By the time the battle was over, night was retreating and dawn had begun to make its approach. And what a bloodied dawn it was.

Ona sucked in a sharp breath as she was forced down onto her knees, her shins hitting the deck and sending a jolt of pain up her legs. But she didn't make any other noise of complaint, glaring through the strands of her loose hair at the twisted, mutilated crewman as they walked past her.

Norrington was thrown onto the deck to her left, his back hitting the gunwale hard enough to shake it. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed the side of his head. She examined him visually, satisfied when she ascertained he wasn't injured too profoundly. He was a decent fighter as she had just witnessed, and if they were to get out of this alive, she would need his skills.

She next surveyed the rest of the grisly scene. Bodies littered the deck, all of them belonging to the Mariner's Lament, and the wood was slick with crimson. To her right, the survivors had been forced into a line, sitting or kneeling against the gunwale, their faces slack with shock or bloody with injury.

Someone caught her eye, and she released a breath of relief. Franklin, too, seemed gladdened to see her alive, though his eyes were narrowed, as if it was difficult to focus on her. She noticed then that a trail of blood was leading from his left ear, and her heart pained in her chest.

Thump-clack. Thump-clack. Thump-clack.

The odd, rhythmic sound drew Ona's attention upward, and she stared at a man, if indeed he could be called that, as he sauntered past her. He wore a heavy dark coat, a large black tricorne, and a leg she, at first, thought was a peg-leg. On closer inspection, she realized it was a pointed claw. Like at the end of a crab's leg.

But by far, the most startling thing about him was his face. Smooth, nose-less, and ringed with writhing, grasping kraken-like tentacles. There was no doubting this was the infamous Captain Davy Jones.

The cursed captain paced slowly in front of the line of prostrate crew, his arms behind his back as he appraised them with cold eyes the color of icy waters. She noted then, too, that one of his arms ended in an enormous crab's claw.

He was the boundless, raging ocean personified. As he began to speak, a collective shudder moved through the crew.

"For those of ye who don't know me, ye may have taken heed of the unfair rumors that I am a cruel master. Without rhyme or reason, I am as faithless and unpredictable as the sea. But this is untrue."

He paused with a mocking, thoughtful expression, his eyes twinkling with sinister delight. "I am a fair captain, a merciful captain… even to those who have in their possession something that belongs to me."

Without warning or any signal Ona could see, two of the Dutchman crew grabbed Norrington and dragged him to his feet. He snarled the words, "Unhand me!" but they ignored him and held him upright, as if presenting him for inspection.

Jones stalked across the deck, his boot mere inches from Ona's knees as he came to a halt. She tilted her head upwards, trying not to draw attention to herself, and watched as the captain confronted the man who had once been his commanding officer.

"Greetings, Admiral," Jones said with a tone of spurious joy. "I've missed ye terribly."

"The feeling is decidedly not mutual," Norrington answered, his jaw clenched as he glared at the captain. Jones didn't seem to take offense at his hostile words, and instead released a booming laugh.

"I've missed that razor-sharp wit of yours, too. You may not believe me, but I am truly glad to see ye alive. Although…" he paused, rubbing a tentacle finger across his tentacle jaw, "I've yet to reach an understanding as to how ye survived that unfortunate goring."

Norrington scoffed through his noise and said, "I assumed that was your doing, Captain."

Jones gave him a look at the derisive use of his title, but ignored the jab as he mused, "I did not rise ye from the dead, lad. But it seems, now that yer back…"

Quick as an eel, Jones tore open Norrington's coat, exposing the patchwork of bloodied and scaly flesh. The cursed captain gave a smile that chilled Ona to her marrow.

"Well, that does it! The Flying Dutchman has laid claim to you, body and soul, and conscripted you into her service."

"To which I did not agree," Norrington snapped as he moved forward, but the crewman holding his shoulders pulled him back into place. "Or was my sword through your black heart not answer enough for you?"

Despite Norrington's low, deadly tone, Jones merely smiled as if remembering a fond memory.

"Oh, aye, I understood ye well enough. The Dutchman, however, can sometimes… have a mind of her own. And ye remember our little conversation, don't ye, Admiral?" Jones chuckled again and said, "My apologies. Former admiral."

The cursed crewman chuckled but Norrington's face only hardened.

"I remember how I should have allowed Governor Swann to stab your heart with the bayonet," he spit back. "It would have spared me a lot of trouble."

Jones didn't laugh this time, but he did move his face closer to Norrington's, causing the man to pull back in disgust as his tentacles drew dangerously near.

"Then ye also remember what I told the late Gov'ner. The crew are not bound to me, Master Norrington. They answer to the ship. And now… so do you."

Norrington's face twisted into a mask of rage as he shouted, "You cannot keep me!"

The cursed captain had turned and begun to walk away, a lingering smile on his face, but Norrington's angered cry caused him to pause and look over his shoulder.

"If ye don't like it," his smile broadened into a full grin, "then ye can take it up with the ship. I'm sure she'll be sympathetic to yer plight!"

Jones' cruel laughter was echoed by the rest of his sea-cursed crew, the sound of their mirth carried into the morning light. The water had begun to turn pink, a reflection of the dawning sky, but to Ona it seemed as if the ocean had been saturated by the blood of the slain.

Norrington was forced back into a kneeling position by his captors and he shook off their hands, rearranging his thick coat to once again cover the evidence of his affliction.

Ona couldn't draw her eyes away from him, feeling oddly saddened on behalf of the man, for her worries had been confirmed.

His fate was sealed. Norrington belonged to the Dutchman now.

As if he could feel his gaze, Norrington turned his sea-green eyes on her. They full of hot anger for a moment, but then something in his expression seemed to crumple and he turned away, but not before Ona had caught a glimpse of his shame.

Jones called out in his commanding voice: "Who amongst ye calls himself captain!"

Ona immediately looked to Franklin, her heart suddenly leaping in her chest as for the first time that night, a trickle of fear iced down her spine. She was just about to call out the lie, say she was captain, when Franklin answered, "Aye, that would be me."

He tried to rise to his feet, but the nearby captors forced him back down to his knees. He gave them all a sneer, riddled with contempt, and then turned his focus back to Jones. His voice was loud and clear as he said:

"My name is Captain Franklin Sharp, and you and your ilk are not welcome aboard my vessel."

Jones moved at a slow, methodical pace to where Franklin knelt, and once he towered over him, Jones smiled down with an amused expression. It was as if Franklin were no more than a small, yapping dog to the cursed man.

"Do not worry, Captain. My men and I will not tarry long. There is but one simple question I would put to ye and yer crew."

Jones leaned down until they were nearly face to face. His question was quiet, but they all heard it, drifting across the morning breeze as if even the wind not dared drown him out.

"Do you fear death, Captain Sharp?"

If the cursed captain was hoping to intimidate Franklin, he failed on that account. He squared his jaw and looked the monstrous creature in the face without an inkling of fear.

"The man who fears death is the man who has lived his life unfulfilled, going to sleep each night and waking each morning with regret in his heart."

Jones stared at him for a long moment.

"It's a yes or no question," he said flatly.

Franklin bared his teeth at him in a red smile, and he leaned forward.

"I do not fear you."

There was no doubting his conviction; Jones could clearly see it, too. He slowly rose to his tall height and unsheathed his sword, pointing it downward towards Franklin, the tip aimed directly over his heart.

"Then you will meet your judgement braver than most," he said quietly, the previous mirth in his voice now completely gone. He pulled his arm, preparing for the killing strike that would end Franklin's life and take him away from her forever.

Ona was on her feet and bolting toward the tentacled monstrosity before she consciously realized what she was doing. But she never got anywhere near him; she was grabbed and held roughly by the arms still a few paces away. She struggled against her captors, her anger sharpened by their hideous laughter.

For the first time, Davy Jones turned his eyes on her. The pale irises took her in, peering at her in that particular way she hated. Jones formed a small smile on his face, but he did not sheath his sword as he languidly strolled up to her. She noticed his sword hand could hardly be called a hand, and one long tentacle-finger wrapped around the hilt and partially up the blade.

But after that initial glance, Ona paid no attention to the sword. Instead, she glared fully into his face, loathing burning in her heart as she imagined all the ways she would delight in killing such a fiend. For Ona knew who this man was. What he had done.

And now he was here. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

"How could I overlook the presence of such a sweet sea-flower?" he practically purred as he walked around her in a slow circle. "My distracted thoughts are no excuse for such uncordial behavior. You have my… apologies."

He stopped before her, his face drawing closer as his pale eyes loomed in her vision. His scent filled her nostrils, and he smelled like the charged waters of the sea after a storm.

"If you touch him, if you harm him at all," Ona said, the promise of Hell's fury behind her words, "I will kill you."

Jones' hairless brow rose in an expression of amusement and he pulled back a short distance, turning his icy gaze on the rest of the surviving crew.

"This young lass has more loyalty in her little finger than the lot of you do in your miserable bodies," he stated in a loud, acidic voice. "Unlike ye mutinous dogs, she has a genuine love for her captain. That's the kind of crewmember I want aboard my vessel. Perhaps I will not spare any of ye, seein' as how ye were ready to murder yer last captain not moments ago. So, tell me," he leaned in front of Beecher, his eyes alight with malicious, "why should I spare any of yer traitorous souls from that dread judgement day?"

Beecher trembled before the man's gaze, unable to meet his eye. But he was able to speak, despite his voice being full of terror.

"Y…ye don't want her, sir."

Jones leaned closer, causing Beecher to shudder violently.

"And why, pray tell, would ye say such a thing?" he asked in a deceivingly friendly voice. Beecher chanced a look up at him, but then dropped his gaze to the deck once more as he muttered:

"She's the captain's daughter."

Beecher gulped as Jones speared him with his glare.

"And sh-she's a w-witch. O-or some kind of w-woman bearing unnatural talents," he stuttered, fumbling over his words from his fear of her.

Ona felt nothing but cold distain as she glared at Beecher, half-hoping Jones would end his life at the point of his sword. She would not mourn his death after he had led a mutiny against Franklin.

But Jones didn't kill the wretched mutineer. Instead, he rose to his feet, his tone almost-bored as he said, "Small-minded men such as yerselves believe havin' a woman aboard is the comin' of the Apocalypse. So ye'll have to excuse me for not taking ye at yer word."

Beecher bowed his head in submission, but another mutineer spoke up, this one by the name of Johnson.

"She can predict terrible storms!" he yelled shrilly while casting a furtive glance in her direction.

"So can birds," Jones snapped as he whirled on the man. "Do ye cower at the sight of every seagull overhead?"

It was clear Johnson was too terrified to answer, so Beecher spoke up in his stead.

"Sh-she's never wrong. It's why the cap'n made her ship's navigator, despite her bein' a woman." Beecher swallowed hard under Jones' icy gaze and added, "We never run afoul of shoals, bad weather, or even enemy ships. It-it's uncanny, that is."

Jones scoffed and said, "Nothin' any navigator worth their salt can't accomplish. Seein' the state of this sorry crew, I can see why ye'd confuse competence with magic." He laughed that odd, halting laugh of his, mocking and cruel, and his men cackled along with him.

Until another voice spoke up.

"I saw her bring back a man from the dead."

Davy Jones and his crew went silent as they all turned to stare at the man who had spoken. Horace. One of the sailors who had been there when she had tried to revive Norrington. And one of the sailors who had witnessed his miraculous return to life.

Ona felt a rare surge of dread move through her stomach.

Jones sauntered over and stopped in front of Horace, leaned down, and ordered in a low voice, "Go on."

Horace looked around with wide, terrified eyes, and they rested on her for a moment. His expression turned guilty, almost apologetic, and then he looked down at the deck.

"She jumped into the water, havin' spotted the admiral before any of us. He was dead, cold and pale as a corpse in a grave, he was. Then she kissed him, and there were a brilliant green flash, and he was alive same as you an' me. I swear on me mum's grave, God rest her soul."

Jones snapped his head around to stare at Ona, giving her a look so intense she felt it could flay flesh from bone. He prowled back to her, moving the same way she had seen jungle cats stalk their next meal. He came to a stop mere inches away, eyes boring into hers as if he could forcibly pull the knowledge he sought directly from her soul.

"These are very serious accusations. What say you to the claims of yer crewmates?" He tilted his head slightly, attentive and watchful. It reminded her of the way hawks sometimes cocked their heads when they've spotted a potential meal.

But if she was to be his meal, Ona would be sure he choked on her bones.

"Which part?" she responded in a tone that was a careful mixture of boredom and dismissal. "The fact that I'm a half-decent navigator? Or the part where the dawn light shone through the fog and it appeared to burn green, causing the crew to believe fanciful tales of resurrection?" She let a sneer form on her lips as she concluded, "As you said, they're small-minded men."

Faster than she could blink, cold metal was pressed against the underside of her chin. Jones glared at her with all the malice of a gathering storm.

"Willful as yer father, too," he spit with quiet fury. "I've no use for either of ye. Hear me, ye cowards," he called out mockingly. "See that she be naught but a woman, and women die just as hard as men."

Ona could see it in his eyes as he turned back to face her—the pleasure he would take from seeing her blood spilled across the deck. But it was more than simply a dark wish to see death that played out in his cold eyes. Jones didn't just want her life. He wanted to see her tremble and break and beg him for clemency. Jones wanted her terror.

She would give him none.

Ona looked past Jones to meet Franklin's eyes. He was struggling against the hands on his shoulders, trying to rise to his feet, but he was too weak from his injuries and slumped back down to his knees. Sorrow twisted his features, and she tried to give him a sign. Convey her thoughts to him of how grateful she was for everything he had done for her. He had given her purpose and refuge. A place to call home.

She would never forget that.

Water filled his eyes as he returned her gaze. She had seen men cry, but Franklin was the only one who ever cried for her. It was further proof he was the only decent mortal she had met in her long life.

Ona gave him a silent goodbye before closing her eyes. She hoped he understood this wasn't his fault. She hoped he would understand she wasn't afraid to die. There were worse things than death, after all.

The cold edge of steel laid across her throat as Jones prepared to slice it open, but still, she did not flinch or cry out or show signs of fear. She had none. Not for this wretched cur. Her only regret was that her life wound end at the hands of one who was not worthy of taking it.

As she took her last breath, filling her lungs with the briny air she would never taste again, a sharp cry ripped through the silence, the single word anguished and desperate.

"Don't!"

Ona opened her eyes, startled. Franklin also appeared stunned, for it was not he who had shouted. The confusion on Jones' face was a reflection of Ona's own bewilderment. The cursed captain spun her around but stayed behind her, his claw grasping her arm in a vice while he held the sword to her throat with the other.

"Somethin' ye wish to say, Master Norrington?"

Ona's confusion only grew when she saw the state of him. Norrington's dark brows knit with concern, his teeth bared in a grimace as it took three crewmen to hold him in place.

"Let. Her. Go."

His words bore the authority he had once held as naval commander. It was powerfully persuasive, that voice, and the intensity of his eyes held her enthralled.

Instead of laughing in his face and slitting her throat, Jones actually seemed to consider the statement.

"What is her life worth to you, Admiral?"

Ona found she was curious for the answer herself. Norrington shifted his sight down to meet her gaze. That concern was still on his expression, the one that was causing her such confusion, as if her welfare somehow mattered to him.

…the welfare of a lady.

"Spare her," Norrington spoke, lifting his gaze back to Jones. "Spare her, and I… I will go with you, willingly, back to the Dutchman."

Jones snorted derisively. "You will come, willingly or no!"

The steel edge tightened against her throat, and Ona involuntarily shifted her chin upward. Norrington must have seen the movement because his eyes widened, and he tried to step forward but the cursed crewmen held him back.

"But, but wouldn't it bring you greater satisfaction if I were forced to comply with your orders?" he stammered, his suddenly clumsy words in stark contrast to his earlier commanding tone. "Unwilling but obeying your every command? Spare her and you have leverage. Kill her, and you gain nothing."

Norrington looked between her and Jones with such sharp desperation that she felt something strange stirring in her chest. It was pleasant and warm, and decidedly new.

Suddenly and irrationally more afraid of that sensation than of her own imminent death, she stamped out the feeling until it was gone. Norrington continued to stare pleadingly at Jones behind her, and the moment drew out so long she almost wanted to fidget. The anticipation of waiting for the steel to split her skin and spill her life onto the deck was, she thought, probably worse than the act itself.

But Jones didn't rob her of life. Instead… he drew the sword away.

"Ye make a fair point, Master Norrington," Jones responded in a self-satisfied murmur. "I'll spare her the cold embrace of death. For now."

Without warning she was shoved forward, causing Ona to stumble and lose her footing. Long arms caught her before she hit the deck, and she instinctively clutched onto the anchoring weight. She realized she was gripping gold trim and navy broadcloth. Ona looked up through her tangled hair to find sea-green eyes staring back at her.

"Are you harmed?" Norrington asked quietly, searching her eyes for a sign of… of something. Of what? That she was hurt? Afraid?

"I'm fine," she said hastily, straightening and separating herself from his steadying hands. Her skin suddenly felt too hot, her heart was beating too fast, and she found she couldn't meet his eye. All things which made her even more agitated and embarrassed.

"Enough time has been wasted chasing down our beloved admiral," Jones barked, snapping Ona's attention back to the dire situation at hand as she watched the Dutchman's crew begin to move.

"Gather the recruits who wish to come aboard; we need to restock our numbers after the Lord Governor has so carelessly depleted them," Jones continued to order his men. "Oh, where is my mind? I nearly forgot."

He turned to Franklin, who was still kneeling on the deck, his face pale but determined as he glared at Jones. Jones stared back, his head slightly cocked to the side, but Ona didn't see a bird this time. She saw a cold-blooded reptile.

"I have no need of yer services, Captain," he announced in a cheery tone. "Ye are relieved of duty."

And then Jones pulled back his arm, jabbed downward, and ran his sword straight through Franklin's heart.

As if from a great distance, Ona was aware her legs had given out, and she was being held aloft by someone's arms her around the waist. But she paid them no mind. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Franklin's face.

He looked surprised at the sudden appearance of the shining piece of steel embedded in his chest. And then he looked up, straight at Ona, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Not Jones, not his dead and dying crew, not his ruined ship that had once meant so much to him. His grey eyes, never wavering, were so focused on her that she almost forgot what it was that was happening.

For a moment, there was only Ona and Franklin. All the shared moments of joy and laughter, and heartache and loss. There was so much that she still needed to say to him, left unspoken because she had thought they never needed to be said aloud, but she had been wrong. She had been so wrong.

Franklin mouthed two words to her, and then Jones yanked the sword from his chest, blood spurting from the wound as it dripped down his faded red waistcoat. But those grey eyes, once so full of mirth and dry wit, now became unfocused and empty.

He fell to the deck without a sound.

It started from the bottom of her stomach, traveling upward along her spine, and then it was released in a scream of rage, of horror, of vengeance seeking to be quenched. Whoever was holding her must not have been prepared for the strength of her ferocity, because she tore through their clutching fingers with ease. She ran straight for the singular focus of her hatred, and she knew she could be stopped no more than a raging hurricane.

Several of the men-creatures tried to grab her, but she tore through them too. She punched, kicked, bit them like a wild beast, all while keeping Jones in her sight. Her only goal was to reach him, needing to taste his blood on her lips and feel her nails tear into his flesh.

His heartless smirk further fueled her fury, and she would not stop, she would not cease, until he lay dead at her feet.

She never did get her wish. A hard force slammed into the back of her head, and blackness enveloped her, dragging her down into merciful nothingness.