The next day, Beckett's cabin was quiet—too quiet.
Norrington stood before the desk, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid. Beckett didn't look up at once. He let the silence stretch, reading the tension as easily as ink on paper.
"Sit down, Commodore," Beckett said at last.
Norrington complied.
Beckett folded his hands on the desk, voice measured.
"Jack Sparrow escaped Port Royal," he said calmly. "At the same time, Governor Swann's daughter vanished. A month later, she returns. And Governor Swann suddenly has a son-in-law no one can trace."
Norrington's expression hardened. "If you summoned me to discuss coincidences, sir, then that is all this amounts to. Coincidence."
Beckett tilted his head slightly. "Is it?" he asked, letting the question hang. "You were meant to marry Elizabeth Swann. Yet she returns with another man at her side—and you do not appear the least bit… aggrieved."
Norrington held his expression steady. He could have said he was angry. Once, he had been. But that anger had evaporated the moment he had seen what Daniel truly was.
As for Elizabeth—there were other women. Fine women. Elizabeth was not the only one in the world.
What was singular was the memory that still visited him at night: that shape of darkness, those inhuman eyes, the certainty that he had been standing in the presence of something far beyond rank, law, or reason.
Norrington would rather risk his pride, even his reputation, than risk crossing paths with that again.
Some losses, he had learned, were blessings in disguise.
"I'm not petty enough," Norrington said evenly, "to pursue a woman who has chosen another man. Elizabeth made her choice—and Daniel is, by any measure, a… remarkable man."
Beckett regarded him for a long moment, then smiled thinly. "How noble," he said. "A rare quality these days."
He gestured toward the door. "You may go, Commodore."
Norrington inclined his head and turned to leave.
As the door closed, Beckett's smile faded.
"A remarkable man," he murmured to himself. "Indeed. Enough to instill fear."
Beckett had noticed it immediately—the Commodore's expression when Daniel was mentioned. Not irritation. Not resentment. Fear. Controlled, but unmistakable. That meant something had happened—something significant enough to leave its mark.
His suspicion was correct.
And if a man like Norrington feared him, then Daniel could be useful—very useful—in finding Jack Sparrow.
Beckett's fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair as a thought formed.
Should I accuse Governor Swann of colluding with pirates?
Have him arrested. And use this man
A faint smile curved his lips.
"Yes," he decided. "That may serve my purposes nicely."
***
The Black Pearl moved smoothly through the water as it drew near Port Royal.
Daniel leaned against the rail beside Jack, unusually thoughtful.
"Jack," he said casually, as if suggesting a change of course, "why don't you become the captain of the Flying Dutchman?"
Jack froze.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. "I'm sorry—what?"
"The Dutchman," Daniel repeated, unfazed. "Captain. You. Seems like a natural promotion."
Jack let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Right. Command the cursed ghost ship, bound to ferry souls for all eternity. Very flattering. Comes with a hat?"
"You already owe Davy Jones your soul," Daniel replied. "This way, you stop running and start owning the problem."
Jack stared out at the sea. The joke had landed too close to the truth.
Jack rolled his shoulders, grimacing.
"…You do realize," he said carefully, "that being captain of that ship isn't exactly a career upgrade. It's eternal servitude. Barnacles. Tentacles. A tragic lack of rum."
"That part's true," Daniel agreed easily.
The Flying Dutchman might sound impressive in a tavern tale, but the truth of it was far more miserable.
Its command was a curse disguised as honor. No true shore leave—only a single day on land every ten years, and even that was a mercy, not a right.
The captain was bound by an ancient oath: to ferry the souls of the dead to the next world and then return to the sea. The ocean never forgave those who broke such vows.
When Davy Jones abandoned that duty, the sea answered in kind.
The Flying Dutchman itself became damned—its timbers soaked in rot and sorrow, its decks alive with whispers. The curse crept into the crew slowly, mercilessly. Flesh hardened into coral.
Barnacles fused with bone. Eyes clouded like waterlogged glass. Men became less than human and more than the sea itself, until it was impossible to tell where sailor ended and ship began.
No captain was spared this fate.
Even those who took command after Jones were not exempt. As seen with Will Turner, the curse continued to take hold, slowly binding the captain to the same fate as the ship itself.
Only then did he think of it—why wasn't Will ever seen among the crew?
"…Wait. Where's Will?"
Jack blinked. "Will?" He snapped his fingers once, twice. "Ah. Right. Turner."
Daniel looked at him.
Jack coughed lightly. "Last I remember, he was meant to fetch supplies and wait for us in Tortuga. Then, well… islands, cannibals, sea monsters. You know how it goes."
"You forgot him," Daniel said flatly.
"I temporarily mislaid him," Jack corrected. "Very different things."
Daniel shook his head, then smiled faintly. "Fine. After we finish in Port Royal, we're picking him up."
Jack raised a brow. "And what's this I'm sensing? A plan?"
"A better one," Daniel said. "It's about time the Flying Dutchman got a new captain."
Jack stared at him for a long second.
"…You're absolutely certain you're not the villain in this story?"
*****
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