It's one of the few decisions he's made as captain - the only other was to release all of the men Davy Jones had kept aboard as his crew and henchmen. There's nothing that they wanted that Will wanted and he prefers the solitude of the ship when there aren't others pressing for blood or death or something more than the duties Will is honor and blood bound to carry out.

He stands at the rail and stares out at the sea, watching the stars move in their heavens and thinks more than he should. He tries hard not to think of Elizabeth or Jack or anyone else who has given him an immortal life. Just the thought of it amuses him. One more thing he's had thrust upon him since he met Jack Sparrow. One more thing he never wanted.

He never wanted adventure, he never wanted piracy, he never wanted to be a captain or a fugitive or a sailor and he certainly never wanted to live forever. All he wanted was Elizabeth, and though he does have her, it is, as with everything else where she is concerned, with stipulations and conditions.

Still, the sea and the Dutchman keep him company and he wants for nothing except everything he can't have. He's always been fine with solitude and he has a mission which makes the time fall apart and come together again and again dissolving into minutes that become hours and days and weeks. He doesn't count the passage of time, preferring to let himself forget until he knows that he'll feel the burning that means his years have passed and land and Elizabeth will be his once again from daybreak to nightfall.

The morning comes with the skies burning red. Will closes his eyes for a moment and steels himself for the day, for the knowledge that there will be souls to gather and claim, lost men and women searching for their end through his waters, waiting for direction to heaven or hell, to the depths of the locker or Fiddler's Green. He takes a deep breath and listens for the distant beat of his heart.

"Is it Will Turner's Locker now?" Will whips around, his sword drawn, the metal almost alive in his hand. James Norrington leans against the opposite railing, his dark hair pulled back in a tight queue in seeming contrast to the Admiral's uniform he wears. He follows Will's line of sight and shrugs. "I disposed of the wig. Nothing stays white when you're dead."

"You are dead."

Norrington nods though Will had not quite asked a question. "Indeed. Aboard this very ship. I turned down the crew's…compelling offer, I'm afraid, but-" he runs his hand along the rail, "it seems your ship has other plans for me."

"I have no need of a crew."

"She disagrees." Norrington moves away from the rail, his hands moving over the ship, touching her, stroking the smooth wood. "And, no offense to her captain, but you should always listen to your ship, do as she says. Otherwise things go…badly."

"I'm to live for eternity on a vessel that strikes fear into the hearts of all men that see her, I ferry the souls of the dead to their final resting place, I can only set foot on land once every ten years, and my heart is kept in a chest nearly a world away. How else to you propose that things might go badly?"

"Have you ever heard of tempting fate, Mr. Turner?" Norrington nears him, standing directly in front of Will's sword so that the tip is against his wool coat. "It is very much like not listening to your ship."

"So, you're to sail the seas with me then?"

"Perhaps she thought you needed a friend."

"Yes. The deep, abiding friendship of the man who, on no less than three occasions, tried to kill me. Not to mention that special joy one takes from having a ghost ship feel the need to rectify your loneliness."

"You are, as I've always thought, a special case, Mr. Turner." Norrington steps back and pulls his own sword free and lets it touch against Will's lightly. "If not a friend, perhaps a sparring partner. Nothing's better in a fight than a man who can't die and a man who's already dead."

Will lets his sword slide along the length of Norrington's, listening to the scrape of metal on metal. He tilts his head and exhales then nods slightly. "She knows her own mind."

"And yours as well, I think, Mr. Turner."

"Call me Will."

"Very well, Will. Call me Admiral Norrington."

The days don't change and he sees Norrington very little. They each move in their own fashion, and Will never questions what it is that Norrington does with his time. At night, he can see Norrington's shadow on the quarterdeck, his hand sliding over the wheel as though he wishes to set a course, though the ship steers herself by the stars and the moon and there is little they can do to sway her.

One night, Will approaches him, climbing the stairs and watching Norrington as he stares out at the dark water. He doesn't speak, simply leans there and watches the sharp profile until Norrington closes his eyes and pulls his hand away from the wheel.

"When I was a boy the only thing I ever wanted to do was sail a ship. I wanted to climb the rigging and feel the rope burn against my hand. I wanted to raise the signal flags and hear the bells call the watch. I wanted to cry out over a raging storm and watch men risk life and limb to follow my orders, to bring a boat to heel." Norrington turns his head and looks at Will. "You?"

"I wanted my father."

"And I wanted away from mine. Always funny how you desire what you don't have."

"You got what you wanted."

"At a price."

"Everything comes with a price." Will shrugs and moves over to the wheel, letting his hands slide along the wood that Norrington had so recently touched. "Nothing is free, nothing is what you think it will be. You crave power and you get it, and you want more. You crave love and you get it, and it breaks your heart and then carries it off in a chest. Freedom is an illusion built by men who need one."

"I underestimated you, Turner."

"Everyone seems to."

"You ended up with Elizabeth though, yes? And immortality. Everything everyone else wanted."

"Everything everyone else wanted until they learned the cost. Everyone wants a sword, polished and balanced and edged to perfection. No one wants to stand in the fire, swing the hammer, wear the sweat and the soot it costs. As I said, James, everything has a price."

"You like standing in the fire."

"I never said I wasn't willing to pay the price."

"Just that the rest of us weren't." Norrington nods and exhales, a habit borne of life and lingering now past his death. "I have one of your swords."

"I know." Will looks out into the dark as well. "Somehow it doesn't strike the same fear, does it?"

"What? Me having one of your swords? You doubt my ability to wield it?"

Will laughs and shakes his head. "No. Will Turner's Locker. Seems rather a dull place, nothing to fear."

Norrington laughs softly as well, though there's a strange edge to his laughter. "I wouldn't be so sure. I've found Will Turner to have surprising depths, and I fear him far more than I ever did Davy Jones."

Will wakes to find a sword at his throat.

There's nothing to fear. He knows that rationally, but rationality is no match for the emotion that rises, no match for the increased beat of his heart in the distance. He feels the blood moving though nothing lies in his chest to move it, and he can imagine Elizabeth in her room, in her bed, hearing his heart pound and moving her fingers against her skin to the beat of it. Will groans and arches back, his throat bare and exposed above the open collar of his shirt and he swallows and feels the cold tip against his skin.

"You'll have to aim lower anatomically and several thousand miles away geographically for that to do you any good."

Pressure drives the tip deeper, blood welling around the blade. Norrington watches him with eyes bright with something and Will swallows again, the scar where his heart was throbbing in time with the blood that flows.

"What would happen?" Norrington presses harder, lets the blade slide in deeper. "The blood flows out of you until it's gone and then what?"

"I don't know." Will stares up at him in the faint light of dawn, grey creeping through the glass. "So long as the heart still beats, I live. Forever."

Norrington nods and eases his grip on the sword and pulls it back, watching as the blood stops, the cut closes over, the slightest hint of silver scar fading to nothing. He sets his sword aside and sits on the edge of the bed. "I wonder what would happen if you did it to me. Would I die again? Would I die for real?" He picks up his sword again and stares down the length of the blade. "At dusk, Mr. Turner. We draw swords at dusk."

"And if nothing changes?"

"Then we do it again, every night at dusk, until it does."

Norrington paces the deck slowly, each step measured and unrushed, methodical and intent. Will observes him from where he stands on the quarterdeck, watching as James pulls his sword free and swings it, the wind slicing along the blade.

Will has grown used to this performance, practiced now every night for weeks. They have fought themselves to a standstill time and again, evenly matched and evenly skilled, Will's time spent in Jack's acquaintance making up for any lack of treachery to offset Norrington's own drive to win.

Or lose, as the case may be.

"This time, Turner."

Will moves off the quarterdeck and draws his sword, taking his own few swings as the cold of night begins to fall. They are both dead and undead in their way, neither quite living, and they still feel the cold as the wind fills the sails and the Dutchman begins another journey.

"This time," Norrington repeats the words and holds his sword out, waiting for the delicate touch of Will's steel. Will closes his eyes for a moment then touches the blades together. His eyes snap open as Norrington's blade moves and the attack begins.

The ship comes alive under their feet as they fight, a strange pulsing rhythm to the wood and copper, the men who have met death on her planks thirsting for blood, hungry for it as though they don't know that the blood that might flow will offer no nourishment for them.

Will counters every blow Norrington brings to bear, letting him move them around the ship. He can see the anger and desperation in Norrington's eyes and waits until it peaks before launching his own attack, driving them back along the length of the rail. The only sounds are the clash of steel, the growling wind and the harsh exhales of unnecessary air.

Norrington's blade rings hard and true against Will's and he closes in, shoving Will back against the rail. "You're not trying, Turner."

"We've tried every night for weeks, James."

"And we'll keep trying." Norrington swings his blade hard, the metal kept from driving into Will's flesh by Will's quick, instinctive response. "What else do you have to do for the rest of eternity?"

"For what cause, James? What purpose? We are doomed to this for what we've done, for what we didn't do. All we have for us is the future."

"The future?" James laughs and pulls back, something burning in his eyes. "A dead man with a future. A future with the promise of nothing. Every day is the same, Turner. That is not a future."

"We can fight until the end of time," Will reminds him. Tangling their blades and forcing them away from the rail, moving in closer to Norrington. "It will not change anything. You cannot atone for the past."

"Then-" Norrington jerks back and swings again and again, punctuating each word with a clash of their swords. "Let. Me. Die."

"You are dead, James.

Norrington swings again, this time sinking his blade into Will's arm. He withdraws it quickly and first blood falls to the deck and the Dutchman groans around them. "Not dead enough."

Will swings his sword up, batting Norrington's blade away, advancing on him, a fire of his own burning. The veneer of civility is now gone, both of them seeking blood, their lust and fury in time with the hunger of the Dutchman herself.

"Now." Norrington laughs as Will's blade lands, slicking along flesh and metal as Norrington tries to parry. "Now, Turner. Now you're fighting."

Will ignores the jib and pursues Norrington, blades flashing in the dying red light.

"Could cut off your head," Will offers, hiding a knowing smile as Norrington beats back his blow.

The deck grows slick with blood that flows before the wounds heal as if they've never been. Their boots wind paths through the red that grows black with the night, sweat and heat showing on their tanned faces.

"Could try." Norrington fights like a man possessed, some old and distant code of honor keeping his sword swinging. Will has never questioned that Norrington does not lay down and let Will end it; he would have no respect for the man if he did.

They end the fight in the pitch blackness of the night, not even the ghostly, ephemeral glow of the Dutchman able to combat the moonless dark. Will's sword sits against Norrington's chest and Norrington's touches the scar where Will's heart used to be.

Will sighs softly. "Another impasse." His body is hot, drenched with sweat and shivering in the sudden wind.

"Tomorrow then." Norrington withdraws his sword and holds it at his side. "Again."

Will shakes his head. "No."

Norrington turns back to Will, but Will ignores the glance and turns himself, heading for his cabin to hear anything but the sounds of his ship crying out for more blood.

Norrington enters the cabin without knocking and moves to the table. The organ still stands, dominating the room as it breathes for the ship, though Will no longer notices its soft sighs. He doesn't look up from where he sits, carefully cleaning his sword. "I have no intention of arguing with you."

Norrington nods and closes his eyes, leaning back in his seat. "I imagine our arguments would end much like our swordfights."

"Exactly where they began?"

"Something like that." He rubs his eyes then turns his gaze to Will. "I expected death to be final." He laughs softly and shakes his head. "Yet another thing I expected that, since Elizabeth, has ended some other way than it should."

"She has that effect. Life-changing. World-altering."

"No wonder she and Sparrow got on so famously." Norrington sighs. "All I ever wanted was to serve, to have a wife, to have a family. Instead, I'm…this."

"It could be worse," Will reminds him softly, moving over to sit at the table as well. "Until he was overcome by a fit of…whatever it was that possessed him, I think Jack had every intention of living forever. You could easily be stuck here with him."

"A sure sign I'd assured myself a place in hell."

"Jack has his good points."

"Really?" Norrington's eyebrow lifts elegantly. "Name two."

"He'd just as soon finagle his way out of a situation or turn tail than shoot his way out of it."

"Leaving said situation to arise again, likely backlashing on some unsuspecting soul." Norrington shakes his head. "Try again."

"He didn't let me die on my wedding day."

"No. He merely sentenced you to a mockery of life."

"I still live. My heart still beats."

"And a beating heart is enough?"

"More than you can claim."

"Touché." Norrington gets to his feet and walks around the table and behind Will's chair. "Nothing ends in this, in this death I'm living. I still hunger. I still thirst." His fingers graze the back of Will's neck, teasing along the tight band of leather that holds back Will's hair. Norrington leans in and breathes, fanning Will's skin. "I still want."

"Another thing your time with Elizabeth never led you to expect?"

Norrington laughs, the sound ghosting over Will's neck. "With Sparrow, actually, though the cloth they're cut from is not so different."

Will closes his eyes, feeling the trickle of air where there should be none, where there would be none in any other world. "Different enough."

"Is that so?" James's fingers trace a pattern on Will's neck, his mouth not quite moving against Will's skin. "Your distant heart is silent? Beating its soft rhythm undisturbed? Your blood-" He licks the hard pulse of Will's neck. "Doesn't quicken?"

Will's breath catches in his chest and he manages to shake his head, though the movement is not an attempt to dislodge Norrington's touch. "Not at all."

"You are many things, Mr. Turner." Norrington nips at the skin at the base of Will's neck with sharp teeth. " A blacksmith. A sword maker. A sailor. An honorable man. But you are not a liar." His lips replace his teeth, gliding over Will's neck. "Not a good one at any rate."

"Do you expect this to get us further than arguing?"

"I can safely say that with this, Mr. Turner, there is only one place I have any desire to go." He reaches for Will's hand and tugs him from the chair, pulling him away from the table and leading him toward Will's bed on the far side of the room.

The waters are murky this deep, swimming with ghost fish and lost treasure. It's almost a relief for Will, after all his time with pirates, to be with someone who wants nothing more than to keep sailing, keep moving through the waves and beneath the depths. Others join them and move on, very few staying for longer than a single voyage. Will hears them whispering dangerous tales about the captain and his first mate, but the names are always wrong, and there's little reason to disabuse them of the notion.

Norrington stands by the helm when new men are brought on board, keeping out of sight of the new faces until he is certain that there are none he knows. They fall into rhythms and watches, the distant tolling of the bell heeded and unheeded in turn. They are often on deck together, always distant and every day as dusk falls, there is a hard clash of swords. There is no talk of death now, though there is still the insistent mocking of each other, digs much sharper than sword point.