Norrington found himself standing upon a raised platform, looking down at the gallows.

The wooden structure swayed and creaked in the wind, casting eerie shadows as streaks of cloud chased each other across a bulging, bone-white moon. The air was thick and heavy, leaving a taste of dirt and blood in his mouth.

He was bewildered to find himself back in the fort at Port Royal. Looking down at himself, he realized with a jolt that he was wearing his Admiral's uniform, as crisp and pristine as the day he'd first received it.

Looking up, he saw a shadowy hangman leading a long line of figures to the gallows. A ragged victim trudged heavily up the steps, hands bound before him. The hangman shoved the noose roughly around the man's neck, then stood back and swung the trap. The man kicked and jerked as the noose tightened around his neck, then went slack and dangled lifelessly at the end of the rope.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" asked a voice at his side.

Norrington turned to see Lord Cutler Beckett standing beside him. The smaller man didn't turn to face him, but stood gazing out at the scene with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of smug satisfaction. "Admiral James Norrington, scourge of piracy," he went on, in a tone of approval. "They carved that on your memorial, you know."

Before Norrington could speak, Beckett continued matter-of-factly, "Of course, not all of them were pirates." Another victim was struggling in the grip of the noose now; this one was a woman. "In fact, some of them were completely innocent. But still..."

Beckett took a step forward, out of the shadows where they stood and into the moonlight. His clothes became rotten and decayed, hanging off him in rags, and when he turned back to face Norrington, his face was a diseased, grinning skull. "One can hardly be bothered with such petty details in the pursuit of one's duty, eh?"

"No..." Norrington breathed out in horror as yet another victim was led to the noose. This one was a ragged child, an urchin barely twelve years old. "I didn't..."

"Didn't what?" Beckett interrupted, his lidless eyes staring from beneath the tatters of his tricorn hat, strands of his ruined wig dangling before his face. "Didn't know?" he scoffed, as the boy died like the others before him. "Or didn't want to know?"

The skeleton's jaws parted in an obscene laugh. "Watch well, my dear Admiral. I could never have accomplished it without you."

Norrington couldn't move, couldn't turn away, as he saw Jack Sparrow trudge into view up the steps of the gallows, hands shackled before him. Jack raised his head and sneered, "Well, well. Finally got what you wanted, eh? Much joy may it bring you, mate." With that, the noose was settled around Jack's neck. The trap swung, and with a sharp jerk, his body dropped and he kicked out his life at the end of a rope...

No... Norrington struggled to move, to speak, but he was frozen in place, couldn't so much as raise a hand to protest as Will Turner was next to climb into view. He was dressed as he'd been when Norrington had first encountered him, in his plain, dirty blacksmith's garb, and his hair hung down over his face as he turned accusing eyes to him.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" Will spat, raising his bound fists as the noose settled around his neck. "Will this make Elizabeth love you? Will she stand by your side as they lower me into my grave?"

The trap swung.

No...!

Then came Governor Swann, upright and dignified as he was led to his death. "Did you really believe I'd returned to England?" he accused, his voice haughty as the noose went over his head. "Were you too stupid to realize the truth? Or too blinded by ambition to see anything else?"

The trap swung.

"No...!" Norrington managed to protest, the word wrenched out from his tightened throat.

Then came Gillette, his faithful lieutenant from the Dauntless. "I trusted you, Commodore!" he accused, his voice shaking. "I followed your orders, and you led me to my death!"

"No!" Feeling like his legs were made of lead, Norrington struggled to take one step forward, then another.

The trap swung.

"Gillette! No!" he shouted, moving his legs through sheer willpower, growing closer to the gallows, reaching for his sword with glacial slowness. The shadowy figure on the platform was dragging a final victim into view, her dress tattered, her hair flying wildly in the foul, reeking wind...

"Elizabeth!" he screamed.

She raised her head, and looked at him with eyes filled with tears of hate. "You did this," she whispered, as her voice rose to a shriek of rage. "You did this! All of it! All of them died because of you!"

The hangman forced the noose around her neck.

The trap swung.

"NO!!" Norrington finally reached the hangman. "MURDERER!" he screamed, grabbing the figure by the shoulders, wrenching him around, raising his sword to kill.

A rotting, skeletal version of his own face stared back at him, and began to laugh, and laugh...

--

Norrington yelled aloud as he woke, waving his arms as if warding off some unseen evil. Breath heaving in his chest, he struggled upright and stared around at his surroundings.

He was sitting on a plain, uncomfortable cot against one wall of a small cell. A few inches of water sloshed back and forth across his boot toes as the ship rocked gently in the waves. Taking deep breaths to steady himself, Norrington remembered being brought down to the brig by the two cackling wastrel pirates. Looking towards the cell door, he was surprised to see it unlocked, in noted contrast to last night.

Wondering whether this was some sort of trick, he stood up from the cot, then carefully made his way to the door and pushed it with one hand. It swung open easily, and he stepped out. Glancing up, he saw someone standing at the top of the stairs that led up from the brig. It was a small man--very small--bald-headed and scowling. He held Norrington's sword and belt in his hands, and glared at him with undisguised suspicion.

Before Norrington could speak, the other man said, "Cap'n says you don't get these back till you leave." He indicated the steps with a jerk of his head. "Come on."

Having no real alternative, Norrington followed the small man, eventually emerging onto the deck of the Pearl. All around him, the ship bustled with activity. Looking out over the prow, he felt a jolt of recognition.

The docks of Port Royal lay spread out before him beneath the bright morning sun. For a moment, he felt a flicker of terror, as the sight brought back memories of his nightmare. But he shoved his feelings aside, and stared out over the place he'd long called home.

Yet it was different than he remembered it...dirtier, shabbier, less populous. And an infamous pirate vessel like the Black Pearl was allowed to dock unchallenged, in broad daylight? Who is in charge here? he asked himself with disgust, looking up and down the docks for any presence of authority. There were a few red-coated soldiers lounging at the end of a pier, but they seemed willfully oblivious to what was going on right in front of them. In fact, they seemed more interested in ogling a couple of suggestively clad women than in anything else.

Fuming, Norrington had to fight down an impulse to stride down there and thrash the daylights out of the indolent laggards. I have no more authority here than Sparrow does, he reminded himself bitterly. Undoubtedly after Beckett's death, the influence of both the East India Trading Company and the British government had waned, leaving Port Royal to be overrun by the very scum he'd spent his life trying to wipe out.

Brooding on what had become of his beloved port city, he was oblivious to all else around him until he was rudely shoved aside.

"Look out, can't you?" a harsh voice demanded. Norrington almost stumbled as he sidestepped away from Pintel and Ragetti, who were struggling to carry a large crate between them. The former demanded, "Why don't you do something instead of standin' around like a knob?"

Before he could think up a suitable retort, another voice caught his attention. "So," Barbossa called, striding up to him with his ever-present monkey perched smugly on his shoulder. "It seems you know what to do with an open door."

Norrington snorted. "Well, I never was one to refuse an invitation." He looked around him, noting the absence of one figure in particular. "Where's Sparrow?"

Barbossa pointed. "Over there." Norrington shaded his eyes with his hand, and saw Jack standing on a neighboring pier. He was deep in animated conversation with a slender, dark-skinned woman wearing men's trousers and an oversized floppy hat.

Before he could ask questions, Barbossa took hold of Norrington's upper arm and pulled him around so they were facing each other. "Jack says to let you earn your keep while we're in port, then send you off. But if it be up to me," he finished in tones of quiet threat, "I'd gladly see you walk the plank."

"Well then," Norrington replied calmly, "I'm glad it's not up to you."

Barbossa curled his lip in a sneer. "Go where ye will, then, and take your unsaid purpose with you. But set foot upon my ship again, and you'll die a'fore ye take a second step. Understood?" The monkey squealed and rasped, bobbing its head up and down as if encouraging its master's bloodlust.

Norrington only nodded. Barbossa snapped, "Good," then pointed to the stack of crates that were gradually being hauled down to the docks. "Now make yourself useful. And mind you don't do anything I don't fancy the sight of." He patted his pistol's holster in a significant gesture.

Without comment, Norrington joined the rest of the crew in unloading their cargo. But after he'd set his burden down on the pier, he took the opportunity to watch Jack and his mysterious companion.

She was flanked by two men who seemed chosen both for their size and extreme lack of humor. Arms crossed over her chest, she fixed Jack with a flinty stare as he gestured and waved. Norrington couldn't hear what he was saying, but they seemed to be haggling over some merchandise Jack had brought her. A few small crates lay around them, as well as a large canvas sack from which Jack periodically withdrew some trinket or another, which the woman either accepted with a nod or refused with a head-shake.

He heard Ragetti's weird chuckle from behind him. "That's Anamaria," the other said in response to his unspoken question. "Captain of the Winged Fury. Drives a wicked hard bargain, I've heard tell."

"Aye," Pintel agreed. "And poor ol' Jack won't be gettin' what he really wants, eh?" Pintel nudged Ragetti in the side with his elbow, and the two of them guffawed at this attempt at ribaldry.

Norrington ignored them. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Jack reached into the sack and withdrew, with great ceremony, a small, round black stone.

His heartbeat quickened at the sight. Jack and Anamaria seemed to be discussing the stone's price in increasingly heated tones. Finally she made what appeared to be a final offer, Jack flung up his hands in a dramatic sigh, and solemnly handed it over.

Then Barbossa's voice bellowed from atop the deck, "Back to work, ye filthy maggots! Or it's the lash you'll feel!"

Fuming silently, Norrington returned to his labors, wondering if he could make a break for it and grab the stone. But even if he got free of the Pearl, he'd have Anamaria and her bodyguards to deal with...and he was still unarmed until someone decided otherwise.

He didn't see Jack again until the Pearl was completely unloaded. The pirate captain came sauntering back with a jingling coin purse and the air of one who'd successfully accomplished grand larceny. Norrington waited on the pier in silence, all the while peering over Jack's shoulder towards the female pirate. If she boarded her ship with her cargo, he was done for. But luck seemed to be with him, as he saw her order one of her men back on board. The other walked behind her, carrying an armload of the plunder she'd bartered from Jack. They appeared to be heading into town.

Norrington barely paid attention as Jack spoke to him. "So, here's where we part ways, eh, former Commodore?" Without waiting for an answer, Jack went on, "All well and good, here's your lovely sword back, can't say as it was good seeing you again." Jack gestured to the diminutive bald pirate. He approached carrying the sword in both arms, still fixing Norrington with a suspicious glare.

As anxious as he was to be off, Norrington realized that to rush away would be to provoke unwanted suspicion. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked, taking his sword back and fastening the belt around his waist.

Jack looked to and fro. "No," he replied. "I'm here, my ship is here, and soon you won't be. So all seems to be in order..."

He trailed off as he noticed Norrington was holding his hand out palm-up. Jack scowled. "Oh, all right." Grudgingly, he reached into the bulging purse and brought forth a paltry number of very small coins.

"That's it?" Norrington demanded.

Jack smirked. "Still not thinking like a pirate, mate. If you want a fair wage, set your price before you do the job. Still..." With an attitude of saintly generosity, he added a single shilling to the tiny pile in Norrington's hand. "Go buy yourself a drink, eh? You could use one."

With that, he made shooing motions with his hands. "Go on, then. Off with you. Go stink up someplace else."

Pocketing his meager salary, Norrington smirked and gave a mocking bow. "As my captain commands."

Trying to walk as if he wasn't in any kind of hurry, he headed towards where he'd seen Anamaria and her companion disappear into town. He ignored Jack's shouts from behind, "And if you ever see William again, tell him no more dumping corpses on my ship! It's impolite!"

"If I ever see 'William' again," he muttered to himself as he quickened his pace through the crowd, "Your disapproval will be the least of his worries."

--

As it happened, Norrington would have a long wait in store before he could accomplish anything at all.

He'd followed Anamaria and her crewman to a small, cluttered shop in a slightly run-down part of the city. They'd entered the shop with an armload of plunder and exited some time later with a small, clinking bag and a shared look of smug satisfaction. Therefore, it didn't take much mental effort to deduce what had taken place.

Now Norrington waited, slouched down on the ground with his back against a wall. He kept a constant eye on the shop door through a gap in the stack of barrels that shielded him from prying eyes. From time to time, he glanced up at the sky, as if willing darkness to come faster. Although the part of him that was still sickened by what he'd become wished that nightfall would never arrive, thus sparing him the opportunity to do what he knew he had to.

I did try to buy it honestly, he reminded himself with a scowl, trying to shore up his flagging sense of honor. I can't help it if Sparrow didn't pay me enough to buy a handful of piss. The store proprietor--a small, chubby man with a tremendous air of self-importance--had laughed at Norrington's paltry sum and ordered him out, with a threat to alert the authorities should he return. As if I didn't just see you doing business with pirates, you overstuffed hypocrite, he thought with no small amount of bitterness.

So he'd found himself this spot to waste out the rest of the day, and waited for the store to close for the night. He'd had some concerns about being recognized by passers-by, but he needn't have worried. Anyone who so much as glanced in his direction did so with nothing but suspicion and contempt for this unshaven vagrant slouched beside a stack of ale barrels.

Gloomily, Norrington recalled the time when he would walk these same streets with a contingent of sailors in step behind him, accepting the greetings and praise of nearly everyone he passed. Now he realized that all their acclaim was only for the uniform he wore. None of them had ever really seen the man who wore it.

The day was hot and stifling, and his mind wandered as he grew drowsy. With a trace of morbid humor, he wondered if the people of Port Royal had given Admiral Norrington a hero's funeral. Perhaps I should visit my grave, he mused with a twisted smile, as his eyes closed of their own accord. And then get myself arrested for spitting on it.

His thoughts turned darker as he thought of the other tombstones that would share that cemetery. Gillette. Lefarbe. Young Wilkins, barely more than a lad. The gallant crew of the flagship Dauntless, cut short in their prime by a raging hurricane, and their own commander's madness.

He had survived the wreck, of course. Fate wasn't kind enough to let him go down to the depths with the rest of his men.

The day they'd stripped him of his commission, he'd felt like his soul had been ripped from his body. All that day and well into the evening, he'd wandered the streets like an empty husk, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. Everyone who passed him seemed, in his mind, to draw away in revulsion, as if he carried some deadly blight. At last, he'd found some nameless pub to drown in alcohol anything within him that could still feel.

He didn't remember where he'd slept that night. Or the next. Or the next...

With a start, Norrington came back to himself and realized it was night. Weariness must have overcome him, and he'd fallen asleep where he lay. He propped himself up with a wince of pain, as his lower back hadn't taken kindly to a day spent pressed against a stone wall.

All around him, the streets and buildings were dark, lit only by a flickering torch here and there. Quickly, he darted his gaze to the store he'd been watching. It was dark as well, although a window on the floor above was still lit. Presumably the owner lived above his store, and was preparing for bed. Luck seemed to be with him once again, as the light from upstairs burned for only a brief time, then went out.

Norrington waited a while longer, forcing himself to be patient. Finally, he rose to his feet, grabbing up a half-brick that lay nearby. Moving cautiously, he approached the store. He caught sight of his reflection in the window mounted in the center of the door, then grimaced and looked away. Peering back and forth down the length of the avenue, he raised the brick, then balked at what he was about to do.

Go on, then, he told himself with resignation. Add "destruction of property" to your burgeoning list of crimes. With that, he steeled himself, and smashed in the pane. He darted his gaze around at the noise of tinkling glass, certain someone must have heard, but the only sound was a dog barking in the distance. Feeling well and truly committed to the criminal life now, Norrington reached in through the broken pane and fumbled to find the latch. The door swung open, and he took a cautious step inside, his boots crunching on the broken glass.

The interior of the tiny shop was dark and musty; the only illumination came from the window along the outside wall and the half-open door behind him. Following his shadow across the room, he moved towards the long wooden table along the back wall, which was piled high with more trinkets and outright junk than he could identify. The stone had been there this afternoon, but he couldn't see it now. His chest grew tight with anxiety; had he broken in for nothing? Please, it must be here...

...there. In the far back corner, between a rusted iron candelabra and an ugly ceramic lion with chipped paint, the small black stone lay innocuously against the dusty wood. He could see the tiny, jagged white lines crossing its surface, like streaks of lightning against an ink-black sky.

At last, he thought, shoulders sagging with relief. Eagerly, he reached for it. Then he hesitated; if this stone contained some aspect of the wild goddess's power, what would happen to him when he touched it? Finally, deciding he had no other choice, he braced himself and reached for it again.

Norrington grasped the stone firmly in his right hand, held it out before him...

...and that was all. There was no flash of light, no tingle of electricity, no sudden surge of terrifying power. The stone was neither warm nor cold nor unusual in any way; it felt simply as if he were holding a small, round, smooth, slightly heavy rock.

"Well," he muttered. "That was anti-climactic."

He stuffed the stone in his coat pocket without ceremony, then turned in place...

...and nearly walked straight into an extended blade.

Jerking to a halt, Norrington immediately reached for his own sword, but was discouraged from doing so as the blade moved closer to his heart. Then his assailant stepped forward from the shadows, into the light.

Captain Jack Sparrow wagged an admonishing finger. "Ah-ah-ah, former Commodore," he chided. "None of that, if you please."

Norrington raised his hands in surrender and let out a frustrated sigh. "How long have you been there?" he demanded.

"Long enough." Jack darted a glance towards Norrington's pocket. "See, as deeply convincing as your story was..." The way he said this left no doubt he meant the exact opposite. "...I couldn't help but wonder what you were really up to." Then he looked confused. "What are you really up to?"

"I suppose you wouldn't believe I've embarked upon a new career as a master burglar?" Norrington asked dryly.

Jack shook his head. "Not really."

"Very well." Norrington's shoulders sagged as he decided he had nothing to lose by telling the truth. He gestured towards his pocket. "If I may?" Jack shrugged, but didn't lower his sword. Slowly, Norrington reached in and retrieved the stone, holding it in his palm for Jack's examination. "Calypso ordered me to retrieve this. I have three--no, two days, now," he corrected, "to bring it to her."

"Oh?" Jack peered at the stone with curiosity, but no apparent recognition. "What's it do?"

Norrington looked skeptical. "Don't you know? You stole it from her."

"Did I? No I didn't." Jack looked furtive. "I don't know, it may have accidentally fallen in my pocket at some point. Purely unintentional, I assure you."

"Of course," Norrington replied acidly. "No doubt that happens to you all the time." He paused, then went on, "She said it contained some of her power...whatever that means."

Jack looked like he was going to inquire further, when his attention was diverted to the dark dragon-shaped mark on Norrington's chest, showing through his half-open shirt. "Here, that's new, isn't it?" He nudged the shirt flap aside with his blade, and peered at the brand with the interest of a connoisseur. "Where'd you get that? Singapore? Phuket? They do good work there, I'm told..."

"Calypso put it on me," Norrington broke in, visibly wincing at the memory. "She said it was...something to remember her by. My guess is it has something to do with my rapidly-approaching deadline."

"Ah?" Jack cocked his head, looking vaguely repulsed. "So, what, then. If you don't bring her the stone, she'll turn you into a dragon?"

Norrington gave a wry expression. "I highly doubt she'll be that generous."

He sighed, and looked at Jack with something like genuine pleading. "Jack. Please," he said, feeling as if it had cost him several chunks of his dignity to say the words. "You've already sold the stone. It has no value to you." He paused. "Just let me return it, and I'll have earned my freedom."

Jack shook his head sorrowfully. "You're not seeing the big picture here, mate." His expression became cunning. "If that bit of rock contains a piece of Her Tempestuous-ness, it must be worth something to her. So the man who holds it would possess a great deal of, shall we say, leverage." He raised his eyebrows. "Savvy?"

Norrington folded his arms. "And you're not afraid she'll come after you when she finds you've taken it?"

"Try and use your brain for once, can't you?" Norrington bristled at the insult as Jack went on, "If Calypso could come after the thingy herself, she wouldn't have sent you as her errand boy, now would she?"

Norrington glared at him. "I won't let you do this."

Jack took a step closer with his sword extended, pressing Norrington further back. "I can't see as you have any choice. Now, let's be civilized and avoid any regrettable incidents, shall we?" He held out his free hand. "The stone, please."

Suddenly, they both heard the clattering sound of approaching footsteps. Jack whirled in place, and Norrington took the opportunity to stuff the stone back in his pocket and draw his own sword. However, before he could take any further action, the door slammed open and what seemed like dozens of soldiers came pouring into the tiny shop.

Hemmed in by bristling bayonets, Norrington and Jack heard a voice from the crowd of soldiers say, "You are under arrest. Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air."

"Oh," Jack observed, dropping his sword with a clatter. "Bugger."

Mimicking his action, Norrington concurred dryly, "I couldn't have said it better myself."