The door of the rented room in Tortuga closed with a soft, traitorous click behind Commodore James Norrington.
For a heartbeat he stood motionless, back pressed to the wood, chest tight beneath his immaculate coat. The sounds of Tortuga bled through the thin walls—laughter, shouting, the scrape of boots and the promise of violence. He had chosen this place in desperation, the first door he could slip through while the mob searched the streets below. A nameless room. A temporary refuge.
Then he became aware that he was not alone.
Jack Sparrow sat on the edge of the bed as if he belonged there—which, Norrington realized with a surge of cold dread, he probably did. A pistol rested loosely in Jack’s hand, already raised, already aimed. His grin was slow and mocking, dark eyes bright with amusement and something sharper beneath.
For the first time in years, Commodore Norrington felt truly helpless.
If Sparrow pulled the trigger, Norrington would die where he stood. If Sparrow shouted, the pirates outside would pour in, and his death would be slower, uglier, far more painful. And Sparrow had no reason—none at all—to spare him.
Norrington straightened his back by instinct, clinging to posture when there was nothing else left to hold. Fear churned in his stomach, thick and nauseating, but he refused to let it show. He met Sparrow’s gaze, jaw clenched, breath shallow.
Jack studied him for a long moment, head tilted slightly, as if examining a curiosity he hadn’t expected to find.
“So,” Jack drawled at last, voice light, almost lazy, “here we are. Tell me, Commodore—what’s more important to you? Your pride… or your life?”
The question struck deeper than the pistol ever could.
Norrington swallowed. His throat felt dry, raw. The answer rose instinctively, trained into him by years of discipline and honor: my pride. My duty. My oath. But his body betrayed him. His pulse thundered in his ears. His hands trembled, just slightly, at his sides.
His life mattered. He knew it. And knowing it sickened him.
Jack waited, one eyebrow lifting as the silence stretched. The pistol never wavered.
“No answer?” Jack said mildly. “I could always call your friends outside. They seem terribly eager to make your acquaintance.”
Norrington’s breath hitched. His mouth opened, then closed again. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, stripped bare. “We both know,” he said, “that you will not let me live.”
Jack’s grin widened. He made a small circling motion with the pistol, inviting him on.
Norrington hesitated. Then he closed his eyes.
“I have sworn,” he said, each word scraped from his chest, “to see all pirates hanged. And I will stand by that oath.”
His body tensed, every muscle braced for impact. For the deafening crack of the gun. For laughter and shouting and hands dragging him back into the street. He waited for pain. He waited for death.
Nothing came.
Seconds passed. Then more. The silence grew unbearable.
Norrington opened his eyes.
Jack Sparrow was no longer grinning.
The pistol was still raised, but Jack’s expression had changed, the mockery replaced by something thoughtful, almost troubled. His gaze rested on Norrington with an intensity that made him uneasy.
“You know,” Jack said slowly, “I was quite certain your life would matter more to you than your pride. But you’re so very sure I’ll kill you.” His eyes narrowed. “And I find myself wondering why.”
Norrington stared at him, incredulous. “You are a pirate,” he said. “Is another reason truly required?”
Jack huffed a soft laugh. “Well, you did try to have me hanged. Twice.”
Norrington shook his head sharply. “Do not pretend that makes the difference. You are a pirate. A murderer. You would have killed me regardless—whether I sought your execution or not.”
Jack tilted his head. “Are you certain?”
Confusion flickered through Norrington’s fear.
“Are you certain,” Jack repeated quietly, “that I am a murderer? What if I’m not?”
“You are a pirate,” Norrington began, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“And all pirates are murderers,” Jack finished for him.
They stared at each other, the air between them tight and charged. Then Jack exhaled and shook his head, lowering it slightly.
“I always thought it was your title,” he said. “Your pride. Your polished buttons and pretty rules that drove you to chase me so fervently. But it seems there’s something else.” His gaze sharpened again. “And you won’t tell me what that is.”
Slowly—deliberately—Jack lowered the pistol.
“Go,” he said.
Norrington did not move.
Every instinct screamed trap. He watched Jack with suspicion, waiting for the trick, the sudden shout, the cruel reversal. When none came, he took a cautious step toward the door, then another, never breaking eye contact. His hand closed around the handle. He hesitated one last time—then slipped out and vanished into the noise of Tortuga.
The door closed.
Jack Sparrow remained where he was, staring at the wood long after the footsteps faded. His expression was unreadable now, the humor gone entirely.
He wondered if he had made a mistake.
Norrington would hunt him again. Of that there was no doubt. The Commodore’s resolve was ironclad, his hatred absolute. One day, perhaps, Jack Sparrow would stand on the gallows because of him.
But what Jack had said was true.
He was not a murderer.
And if sparing one rigid, terrified man meant paying for it with a rope someday—well. Jack Sparrow had always known the price of his choices.
At least this one would not cost him his soul.
Jack Sparrow sat slumped on the hard wooden bench of the cell in Port Royal, the narrow, barred window above him framing the looming silhouette of the gallows in the yard beyond. The sunlight slanted through the bars, striking the rope that would soon claim him, and Jack felt the weight of inevitability pressing down, heavier than any chain. Every muscle in his body ached from the beating he had taken. His escape was impossible; the Pearl had left him here days ago, in a secret cove, with the promise of her return only in the distant future. And worse, he had never even reached Will or Elizabeth. The hope of visiting them, of a brief connection with people who might understand him, had crumbled the moment he had seen a young couple being harassed on the streets and intervened. Now, beaten and cornered, he paid the price for his conscience.
The door creaked open. Jack, weary beyond measure, closed his eyes instinctively. He wondered what Norrington intended this time. A simple execution? Or something more personal, more torturous, tailored to humiliate him for every pirate crime—or imagined crime—he had committed?
Commodore James Norrington stepped into the cell, the weight of authority in his posture, the lines of his uniform sharp and precise. He moved to the bars and studied Jack in silence. Jack kept his eyes closed, sensing that nothing he could do would matter. He was at Norrington’s mercy.
When Norrington finally spoke, his voice was unexpectedly calm, almost gentle. “Twenty-six ships,” he said softly.
Jack cracked one eye open. “Twenty-six ships?” he murmured. His throat was dry. Norrington’s words settled on him like a curious puzzle.
“The Pearl has captured twenty-six ships over the last three years,” Norrington continued. “Not a single English ship among them.”
Jack exhaled, faint relief mingling with his exhaustion. “Of course not,” he said hoarsely, forcing himself onto his knees despite the pain. “Will and Elizabeth… they’d have been responsible. I’d never let it fall on them. I… I just wanted to thank them in my own way.”
Norrington’s eyes remained steady, unblinking. “Do you know how many died in those raids?”
Jack stiffened. “No! None!” he snapped, despite the raw rasp of his voice. “I don’t care what you think—there were none.”
Norrington inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth. “I know. For a pirate, you are remarkably… merciful.”
Jack huffed, irritated by the tone, but too tired to argue. “Call it what you like,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m no murderer.”
A long silence passed. Norrington’s gaze weighed on him. Then he spoke again, quietly, almost as if confessing to himself. “It seems a particularly good pirate you are not, either. You’ve found trouble again simply by doing what you thought right.”
Jack sighed, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch,” he muttered.
Norrington’s voice was softer now. “And that… is the reason you are not a pirate?”
Jack opened his eyes, frowning. “What do you mean? I am a pirate!”
Norrington hesitated, considering. “You kill no one, attack no English ships, and save English citizens. That does not make you a pirate—it makes you a privateer.”
Jack snapped upright, indignation flaring. “Do not mock me, Norrington! You know I have no commission!”
Norrington reached into his coat and drew out a parchment, the edges rolled neatly. “A letter of marque from the governor,” he said, with the faintest of smiles. Jack’s eyes went wide.
“Is this your revenge?” Jack whispered, suspicion heavy in his tone. “Show me the letter that could save my life… only to hang me tomorrow?”
Norrington shook his head. “The letter is for you.”
Jack’s throat went dry. “We both know you will not hand it over. I am a pirate. And all pirates are murderers.”
“I once believed that,” Norrington said softly. “Until a pirate gave me my life, even though he had every reason to take it.”
Jack froze. The severity, the usual unforgiving line in Norrington’s eyes, softened into… something else.
Without another word, Norrington moved to the wall, fetched a set of keys, and unlocked the cell door. He stepped inside, hand outstretched toward Jack. Hesitation seized him, then slowly, carefully, Jack took it. Norrington steadied him as he rose.
Dizzy, the world tilting in all directions, Jack realized he was being supported. He looked into Norrington’s eyes and saw not hatred, not judgment—only… gratitude.
“For my life,” Norrington said quietly, extending the letter.
Jack took the parchment, understanding in that instant that the war between them, for now, was over. Norrington was no longer his enemy.