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Chapter Text

“Do not go to Shipwreck Cove. Beckett knows of the meeting of the Brethren. I fear there may be a traitor among them.”

“It’s too late to earn my forgiveness.”

Elizabeth drops onto the quarter gallery before Norrington with none of her usual grace. The time is past for formalities, for any of the rules of good society they had both observed once. The crew of the Empress scampers past them. They climb away on the towing lines, too concerned with escaping from the horrors of the Flying Dutchman to see if their hastily-appointed captain and the traitorous admiral follow.

James meets her eyes. “I had nothing to do with your father’s death,” he says, keeping his tone as quiet and even as he can, “but that does not absolve me of my other sins.”

As ever, she holds his gaze fearlessly, her head tilted just slightly in thought. He had seen this look many times over their years of friendship — clever Elizabeth, weighing her words, surveying and scrutinizing everything with her keen eye. Her wit, her pragmatism, her heart…they had all been why he fell in love with her in the first place.

He still loves her, though the feelings have changed shape. Never will she be his wife. That she is alive and standing before him is enough, and that he may be a conduit to her future survival will have to be enough, too. That is why it hurts so much when she says, “Come with us.”

James does not answer; his heart hammers in his throat, blocking the words. What is there to say? She repeats, insistent, “James. Come with me.”

James Norrington is under no illusion that he will survive this night. Governor Swann caught wind of the curse on Davy Jones’ heart, and Lord Beckett sent him to his death. He was brazen enough to kill a governor of a royal province, a personal friend of the king, to keep his schemes undetected.

Admiral Norrington may command his fleet, but Beckett is well aware Norrington’s loyalty is only tied to his letters of marque. He knows too much. He is a liability. If he were killed in a prisoner escape attempt, either by the crew or the escapees themselves, Beckett would find it rather convenient. It’s just good business. James only regrets that he could not see Elizabeth far, far away from this thrice-damned abomination of a ship in his time.

He tries to decide how to say no to her. He has never been able to before. 

Above, a gruff voice calls, “Who goes there?”

Immediately, Elizabeth backs up to the railing. Limping footsteps sound in the distance — a sailor coming to see the ruckus, of course — and James knows their time has run out. He puts himself between her and the sailor. Elizabeth still clings stubbornly to his arm.

“Go,” he tells Elizabeth. His voice is calm; he has accepted what will come. “I will follow.”

But Elizabeth does not let go, and when he glances at her, she is glaring. “You’re lying,” she hisses.

He has never been able to lie to her, either.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Pirates and turncoats are known to do such a thing.”

She does not laugh. She does not move. The shadow of the sailor comes into view by the flickering lamps. James turns to her fully; this is his last chance. “Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth. But never joined.”

James hesitates — then pulls her into an embrace. Elizabeth wraps her arms around his neck and they hold each other tightly. He finds he cannot breathe, whether from emotion or otherwise. She buries her face in his chest, and he tucks her head under his chin, relishing the warmth and life of her so close to his heart. The moment ends as quickly as it began. Elizabeth cups his face in her hands and searches his eyes for something he will never know. 

“Go, now,” he bids softly, and helps her onto the handrail.

She fixes him with one last imploring look before she finally escapes. James closes his eyes and commits it to memory. 

Then he turns to confront the soldier that has arrived on the balcony. This gallery is off his private quarters and no sailor should be patrolling here. But the crew live and breathe as the ship does, and have an uncanny sense of what is happening aboard from bow to stern. The barnacled fellow who limps into view looks at James with unblinking eyes of unsettlingly milky white.

“Back to your post, sailor,” he warns. He draws his sword, his pistol kept at his side in the shadow.

“No one leaves this ship,” the sailor mumbles.

“That’s an order.”

“Part of the crew,” the sailor recites, “part of the ship.” And he chants those words, a mantra of madness, as he rips one of the bars on the handrail from its post to serve as a weapon. James shifts into a defensive stance, prepared to duel, as the sailor raises the alarm.

“All hands!” he bellows, startlingly loud in the quiet night. “Prisoner escape!”

“Belay that!”

“James,” Elizabeth shouts from the distance, “he’s — Mr. Turner, stop! James!”

Elizabeth, well on her way to safety, turns around to help him, just as the sailor who raised the alarm raises his makeshift weapon.

The world slows as death approaches. In the span of a breath, James Norrington considers everything laid at his feet. He must make a choice. Elizabeth has asked him to follow. Her survival is of the utmost importance. He knows without a doubt that she will survive the night if he gives himself up here. And if he dies here, fighting a sailor so lost to the thrall of the ship that Norrington had never seen him on deck before, then he will die accomplished, having saved his last friend on this earth.

The thought should bring him relief. His sense of honor would be restored, Weatherby Swann’s memory venerated, Elizabeth saved and off to fix the world. So why does it make him so angry? 

If he dies here — aged 28, so young to have seen all he has seen — will it truly absolve him of his sins? If he dies here, with the heart of Davy Jones still beating and Lord Cutler Beckett holding the seas hostage, has he truly done all he could?

Is death truly his final atonement? Is his hard-won life something to throw away in the span of a breath?

James Norrington draws that breath. He makes his choice. 

His anger is a hound growling behind a muzzle of Beckett’s making. Finally, the muzzle has been struck off; he is going to fight, damn it all. If he can get away from this sailor, he can go and stab the heart of Davy Jones once and for all. But to get there, he needs to survive himself. 

Point blank, he shoots the sailor, who cannot die, but stops to look down at the hole in his chest in vacant confusion. The recoil jerks the pistol from James’ hand. He spins, brandishing his sword with two hands to slash at the rope bearing the crew of the Empress. It wavers at the first strike, and severs completely at the second. His heart shatters as Elizabeth falls to the sea screaming his name. 

James turns to the rogue sailor and catches the first blow on his sword. Splinters fly. Undaunted, he retaliates, pushing the sailor back from the railing. This is the first true volley he has fought with this sword since it returned to his side, and the savage satisfaction that accompanies battle courses through him. To let the hound off its leash and finally bite back — it feels good, free. 

The sword is nearly weightless in his hand, like an extension of himself, as he exchanges blows with his opponent. Will Turner had truly made him a fine weapon. His blade stabs at an opening, and the sailor grasps it with a barnacle-encrusted hand, stopping James short. 

As he struggles to tug his sword free, the sailor sinks his weapon into James’ chest, suddenly and with mindless fervor. The stake enters at an angle and off his intended mark: it merely impales James’ shoulder rather than skewering his heart.

Alive, some coherent part of his brain manages to think, past the overwhelming shriek of alarm and dread. You’re still alive! Use the time you have! But he stands frozen, his breath stuttering, as he locks eyes with the man on the other side of his death.

The sailor looks down at the very human blood splattered on his hand, and looks back up slowly. “I know that girl,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You set her free. She knew my name. She knows my son.”

“Your — son?” James manages.

“William. He’s coming for me. To set me free.” The sailor smiles slowly, his eyes distant, and he releases James’ sword. “He said he was coming. She did too.”

Of course. Will Turner said his father was trapped aboard the Dutchman — it was why they had fought over the heart in the first place. And Norrington had not remembered until it was far, far too late. 

It is too much to untangle now, as his thoughts begin to cede to the pain of the wound, which suddenly spreads like wildfire through his body. Bootstrap Bill Turner seems to forget where he is standing, and that he is holding a stake in a man’s chest. He continues to smile at the thought of a son who is coming to help.

James grabs the impaled wood with his free hand, the torn edge digging and scraping into his palm, and yanks it out of the sailor’s hand with little resistance. He stumbles back to the railing and catches himself there. It is with nauseating relief that he realizes the stake exiting out his back is propping him up.

Every instinct in his wounded, seething body screams at him to run run run. The only way out is down to the sea. Perhaps fighting and sacrifice were the same option, in the end. But at least he had chosen one over the other.

Bill Turner stands dazed, his blood-stained hand resting on his own chest. The crew of the Dutchman gather around him to watch James die with curiosity and anticipation, unconcerned with the prisoners swimming away. They run off to secure the heart for their own purposes now that Beckett’s representative is finished. Davy Jones himself steps onto the gallery in their wake, and his dark eyes gleam as he leans towards James.

“James Norrington,” he drawls, baring a tentacled grin. His name in the captain’s mouth makes his skin crawl. “Do you fear death?”

No. No. He feels no fear, only fury, desperation, and defiant pride, the snarling anger of a hound chained for far too long. He plunges his sword into Jones’ chest, through the empty cavity where his heart once lay. And as Jones staggers back, laughing, James uses all his strength to haul himself over the railing and falls, gracelessly, into the awaiting black sea. 

He had every intention of attempting to swim to safety, but the driftwood lodged in his shoulder changes things. His one arm splashes madly as he struggles to stay afloat in the water. 

Above, the Dutchman is oddly silent.  The Empress drifts further and further behind. He sees, with euphoric relief, that lamps are being lit on deck. Orders are called. Men are adjusting the sails and running along the length of the ship. They will sail away with Elizabeth at the helm.

Fair winds and following seas, James thinks, because he has no strength to say it aloud. And he lets the sea bear him away.

When James surfaces from the shallows of unconsciousness, he sees only darkness, and assumes he is still beneath the waves.

But his bleary, stinging eyes eventually begin to recognize candlelight, then a few oil lamps nearby, illuminating panels of red wood. He shifts to get a better view — and the world goes black again as pain slams into him. Then suddenly he is shivering, and it hurts to shiver, and his muscles ache from the exhaustion of it all.

His breathing hitches. It aggravates the wound in his shoulder, pulling the swollen skin taut as his chest begins to heave with effort. He closes his eyes and tries to get himself under control. Where in the world is—

“James!”

A warm hand touches his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open, and sees past the flashes of light to Elizabeth, sitting at his bedside, her dark eyes round with worry. James would sob if he could gather enough breath.

She’s alive. I’m alive. God, we’re alive.

She brushes some hair from his sweat-dampened forehead. “Breathe,” she reminds him. “Breathe through the pain.”

He does. And slowly, it comes to him: the escape, the conflict aboard the Dutchman, a long tumble to the sea. Then silence, blackness, and an end to all James Norrington’s complicated feelings.

Except now he lies here on the Empress, painfully, but assuredly, alive.

He takes a moment to get his bearings. He lies in a bed, not a cot, so this must be the captain’s quarters. Its walls are patched up haphazardly, clearly a rush job, and most of the furniture lies in ruin. The Dutchman must have done that when Jones fired upon the ship. 

Bandages claim half his torso and the palm of his left hand. The smell of antiseptic hangs in the air. James lies tucked under several thick blankets, surprisingly soft on his battered skin. A bed warmer seeps in more heat under the covers. Despite it all, he is unable to stop shivering. His body is struggling to regulate itself after what must have been a long dive in the ocean.

But, working hard to keep his teeth from chattering, he manages to say, “I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth looks at him in surprise. “James?”

He can’t stop the words as they come to him. “For everything,” he chokes out. “For your father. He deserved better from me. From Jones. From Beckett. And — God — for giving him that damned heart.” The last words are a whisper. He closes his eyes against the shame, welling up above even the pain suffocating him. “I never — I knew he would — it was wrong. I was so broken, Elizabeth, I couldn’t—”

“James,” she interrupts, incredulous. “Please. We can talk about it some other time. Rather, we must. I am just glad you’re alive. And so…unwaveringly you.” Elizabeth smiles sadly at him. “Only James Norrington could sidestep death in such a spectacular manner and still claim blame.”

“I deserved it,” he insists.

“Yet you live,” she says.

James watches Elizabeth closely as she stands from her spot on the edge of the bed. She rests a blissfully cold hand on his forehead and inhales sharply. His fever is alarming enough for her to check his (rapid, fluttering) pulse and tuck him in more tightly to the bed. He is struggling to stay conscious, holding onto his focus desperately.

But when she tells him to rest, he finds that it is a good suggestion, and his body readily agrees. James sleeps, and when the pain next pulls him from his uneasy rest, she is gone.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass in a semi-lucid haze. The physician aboard cleans James’ wounds with a thankfully silent manner, a harsh but confident touch, and painfully salty water. He dresses the wounds with bandages clearly cut from old clothing. They must be low on supplies, he remembers thinking, and wonders why they haven’t let him die yet. 

His dreams come in force and do not relent. Deep in the throes of his fever, he is haunted by the constant breathing, creaking, dripping of the Flying Dutchman, the plague ship that nearly swallowed him whole. He dreams that his own ceremonial sword skewers him and pierces his heart, yet he cannot die. He dreams of walking the empty streets of Port Royal and seeing only ghosts of people he knows, the Swanns and his lieutenants included, cursed to wander in endless absentia. He dreams of the Kraken crushing the Dauntless with the crew still aboard, of hounds locked in the brig who bay and howl and snap endlessly at the bars of their cage, of staring into an empty chest holding a dagger above his head.

And beneath every dream is the constant, constant cadence of a heart beating, reverberating through his bones and echoing the fluttering beat of his own.

James wakes one day with a warm weight heavy on his chest. He assumes he is finally dying. He thrashes about, struggling to breathe — but it is only the ship’s tabby cat curled into a ball on top of him. She opens her eyes to glare at him and hiss softly. When he cautiously settles back, she falls back asleep with a purr. 

The fever makes him the warmest body on the ship, he guesses. The cat does not keep the dreams at bay, but she is a living creature besides himself, and he finds her small presence a small comfort.

In a rare moment of clarity, James asks the physician how he managed to survive. The physician points wordlessly at the map table nearby. Atop is a bloodied piece of driftwood, crusted with seaweed and residue reminiscent of the Dutchman.

“If you had pulled that out of your shoulder,” the physician says flatly, “you would have bled your entire life into the sea.”

He stares at that piece of wood, his doom and his salvation, and realizes that the dried blood there is his. In his delirium, James laughs manically, unable to stop himself. The physician cracks an amused, if nervous, grin, drapes a cool rag over his forehead, and leaves his still-giggling patient to sleep off his fever.

The day the fever finally breaks casts the revelations of his near-death, and the severity of his situation, into sharp relief. Resolute, he struggles to pull himself upright. The entrance and exit wounds both radiate pain, his arm is numb to the elbow, and his muscles are stiff from days of shivering. But he can sit up, though the act drenches him in sweat, and with the strength of a thousand soldiers, he eventually stands.

James may be holding onto the headboard for dear life and trembling head to toe, but by God, he is standing. He wears the (bloodstained and torn) longshirt from his uniform. The trousers laid nearby are clean, if a little short. It takes the better part of half an hour to wrestle them on. He is just sitting at the half-destroyed table with the stake that almost killed him, catching his breath, when Elizabeth enters and gasps at the sight of him.

“Good morning,” he greets. His voice is hoarse from disuse, but measured and sure. Elizabeth hastens across the cabin and sits across him, perched on the edge of her chair.

“It’s almost sunset,” she says. Her tone is light, but her expression remains grave. “Then again, I have never known you for a man of punctuality, James Norrington.”

In Port Royal, he was notorious for showing up ridiculously early to appointments. Governor Swann would give him late times to make him show up when he was expected. He laughs, little more than a croak, and says, “I missed an appointment with death, Miss Swann. Such things make a man reconsider the use of time in his life.”

“How do you feel?” She lowers her voice and leans forward, almost conspiratorially. 

James inclines his head. “Awake,” he answers. “And thinking clearly for the first time in a long time.”

“Would you like some news?”

“Not particularly,” he says honestly. “But let’s have it.”

She sets a kettle on the wood-burning stove, then summarizes as she makes them tea. The Empress was bound towards Shipwreck Cove, home of the Brethren Court — a place Commodore Norrington had only ever heard of in tales. The Flying Dutchman had been in pursuit for a brief time, so as a precaution they are taking the long way to lose their trail, set to arrive in a week or so. And when the Court convenes, Captain Hector Barbossa plans to unleash Calypso herself from the bindings of the first ever Court. In her present state, she is aboard the Pearl as a woman named Tia Dalma.

Furthermore, Elizabeth was named Sao Feng’s successor as pirate lord immediately before her capture. She shows James the piece of eight tied around her neck.

“Calypso roams the seven seas in human form,” he summarizes in a low, flat voice, “I am no longer part of the Royal Navy, and you are one of the nine pirate lords.”

“The world has gone mad,” she agrees. 

He takes a moment to look out the nearby porthole, watching the waves crashing against the ship. It is a lot to process. In light of it all, it seems miraculous that they are both alive and breathing and in the same place. Sitting before him now, Elizabeth is confident as a captain, her brown hair bleached blonde in the sun, characteristically dry and wavy like every sailor's after service at sea. They are not the same people they were when they left Port Royal, that is for sure. 

The tension between them is heavy with everything they are leaving unsaid, everything they have set aside to discuss business. His work for Beckett, her father’s death, and their last conversation on the quarter galley, before…

He draws in a ragged breath. “Why did you save me?”

She blinks at the question. James elaborates haltingly, “I have not earned your forgiveness. I do not deserve it, Elizabeth. I cannot fight, I have no fleet, and the only thing I have in common with the Brethren Court is an enemy.”

“Is that not enough?” she asks softly. “No pirate has ever worked with another willingly, except in times of desperation.”

“I am no pirate.”

Elizabeth regards him curiously, and in the silence, he can hear the harsh scrape of his breath from his throat. It is suddenly so loud and obtrusive. “No, James. But I think you might have the making. Sold the heart of Davy Jones, didn’t you? Outwitted Jack Sparrow himself?”

“For a commission,” James objects. “For redemption. For the chance to lobby on your behalf.”

“For your own power,” she corrects, “regardless of what you intended to use it for.” Her expression hardens and she leans forward; it takes everything in him to hold her gaze, though it burns him up from the inside like his fever. 

“I understand why you did what you did. Everyone on Isla Cruces that day had their own schemes for the heart. You did what any pirate would do and squirreled away with the prize when the time was right. It was a fine trick, James, one of the best of any pirate story I’ve heard.”

Elizabeth lays it so bare. It is another wound to the chest, another thing to nurse. He swallows and looks away. “And I have paid dearly for it every day since,” he says thickly.

He had not felt himself since Beckett revealed he did not want the heart destroyed, but to use as a tool to keep Davy Jones in check. Every day serving under Beckett had been a haze, in some ways worse than his stupor on Tortuga. He had a fleet, a post, his beloved sword, and power — but none of it mattered, not the way it did before. Elizabeth was gone, Port Royal seized, Governor Swann under constant watch. 

His monotonous, soulless days were broken only by thoughts of Elizabeth’s potential survival, or stolen conversations with Governor Swann when they were both aboard the Endeavor, or arguments with Davy Jones himself as they wrestled for command on the Flying Dutchman. The price he paid had been too high to be relegated to a role as a subservient dog with a fancy collar and a short leash.

To his surprise, Elizabeth loops her hand into his bandaged one, pulling him from his musing. She squeezes his fingers, taking care to avoid his wounded palm. 

“I know your heart, James Norrington,” she says softly. “You are a good man. Your grand escape has earned you some clemency, I think. But it does not change the fact that you, like every bloody pirate on these seas, took what you wanted. You could not have foreseen the consequences; none of us could. But we all must carry that burden together.” Her voice catches at the words. 

“To answer your question,” she continues, when he says nothing in his own defense, “I saved you because I still care about you, you idiot. You are all that is left of my little life before Port Royal.”

“And you, mine,” he says hoarsely. God, she is all he has left.

“If I couldn’t save my father,” she adds quietly, her voice distant, “I am glad I could save you.”

He chokes back a sob that rises unbidden in his throat. He draws a deep breath and closes his eyes, finding his strength. Then he releases it and he straightens his back, even as his body protests. Determined, he looks up.

“I must make this right,” he tells her. He jumps quickly on the opportunity to speak of something beyond his own complicated feelings. “Beckett isn’t doing this for the good of the order. He is…removing an obstacle to his own dark ambition. 

“I am a marine, Elizabeth, but he is a businessman above all. He will take the pirates’ profits in their stead. Destroying them is just good business.”

The words taste acrid in his mouth.

“Let’s say, then, that we fail. That Beckett succeeds,” Elizabeth says. “You would not be happy with a sea free of pirates? I’m not blind, James. I cast my lot as I wished, but I know they are dangerous.”

He does not flinch. “Better the devil you know. Particularly if that devil is disorganized, prone to infighting, languishing in their own greed, and branded criminals in the eyes of the Crown.”

Elizabeth blinks. “You are grim as ever. But you have considered this, I see.”

“In depth,” he confirms. “But chief among my priorities is undoing my mistake.” James pauses, and says solemnly, “If I have learned one thing in all this, it is that the heart must be destroyed. Even if that means it is by my own hand.”

Elizabeth starts, eyes wide with horror. “Then you…”

“Would captain the Dutchman,” he finishes. “It seems a fair penance. Ten years of service to the sea for all the misery I have sown.”

She drums her fingers on the table, worrying at her lip as she thinks. “We could also kill Beckett instead,” she suggests.

“That is also viable. I would very much like to do that.” James smiles without humor, and Elizabeth laughs. 

Two years ago, discussing murder and piracy with Elizabeth would earn James a stern talking-to from her father and dark looks from the household staff for weeks. Today, they speak of the death of one of the most powerful men of England with sardonic delight — and one of them is disgraced and half dead, the other a lord among pirates.

Oh, things have changed.

“You will fight with me, then?” Elizabeth asks.

“Elizabeth,” he says, setting a hand on his heart, “I would follow you to the ends of the earth to protect you.”

It is the least he can do to honor the memory of Weatherby Swann.

And besides: she will need someone with clear motive and loyalties among the pirates. It may as well be him.

Elizabeth considers him for a moment, then nods. She stands, and the setting sun halos her in gold. “I’ve already been,” she says mildly. “It is not worth seeing again.”

It takes a moment for James, in his pain-addled and emotionally-spent state, to understand what she is saying. He looks up suddenly, eyes wide and a question on his tongue. Elizabeth only smiles her fox’s smile and puts a finger to her lips. “Another day,” she promises, “another time. We have time for stories, for a bit. For now, I have a very important task for you.”

“Anything,” he says instantly.

But soon James is stammering objections as she lifts him by his (uninjured) armpit to drag him back to bed. She complains about his height and that his injury had not made him lose enough weight to make this easy, and he plays the unwilling patient, dragging his feet and doing his best not to laugh.

It is not until Elizabeth has gone that James realizes she did not mention Will Turner at all. 

As the day of the Brethren Court’s meeting approaches, James does all he can to be ready.

The pace of his healing is frustrating. Some days, he is up and about, and even swings the bloodied stake a few experimental times without feeling like he had just ran for miles. Other days, he is so wracked with pain and fatigue that he cannot pull himself out of bed without a Herculean effort. 

For a time, he voices his frustration to the ship cat. She blinks her great green eyes at him in what seems to be mocking acknowledgement. How ridiculous he has become! After that, he spends much of his time aboard the Empress pacing impatiently, stewing in his thoughts silently.

Elizabeth visits when she can. Her new duties must keep her busy about the ship, though perhaps she, like him, still reels from the emotional weight of this situation. He does not pry into her interrupted marriage to Will Turner, nor her grief over her father — she could bring those up if she wanted. It is not his place. James can, however, help her run a ship as a trained commander. He consults the navigation charts and astrolabes when necessity strikes. She is an eager student, and the breadth of her knowledge surprises him.

In some ways, it is achingly familiar to the days of Elizabeth’s girlhood. She spent her summers running amok young Captain Norrington’s office at Fort Charles, asking him similar questions and learning all she could.

Part of him is in awe that he gets to do something as mundane as have a calm conversation with Elizabeth Swann, as they had not done since Jack Sparrow blew into town. Another part of him mourns that the returned ease of their friendship has come at such a cost. And the greatest part of him, the snarling hound prowling at the edges of his consciousness, is furious at himself that his actions have put them in these dire straits.

Elizabeth’s presence keeps the hound from rampaging — but James sees the worry in her eyes that she tries to hide. She would never openly pity him, but even so, he has never been so impatient to be back on shore. He has never hated the lull before a battle more. He both dreads the day they make landfall in Shipwreck Cove and anticipates it eagerly.

Soon, he is well enough to exit the cabin and walk the deck. The crew pays him little attention. Though he had freed them from the Empress, he is but cargo to them in his current state.

He encounters Tai Huang, Sao Feng’s first mate, on deck. His arm is in a sling; they had both been injured that night on the Dutchman. Huang’s initial ferocious glare has settled into a wary stare, the way one would eye a dog they aren’t sure will bite.

James nurses his own trepidation. Huang tossed Elizabeth to the wolves when the Empress was taken captive, though by her reports he had shown a begrudging, yet unwavering respect towards her since the escape. The two men size each other up. In the silent impasse, James eventually gives in to reluctant politeness.

“Mr. Huang,” Norrington greets cautiously, inclining his head. “I hope you are mending quickly.”

He narrows his eyes, perhaps attempting to read the meaning behind the words. “As quickly as my mortal bones can,” Huang says acidly. “I did not leave as much of a dent on your undying sailors.”

“Not my sailors,” James corrects instinctively.

Huang only smiles sourly, showing an edge of teeth. “Of course not. They were only sailors aboard your commanding ship. Admiral,” he adds, with a stiff bow of his head.

His title is thrown at his feet as an insult. Much as James would like to snap back, he errs on the side of diplomacy, albeit through gritted teeth. “Believe what you must. It matters not; I am here, and they are there. Though you raise a good concern,” he adds. “Fighting immortals is a test of attrition. If you can slow them down, they will tire as any man.”

“You fought your own men?” Huang asks, with what seems to be genuine surprise. 

“No. I fought with other undead pirates last year.” At Huang’s disbelieving look, Norrington huffs impatiently and offers, “I would be more than glad to discuss how to destroy the Flying Dutchman and everyone on it in depth later.”

That catches his attention. His eyes do not lose their suspicious gleam, but Huang nods eagerly. His hand rests instinctively on the pommel of his shortsword. “This evening, then, off-duty,” he agrees. “Admiral.” And this time, the title does not sound like poison in Huang’s mouth, and something like solidarity passes between them. 

There is no solidarity quite like the one between two warriors, after all.

Huang steps past him to return to his duties. It is with a surprising amount of envy that James watches him pass orders to the crew on duty. But he is cargo, not an officer. And with that humbling thought, he returns to pacing the deck as much as his ailing body can.

They drink rum in the mess that night. (James does so with no small amount of temperance and reluctance. He and rum famously do not get along.) Over the course of their conversation, casual talk laden in violence and swordplay, they attract quite the captive audience. Their experiences were hard won from two contrasting careers at sea. It is a night of productive camaraderie, yet come morning, James finds himself feeling more on edge. He could use a weapon of his own. Why had he driven his wonderful, beautiful sword into Davy Jones? He is sure he would never wield a weapon its equal again. 

Elizabeth catches him shakily walking the hold. “I was just on my way to see you,” she says, with that smile that still makes his breath catch. She tosses something and James snatches it from the air with both hands. The weight tugs at his bad shoulder, and he cannot contain his hiss of agony. 

Elizabeth winces and steps up to help, but he is already examining his prize. In his hands, he holds a lightweight saber. He pulls it halfway from the sheath to check the blade; its edge is well-honed steel and gleams in the light. He prefers a rapier, but the saber has a cutting edge and will be easier to maneuver while his balance is still off. 

He swallows. It is a thoughtful choice.

When James looks up, Elizabeth is resting her hand on the pommel of her own sword at her side. Her eyes gleam knowingly. “I heard you spoke with my men last night. Are you ready to fight, then?”

He slides the sword back into the scabbard with a definitive click and raises his eyebrows in answer. She grins.

“Good,” she says. “I want my pound of flesh, James, and the men do, too. I intend to convince the Brethren Court to fight.”

James pauses. “That is just what Beckett wants,” he says hesitantly. “One decisive battle to wipe out all his competition at once.”

“We’ll just have to be better, then.”

“He has a whole armada at his beck and call!”

“What else can we do, James?” she retorts. “Wait for him to make the first move? He has us backed into a corner. And he is about to see how hard we will fight to get free.”

The dread and anticipation weighing on his chest shifts. The hound of his anger growls from the darkness at the anticipation of the fight to come. They will finally be striking back, his atonement is nearly at hand — and Elizabeth will be right at the center of it.

His eyes flit down to the hilt of the sword, then back up to her. “War, then,” he says quietly.

Elizabeth lifts her chin, pride and defiance simmering in her dark, rich eyes. “War.”

Chapter Text

Mists descend upon the seas, the waters grow choppy, and the skies turn overcast and gray as they approach the meeting of the Brethren Court.

The crew is active, adjusting the Empress’ battened sails to compensate for the curling summer wind. James takes a moment to pull his borrowed jacket tighter around him. The Empress is built differently than every ship he had sailed upon, but the quiet focus across the deck is a universal feeling that can only mean one thing: they have entered dangerous waters.

Tai Huang, giving orders in the shadow of the mast, nods at his appearance. Several crew members lift their arms in greeting as well. Then they are back to business, preparing for the straits.

Elizabeth is at the helm. She rests a hand on the wheel and looks over at him with the cool, detached look of a captain — and then jumps when she realizes who she is greeting. “James! You should be resting.”

“I am rather tired of resting, Captain Swann, believe it or not,” he says with a thin smile. Elizabeth rushes to him, and when he offers his arm, she accepts it. It is more for his sake than hers. They walk to the handrail with easy grace, like they are still on the streets of Port Royal.

“Days in bed, yet somehow, you still have your sea legs under you,” she notes.

“The sea has already tried to kill me. She’ll not bowl me over so easily again. How is our heading?”

“Straight and true,” she says easily, “or as straight and true as we can, heading to Shipwreck Island. Did you know it’s named for its pleasant and calm waters?”

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “Of course,” he drawls. “What else could it mean?”

The jokes fall flat as the terrain on either side of the channel grows more and more treacherous. 

James taps his fingers on the handrail, then grips it nervously. “Elizabeth, I will not insult you by asking if you are sure this is safe. But I cannot help but wonder how loyal this crew is to you,” he says in a low voice, and adds with some disdain, “and that Jack Sparrow is in the mix sets me little at ease.”

“Tai Huang has been loyal. And should they decide to ignore his leadership, the crew of the Empress follows the highest bidder,” she says without hesitation. It is clear she has considered this in depth. “For now, that is us — you bought them their freedom. Thank you for that, by the way.”

He bobs his head, unable to acknowledge it aloud. 

“I know that is little comfort,” she admits, “but comfort nonetheless.” She pauses, and for a second, her expression is pained. Before James can ask, she continues smoothly, “As for Jack…can anyone predict how he will act, in any given circumstance, at any given time?”

James decides to let it go. He snorts. “No.”

“So we will deal with him if we need to deal with him. I am a pirate lord, same as he; the Court will let us know where he lies.” 

Elizabeth turns from the sea to scrutinize him. “But enough about me — should I not be worrying about your safety, Mr. Norrington?”

James knows he must be a sorry sight. After days of illness, he stands groomed to the best of his ability, with a shadow of a beard shaved as well as he could and a complexion pale and gaunt. But he can move well enough to swing a sword, and he has all his wits about him. So he repeats his prior answer: “No.”

“Unfortunately for you,” she says anyway, “you cannot stop me from feeling so.”

Stubborn, persistent, thoughtful Elizabeth. James opens his mouth to object (isn’t he supposed to be protecting her?), but she pokes a finger into his chest first. Oh, he has never been able to say no to her.

“And unlike you,” she continues, relentless, “I do not care if it insults you. You spent eight years ridding these seas of pirates, and to great effect! You truly feel no trepidation at all about sitting in these negotiations as a pirate yourself?”

In truth, the idea of being even this close to Shipwreck Cove ties his stomach in knots. He hanged half the pirates in these waters and hunted the rest with vigor when they fell within his jurisdiction. Once, stumbling upon such a location would have been a windfall; now it feels a dire omen. But he has made his choice.

James turns back to the sea. He settles his shoulders and draws a deep breath. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, keeping his tone formal, “on the rare occasion pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy, piracy itself can be the right course.”

Weatherby Swann’s words. Originally, they were spoken as clemency; now, they are given as an oath. James looks sideways at Elizabeth, inclining his head slightly. Elizabeth meets his eyes, then abruptly looks back to the water. But her hand finds his on the railing and links her fingers through his.

“He was a good man,” James murmurs.

She whispers back, “The best.”

Emboldened by their closeness, and the relative privacy of this little nook on the quarter deck, James says, “You know — when my father died, I only received word a month after the funeral. He was a hard man, Royal Navy to his bones, and there were plenty of men to bury him in my stead in London.”

Even now, the memory gives him pause. Reading the impersonal letter penned by Admiral Lawrence Norrington’s personal aide by candlelight in his cramped officer’s quarters…it had been a bitter revelation. James realizes he does not know how or when Elizabeth learned of Weatherby’s murder. Was it any kinder?

At his hesitation, Elizabeth squeezes his hand gently, encouraging him on.

“Governor Swann invited me for dinner when he heard. And after, we went down to the wine cellar, and he said I could drink all I wanted, or smash everything if it felt right. His point being, he told me — in words more elegant than mine now — that funerals are for the living. Grief is a beast of many shapes, and it cares not where it is tamed. So whatever you need to feel: feel it. He would want you to.”

Elizabeth did not need to know that he spent hours with her father untangling the knot of his complicated relationship with his own, ranting the night away. He was aided by the cheapest vintages among the governor’s fine collection of wine. Though he had a dawn patrol made hell by the hangover the next morning, it was certainly what he needed at the time. Of course he would offer the same experience to Governor Swann’s daughter.

Elizabeth’s hand grips his tightly now. “It — it isn’t fair,” she says, in a small voice. 

“No,” he says. Anger curls in his chest. “Such things rarely are.”

“We’ll survive this and hold that damn funeral, James. For him. And we’ll drink a cellar’s worth of wine once we’re through.”

How grim they are. It is fitting, though; the world is a darker place with one less kind man in it. He and Elizabeth will walk the dark together. This moment is bittersweet, though, and—

“Captain!”

They both spin; Tai Huang is climbing the steps to the quarter deck, looking uncharacteristically frazzled. “Captain, we’ve spotted land.”

“Not the town already?” Elizabeth asks, brow knit.

“No — rocks. Wreckage. We’re in the Devil’s Throat.”

She rushes to the helm, James at her heels. Instantly, the sentiment of the moment vanishes, and they slip into their roles as sailors.

They have entered the infamous passage towards Shipwreck Cove, then. Huang hands the captain his spyglass, and she extends it to peer into the fog before them. After a long, tense moment, she lowers it, then tilts her head in that thoughtful gesture James had come to know so well. Wordlessly, she passes him the spyglass.

Before them, under a blanket of mist, lies a gauntlet of densely clustered rocks and cliffs. The way is obvious, but tight, beginning with a harrowing stretch through a cave — even a more maneuverable ship like the Interceptor (may she rest in peace) would have trouble in the narrowest parts, to say nothing of a junk the size of the Empress. The masts and sails of destroyed ships litter the pass, serving as both presage and hindrance.

James collapses the spyglass and considers the path before them. Already, the seafarer in him runs through all the necessary preparations he would have the crew make. But this is not his ship, and he passes the spyglass back to Huang.

They are approaching quickly. The hazardous cliffs surrounding the mouth of the cave loom out of the fog like ghosts. Elizabeth sets her jaw and grips the helm tightly. She looks every bit the capable captain, her hair streaming behind her in the stiff wind.

“Orders?” Huang prompts anxiously.

Elizabeth looks ahead and assesses. They will sail as straight and slow as they can; the sails begin to turn accordingly. As the orders are repeated down the ship, she says more quietly, “Suggestions?”

“It is your ship, Captain,” he responds dutifully.

“James,” she says, exasperated, “you know these seas. I will hear your advice, even if I decide not to follow it.”

“Some things never change,” James quips without thinking. Before he can have the good grace to look ashamed, Elizabeth barks a single, nervous laugh.

“I aim to be consistent,” she grins. “Now, I ask again. Suggestions, Mr. Norrington? Mr. Huang?”

With their guidance, the Empress sails onward, into the shadow of Shipwreck Island.

They dock at Shipwreck Cove, at long last. The calls of dockworkers pierce above the rumble of life and activity from the ramshackle town that sprawls across the inlet of Shipwreck. It had been an unpleasant few hours; James’ jaw aches from clenching it so hard, and the wounded muscles in his back burn in protest. He is exhausted, as is the crew — but there is work yet to be done.

Elizabeth enters the captain’s quarters as Norrington is tugging on his boots. Most of the clothes scrounged from the ship are just the wrong size for him — the trousers slightly too short, the white shirt loose at the waist, the shoulders of the dark long-tailed coat a touch too narrow — but the boots, miraculously, fit. It is all simple and unadorned clothing, which is fine by him. The pirates could hoard all the glamor. James only wants to hide in the darkness until the time to strike back at the East India Trading Company. He has no title anymore, no epaulets on his shoulders to make him a threat.

“Ready?” Elizabeth asks. She enters the room with her hands clasped behind her back.

“As I will ever be,” he says. He takes a moment to lean back in his chair, letting his poor, abused muscles slacken for just a moment. “It feels like we are walking to our own execution.”

“A tad,” she agrees, “but I fear that feeling will not ease until Beckett is dead. At the least, we will not be walking into our execution alone.”

Right. It was impossible to forget exactly how many pirates were gathered here in Shipwreck; the sounds reach them even here through the hull. James looks flatly out the porthole, though he can see very little from their dock.

“Will the other lords hear reason?” he says. Beneath the distant revelry, the question feels trite. Elizabeth inhales and releases a long breath.

“They must. There is no other way.”

“And if they don’t?”

Elizabeth says nothing. Instead, she circles the table to stand behind him, inspecting the wreckage of the room as she goes. She bends to pick up something off the wreckage of the vanity nearby. “You can’t lift your hurt arm yet, can you?”

She is avoiding his question. He sighs, and answers hers honestly, “If I am abundantly cautious, no, not very high.” He had torn a stitch in his back early in his fever, and he is not inclined to relive the experience of having it fixed. “I won’t need it to fight, rest assured.”

“Here, then,” she says lightly. “Let me help.”

“What? Elizabeth—”

And before he can turn to object, Elizabeth is running a fine-toothed comb through his tangled, distressed hair. The repetitive motion is soothing and embarrassingly emotional. How long has it been since anyone showed him such gentle kindness at all?

With practiced ease, Elizabeth pulls his hair back into a neat tail. She ties it with the dark ribbon from his uniform — the last remaining part of it. Then she sets her hands on his shoulders, smoothing down his collar absently.

“We have to win this, James,” she says, returning to his question. Her voice is low, but hard like steel. “I do not care what it takes. I will convince them, somehow. I cannot afford not to.”

“I know,” he returns. “And you will.”

Then James stands, grateful it does not take everything out of him to do so, and turns to her. He tugs the lapels of his coat. “I just need a hat. Then I’ll look the part of a pirate, won’t I?”

Immediately, Elizabeth lifts her own hat off her head and settles it on his. It is a tricorn, sun-weathered and worn, but it will hide his face in shadow and protect his eyes in the sun. “There. It’s yours. I’ll be wearing something else, anyhow. See you ashore, James?”

She watches him expectantly. Oh, hell, how could he forget — these are her quarters. Elizabeth rolls her eyes, not without fondness, as he hastily, abashedly steps away.

Chapter Text

The town of Shipwreck is a sprawl of hulls and cabins, stitched together into a semi-cohesive mass of wooden buildings. As though the treacherous waters surrounding the island range weren’t enough to deter visitors, the city itself is set within the crater of a volcano. The wet heat lifts clouds of steam off the water at all times of day. Only the most skilled, or perhaps the most mad, sailors would dare to make shore here.

This, James muses, is probably what protected them from detection for so long. To sail a royal ship willingly into these waters would be a death sentence in more ways than one, should any Navy officers have learned of its existence.

Pirates have no such stipulations. Your life is your own, for better or worse.

Tai Huang leads Elizabeth and the crew of the Empress to the center of the complex. The streets are packed with the crews from the lords’ fleets, the seemingly endless taverns even more so. Elizabeth slows to walk at James’ side.

“You look positively murderous,” she says, keeping her voice low. 

“I feel it, too,” he mutters. “Officer or not, I do not belong here.”

Elizabeth steps daintily over a man passed out in their path, lifting her cloak the way she would a skirt. “The smell is a bit much. Makes you miss Tortuga, doesn’t it?”

James curls protectively around Elizabeth as they pass a singing drunkard waltzing carelessly down the pier. This close, he can frown at Elizabeth’s teasing smirk and make his displeasure known. “No.”

“Then let us hurry about our business,” she says lightly. “The sooner we finish our war, the sooner we can return to…”

She trails off. What would await them in Port Royal? He had last visited to give the heart of Davy Jones to Beckett. Half the town hanged in Beckett’s ploy to get the Brethren Court to convene. And here they are — convening. 

He clears his throat. “Port Royal,” he finishes gently. “A place to bathe and rest, if not a home.”

She deftly takes his offered excuse to pivot. “There’s a thought. Remember baths?”

“At this point? No. I am not a man, but an entity of dirt, scabs, and bandages.”

“And murderous intent,” she supplies.

“And murderous intent,” he concedes. 

“Let us dwell on it not,” she says, as he falls into step behind her. In a lower voice, she adds, “We’ll be home soon.”

He can only nod. Like Elizabeth, he cannot afford to get caught up in sentimentality, not now. 

The rumble of a crowd behind closed doors is growing louder and louder as Huang leads them deeper into the town. He pauses at a door marked with a flag tucked into the hinge and looks back at Elizabeth.

“They’ve already gathered,” he says, as Elizabeth braces her hands against the door.

“Then let us make an entrance, shall we?”

With Huang and James on either side, Elizabeth enters the room, the last pirate lord to arrive.

Within, the room is poorly lit; scattered oil lamps and the chandelier in the center of the room casts waning, flickering light over the swath of bodies within. They stand in an old hull, clearly some sort of navigational space, its walls pockmarked with cannon fire. The floorboards groan ominously as the Empress crew make their way to the table.

While most people are speaking English, there is an undercurrent of unfamiliar languages. It strikes James that this has truly become an international affair, and its conclusion will be decided in this dank, sweaty, creaky conference. 

“Might I point out,” an irritatingly familiar voice drawls above the rabble, “that we are still short one pirate lord? I am content as a cucumber to wait until Sao Feng joins us.”

Jack Sparrow.

James swallows back his reservations as Elizabeth moves from the gloom. This is her moment, and she strides forward confidently, shoulders back. 

The laughter and chatter begins to still as she steps into the light, declares, “Sao Feng is dead. He fell to the Flying Dutchman.” She plants her sword in the globe along with the other lords’.

And the uproar rises again as Elizabeth takes her place at the table, beside Jack Sparrow and a man whom Norrington assumes to be Captain Barbossa. The cacophony of the crowd is nigh unbearable after so long in the quiet ship.

James recognizes some of the other faces seated at the table — famous pirates from around the globe, many of whom he had heard dreadful and exaggerated stories, but never encountered in his dealings in the Caribbean. He wonders if they know his face as he knows theirs.

The thought is not reassuring. Quickly, James steps up to Elizabeth’s side. She leans back just a touch, brushing his arm with hers in quiet acknowledgement. A muscle in his jaw works. The tricorn hides his face in shadow, at least.

“He made you captain?” Sparrow says. He looks around disbelievingly at his cohorts, though Barbossa does not seem particularly surprised and the rest do not acknowledge him. “They’re giving the bloody title away now.”

“Listen,” Elizabeth shouts, “listen to me! Our location has been betrayed. Jones is under the command of Lord Beckett. They’re on their way here.”

“Who is this betrayer?” someone demands.

Barbossa holds out his hands placatingly and answers, “Likely not someone among us.”

The crowd begins to murmur amongst themselves (or, rather, more loudly amongst themselves). Elizabeth looks to the two captains of the Black Pearl. “Where’s Will?”

“Not among us,” Sparrow quips.

Elizabeth frowns and steps back, considering. James shakes his head. Too rash, Mr. Turner, he thinks. If he betrayed the Brethren Court, knowing Elizabeth would be here — what could he be playing at? There are too many unknowns for James’ comfort.

“The bastard is already en route? Where’d you hear this?” Barbossa asks in a low voice. The man is tall and weathered and completely unfettered by the intolerably loud conditions of the Court. Elizabeth looks up, still in her thoughts, and James answers for her.

“I heard it myself,” he says firmly, “from Lord Beckett’s very mouth.”

Barbossa begins to follow up, but Jack Sparrow, who had been watching the proceedings with a wary eye, turns his attention to them. “And who is this dark lieutenant you’ve brought to our fortress, Captain Swann? No one I recognize from Singapore, that’s for sure,” he says conversationally. 

Quickly, James bows his head and leans back into the gloom, but Sparrow’s face breaks into his knowing, sideways grin. “Ahh…so this is the color your coat has turned at last, eh Commodore?”

He glares up at Sparrow from the shadow of his hat. Barbossa narrows his eyes suspiciously in turn; Sparrow leans forward like a cat closing in on his prey. Elizabeth pointedly steps between them before they can say more. “Do. Not. James is the only reason I am here to warn you.” She turns to the court again, resting her hands on the table. “We have no time for this.”

The lords volley back and forth. James finds it difficult to follow the arguments, devoting much of his attention to ignoring the pain lancing up his back. He stews on the fights to come and lets the belligerent sounds of their voices buffet past him. They want to hunker down and hide, as Beckett predicted — Elizabeth, sole among them, wishes to fight. 

Barbossa emphatically, poetically insists upon unleashing Calypso on the sea. Once, Norrington would have scoffed at such a proposal. Now, he finds himself apathetic, even as Tai Huang argues in its favor. Calypso freed does not change that whoever controls the Dutchman controls the sea.

And for a group of seamen so unwilling to fight, the court devolves into a brawl within a few sentences, slamming their fellow criminals into walls over incendiary words that someone unrelated said. Someone smashes a bottle against the edge of the table, and James ducks an errant shard of rum-soaked glass.

“This is madness,” Elizabeth observes with raised eyebrows.

“This is politics,” Sparrow corrects with a shrug.

Norrington passes a hand over his face. “We are all going to die here,” he says with a sigh. 

“Meanwhile, our enemies are bearing down upon us,” Elizabeth says.

Barbossa rolls his eyes, fixing his glare on the crowd before them. “If they not be here already,” he mutters. 

The fight shows no sign of stopping. Barbossa climbs onto the table, ignoring the men beating each other senseless on its surface, and fires his gun into the air.

“It was the first Court,” he begins loudly, as the pirates all turn to watch him, “what imprisoned Calypso. We should be the ones to set her free! And in her gratitude, she will see fit to grant us boons.”

“Whose boons? Your boons?” Sparrow asks. He pulls that insufferable questioning face and saunters slowly away. “Utterly deceptive twaddle-speak, says I.”

Barbossa steps down off the table and smiles witheringly at him. “If you have a better alternative, please. Share.”

And James slowly, slowly lowers his head to pinch the bridge of his nose, attempting to stave off his headache as Jack Sparrow prattles on about cuttlefish, of all things. He dips into some Latin that would make every one of James’ tutors in England curl up and die, and concludes with the greatest shock of all.

“I agree with, and I cannot believe the words are coming out of me mouth,” he says with audible disdain, “Captain Swann. We must fight.”

James looks up suddenly as though cold water has been tossed on him. He cannot help but wonder what game Sparrow is playing, what angle he is working to get his way. Elizabeth bites her lip to hold back a smirk. Barbossa scowls and speaks aloud what James was thinking. “You’ve always run away from a fight,” he accuses.

“Have not!”

They bicker back and forth, reminding James why he had never wanted to come here. Sparrow finally clarifies his declaration: “We must fight,” he says, and draws out the silence, “...to run away.”

And that goes over much better. The pirates give an “Aye!” of agreement, though Barbossa remains unconvinced. “As per the code, an act of war — and this be exactly that — can only be declared by the Pirate King.”

“You made that up!” Sparrow shoots back.

“Did I now?” Barbossa raises his voice. “I call upon Cap’n Teague, keeper of the Code.”

Another pirate from another crew stands to object. “Hang the Code! Who cares a—”

And abruptly, he is shot dead and falls aside. James leaps at the sudden gunfire, and his hand darts reflexively to his sword. A man with a smoking gun steps into the light, an old sailor with weathered features and heavy dark eyes. 

“Code is the law,” he says. His voice is deep and quiet, but every syllable is both heard and felt. The entire room has fallen silent.

He moves slowly, and gestures for two men carrying a gigantic tome between them to follow. This is Edward Teague, then. His name is another James recognizes: one of the infamous pirates of the early sailing age who were assumed dead by the British Crown. He looks awfully familiar, though James cannot place where they would have met. It had clearly not been in naval combat. 

His presence has a marked effect on the rambunctious pirates, who stand as still as scolded schoolchildren as he looks through the physical Code. Even Jack Sparrow looks like he wants to sink into the floorboards. He eyes Teague nervously as the keeper methodically combs through a particular bylaw.

James is, frankly, impressed that there is a written Code at all. He is more impressed that they are organized enough to have a feared captain to enforce it. He wonders if Teague had been in the Navy before, and if they could have met during his father’s admiralty.

“Barbossa is right,” Teague eventually declares to the group, and quotes, “‘It shall be the duties, as the king, to declare war, parley with shared adversaries…’” And so on.

Joshamee Gibbs, a familiar member of the Pearl, sidles up. He explains to Elizabeth that there had not been a pirate king since the first Court, the one that imprisoned Calypso — every pirate lord always votes for themself.

Yet, of course: “I call for a vote,” Jack Sparrow chirps.

James closes his eyes against the pounding of his headache, his head lolling forward. Each lord, as predicted, puts their own name forward. Elizabeth drolly names herself, Barbossa likewise. And at the end of the line, the ninth lord in attendance, Jack Sparrow flits his eyes about the table, leans back on his heels and says easily, “Elizabeth Swann.”

“What?”

Elizabeth stares openly at Sparrow; James snaps his eyes open to do the same. Sparrow shrugs again, never once balking under their combined gaze.

“I know. Curious, isn’t it?”

A chorus of objections erupts from the pirate lords, and the arguments begin anew. The lords clamor for Sparrow to vote for them instead. He merely shrugs. “Am I to understand, then, that you lot will not be keeping to the Code?”

A single glare from Captain Teague in the corner silences every dissident voice. The lords, one by one, return to their seats. Considering every man in this room is heavily armed, and still chooses not to cross the Code’s keeper, Teague must be terrifying even to his brethren. James eyes him with equal parts wariness and newfound respect.

The energy in the room has boiled down to a low simmer, fear and revelation suddenly sinking the mood. Instead of running, instead of hiding, they will have to fight — and fight together. All of them, every single lord in this room. Under the leadership of an unknown woman who only recently became a pirate.

God. If Weatherby could see her now…

Elizabeth spares James a sideways glance, and for a moment, her lordly facade slips. Excitement flashes in her eyes, and she bites back a smile. This is exactly what she wanted.

So why does it make him so anxious? How much danger is she in? James sets his hand back on the pommel of his sword and grips it tightly.

Mistress Ching is the only lord who remains standing. “Very well.” Her gaze turns around the room before finally settling on Elizabeth. She addresses her directly. “What say you, Captain Swann, King of the Brethren Court?”

With no hesitation, Elizabeth lifts her chin and declares, “Prepare every vessel that floats. At dawn…we’re at war.”

They break one last time into a chorus, this time composed of affirmative shouts, cries of war, and orders to the men. Elizabeth exchanges one last look with Sparrow before she turns and leaves the room. James and a stunned Tai Huang fall in at her elbows, the crew of the Empress trailing behind them.

“Well,” James says, speaking quietly so only Elizabeth can hear, “was that what you were expecting?”

“No,” she admits. “You?”

He levels a weary look — a firm, wordless “no” — to which she only smiles. “Come now, James. It’s my coronation day. Give a smile, won’t you?”

It only makes him frown more. She looks well enough pleased for the both of them.

They head to the docks to talk strategy, passing by the ragtag fleet to where the Black Pearl lurks in the shadows. She will serve as the flagship for the pirate fleet, as she is the only vessel capable of outmaneuvering the Dutchman. The afternoon sun casts light through its particular dark sails. James feels a familiar sense of foreboding fall over him. 

He had followed rumors of the Pearl for almost a decade, and their first direct confrontation on the seas had destroyed his life. He did not think he would ever serve as her crewman. And after that, he did not think he would ever step foot on her deck again, much less as right hand to the Pirate King. Fate has a funny way of throwing his past mistakes back in his face, often with impunity. 

Elizabeth hangs back to speak to Tai Huang before he and the crew return to the Empress. Barbossa regards James curiously as they approach the gangplank. “We’ve not had the pleasure of meeting, sir, I don’t think.”

“Not directly,” James agrees. “At a distance, at Isla de Muerta.”

Barbossa’s eyes flash with an emotion James cannot make out. “You’d be that young captain stationed in Jamaica, then. Norrington, was it? A name pirates curse.”

This is his worst fear confirmed. “Do they, now,” he says flatly. 

“Aye, lad. You’re more trouble than your father, but you two were the worst kind of pirate hunter: hounds. Smart enough to find your prey, and persistent enough to keep the trail. Runs in the family, it seems.”

“In that we shared a profession,” James corrects, working to give nothing away, “nothing more. A man is not his circumstances, but what he does with them.”

“Well said! Certainly a sentiment that has made many men a fortune at sea.”

James bristles, and Barbossa’s eyes flash again, this time with smugness. This is bait, a test of some kind. Elizabeth had said the old captain was shrewd, and of course, a former admiral of Beckett’s would not go without scrutiny in these ranks. 

When James does not retort, Barbossa continues in a quieter voice, “And what are you doin’ with your circumstances, Master Norrington? Clearly not getting rich. If I recall correctly — and I believe I do, having lived it meself — you hunted the Black Pearl for much of your young, starlit career. Be this purge of piracy not your goal as well?”

“Once,” James says. And he is as surprised as Barbossa to find that that is the truth. “Stars dim, Captain. I’m here for Elizabeth. And to kill Beckett. He has wronged us both.”

“You’ll forgive me if I doubt your word,” Barbossa replies. His tone is as casual as it has been this entire conversation, but James can hear the edge, see the warning in his eyes.

“Oh, by all means,” James says calmly. He bows slightly at his waist and gestures with his hand in invitation. “I am not here to sway hearts, nor to make friends. But know that I am bound to both my word and a code. Mine just happens to be written in a different book.”

For a moment, the two eye each other — not as officer and pirate, but as fellow sailors and cohorts. He is of a height with Barbossa, and they both maintain carefully neutral expressions, but James still finds himself feeling distinctly nervous. 

“Hmm.” Barbossa crosses his arms. “You know, I think I may like you, Master Norrington.”

“Begrudgingly,” James replies, “I think I like you as well, Captain Barbossa.”

“Chumming with the bilge rats now, are you, Commodore?”

Jack Sparrow finally saunters up to the gangplank. Elizabeth follows behind him. She stands next to James and eyes Sparrow suspiciously as he whispers, in a voice loud enough for all of them to hear, “He’s the one what got the heart to Beckett, Hector. Swindled it right under my nose.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes; James scowls.

“Always keep an eye on the honest ones,” Sparrow finishes, glancing askance at the pair of them. “Always.”

“And yet,” James says, tapping his foot impatiently, “you didn’t. And now that is the day you will always remember as the day James Norrington bested Jack Sparrow.”

Barbossa quirks an eyebrow at that, looking at Sparrow with thinly veiled amusement; Elizabeth allows herself a smug smirk; Sparrow laughs, once, and not entirely with humor.

“Come now — I was rooting for you all that time, mate. Wasn’t I?”

“You and you alone, Mr. Sparrow.” James offers his hand. “We can call it even.”

For all James does not trust Jack Sparrow, he made Elizabeth king. And his gratitude is genuine, if conflicted.

Sparrow stares at his hand for a long moment. When he shakes it, slowly and with hesitation, and James does nothing more beyond nod respectfully, Sparrow eyes him suspiciously.

“I’ve not changed me mind about the honest ones, Commodore,” he warns. 

“And you shouldn’t. Now,” James says, pointedly turning to Elizabeth, “shall we wage war?” He folds his arms behind his back, standing at rest.

She nods, settling her shoulders back. The mood immediately becomes more serious. She strides past the lot of them and onto the gangplank. “I thought you would never ask.”

Many of the pirates lumber off to one last night of revelry. Indeed, the din of carousing has only gotten stronger as the day wears on and the prospect of death and destruction looms closer and closer. James, feeling a man 20 years older than he is, wants nothing more than to lie down in some relative quiet. His wounded side tingles worryingly and he is losing feeling in his fingertips. 

He returns to the Empress, manned only by a skeleton crew. His dark expression keeps anyone from asking questions as he heads to the captain’s quarters. If tomorrow will be his last fight, perhaps even the last day of his life, he at least wants to meet it after sleeping in a damn bed.

He sheds his jacket, places his sword in its scabbard within reach, and drops, fully clothed, onto the mattress. He is too tired to bother. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him, but his mind is still running through every strategy discussed, every possibility considered.

James sighs. He attempts to shut out every doubtful thought filling his head. He turns onto his side. He hears the door to the cabin open, and immediately grabs the hilt of his sword, prepared to spring, when—

“It’s me.”

The mattress shifts as Elizabeth sits on the other side, then flops onto her back as well. He moves to leave, but she reaches blindly for his arm and says, “Please, James. Stay. There is space enough for us both.”

Every bit of English sensibility in his being objects — she is engaged to another man! After they, themselves, had broken their engagement! — but after a long day of consorting with pirates, James supposes there are worse things in the world. He tentatively lies back down and shifts the sword closer to the bed. 

He hears her breathing settle. She says, into the soft silence, “War, then.”

James replies, “War.”

“We had best get a good night’s rest. Sleep well.”

He cracks an eye open and glances over at her. Elizabeth smiles just slightly, the smallest turn of her lips, then turns her back to him.

“Goodnight,” he returns gently. “Sleep well.”

For a moment, James thinks he will not be able to relax at all. There is so much at stake. Every muscle in his body is tense at Elizabeth’s proximity, but his exhaustion wins in the end. The cadence of her breathing and the patient lap of waves in the harbor pull him to sleep. 

Norrington wakes in the darkness before dawn as he always does. In his sleep, he had turned to lie back-to-back with Elizabeth. They keep each other warm from the damp chill in the harbor. The ship cat had the same idea overnight, it seems, and she sleeps curled against Elizabeth’s legs in a tight ball. Stiff with pain, he pulls himself out of bed, and both Elizabeth and the cat do not stir. 

In her sleep she looks so unburdened. He wishes she could wake to a more pleasant morning than the one they are about to have. For a few more moments, at least, she can rest. He drapes a soft silk scarf over her shoulders, the closest thing to a blanket he can find. She only nestles deeper into the pillow with a quiet, satisfied, sleepy sigh.

The Swanns, James recalls with a smile, had always coveted their sleep. How often had he reported to the manor at dawn, only to have a groggy, disgruntled Weatherby Swann send him away until afternoon? How often had he stopped by for lunch, only to encounter Elizabeth still halfway through her late breakfast? He holds the memories close to his heart and cherishes them for this short moment. Then he carefully buries them away, beneath the rage and steel he will need for battle.

Quietly as he can, James dons his jacket, sword, and hat. He steps onto the deck to greet the day.

Chapter Text

On a sandbar between the two enemy fleets, in the pale light of early morning, the captains and leaders meet. James stands aboard the Black Pearl overseeing preparations for Elizabeth so she might return to a properly readied flagship. Without Barbossa and Sparrow calling orders, the crew jeers and jokes and spars, talking up their fearsome abilities.

Considering how dire the circumstances are, James cannot blame them for trying to keep morale high.

He slips below deck. His shoulder protests even pulling the hatch up. The muscles are still wounded and weak, his skin swollen and itchy as the wounds close. If he is to spend the whole day fighting, he would at least like to be able to ignore the pain. He removes his hat and peers into their cargo, inspecting each barrel tied behind the cannons.

Gibbs speaks to the men on the gun deck. He looks up as James continues his investigation, and they lock eyes.

“Mr. Gibbs!” he greets.

“C-Commodore,” Gibbs replies in turn. He looks about nervously, as though Norrington still wields both his title and the authority it entails. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for rum.”

Gibbs reels back. Prim Commodore Norrington, back from the dead, asking him for rum was likely not high on Gibbs’ list of things to expect today, James muses. Hesitantly, Gibbs asks, “Is that—”

“The best idea?” James cuts in. “God in heaven, no. But I am injured and in a tremendous amount of pain, and I would rather not feel it if we fight today. So, if you will,” he finishes, with a gesture about, “the worst rum you have will do the job quite well.”

If any ship in the pirate fleet has rum aboard today, it is bound to be the Black Pearl. Sure enough, Gibbs hastens forward and pulls a bottle of foggy glass from behind one of the barrels. James pops the cork, wipes the dust off the mouth of the bottle, and raises it in a toast. Gibbs lifts his flask to meet it.

“To the dawn, Mr. Gibbs,” James says. “May we meet it without fear.”

“Hear, hear!”

They toast. James takes a large swallow, and it sears down his throat. Rum is truly a vile acid meant to kill men. But there is warmth in his belly, and though his head swims for a few disorienting seconds, it numbs the ache of his shoulder as well. He stifles a cough and watches with amusement as Gibbs drains his flask.

Obligingly, he offers Gibbs the bottle to refill it. Gibbs takes it with a grateful nod, and James resumes his inspection of the hold. Curiously, he pauses at the steps down to the brig. If Barbossa truly intended to release Calypso, that would mean Tia Dalma is still on board. And if she is not on either of the top decks…

James checks to make sure that Gibbs is still occupied. He grabs an oil lamp from its hook by the stairs, lights it, and descends into the brig.

The door to one of the cells has been removed from its hinges entirely. It stands within its own cell, the pins missing, presumably from some recent escape attempt that the crew had not bothered to remedy. The other cell is largely empty but for a small woman sitting on the bench. She does not move as James’ lantern casts light over her face, half-hidden in a curtain of hair.

Her dark eyes track his movements, but she says nothing. The air down here is thick with misery, not just humidity, and it sticks in James’ throat. He draws a ragged breath and says quietly, “Have they mistreated you here?”

What compels him to ask this? Pirates had bound her to this very form; his niceties mean nothing, and this is not a matter with which he should be concerning himself. Tia Dalma sits up slowly, her eyes never leaving his. 

She ignores his question, and says instead in a low, low voice, “Death lingers on you.”

Tia Dalma stands and approaches the bars, footsteps silent, the hem of her dress trailing in the dust. He can think of no reply, though the next question he should ask is obvious: whose death? But he is still a coward, after all this time. She is the sea, and she could destroy them all — she owes them nothing. Before he can reply, footsteps sound at the stairs.

A good number of the crew, bearing rope, trample into the brig. They jostle James aside, shoving him into the cell bars. They dig painfully into the wound on his back and he gasps, momentarily paralyzed, unable to object. They drag Tia Dalma bodily from the cell. 

“Come now, Ms. Fish,” Ragetti croons, as they bind her in rope.

“Wait,” James pleads, “wait!”

“Sorry, Commodore,” Pintel says. They haul Tia Dalma away, and her eyes burn with hatred that transcends this lifetime, a fire stoked for centuries. “We’re fightin’, and we need her free. Captain’s orders.”

Barbossa would have his wish, then.

James trails resolutely after the crew, trying to think of some way to persuade them to leave her be short of killing them all. On deck, it seems that Elizabeth has had much the same idea. At gunpoint, the crew restrains her and Will Turner, who has returned to the Pearl under duress once more. Jack Sparrow is missing. What had happened at the parley?

“Elizabeth!”

Her head turns. James pushes forward, only for a crewman to slam a fist into his stomach and drive him to his knees. He is dragged to Elizabeth’s side as another naysayer to keep an eye on. He tries to ignore the barrel of the pistol pressed into his jaw and watches stonily as Tia Dalma is strapped to the mast.

Barbossa performs the ritual, burning the pieces of eight from the pirate lords and speaking the words to set her free. Tia Dalma inhales the smoke, trembling unnaturally, and Turner surges forward. The crewmen restrain him, but he struggles as best as he can to lock eyes with the goddess.

“Tia Dalma!” he exclaims. His smile is without humor, lined with knives. “Calypso. When the Brethren Court imprisoned you, who was it that told them how? Who was it that betrayed you?”

“Name him!” she snarls.

“Davy Jones.”

She seethes and shudders, and the deck below them begins to creak. Every soul on board nervously shifts backwards, threats forgotten, as Calypso is freed upon the seas once more.

James had fought cursed skeleton pirates, served on a ghost ship that could sail underwater, met with two men brought back to life from the dead. But Calypso unleashed, tall as a mast herself, stretches the limits of his beliefs. It is as though his mind cannot make sense of what his eyes see. Her weight sinks the deck, nearly crushing the top deck into the gundeck below. James, void of all thought but survival, moves backwards instinctively. He puts an arm in front of Elizabeth as though that will be of any help.

Barbossa remains at the front of the crew. He drops to one knee and bows before her. Slowly, the crew follows suit, gazing up at Calypso’s towering silhouette with terrified eyes. 

“Calypso! I come before you as but a servant, humble and contrite,” Barbossa beseeches. His voice is clear, though it wavers with the same sort of awe that James feels in his bones. “I have fulfilled me vow and now ask your favor.”

He looks up at her, hands to his chest. “Spare meself, me ship, me crew. But unleash your fury upon those who dare pretend themselves to be your masters…or mine.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Calypso’s expression breaks into a smile, terrifying and grim. When she speaks, she curses them in a language long since forgotten. She stomps and pulls against her restraints and breaks herself free.

The ship rocks side to side with the force. James seizes the nearby handrail to keep his footing, but everyone is knocked to the deck in short order by the sea’s might. He lifts his head just in time to see Calypso’s form dissolve into a torrent of white stones — no, crabs, which flood the deck like water before skittering off the sides to the sea. He covers his face against the torrent.

And when he looks up again, Tia Dalma — Calypso — is gone. 

James painfully pulls himself to his feet. He offers Turner a hand up, which he accepts with a firm grip and a thankful nod. Both are equally bewildered, stunned into silence.

The sea herself is against them. The wind picks up, bringing dark clouds to cover the light of early morning. The crew is silent. Barbossa and Elizabeth argue quietly, in harsh tones, until she steps away from him and turns back to ask, “Then what shall we die for?”

Determined, she strides into the thick of the crew. In her dark armor, the defiant line of her shoulders marks her among the slumped, worried shoulders of the men. She walks as a leader among them. She speaks as a King.

“You will listen to me,” she says warningly, then demands, “Listen!” She leaps up to stand upon the handrail, holding onto the rigging, and gazes the crew down with determination.. “The Brethren will still be looking here to us, to the Black Pearl, to lead. And what will they see? Frightened bilge rats aboard a derelict ship? No. No, they will see free men, and freedom!”

James listens with reverence (and a nagging dread at the back of his mind) as the Pirate King gives her rallying speech. Her voice is raw and laced with emotion.

“And what the enemy will see is the flash of our cannons. They will hear the ring of our swords, and they will know what we can do! By the sweat of our brows, and the strength of our backs, and the courage of our hearts…”

The wind picks up. She looks to the side, and even at a distance over the heads of the crew, James can see that she meets Turner’s eyes. “Gentlemen,” she says, her voice heavy, “Hoist the colors.”

“Hoist the colors,” Turner repeats.

And the rest of the crew echoes it, excitement building. Gibbs steps up and declares, “The wind’s on our side, boys, that’s all we need!”

A chill runs through Norrington. He stands quietly as the crew shout victoriously, raising their swords in the air. Elizabeth calls to Tai Huang in the Empress beside them, and from there, the order stretches down the entire line of ships, from the smallest brigs to the largest of galleons. The sea is alive with the battle cries of pirates. Flags raise high on the masts of the fleet, bold and bright, snapping in the sudden strength of the wind.

And through it all, James watches Elizabeth, who practically glows with righteous fury and defiance. She, Turner, and Barbossa stand at the helm to watch the pirate fleet come to order. Lord Beckett, Davy Jones, and Calypso stand against them. 

But James will follow Elizabeth anywhere, into any odds, as promised. 

Gazing upon the fleet of the East India Trading Company, a fleet he had nominally run for a time, James feels his dread from earlier settle deep. He has been ignoring it, but here, now, it does not douse his anger — it fuels it. 

Beckett had used him, discarded him, pushed him around like a piece on a chessboard. The hound of his anger, kept at bay, growls in his chest. With battle so close on the horizon, he lets the hound bare its teeth. Soon they will have prey to pursue, at long last.

Norrington grips the pommel of his sword to steady himself and heads to the steps of the quarter deck to await direct orders. He is not fit to serve as crew, but here to protect his king. Elizabeth spares him a passing glance, nervously scanning the horizon. Will Turner trades a long look with him, and though no words pass between them, the meaning is evident.

Watch her. Protect her.

The hound snaps, baying for blood. 

As the Pearl speeds ahead, leading the charge, a steady rain begins to fall. The strong, curling wind fills her sails. The Pearl flies at a remarkable speed for the Flying Dutchman, which rushes to meet them. The two fastest, most feared ships on the seas will begin this terrible battle. 

But the wind blows from both sides — a bad sign. And between the two ships, the sea begins to curdle and spin, and the waves turn from choppy to disastrous. The small whirlpool grows and grows. Gibbs names it just before they hit the edge: “Maelstrom!”

It is undoubtedly Calypso’s last gift, intended to destroy them all. Death lingers on you, her voice whispers to James.

The rest of the fleet balks. Elizabeth looks down to James, eyes wide and imploring. He stuffs down his fears. “They need to hang back and fan out,” he advises quickly. “Only one ship can sail a maelstrom with any chance of survival, and we’re on board.”

He had been an admiral once, after all. The British ships do not even have their sails down. James would not be surprised if they were anchored, waiting for the Dutchman to do what it does best. 

“Call it,” Elizabeth tells him. James passes the orders to the crew nearby, and they signal to the fleet with flags on either side of the ship.

Now they are well and truly on their own, sailing willingly into a storm with no back-up. 

Visibility drops as the storm worsens, mist rising like ghosts off the summer waters. Barbossa takes to the helm at Elizabeth’s request. His desolate mood vanishes as he grabs the wheel and bellowing insults and orders alike down the deck.

Elizabeth trots down to the main deck and puts a hand to James’ arm, then gestures with her eyes to Barbossa. He nods in understanding and mounts the step to the helm, trading places with her.

Barbossa lifts the brim of his hat to eye him suspiciously. “Her Majesty send you to make sure we don’t wreck, lad?”

James sets both hands on the pommel of his sword. “If you take cannonfire, I take the helm,” he says calmly.

“You? Helming the Pearl? In these conditions? Not how you thought the day would go, is it, Master Norrington?”

“I’ve followed her into a hurricane once before.” Norrington keeps his eyes on the whirlpool, which grows dauntingly larger and closer. “She can take it.”

Barbossa laughs. “Aye!”

“She’s on our stern and gaining!” Turner calls from the railing.

The Dutchman slips behind them at her usual terrifying speed, cutting across the whirlpool easily. The shudder of cannons sounds, and all the crew flinches as cannonballs smash into the stern. Barbossa and James both duck, and just in time. A rogue cannonball narrowly misses the wheel and clips the rail before them. It sails into the crew and knocks a man overboard.

“What was it you were saying about cannons, Norrington?” Barbossa asks conversationally.

James grits his teeth and does not reply. Death lingers on you.

Barbossa takes them deeper into the vortex and onto faster waters. Every instinct in James’ body fights against getting closer to the heart of a maelstrom, but the faster wind and waters will serve the Pearl better. They are nearly parallel to the Dutchman.

“Prepare to broadside!” Elizabeth orders. She and Turner leap down to the main deck to aid the gunners. On the quarterdeck, Mr. Cotton passes Norrington a long rifle. Cotton mans the swivel gun, and they post up side by side. His wounded shoulder objects as he lifts the rifle to peer down the sight, but the pain feels distant, unimportant.

He waits for the order. Rain splashes into his eyes. It drips from the brim of his hat into his collar, and he can scarcely hear the other crew over the roar of the maelstrom. Yet excitement coils in his lungs, and he holds his breath in anticipation. For all his anxiety and dread and fear, the thrill of battle is infectious.

Finally, they pull into range — Barbossa cries “Fire! Fire all!” and the world alights in cannon fire from either side. Shells hit the deck, splintering through the ship, killing men and destroying cannons. But even at a distance, James can see that the Dutchman takes damage as well, their volley smashing through the barnacled crust of the ghost ship.

Quietly, James marks men for Cotton to pick off with the swivel. And behind them, Barbossa keeps the ship from veering straight into the drink. “It be too late to alter course now, mateys!” he declares to anyone who will listen. And he cackles, the bright, hearty belly-laugh of a man fully in his element. James finds himself smothering a smile.

The Dutchman and the Pearl pull into boarding range at long last. Now in effective range, James picks up the rifle again to fell a fish-headed gunner who falls in his sights. Cotton’s next assault from the swivel blows into the helm of the Dutchman directly, and Davy Jones himself hits the deck to avoid the impact.

He grins fully at Cotton as they reload their respective weapons. Their small victory is only momentary, however. Boarding has begun in earnest from both crews, and sailors from the Dutchman, who serve Davy Jones and the East India Trading Company alike, drop heavily onto the deck.

It takes little time at all for the quarter deck to be swarmed. A man barbed with spikes like an urchin drops down on Barbossa from the poop deck; a friend of his with pincers lands between Cotton and James, and his claw snaps the long rifle right in twain.

James draws his saber. At long last, he cuts the hound off his leash. With a roar, he leaps into the fray. 

All down the deck, any attempts at sailing have ceased. The gunners still fire stray cannons from the gundeck, making use of the remaining dry powder without orders from above. James catches a flash of Elizabeth’s golden hair streaming in the midst of battle, Will Turner by her side. 

Up on the quarter deck, Norrington fights to push the boarding sailors away from the helm. Every lesson hard won fighting the undead crew of the Pearl, every observation gathered while haunting the Dutchman — they guide his hand here. All pirates fight with reckless abandon and a certain flashiness. It often leaves them open, vulnerable, as they lean on their crewmates to cover their blind spots. But Norrington is an officer, and he fights with succinct precision.

The crab sailor attempts to grab Norrington with his claw again, but he deftly snatches the man’s elbow and twists. He howls, which sounds awfully like he is drowning, and James plunges his blade into the man’s chest. He kicks him off his sword and the sailor skids on his back carapace down the stairs, spins to a halt on the slippery deck, and trips one of his fellow boarding crewmates.

James takes a moment to catch his breath and roll out his wounded shoulder. There are redcoats on board, and he sets his jaw. Now is not the time to reconsider his loyalties. 

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a familiar voice shouting over the din, “Barbossa! Marry us!”

Elizabeth.

A redcoat charges at Norrington with a sword drawn; he easily dodges and uses the man’s momentum to flip him onto his back.

“Poor form,” he notes, with a click of his tongue. “Play dead, marine. You’ll live.”

The sailor groans, and James tilts his hat up to search for Elizabeth. She stands with Turner in a nook by the captain’s quarters, gazing up through the pelting rain at the helm, where Barbossa spars with several cursed sailors. The captain manages to howl back to Elizabeth, “I’m a little busy at the moment!”

James is already moving. Barbossa keeps the sailors at bay, but he will be overrun if the boarding maintains this pace. Norrington runs his saber through the urchin and pushes him away from Barbossa, towards the rail. The urchin squeals and slams his spikey elbow backwards; the first blow hits James in the gut and doubles him over, and the second smashes into his brow above his eye. Hot blood runs down his face.

“Barbossa,” Turner insists, “now!”

Norrington pulls his sword free and grabs the urchin, holding a blade to his throat. He turns to Barbossa with his hostage in tow. With one eye closed against the flow of blood, he says, “I’ve got you, Captain. Marry them!”

Barbossa laughs, “Good man!”, then hops up onto the rail behind the helm. “Dearly beloved!” he declares, saber raised in the air. “We be gathered here today…”

The wedding commences. An understatement occurs to James: this is all so bizarre. Will and Elizabeth take their vows with blades flashing in tandem. Barbossa easily kills at least three men as he officiates, occasionally stretching to steer the ship with a foot. James knocks several teeth from a shark-headed man with the flat of his sword, and slashes off the tentacled hand of a man with squid-like eyes.

So bizarre. Yet fitting, exciting, chaotic. Perfect.

He is just pinning the squid sailor to the handrail with a dagger when Barbossa finally spits in frustration, “Just kiss!”

James shoves his opponent overboard. Quickly, he wipes the blood and rain from his eyes and staggers to the edge of the quarter deck. Blades swing past them, men die in droves. The rain pours — and Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner, wed at last, kiss in the middle of a maelstrom like there is not a war raging around them.

His heart twists. It aches still. But James finds he is smiling. He hopes the words he had said to Will Turner the day of Jack Sparrow’s execution still ring in the boy’s head. Treat her with care.

Then suddenly he is jerked by his collar down to the ground, and Barbossa intercepts a sword that would have struck him dead. Pain explodes up his back and blurs his vision, and by the time his senses return to him, Barbossa is shouting, “Moon later, you dog! There be a fight to be won!”

That there is. James darts back to his feet, retrieves his blade, and returns breathlessly to the fight.

Chapter Text

The two ships are nearly deck-to-deck now. Most of the remaining fighting bleeds back over to the larger deck of the Dutchman, yet the Pearl is still overrun. Barbossa tangles with a particularly vicious pair of eel-headed men. He draws them down and away towards the main deck, and soon he disappears from sight from the helm entirely. James hears his distant inflammatory challenges to the scurvy mongrels still plaguing his ship.

The Pearl shudders suddenly, and the horrific sound of scraping and dragging wood rumbles from above. The ship lists too far to the side; James stumbles, losing his footing on the stairs as rain pours down from the quarter deck. The gunners below cry out in panic as the hull begins to flood. They flee onto the deck, only to be dragged directly into the melee. 

Oh, damnation — the ship is near the bottom of the maelstrom now, circling the edges of the unfathomable depths.

Frantically, James claws himself back to his feet. He looks up in horror. The mainmasts of both ships crashed together, interlocked above them. One unfortunate soul trapped in the dangling rigging of the Dutchman swings by, and with another jolt, James realizes it is Jack Sparrow. 

From the capstan, Gibbs is hollering over the din of battle, and James can just make out his words: “Captain, the helm!”

But there are still men boarding, still men retreating. Elizabeth is among them — she grabs a boarding line and leaps onto the handrail. She hesitates and glances at the chaos on the Pearl, then back to where Davy Jones fends off several sailors aboard the Dutchman, including Will Turner.

Gibbs calls, “Go!”, and when her eyes catch his across the deck, James repeats hoarsely, “Go!”

She does. James stands for a long moment watching her disappear into the storm, then leaps up to join her, his torn hand grasping an errant boarding line.

Lightning flashes. The tattered sails of the Pearl cast dapples of shadows across the deck; the swords and daggers and axes catch the light like bolts themselves. James, breathing hard, wipes the blood from his eyes and tilts his hat up, surveying the deck with his heart hammering listlessly.

The Pearl, amidst a horrible storm, sails with no one at the helm and death waiting in the sea below.

A memory takes him. Commodore Norrington once stood in the same position on his beloved Dauntless, trapped in the eye of a storm, squinting past the burn of rain in his eyes, Lieutenants Gillette and Groves flanking him. He had bowed his head against the wind and ordered them to pursue the Black Pearl at all costs. It was a calculated risk, a gamble with a tremendous cost. He nearly killed them all. He lost everything in the days following their miraculous survival. 

Death lingers on you.

Most every moment since, the once-commodore, once-admiral James Norrington had gone over exactly what orders had caused his ruin, exactly what he would have done differently. He obsessed over every possibility for months. And here he stands again, chasing a pirate ship to the depths once more. The wind and rain beat at his back. Both ships circle the vortex, diametrically opposed, fighting each other and the elements alike.

He can join Elizabeth. He can stab the heart, to die again and have his traitorous, burdened, bleeding heart sundered from his chest. Or he can live. He can trust that Turner and Sparrow have a plan. He can make sure Elizabeth has somewhere to come home to. He can make sure she not only survives, but thrives.

This is what he has been looking for since: a second chance. Atonement. Redemption.

Gibbs calls again, frantically, and Norrington snaps into action. Almost automatically, with business-like calm, he ducks under a sword from an enemy sailor and cracks him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword on his path to the helm. He sheathes his blade in one smooth motion and prays he will not need it soon. Barbossa has drawn most of the rest of their boarders to the main deck and keeps them occupied with great panache.

Gibbs staggers his way through the crowd, and several of the Pearl sailors have managed to climb their way from the fight into the rigging. Good; they just might survive this. The familiar thrill of responsibility thrums through him as he steps up to the helm. 

“Mr. Gibbs!” Norrington shouts, his voice breaking. “All hands who are bloody well able, reef the mainsail! The rest of you, lean out!”

Gibbs salutes, very quickly, and hurls the orders back down the ship. Miraculously, the sails begin to furl. Before him, the helm is spinning of its own accord as the rudder is tugged by the torrent. James braces himself and grabs the helm with his good arm. 

His grip barely slows the wheel; the rudder resists as though digging its heels into the sea. It nearly forces him to his knees. His one arm does not have the strength nor leverage to turn this tide. Resolute, with his teeth grit so hard his jaw locks, he grabs the helm with his wounded arm as well. He seethes as his shoulder flares beneath the force. Spots swarm his vision and a sudden wave of nausea floods over him, but there is no other choice.

The wheel creaks reluctantly to a halt. The ship groans, and the angle of the deck shifts so slightly. But it isn’t enough. His arms are already trembling, his left side ablaze. James is about to use his whole body as a counterweight when another set of hands grabs the handles. 

Cotton nods at him grimly. Together, they haul. Then Gibbs springs forward to grab the wheel as well. Together the three of them turn and turn, screaming wordlessly as the Pearl begins to right itself. They are pulling to the edges of the whirlpool, sailing as close to the wind as they can with the mast tangled up in another. They only need to stay stable — they do not need to stay fast.

“Commodore, let go!” Gibbs orders, once the wheel is pliant once again. 

James gratefully steps away and Cotton takes his place. Clutching his wounded arm, he focuses on the shifting of the deck below his feet and gives breathless commands to the temporary helmsman to keep the ship upright. Gibbs returns to the gundeck to assess the situation, now that their opponents are dwindling. 

They are sailing a razor-thin opportunity to maintain control. But by God, they’re doing it!

James eyes the Dutchman on the other side of the drink. Where is Will Turner? Where is Elizabeth? Where is the heart, and where in this forsaken storm is Beckett? There is so much they don’t know. Visibility on the sea is low, further obscured by the lingering cannon smoke from the two fleets and the turbulent seas before them. They just need to survive long enough to grab the Turners, free the mast, catch the wind, and sail away.

Something changes aboard the Dutchman; the men suddenly stop fighting, the cannons fall silent. The deck is unusually still but for a group of people huddled on the far edge, too distant for him to make out. There are no orders and no sailors available to right the ship. And no Davy Jones in sight.

Who finally stabbed that heart?

There is no time to wonder. Barbossa clambers back up to the helm, holding a wound on his arm. He nods curtly at Cotton and Norrington, who step back quickly. 

“She’s taking us down!” he barks. “Make quick, or it’s the Locker for all of us!”

In a series of quick orders, Barbossa breaks the mast of the Pearl free with well-aimed a chainshot from the swivel, and then they are free. Without the Pearl’s leverage, the still Dutchman begins to drag into the vortex. 

“Wait,” James rasps, “Elizabeth!”

“She’s got Jack,” Barbossa says tightly, as though that is supposed to be any consolation. “She’ll get out of there if he has anything to say about it. I’m sorry, lad.”

James spins on his heel, furious — but Barbossa appears genuinely worn, his eyes fixed firmly on the task before him, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He had been laughing mad on the deck moments before. James steps back. The Pearl begins to pull clear of the vortex.

The rain begins to thin, and in the lightening skies, something suddenly catches his eye. Just in time, two figures swing back over to the Pearl at a miraculous velocity and drop roughly on deck.

Elizabeth is one of them. Sparrow is the other.

Without preamble, James rushes down to meet her. She falls onto the deck on her hands and knees and stays there. Her hands, clenched into fists against the deck, are stained with blood. The Dutchman vanishes beneath the waves behind them. 

“Elizabeth,” he breathes. She looks up at him, her eyes glassy and distant as though she is looking through and past him. Her cheek bears a bruising, bleeding gash, but she looks otherwise unharmed. Then where is…? James’ eyes slide to Sparrow’s instead.

Jack Sparrow’s mouth is set in a grim line. He removes his hat and sets it over his chest.

Oh, no.

Too rash, Mr. Turner, he thinks sullenly, bitterly, and tries to temper the anger that blooms in his chest. How much had Elizabeth lost to the sea? Fate is a cruel, cruel mistress.

James shrugs out of his coat and sets it about her shoulders. When he offers his hand, she takes it unthinkingly, and he lifts her to her feet. The crew parts before him as he leads her to the handrail with a clear view of the now-calm waters.

The sky clears of clouds and sunlight falls on the deck. It is nearly blinding off the horizon, where an armada awaits them. There is no maelstrom to hide them now. At the head of the fleet sails the immaculate Endeavor, a veritable fortress upon the sea, whereupon Cutler Beckett has no doubt ordered their inevitable destruction.

Jack Sparrow leaps into action, rushing to the helm. The wind is at their backs — the best conditions for retreating. Yet Sparrow argues with Gibbs and Barbossa to weigh anchor, for reasons James does not even want to consider. He tunes it out, turning to Elizabeth, who eyes the horizon anxiously.

“Elizabeth,” he tries again.

“He can’t—” Elizabeth stops and draws a breath. Her voice is strained and small. “He can’t leave me. He’s supposed to come back. He can’t. The Dutchman must have a captain.”

Death lingers.

James says nothing. He presses a shoulder to hers and stands in solidarity, uncertain, and she leans against him even as her eyes comb the sea endlessly. James’ chest burns with fury, the hound snarling and pacing. The Pearl comes to a halt, rocking in the waves, as the Endeavor’s gun ports begin to rise.

He inhales sharply. Elizabeth glances up first at him, then the ship of the line. If this is their end, they will at least meet it together. 

“God damn him,” he growls. Whether he refers to Sparrow or Beckett, he himself does not know.

But then the surface of the water by the Pearl breaks. Sails burst from the water, belonging to the distinctive silhouette of a fluyt. Without the barnacles, without the driftwood exterior, without the torn sails, the Flying Dutchman is all but unrecognizable, save for the terrifying visage of death on the figurehead.

At its helm is a dark-haired man in red and black. It is not hard to guess who the new captain is; the theatrical flair of this entrance reeks of Will Turner.

James is too stunned to react at all, frozen in place, gripping onto the handrail so hard his knuckles turn white. Beside him, Elizabeth laughs, a manic burst of relief and vengeance and sheer, pure joy. Shouts of surprise go down the Pearl.

“Full canvas!” Sparrow calls, followed by an affirmative, “Aye, full canvas!” from Barbossa. The crew — though soaking, battered, and shell-shocked — are invigorated, and leap immediately to obey. 

Without needing any further communication, Barbossa and Will both angle the ships so they will sail  parallel to the Endeavor on either side. She dwarfs the Black Pearl as they approach. The ship is armed to the teeth with experienced and deft crewmen, fresh soldiers waiting for blood, and cannons enough to bury the Pearl ten times over.

They will come abreast of the Endeavor in moments, and still, she remains silent. Blue-and-yellow coated sailors await orders. Even at a distance, James recognizes the awkward lull before your commander gives orders, to finally call those split-second decisions so important to survival at sea. In a way, he cannot blame Beckett for his hesitation. One could not expect a ship dragged to the depths of a maelstrom to appear again, only to suddenly turn on you.

But soon it doesn’t matter. Panic suddenly erupts from the deck of the Endeavor as the men scramble to abandon ship. The commander in James reels with confusion — a single volley of cannon fire could destroy the Pearl and Dutchman both, why are they not firing before they flee? — but the marine in him is relieved to see his countrymen escaping. Best they get clear of the fastest ships in the Caribbean while they can.

And not a second too soon. Gibbs cries, “Fire!” just as the cannons on the Dutchman begin their assault. And with a chorus of thunder, they fire upon the Endeavor at last.

A single figure walks down the deck, unmistakable in his pristine dark coat. Cutler Beckett meets his end as the indestructible floating dark fortress goes down in flames, ripped to shreds, caught between two enemy ships that survived impossible odds.

The ship collapses in a blaze of fire, smoke pouring from the endless debris until it sinks entirely. One of the most heavily armed ships in the entire Royal Navy — gone, entirely gone.

The British sailors paddle their longboats desperately away; Barbossa has the Pearl’s sails furled again to give them time to call off the rest of the ships. Elizabeth signals the pirate fleet to hold steady. The shadow of the Dutchman in the distance turns to put itself between the armada and the Pearl. 

And in short order, as the crew waits with bated breath, the armada begins to retreat. Just like that, it’s over. It does not seem real. It’s over. Vaguely, James hears the crew around them cheering and shouting and tossing their hats.

“James?”

Elizabeth puts a hand to his back. James has not moved since they began to approach the Endeavor. His hands grip the rail so hard he is sure he has reopened the wound on his palm. He releases a shaky breath and slowly lets himself relax.

He looks at Elizabeth, who frowns in concern. “Davy Jones is dead,” he says thickly.

“Yes.”

“And — Beckett.”

“Him, too. The Kraken as well, if you want to sweeten the pot.”

Even in her exhaustion, Elizabeth looks triumphant, and rightfully so. Her still-wet hair streams in tendrils behind her, knotted and unkempt from fighting in the storm. She is streaked in grime and gore and wears shadows dark as night under her eyes. The cut on her cheek is bruising yellow and purple already. But she is alive, and he is alive, and the heart that he had given Beckett is gone.

He hugs her suddenly, forgetting his own wounds. She lifts onto the balls of her feet to hold him better, and says nothing as he buries his face in her shoulder. She smells of blood and salt and sun and life.

“We won,” he breathes hoarsely. Her hands grip the back of his shirt tightly.

“We won,” she confirms. When he pulls away, she holds his face in both of her hands as she did that night aboard the Dutchman. Then she smiles, and it is like the freshest, bravest wind curling into his sails.

Alive.

The crew prepares a rowboat to take her to Flying Dutchman. Gibbs approaches and bows formally. “Your chariot awaits, Your Highness. The oars are inside,” he adds, almost apologetically. Elizabeth bobs her head in thanks and turns to James.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Turner,” James says softly. “Or, rather — Your Highness. Majesty?”

“Majesty works,” she says haughtily, lifting her chin. Gibbs snorts; James only bows with a faint smile.

“Your husband must be worried. He’ll want to see you well.”

“My husband,” she repeats, and for a second, her voice is dreamlike and faraway. She laughs to herself and twists her hair into a tail over her shoulder. “I think you’re right, Mr. Norrington. Care to walk me down the aisle?”

As he cannot row her to the Dutchman himself, this will have to do. James offers his arm automatically; she takes it. The Pearl’s crew lines up to see her off. Barbossa does so fondly, with a knowing look; Pintel and Ragetti seem genuinely sad to see her go; Cotton salutes formally with a wide smile. James lets her go before she reaches Sparrow, and they exchange a few quiet, sarcastic, heartfelt words.

She boards the rowboat and is lowered to the sea. James watches as she paddles to the Dutchman, where Will Turner helps her aboard. He drops his chin to his chest and chuckles to himself.

Too rash, the both of them, he thinks fondly. They’ll do well together.

Back to Shipwreck Cove they head. Elizabeth stays aboard the Dutchman , which sails adjacent to the Pearl until their paths are forced to part. Men run the decks of both ships, attending to duties regardless of rank or station — James spots the Turners swabbing the deck of the Dutchman and laughing together, sees Sparrow climbing in the rigging up above, catches Barbossa joking with the sailors at the foremast.

James waves at a lucid, uncursed, smiling Bill Turner, and receives a salute from the first mate in return. 

The crews belt shanties across both ships, and the sound fills James with nostalgia that stings his heart as much as it lifts it. He loves to sail, but for all Elizabeth may think otherwise, he is not and would not be a pirate. This may be his last voyage on the sea as a sailor, the only place he has ever felt he belonged.

With that, James Norrington sits heavily down upon the deck outside the captain’s quarters. He leans against the wall and every muscle in his body melts in relief. Everything hurts, but the pain is a sure sign that he is alive. He will recover. He sets his hat in his lap and scrubs at his eyes, burning from the rain and blood that had obscured his vision.

Marines rarely sit on deck. But today is a day for exceptions. 

Gibbs sits next to him. He sighs mightily, hands James his flask, and says, “We survived past that dawn, Commodore.”

“Thank God for that,” James agrees. Uncharacteristically, he accepts the flask and takes a long swig — only to find the liquid within does not burn his insides to kingdom come. He frowns at the helmsman. “Mr. Gibbs,” he says suspiciously, “this is water.”

Gibbs looks very grave. “It seemed a smarter idea. Isn’t that terrible? This is truly the end of days.”

Norrington grins, Gibbs laughs, and they trade the water back and forth, letting the shanties wash over them. The sun is warm, the breeze fair and friendly. As they sail, the residual smell of cannon smoke quickly gives way to the irresistible brine of the sea. The hound is quiet.

Chapter Text

Summer ends, and the town of Port Royal slowly comes back to life.

As he walks the streets, Norrington is reminded of the days after the crew of the Black Pearl had ransacked the town. There is a uncertainty to the movements of the civilians, almost as though there is something forbidden about returning to business as usual. There are no criers in the streets. The businesses close their doors early. The tavern hums with quiet murmurs. The few soldiers who patrol do so slowly, with less men than protocol requires, and they greet the townsfolk with awkward informality. They carry no weapons.

Notices, once posted by order of Lord Beckett, are torn down most everywhere. The gallows in Fort Charles stand vacant. No pirates have been hanged here since the king’s representative left for battle some months ago, along with most of the royal sailors and his host of pugnacious privateers.

Whispers pass through the streets, shared in the same sort of uncertain quiet that plagues the town: Cutler Beckett is dead , they say, behind hands and closed doors. The town is free.

James and Elizabeth themselves had spread the word. They knew most everyone in the town by name, but they were unrecognized. The sallow man with haunted eyes and the sunburnt woman waving a sword were strangers. Not prim and proper Commodore James Norrington, the pride of England, the scourge of pirates. Not noble and clever Miss Elizabeth Swann, the governor’s precocious daughter who always seemed a world away. 

Today, on this early autumn day, James approaches the governor’s manor. Once Governor Swann had taken to the Endeavor with Beckett, he had dismissed the rest of the household staff, intending to return to England afterwards. The gate is closed, but not locked, and he finds himself pausing with his hand on the latch. His fingertips, numb from his injury, barely feel the iron beneath his touch.

How many times has he tread this path before? Even before he became the commander at Fort Charles, he would come to visit the Swanns after every extended voyage away from town. Elizabeth would greet him at the door, the hem of her skirts speckled with dust from the blacksmith’s shop. She would ask for his tales at sea. Weatherby would interrupt and invite James in to dinner, as always, a gesture of fellowship. But Elizabeth would find some way to spirit James away to try and pry the sordid details of his time away hunting pirates anyway. He would walk the narrow, well-trod line between appealing to her adventurous spirit and respecting her father’s caution and concern.

James lets out a shaky breath. How times could change.

“Norrington? James Norrington?” a voice calls from down the street.

He spins, hand darting to the dagger hidden at his back. But the uniformed man who runs towards him is familiar, waving his hat in greeting. “Gillette?” James splutters, incredulous.

Lieutenant Andrew Gillette comes to a halt before him, flushed and beaming. “My God, Jamie,” he laughs, “we thought you were dead!”

When James offers his hand, Gillette takes it and pulls him fully into a hug. It is so tight it aggravates his bad shoulder, but James embraces him, patting his back comfortingly. That anyone in service to the Crown still regards him so fondly is a miracle. Gillette parts, still smiling — then realizes how forward this is and takes a step back, clearing his throat.

James can’t help but smile back broadly. Since when was Gillette the more formal between the two of them?

“I am alive, for better or worse,” James says. “Though I am afraid my ties with the Royal Navy have been severed rather completely.” Helping to kill Cutler Beckett and destroy his flagship seemed as finite a resignation as any. 

“Well, I’d say. Lord Beckett’s missive said you drowned!”

“I was also impaled,” he adds helpfully, and at Gillette’s aghast expression, he suppresses another smile and claps a hand to the man’s shoulder. “It is a tale for another time, another place, Gillette. A place with fewer ears listening.”

“I…see,” Gillette says dubiously. “If you’re not a ghost, and you’re not here on official business, what brings you to the governor’s manor?”

James’ lightness of heart comes crashing back down. It must show on his face, for Gillette frowns, brow furrowing. “We’re to hold a funeral for Governor Swann,” he explains. “I promised Miss Sw— Mrs. Turner that we would honor his memory once we returned.”

Gillette takes off his hat again and holds it to his chest. “May he rest in peace, God bless him,” he says quietly. “How can I help?”

“You can look aside as I trespass the estate,” James says frankly. “I don’t need another warrant on my head.”

Gillette reels, offended at the very implication. “Never! I do not know that this even counts as trespassing. You were well known to be the governor’s friend, Norrington. Here, let me—”

Gillette opens the gates and steps to the side, bowing. With a promise to meet for drinks that evening, James shakes his old friend’s hand and bids him farewell. Then he enters the governor’s estate.

The front door is eerily unlocked, as with the gates. The weight of memories settles heavy on his shoulders as he enters the foyer, furnished but dusty, immaculate but abandoned. He shuts the door quietly behind him, and the air is thick with the smell of stale heat and sunlight.

James walks once around the foyer, pausing at the hallway to the governor’s office. He realizes he has no idea what to expect. The plan was to find his will, sort out his possessions, arrange for a funeral here, and send word to the distant Swanns in London. Such correspondence is not unusual to a former officer, but he finds himself dreading the idea of sitting at a desk again for such grim purposes.

He does not know how long he stands there, running over everything he needs to do, before the front door creaks open behind him.

Elizabeth enters. In her arms she carries the ship cat from the Empress; slung over her shoulder is a sword belt, bearing the unmistakable scabbard of James’ ceremonial sword. She wears a plain dress and sensible boots, both laden in dust from the walk over, and her sun-damaged hair is braided over her shoulder. The gash on her cheek has healed to a thin pink scar. She looks so young, so effortlessly beautiful, so herself.

“Elizabeth,” James greets with surprise. He had not been expecting her today.

She inclines her head. “Hello, James. I didn’t forget. Lieutenant Gillette sent me your way.”

“I see you’ve brought company,” he remarks dryly.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave her on the ship!” Elizabeth scratches the cat under the chin and sets her down. Immediately, with a chirrup of thanks, the cat strides forward to circle around James’ legs. “You know, she reminds me of you.”

“I—“ He stops, caught off-guard. “She what?”

Elizabeth smirks, not unlike a cat herself. “It’s something about those eyes, I think. She may be missing the scary growl and English sensibilities, but the smug grin and the glower, she’s utterly mastered.”

James looks down at the cat to confirm. She gazes up at him with keen green eyes and meows directly to his face. He has been compared to a hound recently and had grown accustomed to thinking himself as such — but who is he to argue now? He has never been able to say no to Elizabeth. With a sigh and a smile, he shakes his head and strokes the cat’s back.

“Welcome home,” he says to them both.

Elizabeth strides towards him, the sword in her hands. He glances down, taking in the familiar trim, the battle-worn leather of the scabbard. The braided cord tied to the hilt compliments the gold filigree, untarnished by the wind and sun.

James hesitates. Elizabeth meets his eyes imploringly, patiently. He accepts the blade with reverence, and the weight is familiar in his hands.

“Thank you, James,” she says quietly.

He swallows back the emotion sticking in his throat. “It was my honor, Your Majesty. Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth beams. She curtsies with the grace befitting her title, and he bows in return, as formally as a commodore greeting his liege. She leads the way into the heart of the manor, and James follows dutifully.