Elizabeth was staring at the cutlass swinging for her head when a brick wall collided with her, sending her flying into the shallows. She spluttered as seawater splashed her face, and when she opened her eyes to stare up at the thing that had hit her she saw James Norrington, standing just where she had been moments before, taking the brunt of the fish-man's blow with his sword.

He pushed his opponent back, slashing, steel meeting steel again in a flurry of strikes. The fish-man snarled in rage at his ineffectiveness and hacked at James's head, but the ex-commodore ducked, the blade sailing harmlessly over him while the inertia carried the fish-man's arm around to expose his right side. James took advantage of the opening, bringing his weapon to bear on his opponent, and a cry of agony pierced the air as flesh and bone were cleaved in two.

Elizabeth gaped at the severed limb that fell into the water, inhuman screams of pain reverberating above her, before she regained enough of her wits to pounce forward and pry the sword from the stiffened, lifeless fingers. When it came loose she stumbled to her feet, automatically backing against James as a trio of Jones's crew rushed forward to the aid of their wounded comrade.

She aimed at one of them while James handled the other two, and she was amazed at just how quick he was with a blade. She had witnessed him dispatch the drunkards in the Tortuga tavern last night, and she could remember watching him duel for sport in Port Royal, but neither instance had been anything at all like this. This was a fight to the death, and he was going after their collective enemy with a reckless abandon and a fury the likes of which she had never before seen in him.

It suddenly occurred to her that he was a genuinely dangerous man.

He cursed behind her as she whipped her sword in a circle and the fish-man's weapon went flying, and she turned around in time to meet another blade. From the corner of her eye she could see that he was sporting a nasty cut above his brow, blinking away blood, and she nudged him with her shoulder. He took the hint, the two of them whirling around and allowing her to beat back the pair of crewmen while he slashed at the one she had disarmed. Another horrific scream rang out and she could only assume that he had maimed again.

Suddenly another of Jones's men sprang in her periphery but then was knocked aside, and her jaw dropped.

"Will!" she cried out in relief, and she would have thrown her arms around him then and there if it wouldn't have gotten them both killed.

"To the boat!" he shouted as he kicked away the downed crewman's weapon before engaging another.

She spun in the direction of the longboat, seeing that Pintel and Ragetti had managed to break away from the fight and were already sprinting towards it, and she had just started after them when a searing pain erupted in her thigh. With a scream she collapsed in the shallows, looking down to see red frothing away in the water, gasping as salt burned the wound. Tears stung her eyes, her vision blurring, and she was trying to crawl blindly forward when someone jerked her to her feet.

She expected to see Will, but when she blinked she realized that it was James and she grabbed hold of his shoulder, his grip around her waist like iron as he half-dragged her away from the battle. Behind them came the ringing of metal on metal as Will held back the remainder of Jones's crew.

Will glanced over his shoulder to see Norrington practically toss Elizabeth into the longboat before helping Pintel and Ragetti to shove off, while Jack brandished an oar against one of the fish-men. Will turned back around to cross blades with the enemy again, this time beating back two of them, kicking one into the shallows and disarming the other. There was enough of an opening for him to turn and run, and he whirled around to sprint towards the boat.

He could hear the cries of the cursed crew behind him as he went and when he skidded to a halt beside the small vessel his eyes immediately locked onto the chest, sitting open and empty, and he forgot how to breathe.

When time decided to start again, his head snapped up and he glared at Sparrow.

"Jack!" he bellowed, and the pirate slammed the oar into the fish-man's head before swinging around, frowning.

"The heart!" demanded Will.

"Like I'd be tellin' you, mate," shouted back Sparrow, smirking before landing a kick into his stunned opponent's chest.

"It's in the jar of dirt!"

It was Elizabeth, who was curled in the hull with a hand pressed to the nasty gash in her leg, and for the first time he noticed the mound of spilled earth on the bench beside the chest. His gaze landed the large glass jar and he reached for it, but before he could act he heard Norrington furiously swearing behind him. Elizabeth squealed, and when he turned around he was very nearly decapitated by a swinging cutlass, but he dipped down and thrust his own sword forward and into the midriff of his attacker. He twisted the blade, eliciting a cry of pain, and when he pulled it out a foul mixture of brown acid and undigested chunks spilled from the crewman's gut.

He kicked the fish-man back, watching as Norrington fought off another, and as much as he disliked the ex-commodore he couldn't help but be thankful that he was here. Elizabeth would probably be dead if it weren't for him.

Still, the immortal crew of Davy Jones continued to press in around them, and he had nearly given up hope of escaping when a thought struck him. He turned back around, grabbing hold of the empty chest and snapping the lid shut, and when he wheeled back around he smashed it into the head of an oncoming adversary. It got the attention of the others, and once he was sure they had all seen what he was holding, he pulled back with every ounce of his strength and threw the chest into the air.

Their battlecries suddenly quieted as they froze to watch it sail slowly across the sky before it splashed down yards away, sending up a plume of white water.

It all happened in no more than a few seconds, but it was just long enough for Jack to jump in the longboat and toss the missing oar to Pintel and Ragetti, who began rowing like men possessed. Norrington vaulted over the edge of the vessel, landing with a thud beside Elizabeth while Will followed suit, and when half of Jones's crew ran shouting towards the chest a contingent broke off to pursue their enemy, but it was too late.

Will looked behind and watched Isla Cruces shrink into the distance.

When he turned back around, he found to his chagrin that the former commodore was sitting in the hull next to Elizabeth, tending to her wound. He had torn off the fabric of her trousers below the gash and was using it as binding, and she winced as he tied off the ends of the bandage as tightly as he could manage. Will felt a stab of jealousy. There was no doubt that he was grateful to the man for saving his fiancé's life, but at the same time he couldn't help but feel that he should have been the one to carry her to the boat, that he should be the one caring for her now, and not James Norrington.

She looked up and met his eyes, her face breaking into a grin.

"Will," she started, reaching up to take his hand, and he squeezed her palm in his, "Thank God you're alright."

"I'm not the one to be worried about," he replied gently as he shifted to move closer to her, and beside him he sensed Norrington draw away.

"I'm perfectly fine," she insisted, "James has informed me that I will survive."

"It needs stitching," interjected the ex-commodore from somewhere to the right. He sounded just as dull as Will remembered.

Will turned towards him, hesitating for a moment.

"You have my thanks," he finally said, "I owe you a debt."

Norrington suddenly glared back, his eyes smoldering. "I did this for her sake and not for yours, Turner," he shot back quietly, and Will was taken aback by the magnitude of venom in his voice. In the eight years he had known the man, he wasn't sure he had ever seen him express such a quantity of emotion in that entire time combined, let alone in one sentence.

"James," started Elizabeth softly, something pleading in the way she regarded him, and Will was certain that she had never looked at the former commodore that way before. But it worked, for like a faithful watchdog heeding a command, Norrington stood down, withdrawing further from the two of them and sitting resignedly against the other side of the hull.

For the first time since his arrival on Isla Cruces, Will wondered what had happened to James Norrington in the past year, and he also wondered what had happened between James Norrington and Elizabeth Swann in the past week.

Before he could draw conclusions that he didn't like, he tried to push that trail of thought from his mind, instead looking at the woman sitting next to him and imagining their life together after this entire misadventure was over.

He was still thinking of the wedding when the longboat bumped into the side of the Pearl and Jack scrambled out, jar of dirt securely in hand.

James followed Turner and Elizabeth out of the boat and up the ladder, and when they reached the deck they were greeted by an astonished Gibbs. He gaped at Elizabeth, who was leaning on the blacksmith's shoulder.

"Lord," he breathed, "What the devil happened?"

Jack stepped forward. "I'm afraid we had a slight and somewhat unfortunate encounter with the crew of the Flying Dutchman."

"Slight my eye!" exclaimed Pintel gruffly from somewhere close by, "Bloody well nearly killed us!"

"Nearly killed us," echoed Ragetti.

Gibbs ignored them. "And what of the chest?" he asked, squinting at the captain.

"The contents are safely secured!" explained Sparrow, smirking crookedly and clicking bejeweled fingers against the glass jar in his arms.

"And Elizabeth?" demanded Turner suddenly, making no attempt to hide his frustration, and both Jack and the first mate jerked towards him.

"I suppose it's safe to assume there's not a surgeon amongst your crew," remarked James, already knowing that he was right. He had captured enough pirate vessels to find that they rarely had a physician aboard, much less a willing one, and medical supplies, though prized, were often scarce.

"Mister Gibbs!" began Jack, his lip twitching as he looked at Elizabeth, who was still clinging to Turner and favoring her injured leg, "Have we any provisions of a medicinal nature left in our stores?"

"Aye, that we do," replied the first mate.

"Then by all means accommodate Miss Swann and the whelp."

Gibbs disappeared below deck and James followed Turner as he helped his fiancé towards the small cabin situated beside Jack's, where he assumed Elizabeth had been staying during her time aboard the Pearl. When the three of them had crowded into the room, Turner eased her down into the lone rickety chair and then knelt beside her while James folded his arms, leaned against the wall, and very much wished that the blacksmith was back aboard the Flying Dutchman. He knew Turner's skills had been instrumental, even necessary, in their escape from Isla Cruces, and he was grateful for that, but now he wouldn't have complained had the boy simply up and vanished.

Sparrow had, after all, been at least partly right. It was Turner who had freed the criminal to begin with, James knew, and Jack's words from the midst of the duel came flooding back.

So whose fault is it, really, that you've ended up a rum-pot deckhand what takes orders from pirates?

His lip curled as he watched the blacksmith hold Elizabeth's hand and he felt his ire start to rise again. He had nearly let it overflow in the longboat, but she had warned him off, and like the good soldier he had once been he had bottled his hostility. But now he could feel that bottle beginning to crack.

When Gibbs burst into the cabin and set the small medicine chest on a crate beside Elizabeth, the timing couldn't have been better. James pushed himself away from the wall and slipped his baldric over his head, propping it and the cutlass against the crate, before shrugging off his ragged coat.

"I'll tend to her," explained the blacksmith, getting to his feet and turning to face the ex-commodore.

"No, Mister Turner," droned James, sighing resignedly as he rolled up his sleeves, "As I recall, you have no experience whatsoever in this particular area."

"And you do?"

He stared back in exasperation. "Do you honestly believe I served my entire life in the King's Navy and never learned to patch a wound?" he asked, pushing past the boy to rummage in the chest. A moment later he withdrew a needle and thread and stepped towards Elizabeth, reaching down to move a small crate next to her before sitting down.

Turner again knelt by her side.

Elizabeth bit her lip as James carefully undid his hasty bandaging to reveal the gash beneath, dried blood sticking the cloth to the skin, and he tried his best to be gentle. It was a deep cut, but the bleeding had stopped. If there was no infection, the worst she would be left with was a nasty scar.

He looked to Gibbs, who had been standing quietly out of the way, and thrust his hand towards the man. "Your flask," he ordered, beckoning impatiently.

Gibbs stared back in confusion for a moment before complying, reaching inside his vest and producing the flask. James snatched it from him, uncapping it, taking a swig, and gritting his teeth against the taste before soaking the needle. He glanced at Elizabeth, who was absently watching Will with a faint smile, and then, without warning, dumped the remainder of the alcohol on the wound.

She shrieked and shot up from where she was sitting, suddenly seizing his wrist. Her fingernails dug into his skin and he winced, but he calmly met her glare, pulling his hand away, as her fiancé eased her back into the chair.

"Keep her still, Turner," he muttered, threading the needle before leaning forward and going to work. Her muscles went taught and he heard her draw a sharp breath, but she didn't cry out again.

He poured all of his focus into closing the wound. Now that the adrenaline of battle had faded, his care for Elizabeth was the only thing preventing him from dwelling on what he had sacrificed to save her. His only bargaining chip was now happily beating away inside a jar of dirt, and the jar of dirt was never going to leave Jack Sparrow's sight. He had missed his window of opportunity, and he hadn't the slightest idea if another would ever open.

As it stood, his hopes of a new life had been dashed, and any other plans to hand over the heart to Beckett were on hold indefinitely.

While he worked he listened to the lovers talk, barely following the conversation as he carefully stitched shut the gash. The blacksmith did most of the speaking, explaining to Elizabeth that his father had been cursed to serve aboard the Dutchman.

James's jaw clenched. Somehow the thought of another William Turner frustrated him.

"So now you see why I needed the heart. I made a promise to him that I have to uphold."

There was a pause, and James assumed that she nodded.

"Elizabeth, I must go speak with Jack," insisted Turner, "I have to convince him to demand that Jones free my father."

"Of course," replied Elizabeth weakly, but there was understanding in her voice. James glanced up long enough to watch as the blacksmith pressed his lips to her hand and then stood.

"I'll return as soon as I've ensured his release," he added, smiling affectionately at her before turning and leaving the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

The only sound now was that of the waves beating against the side of the ship, but James could feel her eyes on him. He finished the last stitch and had tied it off, cutting through the thread with a knife from his belt, when his concentration finally broke. He sat back, his shoulders sagging, and he realized with a grimace that his muscles were stiff and aching. Months of commanding a vessel followed by days lying in a military infirmary and then weeks deteriorating in Tortuga had made him softer than he would have liked, and it occurred to him that the last time he'd truly fought was during the battle of the Isla de Muerta, one long year ago.

That had been for the sake of Elizabeth Swann as well.

"Don't hate him, James."

Her voice broke through his thoughts and he lifted his head to find her silently pleading with him, and he wondered if he wore his emotions that plainly.

"He's just as much to blame as Sparrow," he muttered, reaching across her to replace the needle and thread in one of the drawers of the medicine chest before leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. If she had any argument to make for Turner, she thought better of it, and there was a long silence.

"You can still come with us when we return to Port Royal," she said after a while, "Now that we have the heart, Beckett will be forced to listen to our demands."

She waited for a response, but he said nothing.

"Thank you," she finally added quietly, smiling at him and glancing at the neatly stitched wound. She reached forward and took his hand.

He knew that to her it was nothing more than a gesture between old friends, but still he felt the familiar ache begin within him and he desperately wanted to pull her into his arms.

"You're still a fine man, James," she told him softly, and then smirked, "Though it may no longer be immediately apparent."

It seemed to him that had she possessed a list of the things he had done she might have thought differently, but it still meant the world.

Suddenly a deafening roar sounded, followed by the rush of spraying water, and he jumped to his feet. He and Elizabeth exchanged glances, both realizing exactly what was happening, and he pulled his dagger from his belt and handed it to her.

"If we're boarded, bar the door," he ordered, their eyes meeting, and he silently prayed that it didn't come to that. Then he turned, grabbing the baldric from its spot beside the crate and slinging it over his stained and frayed shirt, before he left Elizabeth alone.

And as he shut the door behind him, he knew that for the first and possibly last time, he was going to come face to face with Davy Jones.