They have been traveling all over the world.

First throughout the Caribbean, then Tripoli, Europe…Admiral James Norrington and his fleet have gone from coast to coast, port to port, eliminating pirates and their ships.

One by one.

Lord Cutler Beckett is at all times present upon the HMS Endeavor, Norrington's flagship. He is always watching, always waiting, paranoid that perhaps one day Norrington will betray him, ready to do whatever is necessary to prevent that.

In a chest in Beckett's room, the heart of Davy Jones beats endlessly, restlessly, on and on and on.

And of course, whenever he is called upon, Jones himself will rise out of the mists to do the dirty work of the British Navy. Hundreds have died within the past few months. Guilty men, most of them, that is for sure, but still, James Norrington sometimes finds himself looking away, rife with self hatred, unable to watch the slaughter.

He has become a dark and dangerous man.

The months in Tortuga, back before he had reclaimed his position in society, before he had sold his soul, had thickened the muscles on his body. He is heavier now, stronger, and has had to adjust the way he fights with a sword. His skin is still golden, tanned from the months with no wig or hat or any sort of propriety. The color has not faded. He is still as dark as a drunk in the streets.

Vicious scars mar his forearms; permanent reminders of the drunken bar fights that had made up the waste of time he had called his life.

But then of course, he had found Jack Sparrow.

James Norrington sighs, leaning over the railing of his ship. They have pulled into port in Bombay, India, at the request of the Ambassador to the Empire. Some rogue pirates had been causing problems.

They won't anymore.

"Admiral Norrington." A voice hails him from behind, and James turns to find the detested Cutler Beckett standing there.

"Lord Beckett," he replies politely, coldly. His voice is different now. There is hate.

"Admiral Norrington, the Ambassador has received a letter from the East India Trading Company's representative in Singapore. He is having problems with certain pirates. Seems they have taken to running to the streets."

James nods, not wanting to physically say that he understands that this will make them harder to kill. He rarely says the name "Davy Jones" aloud.

"There have been rumors that their Captain's name is Barbossa."

James feels his throat go dry. "That is impossible."

But even James knows that nothing is impossible, not any more.

Except for redemption. He hasn't believed in that in quite some time.

Singapore is a city the likes of which James has never seen. Dark, opulent, decadent…

He wanders the streets, grateful to finally be alone after so many months surrounded by crew and the oppressive gaze of Beckett. They are staying not on the Endeavor, but in the palatial home of the East India Company's Representative, the Viscount Thomas Fox.

It must be around midnight.

James wanders, dressed in the clothes of an ordinary businessman, his natural hair short and neat beneath a black tricorn. Beneath his cloak there are two daggers; James has learned to be deadly.

Perhaps death awaits him in these streets, perhaps he does not care. All that he knows is that he must find this "Barbossa," if only to prove to himself that it is not the same man, that it couldn't possibly be.

Because if it were the same man, then Elizabeth might still be alive.

Her name is like arsenic in his veins, excruiatinging and yet somehow sweet.

And so James wanders, the most dangerous man in the world.

Because somehow, he has nothing left to lose. Honor, it seems, is only a relative term.

A whorehouse, a deserted market, stinking putrid streets, he comes across all of them.

And then the opium den. Or at least, what appears to be an opium den. James slows his pace, forcing his steps to be silent. The strange sweetness of the drug does not fill the air, there is no music…something is wrong.

He climbs, silently, until he is on a low roof, his hands scratched and bleeding but that does not matter. James has seen too much blood by now to be affected by it. Through a window he peers, his green eyes glowing as he spies, amidst the thick, silk mats littering the floors, a group of men.

Not a single one is smoking.

There can be no doubt that they are pirates. They are armed, all of them, to the teeth, and James almost laughs at how that once might have given him cause for concern.

But James has seen too many horrors for something like that to matter.

He spots the smallest of the group, a young boy, his face obscured by shadow. This is the one that James will take. This is the one that he will be able to learn something from.

Another hour goes by before the group disperses, and James watches with catlike eyes as the boy does not follow the other men, but rather, runs in another direction, silent as a rabbit, and almost as fast.

But not as fast as James.

He descends upon his prey like a lion, effortlessly, powerfully, and yet the boy fights back, stronger than James anticipated. In the moonlight, James can see the glint of a weapon in the boy's hand. In a single, fluid motion he pulls out his own dagger, clubbing the boy on the head. He falls in a small heap upon the ground, his young face finally coming into view, the features painted silver in the moonlight.

James feels his spine begin to turn to liquid.

The face belongs to Elizabeth Swann.

Her head is throbbing; brutally, mercilessly painful.

Which means, of course, that she must be alive…damn it.

Elizabeth rolls over onto her stomach. There is a bed beneath her, warm and soft, and it smells fresh and clean. She remembers that she hasn't slept in three days. She hasn't eaten in four.

"Be careful," a voice says. "Don't put too much pressure on the side of your head."

Elizabeth feels numb. No, worse than numb, she feels everything. Everything imaginable because for the love of God, she knows that voice. She sits bolt upright in the bed, and when she almost falls over he is there, holding her up, his thick arms like iron chains around her own.

"God almighty," she whispers, he eyes staring back into his own. "James Norrington, what has the world done to you?"

He lets go of her suddenly, unable to touch her and look at her at the same time.

"I thought you were dead," he says plainly.

"No," she replies, her eyes unable to drink in the sight of her former fiancé quickly enough. "No, I am not."

They stare at each other much like that for quite some time, James dark and brooding, Elizabeth, malnourished and dirty, her long hair caked with grime around her face.

"James," she begins.

"I ordered a bath for you," he quickly interjects, not wishing to hear whatever may come out of her mouth. That gorgeous, lying, perfect mouth.

She begins to protest, and only then notices the room that she is occupying. A bedroom, his bedroom, and she is lying in a massive oak bed that is covered in blue silk hangings. The walls are a dark wood, and a large, marble fireplace is lit, casting shadows all around them. Beyond the windowpane the night is still dark.

"Where am I?" She asks, finally, standing on her own, albeit with a slight wobble. And then the realization. "You hit me!" She yells. "You took me here!" And then she is slamming her fists against his chest, crying, screaming. "I know what you've done. I know, I know! All over there are rumors of the dreaded Admiral Norrington, who can kill any pirate!"

He allows her to rage.

"I know!" She sobs. "You bastard, you absolute bastard. How could you!"

For how else does one become invincible on the seas?

And then she is crying in his arms. Starving, tired, alone, she can't even fathom that he is here.

He begins to undress her, and Elizabeth finds that she does not even have to heart to protest. There is something reverent about his touch, gentle, though she can feel the calluses on his hands. There is nothing sexual about the encounter, and even as he lowers her into the water, there is minimal contact between the two of them.

James drops to his knees and begins to wash the dirt from the wounds on her body.

"How did you come to be here" he asks, and finds that his throat is tight.

"Have you come to destroy us?" She asks, her head rolling back.

He does not reply.

For Elizabeth, that is honesty enough.

"We came to find Jack."

For Norrington, that is answer enough.

"You are hurt," he says.

"I haven't seen Will or the others in days. We all became separated. We are looking for a certain Captain." She means Sao Feng, but does not say that aloud.

Silence surrounds them.

Minutes pass, or perhaps hours, and the water has gone cold. Ignoring her nakedness, James picks her up, oblivious to the softness of her skin, the curve of her breast. He quickly hands her one of his robes.

"I loved you," he says suddenly, the sentiment seemingly coming from nowhere. "I want you to know that." Elizabeth sits down upon the bed. "I also" he continues, "want you to know that I don't love you anymore. I lack the capacity to love anything anymore. Too much has happened, too much carnage, too much pain."

There are tears in her eyes.

"But when I was capable of loving, Elizabeth, I loved you."

He smiles then, an insincere, frightening smile, and Elizabeth notices for the first time how much he has changed. Even his shadow seems larger and darker.

"Where am I?" she asks.

"Nowhere where Cutler Beckett will find you." There is an unspoken promise in those words, and she nods gratefully.

They make love; of course they do, as Elizabeth knew they would. Two beings in pain, finding each other at the ends of the earth, was there really any other logical conclusion?

He loves her body slowly, carefully, her newly washed skin like silk against the clean sheets. There is no shyness in the act for James, not like there would have been once upon a time, when they might have had their fairytale.

The truth is there are no fairytales.

He takes her lips in his as she climaxes, and Elizabeth is shaking beneath him, finally made aware by her closeness to this man how truly alone she is in the world.

Because Jack is gone. And in all honesty, so is Will. It is probably too late for them now.

Too late indeed.

James shudders on top of her, the warmth of her body a God send. For so long he has felt soulless and cold, and for the moment, even if it is only an illusion, he can feel warmth.

He rolls off of her and pulls the woman that might have been his wife into his arms, his breath heavy against her neck.

His large hand moves across her stomach. "If you are pregnant, we will get married."

James expects an objection, but receives none.

"Do you love me?" She asks quietly. He will never know that in her words there is a silent plea, a desperate longing to be taken away from all of this, to be absolved of Will and Jack and the hole of darkness that she has dug herself into.

"No," he answers. "I was telling the truth."

They lie there together, the heat rising from their bodies, their breathing slowly falling into tandem.

"Do you love Will Turner?" He asks.

"I don't know what love is." It is the first honest answer to that question that she has ever given. And it kills her.

"I will leave in the morning. I have to find Jack."

"You might be pregnant." He tightens his grip.

"If I am, I swear I will return."

They both know that she is lying. She has to leave, because now, finding Jack Sparrow is all that she has left.

"James." His name is tender on her lips. "I have something to give you. Back with the men…where I have been staying. I relieved our esteemed Lord Beckett of it back in Port Royal."

But he does not respond.

It is sometime later when he whispers to her. "Elizabeth." She is asleep now. "Elizabeth," he says again. "Elizabeth Norrington." He repeats the name over and over, the black tears that he has been holding back for so long finally crashing through the long lashes surrounding his eyes. "Oh God, Elizabeth."

He passes numbly into sleep, overcome with his grief.

By the time he wakes, almost two days have gone by, and James is not surprised to find himself alone. It had been months since he had had a decent nights rest, and he wonders if Elizabeth was nothing but an apparition, brought on by lack of sleep and morality.

"Excuse me, Sir." A valet enters the room. "Forgive the intrusion, but this arrived for you this morning."

James blinks once, twice, three times before he remembers to breathe.

In the valet's hand is the sword, his sword.

Oh God, Elizabeth.

And suddenly, in the terrifyingly beautiful pain of the moment, he remembers what it means to love.