She didn't know where she was, only that it was dark and filled with strange, unpleasant dreams. Sometimes she heard voices, one she recognized and others she did not. But even the voice that sounded familiar to her was of no help to soothe her frayed mind. She couldn't remember who it belonged to, the face an obscure blur that faded in and out of focus. Wanting to reach out to it, she extended her will and tried to hold onto it, to make it clear and visible, but each time it slipped through her grasp.

She had the impression something terrible had happened. What it could be, she did not know, nor could she guess. Her mind rose and sank through murky waters, the surface always above her, glittering with dancing sunlight. Below her, a cold, dark abyss where she somehow knew death awaited her.

Ona struggled between the two worlds, reaching upwards toward salvation but never able to breach the surface. She didn't know how long she lingered there, trapped between light and dark in an endless sea. It could have been a single moment in time or across the span of eternity. Perhaps she had always been there. She had memories of some kind of life, but they were just as distant and untouchable as the surface above.

She waited. And waited. Voices came and went, reverberating through the cold water. And still she waited, drifting ever downward, so slowly at first she didn't notice until the light of the surface began to fade with distance.

And then, something changed. The surface churned and then broke as a hand plunged into the breach, reaching down for her. The arm it belonged to was lean and strong, the skin dark like velvet, bronzed in the watery light.

Ona's heart surged with recognition and a deep longing she hadn't known for decades.

Mother! Her words became trapped in bubbles, drifting upwards in languid swirls. Mother!

She was sinking faster now, the cold water around her feet and ankles sharp and unpleasant, and she reached skyward while kicking her legs as hard as she could.

Legs?

She panicked and began to choke when she realized too late she couldn't breathe. Water rushed through her mouth and into her lungs, smothering her from the inside out.

Her vision blurred, her mind dimming like a spent candle, soon to be extinguished. She was drowning. Drowning where it should never be possible to drown. Her home was the sea. Her life was the waters.

Betrayal and sorrow were her last thoughts, salty and bitter like the seawater on her tongue. But the arm reached her, grasped Ona's in its strong grip, and drew her upwards in a rush of water.

Ona breached the surface and continued upward, heaving in lungfuls of air as she stared around her strange surroundings in growing panic. She didn't know where she was; some dark, dank chamber that smelled of mold and rotting wood and the briny sea.

Hands grasped her shoulders and she cried out, turning to face her attacker. Concerned sea-green eyes stared back at her, bordered by a mass of brown hair and the dark line of a sharp brow.

"Ona! Ona! You're all right!" The owner of those eyes tried to calm her, his hands still firmly clasped on her, holding her in place even as she fought to flee. "You're safe."

The face. The face she couldn't remember. It was his face.

"James Norrington?" Her question was released like a prayer, as if she dared not hope it was true and this wasn't another tortured half-remembered dream.

His expression, so taut with concern, now relaxed into something like relief.

"Yes. Yes, it's me," he reassured her. Something very odd happened; Norrington raised a hand to her cheek, cupping it within his warm palm. That was startling enough, but the brief smile he gave her was astounding to behold, and his green eyes were alight with… happiness? Joy?

"But I can hardly believe it's you," he said, his smile becoming something more brittle as his eyes took in her entire face. "How are you feeling?"

How was she feeling? What kind of question was that?

"What happened? Where am I?" she asked instead of answering. He removed his hand from her cheek when she looked around the room, finding it vaguely familiar. She spotted the two men she had missed earlier, and her muscles tensed before she recognized one of them. Feeling too vulnerable on the floor, she tried to stand, but her legs immediately wobbled and trembled with a weakness she hadn't felt since she had first tried to walk on land.

Arms wrapped around her before she could fall, and Norrington helped her regain her feet. She found she didn't mind his touch and close proximity. He was warm and solid, and she still felt chilled and disconnected from the world. It was frightening, and she found herself leaning into him, comforted by his presence. He didn't shy away from her, and instead kept one arm firmly around her shoulder, for which she was grateful.

"You are aboard the Flying Dutchman," the one she recognized as William Turner answered. He was eyeing her with concern, but there was a certain wariness there as well.

"The Dutchman?" she asked, confused. "Have we lost?"

"No. We won. Jones is dead," Turner responded, his lips set into a firm line. "He was killed when my knife pierced his heart."

"Then you have taken his place," Ona observed. Impressed at first, now she felt a wave of dread as she said, "You are Beckett's ally."

Turner winced at the accusation. "I was for a short time, and only as a matter of convenience. I assure you, it is no longer the case."

"Who amongst us hasn't allied themselves with Beckett at one time or another, hmm?" the man next to him said, his voice lilted with sharp amusement. Ona turned her head to look at him, wariness settling on her heart. She did not recognize him, but she recognized the style and demeanor of a self-proclaimed pirate.

"Either way," Norrington said from beside her, an arm still around her to keep her steady, "we destroyed the Endeavor and usurped the Dutchman from Beckett and Jones both. And the armada has retreated. The war is over."

Over. It was really over. Jones was dead.

Jones…

A feeling, a suppressed memory, made her lower her hand to her stomach. There was a small slit in her dress, and when she looked down she saw the fabric stained with something dark. A distant ache, like a ghost's touch, flitted across her skin located directly underneath the mysterious tear.

"It be too soon to rest on our laurels, Admiral," the sneering pirate said. "Ye heard what Calypso said. Yer bound to fulfill yer oath, lest ye suffer the goddess' mighty wrath."

"Calypso?" Ona asked, directing the question at Norrington. "She was here?"

"Aye, she was here," the pirate said with a crooked smirk. "How do ye think ye made yer miraculous recovery after Jones redecorated yer innards?"

"That's enough, Barbossa," Turner interjected, his mouth pulled into a frown of dislike at the pirate. "Perhaps it would be best if you explained the situation yourself, Mister Norrington," he said in a kinder tone, nodding to them. "In privacy," he added, giving the one named Barbossa a glare to indicate he should leave first.

"As ye wish, Cap'n Turner," he said, tipping the brim of his hat toward the younger man with mock respect. As he walked out, he gave Ona a coy smile she didn't care for. By the tightening of Norrington's arm around her, he didn't seem to like it either.

Once they were gone and the cabin was theirs alone, Ona turned and stared directly up into Norrington's face. She was so close to him that her chest was pressed against his, but she didn't back away. She wanted answers, and she would receive them.

She opened her mouth to speak, but then paused. Something was very different about him, and it took her too long to realize what it was.

Ona reached forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and ripped it open.