At World's Beginning

A Battle of Wills

Something was wrong.

The rain lashed angrily, and the wind viciously grabbed at her clothing and hair, but despite the overwhelming sights and sounds Ona knew something was deeply amiss with James Norrington. His eyes had gone vacant, his expression slack, and he responded not to her voice or the fingers she gingerly laid on his arm.

And then he moved, spun around to face her, and in the same moment plunged his cutlass toward her chest.

The only reason he didn't hit his intended target was because she had instinctively stepped back at the fast movement. The blade sliced across the cusp of her shoulder instead, causing her to scream in shocked pain.

Norrington lunged again, slashing across her torso, moving with the fluid grace of a deadly predator, but a quivering energy filled her limbs and she matched him in speed, bringing her sword to bear against him.

There was no time to think or worry or fear for what had happened to Norrington. All she could do was avoid the killing edge of his sword. She barely dodged out of the blade's path and her back slammed against the mainmast. The piece of metal buried itself into the wood when Ona ducked, giving her a moment's reprieve to back away as he was forced to dislodge it. Norrington braced a boot against the mainmast as he began to yank it free.

She glanced at her shoulder and saw the blood spilling down her left arm, but there was nothing to do about it now. Ona brought up her sword just as Norrington freed his, and he drove his blade down toward her head. She parried it aside, but he returned with another blow, another jab, and then another. He was like a storm himself, relentless and merciless and insensate to her harsh, pain-filled gasps.

Ona was a skilled fighter. Franklin had taught her well, and she'd had over three decades of practice with him. She even landed a few of her own non-fatal blows, but Norrington seemed not to notice the cuts, nor did he slow his tireless advance.

So focused was she on defending herself from receiving another wound that she didn't know he had cornered her toward the quarterdeck until her back hit a solid wall.

Unable to maneuver out of his way, Ona was helpless as Norrington grabbed her right wrist in his hard grip and slammed it against the bulkhead. When she refused to relinquish the grip on her weapon, he did it again, and again, until she heard something snap, and the cutlass dropped from her lifeless grasp.

White-hot agony raced from her wrist up her arm as she gave a muffled cry, her jaw clenched as she bared her teeth. But she went completely still as Norrington pressed the edge of his sword against the column of her exposed throat.

Ona glared at him, her ragged breathes sounding like soft hisses through her teeth, and he returned her look with one of shocking loathing and hatred. She had no doubt he was seconds away from killing her without a shred of remorse.

But... he didn't. Despite the hostility in his eyes, they were still oddly... vacant. And it was not the only unusual aspect of his appearance. The scales had progressed to completely cover his throat and most of his jaw, now outlining his face all the way up to his forehead where it stopped at his hairline. His ears had completely vanished, replaced by miniature pectoral fins. They were so delicate and thin that she could see through the webbing between the fin rays.

His hands were webbed talons, digging into the soft flesh of her throbbing wrist. His sea-green eyes were now almost entirely black, bordered by a thin ring of venomous emerald.

Norrington's transformation into a true thrall of the Flying Dutchman was nearly complete.

Nearly. But not entirely.