Part 1: Tortuga
Commodore Norrington’s heart hammered against his ribs as he pressed his back against the door he’d just closed behind him. The room was dark, lit only by a single guttering candle, and it smelled of rum and salt and something indefinably pirate. He’d sought refuge in the first unlocked room he could find, fleeing from the drunken mob of cutthroats prowling Tortuga’s filthy streets, and now he realized with dawning horror that he’d made a terrible mistake.
“Well, well, well.” The voice came from the shadows near the window, rich with amusement. “What have we here?”
Norrington’s blood ran cold as Captain Jack Sparrow stepped into the candlelight, that infernal grin spreading across his face like oil on water. The pirate’s eyes glittered with something between malice and curiosity as he raised his pistol with lazy confidence, the barrel pointing directly at Norrington’s chest. The Commodore felt his carefully maintained composure crumble like sand before the tide. He was trapped, cornered in the den of the very man he’d sworn to bring to justice, and there was nowhere to run.
Jack’s smile widened, showing teeth. “Fancy meeting you here, Commodore. Though I must say, you look a bit worse for wear than when last we met. Fall from grace, have we?” He cocked his head, the beads in his hair clicking softly. “Or should I say… fall into Tortuga?”
Norrington’s throat was dry as parchment. His uniform, once pristine and proud, was stained and torn. His wig was long gone, lost somewhere in his desperate flight. He looked nothing like the distinguished officer who had once commanded the respect of Port Royal, and they both knew it. The humiliation of it burned almost as hotly as his fear. Jack Sparrow held all the power here—he could pull that trigger and end Norrington’s life without consequence. Or worse, he could throw open that door and summon the pirates below, who would show far less mercy than a single bullet.
“Nothing to say, Commodore?” Jack’s voice was still light, almost playful, but his eyes were sharp. “Cat got your tongue? Or perhaps you’re simply contemplating your rather limited options.”
Norrington found his voice, though it came out rougher than he would have liked. “What do you want, Sparrow?”
“What do I want?” Jack lowered himself into a chair, never once letting the pistol waver. “That’s an interesting question, that is. But I think the more pressing question is what you want. Or rather, what matters more to you.” He paused, letting the moment stretch taut between them. “Your pride… or your life?”
The words hit Norrington like a physical blow. He felt his stomach contract, bile rising in his throat. His first instinct was to declare that his honor, his duty, his pride as an officer of His Majesty’s Navy mattered more than any single life—even his own. The words formed on his tongue, ready to be spoken with the stern conviction that had always defined him. But they wouldn’t come. Because beneath all the rigidity, all the rules and regulations that had governed his existence, there was a truth he couldn’t escape: he wanted to live.
Jack waited, one eyebrow arched in expectation. The silence grew heavy, oppressive. When Norrington still said nothing, Jack’s expression shifted slightly, the amusement fading to something harder. “Tick tock, Commodore. My patience, unlike my charm, has its limits. I could always call down to my fellow pirates. I’m sure they’d be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Norrington swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “We both know you won’t let me leave this room alive.”
Something flickered across Jack’s face—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, the pistol still steady in his hand. “Go on.”
Norrington closed his eyes briefly, feeling the weight of what he was about to say crushing down upon him. When he opened them again, his gaze met Jack’s directly, unflinching despite the tremor in his voice. “I swore an oath. I swore to see every pirate hang. Every single one.” He drew in a shaking breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “And I intend to keep that oath. Even now. Even here.”
His whole body tensed, every muscle coiled tight as piano wire. He waited for the explosion of gunpowder, the searing pain of lead tearing through flesh. Or worse—much worse—the sound of Jack’s voice calling out to the murderous rabble below, summoning them to claim their prize. His imagination painted vivid pictures of their cruel faces, their rusted blades, the slow and agonizing death that awaited him at their hands. He could almost feel the rope around his neck, the crowd jeering below, or perhaps they wouldn’t grant him the mercy of a hanging at all.
But there was only silence.
Seconds passed like hours. Norrington’s lungs burned, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He couldn’t bear it any longer—the not knowing, the waiting for death that refused to come. Slowly, almost against his will, he forced himself to look at Jack Sparrow.
The pirate’s expression had changed entirely. The mocking grin was gone, replaced by something thoughtful, almost contemplative. His dark eyes studied Norrington with an intensity that was somehow more unsettling than the pistol that was still pointed at his chest.
“You know, Commodore,” Jack said slowly, his voice stripped of its usual theatrical flourish, “I was certain—absolutely certain—that your life was more important to you than your pride. Any sane man would choose to live.” He tilted his head, the candlelight casting strange shadows across his face. “But you… you’re convinced I’m going to kill you. Completely convinced. And I find myself wondering… why?”
Norrington stared at him, unable to comprehend what was happening. The world seemed to have tilted on its axis, nothing making sense anymore. “You’re a pirate,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Do you need another reason?”
“Well,” Jack drawled, a hint of his usual manner creeping back into his voice, “you did try to hang me. Twice, if memory serves.” He waved the pistol slightly, the gesture almost conversational. “That might give a man cause for a bit of revenge, wouldn’t you say?”
Norrington shook his head, something hot and bitter rising in his chest. “Don’t pretend that’s the reason. You’re a pirate. A murderer.” The word came out sharp, accusatory. “You would have killed me regardless—whether I’d tried to hang you or not. It’s what your kind does.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sure about that?”
The question hung in the air between them, simple yet somehow profound. Norrington felt off-balance, as if the floor beneath his feet had turned to water. “Are you sure,” Jack pressed, leaning forward, “that I’m a murderer? What if I’m not?”
“You’re a pirate,” Norrington repeated, but his voice had lost some of its certainty.
“And all pirates are murderers,” Jack finished for him, his tone flat. “Is that it, then? Nice and simple, all tied up with a bow?”
They stared at each other across the small room, two men from opposite sides of an unbridgeable divide. Something shifted in Jack’s expression—disappointment, perhaps, or a kind of weary resignation. He shook his head slowly.
“I always thought it was your pride driving you,” Jack said quietly. “Your precious title, your position, your standing in society. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? There’s something else beneath all that rigid propriety, some other reason you hunt pirates with such… dedication.” His eyes searched Norrington’s face. “And you’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”
Norrington’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. He said nothing, couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to. There were wounds too deep to expose to the light, especially not to the likes of Jack Sparrow.
Jack seemed to understand. With a sigh that sounded almost regretful, he slowly lowered the pistol, letting it rest against his thigh. “Go on, then. Get out.”
Norrington didn’t move. He couldn’t. It had to be a trick, some cruel game. Pirates didn’t simply let their enemies walk free, especially enemies who had sworn to destroy them. He watched Jack warily, looking for the trap, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“I’m not going to repeat myself, Commodore,” Jack said, though there was no heat in the words. “The door’s behind you. I suggest you use it before I change my mind.”
Slowly, moving as carefully as a man walking through a field of gunpowder, Norrington began to edge toward the door. His eyes never left Jack’s face, watching for any sudden movement, any sign of betrayal. His hand found the door handle behind him, and he gripped it like a lifeline. In one quick motion, he pulled it open and slipped through, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Jack alone in the candlelit room. The pirate stared at the closed door for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He turned the pistol over in his hands, feeling its familiar weight, thinking about how easy it would have been to pull the trigger. Norrington had tried to hang him—would try again given half a chance. The man had made it abundantly clear that he would never stop, never rest, never give up his crusade against piracy. Against Jack.
“Bugger,” Jack muttered to himself, reaching for his bottle of rum. He’d let his enemy go, an enemy who would undoubtedly return to haunt him. It was foolish, perhaps even suicidal. But what he’d told Norrington was the truth, whether the good Commodore believed it or not. Jack Sparrow was many things—a pirate, a scoundrel, a thief, a liar when it suited him—but he was not a murderer. He’d never killed a man in cold blood, and he wasn’t about to start now, no matter how much easier it would make his life.
Even if it meant that someday, somewhere, Commodore James Norrington might very well succeed in his mission. Even if it meant the noose waiting at the end of Jack’s own story.
Because becoming a murderer would mean that Norrington had been right all along. And Jack Sparrow, for all his faults, refused to prove that particular point. Some lines, once crossed, could never be uncrossed. Some choices defined a man forever.
He took a long drink and stared at the door, wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life—or perhaps the only choice he could live with.
Part Two: Port Royale
Jack’s luck had finally run out.
He sat on the hard wooden bench in his cell, his back against the cold stone wall, his body a symphony of aches and bruises. Every breath hurt—cracked rib, probably, courtesy of the enthusiastic fists of Port Royal’s less savory citizens. His split lip throbbed, and he could feel his left eye swelling shut. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the view from his cell’s single narrow window. Through the iron bars, he could see the gallows in the courtyard below, the noose swaying gently in the Caribbean breeze. Waiting for him.
He’d been a fool to come here. The Pearl had dropped him in a hidden cove, just for a few days while they resupplied. He’d only wanted to visit Will and Elizabeth, to see how married life was treating them, perhaps share a drink and a few stories. He hadn’t even made it to their door.
Instead, he’d witnessed a young couple being harassed by a gang of drunken sailors in an alley. He could have walked away—should have walked away. Any sensible pirate would have. But the girl’s frightened face, the boy’s desperate attempt to protect her despite being outnumbered… Jack had never been particularly good at walking away from that sort of thing. So he’d intervened, wielding his sword and his wit with equal measure, and the sailors had fled. Unfortunately, one of them had recognized him. Within the hour, half the garrison had descended on him, and Jack—already exhausted and injured from the fight—had been overwhelmed.
Now here he sat, beaten and trapped, with no way out. The Pearl wouldn’t return for days. Will and Elizabeth had no idea he was even in Port Royal. His crew couldn’t rescue him because they didn’t know he needed rescuing. He was well and truly caught, and his body hurt too much to even attempt an escape. Not that there was anywhere to go—the cell was solid, the guards were vigilant, and he could barely stand without the world spinning.
The sound of the door opening made him open his eyes—well, his right eye at least. His left had swollen completely shut now. When he saw who entered, he closed the good eye again with a weary sigh. Of course. Of course it would be Commodore Norrington who came to gloat over his capture.
Jack wondered dully what the Commodore had planned for him. A simple hanging? Or perhaps something more… personal? More drawn out? Norrington had every reason to hate him, every right to make his death as painful and humiliating as possible. Jack had evaded him for years, made him look foolish, cost him his dignity. And now here Jack was, helpless as a newborn kitten, entirely at the Commodore’s mercy.
He heard Norrington’s boots on the stone floor, measured and precise as always. The footsteps stopped at the bars of his cell. Jack kept his eye closed. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. Whatever Norrington wanted from him, whatever punishment the man had devised, Jack would have to endure it. He was completely at the Commodore’s mercy, and they both knew it.
The silence stretched out, heavy and oppressive. Jack could feel Norrington’s gaze on him, studying him, assessing him. When the Commodore finally spoke, his voice was strangely calm, almost thoughtful.
“Twenty-six ships.”
Jack’s eye opened. He looked up at Norrington, trying to read the man’s expression through the bars and the dim light. The Commodore’s face was unreadable, his posture rigid as always, every inch the proper naval officer. But there was something in his eyes—something Jack couldn’t quite identify.
“Twenty-six ships,” Norrington repeated softly, “that the Black Pearl has captured in the last three years. Not a single one of them English.”
Jack sighed. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t have the energy for conversation. But talking was better than whatever else Norrington might have in mind. With a grimace of pain, he forced himself up onto his knees, his ribs screaming in protest. “Of course I didn’t attack English ships,” he said, his voice rough. “Will and Elizabeth saved my life. They risked everything for me. I won’t make them feel responsible for what I do with that gift. That’s not how I repay that kind of loyalty.”
Norrington nodded slowly, as if Jack had confirmed something he’d already suspected. He stood there for another moment, then asked, “Do you know how many deaths there were during your raids?”
Jack’s head snapped up, sudden anger flaring through the exhaustion and pain. “None!” The word came out sharp, defensive. “I don’t care what you believe, what lies you’ve been told. There were no deaths.”
To his surprise, Norrington didn’t argue. He simply nodded again. “I know,” he said quietly. “For a pirate, you are remarkably… merciful.”
Jack snorted at what he assumed was mockery, the sound bitter in his throat. Let Norrington call it whatever he wanted—mercy, weakness, foolishness. “I’m not a murderer,” he said hoarsely, the words dragged from somewhere deep inside him. It was the truth, the one truth he’d always held onto, even when everything else about his life was built on lies and deception.
Norrington was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on Jack. When he spoke again, his voice was even softer than before, almost gentle. “You don’t seem to be a particularly effective pirate either. Here you are, locked up again, all because you couldn’t resist rescuing someone.”
Jack let out a long, shuddering breath. His whole body ached, and he was so tired—tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of this constant dance between survival and conscience. “I couldn’t just watch,” he said, and hated how small his voice sounded. “What was I supposed to do? Just walk away?”
“And that,” Norrington said, so quietly Jack almost didn’t hear him, “is why you’re not really a pirate, is it?”
Jack’s brow furrowed. He stared at Norrington through his one good eye, trying to make sense of the man’s words. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m a pirate.”
Norrington hesitated. Something shifted in his expression, something that looked almost like… uncertainty? “You don’t kill,” he said slowly, as if working through a puzzle. “You don’t attack English vessels. You rescue English citizens from harm.” He paused, and when he continued, there was an odd note in his voice. “That doesn’t make you a pirate, Captain Sparrow. That makes you a privateer.”
The word hit Jack like a physical blow. He surged to his feet, fury momentarily overwhelming pain, the world tilting dangerously as his battered body protested. “Don’t mock me, Norrington,” he snarled, gripping the bars for support. “We both know I don’t have a letter of marque. Don’t stand there and taunt me with what I could have been if—”
But Norrington was reaching into his coat. He pulled out a scroll, tied with an official-looking ribbon, sealed with wax. He held it up where Jack could see it clearly, even in the dim light. “A letter of marque,” he said, and there was something that might have been a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Signed by the Governor himself.”
Jack’s legs gave out. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor again, staring at that scroll like it was a snake poised to strike. He closed his eye, feeling something break inside his chest—hope, perhaps, or the last of his pride. “Is this your revenge?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “Showing me the letter that could save my life, and then hanging me tomorrow anyway?”
“No.” Norrington’s voice was firm, certain. “The letter is for you.”
Jack forced himself to look at the Commodore again. This had to be a trick, had to be some cruel game. “We both know you’re not going to give me that letter. I’m a pirate. And all pirates are murderers.” He threw Norrington’s own beliefs back at him, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
“I believed that once,” Norrington said quietly, and there was something raw in his voice, something vulnerable. “But then a pirate spared my life, even though he had every reason to take it. Every reason to let me die.”
Jack went completely still. He’d thought—assumed—that Tortuga would only make Norrington hate him more, would fuel his determination to see Jack hang. But the way Norrington was looking at him now, the tone of his voice… it sounded almost like gratitude.
Norrington moved to the wall where the keys hung. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, and Jack watched in disbelief as the Commodore selected the right key and approached the cell door. The lock clicked open with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet cell. Norrington pulled the door open and stepped inside, then did something that made Jack’s world tilt even more than his injuries had: he extended his hand.
Jack stared at that offered hand for a long moment, unable to process what was happening. This had to be a hallucination, brought on by pain and exhaustion. But Norrington waited, patient and steady, his hand still outstretched. Finally, moving slowly, Jack reached up and grasped it.
Norrington’s grip was firm and warm as he pulled Jack to his feet. The world immediately began to spin, Jack’s battered body protesting violently. He would have fallen if Norrington hadn’t caught him, one arm wrapping around him to hold him steady. They stood there, impossibly close, and Jack found himself staring into Norrington’s eyes. There was no hatred there, no triumph, no mockery. Only something that looked like… respect. Gratitude. Perhaps even the beginning of understanding.
Norrington held out the scroll with his free hand. “For my life,” he said softly.
Jack took the letter of marque with trembling fingers. The seal was genuine—he’d seen enough official documents to know the real thing when he saw it. This wasn’t a forgery, wasn’t a trick. It was real. Legal. It meant freedom. It meant legitimacy. It meant he could sail without a noose waiting at every port.
It meant Norrington was no longer his enemy.
Jack looked up from the scroll to meet the Commodore’s gaze again. “Why?” he managed to ask, his voice hoarse with emotion he couldn’t quite name. “After everything… why?”
Norrington’s expression softened slightly, something almost like a smile crossing his stern features. “Because you were right, Captain Sparrow. You are not a murderer. And perhaps…” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Perhaps I’ve spent too long seeing the world in absolutes. Black and white. Good and evil. Pirates and officers of the Crown.” He shook his head slowly. “You’ve shown me that the world is far more complicated than I wanted to believe. That mercy exists in unexpected places. That honor isn’t solely the province of uniformed men.”
He released his hold on Jack, though he remained close enough to catch him if he fell again. “You gave me my life when you had no reason to. When I would have hanged you without hesitation. The least I can do is return the favor.”
Jack clutched the letter of marque like a lifeline, his mind still reeling. “The Pearl…” he started.
“Is waiting for you in the hidden cove where you left her, I presume,” Norrington finished. “I’ll have a horse readied for you. And a doctor to tend those injuries before you leave.” He paused, then added with the faintest trace of dry humor, “I can’t have my newest privateer dying of his wounds before he can serve the Crown, can I?”
Jack let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. The absurdity of it all—the impossibility of standing here in his cell, free, with a letter of marque in his hands and James Norrington speaking to him not as an enemy but as… what? An ally? A friend? He didn’t know what to call this strange new territory they’d entered.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jack admitted, and it was perhaps the most honest thing he’d said in years.
“Then don’t say anything,” Norrington replied. He guided Jack toward the cell door, supporting him when his legs threatened to give out again. “Just… try not to make me regret this, will you? The Governor took a great deal of convincing.”
As they moved slowly through the corridor, Jack leaned on Norrington’s solid strength and tried to process the magnitude of what had just happened. He’d entered this cell expecting to die. Instead, he was leaving it as a privateer, with the protection of the Crown and the respect of a man he’d once considered his greatest adversary.
“Norrington,” he said as they reached the outer door, where sunlight streamed in from the courtyard—not the courtyard with the gallows, he realized, but a different one, one that led to the stables and freedom. “Thank you.”
The Commodore nodded, his expression grave but no longer cold. “Thank you, Captain Sparrow. For teaching an old dog new tricks. For showing me that the world is not as simple as I wanted it to be.” He met Jack’s gaze steadily. “And for proving that sometimes, the most honorable thing a man can do is show mercy to his enemy.”
Jack looked down at the letter in his hands, then back at Norrington. “We’re not enemies anymore, are we?”
“No,” Norrington agreed quietly. “No, I don’t believe we are.”