A/N: Another Pirates, another one-shot from me. But man, this movie was really begging for it, the way they left these two all open-ended like that.

"I can save you," she told the dying man, her voice beseeching, short of panicked but only just so. "All you have to do is ask."

Sprawled across a rock at the edge of the pool of water, the man of God rested his head against his right arm, his left hand pressed futilely against the cutlass wound in his stomach, unable to staunch the flow of blood from the injury. He was beyond pain now, shock bringing him ever closer to death's doorstep. He had succeeded in saving her, however, and held no regrets.

"It was my fault you were captured," he answered, evading the offer entirely. "I am the one to blame."

"Ask," she pleaded, one hand rising out of the water and gently caressing his face. This man, this human, had shown her kindness and mercy where no others had, even though it was as he said that he had been responsible for her capture. Still, and all, the lengths he had gone to for her over this cursed journey were unlike anything she had ever heard or known of humans before.

He smiled gently, propping himself up slightly on his right arm, dizziness washing over him. "I ask," he began, and she felt her heart race, her entire face lighting up at his words. But then her face fell as she heard him continue, "only for your forgiveness."

Her expression fell, pressure different from any she had felt deep beneath the waves constricted her heart. He knew he was dying, but in his mind laid no thoughts of saving himself, of seeing his own life continued. His thoughts were only for her, staked halfway out of a pool of water, left to die in the sun by the other pirates. His only goal had been to save her life, to free her. And with that task done, he was at peace with his mortality, prepared to meet the God he had told her of.

She cast her eyes toward the sky for a moment, where he had said that his God lived above the heavens. It was a quick, furtive glance, and her gaze returned to the missionary, fearful that he would die if she were not watching him. She did not want him to die. This man, this human, was different, inasmuch as had been said repeatedly over the last handful of days.

She did not want him to die.

Her hand moved to rest upon his shoulder, but only briefly, gripping the fabric of his vest and pulling him toward her. She moved forward as well, his surprised breath warm on her face as she closed her eyes and pulled his lips to hers. The kiss of a mermaid possessed mystical power, giving a human the ability to breathe underwater for a limited time.

That time was crucial, she told herself, the sands of the hourglass already beginning to slip away, even as she momentarily lost herself in the kiss. He was not the first human she had kissed, but this man was different than all the others, for she knew his heart was pure, his interest in her for her, not simply an object of sexual gratification as with so many other humans.

Perhaps, she allowed herself to consider briefly, he might be the last human she kissed.

Her grip tightened on the vest, and she leaned her weight backwards, her merfolk strength easily pulling the missionary from the slickened rock and into the water. Their kiss broke as he breached the water's surface, where she pulled him tightly against her, holding him in her world as he had held her in his. Powerful motions of her tail propelled them forward and down, through the underwater tunnels that would lead out of this grotto and out into the open ocean.

Her kiss would allow him to breathe in the water, but time was against his life. His waterbreathing would only last for so long, but his injury was likely to kill him long before that time expired.

She found herself begging his God for time and assistance as she rocketed toward the ocean, pushing herself farther than she ever had before in order to keep this human alive.

Philip awoke to the sound of the sea churning the hull of a ship, and voices. He could hear Syrena arguing with a man with a deep, gravelly voice, a conversation that another man with a much gentler voice was privy to, occasionally giving his input to the conversation.

The missionary opened his eyes slowly, staring up into the sails and rigging of a ship he did not recognize. He blinked several times as he observed the sails, for surely his eyes must be deceiving him. The sails appeared to be not made of any cloth or fabric, but of seaweed itself. He immediately thought of the Flying Dutchman, a ship of the damned captained by a man so evil that Hell itself spat him back out, and immediately dismissed the notion as pirate lore and superstition.

It was only a moment later that he checked himself, for surely the Fountain of Youth, zombies, and mermaids were pirate lore and superstition as well. And yet he had laid eyes upon the Fountain, sailed on a ship crewed partially by zombies, and been brought to this vessel by a mermaid vastly different than the creatures of seduction and evil the legends had made them out to be.

With a broader and more open mind, he continued to watch the sails, thinking about what he had heard recently about the Flying Dutchman. There had, some years ago, been a large-scale battle between the British East India Company and a large fleet of pirates, a battle in which it was said that the Flying Dutchman had participated. Given what he had seen over the last several days, perhaps that legendary ship was real after all.

"I beg you, Captain, you must take him into your crew!" he heard Syrena plead for him. "He will die if you do not!"

"If he dies, then we shall ferry him, as is our duty," the gravelly-voiced man responded. "The captain is no longer in the business of forcing sailors into servitude aboard this ship."

Syrena hissed at the man, and Philip twitched involuntarily, still shaken whenever he heard that feral sound emanate from an otherwise-heavenly creature. "Your very own captain's life was saved when he was at Death's doorstep!" she spat. "Will you not offer that very same salvation to a dying man, Captain Turner?"

Above the noise of the wind and the sea and the crew performing their tasks, Philip heard the slow pacing of boots across the deck of the ship, coming toward him. "It seems that our man of the cloth is not yet ready to meet God," the gentler-spoken man, owner of the boots approaching, said as he neared.

A second set of boots followed at an equally-slow pace, and over them Philip heard the sound of bare feet slapping against the wooden deck, and Syrena was at his side a moment later, kneeling over him, reaching out to grasp his left hand in both of hers. "Please," she whispered to him. "Hold on a bit longer."

He wet his lips and opened his mouth to answer her, but before he could, a shadow fell over him. For all he had overheard of their talk of ferrying the dead and forcing sailors to serve, he know assumed that he was, indeed, aboard the Flying Dutchman, and that Syrena was attempting to barter Davey Jones into taking him into his crew in order to keep him alive.

But the figure he saw standing over him was a man, not the monstrous, tentacle-faced demon of the seas that everyone described Davey Jones as. This man was dressed simply in black trousers and a loose-fitting maroon shirt that displayed the angry red scar carved across his chest. Philip blinked, and managed to croak out, "You're smaller than I expected, Davey Jones."

The man only smiled and responded, "Will Turner, actually." He turned away, to the owner of the gravelly voice that looked old enough and similar enough to him to be his father. "Some water for our friend, if you please."

The older man nodded and departed with an, "Aye, Captain."

Once he was gone, Will moved to kneel on Philip's other side, and looked first toward Syrena. "You'll have to forgive my father," he said apologetically. "He's been a sailor longer than I've been alive, and he's not had pleasant experiences with your people."

"I bear no grudge, Captain Turner," she responded hastily, squeezing Philip's hand. "I would gladly bear the hatred of your father if you would just save this man's life."

Will reached out and laid a placating hand on her shoulder, then looked down at Philip. Withdrawing his hand from Syrena, he gently touched the cross on Philip's chest. "I am reminded suddenly of a man who I briefly knew, another missionary who found himself eye to eye with the captain of the Dutchman, the former Davey Jones, himself. That man had no fear of death, and did not accept Jones' deal with the devil, and went bravely to his maker. I am not like Jones. I do not force men to serve in my crew until they lose themselves as part of the ship. Men may serve in my crew until they wish to no longer, then they will gladly be ferried to the other side."

Raising his head, Will nodded slowly toward Syrena. "She wishes that I take you into my crew so that your death will be postponed," he continued. "But you are a man of God, and I do not know how He would look upon such an action. So I will not take you based solely on her wishes. You must make the choice, Master Swift."

Lying upon the deck of the Flying Dutchman, Philip found himself at a moral and religious crossroads. It was taught that God knew the time and place for every man's death, but he had seen much recently of which there was nothing taught in his religion. He knew that by taking Will's offer, he would continue to exist, would not be parted forever from Syrena. But that was the selfish road of a wicked man, was it not?

As he wrestled with his moral quandary, Will's father returned with a flask of water, which he handed to the young mermaid. Gently, Syrena pulled Philip partially upright and held the flask to his lips, assisting him to drink. Almost as if giving an answer to his internal questions, the elder Turner mused to himself, "Would be the first time the Dutchman had a missionary serving in the crew…"

That was another way of looking at things. If he remained alive, he would have the ability to continue teaching God's word to those who had been without. The Flying Dutchman's task was to ferry the souls of the dead to the other side, was it not? What better place for a missionary to be, stationed aboard that ship, providing a last opportunity for those who had not known God's love to be brought into the fold.

Philip looked past the flask that Syrena was lowering from his lips, past the rigging and the seaweed sails of the Flying Dutchman, into the afternoon sky beneath which the ship sailed. He felt suddenly warmed, and at peace, and knew that he was still being guided as God intended. That his purpose would be here, to offer those souls their last respite.

It was just a favorable circumstance that doing so would allow him to remain upon the Earth and not be permanently severed from the young mermaid that had changed him in so many ways.

"A missionary aboard the ship tasked to deliver those who die at sea," Philip said as he turned to Will. "What more fitting place to do God's work? Captain Turner, I would join your crew, if you would have me."

Kneeling beside the missionary, Syrena felt her heart soar. Happiness the likes of which she had never known filled her, and her face lit up at the knowledge that Philip would not be taken from her.

Almost as swiftly, however, her spirits crashed again. He would be still alive, but as a crewman, she would only get to see him when the Flying Dutchman made its way to mermaid waters to ferry the souls of the men that her sisters claimed. Few humans ever came to mermaid waters, and so the Dutchman's journeys there would be few and far between.

Will was already standing, doubtless preparing to welcome his new crewman. Before he could speak, Syrena mustered her courage, and before she could falter, spoke, "Captain Turner! I should like to join your crew as well."

That caught the three men off-guard. Will and his father exchanged confused glances, and Philip stared at her dumbfounded. She felt her face burning at his look, and wished that she could just curl up and die right then and there. But she didn't wish to take back a single word. She had made her choice. This human had saved her life, had changed her life, and she knew that she could not bear to be separated from him. There was a word that humans had for this feeling she had, but she did not know it. It was not something that her sisters ever experienced or spoke of.

For his part, Will simply smiled and nodded. "Far be it for I to stand in the path of love," he said. "It is not a bond easily severed."

Syrena smiled warmly in return, taking Philip's hand in hers again. Love. That was what humans called it. It was a new and wonderful feeling, one that she wanted to explore fully with Philip.

She heard the elder Turner turn and walk away, chuckling and muttering something about how they were 'like Will and Elizabeth.' Raising her eyes up to the Dutchman's captain, she saw Will watching the pair warmly. "Welcome aboard the Flying Dutchman, Master Swift, Miss Syrena."

Philip gasped softly, and her eyes shot to his face, to see him staring down at his stomach. She followed his gaze in time to see the last traces of his mortal injury disappear; like the Dutchman itself and her captain, both she and Philip were now immortal. She knew with a brief pang that she could never return to her sisters now, but the love she felt for Philip tempered that sadness. She leaned forward and traced her fingers delicately across the side of his face, and as Captain Turner thoughtfully left them to their privacy, Syrena pulled her missionary toward her and kissed him again with all the same tenderness, but none of the desperation, as they had first kissed in that rocky grotto. She could feel his answering love for her in his gentle response, and the warmth of that sensation filled her from within as the warmth of the sun enveloped her from without, and for the first time in her life, she did not fear that heat.