Beyond the Horizon: Part I

[likeahurricane7]

Title: Beyond the Horizon

Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean; Sparrington

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I have no claim on POTC or the lovely characters who populate it, even if it seems that James Norrington has, somewhat disconcertingly, made himself quite at home in my head with no apparent plans to leave. Jack Sparrow has been dropping by at random for years, as well, which surely doesn’t help matters.

Summary: A new approach to the AWE fix-it fic idea. James has a touch of destiny about him, and the way in which he dies catches the attention of a certain recently-freed sea goddess. Also featuring: The Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow.

Warnings: I do not speak Gaelic. I just found a few handily translated phrases on the interweb, here and there, and shamelessly commandeered them for my own purposes.
Note: I pulled from a lot of different influences here, but overall I think the most lasting one was from this little gem of a ficlet I found called The Damned wherein James and Davy Jones find some common ground on which to stand. Also, I’ve not actually seen anyone else make James Norrington captain of the Flying Dutchman, so I decided to do it, partly just because no one else has, but also because I think the idea makes an interesting sort of sense, and that James would be quite good at the job. I also have no idea how or why exactly this story ended up leaning more toward fluff (albeit a bit solemn, as fluff goes, but still...) than smut, as I rarely ever write fluff of any kind. I like it, though, and the ending caught me off-guard.

Shortly after Beckett took his leave, leaving behind a small squadron of guards around the Flying Dutchman’s heart in the ship’s main cabin, Davy Jones was rather ruffled, when he found Admiral Norrington waiting for him in his quarters. Scoffing heavily, the captain took a seat at his pipe organ, fully prepared to start ignoring the man; but first he said, scathingly, “Ah’ve never much held any regard for naval officers, except t’ see them as targets for m’ cannons, Admiral.”

Just before Jones started playing, Norrington interrupted: in perfect Gaelic he replied, “Ni lia duine na tuairim.” Everyone has their own opinion. He even had the gall to add, in English, “All things considered, I would not blame you for yours.”

Davy Jones struck a discordant note on the organ, caught off guard, and then spun to glare in mixed rage and disbelief at the Admiral, who was clearly as bloody English as the first Queen Elizabeth had been and therefore had no right to mock him in that language. Warily, he barked, "A bheil Gàidhlig agaibh?" You speak Gaelic?

Norrington merely looked back at him archly, his expression dry and solemn, but there was the faintest glint of bitter amusement in his sea-green eyes. “Beagan me agus a ra go maith.” I say little, but say it well. There was not the faintest trace of Englishness in his accent when he spoke it.

After a long pause wherein he glowered darkly, the captain of the Flying Dutchman asked, “How did an English fop like yerself learn words like that?” He lounged indolently on the bench, still glaring, but not turning back to his original musical intent.

Keeping his face an inscrutable mask, if only to rankle Jones a little more, Norrington explained, “My nurse, when I was a lad, was a Scot. She would sing to me in this language, and eventually I pleaded with her to teach it to me. We kept it secret, of course, because my parents, and even my elder siblings, would have been horrified, to think that my sheer Englishness had been so early corrupted.” He snorted. “I have spent most of my naval career as a British officer, Captain Jones, and I have always treated my men according to their merits, not their isle of origin.” He shot Jones a pointed look. “I know myself to be a rarity, in that regard, to my continued chagrin. I do, however, actively work toward remedying that when and where I can.”

Jones raised his eyebrows, considering this. He stood and stepped away from the pipe organ, and pulled a small chess table from the wall, the squares in its surface made of jade and ivory. From a cabinet, he pulled out the chess pieces that matched it. Dice was not the only game aboard this ship. “Do you play, Admiral?”

Norrington nodded. “I do.” Speaking purely in English made the air about them more formal, but Jones’ whole demeanor had become unusually civil, now, if only for the moment.

Jones pulled up a chair for himself, and gestured for Norrington to do the same.

The Admiral bowed his head slightly in a respectful, silent nod of thanks, and obeyed, sitting at the board and watching Jones set up the pieces.

“What’s a man like you doing working for that little wad of flotsam Cutler Beckett?” He used the ivory pieces. He took first move.

Norrington contemplated the board for a moment. “Temporary insanity with long-term consequences.” He moved one of the jade pieces, his fingers lingering a moment to appreciate the fine craftsmanship.

“An ambitious wife?” That was a story Jones had seen play out before.

The Admiral snorted, a look of bitterness cracked through his mask for a moment, showing regret and a flicker of anger, as well as something akin to longing. “Quite the opposite, actually. The one woman in my life I would have sought to make my wife had, at the time of my asking for her hand in marriage, long ago lost her heart to a young blacksmith and sometimes-pirate.” There was not anger in his voice, however: only sadness.

Jones gave a low, understanding rumble. “A truly dreadful bond, it is.” He glared in the direction of the main cabin and winced involuntarily.

James Norrington watched him. The man who had served on the Black Pearl had been mad, in a way, but still observant, and he had overheard and learned much. Lord Beckett had not thought to ask Norrington about the brethren court, pieces of eight, or the tale of Davy Jones; however, the Admiral was content with this. Time spent back in uniform, back in command, had brought him back to himself--rather uncomfortably, James thought, feeling very aware of the weight of his sword, his ‘old friend’, at his hip, and all the reminders it carried, of the man he had once been--and he was relieved, at this point, to be underestimated. It gave him an advantage.

“I suppose that you, of all people, would be one to know,” Norrington replied. He moved a jade knight. Again, his fingers lingered on the impossible smoothness of the carved stone.

Jones glared at him sharply.

James met his gaze without flinching. “Of course, the object of my affections never bound me quite so cruelly as this.” He gestured to the ship around them.

“You know nothing of cruelty, Admiral.” He moved a pawn.

“Hmn.” James raised his eyebrows. “Not, perhaps, from personal experience, but I have tried to make a point of it, in my life, to learn from the mistakes of others.” He moved his bishop into play. “My nurse told me a number of tales of the sea, including yours: falling in love with a sea goddess, taking up the duties of ferryman to souls lost at sea. There’s a song about it, in fact, but it’s not very popular outside of your original isle of origin. It claims that you gave a court of brigands the ability to bind your lover into a more manageable form, and that the both of you are miserable for it. I must say, it is very, very Scottish.” Very, very depressing.

“You are in my cabin, Admiral,” Jones growled dangerously. “I can easily kill you, here, and your men could do naught about it, save yell uselessly.”

Norrington considered this. “You very well might. I, however, am the most civil man currently standing between you and Lord Beckett. Whilst I am officially in command of your ship, as well as the rest of his fleet, I can prevent more of Beckett’s attempts at solidifying control by humiliating you, and work to make the cruelties he has already laid against you easier to cope with; hence, why I have moved my men from their original station in here, to a different one in the main cabin.” He raised his eyebrows. “Beckett has purchased my position and provided it to me, but he does not own me.”

Jones scrutinized the admiral’s once-again-masked expression, then the chess board between them. “Civil,” he spat. “This from a man who admits to having recently gone mad.” He moved his rook so that a pawn protected it.

James smirked faintly. “You have no idea.” He lifted a jade pawn, rolling it between his fingers for a moment, eyeing the board. “For all that I must admit, you are the greater expert here on madness.” He returned the pawn to its original position and moved one of its fellows forward.

“Aye.” Jones laughed.

For long minutes, they played in silence. Jones collected four of the admiral’s jade pieces: all pawns. James collected three ivory ones: a pawn, a rook, and a knight.

“Was it the woman drove ye mad?” Jones asked at last.

“No. It was pride and selfishness. I am not, it would seem, well suited to either. I do not have enough piratical nature.”

“What does suit you?”

“Duty. Responsibility. Command.” James moved his queen forward. “Check.”

Jones scowled, but moved his remaining rook to stand in the line of attack. “You’re a heavily fettered man.”

“Not always; I have been cut free, in the past; however, these are bonds that I have placed upon myself, and with them removed, I am not the same man. I become something truly wretched, as if lacking heart and soul.” He frowned. “That, Captain Jones, I have learned from my own personal experience.”

Jones nodded. “You’re still tormented by love, as well,” he scoffed.

James clenched his jaw. “Mayhap. However, I have handled it more wisely than you, I think. I freed my betrothed to follow her heart, rather than binding us both into something painful and suffocating, as would have happened had I held her to her word.” He moved his queen, taking the bishop that Jones’ rook had been protecting.

With a growl, Jones leapt to his feet. “If it’s worked out so very well for you, then why are you in your current, miserable position?”

James held his gaze for a moment, then looked away thoughtfully, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am in my current, miserable condition because I underestimated the amount of hurt that two people in love could inflict upon each other, despite their shared devotion, and I have begun to let it worry me, seeing how history has let it play out in the past; because I was once foolhardy enough to think that letting my pride and the wishes of my superiors force me to chase Jack Sparrow across the whole of the caribbean, in the hopes of clearing the black mark on my record left by allowing him to escape before, would lead to something other than my own destruction; because the woman I love is in danger and I cannot protect her, nor would she want me to; because my self-destructive madness drove me to hurt people I care for and who may never forgive me; and because I have recently worked out that the only chance I have left for redemption is to find some way to undermine Lord Beckett’s company from within, for he is far more evil than I could initially give him credit for until I had scrutinized his character myself, and concluded that he is unfit to lead.” He looked Jones in the eye again. “Shall we finish the game, Captain?”

Jones was somewhat taken aback by the man’s honesty for a moment, but then he cackled madly. “James Norrington, yer as damned as me.”

“Admiral,” Norrington corrected, but his expression remained a sardonic blank. “And yes, I am; however, I must insist on claiming that I am not nearly as insane.”

Another laugh. “No, yer not mad at all at the moment, and fer that I pity ye.” Jones reclaimed his seat on the other side of the board.

James snorted. “I neither want nor need pity.”

“O’ course,” Davy rumbled, not altogether mocking.

James shot him a look, but left it otherwise alone.

They played the rest of the game in near-silence.

A sense of imminent doom: James had first felt it when Mr. Mercer ordered the heart taken back into the captain’s cabin. They had argued, at length, and Norrington had given the men orders in an attempt to ensure that the heart would be there only during the attack on the pirate vessel. He had known it to be futile when the marines shot Mr. Mercer such fearful looks, and met his gaze with such hopelessness.

The fog that rolled in seemed suffocating, even as the smells of smoke and gunpowder had made his pulse quicken and his breathing deeper: instinctively prepared to fight. What he had not expected was Elizabeth serving as de facto captain of Sao Feng’s ship. What he had expected even less, but not been as surprised by as he might have been if only he were more naive, was what she told him of her father and of Beckett. So he did what he always seemed to do when it came to Elizabeth: he set her free. It was the purest, and truest expression of his love for her, and for her fiery and untamable spirit, and he would do it at every possible opportunity.

What he had expected least of all was what she asked of him this time.

“Come with us.”

His lips parted, but he could think of no words.

Elizabeth’s dark eyes met his, pleading and determined and full of fire. “James, come with me,” she all but whispered.

Before he could answer, duty called, in the form of one of Jones’ men. “Who goes there?”

Instinctively, James pushed Elizabeth behind him and drew his sword. A hundred thoughts moved through his head, quickly and efficiently as they only ever seemed to do when he had a sword in hand: he was undermining Beckett with this act, but could better do more to that end as an admiral than as a pirate, even if it was as a pirate with a purpose and dignity, as he suddenly knew that he could find with Elizabeth if he followed her. If he stayed, he could better prevent anyone chasing after her further. He had much to atone for, and he was terrified of letting his own selfishness tempt him away again. He wanted to go with Elizabeth, but it was not his place. She was not his.

“Go,” he said, keeping his eye out for Jones’ crew, not looking at her. It would, he hoped, hide his dishonesty as he added, “I will follow.”

He sensed Elizabeth’s scrutiny and inwardly cursed. “You’re lying,” she said.

Honesty then. James turned and let her see everything written in his expression, his mask completely abandoned. “Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth, but never joined.” He hesitated, and then allowed himself one last selfish impulse, if only because of how dreadfully honest it was: he kissed her, and tasted however briefly and fleetingly that beautiful fire. Then, reluctantly he pulled away. “Go, now.”

As he heard her hesitate, and then climb, James fought to regain his composure. The sound of Bootstrap Bill’s footsteps provided immediate relief, reaching James’ ears and causing his body and mind to snap instinctively to attention: clear and focused and sharply intent. “Back to your station, sailor.”

The man had a glazed, half-aware look that was deeply unnerving. “No one leaves the ship,” he said, as though this were absurdly obvious.

“Stand down. That’s an order,” Norrington commanded, but kept his voice low enough not to catch any other crewman’s attention.

“That’s an order,” Bill repeated, as though explaining it to himself. Then said, “Part of the crew?” The glazed look had increased. “Part of the ship.”

James recalled undead pirates suddenly, and how even they had looked sharper than this until the curse had been lifted. He remembered clearly the glassy, dead look in the eyes of the one he had killed. It was the look now in the eyes of this inhuman crewman: dying and lost, even as he kept repeating those last two phrases with increasing fervor, until James interrupted him at last, “Steady, man.” There was a man in there somewhere, but James felt that sudden sense of doom again. He could not reach this man, and that made his position here precarious indeed.

“Part of the crew, part of the ship! All hands! Prisoner escape!”

“Belay that,” James bellowed, drawing his pistol before he could recall how useless it would be against this creature.

“James!” Elizabeth cried.

He turned and looked at her. She held his gaze, then looked at the rope she dangled from, and began moving once more.

James’ breath caught as, for a moment, he could not tell whether she was trying to return and help him, or continue fleeing. James looked at Bill, then the rope, then Elizabeth again. Then, before he could let himself over-think any of it, he shot the rope and sent Elizabeth and her crew into the sea, away from the Dutchman and away from Beckett. He had freed her again and felt a rush of relief, just before Jones’ crewman impaled him on a spike.

Gasping, James leaned on the rail, only half-hearing Elizabeth’s scream and all of the other calls around him. He was aware of little else outside the sudden near-blinding pain as he slid to the deck. Voices were all distant, even as they spoke of his death. James could hear the sea, and felt a rush of relief, that it would be the last thing he heard before the end: a fine ship cutting through the waves.

Then there was Jones.

“James Norrington, do you fear death?” he asked solemnly, but with the faintest trace of smugness.

Fear it? Of course he did--because he had no way of knowing whether he had done enough, whether Elizabeth was any safer for his efforts, and whether or not history would repeat itself; however he did know what it was that Jones was really asking, and James felt he could provide a thoroughly appropriate answer.

He stabbed Jones through where his heart should be: a rejection and a warning.

Then his body slumped, weakened, full of pain, and James was drifting away on it, his consciousness trickling away with his blood as his last breath rattled out of him.

Then it was dark, and the pain was replaced by cold, and for a long time, James knew nothing at all.

Slowly, however, he became aware of a few things: the smell of salt, the taste of seawater, the feeling that a storm was coming. He could not feel his body, and wondered briefly if he still had it.

Then the darkness around him alleviated a little. He seemed to be staring up at the waves from some distance below them. Above the waves was a storm, a tempest. James knew, somehow, that he was not truly in the sea. His body was still on Jones’ ship, not yet thrown overboard. They were too busy preparing for battle--too busy even to remove all the corpses from the deck.

The current he floated in seemed to caress him and whisper, Loyalty...duty...

James Norrington suddenly felt more like himself. I am dead.

You are. But you are still mine, James Norrington. The voice was female, sultry, and thick with a strange accent.

Who are you?

The sea. The one female voice became a thousand inhuman voices, all saying, Set free at last.

James realized that he was looking up at the waves from below the Flying Dutchman. She was trying to show it to him. It was important. He understood. You are Calypso. The one Davy Jones betrayed.

A snarling hiss, a roar: sea sounds magnified and combined to make a noise like a human scream of anguish. The watery world around him grew suddenly tempestuous as the storm broke overhead. A maelstrom started, too nearby. The currents were tugging at him.

You are loyal, James Norrington, to those dat you love, the female voice was alone again, soft and hurt, but the rest of the sea showed her anger.

He thought of Elizabeth and felt a pang of deep worry. You are set free already, what can you want from me?

Him ship is mine. Him duty must be done, but done by one who belong to me. If de captain does not belong to de sea, and holds other stronger loyalties, he may be led astray, an’ he leave de position vuln’rable.

The waters grew more violent around him. James felt torn apart. He could not see. A living heart she need. You heart can live again, but you must listen well, James Norrington. Ships were moving past overhead, making his world dark. History mus’ not be repeated: not in in dis way.

For a moment, James felt a pang of pure terror, then he surrendered. He listened. He could feel the storm overhead as though he were part of it.

Will yo’ meet dis challenge, sailor? Will yo’ swear loyalty to de sea, and your duty to her, above all else?

I will. I have always belonged to the sea.

When the Flying Dutchman sank into the heart of the maelstrom with her new captain, James’ body hit the water, and he felt the impact: the first time he had felt his body since his death. The sea took him, and he surrendered willingly.

Will Turner was surprised by the sheer number of souls waiting on the other side of the green flash. He felt a momentary fear as some began to climb the sides of his ship, but it faded quickly in favor of compassion. He helped aboard the first man who reached the rail, reaching down to take his hand and pulling him up.

Then Will looked the man in the eye and felt a sudden sinking sensation in his stomach, clenching his jaw as if ready for a confrontation.

“Thank you, William,” James said, polite and calm and droll as ever, meeting his gaze. He looked very different than either of his past forms--the officer or the scoundrel; he was clean-shaven and civilized, but without his wig, hat, coat, stockings, footwear, or even his waistcoat. Only rolled-up shirtsleeves and breeches remained, and he did not look lost at all, as Will last recalled seeing him.

Will wanted to ask him what he was doing here, but instead nodded at him, with professional courtesy, and helped the next soul aboard. His crew followed his example.

More and more, Will was struck by something off about Norrington. All of the other lost souls looked like lost souls. They looked dead, and lonely, and pale and lost. James, except for the large hole in his chest, looked otherwise just as he had when he was alive: none of his color (still darkened from his brief stint at piracy) was faded, and his eyes were sharp and piercing as though he were about to start a duel. He was also, after returning from a brief trip below deck, very clearly waiting for Will.

That, more than anything, made Captain Turner fearful enough to want to push the man back overboard. Then he noticed something around James’ neck: a long silver chain. Whatever was on the end of it was hidden under his shirt, but Will had a strange feeling that he had seen it before.

His father, now also his first mate, called out orders to the crew, and they set sail toward wherever it was these lost souls called home.

Having run out of other things to do, William made his way to the helm.

James stood beside it, facing into the wind with his hands folded behind his back as though her were still Commodore, or Admiral, or something equally authoritative.

“Norrington,” Will greeted, polite but wary.

“Captain Turner,” James replied, calm and inscrutable as only a sardonic naval officer with a melodious baritone voice can be. For a brief moment, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighed wearily, with a hint of exasperation. “Do you know how it was that I came to be here?”

Will looked down at the wheel and swallowed. “Elizabeth told me how you died. I’m sorry.” He glanced at the other man warily.

James only shook his head. “This was not how it was meant to work out.”

Not knowing what to say, Will said nothing.

“You have, however accidentally, made ruin of my intentions, William,” James said coldly, and met Will’s wide dark eyes with a steely jade glare. “It was my intention to free her, and yet now she is bound most unfairly into this.” He gestured at the ship and the lost souls.

Will sputtered. “What on earth are you-”

“And so are you,” James added curtly, interrupting.

Captain Turner stopped, staring at him. “What would you suggest we should have done, Mr. Norrington?” His words were biting.

“As I understand it, there was nothing to be done, truly,” James murmured. He unfolded his hand, and his fingers lifted to tug idly at the chain around his neck.

“Who told you of it?” Will asked.

James did not look away as he took firmer hold of the chain, and pulled the locket out from under his shirt. He lifted the whole necklace over his head and handed it to Will, who had stopped breathing for a moment.

James envied him, in that the pause was only brief. It was only with an effort that James even remembered to breathe.

Will cupped the locket in his hand and gulped audibly. “This is...”

“Calypso’s,” Norrington finished.

“Yes. The other is still in the captain’s cabin.” Will looked as though about to open it, then stopped, closing his fist around it and glancing up at Norrington. “Why do you have this, and why have you given it to me?”

“I am here to fix this mess, Captain Turner. I would suggest we go elsewhere to discuss it, however, as you will want to sit down for this and, I daresay, want for a strong drink before all is said and done.”

He called his father to take the helm, then winced as he realized what he’d just inadvertently done.

Bootstrap came to a dead stop when he saw Norrington, but the ex-admiral only nodded politely, and strode toward the captain’s cabin.

“I must speak with him,” Will explained.

“Aye,” Bootstrap murmured, stepping up to the helm. Before his son pulled away, Bill put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I wasn’t myself when I-”

“I know. So, I think, does he.”

“He was a good man. Respected this ship, and treated the captain like a captain. In my right mind, I’d not have wanted to kill him.”

Surprised, Will turned to meet his father’s gaze. “He’s navy,” he said, cautiously.

“Wasn’t the navy that he died for,” Bill said.

Captain Turner found James seated at Jones’ chess table, the jade queen in his hand. James’ long, pale fingers were taking ample opportunity to explore the fineness of its craftsmanship in full, but his eyes staring up at nothing; he was deep in thought. While waiting for Will earlier, he had gone below and found a pair of boots and a brown leather waistcoat, the latter of which he left unbuttoned, probably because wearing it closed over the wound in his chest could potentially be painful.

Will cleared his throat. “The men...they all respect you. I thought perhaps it was just my father, so I spoke with some of the others, and was proved wrong.” He took a seat on the other side of the chess table. “They also all seem to know you’re not here because you’re a lost soul, and that there’s some other reason. If they possess the slightest inkling of what reason that might be, they will not tell me.”

“Yes, I am not lost. Surely you’ve noticed already how easy it is to tell the difference.” James looked at Will and raised his eyebrows. The chess piece still moved through his fingers, but more slowly now.

“Yes.” Will glanced at the wound in James’ chest, visible through the formerly fine linen shirt now stained with blood: the shirt James had died in. Then he met the ex-admiral’s gaze again. “Despite some similarities, you are not the average dead man.”

James smirked. “I have been many things in the past, Captain Turner, but ‘average’ has never been among them.”

Will’s brow furrowed, even as he concurred. “I suppose not.”

“I am here to offer you a trade.”

“Yes?”

“Replace your heart with mine.”

Will became very still. “What?”

“Yours is damaged, yes, from Jones’ attempt to kill you, but there is a goddess who feels that she owes you some small favor, for telling her the name of her betrayer.” James set the jade queen down. “She will repair it, and you can live out your life with Elizabeth, unbound to this ship and its duties.”

“And you will take them instead?” Will sounded incredulous. “For what, Norrington? What could you possibly want out of this?”

“The only things that keep me sane and prevent me from becoming the rather wretched man I was when you last saw me, before my death: duty, responsibility, and a purpose.” He put his hands flat on the table and leaned toward Will. “You are more pirate than I, and better at it. I cannot serve myself alone and be happy. Can you serve others and not yourself for ten years, without your love here to help you pass the days, and remain sane? Can you remain the William Turner that Elizabeth loves, under these conditions, or will you turn into a creature more like the commodore she rejected?” Something pained flickered in his expression, but his steady gaze showed a man whose lessons were learned the hard way, but left him humane enough and honorable enough to not wish that pain even on a former rival.

William flinched, leaping out of his seat and backing away from James Norrington’s painful truth-dealing. “What are you getting out of this?” He demanded.

James picked up an ivory pawn, eyeing it closely. “I died, William Turner, so that Elizabeth could go free. Before that, I struck my career, which was all the life I had then, a near-mortal blow in order to let a good man go free and also allow her follow her heart, even when it led her to you instead of me.” He set the pawn down and got to his feet, turning his back on Will for a moment. “I will not have these sacrifices be in vain. I will not be weighed down with regret, when a goddess has offered me not only a chance at further redemption for my past sins, but also the chance to sail the seas forever, without the wretched cesspool of human politics as my driving force.” He turned on his heel and advanced on Captain Turner, suddenly, stopping when he stood just a little too close, looming over the younger man. “What will I get out of this? More than I could have ever dreamed of, William. And Calypso will get me, because there are too many places wherein she cannot own you. Will you deny it of me, and deny yourself and Elizabeth of your chance to be happy together? Will you torture all of us in this way?”

Captain William Turner stared at him with wide eyes. “I...” He swallowed, and backed away a step, closing his eyes. He thought about it for a long minute. “What do I have to do?”

James pulled a small leather pouch from where it hung off his belt, and a dagger from his boot. He plucked a few glass vials out, until he found the one he needed, which he then handed to William. “Once you have taken the other souls to the various places they belong, drink that. We will start there.”

“What will it do?”

“Allow you to borrow my heart long enough to make your way ashore, whereupon you can make the necessary exchange.” James picked up a larger vial, which he eyed with a hint of unease. “That is, once I have drunk this one, which will see to it that mine will, at that point, be beating. As it is...I should start with this one now, to get prepared for the other.” He picked up a smaller vial, this one full of a vibrantly green liquid. James opened it and swallowed it in one gulp. He grimaced, then shuddered violently. “Good Lord, that is disgusting,” he rasped.

William, however, was speechless, watching the ragged wound in James’ chest mend itself within seconds.

Elizabeth was startled awake with a gasp, clutching at her heart and feeling it flutter. Something was wrong, nameless and strange, but she knew it in her very bones, however inexplicably. She dressed quickly, buttoning her coat as she darted from the cabin of her ship (kindly given to her, as a wedding gift, by Captain Teague) and made her way to the dock; although she could not have said why she was running, where she was headed, or why.

What really confused her was why she had, as though it were an important afterthought, picked up the heavy black chest with Will’s heart in it, carrying it with her under one arm.

She reached the narrow beach on the other side of Shipwreck cove in record time. It was only a beach at low tide. At high tide, it was an inconveniently high sandbar near an imposing cliff. Elizabeth waded out a few steps and stopped, her breath catching as she registered what she was seeing: The Flying Dutchman, floating just off shore. She felt a sudden rush of dread.

When Will materialized next to her, standing in the knee-deep surf, she nearly shrieked. “WILL! What’s going on? It’s only been four months and I-” She stopped when he pulled her into a hungry, desperate kiss. Elizabeth returned it, then jerked away, her eyes wide. Her free hand had rested on his chest, over where his heart should be, but one of Will’s hands was already there, clutching white-knuckled, and under that, she could feel a heartbeat: too strong, fluttering,. “Will?”

“Borrowed. It’s not...We’ve got a chance, Elizabeth.” His eyes were wide and pained and pleading. “I can come back, now, but we have to-” He cut off, groaning in pain and clutching harder to keep from losing the borrowed heart.

Elizabeth realized with some horror that he was holding an open wound shut with his hands, struggling to keep hold. “My God.” She pulled him closer. “Tell me what I have to do, Will. Anything.” She kissed his brow.

“Open the chest,” Will rasped.

Elizabeth pulled at the chain around her neck until the key emerged from her shirt. She unlocked the chest, and Will helped her hold it up as she opened it. She bit her lip, seeing his heart, and the mortal damage to it from Jones’ sword. “Will, can it-” She stopped when she saw him pull two glass vials from his waistcoat. He opened the first with his teeth and poured it over his heart.

“Take hold of it,” he growled. “And hold it under the waves. They’ll fix it.”

Hesitating only a moment, Elizabeth obeyed, kneeling in the surf and letting it roll over the beating heart in her hands until she both saw and felt it mend, beating more strongly. She moved to stand but Will stopped her.

“Wait.” A few more moments, then Elizabeth felt a jolt up her arm, like electricity. On the wind, she heard a familiar laughter, last heard before a shower of crabs flooded the Black Pearl.

She must have made a noise or shuddered visibly, or perhaps her husband heard the laughter as well, because Will then gasped, “Okay, now help me.”

Elizabeth leapt to her feet, holding his heart in one hand and watching him slowly release hold of his wound. “Will? Tell me what to do.”

“As soon as it’s out, put mine back.”

Elizabeth nodded, then suddenly paled. “Will, whose-”

“Elizabeth, please, I’ll explain when I can.”

She bit her lip, but nodded, and when he took hold of the borrowed organ and removed it from his chest, she put Will’s heart back where it belonged. He opened another vial with his teeth and gulped it down, then put James’ heart in the black chest. The heart glowed blue-green for a moment. Then the chest snapped shut on its own.

“My God, James was right; that is absolutely foul,” Will muttered, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Elizabeth whimpered as she felt Will’s chest heal under her hands. “Will?”

He wrapped his arm around her. “I’m alright. It’s over.”

“The heart...You said ‘James’, Will.”

“He said that he didn’t want his sacrifices to be in vain,” Will whispered. “And that he loves you, and wishes us both well.”

Elizabeth choked down the sudden urge to cry. “James...”

“Norrington, yes.”

A longboat approached them from out of the sudden fog, one man at the oars. “Need a lift back to the sand?” asked Bootstrap gently.

Elizabeth smiled, wrapping Will in a tight embrace. “Or to my ship, if you could be so kind.”

Will’s eyebrows raised. “Your ship?”

She smirked up at him. “You’re married to the pirate king, ex-captain William Turner, or had you forgotten?” She arched her eyebrows.

He grinned. “Never for a moment.” He kissed her, just a soft brush of lips this time, and then turned to his father. “Still plan on sailing forever?” he inquired.

“He’ll make a fine enough captain. We’ll see how it goes.” He smiled crookedly. “And he’ll not keep me if I want to go.”

“Aye. He’s not the sort.” Will glanced at Elizabeth, who blushed slightly. Then he handed his father the chest as they both climbed into the boat. “He’ll be wanting that.”

“That he will. Now, my dear Elizabeth, where is this ship of yours?”

Jack Sparrow was feeling very proud of himself indeed.

Sure, he hadn’t quite gotten his ship back yet, but he had all the time he could ever need for that, now.

On his way back to Shipwreck Cove, he’d been shot three times, and run through twice, and had not a scratch to show for it: fatal wounds healed in seconds, not even leaving scars to remember them by. Hunting down the Aqua de Vida had been, without a doubt, the best idea Jack had ever had.

He wove his way through scallywags and wenches until he heard mention of a certain pirate king, and changed course to head towards more of that. It would be good, after all, to see Lizzy, and perhaps gloat a little that he was now as far from dead as he could be, as had become his habit with people who had tried to kill him in the past.

It did not take him long to find her ship (and she had a ship when he didn’t, which was interesting and a little perturbing to Jack’s sense of how the world should work) and climb his way aboard. The celebration aboard was something loud and raucous and more merry than Jack expected, because no one so much as glanced at him.

When the crew dispersed a little, Jack made his way forward, only to stop cold at the sight that greeted him.

Pirate King Captain Elizabeth Swann was draped across an improvised throne made out of a few well-placed and well-tied-down rum barrels, leaning back against the mainmast. William Turner was seated beside her, with a small child, less than a year old, in his lap.

They were the most ridiculous family that Jack Sparrow had ever seen, since his own had scattered to the four winds some years ago. Then Elizabeth spotted him and smirked in his direction. “Jack Sparrow,” she called, and waved him closer. “Come here.”

He swaggered over, but his look was suspicious even as he bowed slightly and greeted her with, “Yer Majesty.” He raised his eyebrows at Will. “Didn’t expect to be seein’ you again anytime soon, mate.”

“I received an unexpected reprieve,” Will said. “How’s the Pearl?”

Jack grimaced. “I’m working on it.”

“As usual,” Elizabeth teased. “What have you been up to then, Jack, if not chasing after her?”

At that, Jack grinned widely and dangerously. “Getting my hands on the greatest prize in my considerable history of great prizes won, asides from the Pearl herself. Are you going to be drinking that bottle, love?” Without waiting for an answer he took it, uncorked it, drained nearly a quarter of it in just a few gulps, and pulled up a crate to sit on. As he tilted his head back for another swallow, he could hear faint laughter on the wind: Calypso. She’d helped lead him to his prize and he’d been more aware of her presence since.

“What prize is this, then?”

He began to tell his tale, and they listened, and on the the wind Calypso--barely audible--occasionally laughed with them.

It was only after dark that Jack was able to get Will’s story. He could still see the edge of a big scar on the lad’s chest, and Jack’s insatiable curiosity kept him asking until Will was at last forced to answer.

“Calypso didn’t want to owe the Captain of the Flying Dutchman any kind of debts, and wanted the ultimate sort of loyalty to her, as opposed to the situation she got into before; so she found someone much better for the job than I, who happened to have good reason to want the job, and to want me out of the job, but not want me dead,” Will explained, after his third large mug of rum had been drained.

Refilling the whelp’s mug, Jack asked, “Aye, and who was that, then?”

“Norrington. You recall he died on Jones’ ship, freeing Elizabeth and her crew?”

Jack hesitated. He recalled. He recalled plenty. He also recalled the strange burst of anger he’d felt, knowing Elizabeth had led to the man’s death, indirectly or otherwise, in a virtuous parody of how she had instigated the death of one Captain Jack Sparrow some months before that; a parody, in that James did it willingly and Elizabeth had wanted to take him with her, but did not. It had seemed such a waste, to lose a good rival like the ex-commodore-turned-late-admiral. Jack had hoped Norrington would live, if only to keep up with him, cat-and-mouse like. Before the hurricane, that had been a fine game, played with a fine man. Jack polished off his own mug, trying not to think about how bizarrely deep his sudden bitterness was. “Aye. I remember hearing something of the sort.” Then he froze as realization struck. His kohl-rimmed eyes opened wide and he sputtered for half a moment. “Norrington. Norrington?! He’s Captain of the Flying Dutchman?” A mixture of fear and excitement and confusion bubbled up in his chest.

“Yes. He traded his heart for mine, with Calypso’s help. I even gave him back his sword.” Will grimaced. “The ordeal of the swap itself wasn’t pretty, but I’ll not complain about any of it in the least.” He smiled and glanced at where Elizabeth and Will Turner the Third slept leaning against the bulkhead.

Jack could not share the peace and warmth of the moment. He felt suddenly jittery. “But it was his choice?”

“Yes. He was quite insistent, actually.”

Jack appeared confused, and nudged Will into elaborating on that.

Will drank more rum, and Jack kept asking questions, until Will was too drunk to realize he was rambling so much about Norrington, or to wonder why Jack was so curious about so very many things where the ex-admiral was concerned. He did wonder, now and then, why he seemed to be telling Jack absolutely everything, but then he would again get caught up in telling the tale, and forget that it was unusual.

When Will finally dozed, Jack stepped out on deck and climbed up the main mast until he could perch atop the topsail, staring out over the lights of Shipwreck Cove: his childhood home.

He couldn’t help but wonder at his own curiosity. Norrington had betrayed him, stolen the heart, and all that...

But that wasn’t Norrington acting like Norrington. Trading his heart for Will’s and letting the younger man be free to live happily with a woman they both loved--that was the Norrington Jack kept thinking about, however inexplicably, whenever his mind wandered and, to his chagrin, of late, having the occasional very vivid and enticing erotic dream about.

Jack spent a while persuading himself that his priorities were still in good order: stay alive, keep to the code, keep chasing the horizon, kill that rat Barbossa if he’s alive, remain captain of the Black Pearl as long as she’ll float. No ex-commodore or ex-admiral captain of the Flying Dutchman was on his list. Nope. Not in the least.

No matter how much Jack had to wonder, with not-so-innocent curiosity, what such a fine man tasted like.

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