Author's Note: I have a feeling people won't like this one, it's not exactly the happy humor-y stuff I generally tend to write. In fact it's bloody depressing, and a much darker take on the relationship between Jack Sparrow and Commodore Norrington. After this, go read The Kingston Suspects or something happy! Anyway, tried my best to stay in character – I think that under the right circumstances, these two would probably act in this manner. If not, I apologize profusely. Thanks for all the support, though.

--- --- ---

To Say We End

Not a whit, we defy augury. There's a

Special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it

Be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come,

It will be now; if it not be now, yet will come: the

Readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what

He leaves, what is't to leave betimes? Let be.

Hamlet, Act V, scene II

The cabin was unoccupied for the moment, closed off and untouched by the canon fire of the earlier engagement. The captain had probably fled upon the sound of the discharging guns, as the pirate captains of Norrington's time had been known to do at the last. The crew remained, however, swords and firearms ready to stand until the last, all to protect a small fortune.

Boarding the Wretched Queen had been his last option, board her or be boarded, and Commodore Norrington had stood firm on the deck of the Dauntless, a wreck of her own, and given the order. The attack was unsuccessful in taking the Wretched Queen by surprise, but the outcome was inevitable.

In the single thrust of this battle Norrington had seen the chase flash before his eyes, an account of the two years he had spent chasing the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow. It was meant to end here, in this battle. Norrington could feel it in the very pit of his being, and the realization had dawned on him the moment he had caught a glimpse of Jack Sparrow onboard the other vessel, standing alone and unmoving across the water and regarding his pursuier expressionlessly. Jack Sparrow had separated from the Black Pearl in an attempt to save the ship from capture, knowing Norrington would follow only where he fled to, and in the course of two years Jack had taken up with various other unmarked ships. It had made the chase certainly more interesting, but had done nothing to increase the pirate's advantage.

This was it, now, on this very field of battle – but for Norrington reaching the end of the two-year pursuit was not quite as satisfying as he once thought it would be. He found himself dreading the outcome.

Norrington took a silent step into the closed area, immediately shrouded in a black darkness but unable to further open the little cabin door without giving himself away to any hiding enemies. He should not have come in alone, and as a commodore he was all too aware of that regulation – but this time there would be no marines to fight his battle for him, or even clamps to cuff the prisoner. He came alone with a purpose.

The curtains were drawn and the candles had been quickly blown out, telling Norrington that either someone had made a hasty retreat, or one still lingered in the dark to hide. The thick sweet smell of the smoke tickled his throat and burned his eyes, and the blackness made his vision strain painfully.

Norrington surveyed the room, but did not move from his silent post by the door. The crack of light was all he had to try and piece together the silhouettes of the dark objects. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, and the beating of his own heart roared in his ears. He clutched his sword, as it was drawn far in length before him. Norrington kept his pistol in his left hand, and dared to take a single step into the open cabin, careful not to step on any fallen bottles or books. He stepped lightly, careful to mind the creaks beneath him – and something stirred.

Not five feet away from him a figure made one swift move of it's arm, and before Norrington could determine what he was looking at a single shot fired into the darkness. It was drowned out by the chaos outside, as was Norrington's stifled cry of surprise and pain.  Tears forced themselves from his eyes with the new, wrenching pain in his side. He felt the bullet enter him in the split of a second, and rip through his back all at the same moment. He stumbled back a pace, then another, and finally into the wall as his sword clumsily dropped from his fingers, and clamored to the floor.

Norrington sank to a heap against it, and kept his right hand tightly fisted to his new injury. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was no good to try and stop the bleeding himself, but the pain, the white hot pain scrambled his mind and reduced him to sheer instinct. Hot blood seeped through the back of his coat as well as the front, and still the pain was unimaginable. He gritted his teeth, and quickly threw his head up to try and find his attacker. The gunman stood perfectly still, and Norrington watched to see what he might do. Surely the pirate would finish him off, but what was he waiting for?! The pistol smoked in his hand, and the figure let the pistol fall from his bloody fingers. It hit the floor beside them like a stone.

The commodore's blood slicked fingers fumbled with his discarded pistol, and he shakily managed to get his left hand curled around it with his finger poised at the trigger. The pirate still did not move, and had his own sword in hand, as if trying to decide whether or not to kill the English officer. Then he moved at Norrington, and the Commodore quickly reacted with lightening reflexes, drawing out his pistol from the shadows and firing into the darkness. His contorted aim by chance was better than he thought it would be, and the man jerked painfully back. He cried out in a voice Norrington knew all too well. He immediately dropped his weapon to the floor, as well, numb with the pain and shock. So it had been Sparrow hiding out in the captain's bunk.

Norrington tried to breathe evenly, but his attempt to move left his heart pounding and his side aching. The fiery pain had begun to give way to a dull ache that seemed to drink his strength up with the blood that he lost. He found he could only crawl a pace or two, on his belly like a wounded animal, dragging half of his body and leaving a trail of shining red blood that reflected the hints of daylight. Norrington held his side protectively, and moved his head so he could see the dark figure better as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Sparrow," He hissed between bloodied lips, and as he expected the figure responded. Jack lay prone on his back, his both ringed hands groping slowly at his new injury and his profile staring up at the ceiling of the cabin. Jack only groaned, but he turned his head in the direction of Norrington's voice. He remained perfectly still, save for when his lean frame would twitch, and it seemed as if he would try to curl protectively up to spare anymore pain. The gunshot wound appeared high above the sternum, perhaps a little below the shoulder. By the way the other man was breathing Norrington could tell that his lungs had not been hit, but Sparrow's blood loss should have been far more than was seeping from the hole in his chest. The bullet was still inside of him, providing some protection against all of his blood flowing out at once. A sudden cold streaked through Norrington at the thought of putting a bullet into Jack Sparrow's heart. "Sparrow, damn you, I know you hear me!"

"You shot me," Jack said breathlessly, heavily, and Norrington could see his chest rising and falling rapidly. The stench of blood was now thick in the air. Jack tried to move, but only ended up crying out and falling onto his back again, like a wounded deer still believing it could flee. Jack did not seem like he could go much of anywhere now. Norrington reached an arm out and shakily pulled himself closer, gritting his teeth as the back of his hand dragged across the splintered planks beneath him.

"You shot me," Norrington snarled, and Jack managed a throaty laugh that gave way to a violent cough. Norrington managed to slide himself onto an elbow, and he ignored the taste of blood in his own mouth. He was able to support his weight on his good side, and squinted in the painful line of light coming in from the lightly rocking curtains. "Where…where are you hit?"

"Nowhere I haven't been shot before," Jack visibly winced as he slowly dragged himself up on one elbow, and inched backward so he might support himself against the big oak desk in the center of the little room. Outside the noise was still loud, and Norrington could no longer tell by the sound who had the upper hand. In the back of his mind he hoped for his crew, but said nothing of it. He glanced back at the door – it was still cracked, and let a little bit of the bright daylight filter through. Shadows darted past it, and Norrington turned away.

He had been shot before, as well, and the pain was not even on his mind anymore. There was not so much pain as there was wear on his body, and with every move and breath he felt his energy sink straight from his body and onto the cold floor in which he lay. Norrington managed to turn over to his side, and pulled his hand- almost unrecognizable through the blood that covered every inch of it- from the wound. The blood was hot, still. It gave him comfort that his body was not quite ready to give up. With a grit of his teeth and an agonized groan, Norrington reached back beneath the tails of his coat.

He slowly withdrew a pistol, still loaded, and shakily attempted to grasp it correctly in his fingers. His left arm was going numb, but he still moved it to grope the source of the bleeding, and with his other hand curled his fingers around the handle. In the darkness he heard Jack's breathing slow. The pirate was watching his movements now, carefully, though he was still exhausted by the moving effort. As he struggled to catch a decent breath his dark eyes remained quiet, and shined in the dim light.

"Two years and you've caught me," Jack husked after a moment, and raised his brows. Sweat gilstened on what little showed of his forehead beneath that red band. His gold teeth caugh the light in a wry grin. "I suppose you'll be finishing it now."

Norrington snorted. A smile. Of course a smile in his last moments, this chase had all been a game to Sparrow, a game that he had enjoyed watching from the comfort of the deck of the Black Pearl, always playing with Norrington to catch up, always managing to be one step ahead – but now there would be no more running. The Black Pearl was near unbeatable, but the Wretched Queen was not, and Jack had not intended for Norrington to follow her. It may have been his biggest mistake jumping ship, the fox overestimating his own cleverness at the last moment. "I suppose I will be," he growled, moving slowly up to lean against the desk beside his enemy. Jack watched carefully as the younger man positioned the barrel of the loaded gun into the slope of his temple, pushing his dark hair out of the way.

"A trial is customary before execution," Jack reminded him with effort, one hand supporting his weight from the floor and the other still clutching the ball of bloodied shirt to his chest. His eyes lost their fearless glaze, and he quickly looked over at the long barrel staring him down, and back to Norrington. "Isn't it, Commodore?"

"You have had your trial," Norrington let both of his shoulder blades fall against the side of the desk, and the back of his head followed. He closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath, feeling his heart hammer violently in the walls of his chest. It was almost painful, but the pain fed his anger. "You've had a thousand trials."

At that Jack Sparrow released the breath he'd been holding in a short laugh, and leaned the side of his head into the barrel. "And I've been found guilty of trying to keep myself fed and clothed, Commodore," he replied with a misplaced grin, and glanced mildly over at Norrington. The other man remained silent, jaw set and piercing blue eyes visibly vacant of all emotion in the failing light. Norrington's ragged breathing only made his appearance even fiercer, and the grin melted from Jack's face. He quickly jerked away from the barrel, and his shoulders smacked against the wood.

"You're really going to shoot me, aren't you, mate?" Norrington cocked the hammer back wordlessly, and Jack tightened his grip on his still bleeding wound. He shrank back against the desk, like a cowering puppy. "Why would you shoot me?" he asked. "Why would you do that, Commodore?"

"You know why," Norrington said, his Adam's apple bobbing as spit out each word with a thousand times his usual effort, and tried to breath at the same time. A near impossible task that left him starving for air. "Because you have been a thorn in my side, Sparrow. Because you have defied everything I have sworn to protect for far too long, and if I let you go this time you will only continue that."

"I have to," Jack gulped in entire swallows of air as he tried to inch away from Norrington, while still managing to grasp his chest. The grimy white shirt was no darkened with drying blood, but his face was drawn with fear and bewilderment. It was something he had only let Norrington see, his fear, and for reasons Norrington wasn't even sure he himself knew. Jack flicked his gaze from the barrel, to Norrington, and back again. His dry voice sounded ready to crack, and he shook as he tried to balance and inch away at once. "I have to."

"You steal, and cheat, and kill and take what others have worked for your whole life and you get away with it," Norrington thrust himself forward and towered over Jack as the pirate attempted to scramble away, and ended up on his back, barely propped on one elbow. He watched Norrington advance, and grunted when the other man pressed the gun into the vulnerable underside of his chin, and braced himself against the floor with his palm. "Time and time again. I hate your kind, Sparrow."

"You can't hate me, Commodore," he gasped. "We're brothers, you and I, two faces of the same coin, don't you see?" Jack stammered breathlessly, and tried to edge away from the barrel again. Norrington frowned in disbelief at the pirate's desperate reasoning, not so much at the words themselves, but at how they hit him. The words filled him with doubt. Jack was sincere. "You do what you have to keep alive – you do what you have to, but so do I – so do I! How could you kill your own brother?"

"Enough –"

"But it's true, and you know it," Jack was reduced to a whisper now, and he propped himself a little higher on his elbow, moving just a little bit further away from Norrington. The Commodore only advanced. Something in Jack's eyes quieted, and he studied Norrington as if he no longer believed the determination to kill was still there. Jack's labored breathing slowed, and he let his rigid muscles relax beneath his crawling skin. "…Because you would have done it already."

Norrington hesitated, and the growing anger that had been rising in him like molten lava prepared to spill over his edge came to a stand still. He had nothing to say, nothing to defend himself after Sparrow had left him open and vulnerable with the truth of what he was. What he was in his own eyes: a coward. Norrington could no more kill Sparrow than he could shoot himself, and he for the first time admitting how much he did not want to pull the trigger. Up until that very second had denied it.

The Chase had morphed from something so harmless, something he should and could have just left alone into a raw obsession, an insatiable lust for victory. A fox hunt, that would not soon end without either the hunter or the hunted surrendering. Those last days when Jack Sparrow had been in his captivity he had spread like a disease, bewitching those around him to see the world from another angle – the problem was he had gotten to Norrington as well, and not a day had gone by since when the Commodore finally began to hate what he had become. He blamed Jack Sparrow's contradiction of what Norrington had grown to know as reason, but moreso did he hate the pirate's unwillingness to change. If Sparrow were to be released now, his nature would have him back on the seas, living that fruitless dark life all of his kind eventually came to know. The entirety of being alone, and the cold reality of consequence.

"Why," Norrington finally hissed, viciously, and Jack frowned back at him. "Why could you not have run away, out of my reach, Sparrow?! Why did you keep coming back if you knew," The younger man did not lower the pistol. "You knew it would come to this."

"It wasn't my intent," Jack said carefully, giving Norrington an unreadable stare with those dark eyes. Other than his shivering from the effort it took to speak, Sparrow was still as a windless night. "Remember, mate," He almost smiled. "I was rooting for you."

Norrington felt his scowl fail to a shell of bewilderment. His hand shook around the wooden handle of the firearm. There was no more wait. "When we meet again," Norrington said doggedly. "Think well of me." He shot. Jack gave a single jolt, and he crumbled limply to the floor. Jack's fingers weakly flexed as they fell away from where he had been cradling his chest wound. He did not move again.

Norrington let the pistol fall from his bloody fingers. It hit the floor beside them like a stone, and broke the heavy silence again. Norrington blankly pulled his shaking hand back to his side, and tried his best to come to a proper position against the desk again. His body bent awkwardly but not at the point of bullet entry, and he let his head fall back against the wood again. Norrington exhaled hard, closing his eyes in exhaustion and furrowing his brow. He denied the grief.

"God," he whispered. "Have mercy on his soul."

The silence settled down upon him in the darkness of the cabin, and his ear went out only for the war like sound outside in the light. Jack remained motionless where he had fallen, and when Norrington could summon the courage to look over at him it appeared as if the pirate were simply taking a long sleep. His eyes closed and the entry wound of the bullet was naught but a small red gash on Jack's temple. None would have known he was dead, never to rise again. Norrington turned his gaze back to the darkness, and waited for the sounds of the outside battle to die down to a low murmur and the occasional shouting of orders.

Some time passed, and as he expected, the cabin door burst open, and the light of day poured in and onto the scene. He did not turn to see who it was that entered, but as he might have guessed, Gillette came to crouch before him, his pale face plain with concern. His dry, warm hands came to grip his superior officer's face and gave him a gentle shake.

"Commodore…Commodore, look at me," he said quickly, and searched to find the focus of Norrington's eyes. Slowly, and half-heartedly, the older man met his gaze, and blinked once. Gillette immediately shouted over his shoulder to the outside, panic rising in his youthful voice. "Fetch the doctor, Commodore Norrington is down!" A few voices rose outside, and the running of footsteps past the door followed. Gillette remained at Norrington's side, and gently slapped his cheek. "Sir, can you speak?"

"Yes, Gillette," Norrington said softly, and turned his head away from his second lieutenant. His faded blue eyes fell on Sparrow's prone form again, and he let his head drop back against the desk. "Yes, I can."

"What happened, here, sir?" Gillette quickly worked with the multiple buttons that lined Norrington's shirt, scrambling to reach the still bleeding wound. "Was it Sparrow? Has he been caught?"

"Sparrow is dead," Norrington murmured, and Gillette froze. He slowly caught Norrington's eyes, and followed them to where they rest on Jack Sparrow's still body – his expression was blank, and uncaring for his surroundings, or the bleeding from his side. "It had to end, Gillette."

"Aye, sir," Gillette said quietly. When laying his eyes on their defeated foe, even Gillette felt a little wave of something he could not describe or begin to understand. It was either the disappointment of the finish, or a deep sympathy derived from the sheer nature of his humanity. Gillette gave the pirate one last long glance, and he turned back to Norrington. "It was inevitable."

"Inevitable," Norrington repeated, numbly. Inevitable, yes, but never painless. Norrington had shot and killed Captain Jack Sparrow, and the satisfaction he had expected upon seeing the man hang had not risen as he had hoped. There was no satisfaction, and none would there be. "But I'd not expected such consequence."

Gillette could say nothing in comfort, so he remained silent, and continued to speak to Norrington in a low voice. It was his attempt to keep the commodore awake, in fear that if he did fall into sleep he would not wake again. Norrington screwed his eyes shut, letting his hands fall away from his wound and allowing Gillette to replace them with his own. The young man continued to work quickly and urgently, but not a word or feeling reached Norrington. He felt his very soul bleed upon the floor, and mingle with the pool of Jack Sparrow's blood.