Outside a door slammed, somewhere across the courtyard, and another cold gust of wind slid around his feet. There had been clouds on the horizon at the hour of Jack's dying. There would be a storm tonight.

The light dipped and swayed as the lantern creaked above him, and caught the flat glitter of the dead man's half-closed eyes. The image conjured up was of the sunken stare of fish-heads on a slab, flies buzzing. Will bit his lip and reached out with a strange reluctance to press the eyelids closed, as should have been done long since.

They would not stay shut. He tried again, steadying his shrinking hand on Jack's cold brow. The black stare mocked him, intransigent in death as in life.

A hesitantly-cleared throat. "T'ain't no manner of use, sir."

The sentry at the foot of the plank, prodded into acknowledgment of merely human discomfort, shuffled as Will looked up sharply and caught his gaze. "Sometimes... the dead 'uns - it takes 'em that way, see? The Commodore, he tried same as you-"

"He was here?" Will, springing back, fought to keep his lips from drawing up into a bared snarl. So Norrington had come to sneer at Jack Sparrow silenced at last, had he? "And just when has the disposal of a common felon's corpse been of interest to any but his friends - and the executioner?"

They'd left Jack his boots, he noticed on that thought. And... wait, that was odd...

"Matter of the prisoner's effects, sir." The sentry's voice chimed in right on cue. "Seems he'd given his personal word to let him have 'em back as soon as - well, as soon as could be managed, see? Once - that is-"

But Will was no longer listening to the stumbling circumlocutions. He'd reached out to fold Jack's clenched hand around the curved shape of the long pistol at his side; to settle the blade more neatly at the other. The belt had been laid loosely at his waist. Will steeled himself to ease Jack's cold weight free of the plank, wincing at the resistance of once-supple limbs, and worked the buckle round into place.

The scarf around Jack's throat had slipped a little. Will moved automatically to gentle it back across the tell-tale scars of the rope, half-noting the monogram revealed as he did so. The letters were intertwined, worked with surprising grace: "J.N."

For a moment, Will's fingers halted in their task; then, moving deliberately as if in a daze, settled the silken ends neatly across Jack's breast.

o-o-o

So, Norrington had given his personal word; given more than that, it seemed. Given Captain Jack Sparrow back the honour of a defeated enemy, rather than of a common criminal. Given him all he honourably could. Will's mouth twisted. He'd spent the last few days blaming Norrington for everything. It hurt to let a little of that hatred slip.

Somewhere in the distance below, bells tanged sharply for the changing of the watch.

"It must be nearly time." Will's voice sounded strange to his own ears. "What will you do with him - bury him in quicklime?"

A felon's grave behind the fort. Quicklime left no traces; not even the bones.

"Er - no, sir. Not this time. Special circumstances. We're taking him up onto the cliff. Yonder-" at Will's look of bemusement - "beyond on Lookout Point, where the three rocks stand."

Will could feel a frown gathering between his own brows. "What, all round the harbour? That's a pretty mile or three if it's a yard!"

"Two an' a half, sir." A stolid look in reply; the acceptance of the man under orders, in whom thinking is neither required nor desirable. The sound of unshod hoofs and wheels on the stone outside brought a brief flash of relief. "An' here comes the cart."

Will swallowed and glanced outside, hearing the creaking of harness as the mule-cart was backed to the door. Lanterns were lifted up and hooked on, showing the grim litter of sexton's tools in the cart-bed; and emptiness besides.

For a moment, he didn't understand. Then it came home.

"No coffin? Not even a few shabby planks hammered together? Or do you plan to tar him and leave him up there to swing?" His reluctant rebirth of regard for Norrington abruptly returned to rock bottom. If that were the meaning of all this show-

But men were coming in now, pushing past him to sway up Jack's body with barely a by-your-leave, and he had to bite down the scalding words that threatened to choke him, conscious of the listening ears. The Governor's pass had given him written permission to stand here in the place of next-of-kin, that was all. It would not be enough to cover him for public vituperation of the most senior officer on the station; the Governor's own prospective son-in-law and right-hand man. He followed the rough plank and its burden on the journey to the door, teeth set in silence.

Someone plucked at his sleeve. The bovine sentry, no doubt. Will turned sharply on the man, half-snarling. "Yes?"

Accustomed to parade-ground barks, the redcoat held his ground without a blink. "Begging your pardon, sir, but we're to lay the prisoner in the ground as is. No box. The Commodore's orders."

Then he was to be decently buried, at least. The relief of that, for the moment, was enough to outweigh the indignity of the other. And, it occurred to Will presently, following across the courtyard in the wake of the patient mule with the first fine spatters of rain beginning to whip stray ends of hair about his face, perhaps Norrington's order had been the right one after all. Perhaps Jack would not have wanted to be shut up in a cheap deal box, let alone a heavy casket of brass and polished wood.

Will remembered the warm, sandy ground of Lookout Point, where the birds soared and the ocean stretched out of sight, with the harbour cradled below like a dark jewel. He thought Jack would have wanted the sea. But if he could not slip quietly down to rest beneath the constant waves - then perhaps he would have chosen to lie free in the soil on the high cliff, with wings above and white sails below, keeping watch out over the deceptive blue waters that had been his home.

Maybe, he found himself admitting reluctantly, Norrington had understood his counterpart better in some ways than Will Turner had ever thought to give him credit.

o-o-o

Jack's possessions made a soft clink every time the cart jolted across the stones, like the tolling of a muffled bell. Will fell into unthinking step, following the other men who had gathered their tools at the cart's tail as one more huddled shape in his cloak. He was barely conscious of the approaching gate in the gloom ahead. When the tall dapple-grey mare moved out from beneath the shadows of the arch, her rider had to lean down and touch him on the shoulder before Will became suddenly aware of his presence.

"N-" He caught himself just in time. "Commodore!"

Belatedly, "Sir."

For some reason, that brought a twitch of amusement to Norrington's set mouth. The mare side-stepped. He caught her, neatly, and pressed her back.

"Mr Turner. I was told I should find you here." A gesture indicated the shrouded cart.

"I didn't expect to find you here," Will said levelly, following his gaze.

Norrington sighed, his tone unexpectedly sharp. "Mr Turner, kindly do not delude yourself that this-" he nodded in the direction of the slowly-progressing funeral - "is any personal responsibility of mine. Or of yours. It may have escaped your notice that neither you nor Mr Sparrow were prosecuted for any of the intemperate offences committed during your hasty attempt to proceed to the aid of Miss Swann. These include the acquisition and subsequent loss of one of His Majesty's ships - for which I shall presently be called by my superiors to render account - the endangerment of your own and Elizabeth's lives in the name of Mr Sparrow's personal vendetta, and the deaths and mutilation of a considerable number of men under my command when expected - again, by Mr Sparrow - to defend themselves under impossible circumstances." He frowned. "The Governor is not an ungrateful man. No charges were ultimately brought against either of you."

"But-" It burst out of Will before he could help it, and Norrington's voice crashed over his, overriding it.

"But, Mr Turner, in your over-eager acquaintance with the engaging Mr Sparrow, you chose to overlook his past record. The which, I may say, proved on investigation to be every bit as black as it was painted. Your friend is by profession a self-proclaimed pirate; a notorious rogue. His trade is theft by violence, and profit on the fruits of other men's labour - with no thought, I make no doubt, for those who are brought to ruin and those who lose their lives in defence of what little they have!"

He controlled his tone with an apparent effort. "The charges that condemned Jack Sparrow were those that stood against him on the morning of his first apprehension here in Port Royal: nothing more, nothing less. Some ten or twelve of them carry the maximum penalty. Any one of those would have sufficed to hang him, Mr Turner - and all were proven beyond a doubt. Nor was there any prospect in future of his reform. What in the name of the law would you have had me do?"

"He was a good man," Will said stubbornly into the silence that followed, and to his surprise saw Norrington bow his head.

"Yes," the other man said softly, "I believe he was. That is why I gave him my word to do what I could - and to find you."

"Me?" Will echoed, sounding almost as bemused as he felt, and got a wintry smile in response.

"I was charged with a specific message to you upon this occasion. Mr Sparrow gave me to understand that you would almost undoubtedly attempt to follow, and were to be discouraged. He charged me to remind you-" the fastidious lips twitched - "of the establishment of an individual known as Big Peg, and the... proposal that you made."

"But then-"

No, Will told himself, sweating at the very thought, despite the ice of the half-voiced memory. No, one did not invoke in that context, if wise, the name of Norrington's own bride.

"I believe the term used was 'warm and welcome'," Norrington said drily when Will remained silent. "I cannot, obviously, answer for the welcome; but I can assure you that the road we take will be exceedingly cold and unpleasant to pass on foot tonight. I believe you would do better to follow your friend's wishes and celebrate his memory in whatever form of excess he himself would have chosen."

The lights of the mule-cart had receded some way up the track beyond. Norrington wheeled the dapple-grey round to peer after it, cursed softly under his breath, and pulled his own riding-cloak more closely about him, setting his hat aside under its cover. Then, with a sharp word to the mare, he set her to a swift trot and vanished in the wake of the little procession, out into the gathering rain. He did not even glance back in Will's direction.