Another long chapter because i am wildly inconsistent with my chapter lengths. Some more comfort, a little bit of fluff, and then some angst because Ona doesnt trust like that.

Norrington led her back toward the middle column of the cell, guiding her gently by the shoulders, and she went without protest or resistance. Ona was tired, and in pain, and maybe still a little dumbfounded at the fact he knew what she was and was still willing to be within five feet of her, let alone touch her.

"Would you like to sit?" Norrington asked, all politeness. She answered by first kneeling and then sitting on the ground, tucking the shirt of her dress under her legs as she winced. At this point, everything ached, she was exhausted and all she wanted to do was sleep in a hammock. Or even better, a bed. Her bed on the Mariner, preferably, but then she remembered it would be at the bottom of the sea by now.

Dangerous territory. Tread elsewhere, lest ye be swallowed whole.

Ona leaned her shoulder against the wood column, fighting off her weariness as she looked back at Norrington to where he was now crouching behind her. She caught a glimpse of his expression as he examined her back—his brows were knit so intently a crease appeared between them, and there was a naked vulnerability in his sea-green eyes. But as soon as he noticed she was watching, he schooled his expression into something more pleasant and less troubled.

"It needs dressing, but I expect it to heal as long as it doesn't become contaminated. We don't have anything in the way of medical supplies, but…" He looked at her curiously, his brows raised as he asked, "Where did you get the dressings for my bandages?"

"Here," Ona responded, grabbing the hem of her dress as she prepared to begin tearing off strips. Norrington put his palms over her hands to stop her, a rather peculiar look on his face.

"No, no. That's all right. There's no need to… decimate your clothing further."

Ona just stared at him as he cleared his throat and removed his hands from hers, his expression now a tinge flustered. Just when she began to think she understood him, Norrington would act in a way that completely baffled her. She had known Franklin for over three decades and thought she understood men, for the most part. Either she didn't know them very well at all, or Norrington was an especially strange man.

"What will you use for bandages, then?" she asked flatly.

Norrington looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before glancing around their stark cell, as if that would provide insight, and then he saw his golden waistcoat on the floor. Instead of picking it up as she expected, he looked down at himself and then pulled apart his broadcloth coat and examined his linen shirt. He made a noise of discovery and untied the cravat from around his throat, appraising it with satisfaction.

"It's probably the least filthy thing I'm wearing, not that that's saying much," he said, a self-deprecating expression touching his lips, "but I think it'll do."

The cloth was still fairly white, and made of a thick, soft-looking material. Expensive cotton, or possibly silk, if she had to guess. He ripped it into several pieces, and for the first time, Ona truly wondered how badly her skin was damaged.

"This will sting," Norrington spoke as he picked up the first piece of cloth. He paused and looked up at her, dark eyes watching her closely. "May I?"

His kindness was far more unnerving than if he had been brash or crude. Those things she was used to from sailors, especially of the caliber Franklin had been hiring recently. Unfortunately, thinking of Franklin filled her chest with pain, but it also reminded her of his words.

The admiral is a gentleman. Which means he will have special concern for the welfare of a lady

But she was no lady, and Norrington knew that. So why was he treating her with such delicate politeness? Because she merely looked like a mortal woman?

He was still waiting for her answer, so she nodded her permission and turned away from him, needing to look anywhere other than at those sea-green eyes.

"Your… er, your hair… Would you be able to pull it forward for me?"

His words, spoken with awkward hesitancy, caused her to look back over her shoulder, and she saw his expression was almost apologetic. Frowning, she looked down at her hair and realized it was lying across her back. She usually wore it pinned to keep it out of the way, and she hadn't paid enough attention to it to realize it had come loose.

Ona gathered her hair at the top of her neck and pulled it forward, immediately regretting doing so when the strands of hair stuck to her wounds pulled free. She slightly hissed through her teeth but made no other sound, closing her eyes tight as she attempted to will away the stinging sensation across her back.

The stinging only intensified as Norrington laid the first strip of cloth across her skin. She grimaced and he mumbled an apology, knowing it must hurt despite her silence. But then then the stinging faded to a soothing ache—the cloth was soft and absorbent, and it felt good as her wounds were gradually covered and protected from the humid air.

"I wanted to… apologize for what I said earlier," he said after a stretch of silence, where only the creaking of the ship filled the space between them.

"Yes?" Ona asked tiredly, still using the pillar for support. Her eyes were closed and her mind was focused on the feather-light touches he made across her back. She would have barely felt him at all if it wasn't for the raw sensitivity of her damaged skin.

"In regards to… referring to myself as becoming a monster," he said haltingly, awkwardly. "I know it was not especially sensitive, given that… well…given that…"

"I am a monster?" she finished for him, her tone purposefully blank.

"No!"

She opened her eyes at his quick objection, though she did not look at him. She found she couldn't look at him, not when discussing this particular issue.

"No," Norrington repeated in a lower tone, as if struggling to rein in his emotions. "That's precisely the impression I did not want to give, that I believe you to be some kind of… of monster. Because as I've said, you're not."

Ona stared straight ahead through the bars of their prison without truly seeing them. There was a question, lingering on the back of her tongue, and she knew if she didn't voice it now, she wouldn't find the courage to do so again.

"Then why did you flinch away at my touch?"

Norrington didn't respond for a moment, long enough for her to wonder if he ever would. She curled a hand around the cloth of her dress, suddenly regretful she had asked, and she half-hoped he would choose not to answer.

But then he finally said, "It wasn't… you. I know it appeared that way, but it wasn't. It was Jones. Him and this bloody damned ship." His voice was harsh, almost lowered into a growl, and Ona couldn't help but find the sound somewhat… enticing. But then he was speaking again, and she forced herself to focus on his words and not on the annoyingly alluring qualities of his voice.

"But it's more than that. Jones said he and I are similar in many ways. It struck a chord deep within me." He sighed heavily, as if the words cost him a great deal to say. "In the moment, I didn't want to accept what I knew in my heart was true. And it made me lash out at you, for which I am deeply sorry."

Anger stirred within her—not at Norrington, but at Jones for manipulating him, twisting his fears and anxiety to suit his purposes. Norrington didn't deserve to be a pawn in Jones' wicked game.

"Davy Jones thrives on the suffering of others," she said in a tight voice, staring down at the tarnished wood under her fingers. "Perhaps you share commonalities, perhaps you don't. That's not the point. The point is you are not Jones." She said this last with firmness so he wouldn't doubt her sincerity. "But the idea of convincing you that you are brings him enormous satisfaction. You will torment yourself wondering if it's true. And he knows it."

Ona felt a smile cross her face, a small bit of satisfaction at the thought that she could see through Jones in a way that Jones probably couldn't see himself. "The irony of it is, his cruel words only have an effect on you precisely because you're not like him. You are capable of kindness where he only understands cruelty and what he can gain by it.

"So," she said, dipping her head slightly as she realized, with a small amount of embarrassment, just how much she had spoken in such a short frame of time, "in conclusion, I don't believe you have much to worry about in that regard."

After a brief pause, Norrington chuckled, and it was an unhappy sound.

"You make it sound as if I am some sort of decent fellow."

Ona looked over her shoulder at him, pointedly glancing down at his hands which were currently tending to her wounds.

"Certainly seems that way to me."

It was amusing to see how quickly his cheeks flushed, his lips pressed together as if to curb them from smiling, but it still reached the corners of his mouth anyway.

"Could you, lean forward a little? I can't quite reach these lower gashes," Norrington asked, his face still flushed but his voice sounded pleased. Ona did as he asked, leaning forward until she could brace her elbows against her thighs. It stretched her skin painfully so she slightly curved her spine inward to relieve the pull on her wounds.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

The levity of the moment faded into heavy silence, and Ona sensed the gaping pit of grief that always waited for her to slip, hovering somewhere beneath her. So she turned her thoughts to something they could both concentrate on that might improve their dire situation.

"You said you were stationed on this ship before?"

She felt his motions hesitate halfway through laying down a strip across her lower spine.

"Yes. Not long, perhaps a few days." He continued placing the rest of the strip on her wound, his voice grim as he spoke. "I was tasked with keeping Jones in line, and then I received orders for us to hunt down the Empress. Sao Feng's ship. When we caught up, I ordered my men to fire upon the vessel, and apparently Sao Feng was killed in the attack."

"I remember," she said. "You told me some of this when you were in our brig."

It wasn't the only thing she remembered. She remembered how their roles had been completely reversed, and she had been the one bandaging his wounds. All in a ploy devised by Franklin to gain information from the admiral by a less direct means.

Ona hadn't minded being useful in that way. She wished she could do it now, come up with a way to engineer their escape, but Franklin was the schemer. The one who could see a plan of action when no one else could. It's what had made him such a great captain, and combined with her ability to navigate through any waters, they had been an unstoppable pair.

Or, they had been. Once.

"Yes," he continued, more softly now. "And it was then I discovered the new captain was Elizabeth Swann."

"Your previous fiancée," Ona stated, remembering this part too. When he didn't respond, she looked over her shoulder to find his expression distant and sad.

"We had been engaged for only a short time," he said, his voice subdued. "Elizabeth had agreed to my proposal to save the life of… someone she cared for. I don't blame her for it, truly, but it's clear our engagement wasn't an engagement at all. More a contract between willing and unwilling parties."

"Yet, you died for her," she wondered aloud, recalling the vicious words Jones had said to him. "Even after breaking your engagement. You gave your life to save her."

Norrington went still. She silently cursed herself, realizing too late her misstep.

"I'm… sorry," she said, her fingers once again tightening around the cloth of her dress. "I'm just trying to understand."

She was surprised by the low, humorless chuckle he gave.

"There's no understanding it, really. Love is strange that way."

Ona looked over her shoulder at him, wondering at the wistfulness in his voice, but he kept his eyes focused on his task. So she stayed like that for a moment, just watching as he finished laying the last strips along her lower back. There was stray strand of hair, curled against his temple, and she had the sudden urge to reach out and gently tuck it behind his ear.

His sea-green eyes finally focused on her face. "Why do you ask?"

There was an odd feeling in her stomach. It was churning and tense, as if she was staring over the edge of a towering cliff. The white-capped waves below lapped at the rocks, calling to her, waiting to consume her if she slipped and fell.

She pushed the distressing feeling away, and realized she had been doing that a lot recently. Especially while in the company of a certain admiral.

"I was hoping you would know a way we could escape our cage and find a way off the ship," she answered truthfully. Norrington's expression changed rapidly. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and then lowered again as he gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.

"Oh. Right. Well, that makes sense. Yes! Yes, we should… should do that." He cleared his throat and sheepishly added, "Find a way to escape."

Ona had the strangest urge to do something truly egregious: she wanted to smile at him. Thankfully, the unwanted sensation faded as she realized there was a truth they were both not speaking, but was too obvious to ignore. She may be able to leave the ship, but Norrington could not. Now or ever. Not unless something about his circumstances changed, those circumstances being the ship that had laid claim to his soul.

If there was a way to free him somehow… Surely there was a way. Ona faced away from him again, needing to focus on the problem, and she couldn't do that with his distressingly green eyes staring at her.

How could they separate the Dutchman's hold on Norrington? It seemed very much like a curse, one Mother had cast herself if the stories were to be believed. But there had to be a way for cursed sailors to be freed.

Ona held some remnants of her power still, and she remembered how it felt to grab hold of the man flogging Norrington and force the aberration from his body. Or at least, partly. Her rage had only fueled her powers for a short time and she hadn't been able to completely, or even permanently, cleanse him of the affliction.

So, she knew one thing. She could perhaps temporarily relieve Norrington of this curse, but not for more than a few minutes. Not exactly helpful in finding a permanent solution.

Mother could herself lift the curse, but would she? Doubtful. Not after what men had done to her so long ago. Ona knew all too well what that felt like, to have her power stripped away, leaving her helpless and terrified, and her desire to exact vengeance on the man responsible had not slackened over the decades.

Oh, yes, Ona would find him again, and when she did, she would take that profane sword of his and drive it through his black heart. But not before she killed Jones. Jones was going to die for what he had done to Franklin, to her home, and even to the Mariner's crew.

The question was, how did one kill an immortal? If she could just find a way to escape this cell—

Suddenly, there were fingers on the back of her neck, lightly brushing away her hair. She flinched so hard from the unexpected touch that she felt something along her lower back rip. The accompanying pain made the air rush out of her lungs as if she had been struck in the stomach.

"I—I'm so sorry," Norrington apologized hurriedly, "I just wanted to—there is bruising on your neck and I…" he trailed off and then said in a breathless tone, "Damn, one of your wounds reopened. Just… one moment, I'll set it right."

Ona attempted to calm her heartbeat, scolding herself for overreacting as she took a steadying breath, digging her trembling fingers into her skirt. Norrington was trying to help her, and while she consciously understood that, it was still difficult to remember. Hard to get used to. Would she ever grow accustomed to it? It might not matter if her life was measured in hours. Days, at the most.

"There's some bleeding but the cloth should hold for now. Again, I apologize. I wasn't thinking—"

"It's fine," Ona said through her teeth and the pain, interrupting him so he would stop apologizing. "You… said there was bruising?"

"Yes. Ah, here, along the side of your neck," Norrington explained. She almost flinched again when she felt a light tough along her neck, but she managed to remain still. His fingers felt cool and pleasant against her hot skin.

"But it's strange looking. Almost as if it was made by a serrated edge."

"Or a claw," she added. He didn't seem to notice the distracted quality of her voice, nor how the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Even the pain from her lashes was subdued with her mind wholly focused on the sensation of his fingertips on her skin.

"…or that." He cleared his throat and removed his fingers. It was like a spell had been broken, and she blinked rapidly.

"And… how is your head feeling?"

"My head?" The perplexing question managed to bring her mind back into focus from where it had wandered.

"The, uh… the back of it. Where you were struck."

Oh. She had forgotten about that, what with everything else that had happened. She raised a hand and felt along the back of her head, wincing at the lump she felt under her fingers.

"I, er… never got the chance to apologize for that, as well," he said. The abject nervousness in his voice made her want to look at him, but she thought better of it and kept her eyes forward.

"Unless you were the one who knocked me unconscious, I don't see the need for an apology," she responded, her hand lowering to lightly rub at the place where he had touched her neck.

Eventually, Norrington's lack of response did make her turn her head to look at him, and he looked particularly miserable, his eyes averting from her gaze.

"You… knocked me unconscious," she said dully. He met her eye then, his expression full of apology.

"It was never my intention to harm you," he explained earnestly, "I'm not sure what happened."

Ona narrowed her eyes, and Norrington apparently could tell that answer was not going to fly, because he said, "It was as if, one moment I was myself, and the next I had… had picked up the board and hit you. I didn't realize what I had done, until it was over."

"Oh."

The anger Ona had begun to feel faded just as quickly. Norrington looked up at her, his eyes questioning.

"Yes, that… is to be expected, I think," she responded, trying to be as delicate as she could. Which was something she was decidedly not experienced in. "It seems to be a part of the curse laid on Jones and his men. You will start to… lose yourself as the ship's hold becomes more complete."

He sighed heavily, his expression changing into something painful.

"I was afraid of that."

Norrington looked down at his hands again, glaring at them as if they couldn't be trusted. In all likelihood, that was an accurate assessment, or soon would be.

"Are you finished?" she asked in an attempt to pull him from what were clearly unpleasant thoughts by the look on his face.

"What?" he asked faintly, looking up at her blankly.

"The dressings," Ona clarified while trying to pull up the edges of the collar of her torn and bloodied shirt. Or rather, what was left of it.

"Ah, yes," he said, quickly glancing away from her. "I believe so."

It was incredible that this was the moment the admiral had decided to become bashful at the sight of exposed skin. Jones' crew had ripped open the back of her shirt for the whipping, but at least they had removed her red waistcoat beforehand so it was still intact.

She could cover herself with it and spare Norrington's delicate sensibilities, she thought wryly.

Or, that was the idea. Unfortunately, the waistcoat was fitted, and as she tried to slip it over her arms and button the front, it was soon made clear the vest was either going to dislodge the makeshift bandages, or it would actually reopen her wounds. She sighed sharply and released the fabric, tossing the unyielding cloth to the floor.

"Here."

Ona looked back to see Norrington remove his navy-and-gold coat from around his shoulders. He looked like he wanted to place it on her, but thought better of it and asked, "May I?"

She stared at him for a long moment, gave a lingering look at the coat, and then nodded before turning her gaze back to the bars. She felt the weight of the firm cloth as he carefully placed it upon her shoulders. It was much heavier than it looked, but then, she remembered how heavy he had been when she'd grabbed ahold of his arm and swam for the Mariner.

At the memory, Ona cast a fleeting glance in his direction, but Norrington wasn't looking at her—he was rising to his feet. She followed him with her eyes, studying him closely as she saw something alarming. His linen shirt was clinging to his skin from the result of the humid air, but the skin beneath wasn't its usual pale color. It was dark, the shape of scales making a visible impression through the damp fabric.

And what was worse, she could see they were up to his jawline now, covering almost the entirety of his neck.

There was something else she noticed about him too, now that he wasn't encumbered by the large coat. His shoulders were still quite broad, but the rest of him was lean and long-limbed. Even considering the bulkiness of his uniform, he seemed to have lost weight since she had found him. Floating, cold, dead in the water.

Dead… but now very much alive. Once, she had thought his resurrection had been her doing. That somehow, the curse was weakening and her powers were returning. She was wiser now. His return from the dead was due to the Dutchman's claim on him, and nothing more.

Ona wasn't his savior. She was a courier. Meant to deliver him into misery.

Norrington didn't notice her stare; he walked over to where his golden waistcoat lay on the ground and he picked it up, slipped it over his shoulders, and began to button up the edges until he realized most of the buttons were missing. Ona remembered seeing them ripped clean off by Jones' men as they had hastily disrobed him for the flogging.

He looked down at the sorry state of his clothing, chuckled with an edge of bitterness and mused, "By the time this is all said and done, I fear I may be completely without a stitch to wear."

His smile faded when he saw her expression. Ona couldn't imagine what it looked like, though it probably wasn't joyful as she had been morosely considering their prospects.

She was surprisingly glad they were on nearly friendly terms with each other, but in the end it didn't matter, because Jones would never let her leave the ship alive. And Norrington was trapped even more than she was, his very soul tied to the fate of the ship around them.

Even if they found a way to escape the brig, Jones would always be able to find him. Norrington would never be free. And in that moment, Ona found that to be an entirely intolerable statement.

"Ona?"

He seemed on the verge of saying something that held considerable weight, since he had taken a deep breath beforehand, but was interrupted by a loud clang. Ona jerked her head around to see a group of men enter the hold.

She was immediately on her feet, ignoring the agony of her wounds as she instinctively backed toward Norrington, her fists clenched in anticipation of battle.

But then she noticed they were not Jones' crew. They were untouched by curse and malaise, their uniforms crisp white and bright crimson. A man led them, dressed all in black with a face creased in scars and a hard life. He stopped before the cell, a ring of keys in his gloved hands.

"Mercer?" Norrington asked, his voice pitched in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

He never got his answer. The man in black pulled back the cell door, and the men poured inside. Two of them grabbed Norrington by the arms and shoved him against the bars, holding him in place as two more sailors caught hold of Ona.

The first one released her with a scream after she bit into the flesh of his hand. The second was wiser—he slipped behind Ona and put an arm around her neck, pressing down as he cruelly twisted her arm behind her back.

Her free hand clawed at the arm around her neck, but her captor didn't relent, and soon the lack of air and the agony from her whip marks was enough to subdue her. Just as the edges of her vision were starting to recede, the pressure around her neck lifted just enough so she could breathe.

Ona coughed and gasped, too focused on trying not to faint to fight the marine as he began to drag her towards the cell door.

Alone. Without Norrington.

He watched them from where he was still pinned chest-first against the bars, his eyes wild and his face contorting with rage as he shouted, "Where are you taking her!"

The man he had called Mercer gave a half-smile so rotten it could have curdled rum.

"Why, fulfilling our part of the bargain, of course."

Bargain? Her heart froze in her chest, and she stopped trying to break free of the man's grip, shock overcoming her.

"Bargain? What bargain?" Norrington demanded, echoing her thoughts as he struggled against his captors.

Once Ona was pulled successfully from the cell, the men holding Norrington released him and retreated. Mercer locked the cell behind them, giving the door a shake to make sure it was secured.

Norrington immediately went up to the bars, wrapping his fingers around them as he glared daggers at the man in black.

"The bargain that keeps you here aboard this vessel, safe in Jones' loving care, while the sea-beast becomes sole property of the Company," the black-clothed man responded. "The mermaid goes but you can stay. Per our agreement."

Our… agreement?

"I don't understand." Norrington's confused gaze turned to her face, his eyes widening when he took in her stunned expression. "Ona. Ona, I have nothing to do with this. I swear it!"

She wanted to believe him… but then something Jones had said earlier flashed across her mind.

If he could turn ye over to the Company to save his own skin, I have no doubt he would.

Jones had been right. Norrington was sacrificing her to save himself. She never should have trusted him. Never. All men were liars and deceivers and she knew this and why had she trusted him.

Her arm was released and the hold around her neck was gone, but her hands were pulled roughly forward. One of the marines clapped a set of manacles around her wrists, and as surely as the lock clicked into place, so did her heart shut against out Norrington's pleas.

"Go," Mercer said with a jerk of his head. "Lord Beckett is eager to meet his new pet." He spoke the last word with cruel delight, but Ona didn't react. It was too much, too quickly, and the shock of betrayal left her feeling hollow and empty.

He had been so kind… a lie. All a lie.

"Don't do this! Please!" Norrington called after them, his anguished voice lost to the dank rot of the brig. "Ona!"

She wanted to cover her ears to block out his cries, each word a painful blow, reminding her how foolish she had been. Ona had allowed herself to be compromised. And he had played on her sympathies to stall for time until she could be handed over like some kind of living prize.

Ona was so numb with disbelief that she couldn't even enjoy the night breeze against her hot, damp skin. She was pulled across a gangway spanning the distance between two ships, the second looking almost the complete antithesis to the Dutchman. It was sparkling clean, freshly painted, and smelled of lumber that could not have been cut more than a year ago.

Sailors in various uniforms on deck paused when they spotted the odd procession, but she paid them little mind as she tried to collect her thoughts. She was in danger—trapped in exactly the kind of scenario Franklin said was one of the worst possible. Her true nature had been discovered, and she was now in the hands of one of the most powerful men on the seas.

All because of him. All because of James Norrington.

Ona expected the crewman to take her down to the brig. Instead, they led her toward the aft of the ship until they came before a set of lavish, elegant double doors. There were two men guarding the room beyond, and they reached forward and opened the doors at their approach.

She was led inside, the two marine escorts keeping a firm grip on her shoulders, sparking pain across her wounded skin. But she pushed it down, refusing to show any sign of weakness in front of her enemies.

The men forced her to a halt within a few feet of the room. Ona barely had time to glance around her pristine, elegant surroundings before she heard a soft voice say, "Thank you, Mister Mercer."

The words had come from a man resplendent in fine green brocade and a stark white powder wig. He was much shorter than Ona, and his features were soft and pale from lack of exposure to harsh winds and scorching sunlight. But there was something about his eyes… they held within them a sort of stillness that made her skin want to crawl off her bones.

Mercer came forward, placing something into the smaller man's outstretched palm, and then the man in black left too, along with the marines.

She was alone with him now. His eyes, there was something about them she couldn't pinpoint, but she was so unnerved she physically shivered and wrapped the coat tighter around her arms and shoulders.

Coat?

She looked down and saw she was still wearing the admiral's broadcloth coat, draped around her shoulders and over her arms. Ona considered dumping it to the floor, an action of disgust in regards to its owner. But instead… she held onto it tightly, using it as a barrier to shield herself from the unknown dangers ahead.

The small man was in front of her now, looking up into her face with a faint curiosity that made her feel as if she were the one who was small.

"Welcome aboard the Endeavor, Miss Ona." He gave a faint smile that made her blood run cold.

"I am Lord Cutler Beckett, and you shall be my honored guest this evening."