Author's Note:

First of all, apologies for the lengthy delay in updating. College has been very busy, as my group is in the throes of trying to take a product we've designed to market. I don't foresee things becoming any less busy, so there will probably be more long delays between chapters. Also, as I was writing this, I realized I needed to alter some future plans, so I didn't want to update until I was sure I had a clear plan of how things are going to go.

Again, I would like to thank everybody who has read and reviewed! Continue to enjoy the story!

When he strode onto the deck with one hand on the hilt of his cutlass, he hadn't really known what he would find, but it wasn't what he saw.

What he saw was somehow much worse.

He had come much closer than he would have liked to Jones's crew on Isla Cruces, but he realized that in the heat of battle he hadn't fully appreciated their ghoulishness. Now, as they walked the deck of the Dutchman and clung to her crusted rigging, jeering and cursing like maniacs, they appeared as a singular teeming mass, a terrible amalgamation of man and ship and sea, and it was as though every maritime horror from pagan antiquity had suddenly sprung to life with the sole intent of terrorizing the Pearl. Or perhaps this was simply what Hell looked like in the eyes of a sailor, a perversion of everything held dear in life now deemed the instruments of torment for eternity, and for an instant James wondered if his opportunity for redemption had passed and the devil had come to collect his dues.

Jones pushed through his crew to stop at the railing, his tentacled beard writhing like a gorgon's head as he furiously glared. James followed his line of sight to the helm of the Pearl, where Jack Sparrow was standing with his jar of dirt securely cradled in one arm, while beside him were Turner and Gibbs, who crossed himself. Sparrow said something to the blacksmith before suddenly thrusting the jar into the air with both hands and swaying.

"Oi! Fish-face! Lose something?" he shouted, prancing along the deck while Jones looked genuinely affronted, "Come to negotiate, ay, have you, you slimy git? Look what I got!" He shook the jar flamboyantly, "I got a jar of dir-irt, I got a jar of dir-irt, and guess what's in-side it!"

Jones's eyes narrowed. "Enough!" he snarled impatiently, and as he turned away the massive mouths of Poseidon on the side of the ship groaned open to spill seawater, revealing the Dutchman's guns.

For no logical reason he could think of, James wondered how the cannons still fired after being flooded.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate," replied Jack, smirking, jar of dirt still held high, and the other captain whirled back around.

"You had your chance to settle your debt, Jack Sparruh!" said Jones, baring his teeth, "Now I'll be takin' the Pearl back to the depths-uh, as per our agreement!"

"Then you forfeit your own life!" It was Turner, who stepped forward after having felt it necessary to insert himself into the situation. Jones stared at him as if he had gone mad.

Jack took over the conversation again. "I take it then that you have yet to examine the contents of said chest what your fine and illustrious crew brought ye, ay?" he asked as he lowered the jar and wrapped one arm around it.

There was a tense silence as the two captains stood off. Finally, Jones growled in frustration.

"The key," he bit out slowly, and James remembered that the blacksmith had kept enough of his wits to lock the chest before sending it sailing into the sky.

The pirate grinned and slipped his free hand inside his shirt, pulling out the key that he had taken earlier from Turner. And then James blinked and suddenly Jones was no longer on the Dutchman but was on the Pearl instead, face to face with Jack Sparrow, who stumbled backwards into air. There was a collective groan from the crew and the crack of shattering glass as Sparrow and jar bounced down the steps and hit the quarterdeck. Dirt went flying, but in an instant Jack was back on his feet with the still-beating heart of Davy Jones clutched in both hands.

"Got it!" he exclaimed proudly, but his confidence was replaced by a grimace when the heart's enraged owner materialized before him. The pair of them were now only feet away from where James had rooted himself and he stared at the Dutchman's commander in horrified fascination, trying to reconcile the thing before him with the superstitious sailor's tales he had grown up with.

Jones looked vaguely triumphant as he leaned over Jack. "Now tell me, Captain Sparruh," he spat, his tentacles curling in relish, "What's stoppin' me from takin' back what is mine-uh and sendin' you and your beloved Pearl to the Locker?" His clawed hand crept forward, and James waited for Sparrow's retort. When two seconds crawled by in the space of an eternity, it was more than enough time to convince him that neither Jack nor anyone else aboard had a plan of action.

He didn't remember making the decision. He simply knew that his body stepped forward of its own accord, and he was a passenger behind his own eyes as he numbly crossed the gap between himself and the two captains. And then in one fluid movement he reached across Sparrow, took hold of the man's flintlock and pulled it straight from his belt, and leveled the barrel at the beating lump of flesh in Jack's hands.

"As Turner said, you forfeit your life," he hissed coolly, his voice low and dangerous, and he met Jones's withering glare with steely resolve. Somewhere along the way he had done as he always did before battle, neatly packaging his emotions and tucking them away to be unboxed again when they were useful, but even that was not enough to prevent him from nearly being overwhelmed by the sensation of hopelessness induced by looking into Jones's eyes. It was the same as finding that there was no escaping the inevitable; as experiencing the all-consuming realization of impending death; as gazing at an infinite abyss and knowing that you would be pulled into it, no matter your deeds. But the thing that truly terrified him was that he had felt all of these things before, a lifetime ago when he was curled in the hull of a longboat tossed amidst the massive swells of a Mediterranean gale.

A wave of nausea hit him and he was filled with the urge to get as far away from Davy Jones as he could possibly manage, but instead he held his ground, his stoical facade intact and his hand steady as he gripped the pistol.

It was deathly quiet on the deck of the Pearl as the two men faced each other. Even Sparrow had frozen in his place, frowning at the pair, and James thanked the heavens that the pirate knew when to hold his tongue.

Jones's eyes narrowed before he suddenly bared his teeth in a mirthless grin and broke into laughter.

"Well, if it isn't Commodore James Norrington-uh!" he sneered, chuckling.

James's mind went reeling as he felt the wind leave his lungs, and he had to remember how to breathe. He didn't even notice when one of the captain's writhing tentacles prodded him in the shoulder.

"I thought you were still alive-uh, since the sea never claimed ye," Jones added slyly, his eyes shining gleefully at the discovery.

James stared back, desperately wanting to keep the captain from saying another word, but he was at a loss. Jones grew serious again.

"I suppose I should commend ye, for the bravery of your crew," he continued as he tilted his head to carefully regard the man who had taken him hostage, "Not a one a'them begged for mercy when I put an end to their suffering."

It was then that James realized why Jones's presence seemed so very familiar, and the floor of his world fell out from beneath his feet. Sickeningly vivid memories churned to the surface, his vision flooded with images of bodies slipping beneath angry water, and he heard the dying screams that he had spent the past months in Tortuga trying to forget.

It occurred to him that he was not the only party responsible for the deaths of his men, and that had the thing standing across from him now not slaughtered them, more might have lived.

Something inside him exploded and he was filled with the urge to hurl himself at the captain and beat the man to a pulp, but the coldly rational side of him knew that it would do him no good. So he quickly bottled the onslaught of emotion with a skill honed by years of serving in a Navy that needed neither his temper nor his rage, save in battle, and all that showed on his face was a deepening scowl as he pushed the barrel of the pistol against the heart.

Jones smirked. "Tell me, Commodore," he mocked, "If ye kill me, are ye prepared for what comes after?"

James said nothing.

"If you destroy my heart, then yours must take its place."

He knew that it was meant to shock him, to terrify him into backing down, but somehow it had no such effect, because now he was driven forward by his hatred and the exhilaration of pushing an enemy to the breaking point, the rush of taking calculated risks and putting forth gambits. They were the same motivations that had made him feared throughout the Caribbean as the Scourge of Piracy, though his subordinates had seen nothing but a calm and collected man, and he knew that he had not built a reputation by turning away from conflicts that he was capable of winning. And this was one conflict he simply had to win, because as far as he could see, his bluff was the only thing keeping Jones from sending them all to the hereafter. He wasn't sure that he would have cared quite as much had Elizabeth not been involved, but she was, and it required very little creativity to imagine what would become of her, the only woman aboard, should Jones and his crew take the Pearl.

But even had the stakes not been so high, the selfish thing in him was not about to surrender his one remaining bargaining chip. And though he could not yet claim the heart for himself, he could at least choose to whom it would go, and the lesser of two evils was for it to remain in the hands of Jack Sparrow.

He kept the pistol steady, but Jones went on.

"The crew is not bound to me," he explained, leaning closer to James, "They're bound to the Dutchman. And the Dutchman must have a captain!" He said it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, and he almost grinned again, squinting, "So, Commodore. Will ye give up everything ye hold dear and serve-uh?"

James glared, and his knuckles whitened around the grip of the firearm in his hand. "If you truly know me, then you also know that I have nothing left to give," he shot back quietly, and Jones's eyes popped open at the display of defiance.

"Ye may say that now-uh," he hissed, jerking his head to one side like a reptile, "But are ye willing to carve open your own flesh and cut your still-beating heart from your chest-uh? To exile yourself from the land of the living? Can ye do that?" He stared at the former commodore and something vicious crept across his tentacled features. "Or do you, James Norrington, fear death-uh?" he finally asked, savoring the words as he showed his teeth again in malicious amusement.

It was a question to which James immediately knew the answer, and the hatred in his scowl intensified.

"I died seven months ago with my crew," he replied bitterly, the fire in his eyes meeting the ice of Jones's demeanor, and he pulled the hammer back.

There was a long silence, and he could see that the captain was gauging his resolve, wondering how far he was willing to go, and for the first time since he had initiated this gambit he genuinely wondered the same thing. His intention had never been to destroy the heart, only to press Jones into meeting their demands; but if Jones refused, pressed back, forced his hand, could he carry through with his threats or would he take his chances and allow Jones to unleash the wrath of the Dutchman? He had already survived the sinking of one ship, but even if his luck held out a second time, there would be nothing waiting for him. By now every legitimate port throughout the Caribbean held a warrant for his arrest, and with no chip to trade he could only hope to find his way back to Tortuga and drink away his remaining years. Or maybe Jones would simply finish the job begun seven months ago and he would perish along with everyone else aboard.

Including Elizabeth Swann.

Once again she was at the center of his decision-making paradigm, and he doubted that there would ever come a time when that was not the case. Because he was coming to realize that no matter what he told himself, no matter how many times he determined to let her go, he would never be free of her. He would always love her to the point of fault, and the thought of losing her would never become any more bearable. Of course, he had to remind himself that she was not, nor had she ever been, his to lose.

He truly had nothing left to give.

Now, he could only afford to think in terms of what he could gain. With Jones dead, the Pearl, and Elizabeth, would be safe. He would captain a ship again, command a crew, emerge as the unchallenged power of the seas. It was a position not terribly different from the one he had held in his previous life, and to him it seemed a cruel irony that taking Jones's place would bring him closer to that life than he had been in months. But it came at the price of this world, dooming him to exist as neither the living nor the dead, an eternal reaper of souls, and he wondered if perhaps that was a fate he deserved. Maybe acting as ferryman to the afterlife was a fitting end for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many.

But even as he weighed the outcomes in his mind, the rational part of him, the tactician, knew that this was one decision he would not have to make. Jones had gone through far too much trouble in concealing the heart and guaranteeing its safety to chance it being obliterated by a madman with a pistol.

The simple fact was that Davy Jones feared death.

When the captain broke off his glare in a frustrated growl, James knew that he had won, but he showed no sign of satisfaction. His calm facade, etched with loathing, remained intact. Instead he watched as Jones straightened, tentacles writhing angrily, before leveling his gaze at Jack Sparrow, who had continued to remain silently frozen in place with the heart clutched in his hands. Jones regarded him derisively before narrowing his eyes.

"Very well-uh," he snarled, and he leaned towards Jack, "Make your demands-uh."