At World's Beginning

My Beloved Horizon

Her victory over Beckett in their small battle of dominance was short-lived.

The repairs were taking longer than expected. Ona had been patient at first, grateful she had an opportunity to recuperate. Now, she was growing restless. That wasn't so unusual, but what was unusual was the loneliness that had seemed to strike her out of nowhere and filled her every thought.

Currently, she was looking up at the stars from the deck of the Pearl, almost a week after their arrival. No one was in sight, the crew taking the advantage of being docked to go out drinking, gambling, and enjoying the intimate company of others.

Ona indulged in no such activities, nor did she socialize with the crew or captain. She was isolated, utterly and completely. Alone, even on a ship filled with pirates. She knew barely any of them, and felt that even though they were polite to her, they would run in horror if they truly knew her story.

The Dutchman had still not returned. Not that that was a contributing factor to her loneliness, she told herself. No, if anything, she was feeling this way because a steadfast, constant part of her life had been ripped away only a few days ago.

Jones was dead. Finally dead. And Franklin has been avenged. But it did not satisfy her desire for vengeance. It did not raise the Mariner and restore Franklin to life. And it did nothing to fill the empty space in her heart where his warmth and light had once occupied.

Ona gripped the gunwale hard enough to dig her nails into the tarred wood. It was her fault he had met such a fate, and she hadn't even been the one to end Jones' life. She had failed to keep him safe, and Franklin was ... he was...

She bent forward over the railing, bracing her elbows against the wood as she struggled to breathe. A choked gasp escaped her throat, but the ocean gave no reply. It continued onward into the black night, apathetic to her suffering. It was not the sea she had known. It was a stranger to her now. Cold and indifferent.

This was the last assault in a long line of battery offenses. Ona felt something crack within her, and she raised her hands to cover her face, as if to stop herself from shattering like a figurine made of glass.

I can't do this, she silently cried out. I can't do this alone.

A single sob escaped. Just one. And then long arms wrapped around her, pulling her away from the railing and holding her in place against a warm, solid surface. She immediately stiffened, her muscles coiled to fight off her attacker, but then... she realized she wasn't being attacked. The arms were steadfast and brought her immediate solace. She recognized who they belonged to, the shape and strength of them familiar somehow.

He was not cold and indifferent. He was warm and comforting, and exactly what she needed at that moment.

"James Norrington?" she whispered, a tremble in her voice. "When... when did you arrive?"

"Just now," he responded, his baritone resonating deep in his chest, making her shiver. "The Dutchman is still a ways off, but I... I don't know how to explain it. I sensed something was... amiss. Ona, what's wrong?"

She had begun to tremble again. She couldn't stop it, no matter how hard she tried, and her heart raced in her chest as she shook like taut sails in a hurricane wind.

"Ona?"

His voice, so sincere and warm in her ear, was what finally broke her. Ona was tired of fighting to keep him at a distance because she was too afraid. Afraid of caring for someone only to have her heart ripped apart again.

"He's gone," she choked out, shuddering hard. "And it's all my fault. All my fault." Her voice was so frail and brittle she hardly recognized it.