Author's Note: This story would not exist if not for JackFan2's planting of the plot bunny and wonderful betaing help. Thank you so much, you're amazing!

Prologue

Everything was lost. His carefully laid plans were literally blowing up in his face and all he could do was drift slowly, ghostlike and only vaguely aware, down the quarterdeck stairs.

It only made sense that the men would flee; with the Dutchman on her starboard firing relentlessly and the Pearl raking her port side, even the formidable Endeavor was helpless. Retaliation was futile as many of her gun crews were dead; all were taken by surprise. When the call to abandon ship sounded from one of the under officers the men leapt for their lives.

The destruction of what he had believed the most formidable fleet in the Indies was brought to bear by filthy, lawless pirates. All the more insult that Jack Sparrow and his ship had escaped yet again.

The deck bucked beneath him suddenly, shattering to splinters as the powder magazine was touched by a piece of shot. An indescribable pain pierced the veil of numb disbelief as surely as the splinters of wood pierced his flesh as he was hurtled away from the smoking wreck of his ship. The burning stopped suddenly as his body made contact with the cool waters of the Caribbean and he instinctively kicked once more before accepting his fate. He and his cause were lost; there was nothing he could do to change that.

Slowly he and the East India Company flag on which he had curiously landed drifted down into the cold but oddly welcoming depths of the sea. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was preparing to come face-to-face with Jones and receive his final sentence.

Barely conscious, it took a long while for him to realize that he was no longer drifting downward, though the flag continued to sink. He found this strange, but did not have the energy to question it. Perhaps this state of neutrality was the essence of being dead.

Deciding to take things in stride, Beckett closed his eyes and settled his mind for a long wait.

"Cutler Beckett," an unfamiliar voice whispered, sounding only vaguely different than the gentle gurgling of water and air bubbles surrounding his essentially lifeless body. The man in question did not move or in any way respond to the voice's summons.

"Do not toy wit' me. I know you live, aldough you s'ould not." The voice paused, waiting for his answer. "Mmm, very well. You do not wis' revenge on de Bredren nor for a chance to redeem yourself."

Suddenly a wicked coldness closed around him and drained away what little breath he had managed to hold all this time. Beckett burst into a frenzied and pathetic struggle with the crushing blackness but knew instantly that he had no chance. I will do anything for one last chance to put Sparrow in his place!

As quickly as it had enveloped him the coldness dissipated and he ceased drifting downward. He felt as if he were being held in two enormous hands. "Who are you?" Beckett ventured.

"Do not concern yourself wid trivial mattahs," the voice chided, but not entirely cruelly. "All you need to know is dat you 'ave anoder c'ance. Do not waste it."

"I demand to know who I am speaking to," Beckett managed, though nowhere near as commandingly as he had intended.

"Padetic 'uman, do not dink you can command a goddess."

At those words Beckett fell silent. His previous dealings with the supernatural had been limited to Jack's compass and the Dutchman's crew...but never something as frightening and awe-inspiring as a goddess. He knew he would have to tread carefully, but his pride balked at the thought of submitting to and acknowledging a power greater than himself. Then again, he was nothing worth fearing currently. And tired, so tired...

"Cutler Beckett, your time is s'ort. Will you serve my purposes, accept immortality and fulfill your desire for revenge?"

Immortality? "What are you proposing, exactly?"

"Become Captain of de Dutc'man and 'unt down de Bredren."

"The Bredren Court? All of dem; de last ding dey will learn in dis life is 'ow cruel I can be." The phrase echoed hauntingly around him, not exactly the same as when the disembodied voice was speaking directly to him; more like the remnants of a memory...or a nightmare.

"I repeat, your time is s'ort. If you deny my request, you will expedite your passing to de oder world. Accept and you will 'ave command of de Dutc'man and de sea."

"I dare not deny your request," Beckett said hesitantly. He sensed that his relatively easy acquiescence pleased the unknown goddess as the water around him grew slightly warmer. "But the fact of the matter is, Sparrow's ship has already defeated the Flying Dutchman and her undead crew once before. What's to stop history from repeating itself?"

"Silence!" the voice bellowed harshly. Despite his stern demeanor Beckett could not help but flinch. "I will 'elp you get revenge on de Bredren but not yet. Your spirit is too weak and de time is not rig't. And do not worry yourself over de trifles; an armada awaits your command."

"When then? By the time you see fit to act Sparrow may very well have gotten himself killed in some ridiculous stunt."

"Do not question my timing; you undahestimate Jack Sparrow. 'im 'ave favor wit' Fate; 'im will not die until de moon glows red. Wait and see."