After several exhaustive attempts to lasso Beckett's body with a makeshift rope lariat, Elizabeth agreed that she herself would descend into the water to attach the body to the rope. Two pulleys were constructed from running rigging. Gibbs lowered her slowly into the midst of the wreckage with the rope from the second pulley. She soon reached Beckett's body and looped the large noose around his torso, working the loop up to his chest level yet under the shoulders, and tightening so as not to allow the body to slip out.

"Alright, Gibbs! You can pull me up!"

Soon after Elizabeth had been pulled back onto the ship, Beckett's soaked and unconscious body was pulled up by Gibbs and her and flopped facedown onto the deck. His hat was still neatly positioned on his head somehow, although his powdered wig looked a bit disheveled. The seawater had ruined his black velvet coat. Elizabeth and Gibbs gaped at the body in awe. Could he still be alive after all that had happened? And how had his hat stubbornly remained on his head?

"We need to cover him. We can't have the crew gawking at him all the time."

"Do ye plan on leavin' him on deck, or stowin' him away? 'Twould be best if we stash him down in the brig."

"Yes. That is what we shall do."

Cutler Beckett could feel the warmth returning to his extremities as he lay motionless in the brig of the Black Pearl. He had allowed the chill of the seawater to set into his bones and render him incapable of much more than thinking of his fate. This was how he had assumed he'd die. Yet, here he was, returning to the world of the living…

He began to violently shiver as the infiltrating warmth restored the function of his muscles. His eyes fluttered open to the sight of a pitch black obstruction, a heavy item lying on his face. His arms were warming and yet they were completely devoid of sensation, so his attempts at flailing them about only ended in him hitting himself, which he also couldn't feel.

Is this what death is like? he pondered. Sensing everything but helpless to escape one's grave? Did I fail the Judgement? But…how could I possibly be perceived as evil? The pirates are evil. Davy Jones is evil. I was the antithesis of evil, making those bastards squirm in their skins whilst I held my position of power.

Yet, it is as if my body is returning to Earth. But how could that be? I am certain that I must have been killed in that explosion. The fire…. Hurtling into the air… The blackness and chill of death setting into my bones.

His arms soon regained sensation, and he was able to rub his arms along his sides, feeling the stiffness of the ruined velvet coat with his palms. He allowed for his hands to travel to the center of his body, and then bent his elbows so that his hands could approach his face. The heavy item draped over him was itchy on the back of his hands, and he figured it must be some type of wool. He lifted his arms up hastily, throwing the wool blanket off of himself, and squinted as rays of light flooded his vision.

Where am I? he thought, too afraid to speak. Maybe now I am actually dead, whereas before I was dying. I have been redeemed, for the light of Heaven is upon me…

His eyes narrowed to small slits, he sat up slowly, using his arms to lift himself into a seated position. Slowly his vision adjusted to the light. He was in some sort of cell in the brig of a ship, and there were many cannonball-sized breaches in the hull, allowing for the sunlight to stream in. Suddenly, he heard a loud but very close thud. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he attempted to regain composure.

Elizabeth barreled through the door, her figure illuminated by the sunlight. Noticing that her captive was now awake, she narrowed her eyes menacingly and glared at Beckett, who could only stare at her, open-mouthed.

Beckett had thrown the wool blanket off of himself, and was now sitting with legs outstretched in the exact same place she and Gibbs had dumped him onto the floor. Most of his wig had fallen out of the black tie and was hanging in frizzy white strings around his pale face. He was as white as a ghost and his eyes were huge and fearful. She could see in this light that the pupils of his blue-green eyes were hardly visible. As she approached the bars, he did not move, staying at his position on the floor yet watching her warily the entire time.

"So, you did survive," she sneered, reaching the bars. It suddenly dawned on him that he had been rescued. Well, only because you willed it, he mused, his fearful expression disappearing.

"Why didn't you just let me die," he croaked in a bland tone, looking moderately disgusted. Just like that, he had immediately reverted back to arrogance.

"You do not deserve to die with an ounce of honour," she snapped back at him.

"And how is it that you came to be the judge of that?" he asked, cocky as ever.

"You killed my father."

"So, essentially you are saying that anyone who kills another's relative is subject to judgment by that person?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry, Miss Swann, I just don't see your reasoning. If what you're saying is your belief, then virtually everyone is a judge of another… as well as being themselves judged." A smirk appeared on his face, and he crossed his arms awaiting the response.

"I am going to see to it that that smirk will be forever wiped off your face."

Predictably, the smirk remained.

"You really should have let me die then. I can assure you that in what I thought were my final moments, I was not smirking."

"Well, you're alive now, and I can assure you that you will wish you had died already."

Another thud came from the ladder leading down to the brig. The footsteps that followed were uneven, as if the person had been stumbling.

Jack Sparrow appeared in the doorway behind Elizabeth, and immediately saw the captive on the ground in front of her.

"Wot th' bloody hell, Elizabeth! Wot's he doing here!"