"I know my place," Will tells the Commodore defiantly, chin raised. "It's right here, between you and Jack."
Elizabeth stares at him in shock, and before she has time to think, steps in in front of Will. She has no idea what she will do, what she hopes to accomplish, only that she must protect the men who saved her from the gallows. Her father gasps, and snaps at the marines surrounding them to put the damned guns away. They do, which is odd, she thinks dimly: They are military men, and should not be taking orders from anyone other than their commanding officer, especially not in his presence. Only Lieutenant Gillette, ever loyal, remains in position, watching his commander out of the corner of his eye for a sign.
None comes. Elizabeth lets her gaze flicker over to her fiancé, the man she has rashly promised herself to in a desperate attempt to save Will, and finds him staring at her, a curious expression in his green eyes. She tries to read it and finds she can't, not quite. It strikes her as ridiculous suddenly, that she should be able to see a man so regularly, almost every day he has been in Port Royal since their arrival seven years ago, and still know him not at all. But he has always been a part of her father's world, never hers, the world of orders and rules and authority, which she as a woman can never hope to join, even if she lives to be a hundred.
She returns his stare and realises suddenly that it is pain she sees there, raw and unadulterated. There are other things, but pain is the only one she can identify and be certain of, although the source remains a mystery. The realisation catches her off guard, and it occurs to her that she has never known he could feel such an emotion. Or any emotion, for that matter. In all the time she has known him, she has certainly never seen him display any, although now that she thinks about it, she supposes she has never really looked. Until now, she has simply never seen the purpose: He is just Norrington, steady, admirable, devoid of any feeling that can't be put right with a nice cup of tea and an early night. Or so she imagines – he has, of course, never told her this, being that it is improper to discuss such things.
The look in his eye now, though, hunted and aching, tells her that she is wrong. She finds herself unable to hold his gaze suddenly, and looks away, her eyes flickering over the surrounding marines, searching their faces for something to focus on, something that will not cause this little pocket of guilt inside her to flare up the way her fiancé does. As the scans them, she realises that, aside from Gillette, she does not recognise a single one. Many of them look terribly young, barely old enough to shave, and all of them seem confused and uncertain, their weapons hovering between idle and engaged positions as they look from Norrington, to her, to her father and back again. To a man, they seem to have very little idea of what they are supposed to be doing, and in an instant, she understands what he has done. It surprises her, and she turns back to him. It makes sense, she realises: He does not want to hang them either, but their actions and his position mean that he has no choice. All he can do is feign incompetence, forget to lock the proverbial barn door and hope they manage. For the first time in her life, she feels an odd kinship with this man has never known. Like her, he is bound by his status, and must work within the rules that bind him if he is to do what he knows to be right without bringing disgrace upon his family.
Her father is watching her, his weathered face silently promising that he will love her regardless, but pleading with her to take the right, sensible path, and Elizabeth makes her choice. She turns to Will.
"Go," she tells him, trying to convey in that one word all she feels at this moment – her unending affection for him, her sorrow that she must be left behind, and the knowledge that this is the way it must be.
"Elizabeth-" His dark eyes widen in distress, and he lifts a hand towards her, but she stays it with her own hand on his arm, refusing to let the tears well up in her eyes.
"Will go, now," she instructs again. And he does. The parrot squawks, and in a instant he and Jack are over the edge. A gasp runs through the marines and Gillette turns to the Commodore, who is now looking at Elizabeth so intently that it brings a faint blush to her cheeks.
"Sir?" he asks, and Norrington tears his gaze from her to answer his second-in-command's unspoken question.
"Mister Gillette," he says, in that same measured, commanding voice Elizabeth has heard since she was a child, "we have lost the Interceptor and the Dauntless is in need of considerable repair, and those two are no threat to anyone but themselves. I think His Majesty's resources could be better spent elsewhere than chasing after a pair of harmless rogues, don't you?"
"Sir," Gillette agrees with a relieved smile, turning and leading the men back into the fort. Elizabeth is left alone with her father and the Commodore, the breeze from the sea tugging at her hat and dress, wondering what she has just done. Her father is beaming at her, unable to disguise his delight, but it is her future husband who fills her thoughts. He is watching her guardedly, apparently not quite able to believe his good fortune, not quite able to believe that she won't jump over the edge at any moment, to Will Turner and freedom. There is an unexpected pang in her chest, and she finds that she doesn't want him to think that she wishes to be free of him.
She takes a step towards him, and she is that sure it is only his military discipline, ingrained since the age of thirteen, which keeps him from taking a step back. He is staring at her as though she is a loose cannon that might go off at any minute, and she can't help but find it rather funny and terribly endearing that, having spent last night fighting hordes of skeletal pirates, he should be so afraid of her. She smiles as she places a hand on his chest, noting with a small thrill how his breath catches almost imperceptibly at the contact. The brocade of his uniform is rough under her palm as she reaches up to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, the skin unexpectedly prickly in the late afternoon.
"You are a good man, James Norrington," she tells him, her smile broadening further still at the look he gives her, joyous and awed and longing all at once. For a moment, he looks as though he would very much like to take her in his arms and embrace her, and she thinks he just might have, if it wasn't for her father standing beside them. The thought does not make her squirm as it would have mere days ago, but her father is there, watching them with a grin that threatens to split his dear face in half, and so he doesn't. Refusing to feel disappointed, Elizabeth gathers up her skirts and sweeps past both of them into the courtyard, forcing her father to scurry after her as she makes for their carriage. There will be plenty of time for embraces, she reminds herself, and is only slightly surprised at the way her stomach clenches deliciously at the thought of them.