At World's Beginning

One Step Forward

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?