A/N: We're onto the climax now. After this, it's just two more chapters to go. Having been working on this story since 2016, I'm going to be sad once it's over. Fortunately, I've had a recent influx of POTC fanfic ideas that will keep me busy for quite some time. So fret not, James will return. And Jack too, I suppose ;p Also, I've just posted a new Willabeth one-shot, "The Parting Glass", if anyone wants to give it a read (disclaimer: only read if you enjoy sadness). Without further ado, on with the story.


The manacles were heavy against Jack's wrists as two marines marched him to the gallows. The chattering of the crowd, the rolling of the drums, and the jangling of the chains washed over him. Jack had seen men break down along the walk but this wasn't his first jaunt. The gallows no longer scared him. He'd done a lot during his life and had no delusions about how that life would end.

Of course, he'd always escaped at the last minute and was really hoping to do so this time.

Some people in the crowd jeered at him. No one cried out that this was a travesty and he was a little miffed at that. He thought there should have been more crying women. Though come to think of it, most of those he'd known were probably back in Tortuga.

The walk to the gallows seemed somehow to take both a second and an eternity. It seemed like plenty of time to think in the moment and yet when he arrived, it seemed as if no time had passed at all.

Marines watched him as he marched up the stairs to the platform. The wood creaked beneath his boots. The executioner's heavy gaze fell on him from beneath the dark hood.

Jack was steered into position. From here, he could see the many faces of the crowd staring up at him. Movement caught his eye and he looked sideways toward the executioner where, surprisingly, he saw Beckett.

The man was as subtly smug as usual. "Do it right this time," he murmured to the executioner before stepping off the platform and fading into the background. With everyone's eyes on Jack, he wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed.

"Jack Sparrow," a man in a white wig announced, drawing everyone's attention. "You have been found guilty of piracy, smuggling, arson, sailing under false colors, impersonating a cleric of the church of England…"

Here we go again, Jack thought. He scanned the crowd, trying to find any familiar faces. Surely Gibbs would have come back for him. He looked for anyone suspicious, who might be covering their face, but everyone was looking up at him and all of them were strangers.

The first niggling doubt wormed its way into his mind. Was it possible this was it? Had his life finally run its course? Sweat trickled down his brow and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He swallowed.

"…kidnapping, depravity, and conspiracy. For these crimes, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul."

The noose was placed around Jack's neck and tightened.


Norrington gritted his teeth. His fingers hurt from maintaining a firm grip on the nail as he wriggled it inside the lock. He'd found it loose in the dirt and he didn't care how it had gotten there, only that it helped him escape.

The necrosis that covered nearly his entire forearm drove him on relentlessly. His heartbeat was erratic and his skin was clammy with sweat. Some part of him deep down tried to rise to the surface but he knew that if he gave in to that strange feeling, he would be lost forever.

He couldn't sit here and do nothing. If the person he was died tonight, if he became one of those abominable things, he'd be damned if he'd go quietly.

He toggled the nail in the lock with a single-minded focus.

Something gave way with a solid click.


Silence washed over the courtyard. Jack was much too aware of his own breathing, of the beating of his heart. Blood rushed through his head and he held onto the noise because it meant he was alive. He tried to make it last forever.

No one was coming. His luck had finally run out.

"Any final words, Jack?" Beckett was there again, his voice like a cool breeze in Jack's ear.

Jack kept his gaze riveted ahead of him. He wanted nothing more at that moment than a good pistol and a single shot. If he was going to die, he wanted to take Beckett with him.

"No? After all you've done to cheat death?"

"Just get it over with," Jack said. "I'm eager to get away from your prattling." He refused to turn his head and look at Beckett.

"This is personal, Jack."

It always was, Jack thought, recalling another time many years ago when Beckett had branded him for freeing a cargo of slaves. That's all this had ever been. In Beckett's mind, Jack had betrayed him. It must have stung all those years that it took so long for Beckett to finally catch up to him.

Beckett must have slipped away again because he said nothing else but Jack knew he was watching.

The executioner took hold of the lever.

Jack braced himself.

He wasn't ready for this. He was so sure he'd achieve immortality before his time ran out.

He had been so sure.


Metal clanged as Norrington made good his escape. Discarding the nail that had delivered him his freedom, he bolted down the corridor. There was no time to lose. Other prisoners called out to him and pled for their release, but he ignored them.

His heart fluttered and Norrington staggered, clutching his chest. The world tilted and he had to blink several times to steady it. He traced the route to Beckett's office from the jail in his mind and he wondered how quickly he could get to the Sword.

He could feel the curse closing down on him.

"Halt, you!" a guard shouted.

Norrington pushed himself off the wall and without thinking, rushed the man. He was caught so by surprise that he did nothing to prevent Norrington from crashing into him. They both fell to the ground.

Norrington felt like he had during his self-imposed exile. Like a feral dog after scraps. His only aim was survival. The guard tried to snag Norrington's arms and pin him to the ground. A rage Norrington had never known before rose up in him and he twisted, breaking free of the guard's grip. He wrapped one arm around the man's throat and didn't let go until the guard stopped moving.

Norrington panted and only once the fight was over did he come back to himself. Even then, the alien feelings were still there. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed. It wouldn't be much longer now. He took the guard's pistol along with some powder and shot, and the man's keys.

The Fort Charles prison was a maze but he'd been down here on several occasions. He could find his way out if only he could keep a clear head long enough to do so. His thoughts were coming more slowly, replaced by instinct and feeling. The fingers of his left hand were going numb.

Distantly, he could hear the drums.

Norrington slowed, sure at first that it was only the sound of his own beating heart, but no. The sound came from the courtyard. Which meant that Jack hadn't been hung yet but was about to be.

He was still alive.

If anyone had told Norrington a year ago that he would risk his own humanity for Jack Sparrow, he would have called them a liar. The idea was unfathomable.

Yet in his own way, Jack had helped him. Tried to, at least. Sort of. In any case, Norrington would never have gotten this far without him and he hated the fact. He glanced down at the pistol which he'd loaded. He wondered if his curse had caused him to go insane. That was the only reasonable explanation for what he did next.

Finding the door that led outside, Norrington stepped out and into the bright sunlight that bathed the courtyard.

He took in the scene. Jack standing on the gallows with a noose about his neck, the crowd of spectators, the executioner with his hand on the lever, ready to carry out the sentence.

Taking several steps, Norrington raised the pistol and aimed it at Beckett, shouting his name.

There were gasps from the onlookers as heads turned in his direction. Several people stumbled aside as if fearing they were his target but Norrington hardly noticed.

Beckett just stood there and while Norrington was sure he was shocked by his sudden appearance, he hid it well.

Several marines formed a line and Norrington thought now would be a very bad time to come back to his senses as an array of bayonets pointed at him, the sound of their cocking mechanisms rattling in an all-too-familiar rhythm. Norrington tightened his grip on his pistol and refused to be cowed.

"Mr. Norrington," Beckett said. "I remember a man once who would never suffer a pirate to live. Least of all…this one."

For the last couple of years, Norrington feared he had lost his way. He'd tried to do his duty. He'd let Jack go once and had immediately let his obsession break him. But now…he wasn't that person anymore. Too long, he'd teetered between loyalties, unsure which was right and which was wrong in a world that was not black and white. He'd chosen his side.

Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted him to sacrifice Jack and now he realized he wouldn't be able to live with himself either if he did.

Norrington cocked the pistol. At this distance, it was more likely he'd miss. "I think I've become more pirate than officer at this point. Either way, I no longer work for you."

One of the marines glanced at Beckett for orders. It didn't matter. Obviously these men didn't know he couldn't be killed.

Silence reigned as the crowd waited, tense, to see what would happen.

Beckett waved his hand lazily at the executioner.

The executioner pulled the lever.

A single gasp rose from among the crowd as the trap door dropped from beneath Jack's feet and he fell.

The gun bucked in Norrington's hand as he fired.

Just as the rope went taut, it snapped.

Shock rippled through the crowd and for a moment, rage contorted Beckett's normally stoic features before he was lost to view.

A marine fired and pain exploded in Norrington's shoulder. Dropping the pistol, Norrington drew his sword.

The marine who'd shot him now rushed forward with his bayonet. Norrington stepped aside and knocked away the blade with his sword, punching the marine in the face with his free hand.

The rest of the marines descended upon him and Norrington fought with reckless abandon. He fought by instinct, or perhaps by something more, his sword slicing the air. He kicked and punched and used every trick he'd learned and despised for being less than honorable. But even though he couldn't die, he could still feel the sting of the blows that made it past his defenses and he was impossibly outnumbered. The onlookers had fled but more soldiers were flooding into the courtyard.

A marine knocked the sword from his hand and tried to jab his bayonet into Norrington's throat.

With the crack of a pistol, the marine jerked and fell at Norrington's feet. Norrington quickly grabbed up his sword and spun to the side.

"Don't know why I wasted a shot to save your undead skin," Gibbs said, dropping the pistol and pulling another from his belt.

"You're late." Norrington met another marine with his sword. Steel slid against steel.

"We ran into a spot of trouble," Gibbs replied. "Nothing we couldn't handle." He shot a marine in the chest and then threw the used pistol at another's head. A third marine cried out as Marty slashed him in the shins.

The difference the crew of the Pearl made was immediately noticeable as less marines rushed Norrington all at once. They were still outnumbered but he felt a glimmer of hope that they had a fighting chance.

Several of the Pearl's crew charged through the melee to Jack's side and Norrington noticed that not only had the pirate been able to free himself from the ropes, he'd also acquired a sword. And then Norrington's view was blocked as the fighting shifted and a musket shot went off next to Norrington's ear. He flinched, his ear ringing, and barely avoided being skewered.

It was probably best if they went into retreat and lost themselves in the town. Beckett had endless reinforcements. They did not.

Norrington was about to shout out orders to do just that when he noticed how strangely dark it had gotten. It was the middle of the day yet it felt more like twilight. Shoving a marine he'd just stabbed out of his path, he looked up.

Dark clouds were moving in rapidly, bearing the smell of rain, and the wind picked up.

There was a rumble of thunder.

There was a flash of lightning.

Down the hill to the bay and across the now dark water, a ship was fast approaching, wind caught in tattered sails, and flying no flag.