(Author's Notes – Haha, Brokenspar lives! No, I haven't dropped off the edge of the earth; just really busy. I'm very, very sorry I haven't updated in the longest time – I hope this makes up for it in some way. This is going against what I know about POTC:3 … but I did say this was going to be AU. And I'm finally getting to some action … well, story-wise.)

"Admiral Norrington," Lord Beckett saluted me ironically from behind his desk that morning, "You don't look yourself. Are you unwell?"

His concern was quite touching, really. I knew I looked a wreck – hearing of the grand adventure from Gillete, I dressed accordingly – undress uniform, sea boots, and I had not even looked at powder. I knew I had dark circles under my eyes, from all the sleepless drinking. I didn't look at all like an Admiral, and, for once in my life, I did not feel a pang of shame.

"I did not sleep well, Beckett."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"I would suggest, in the future, Admiral Norrington, that you show some respect for your superiors. And I am very sorry to hear that you couldn't sleep because of your guilty conscience and bleeding heart."

Beckett turned back to his paperwork, completely ignoring my presence. Stabbing my sword into the desk … and maybe missing … did not seem like so bad an idea at the current moment. I found my hand straying toward the convenient hilt, and then abruptly move it to my side. Homicide was not going to get me anywhere.

That did not make his comment any easier to swallow.

"Lord Beckett," I began, "What is the point of this expedition you're planning?"

"Always to the point, Admiral. Very well. I intend you to command the Swallow and sail out of Port Royal. I shall be on board to supervise you, of course. Mercer will be accompanying us as well, and I suspect if you are not afraid of me, then you are of him. At least Swann seems to find him intimidating."

"Governor Swann."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Governor Swann, Lord Beckett."

"Oh, yes, I suppose the old man is still the Governor."

"What is it that you want here?"

"Do you think everything is as simple as what one wants, Admiral? Do you honestly think that I am as simple as that? You can't boil a man down that far, but I will humor you. What I, Lord Cutler Beckett, want from this hateful quarter of the world, is power. And I assure you, I am well on my way to achieving it, thanks to you, I might add. Help me and I will help you. Not that you have a choice, of course."

"Power is your only objective?"

"Is it not every man's objective? Look around you, Admiral. Every man will sell himself, to some degree, for power. It may not be power in its rawest form, but it is power, just the same. Sparrow will do anything for his freedom … for the Black Pearl. Miss Swann will do anything for her current objective. Turner … perhaps he is the rare exception, but he will do anything for one thing. And you, Admiral. You sold out your friends for your old position … one of power."

"Are you advising me that was a mistake?"

"Illustrating a point, merely. You aren't the good man people thought you were, so there is no point in you trying to take the moral high ground with me, Admiral."

"I claim no moral high ground. I have what I want and I accept the consequences."

"Do you?"

The man had an eerie, heartless stare, even more penetrating than my reflection's.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"I do. And you are not in a position to refuse," Beckett stood up, accepting the coat and hat offered to him by Mercer, "I know about you, Admiral. I know what you did after you resigned. One wrong move and I can send you to the gallows. Do you want to hang like a common pirate?"

"I'm not afraid to die."

"The question is, Do you want to?"

I, coward that I was, made no response.

"Good."

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On the Swallow, Beckett took to the captain's cabin, allowing Mercer the duty of watching over me. It was of some comfort to think, from what I observed, that Beckett was seasick. Mercer, however, was not, and watched the goings on like a hawk, telling the helmsman every now and again to change course slightly, though as to what object I had no idea. Morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon was fading into a foggy dusk, with no land in sight, before anything happened.

The sea calmed and the wind died, a circumstance any sailor would be frightened of, without taking into account any of the supernatural that had been my unfortunate lot this last year. The Swallow glided on her own momentum for a bit, until she stopped almost dead in the water.

"Should we order boats?"

This was asked of me by the commanding lieutenant, and I, being under the thumb of the seasick wretch in the cabin, relayed the question to Mercer, who promptly vanished below decks.

"I don't like this, Lieutenant," I admitted to the man, a swarthy man who looked decidedly nervous.

"Too calm by half, sir," he responded.

I weighed my options. How much to trust this man? How much to warn him? How could I lead another ship into a decidedly perilous situation for my own selfish reasons? No, I told myself. I am not responsible for this. This is Beckett's doing. Anyone's death from this expedition is on his head and not my own.

"Should danger arise, Lieutenant, you know what to do. See to your men's safety. Don't bother with Lord Beckett's or his secretary's."

"And you, Admiral?"

"I will fend for myself, Lieutenant."

I will accept the consequences of my actions.

Why did I find myself thinking of Turner during this? The man was what I had failed to be. No, Turner had fought against Jack and myself. Turner was in this for himself as well.

No one was innocent in this world, it seemed.

My reverie was interrupted in the most violent way possible at that moment. As the crew watched in horror, the sea bestirred herself, the sky divested itself of the last vestiges of sunlight, leaving the way lit by St. Elmo's Fire, and the ghostly Flying Dutchman rose from the depths, her frightful sides towering over us. The crew of the Swallow was frozen in terror, including the Lieutenant standing beside me.

From behind me I heard a rough chuckle and whiffed the acrid smoke of a pipe, followed by an uneven step. Though a sword could do almost nothing against those who were already dead, I had the hilt in my hand.

"Captain Jones."

I spun on my heel, suddenly not afraid. What could he do to me that I wasn't afraid of? More importantly, What could he do to me that I didn't deserve?

"If it isn't James Norrington," Davy Jones replied poisonously, "Who are you now?"

"Admiral."

"Seems like my heart bought you a fine promotion, Admiral Norrington."

"It did."

"My, my, proud of yourself. Is he proud of you?"

"Who?"

"Very good question, Admiral. Who is proud of you? I don't have the time for such a lengthy search; I'd like to speak with you about the business of my heart."

"Not for me to say, Captain Jones. I don't have it," I replied, watching his irritation grow, "I believe you're looking for one Lord Cutler Beckett."

"He is here, Admiral," said a certain, high-pitched voice, "Ah, so this is the legendary Davy Jones. It's quite a let down, to be quite frank."

Somehow, Beckett found it in himself to stand unconcerned before the demon of the deep. Perhaps it was because he was not a man of the sea.

"You have my heart, Beckett. I'm inclined to ask you to give it back."

"Or what? The first move towards threatening my interests you make, Captain Jones, I stab the heart. Very simple. As long as I have the heart, you do what I want, is that understood?"

Captain Jones struggled with the completely understandable impulse to murder Beckett before realizing that Beckett most likely had given the heart to someone else to dispose of in case of an attack on his person, and knew he had to give in to Beckett.

Though I was never one to believe in the fairy tales that surrounded the sea, I had begun to believe since Jack Sparrow had entered my life only a year before. A legend of the sea stood before me, one I had feared along with the rest of the midshipmen, but had left in my childhood. My men had whispered about him, feared him more than pirates, than hurricanes, than fever, than the knife, than death itself. I might not have been afraid of him, but I was in a curious sort of awe, like one feels from seeing a wonder of the natural world. To see him shackled to Beckett's will rankled me. Like seeing a horse broken, or an elephant directed by the will of its mahout, there was something tragic in his surrender.

"Understood."

"Good," Beckett smiled, nodding to Mercer, "I have two things which I expect to be done. Promptly. One," he held up a bony finger, "You kill the Kraken. Two: Raise the Black Pearl and bring her to me. I have a need of a fast ship, Captain Jones, and the old Wicked Wench might be just the one. I regret that I myself am not able to supervise you, nor is Mercer, for he has business of his own in Port Royal. Therefore, Admiral Norrington will be accompanying you, to make sure you do as I command."

Beckett smirked at me, then added, "Norrington, should you not follow my orders, I will have no compunctions about burning your house and murdering your friends. It would be a pity for Gillette to die; he is so close to promotion."

He had me, check and mate. I could not bear the weight of another man's death on my soul. I had no choice but to go with Jones.

"Captain, you have a week to do my bidding. If in a week the Pearl is not in Port Royal, you do not bring me the teeth of the Kraken, Norrington does not affirm that the Kraken is indeed dead, and your mechanism is not destroyed, your existence is moot. Norrington, if you are not in my office before the week's end, your friends pay the consequences."

Beckett retired once again to his cabin, and left me on deck alone with Davy Jones, both of us now quite in the same boat – exploited by the man who knew our weaknesses. Something made me wonder why Jones did not want to die, after the existence he led – the same part of me that wondered why I was caught again by my own damn selflessness.

"No matter how annoying that shrimp is," Davy Jones said at last, puffing angrily away at his pipe, "The lubber is seasick."

Maybe things weren't so irresolvable, after all, I realized as Jones shot me an irritated, but somehow less malicious look than before.