quite decidedly around what it had obviously been looking for.

His gasp was swallowed down by the other man, who drew back a little then, looking entirely pleased with himself. Looking as if one of his greatest joys in life was having his hand upon another man's naked prick.

"That's it, love," Jack said.

"Yes?" he replied.

But it wasn't, because the pirate began squeezing and stroking him, his fingers rough and warm and moving in just the right way, clearly well practiced in what they were about. An answering warmth quickly spread through him in response, luxurious and wanton sensation. His breath sounding hard in his ears and more of those little gasps and moans escaping his normally tight control.

"Shhh..." Jack breathed at the last. "Ah, ye needs be quiet, James. Won't want to be calling attention to ourselves now, do we?"

If he had had the strength to glare back at him in that moment he could have.

"Been way long, has it?" the other man asked then.

"That is," Norrington replied between strokes. "None of... your business... Mister Sparrow..."

"Jack, call me Jack," he said. "Bein' that ye've given me the use o' your Christian name. An that I have me hand upon your prick."

***

To have so wrenched the man's control from him... ah, but that was pleasure as well. So much so, that his own prick had grown almost uncomfortably swollen. To be sure, this wasn't exactly a place he would have gone out of his way to pick in order to commence the seduction of a Commodore, but a man made due with what he had.

Though, considering in full what he had his hand upon, making due wasn't exactly something he would have to worry about.

He leaned in, rubbing his face up along the other man's, then sank his nose down into the juncture of neck and shoulder. A hand moved to briefly stroke his head, then fell to his own shoulder. Fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Easy now," he breathed.

That grip relaxed a little, but he was already moving on. A nip and lick of the man's ear brought another gasp, followed by an even more telling kick of the man's hips. The prick he was stroking jolted as well and then he couldn't wait anymore. Pulling back a bit, he worked the buttons on the man's breeches—cursing as he fumbled the last one a little—then wrenched them down and away.

Norrington had enough presence of mind to lift up a little, his eyes coming open again even as Jack glanced down at the other man's member. Smiling to himself at how firm it was, slick and substantial and standing tall enough that any Navy man would be proud to salute it. Or so was his opinion.

But then he wanted to do more than just watch the man's face, just touch his prick—fine as he found both of those occupations to be—he wanted to taste as well, to make the Commodore truly surrender to him.

And he bent to do just that.

***

Norrington had never had a woman touch him this way, let alone a man, as if every bit of him was there simply to be thoroughly explored and cherished. He had long since forgotten about trying to muffle the gasps and small moans the pirate was cheerily wringing out of him.

Dignity be damned. The mute pleasures of Jack's hands and mouth were almost too great to bear.

"Mmmm... James..."

Jack's voice was rough and came from the general region of his belly, where the other man seemed intent upon personally mapping out each and every line and hollow. Indeed, he could feel the pirate's hair brushing teasingly across his prick as the man moved, a cool slither of beads and silver against the heat of his member.

But, clearly, no real answer was called for, since Jack was talking again, muttering almost, even as fingers slid down to gently part his thighs.

"So bloody perfect... purely, the missy don't know what she missed... an what have we here then... hmmmm..."

A ready thumb trailed along his prick, then Jack gripped him entire and lowered his head. Licking him ever so slowly from root to tip and then back again, taking his time of it, as if memorizing the very taste of him.

And he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore—not so that he could deny whose mouth it was upon him, God no—but that he feared that otherwise he might very well spend at once. To see Jack Sparrow suckling at him, those dark eyes casting themselves upwards at him every now and then, gleaming with lust and sly approval.

He clenched his hands as that mouth kept on taking its sinful delight of him, moving to linger now upon the head of his member.

"Jack... ah..."

Was that his voice? That broken squeak and stuttering gasp.

Certainly, it must be. But he never would have thought to own to such a thing, let alone to the darker impulses that were rising up inside him. To not only have the other man freely attending to him like this, but to have him. To see Jack Sparrow lost in his own ecstasies, writhing beneath him, that brown flesh his at the last to touch and bruise and kiss and mark.

To own him, probably the only way anyone ever could hope to own him.

That warm mouth abruptly abandoned his prick and then he heard Jack's voice as if from some far distance, rougher even that usual.

"James..."

He opened his eyes just a little and watched as the other man stood and pulled off his own breeches and tossed them to one side, revealing lean, but well-muscled legs, fully as brown as the rest of him, and a rosy prick rising up in an insolent arch before him. A moment later, the tattered remains of Jack's shirt met the floor as well.

Before the other man turned back to face him fully. Dark eyes rising ever so slowly upwards until they could meet his own, the faded remains of the blacking beneath them making them look full of shadows. Nothing amused or amusing in his gaze right then, just a pure intensity of emotion that he couldn't begin to unravel.

And then Jack was kneeling before him, fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist and pulling it steadily down and forward.

To finally press his hand against a hardness that matched his own.

Those black eyes growing even more vivid as he began to stroke the other man. A privilege he was allowed only for a few moments, before Jack made a soft sound at the back of his throat and then was moving in, moving to kiss him again. Pressing him back against the wall with the force of his passion.

Long hands cupping his face for the mouth that sundered him, the tongue that tasted of him and yet kept coming back for more. And he couldn't bear it, and yet bear it he did. As he kissed the other man back, hard and harder, damning his own fears and uncertainties for all that they had lost him until now. Jack's mouth wet and real and sure upon his, his head spinning, his heart pounding, his prick throbbing until he quite thought one had to give or else he might very well die.

And then Jack tore his mouth away and slipped down to take him full in his mouth again and he swore that he did die.

As heat and liquid pleasure roared up inside him, through him, turning his vision dark and all remaining thoughts white-hot and quite unable to slow or stop himself as he thrust upwards and then spasmed deep and hard and hopelessly. Aware of Jack's hands on his hips, of the half-choked sound which resounded in the small room, of just how vulnerable he was in that moment. And how much he didn't care.

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