At World's Beginning

You Will Regret Me

James Norrington still hadn't awoken.

Ona didn't know what to do about that particular problem, but the latticework pattern of cleaved skin and bloodied scales on his back was now covered by strips of cloth torn from the bottom of her hem. There were enough layers of her dress that she could use quite a bit of it for wound dressing.

But still, despite her ministrations, he remained unconscious.

Ona's own skin was torn and bloodied, but there was nothing to be done as the wounds were out of her reach. So she simply hunched forward, tried not to move too often, and closed her eyes while leaning her shoulder against the wooden column as she sat on the floor. But rest was also out of her reach, considering every time she pulled in a breath, pain radiated across her back.

Franklin had never used flogging as a punishment aboard his ship. For most of his captaincy, it hadn't been necessary. The crew had adored him and would have followed him to the ends of the earth without a word of complaint. Any man who disobeyed orders or caused disorder among the crew was dropped off at the next port, minus some of his stipend.

For the most part, it had worked well. It was only when Davy Jones began to ravage the seas, causing decent sailors to seek a better life on land, that flogging had seemed a possible necessity. But still, Franklin wouldn't resort to the whip. He wouldn't even carry one aboard.

Do you know why I refuse to give my men a taste of the lash? Franklin had asked her after a particularly difficult day dealing with the crew. When she'd responded that she didn't know, he had removed his waistcoat and pulled off his linen shirt. Ugly, misshapen scars crisscrossed his back, old and faded but still clearly visible.

At first, Ona could do no more than stare, abruptly reminded of how fragile human life was. Franklin had been no exception, as much as she had wished it were so. Then she'd demanded to know who had done this, her blood boiling with the desire to snap the neck of the one responsible.

This was long before your time, Ona, he'd responded with a slight smile, as if knowing quite well the dark thoughts running through her mind. I was merely a boy. They'd not even used the man's whip on me. They had a small cat, one for small sailors. And it still left its mark. A permanent reminder of what I survived, lest I should forget.

Ona watched the slow rise and fall of Norrington's back, listening to the soft sound of his breaths. His golden waistcoat lay nearby, while the large, navy blue broadcloth now covered the upper half of his body. After the crewman had brought the clothing down from the deck and dumped it into the cell, she'd covered him up, concerned about the chill of his skin.

She didn't think Norrington could die, not from a flogging, anyway. But the result of merely three lashes left her in a great amount of discomfort, each breath beginning the pain anew. She imagined nine lashes would leave her just as insensate, even with her high tolerance for pain.

There was also more than the lashes to consider. The dark green scales had grown across his neck, peeking above the white cloth he kept knotted around his throat. She'd considered removing it, but decided to leave it be. It might help keep him warm, at the very least.

Ona shifted her gaze from the back of his neck to his hair. It was a pleasant dark brown color, somehow soft-looking despite the fact it had been exposed to seawater and sweat, and tied back with a black ribbon with tips edged in white.

Edged in white... just like Franklin's hair ribbons. It was one of his.

She was not prepared for the pain that radiated through her chest, a physical ache so strong she turned her head toward the wooden column and pressed her forehead against it, hoping the physical pressure would hold the agony in her heart at bay.