Summary: The world was far more complex than most people realized. Humans went about their lives, completely ignorant of the fact that there was a world of fairytales existing right alongside them. Well, not really fairytales. Not in the Disney sense, anyway. Many, like the Grimm brothers, had woven the truth into their stories, but the creatures they wrote about were even more nightmarish than their macabre and monstrous depictions.
Creatures known as wesen. Supernatural, other-worldly beings who have always lived among humans and have always been hunted by those who had come to be known as Grimms. A struggle of secrecy, balance, and power among these species has existed since the beginning of time.
This is a story of a man with his own struggle. The internal struggle of being a human, a wesen, and a Grimm, and the external forces that seek to eradicate one or all of his natures, especially those he tries to keep hidden.
Fortunately, Killian Jones is not alone in his struggles nor his secrets. His personal savior, Emma Swan, has secrets and struggles of her own.
A/N: Wow... So it's been a hot minute, huh? I am so sorry I left y'all hanging for over a year. I can't promise I'll update this regularly, but I can tell you that the next few chapters have already been written, so more updates will be coming soon!
Huge shout out to @kmomof4 for always being my cheerleader and for her exceptional beta skills. A HUGE thank you and many fangirl squeals to my artist @eastwesthomeisbest for the amazing job she did on the cover art that accompanies this fic. Please go show her some love!
FYI: This fic is inspired by and will borrow from the NBC show Grimm. I confess I did not watch Grimm when it first aired, but absolutely fell in love with the show during a binge fest years later. If you have not seen the show, no worries! My beta - who has not seen the show either - assures me that it is not necessary. If you have seen the show, then I hope you’ll forgive the huge creative license I am taking with the material. This is not a strict Grimm retelling with Once characters. This is my own spin on the lore and cannon of both shows.
Because the show took cues from the Grimm brothers’ works, much of the vocabulary associated with the supernatural creatures was based on German or German coded language. For words like wesen and woge (which are explained in the text) the w is pronounced with a v sound on the show. I’ll be using terminology from the show and more common creature names interchangeably within the fic.
Rated E (eventually) / Also available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee / add to tag list / Curious? Come Ask Me! / Prologue / Chapter One
Chapter Two:
A thin layer of fog blanketed the forest floor, obscuring Killian’s steps as he crept along the long drive leading to the perp’s house. The waxing gibbous moon did little to combat the dark and shrouded atmosphere, even with his enhanced night vision, but he was loath to use a flashlight, lest the blutbad detect his presence.
He was about to round the last bend which would give him his first clear view of the cabin when the sound of tires coming up the gravel road pricked his ears. Turning back to look over his shoulder, he squinted against the glare of headlights and ducked into the treeline. The car rolled to a stop a couple of yards back, and the driver’s side door swung open.
“Jones? Is that you?”
“Rob?” Killian whisper-yelled, emerging from the shadows. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” his partner said, closing the car door a little too loudly and most likely alerting the blutbad that he now had company. “Why didn’t you call for backup? Why didn’t you wait for me before coming out here on your own?”
“I, uh…” Killian stammered, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. “Captain told me to run down the boots, so that’s what I’m doing. I figured you’d still be working through the missing girl’s file from two years ago, so I… hang on,” Killian paused, a thought only now occurring to him. “How did you know I was out here?”
“Scarlett filled me in on the boots and the postal worker. When you weren’t answering my texts or calls, I had him trace your phone.” Robin peered through the darkness towards the cabin, faintly illuminated by a few lights glowing from the windows. “Why did you leave your car back there? Why approach on foot?”
“I wanted the element of surprise,” Killian told him. “Catch him off guard.”
Robin nodded his understanding, accepting the excuse and causing a knot of guilt to coil tightly in Killian’s gut. He hated not being honest with his partner and best mate, especially when it meant keeping him in the dark about the true danger and potential harm that lay ahead.
“Right. Well, he’s not gonna interrogate himself,” Robin said, setting off towards the cabin. “Let’s go question him.”
Killian bit back a curse, unable to come up with a reasonable excuse as to why his partner should hang back. Following a few steps behind so he could keep an eye out for danger, Killian focused his senses and remained on high alert as they took the path towards the front door. Robin’s arm swung out, stalling their steps, and he gestured down at the ground with a bob of his head.
“Boot prints,” he said under his breath. “Do they look like the ones from the crime scenes?”
“Aye,” Killian answered, able to make out the tread pattern and the distinguishing worn areas that made them unique to the wearer. Details he knew Robin could not discern with his human gaze.
“Ready?” Robin asked, waiting for Killian to nod his assent before raising his fist to knock on the solid wood door.
Bracing his stance, readying himself for anything, Killian held his breath in anticipation of finally coming face to face with his maker. The feral blutbad who had mercilessly mauled at least two people and had kidnapped - and done god only knew what - with at least two innocent little girls. The monster that had plagued his nightmares for over two years and had changed the course of his life in ways he’d never anticipated or asked for.
The man who opened the door was not at all what Killian had expected a cold-blooded blutbad to look like.
“Good evening,” the man greeted, cordially. “May I help you?”
Both Robin and Killian took in the man’s appearance: unassumingly dressed in a casual pair of khakis, light gray t-shirt, and cozy looking cardigan. Glancing down, they noted it was not boots, but slippers on his feet, and Robin shot Killian a dubious look before addressing the man.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. I'm Detective Locksley. This is Detective Jones. Do you have a few minutes?
“Of course,” the man said. Off in the distance, towards the back of the house, a timer went off. “Oh, pot pie's done. Just give me a moment to take it out of the oven, and then we can talk. Would you like to come in?”
“That would be great.”
Robin and Killian followed the man inside and were asked to wait in the living room while the man disappeared into the kitchen. They both took a moment to familiarize themselves with their surroundings, hoping to glean something about the man from his furnishings and decor.
“An unusual amount of clocks, creepy dolls, needlepoint pillows… are we sure this is the guy?”
“Are you telling me this place doesn’t scream serial killer?” Killian shot back in a low whisper as he continued to survey the room whilst listening for any hint of sound that might alert him to the little girl’s whereabouts.
“Fair point,” Robin conceded, and both men turned their attention to the hallway as the man returned from the kitchen.
“Sorry that took so long, but you know how delicate crusts are. Now… what can I do for you?”
“Where were you between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 this morning?” Robin asked.
“On my route,” the man answered, an expression of curiosity taking hold of his features. “I’m a postman. What’s this all about?”
Killian took the photo of Grace Hatter out of his pocket and held it up to show the man. “This little girl went missing this morning along your route.”
“That's awful,” the man replied, barely looking at the photo. “You don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?”
“We’re just running down leads,” Robin said. “We thought you might have seen something out of the usual whilst on your route. Did you see the little girl?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t,” he answered, his gaze focused squarely on Robin and avoiding the photo altogether.
“Your mail truck was seen parked at the end of her street. You’re sure you didn’t see anything?” Killian pressed.
“I typically park my truck there and walk the route. It’s good exercise and the turn around at the end of that street can be tricky.”
“We found boot prints at the site where we believe the little girl was taken. Boot prints that match the ones postal workers are issued with their uniforms. Can we see yours?”
“Of course,” the man complied, waving them towards the back of the house. “I leave them by the back door.”
Killian let Robin take the lead so he could peer down the dark corridors of the cabin with his keen vision and continued listening for sounds of the girl. It was hard to distinguish anything from the ticking noises the myriad of clocks were making and most of the doors throughout the cabin were closed, making it impossible to see anything beyond the hallway walls.
“Here you are,” the man said, retrieving the boots and handing them off to Robin.
Killian could already tell they weren’t the boots that had left the prints. There was no wear pattern. These looked practically brand new.
“Is this your only pair?” he asked, a hint of accusation coloring his tone and causing Robin to give him the side eye.
“It is,” the man answered, seeming unperturbed by Killian’s tone. “You’re free to look around if you don’t believe me.”
That was all the permission Killian needed. He and Robin searched the home for nearly an hour, clearing closets, checking every nook and cranny, opening every cabinet, and even scouring the attic. All the while, the man sat at the kitchen table, enjoying his pot pie, doing his best to not look too smug.
“Look, I know she's in here somewhere,” Killian told Robin when his partner suggested it was time to cut their losses.
“You got another place to look, we'll look, but we've torn this place apart,” Robin replied. “We’ve got his boots. We should take them back and have them compared to the prints.”
“No,” Killian said, emphatically shaking his head. “If she's not here, he's got her someplace else.”
Robin peered around the corner into the kitchen where their suspect was washing dishes at the sink. “What do you see in this guy I don't? You saw the file Will sent on him. He's got no priors. He's clean.”
“He’s a…” Killian began, then metaphorically bit his tongue. He couldn’t tell Robin the truth. Couldn’t tell him he’d finally gotten a hit. A whiff of the blutbad who was behind the attacks and another faint scent he believed to be the girl. He just needed more time to figure out where he had Grace hidden, or worse… find evidence that he’d already disposed of her.
“He fits the profile,” Killian reminded him. “He's a loner, he's never been married, and his job gave him the means and opportunity to take Grace Hatter.”
Robin shook his head, dubious and unconvinced. “If this guy had something to hide, he would have kicked us out. I'm leaving. I want to keep my job.”
“Anything else?” their suspect asked, coming out from the kitchen with an all too pleasant expression on his face.
“No. Thanks for your time and cooperation. We'll see ourselves out.”
Robin turned towards the door, muttering “let’s go” under his breath, but Killian took a moment to fish a business card from his pocket.
“Here,” he said, handing it off to the perp and distracting him for a moment as he also pulled out his phone. “If you think of anything, please give us a call.”
“Of course, Detective,” the man replied with a somewhat wolfish smile. “Always happy to be of assistance.”
Killian turned as though to follow his partner, who had already exited and was halfway down the drive, a good distance from the cabin.
“Oh!” he said, facing the man once more. “One last thing.”
Bringing up his phone, he shoved the bright red screen into the blutbad’s face, and switched off the lights, bathing the room in a crimson glow. A growl reverberated off the walls and Killian watched in satisfaction as the wesen began to transform. If seeing his sire, the blutbad whose image had tormented him for more than two years, once more in full woge wasn’t enough to turn Killian’s blood cold, the words that exclaimed from the monster’s mouth were.
“You!” the beast exclaimed. “You’re a… A GRIMM!”
Killian blanched and stumbled back, tripping over the threshold and landing him hard against the floor of the porch. He heard Robin shouting his name and could hear rushed footfalls coming towards him. Although the moon had disappeared behind the clouds, there was still enough light coming from the cabin that would reveal the blutbad if one got close enough. He couldn’t let Robin see the beast, or let the beast have a chance of hurting his partner.
“Die, Grimm,” the wolfman snarled, emerging from the house with his massive paw raised and sharp claws at the ready.
Killian tried to pull his gun from its holster as Robin issued a warning. “Stop right there, or I’ll shoot!”
The monster advanced as Killian scurried back and shots rang out from behind him. A wounded howl echoed from the darkness as the blutbad stumbled backward into the house and a crash followed when he collapsed onto the coffee table, breaking it into pieces.
“Are you alright?” Robin shouted, his weapon still trained on the darkened doorway of the cabin as he crouched down to check on his partner.
“Aye,” Killian replied, accepting Robin’s help off the ground.
“Did I get him?” Robin asked, still peering into the doorway. “I could barely make him out, but could see he had some sort of weapon in his hand. What was it? A club?”
A relieved breath whooshed from Killian’s lungs. So, he hadn’t seen the perp for what he truly was. Had thought his paw was a weapon and not an extension of his monstrous body.
“You got him, all right,” Killian assured him. “Let’s make sure he’s down for good. Wait here and back me up?”
“Okay. But be careful.”
“Roger that.” Killian said over his shoulder as he crept towards the house. His vision allowed him to see that the blutbad, returned to its human form, was indeed dead, but he waited until flicking on the lights before confirming it to Robin.
“I’ll call it in and get CSU out here. He must be hiding the girl somewhere else like you said.”
Robin pulled out his phone and dialed, reporting the incident and requesting backup. Killian knew the little girl had to be there, though. They must have missed something.
Frantically, Killian stopped the clocks, silencing their ticking and homed in on any noise that remained. A trickling sound, like water dripping, made his ears perk and he looked about for its source. On the floor, next to the blutbad’s body, he could see water pooling from a knocked over vase. It appeared to disappear beneath the floorboards under the rug. Kicking back the corner of the rug revealed a trap door.
“Rob!” Killian shouted. “Come help me!”
Robin rushed inside and stared at Killian trying to move the dead man’s body.
“What are you doing, mate? You’re messing with the scene!”
“Look here,” he pointed out. “There’s a trap door hidden under the rug, help me move him so we can open it. Grace might be down there!”
That prompted Robin into action and together they rolled the man’s body so they could access the trap door. Killian wasted no time, raising the door and hurrying down the steps.
“Wait! Take this,” Robin said, handing Killian a flashlight. Not that he needed it. “I’ll be right behind you.”
At the bottom of the steps was a small room with concrete block walls. It wouldn’t have surprised Killian if the blutbad had dug it out himself. The only furnishings were a full size bed, decorated in pink linens with lace and tulle accents, and a large wardrobe. Killian gestured to Robin to check under the bed while he approached the bureau. Opening one side revealed a number of jackets, hoodies, and coats, all in shades of red, hanging from the clothes bar. Swinging open the other side revealed… Grace Hatter, bound, gagged, but very much alive!
“It’s okay, lass,” he told her softly when she shied back from him. “We’re the police. We’re gonna take you home.”
The little girl remained motionless as he removed her gag and bindings, then she threw herself into his arms, thanking him on choked sobs as she cried for her Papa.
~/~
Killian, Robin, and Will watched as Jefferson Hatter ran towards his daughter, who had finished being looked over by paramedics. Thankfully, they found her to be unharmed. The cabin was surrounded by cop cars, their red and blue strobes lighting up the forest around them as CSU processed the scene and many of the officers attempted to keep the press at bay.
“I don't know how you did it, but you did it,” Captain Gold said as he approached the trio. “Nice work.”
“Jones deserves all the credit,” Robin told their captain. “I still don’t understand how you put all the pieces together.”
“What’ve I told ya,” Will quipped. “The man has a bloody sixth sense.”
Killian scratched the back of his ear. “No. Just more perceptive than most, I guess.”
“Well, it paid off. Thanks to you a killer is off the streets and a little girl gets to go home.” Gold checked his watch and looked around at the organized chaos. “Given the day and evening you’ve both had, we can probably hold off until tomorrow to get your official statements. Officer Scarlett can escort you back to your vehicles, and I’ll attempt to keep the press from hounding you. Go home. Get some rest.”
With that, he smoothed out his suit coat and straightened his tie, then made a beeline for the gaggle of reporters, ready to give them statements and provide a distraction so his detectives could make their exit from the scene.
Killian said little as they made their way back to the respective vehicles, allowing Robin to give Will the play by play of events… again. It wasn’t until he was back in his vehicle, pulling away from the scene, that he allowed his thoughts full rein to run rampant in his head.
The blutbad had called him a Grimm. He’d seen Regina and another woman woge earlier that day. Neither of those things should have happened. The only way they could was if he were gaining Grimm powers. And the only way he could… the only reason he could gain Grimm powers was if…
“Call Liam.”
His phone lit up from the holder on the dash, dialing his brother. Killian held his breath with each ring, then cursed when it went to voicemail.
Ending the call, he tried Nemo. It had been months since he’d spoken to the man, but he knew Liam was in more frequent contact with their father figure and mentor than he was.
Again, the call went to voicemail.
“Nemo, it’s Killian,” he said, leaving a message. “Are you with Liam? Have you talked with him? I can’t reach him and I… I need one of you to call me back just as soon as you get this. Please.”
He tried his brother one more time as he sped towards the docks, fear causing his stomach to churn even as his heart beat a rhythm of denial.
Can’t be dead, can’t be dead, can’t be dead, can’t be--
Killian slammed on his brakes as he pulled into the underground garage of the warehouse. Off to one side was Liam’s truck with his trailer full of resources and supplies hitched to the back. He rushed to the driver's side and found his brother, badly beaten and passed out behind the wheel, barely clinging to life.
“Liam!” Killian shouted, trying to rouse his brother. “Liam, what happened!”
“Am…bush,” his brother groaned. “Manti…core.”
Killian’s stomach dropped.
A manticore? Manticore were vicious wesen. Half-lion, Half-scorpion. His brother would have to be a fool to face one alone, much less enough to constitute an ambush. Especially since they were…
When Killian opened the door to try and get Liam out of the truck and inside the loft, his heart nearly stopped. At the juncture between his chest and shoulder was a wound. A puncture. The kind of wound left by a manicure’s scorpion-like stinger tail. His brother had been stung by a manticore, and Killian knew if not treated immediately, the venom of a manticore would prove deadly.
Shoving Liam over to the other end of the bench seat, Killian disengaged the hitch so he could leave the trailer behind before climbing into the driver’s seat and speeding off. For the second time that day, he dialed the only person he knew he could count on.
He just hoped she’d agree to help him once she discovered the secret he’d been hiding.
~/~
“Did you say Manticore anti-venom?” Emma questioned into the phone, certain she had not heard him correctly.
“Yes!” Jones replied. “My brother’s been stung! I’m bringing him to you now! Please tell me you have something that can help him!”
“What the hell was your brother doing messing with a manticore? Did he know they were a manticore?”
“Why or how isn’t important! I’m pulling into the alley now. Can you help me or not?”
“Yes, I can help you. Do you need help getting him inside?”
“No, I can manage. Just get things ready for us!”
The line went dead and Emma sprinted to where she kept her anti-venoms.
“Put him on the divan,” she called out when she heard the back door open.
Vaguely aware of Jones carrying his brother through the back room, Emma found the vial she was looking for and began measuring out the proper dosage into a syringe. A gasp fell from her lips when she finally caught sight of the bruised and beaten man.
“Are you… are you sure he’s still alive?” She didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but found herself unable to contain the thought.
“Aye, he’s alive. But he needs that anti-venom.”
Emma flicked her gaze up to Jones and her heart ached at the scared, desperate look in his eyes.
“Killian,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “He’s going to need more than this anti-venom. He needs a hospital. It would take me more time than he has to treat these other injuries with magic. He’d succumb before I got the appropriate potions brewed.”
He looked down at his brother and his Adam’s apple jumped from the force of his swallow. “Just give him the anti-venom then I’ll get him to a hospital. We both know they’re not equipped to treat the poison.”
“Okay, but you should call for an ambulance. It’ll be faster.”
Killian shook his head. “An ambulance call means questions, and I’d rather keep you out of this if I can.”
“If you’re sure,” Emma said, turning back to her patient. “Hold his head steady. I have to inject this in his carotid.”
Killian did as he was told and Emma inserted the needle into his brother’s neck. She’d just managed to empty the entire contents of the syringe into his artery when the man’s eyes flew open and his hand wrapped around her neck.
“Liam!” Killian cried out, attempting to pry his brother’s fingers off her throat.
Panic flared through her and before she could stop herself, she woged. Bright, radiant light shimmered off her skin and her eyes flashed with a green glow.
Shocked, Liam released her and hissed, “Witch!”
His shock was nothing compared to hers, though.
Unconscious once more, Killian’s brother collapsed back onto the divan. Emma stared down at him, then stared up at the guilt-riddled man who now put himself between her and his brother.
His Grimm brother.
“I can explain,” Jones began, holding his hands out in front of him.
“Explain?” Emma replied in an incredulous tone. “Explain what? That you never saw fit to tell me your brother was a Grimm?”
“Swan, I--”
“I knew you had knowledge of wesen before becoming one yourself, but never would I have imagined it was because your brother was a… Does he know?!”
“Know what?”
“Does he know about you, Killian?” Emma demanded. “Does he know you're a lycanthrope?”
Jones’ jaw tightened and his gaze fell to the floor before he ashamedly admitted, “No. He doesn’t know.”
“Jesus, Jones!” Emma exclaimed. “Is there anyone at all in your life you’ve been honest with? Anyone you aren’t keeping secrets from?”
“You’re one to talk,” Killian shot back, startling Emma into stunned silence. “You think I never noticed how you change the subject anytime the topic of your family comes up? Your beginnings before Marco took you in? You’re an open book, Swan. I know you have secrets, too, but I’ve never pressed you about them. I’ve respected your privacy. Who are you to judge me about when and to whom I disclose my secrets, hmm?”
Stung by the truth of his words, Emma marched to the back door and swung it open. “Get out. Take you Grimm brother and get out of my shop.”
“Swan. Please, I didn’t mean for--”
“He needs a hospital,” she reminded him. “And I need time to… process.”
“As you wish,” he relented. Leaning over, he pulled his brother up and over his shoulder as though the larger man weighed nothing. “Thank you for your help, Swan. Truly. I appreciate it.”
He brushed past her and exited the way he’d come. After getting his brother secured in the passenger side of the truck, Killian made his way around to the driver’s side.
“Jones,” Emma called out before he could get behind the wheel. “I hope…” she paused, not certain she could really hope for the best for a Grimm. Instead, she managed to force out, “Good luck. Let me know how… how things go.”
“I will,” he said. Though his tone and expression told her there was more he wished to say, he left with a simple, “Thank you again.”
Emma watched until he’d completely backed out of the alley, torn with what to do with her newfound information. There were those who would pay handsomely to know the whereabouts of a Grimm, especially an injured one. There was also an unspoken code that demanded wesen keep other wesen informed of the presence of a Grimm so they could stay vigilant. Jones’ brother wasn’t a threat to any wesen at the moment though, and it didn’t sit right with her to out the man while he was vulnerable. Not to mention that outing him meant outing Killian, and even though she was pissed that he’d kept this from her… she couldn’t really blame him. Not really. Not when he was right about her.
She had her own family secrets, just as dangerous and damning. If not more so.
~/~
Killian paced the waiting room as the doctors worked to stabilize his brother. A number of times he heard the doctors and nurses mutter their astonishment that the patient was still alive before they’d finally made him leave the triage area and wait as they attended to his brother. Killian knew it was Liam’s Grimm powers that were sustaining him, and he prayed to a god he didn’t even believe in that those powers would hold true.
“Mr. Jones?”
Killian spun around to face the doctor who’d called his name. “Yes! I’m Mr. Jones. How’s Liam? How’s my brother?”
“Stable, but not out of the woods,” the doctor informed him. “He has a head injury we’ll need to closely monitor, but he’s conscious and asking for you.”
“I can… I can see him?”
“Only for a few minutes,” the doctor told him. “He needs his rest.”
Killian followed the doctor to the curtained off area where Liam was resting. Taking a seat in the chair next to his brother’s bed, Killian reached over and took Liam’s hand.
“Killian?” Liam choked out groggily.
“Aye, it’s me, brother. Try not to speak.”
Liam’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked several times before turning his gaze towards his brother. “Killian,” he choked out again. “What the devil were you doing with a… she is a witch, yes? My little brother associating with a damn witch?”
Killian scoffed and clicked his tongue. “That witch saved your life,” he told him.
“You trust her?”
“I do,” Killian affirmed emphatically. “I’ve known her a long time, Liam. She isn’t like other hexenbeists.”
“She certainly doesn’t woge like one.” Capturing his brother’s gaze he asked, “You saw it, didn’t you? Her woge?”
“Aye.”
“Damn strange.” He turned his gaze back towards the ceiling and released a heavy, pained sigh. “I haven’t the strength to argue with you about your association with a hexenbeist just now, so perhaps we can table that discussion for another time?”
“Or…” Killian proposed, “You can trust my judgment and we can drop the matter altogether, and you can tell me why I’ve been seeing wesen woge all day.”
Liam’s head snapped back towards Killian. “You… you’ve been seeing them woge?”
“Aye. Two other hexenbeists at lunch time, and…”
“And?”
“And a blutbad called me a Grimm earlier this evening.”
Ill-advisedly, Liam sat up, then immediately fell back against the pillows, groaning with regret.
“Damn it, brother!” Killian admonished. “You’ve been seriously injured. Stop being a fool and lie still!”
A grunt worked its way up Liam’s chest and slipped past his lips. “I am a fool,” he lamented, staring back up at the ceiling. “I was a bloody, damned fool today, brother.”
“What happened?” Killian inquired with a measure of ease as to not further censure his brother. “You said you were ambushed?”
“We were.” Liam wet his lips then clenched his jaw. His Adam’s apple bobbing heavily before he continued in a tone of mourning. “Graham is dead. Someone set a trap for us.”
Graham is dead?! The Huntsman? One of the most fearsome Grimms of their generation?
“How?” Killian asked in disbelief. “Who set you up?”
“No clue.” Clearly unwilling to relive the disastrous encounter, Liam changed the subject by nodding towards the bag that held his personal effects. “Pass me that.”
Killian did as his brother requested, then resumed his seat as Liam rummaged through the bag. He held his tongue and his questions. His brother had been through enough already. The least he could do was give him time to heal before pressing him for answers.
“Here,” Liam said, depositing something into Killian’s hand. “Never lose this. Guard it with your life. They'll be looking for it.”
Glancing down at his hand, Killian was struck by the object Liam had placed there. “Mother’s ring? Who? Who’s looking for it?”
“Whoever set us up,” Liam answered. “The manticores knew we were coming and were apparently instructed to get mother’s ring off my dead body. They took something from Graham, too. I couldn’t stop them.” Glancing back at the ring, Liam added, “Nemo once told me it was important, but he never said in what way. I need you to look after it and keep it safe whilst I’m stuck in here. Especially if I don’t--”
“No,” Killian admonished. “Don’t even go there. You’re going to be fine. You just need to rest. You hear me, Liam?”
A half smile formed on Liam’s lips. “Aye, little brother. I hear you.”
“Younger,” Killian groused, shoving the ring into his pocket and leaning back in the chair so he could keep vigil until the doctors kicked him out.
The sound of the curtain being pulled back roused him some time later. He must have dozed off. Checking the time on his phone, he found it strange that none of the doctors had come to tell him visiting hours were over until now. Glancing up, he had a half-formed apology on his lips, but it was forgotten when he caught sight of the ‘doctor’ that had approached his brother’s bedside.
Standing over Liam, with a syringe filled with a black substance, was none other than the red-headed hexenbeist from earlier.
“You!” Killian exclaimed, shooting up from the chair.
Startled, the woman lunged towards his brother with the syringe, but Killian managed to grab her wrist before she could inject him. They struggled for a moment before a sharp prick pierced his skin. He wrenched back, the syringe, halfway emptied into his system, still sticking out from his arm, and the room began to spin.
In an attempt to break his fall, he wrenched the curtain down over himself. Shouts and a stampede of footfalls raced towards him as he lost consciousness. Lying on the cold linoleum floor, with the fallen curtain partially covering his face, he saw the green stilettos of the hexenbeist hurrying away from the scene before darkness consumed him.
Chapter Three - Coming Soon!
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My drawing contribution for this year's @cssns !🧜♀️
I feel like deep inside my brain there is a coherent story hidden somewhere ... But for now, the main idea is that Killian's working for some swanky marine science lab (I'm partial to Nautilus Inc. or something like that) and he gets assigned to be part of a very hush-hush project which is... this. And there is just something so profundly melancholy about this beautiful specimen that captures Killian completely. After some trial and error, they manage to establish some form of communication and Killian realizes that "Emma" (name derived from project ID? closest human version to her merfolk name? you decide!) has been ripped from her family, so he decides to return her home, no matter what...
Anyway, I just wanted to draw some Mer-related Captain Swan 😉
This canon divergent AU was intended to be a shifter one shot, but I don't know that the character is a shifter in the strictest sense, as there is a curse and magic involved. It is set sometime post Milah's death in Season Two, and then embarks on a different path from there...
I apologize ahead of time for any errors that I might need to come back and fix; I was writing this right up to midnight and didn't have enough time to edit fully. My beta for this year's @cssns @myfearless-love did absolutely brilliant work, catching so many typos and run-ons and confusing phrases. She was invaluable and deserves so much love for all her help! Anything left over is 100% my fault for hurrying to finish.
**I am thrilled to be reposting now with the gorgeous cover artwork created for me by @motherkatereloyshipper! She captured so well the drama and intensity of the ship's danger during the storm and the petrel coming to her aid. I just love it!! Thank you, thank you, thank you SO MUCH @motherkatereloyshipper!**
Please enjoy, and I'd love to hear what you think!!
Summary: Killian Jones has lost everything and everyone he ever held dear. All that is left for him is vengeance and pain. None could have expected the strange twist of Fate that would change everything, or the surprising companion that will come to touch his heart in ways he would have no longer thought possible.
“On Wings of Storm”
By: @snowbellewells
“Attention, you bilge rats!” His angry voice rang out unmistakably over the planks of the majestic ship - carrying clearly despite the buffeting wind and rolling sea beneath. The power in the sharply accented words cracked like a whip, causing every member of his crew to flinch nervously and stand at attention to do their captain’s bidding and avoid his ire. Those who made their home and livelihood upon the Jolly Roger - even the few remaining grizzled veterans who’d once served on her decks when she was the Jewel of the Realm - knew her captain’s temper was perpetually on a knife’s edge. The harshness and cruelty of the lives they all lived, and the loss and betrayal Captain Jones had weathered, would bow and break many. It was understood not to cross those who had survived and been hardened by it.
Yet, even with that knowledge, the cause of his current tirade was unclear. When the ship had docked at the remote port, some had stayed aboard to handle various duties and keep watch while others went ashore to roam and shop, or to visit inns or brothels, but all had been attending to their assigned duties and nothing was amiss. However, the thunderous look upon their Captain’s dark brow spoke volumes. Something was amiss, and he would see it put to rights. Pity the fool who was found at fault. The cutlass at his hip bounced gently against his leg, and the still awe-inspiring metal appendage which had replaced his left hand mere months ago glinted menacingly in the low moonlight as he paced back and forth, eyeing each man with an intensity that would make anyone tremble.
It was old Mullins who finally dared to put the question to the Captain gingerly when no further explanation or action seemed forthcoming. “What is it that’s angered ye, Cap’n?” he queried respectfully, head bowed in deference as his speech drew Killian Jones’ attention. “We’ve been here aboard the Jolly and at our post since ye left. Did something happen on shore?”
Killian’s attention zeroed intently on the graying Mullins, who quickly gave another bob of his chin in respect or acknowledgement. Not about to contradict their captain, but also not knowing what had upset him, none of them could move to make it right. Those piercing blue eyes, like ice chips in Mullins’ shuddering imagination, beneath the dark, forbidding brows he used to great effect, seemed to be searching his subordinate’s face and sifting his words for any hint of dissension or deception. Finding nothing of the kind, the volatile man’s gaze swept over the rest of the crew assembled around him nervously for some time before offering the explanation in a menacing growl.
“It has come to my attention - and make no mistake, even a scoundrel such as meself has loyal allies - that some of you are dissatisfied with your position aboard this vessel. Let me be crystal clear; a place aboard the Jolly Roger is an honor and a prize - she is a marvel unmatched in speed and quality throughout the realm. However, your presence here is entirely voluntary. I have never, and will never, tolerate the enslavement of any crew member on the Jolly. Such dishonor shall not taint her decks. So, if any of you wish to depart, then by all means, leave now. But be warned; spreading false tales of captivity or coercion, thereby sullying our flag and reputation, will not be tolerated. Such lies will be rooted out and those responsible will face severe consequences.”
He paused, clearly waiting for any who might be bold enough to disembark under his watchful eye and be noted for their decision. None upon the deck moved or spoke, and old Mullins noted sadly that the only sound or hint of motion was the heavy breathing that escaped the Captain’s mouth and the heaving of his chest, evidenced by what had clearly been an angry charge from the town’s center and his impassioned outburst.
As Jones finally seemed to regain control, sending him back to work with a brisk order, Mullins couldn’t help thinking resignedly about how much the Captain had changed, in the past few months especially, but also in the years since his brother’s death. The man Captain Jones had once been - that promising but naive young lieutenant - seemed like a distant memory. Few of the current crew members had served under Jones’ proud and honorable older brother, Liam, who had been tragically struck down in his prime by treachery. Liam’s untimely death had altered the course of all their lives in ways none could have anticipated. Mullins found it painful to remember the wide-eyed, gangly lieutenant Killian had once been. That young man had spoken passionately of glory for the crown and the name of Jones, ready to follow his Captain anywhere. He had believed in righteousness and the power of individuals to shape their own destinies. That idealistic youth had hardened into a bitter and implacable man. The once-noble Killian Jones now sought only vengeance, becoming known and feared across the seas as the dreaded villain, Captain Hook. Mullins sighed and returned to his task; there was naught to be done for it.
Meanwhile, Killian Jones stood at the helm, staring out into the dark night. He sought fruitlessly for the rhythmic comfort of the waves against the hull of his beloved vessel, the solid planks beneath his feet, and the cool night air brushing over his face to ease his inner turmoil. These familiar elements had soothed him many times before, yet his agitation remained as he waited, forcing himself to take steady, regular breaths.
As he stood there, alone amongst his crew, Killian’s gaze drifted towards the gray, evening-darkening horizon. A shape materialized from the gathering twilight, drawing nearer - an unmistakable bird on the wing, yet not the familiar silhouette of gull or pelican often seen at sea. Morbidly curious, Killian watched as the creature approached, strangely silent compared to the trilling calls of most avian species he knew. Its relatively small body rose and fell on the air currents, rather than gliding with ease, weaving unsteadily in its course.
Despite having recently displayed harsh temper and callousness, Killian found himself holding his breath with each flap of wings that sent the bird painstakingly higher in the sky again, inexplicably concerned it might plummet into the rolling waves below.
As if drawn by his thoughts, the bird’s flight began to descend lower and lower. The men diligently working around him on the deck - and avoiding eye contact to steer clear of his ire a second time - seemed completely unaware of the creature’s plight. Killian finally released a tight breath as the dark-feathered bundle nearly landed at his feet. Though it seemed more a collapse than a graceful landing, it had found a resting place. He did not wish to closely examine why it mattered to him whether it had succeeded or not.
Glancing around surreptitiously, Killian stooped to gather the bird into his hand, his hooked arm wrapping around to steady and secure it against his chest. He hoped the dark attire he wore would partially conceal the fragile creature. Rescuing helpless animals contradicted the brash and dangerous pirate persona he had donned irrevocably, which had grown even more dark and forbidding of late. Yet, he simply could not leave the small, fragile bird on the planks, its strength almost spent and plaintively vulnerable.
Seeing that all was as it should be, he slipped below deck without a word, carrying the strange passenger in his arms into his cabin. Closing the door firmly behind him, Killian hurried to place the weakened creature on the table and lit a nearby lantern hanging from the ceiling to inspect its small form for injuries. It appeared fine, simply near the end of its endurance after a clearly long journey.
Just as when the bird was approaching the ship, he could not really understand why it mattered so much to him that the creature was alright. It did though, and so he obeyed his instincts and tried to tend to it as best he knew how. His new compatriot didn’t seem at all troubled by his admittedly anxious dithering and attempts at aid. The bird neither flapped nor made any attempt to flee. After a few full-body shakes to settle its plumage, the bird remained largely still, only moving with its breaths and blinking its dark brown eyes calmly at him, seemingly taking in its new surroundings. The creature exhibited an almost human awareness that it was safe, facing no threat from him.
As Killian watched, enthralled, the bird eventually seemed to settle enough that it tucked its head beneath its wing and appeared to fall asleep. Satisfied that his charge would be fine for a few hours, and needing to rest himself while his crew and ship were in order, Killian extinguished the lantern after preparing for bed. The churning anger and restlessness which had plagued him since boarding his ship was strangely lulled, and for the moment, he was too grateful to question it. Stretching out upon the Captain’s berth, he gave himself over to sleep, for once wrapped up enough in its comfort to be dreamless.
~~ * ~~ * ~~
Killian rose with the sun the next morning, habit waking him early enough to see the gray pre-dawn melt into the peach and pinkish glow of a clear new day. He stretched his lanky frame, washed and dressed before moving to the table to check on his unexpected guest. As he neared the makeshift nest he had created, he was surprised to see his small stowaway still appeared to be asleep. Startled by how calm the bird continued to be in such confined surroundings, Killian merely smiled tightly, his hand unconsciously rubbing his chest. He tried not to dwell on why the peaceful sight of a bird resting on the table in one of his old rags lifted his spirits so, as if the whole cabin felt less lonely in its presence.
He had a litany of his usual tasks to attend to, and he knew the rest of his crew would soon be active - if they were not already. Killian exited the cabin swiftly, hoping nothing would disturb the creature until it was restored enough to wake on its own, once the heavy sound of his boots against the wooden planks faded away.
However, he couldn’t avoid one quick stop before heading topside. Killian was pleased to see Turley, the ship’s cook, alone in the kitchen. He ducked beneath the low door frame and cleared his throat to get the grizzled man’s attention amidst the numerous pots and pans bubbling and sizzling on the stovetop.
“Mornin’ Cap’n,” Turley offered, with a gap-toothed smile. “What can I get ye?”
Killian lowered his voice, stepping closer to the aging cook as he explained that the rations he sought were not for himself, but for the seabird he had rescued the evening before. As he pondered why the bird’s fate concerned him, Killian found himself unsure why he felt compelled to hide his anxiety for the small animal. Anyone daring to question or mock him would regret it – if not immediately, soon enough. Was he questioning himself then?
He discarded the thought almost as soon as it entered his mind. Turley seemed pleased with his captain’s request, assuring him they still had some canned herring in their stores which he could fetch after the noon meal. Killian nodded approvingly and thanked Turley before turning to leave. Just as he did, Turley added, “Sounds like you found a storm petrel, Cap’n.”
“Oh, aye?” Killian asked, tilting his head with renewed interest, despite his desire not to seem overeager.
“Indeed, for how you have described it anyways, Sir. They’re quite rare in these parts, or so’s I’ve always heard. They tend to nest much further north, preferrin’ the cold.”
Killian nodded his understanding but remained silent, encouraging Turley’s talkative nature with a patient gaze. He was rewarded when Turley continued without pause.
“There’re many folks who consider ‘em an evil omen, Cap’n. Portents of storms and such like, but they’re such wee buggers, them petrels. I always wondered meself if they weren’t just allowin’ the winds to blow them to safety rather than heraldin’ the blast.”
Killian shook his head with begrudging humor. Even after nearly three years leading a crew of pirates rather than the formal naval sailors they had once been, he was continually surprised by their superstitious beliefs. They claim to be black-hearted, fearless outlaws, yet frightfully unwilling to take a woman aboard (even Milah at the beginning), sail under the red morning sun, or set out on a Friday.. All due to tall tales of downfall and destruction. It was just a bird, wind-rattled and knocked off-course, needing to regain its strength; certainly not some ill stroke of luck.
“I heartily agree with you, mate,” Killian said when Turley’s words trailed off, giving him a clap on the shoulder before leaving the galley. “I appreciate you finding the herring. I’ll be back for it once lunch has been cleared.”
Turley assented readily and turned back to his task, humming idly. The Captain seemed in a better state of mind than he’d been in since losing his hand, and witnessing his love’s death. To Turley it seemed nothing but good luck, and he was simply glad for it.
~~ * ~~ * ~~
Feeding the petrel at noon was a more awkward and messier business than Killian had anticipated; first he was struggling to open the sealed tin with just one hand, then handling the pungent small fish and their juices in his attempts to coax the bird to eat. Once it snatched the first bit in its delicate, curved bill, however, no more coddling was necessary. Soon, the petrel was grasping tiny herring right from the can, swallowing chunks as fast as it could manage. It emitted a rough sort of squawk in his direction once it finished its meal. Chuckling, Killian could certainly admit it was no nightingale’s song, but he chose to see it as an enthusiastic thanks all the same.
“I’m afraid that’s all for now, you shameless beggar,” he chided gently while clearing the empty tin away and wiping the table clean. To his surprise, the bird stepped nearer, lightly pecking at his fingers, almost playfully or in gratitude, not at all sharply enough to hurt. Holding his breath, Killian turned his hand open and palm up; the petrel nuzzled against his warm skin. Improbable as it seemed, the gesture could almost be called affectionate.
“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” the pirate murmured, scratching one finger lightly over the bird’s dark gray cap. He chose to ignore how his voice sounded equally fond.
When he returned that evening, the shadows outside his cabin’s windows were already long, and the sun had long sunk in the west. After its performance at midday, Killian was sure the petrel would be hungry again and eagerly awaiting its dinner. Yet, upon entering his cabin with canned anchovies, hoping they would not prove too salty for his animal guest, he found the bird absent from the center table altogether. Instead, it flitted for one spot to another at the desk in the room’s far corner near the window. It fluttered, then paused to alight upon the various open books strewn over the surface, cooking its tiny head and peering down intently at the pages. Had Killian not known better, he would have thought it was actually reading the words in Liam’s beloved tomes.
By this point, Kilian was charmed by the petrel’s odd antics, his lips stretching into an ill-accustomed smile as he watched before he moved to lay out his offering. The dark cloud that had hung over him before the bird’s arrival had dissipated. Though he couldn’t explain why, Killian welcomed the lighter mood, hoping it signified better days to come.
The petrel let out its brash trill a few more times before fluttering over to feed quickly on the anchovy, as enthusiastically as it had eaten the herring. Upon finishing, however, it did not relax as it had done previously. Instead, it flitted across the room, hovering near the window and making its distinctive call. The bird then fluttered around Killian’s head and shoulders before returning to the window, its desire for freedom as clear as if it had spoken the words aloud.
“Of course, little one,” Killian sighed reluctantly, no longer embarrassed about speaking to it as if it were human. “Naturally you would wish to return to the air.”
As he opened the window pane, the bird uttered a softer note, unlike its previous raucous cries. Killian smiled ruefully as he watched it slip through the opening and fly away. He had never considered refusing to let it go free; still, he missed the petrel’s presence in his cabin almost immediately. It might have been only a lost bird, but for a flicker of time, he felt a connection, a kinship, that had been sorely lacking in his life.
Yet, to Killian’s pleased astonishment, it was far from the last he would see of the storm petrel. While he would have expected the bird to be gone, never to return again, as days and weeks at sea went by, the small bird reappeared often - usually at first light, near the wheel where Killian was often steering, taking the night’s last watch upon himself as captain to be certain all was well when the Jolly was perhaps most vulnerable. After his intriguing initial encounter with his new feathered friend, he had learned that petrels were largely nocturnal and - like pirates and sailors themselves - rarely came ashore unless nesting. Again, that strange sense of kindred closeness swept over him; more than he had known for entirely too long. He had also learned that pairs of storm petrels were largely monogamous, and he could not help but wonder if the small gray co-pilot had lost its mate, leading it to return to the ship and humans where it had been shown kindness, strange as the attachment might seem. At any rate, once “his” petrel had begun to make recurrent appearances, Killian deliberately took the shift which found him at the helm when dawn’s first light crept over the horizon.
Though wise enough not to voice any notice or question him, the more observant and early-rising members of Captain Jones’ crew began to notice the bird’s repeated arrivals at the wheel near their captain. It seemed the small creature came solely to visit Jones and to snag a brief ride perched on the ship’s side, the sea breeze rustling its feathers until it either fluttered below deck to follow Killian at the end of his watch or took to the sky again.. Killian naturally sought to avoid seeming overly fond or doting on the petrel. For the leader of a band of miscreants and outlaws who lived a rough life by their wits and the sweat of their brows, it was dangerous indeed to show any sort of weakness. Any appearance of “going soft” could be a death sentence if his crew began to doubt his capabilities because of it.
All the same, those who worked nearby sometimes saw glimpses of his twinkling eyes or more mischievous smiles from time to time - things that had seemed lost to the past before the bird’s arrival. The cabin boy Killian had taken aboard at a port several months before - to save him from a life of abuse and privation - sometimes thought he heard snatches of the Captain singing or humming shanties under his breath when the petrel was present at Killian’s side. The boy’s loyalty, however, was unassailable and absolute. He’d never dream of breathing a word.
This continued for some time, the petrel’s comings and goings becoming an expected part of the rhythm aboard the Jolly Roger. Its diminutive gray form and rapid flight over the nearby waves became an easily recognizable sight to all who sailed upon the ship. What was more, the bird’s presence was gratefully welcomed - Captain Jones was less volatile and less prone to strike out against those who displeased him.
If the petrel had not yet proven its worth to any sailors reluctant to accept it, then one stormy night it would have silenced any doubts once and for all…
They had not taken an enemy vessel in some time, and the cargo taken in their most recent haul had been offloaded at the last port nearly two days prior. It was a good thing, too, because as shadows began to lengthen in late afternoon, wind whipped up wildly, frothing the waves and rocking the ship violently. The extra weight of a full cargo might have caused them to take on a frightening amount of water as the hull rose and fell.
At first, the men manned their posts with calm determination. A storm at sea was always serious, easily spelling the difference between life and death in how one met its ravages. They had faced many such squalls, and Jones guided them through with an indefinable but comforting mix of experience and assurance. This gale, however, seemed different, bent on their destruction as the walls of water rose and then dropped the Jolly as though it were a toy in a child’s bathtub. As they dipped, the rising swells threatened to pour over the sides and sink them permanently. The crew gripped their ropes or boards, holding tightly to whatever piece they manned, but more and more fervently sending prayers for mercy to Poseidon, Davy Jones, or the sirens that would greet them below the surface.
Amidst the rolling chaos, the rapid beating of wings swept low over their heads as a dark, familiarly recognizable form sailed across the deck and landed heavily, talons clinging to the worn leather on Killian’s shoulder. Though it had clearly fought mightily against the drafts, their petrel was claiming its place heedless of the danger.
Hardly able to acknowledge the delicate weight where it roosted at his side, even nearer than usual, Killian quickly raised his hook from the spokes of the wheel, brushing its curve over the bird’s downy underbelly in a single stroke of greeting. The bird trilled and seemed almost to rub its head against his rough cheek in affection. The exchange lasted only a moment, and in their heightened anxiety, few, if any, bore witness. Then, Killian gripped the wheel tightly once more with hand and hook, roaring out orders and encouragement, exhorting the men not to give up the fight, though the storm raged on and endurance flagged.
The petrel, not content to merely watch and ride along, was hardly finished - nor did it perch silently idle. Instead, it took to the air again, if only just, fluttering rapidly about the captain’s head, repeating its sharp, strident call, almost in his ear, and making itself nigh impossible to ignore. At first, Killian instinctively waved his hand to ward off its advances, calling out in consternation at its unusual behavior. However, it quickly became clear the tiny bird’s determined efforts would not falter.
Brow furrowed in thought, Killian squinted in concentration at his companion, finally sensing that it was trying to tell him something. Swiping the driving rain from his vision, Killian gave in and murmured low under his breath, “Alright, little one, I understand. What is it you wish to show me?”
Again, reacting as if it understood his every word, the petrel chirruped a sort of agreement and took flight again. It had to dip and bob against the lashing wind and rain in order to stay aloft, but it flapped madly, its wings battling back against the heaves of the storm. Valiantly, it hovered within sight, just ahead of the ship’s bow and almost seemed to look back expectantly, as if asking whether or not he meant to follow its lead.
Despite the tension in his shoulders, the worry and responsibility weighing upon him as the storm attempting to break them apart and bear the pieces to the depths, Killian couldn’t hold back a huff of laughter at the bird’s assumed insistence. “Aye, we’re with you,” he uttered aloud, turning the wheel just slightly to accommodate the direction in which the petrel led, shaking his head in disbelief even as he did so. It seemed a mite crazy, true enough, and yet birds survived the wild, its brutal conditions and weather, all the time. And what other chance of survival did they have at this point if the tempest didn’t slake soon? He could not see the way before them clearly enough to navigate by any of his normal methods. At the end of the day, they were all at the whim of Mother Nature, whatever their skill or experience, so the chance or fate that had brought this small creature to him and the feeling in his gut that urged him on seemed as good a course to follow as any.
Some few further agonizing minutes followed, as they still rose and fell in the grip of rolling waves. The entire crew seemed to hold their breath as the ship bobbed and soared, up and down, over and again, eyes riveted on the dark clouds and forks of lightning ahead of them and straining to glimpse in time the jagged rocks that lurked portending their doom.
Slowly, and yet more and more certainly as they persisted, the wild rocking, the careening to and fro, lessened, as though the churning water itself had begun to loosen its massive grip. They were moving into miraculously calmer waters, Killian noted with a breath of relief. The storm still howled around them, but in a bright flash of lightning, he saw that the ship had entered the sheltered lea of a hidden cove. The tall rock faces rising on either side as the Jolly sailed into their cover lessened the buffeting of the waves and allowed the ship to maintain its ballance once again. He would not have seen the entrance with the elements obscuring vision as they’d been - not without the petrel. It had led them to safety.
As if on cue, the bird came to rest atop the wheel, perching on the curve of wood between the two spokes where his hand and hook were placed. Blinking placidly, it seemed to look at him with a bit of pride before cooing softly and burrowing hits head and beak under its wing to snatch a moment’s well-earned rest.
Nodding and allowing himself a look around to take stock, Killian saw the reassurance on his crew’s faces as all realized they had made it through. Killian called out a few orders to check various parts of the sip for any damages and make certain the ship would stay in place until the storm blew itself out. This petrel with its almost sentient ability to sense when it was needed, come to his aid, and raise his spirits, would always have a safe place to rest with them on the Jolly Roger.
~~*~~*~~
Until the day it didn’t return.
The storm petrel had taken to arriving regularly every two or three days, wherever they might be sailing or how much distance they had covered, but then one evening it failed to appear. It didn’t come that night, or the next. Soon a week had passed, and still it didn’t come back to the Jolly, worrying Killian more than he dared let on.
He could not simply drop anchor and wait, nor could he leave his post, his men, and his ship, to search for his tiny companion - far dearer than even a pet could ever be. He had no way to call the bird; it had always come to him of its own accord and in its own time… but it had never stayed away for so long.
His men noticed as well, whispering amongst themselves when the Captain began taking his evening meals alone at night rather than joining them in the galley, when the door to his cabin slammed with such heavy finality that all knew it was a barrier not to be crossed until the Captain emerged again. They shook their heads in dismay when orders were bellowed more harshly or conversations were more clipped and terse. Killian Jones was too diligent a man to shirk his duties or lead them astray, yet all felt his unease and knew its cause. Many of them were aware enough to know the petrel had saved them from the storm, just as Killian did, and had grown to enjoy its visits and watch for it in their own ways. Its absence had stretched on long enough that it seemed clear something must have happened to the poor bird - not that any would say such to the Captain.
Turley and the cabin boy were the only ones genuinely close enough to ask Killian about it, and the youngster only dared question hesitantly one night as he brought the Captain his dinner tray if he had seen his gray bird lately. The dulled acceptance in his expected denial bowed the boy’s head and forestalled any further inquiry.
But that night, as young Billy left, Killian heard a light rapping sound at the small window above his bunk. Even knowing better, his heart leapt with a small flicker of hope. It was the portal by which his petrel had entered and left his cabin so many times. Scuffling and scratching followed, so weak and soft as to have gone unheard if he hadn’t been sitting alone and quiet at his desk. Hustling to the window, Killian unlatched it and carefully opened the glass pane.
To his astonishment and joy, quickly followed by rapid alarm, the storm petrel toppled from its weary perch on the windowsill and landed on the ledge just inside the room. Its tiny frail quivered, its little feathered breast rising and falling rapidly. It wasn’t a large bird to begin with; Turley’s familiar voice echoed in Killian’s head at the thought, needlessly rambling about petrels being some of the widest ranging seabirds known to man, despite being naught bigger than swallows. ‘Hardy little critters, they are,’ Killian could still hear the cook yammering internally until he finally shook his head clear. What he needed to do now was ascertain what the bird needed and what he could do to help.
Having been small already, the petrel looked terribly frail on the dusty, cushioned ledge amidst heavy tomes, navigation tools, and the other detritus of several years. It was obvious the poor creature had not been eating and was wasting away half-starved as a result. Along with that, it was soaked, its feathers in bedraggled disarray and missing in places. The bird lay still for so long without uttering any sound or even trying to right itself of explore the space that Killian feared for a horrible moment that it must be near death.
Peering closer with careful, gentle movements, he saw that the petrel was injured as well as weakened. Not immediately apparent because of how ruffled in was in general, Killian noted that its wing was bent at an awkward angle along its side rather than folded up properly in repose.
The bird hardly lifted its head as Killian stroked one finger down its back, hoping to soothe and offer even the tiniest bit of comfort. Striding urgently across the room, he swung the cabin door open, calling urgently down the hall for Whale, the ship’s doctor, to come on the double; he was needed in the Captain’s quarters.
Whirling to re-enter the room, Killian’s eyes quickly passed over the space, noting the crust of his bread left from supper and the seeds which had been baked atop it still littering the plate. He brought it quickly to his patient, then poured some water for the pitched by his washstand into the empty saucer which had held soup, hoping he might coax the petrel to eat even a morsel and gain some nourishment.
Next, he grasped a plush cotton dressing gown, hanging untouched on the door of his closest, purposefully out of easy sight. It had been Milah’s favorite to wrap up in after the rare luxury of a bath, and the sight of it or the feel of its material beneath his fingers had wrung his heart until now, bringing the hot, raging need for vengeance back to the fore. He was suddenly glad he had not parted with it though. He didn’t dare jostle the injured bird overmuch for fear of hurting it further. But while he couldn’t rub it down to dry it fully, he could tuck the robe’s downy layers around it and warm its shivering frame.
“There now, little one,” he crooned gently. “Take a bit of food and catch your breath. You’re safe now…” his voice caught and he swallowed before adding, “We’ll put you back to rights, don’t fret.”
Killian didn’t actually know if a ship’s surgeon could set a bird’s wing as he would a human man’s broken arm, but he could hear Whale’s footsteps pounding down the hall toward his cabin, and knew he would find out soon. Before Whale - or anyone else - could arrive to see him, Killian bent to carefully lean over the bird’s small form, not sure what possessed him, but following the instinct before he could question it. As delicately as possible for someone who’d had no cause for gentility in longer than he could remember, for just one breath, one single heartbeat, he brought his lips to the bird’s tiny head. Maybe it was brought on by some long-buried memory of his own mother, lost to his mind’s eye other than a voice whose soothing singing sometimes echoed in his sleep, but the kiss seemed an offering to ease fever pain and fear with hope and good wishes.
It was the barest brush contact - a mere moment’s touch - but the air in the room abruptly changed. Something seemed to shrink and then expand; the atmosphere held its breath. Glittering rainbow hues flashed in front of his eyes, and Killian jerked backwards in alarm. The petrel’s shape went a bit hazy as Killian strained to understand what was happening right before his eyes, and then his small friend began to grow and change, forcing him to take a few more stunned steps backward and wonder if he had somehow hit his head and addled his brain. His accustomed companion was transforming even as he watched.
He heard a shout as Whale - and probably a few curious others too - came to a halt behind him. Exclamations of awe and surprise were heard but left unacknowledged over his shoulder. Killian blinked, trying be sure he could trust his vision and to reconcile what shouldn’t be possible, but sat before him.
Where the storm petrel had lay near death just seconds ago, stood a blushing, beautiful young woman. She was equally soaked to the skin, long blonde hair plastered to her head and shoulders. Her lithe, slender frame trembled where she stood clutching the dressing gown around her tightly. Still, there was something about her eyes as she stared back at him silently; something that he knew deep within despite never having seen her before.
She cocked her head curiously, as if she too was trying to understand where she was and what had happened. With that motion, Killian knew without a shadow of a doubt. This young woman had been his petrel; his long lost avian friend was this lovely woman. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he was absolutely certain. And he was drawn to her just as he had been to her former guise. She took a cautious step toward him, and he held out a hand to draw her near and hold her close. Whatever had brought them together, whatever magic was at work, she was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld.
~~*~~*~~
By the time rays of morning sunlight came slanting down the walls inside Killian’s cabin, he and his soulmate - he knew that now - had talked the whole night through. She was no longer a storm petrel but a princess what had been cursed to take on avian form, and his act of True Love - aware of it or not - had set her free. The jealous witch who’d cast the spell had falsely believed the princess was luring her chosen partner away rather than accept that he had a roving eye. Petrels were a migratory species, keeping her far from all she knew and loved - and of course, unable to speak or gain help for her affliction. For hours they sat side-by-side on his bunk, hands clasped tightly as this woman - Emma, her name was Emma - told him what she’d experience ever since the curse took hold, shifting her very reality to something unfathomable. Tears pooled in her eyes, glistening on her lashes, both while recounting her own trials, and then again while listening to the betrayal and loss that had shaken Killian’s world to its foundations as well.
The connection between them from Emma’s first appearance on his ship drew them ever closer as they talked, and touched, and inevitably joined in another kiss. This time it was two souls meeting on equal footing, and they drank deeply of the perfection that shook them each to the core. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way; the two of them bound to meet long before they ever knew. Neither could explain the pull, but it also couldn’t be denied.
As they went topside the next morning and Killian began to introduce her to an eagerly enthusiastic crew, he didn’t even try to explain, but simply savored the moment, thrilled that all the heartache and pain had finally brought him there, with Emma at his side. Her smaller frame tucked seamlessly into his side as she beamed at his new ally and charmed them one and all.
When they stood at the wheel - just the two of them again at last - Killian behind her, his arms encircling her as he steered the ship, he felt the same joy he had when she’d kept him company perched on the wheel so many times before, but magnified exponentially now that they could fully communicate and understand one another. With the salt air in their faces and the horizon in view, they set sail - a happy new beginning stretching out ahead of them.
Tagging a few who may enjoy: @cssns @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi
here it is, my first project for the last year of CSSNS and I went for werewolves! and what are werewolf stories without sexy times?
a million thanks to my beta @thejollyroger-writer and check out her awesome art to accompany this fic!
Summary: Treading through a forest at night alone is a terrible idea. Doing so during the full moon is even worse. You never know what sort of creatures you may find. Killian Jones finds that out in the worst way… or so he thinks.
Word count: 10350 words
Rating: Explicit
read on AO3
This was a terrible idea.
He could be at home wrapped around his warm blankets and watching some random movie on Netflix. He should, actually. But, apparently, he thinks it best to traipse through the woods on the coldest night of the year while being turned around by the strong winds.
Killian Jones is going to die in these woods and all because—
A loud snap of a twig sounds behind him, and he turns for all but a second before rushing his pace as best he can in the ankle-deep snow. If he doesn’t die of the cold, maybe some animal will jump him and kill him. He pulls on the scarf around his neck to cover more of his face.
Great, like this whole thing isn’t scary enough. He hopes they omit his stupidity in his eulogy. If his body is even found.
That’s not helping.
A warm light acts like a beacon between the trees, did he actually make it or is that the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel? It doesn’t matter at this point, really. Whatever waits for him at the end of the light will surely laugh in his face if they find out he died trying to return a—
A louder, more forceful, snap echoes behind him and he turns around sharply, a growl louder than the winds. He hears it before he sees it, bursting through the trees. A wolf just as tall as he is approaches him, mouth open with bared teeth, ears turned back and eyes glinting with murderous intent.
He feels his blood drain from his body and his body freeze in fear, unable to blink, to breathe. Pure panic flows through Killian’s veins even as his brain urges him to move. The animal approaches slowly, its black fur contrasting sharply with the white snow. Distantly, over the pounding beat of his heart in his ears, he hears another growl from behind him. Just his luck.
To his surprise, Killian doesn’t become dinner to two hungry wolves.
The wolf that approached from behind him jumps just as the darker one does, but instead of sinking their teeth on him, they clash in front of him and he stumbles to the cold ground. He can see now that the new wolf has light fur, a darker shade from the surrounding white.
They are fighting each other. The darker wolf fights in a deranged, desperate way, its eyes landing on Killian’s any chance it had. The lighter one looks more cautious, its movements calculated, practised. His life rests on that wolf’s paws.
Killian moves for the first time when the darker wolf sinks its teeth on the other wolf’s flank, reaching out at his rescuer’s loud whine, despite everything. That distracts his attacker, its eyes so full of hunger, he stops once more. It approaches slowly, its tongue licking the blood off its maw.
No more saviours, Killian Jones. This is it. Liam is waiting.
He closes his eyes, not wanting the last thing he sees to be the inside of a wolf’s mouth.
But death doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a loud shriek and thumping paws rushing away from where he stands. He opens his eyes slowly, and sees the last thing he expected: the light furred wolf panting heavily, its eyes on Killian with an angry glint overcome by pain and tiredness.
Before he can take a breath, before he can move, the wolf’s eyes roll to the back of its head as it slumps into the ground. Killian is unable to move for moments after, his brain trying to take stock of what happened. In the last minutes he expected death, he found relief, only to repeat the cycle once more. Now, here he is, in an unknown forest with an unconscious wolf in front of him and blood splattered over the white snow.
He should run away. Wolves are wild animals, prone to violence, and that’s what he had witnessed — wolf on wolf violence. But even if he could ignore the guilt at having been the one to initiate said encounter by his mere presence where he shouldn’t be, he knew this was no regular wolf.
Nevermind his decade-old interest in the supernatural, Killian knows the difference between wolves and these wolves, having spent just as long studying and practising the care of animals. So he knows, more than anyone else, that the unconscious wolf in front of him wasn’t a mere wolf but a werewolf. And a werewolf who had saved his life.
With a steadying sigh, Killian looks at where the warm light is coming and hopes it belongs someplace warm, someplace safe. He slowly approaches the animal, worried that it might not actually be unconscious despite its clear stillness and slow breathing.
Crouching, he pulls the animal’s heavy paws over his shoulders, its large head lolling onto its left paw. He wraps his arms around its back and pulls experimentally. When the wolf remains unmoving, he continues to pull, slowly making his way towards the light.
He is very happy to be right. It was not a metaphor for death, it is a cabin. The warm light is brighter since the cabin’s door remains open, as if someone exited in a worry.
“Hello?” He calls with panting breaths from the doorway. “Anyone home?” There is only silence and he sends one more little prayer to whoever has been keeping him safe that he is not entering some psycho killer’s home.
Killian pulls the wolf towards the dwindling fireplace, laying it on the warm rug. He rushes to close the door, shivering at the sharp improvement in temperature inside the cabin. As he takes his jacket off and rolls up his sleeves, he inspects the wolf’s unconscious form. The wound isn’t too deep. Deep enough to hurt, to rip the skin but he’d seen much worse. This will be a walk in the park. Ha!
The cabin consists of a single room: kitchen, living room, dining room and bedroom all in one, so he assumes the single door at the end of the cabin to be the bathroom. There are no sentimental trinkets, no scattered picture frames of loved ones, no paintings or even a TV — that last one isn’t surprising, they are in the middle of the woods. But there are books, just as good entertainment as a TV, in his opinion.
He quickly throws a few logs to revive the fire to chase away the chill still clinging to him before turning to the animal with a professional eye. He needs some sort of disinfectant. It won’t do to let his saviour die of infection. He looks around to find a small collection of bottles. Grabbing one, he uncorks it, taking a sniff of the delicious rum inside.
He sighs in reluctance to spill such a treasure. But needs must.
He takes care not to jostle the wolf too much before wrapping its wound with the scarf he still had around his neck. The animal is large, heavy, made even worse by its dead weight, no other bandage would have contained the wound. Once he finishes, he has worked up a sweat and the excitement of the night is taking its toll. He slumps against the couch, wolf head on his lap, keeping a sort of monitoring on its well-being with his hand on the wolf’s neck.
“Thank you for saving me,” he whispers tiredly. He lets out a breath, his body slumping in exhaustion, eyes shutting on their own. Before he knows it, Killian is fast asleep.
---
Killian wakes up slowly to a warmth at his feet. The first thing he notices is the pain in his body, especially the way his ass hurts from the hard floor. He opens his eyes, taking stock of his surroundings. He is in a cabin, and he can see the bright sun high in the sky and blue skies through the slanted skylight.
Right, last night. The cold forest, getting lost, the wolves. He sighs, then shuffles in his seat, trying to bring some relief to his body but as he moves, he hears a deep breath.
The second thing he notices is the way his hand touches bare skin, the weight of a head on his lap. Looking down, he realises why — there is a woman, a naked woman curled on the floor.
Startled, Killian scrambles away, jostling the stranger into wakefulness. He stops, a couple of feet away from her as he watches her raise her head from the floor. He knows her, it’s her.
Of course, any recognition doesn’t stop her from widening her eyes as she takes in his presence and her nakedness, shrieking in shock before she pulls a blanket down to cover herself, moving faster than he ever thought possible.
“Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my home?!”
Killian’s mouth opens and closes, not for the first time at a loss for words in her presence. Her eyes clear as they look at each other, the panic and rough awakening washing away as she rises to her feet. Her sighed “oh” tells him she recognises him, too.
“M-My apologies,” he stutters and clears his throat at his rough voice. “I-You—”
“You’re the dumbass who almost got himself killed by traipsing around the forest at night!”
She winces as her arm hits her side and she wavers on her feet. He scrambles to his feet, holding out his hands to keep her standing. But she tightens her fist on the blanket around her and holds out her hand in front of him to stop him.
“You’re hurt,” he explains, keeping his distance while looking between the stained blanket and her eyes. “I cleaned up the wound and bandaged it last night but…well, you were rather bigger then.” His eyes twinkle with mirth while hers widen in surprise.
“How…Why—”
“I couldn’t leave you to die in the forest after you saved me,” he explains with a small smile and a shrug.
“I wouldn’t have had to save you if you hadn’t been so stupid as to walk through this forest alone during a full moon.” Her voice is hard and her eyes deadly, even if her hands still tremble and he can see the pain she tries to hide.
“You’re right, you’re right, I know,” he sighs, this really isn’t the best time to tell her why he was there. “But please, let me help you, it’s the least I can do.” She is quiet, her eyes focused on his face, searching his eyes. His heart is racing and his hands feel damp now. “I’m a veterinarian, I’ve treated millions of animal bites.” His smirk is half-hearted at best.
Her eyebrow rises. “I’ll be healed soon.”
“And in the meantime, you’re prone to infections.” She hums in contemplation. “It won’t take long and I’ll feel better knowing I was able to make it up to you. All I need is a first aid kit.”
She shuffles her feet, and the movement must disturb her wound because she winces and forces the blanket tighter against the wound. “Fine,” she groans.
He follows her eagerly as she opens the only door in the cabin, revealing a small bathroom, like he suspected. “I’m Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.” He curses the breathless tone of his voice.
“Emma Swan.” She says distractedly as she carefully sits on the toilet seat lid. Swan, of course. That explains why the— “The first aid kit is in that cabinet over there.”
He quickly retrieves the small kit and is glad to find everything he needs. When he turns back to her, he notices that she’s arranged the blanket so it covers her private areas but keeps the wound area visible. The bite mark looks less angry now than it had last night, but the punctures are deep, still dark red — they go up to her stomach and down to her belly button and he is sure they have the same placement on her back. She protected him.
“Are you just going to stand and stare?” Her voice lacks the bite he expected and when he looks up at her face, he sees a pink hue to her cheeks even as her eyes remain exasperated.
“Apologies, love, I was just…analysing the situation,” he stutters. He really needs to get a grip on himself.
“Right.”
Not wanting to make her more uncomfortable, Killian places the open kit on the sink, grabbing the disinfectant and some cotton balls. “This is going to hurt, love,” he says as he holds a cotton ball close to the wound.
She scoffs. “Right.”
He holds his breath as he presses the disinfectant to her skin. Emma gasps, her hand grabbing his wrist and digging her nails in. “Son of a— Fuck!”
“I warned you,” His eyebrows furrow in concentration, feeling no delight in hurting her. “Just take some deep breaths.”
Emma does as he says, and her grip loosens a bit. Killian carries on his work, focusing on tending to her wound, knowing that the faster he gets this finished, the better it will be for her. He makes sure to disinfect every inch of the wound, not wanting to think of how soft her skin looks or how she smells like the rum from the night before and forest and a hint of cinnamon.
“Is it done?” She is panting, her chest rising and falling fast from the pain.
“Aye,” He clears his throat and grabs the gauze from the kit. “I just, hmm, need to wrap this around the wound.” He explains looking between the wound and the blanket she holds against her naked skin.
Emma follows his gaze. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, Swan, I-”
“It’s fine,” She waves her hand with a forced relaxed movement, even if she doesn’t look at him. “It’s not like you haven’t seen boobs before.”
“Well, I don’t usually expect to see a woman’s breasts after only meeting her for less than an hour,” he tries to tease, trying to keep his voice light, hoping she doesn’t notice how his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest.
Her chuckle is quiet. “Right, well…” Her hands loosen their hold on the blanket. “Here’s to another first.” The blanket falls to her lap, keeping her covered below the waist.
Killian knows he needs to remain professional, not act like some sort of pervert. Even if they are the most perfect breasts he has ever seen. He spares her chest only a quick glance before unfurling the roll of gauze. “Can you-” He clears his throat. “Can you hold the leading edge of the gauze, love?”
Her eyes meet his and he swears they look darker than they had before. “Sure,” she breathes out.
With her pointer finger carefully in place, he unrolls the gauze around her back, making sure to cover the wound. His chest presses against hers and he hears her sharp intake of breath. As he brings the gauze to her front, Killian can’t help but notice how her nipples have gotten harder. His tongue runs along his lower lip and he hears her breath grow shallower.
“You can let go,” he whispers. It takes her a moment to do as instructed and he wonders if she is as affected by their proximity as he is.
Killian wraps the gauze around her body, choosing to focus on the soft feel of the bandage rather than on the way her breath shifts or how his jeans get tighter by the second. With every inch of the wound covered, he tucks the gauze behind her back, unable to keep from feeling the softness of her skin and smelling the citrus scent of her hair and hearing her harsh breathing.
“All done,” he breathes, backing away from her as fast as he allows himself to go.
Their eyes meet and the green in hers is all but swallowed by her black pupils, her lips are parted in fast breaths and her chest rises and falls quickly. She looks like a predator looking at her prey, and Killian should be scared, should run from the cabin, but he finds himself entranced by her gaze.
“Emma—”
The sound of his voice shatters the moment and Emma’s eyes return to normal, her shoulders tensing. He steps away, acknowledging her tension to his unwanted proximity. Killian puts away the kit, giving her a break from his gaze and when he turns back he sees the blanket back over her shoulders.
“Do you, hmm…” He scratches the back of his neck, unsure where to look. “Do you need me to bring you some clothes?”
“Oh, hmm, no, I got it.”
Emma stands up, far too fast, and he notices her swaying before she does, his hands grabbing onto her arms for support. “You should eat something,” he whispers, her green eyes capturing his gaze. “So you can get your strength back.”
She pulls back from him and he clenches his fists, stopping himself from holding her again. “I know what I’m doing.” Emma walks determinedly but carefully out of the bathroom. “You know,” she says from the closet area. “I appreciate your help and all but you should go, there’s not going to be any wolves outside during the day.”
“Right, right,” Killian runs his hand through his hair and exits the bathroom, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Hmm, thank you for saving me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Killian nods once, grabbing his jacket — he would like to say that he tried but there had never even been a chance — and walks to the front door. The doorknob is cold but after being so close to Emma’s warmth, anything would be. There is resistance when he tries to open the door. When it does, he finds out why: a mountain of snow covers almost the entire height of the door, blocking their way out.
He closes the door in silent surprise and turns his back to it. Emma looks up, and there is relief in her face before she finds him still inside her home. Her face scrunches in confusion and surprise, her shoulders tense. “What — What are you still doing here?”
“Well, uh—”
“You’re supposed to leave!”
“Actually, it—”
She is fairly steady on her feet as she walks towards the door. “Leave.” Emma turns the doorknob and gasps when snow hits her still bare feet.
“I was trying to tell you,” Killian says as she looks at the blockage. “It appears I’m stuck here.”
Emma groans and slams the door shut, forcing it against the snow that wanted to come in. “I can’t believe this!”
“I’m sorry, Emma but I don’t control the weather!”
She turns sharply towards him, the intensity of her gaze making his heartbeat quicken and he watches as her eyes grow dark with hunger and her breathing turns raspier. Maybe taking shelter with a werewolf, even one that saved his life, hadn’t been the best idea. Add it to the long list of them, in the last 24 hours alone.
“It’s fine,” She finally says with a rough voice, breaking their eye contact and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just… Just stay out of my way.”
“I’ll prepare us some food, it’s the least I can do.”
“Fine, fine, just—”
“Stay out of your way.” His smile is thin as she looks up at him.
“Exactly.” She looks like she’s shaking herself out of the thoughts going through her brain before she crosses the room to the dresser.
So his morning is not going as he expected. Not that he had had much of a plan apart from where to find her cabin. He had been looking for her, and considered it lucky that she had found him before he could die of hypothermia in the forest, but the circumstances were undeniably more complicated than he could have planned.
Killian focuses on… lunch, he guesses, as they must have slept later than he thought. Like he said, the least he could do. He finds the coffee machine, thanking every deity that at least she has power, and sets it to brew. He finds eggs and bread and turns on the gas stove to scramble the eggs while his mind wanders. Wanders into fanciful notions of fate.
With the plates in hand, he starts to turn. “Lunch is—” Emma is right in front of him when he faces the table, dark eyes focused on his neck. “Ready.”
She looks sharply up at him and appears to shake herself out of some thought or other. “Good,” She takes the plate from his hand, making her way to the small table at the corner. “I was starving.”
Killian sighs and follows her to the table before coming back for the coffee mugs. They sit in silence with only the sounds of them eating and drinking. He feels it dig into the skin of his thigh and he wonders if he should just rip off the bandage as it were, just tell her why he came to find her. Maybe she’ll even find it funny that he almost became a wolf’s meal just to—
“You weren’t surprised.”
Her voice startles him out of his thoughts and he looks up at her furrowed brow. “Pardon?”
“You weren’t expecting to wake up next to me, specifically, but you weren’t surprised about the werewolf thing.”
“Ah,” He looks away, scratching behind his ear. “I did say I’m a veterinarian.”
Her unimpressed stare would make him laugh if this was a laughing matter. “Right, I’m sure veterinary school has a major in werewolf.”
“It was an extracurricular, actually,” He lets out a breathy laugh and even her expression softens with the sudden joke. “I wanted to know everything I could about werewolves so I, hmm, so I wouldn’t be caught unprepared again.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “For all the good that did me.”
He looks up to find her looking at him, an understanding glint to her eyes. “Yeah, I think I should give you some slack for being an idiot and traipsing around the forest during a full moon.” He shares a small smile with her. “This wasn’t your first encounter with werewolves then?”
“No,” he breathes out, blinking against the memory, before grabbing their empty plates and mugs and taking them to the sink. “I was young the first time I saw one, I didn’t know what they were until I saw what normal wolves looked like.” He chuckles wryly, starting to wash the dishes, very aware of her eyes on him. “My brother Liam loved nature, we would go camping, on hikes, we helped on farms. Because of him, I could identify more than a dozen types of insects before I was in high school.” He smiles wistfully and hears her hum, clearly noting the impending unhappy turn of his story.
Despite Liam’s actual love for nature, there had been a need for them to spend time away from home — they would camp out in nature when his father went out to drink so they wouldn’t be his targets when he came back, their hikes were well-timed for when their father hosted his weekly poker games with his horrible friends, and the farmers were generous to pay them for their helping hands, money that they hid from their father. He didn’t find out about any of that until their father died and Liam took custody of him.
“We were camping on a new spot, we’d settled down for the night, made a fire and Liam was telling these stories from his job when we heard growling. Liam sent me inside the tent so I could warn the forest rangers,” Killian takes a deep breath, turning off the tap. “They told me to stay put, that they were on their way, told us not to run, not to turn our backs.” He grabs a cloth and focuses on drying the dishes. “But they kept approaching and Liam kept trying to reassure me, it was all so loud.”
His hands stilled as he dried a plate. He could still see their glowing eyes, dark bodies, could hear his own cries, Liam’s reassuring voice, and the growls. It was all so loud.
“Liam grabbed a log from the fire, waved it in front of him to scare them, it should have worked,” Killian whispers, his eyes far away. “But there were so many of them and they surrounded him. There were so many of them,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “They jumped him, Liam screamed, I screamed, and then the rangers showed up.”
It got louder after that. Jeeps running, voices shouting, Liam’s continued screaming.
“He was barely alive when they took him away,” Killian continues with a heavy breath, putting down the last plate and leaning against the counter. He keeps his eyes on the ground. “He died in the hospital and I didn’t say goodbye.”
“Killian—”
“The doctors didn’t tell me anything, they told everything to the social worker,” he continued. “He had to tell me that my brother had lost too much blood and that his lungs had been punctured too badly and then I couldn’t even go home because Liam was dead and I was still a minor.”
“That’s horrible.”
“And I kept wondering, you know? Why would wolves attack someone like that? Years later, I realised they weren’t wolves at all and I started obsessing over the existence of werewolves because I didn’t want to end up in that position again, and then I did, and I was still that scared lad inside the tent and—”
“Killian.”
Her hands are on his shoulders and her eyes on his, stopping the words in his throat. He now feels the tears on his cheeks, didn’t even realise he was crying. He didn’t think he had any tears left to cry after that day, almost 15 years ago. But they were still there and he was crying in front of her. Her.
Killian looks down, shame filling his chest. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you this. Especially you.”
“Especially me?”
He sniffs, wiping away his tears. “Aye, I mean you’re a werewolf and we just met.”
“And yet, you have already seen my boobs.” He lets out a surprised laugh, looking up to see her soft eyes and kind smile. Wow. Her brow furrows and her eyes grow worried. “Are you scared of me?”
“I— I—” He wants to say no, that he could never be. But he wants to be honest. “I was.” He takes a gentle hold on her wrists, keeping the comforting weight of her hands on his shoulders, thumb slowly rubbing her skin. “I thought I was going to die in that forest either by that other wolf or by both of you but then, well, you saved me.”
Her cheeks flushed red and she slowly pulled away from his touch, arms crossed over her chest. “His name is Henry,” At Killian’s frown, she clarified. “The wolf who attacked you. He’s young, recently turned, this is his second full moon. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I assumed,” He shrugs and she looks up at him, surprised. “I read a lot about how full moons affect werewolves.”
“And yet—”
“We’ve established that I was stupid, already, Swan.”
She snorts a laugh and it makes him smile. “I found him during his first transformation and we talked, I tried to help. But this time you were there and so he lashed out.”
“I’m sorry—”
She waves away his apology. “It’s like I said, I’ll heal soon.” She shrugs.
“You weren’t affected,” he says after a minute. “You didn’t attack me.”
She shrugs with a deep breath. “I’ve had a lot of time to control this, and with time, Henry will learn too.”
“How long have you been like this?”
“If we’re getting into my origin story, I need to sit down. This still stings.” She waves towards her side before gesturing for him to join her on the couch.
They sit on opposite ends, even as he turns towards her. She sighs, and he watches as she closes her eyes to focus. “I was 16. I was living in the streets of Boston and I met this guy, Neal. He was older and I thought he was so cool,” She shakes her head in shame and he places his hand on top of hers on the couch cushions. She takes a deep breath, keeping her eyes on their hands. “We were together for a while, crashed at empty motel rooms, and it all looked so exciting back then. One day, he tells me he has to leave. He has to leave because someone bad is looking for him. He tells me he stole something from them and they have been trying to find him.”
Her breathing gets quicker and he holds her hand. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she interrupts, her hand tightening its grip on his. “Neal tells me he wants to give it back but he’s afraid and so I volunteered to do the drop for him. I didn’t know what to expect but I thought I was in love and that if I did this then we’d be able to be together and have a future.” She scoffs. “He tricked me, he sent me to the middle of a literal wolf’s den and they were furious when they found that the bag was empty.”
Her hand grips his painfully hard but he says nothing, simply listening.
“I must have blacked out. I woke up alone in an alley and my body felt different. Everything was so loud and hot and overwhelming. My first transformation was so painful and I was alone, I didn’t know what to do. I ran. I ran until I found myself here in Storybrooke.” Emma takes a deep breath, her grip loosening on his hand and he rubs her skin with his thumb. She pulls her hand away from his grip and he forces himself to let her go. “Granny found me and helped me. I got this cabin after the sheriff died and I work at her diner.”
“Why here?”
“Graham was a friend, he cared for me and I cared for him. He left me this place in his will and I needed a place to deal with the full moons. Granny helped me but I needed reassurance, I didn’t want to put anyone in danger.”
“And now?”
“I like this place,” she smiles softly as she looks around the living room.
“What about Ruby?” Emma turns to him with a frown. “I work with her. Veterinary, remember?” She rolls her eyes and he smiles. “I asked her about you but she didn’t say anything.”
“You asked her about me?” She smirks but there is a red tint to her cheeks.
“Well, aye,” he scratches the back of his ear with a matching blush. “I would see you around town and — just — does she know?” He stutters to try and change the subject.
“She does,” she nods, her smirk softening. “She’s my best friend and a big help.”
Her tone hid something. “Is she—?”
“Yup. She was born like that so yeah, big help.” She chuckles.
Killian sits back with a sharp exhale, hand in his hair. “Wow, I never thought I’d find myself in a town with so many of you.” He pauses and turns to Emma, watching as she hides her frown. “I mean, I came here for a fresh start. I went through a rough break-up and just wanted to drive until I found my place. My car broke down by the town sign and while I waited at Granny’s, I heard Ruby talk about the problems her clinic was going through. I wanted to help and I ended up staying. That was almost two months ago.”
“She talks very highly of you.”
“Oh, well, the feeling is mutual,” He blushes and sees a spark of something in her eyes even as she tries to hide it with a smile. “She is a good friend and an even better partner. I just never thought she was a werewolf too.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, I — I mean,” he stutters and lets out a groan at his inability to express his thoughts. “I thought it would be a problem. For more than a decade, I’ve feared and hated werewolves for what they did to my brother, that I forgot to consider that there were people behind the animal. I admire Ruby and care so much for her that I can’t think about being afraid of her.”
“And me?” He turns to see her watching him intensely and he is unable to look away.
“You saved me,” he breathes out. “In a short moment, you turned my world upside down. You made me reevaluate all that I thought I knew. It’s not a problem, Emma.”
Her eyes stare into his in silence, his heart thumping against his ribcage. Her hair is like gold under the late morning sun and her skin looks so soft. He can’t stop himself from running a finger down her forearm, feeling its warmth. Her breathing hitches and her eyes widen.
He wants to kiss her. The thought barrels into his mind so fast that he feels his own breath get stuck in his throat. He knew how beautiful she was, remembers thinking it during the second they had looked at each other, but that was nothing compared to the desire filling him now.
“I don’t know if you remember,” he speaks quietly, not wanting to shatter the moment. “But we’ve seen each other before.” She hums and his lips tick up in a small smile. “We, um, ran into each other a couple of days ago in the supermarket?”
“I — I remember.”
He swallows against the lump in his throat. Rip the bandage.
“I asked Granny about you and she told me where you live.” Emma frowns. “You dropped this.” From his pocket, he takes out a small silver pendant, a swan carved on it. “I found it on the floor after you ran away.”
“Oh.” She takes the pendant from his hand, her fingers touching his.
“I, uh, I came here to give you that.”
“You went into the forest, at night, through a full moon, just to give me this?” Emma asks with an even tone, her shining eyes gazing into his.
Killian takes a deep breath. “Aye.”
“You’re such an idiot.” She breathes out, and before he can defend himself again, her lips are on his and there are other more important things he could be doing with his mouth.
Her mouth is hard against his, her hands strong on his shoulders and her tongue demanding entrance. He places his hands on her neck and waist, urges her to slow down, needs her to slow down. He has spent so much time dreaming of kissing her that he can’t have their first kiss be an impulsive mess. She lets out a breath and allows him to kiss her calmly, softly. Her hands dig into his hair and he moans against her lips. Her kisses stray to his cheek, to his jawline, small nibbles making him breathe heavier, his hand clenching on her waist.
Her lips are soft when they get to his neck, focusing on his pulse, her tongue licking and tasting. His breathing is harsh, pleasure coursing through his veins to pool at his crotch. Her teeth sink into his skin and he gasps. She quickly pulls away, wide eyes on his neck and whatever she sees there and his face.
“Emma—” He brings his hand up to touch her face but he barely feels the softness of her skin when she pulls away to stand.
“No. No.” She shakes her head and he is still as he watches her run to the bathroom and lock the door behind her.
“Emma?” He follows her, calling her name from the other side of the door. “Emma, is everything okay?”
“No, no,” She answers and he can tell she is pacing on the other side. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
He ignores the stab to his heart and clears his throat. “I mean, I was a willing participant.” He tries to joke but all he hears is a groan from inside. “Emma, please, open the door, let’s talk about this.”
“No, there’s nothing to talk about, it was a mistake.” Her voice is panicked and he pushes down his emotions.
“Fine, we’ll forget about it,” he forces himself to say. “We’ll call it an act of gratitude, I returned something precious to you and you saved my life. What do you say?” There is silence from the other side. “We’re stuck in this small cabin together, Emma, don’t hide away in there.”
The silence continues for a moment longer and he holds his breath. The lock unlatches and he takes a couple of steps back. The door opens to a much calmer Emma but with a guarded expression. “Neal gave me that pendant,” she says and her voice is quiet. “I felt so special. After he abandoned me, I saw it as a reminder not to trust again.”
He presses his lips together, his hands eager to reach, to comfort, to beat this Neal to a pulp. “I’m sorry, love, I almost wish I had lost it in the snow.”
Her chuckle is weak but it’s real. She takes a deep breath. “Do you like to read?”
The question takes him by surprise and her smile widens. “Hmm, aye, I do.”
“Good,” She walks past him to the living room, stopping at the bookcase. “As you can see, there’s no TV so—”
“I am good with books,” He grins at her and surveys her collection. “The Princess Bride? I haven’t read this in years.” He takes the book off the shelf, noting its overused state, and turns to watch her looking at him with curiosity.
“It’s my favourite, actually.”
“Fan of dashing pirates?” He raises his eyebrow before sauntering to the couch, sprawling on one side.
“Actually, yeah,” she smirks as she grabs a different book, an adventure book, he notices, and imitates his movements to settle at the other side. “Are you a fan of princesses?”
“I did dress up as Buttercup my last year in college,” he answers, focusing on opening the book. “I even found a few Westley’s to complete the ensemble.” He turns to her with a wink.
Her mouth is parted for a few seconds before it stretches into a smile. “Oh, I would have paid to see that!”
“I cut quite the figure in that dress.”
She lets out a delighted laugh that he can’t help but match. Emma leans back on the couch as her laughter dies down, watching him with interest. “You are definitely not what I thought you would be.”
“I could say the same about you.” He smiles back at her.
Her eyes are so green that even the lowering sun can’t keep them from shining. His lips still tingle from her kiss, his hands still ache for the touch of her skin and yet, he is unable to have her once more. He wants to feel her touch, her kiss. But he’ll follow her lead, he wants her to be able to trust him — he doesn’t want to take, he wants it to be given.
“We should, hmm,” Emma presses her lips together in a small smile and raises her book as a way to finish the sentence.
Killian nods, understanding the need for a reprieve. “Aye.”
They turn to their books as one, letting silence fill the small, warm cabin. He wishes he had picked up an unfamiliar book, something he’d never read before. He knew the story of Buttercup and Westley like the back of his hand, had read it as many times as his second-hand book had allowed. And while it was still easy to get absorbed in their universe of adventure and romance, he was still very aware of Emma’s presence, her breathing, her warmth. It’s not uncomfortable but he feels the tension in every hair on his body.
Night falls in the quiet and the full moon’s light joins the artificial light in the cabin. Emma inhales sharply and he turns to her for the first time in hours to watch as she looks up at the skylight.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” Emma nods, dragging her eyes from the large face of the moon. “It always catches me by surprise the way it calls to me.”
He joins her with his neck stretched on the back of the couch to watch the moon for a minute. When he turns, he finds her watching him. “Is there anything you need?”
Emma shakes her head, in more than just an answer. “No, it’s been a while since I’ve been a slave to it,” she clarifies with a small smile. “It just makes everything so much clearer and intense.” She takes a deep breath. “Are you hungry?”
He snorts in surprise. “Aye, actually.”
“Great,” she grins. “Make us something good.” She winks at him before making herself more comfortable on the couch.
“Right,” he laughs. “I have to earn my keep, don’t I?”
“Exactly.” Her smile makes his heart flutter in his chest, the brightness and beauty of it stealing his breath away. “Just a hint, I’m a big fan of grilled cheese.”
He stands up, dropping the book on his empty seat and grins. “That sounds less like a hint and more like a menu.”
“Get to it then, chef.”
His laughter follows him into the kitchen.
“You know, while I cook,” Killian calls from the kitchen. “You should probably check on your injury. You said you heal fast, right?”
“A chef and a doctor, maybe I should keep you around.” She grins before heading to the bathroom.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He mumbles under his breath.
Killian tries to stop himself from imagining what a life with Emma would be in this cabin, how they would spend their evenings. The smell of cheese fills the whole cabin and with it, the sound of a hungry werewolf’s feet padding to his side.
“Something smells delicious.” He tries to keep himself from reacting to her voice so close to him.
“Grilled cheese, just like milady ordered.” She grins up at him before taking the plate from his hands. “How did the wound look?”
“It’s scarring,” She lifts her shirt only enough to show him the barely-there bite and he nods. “Is it approved, Doctor Jones?”
He laughs delightedly at the sound of it from her lips before joining her at the table. “Aye.”
Though the food is good, the company is better. She tells him about the book she was reading, an adventure in Egypt with a very clever librarian and a brave if arrogant adventurer. They return to their books after tidying up the kitchen. Buttercup is about to attempt to stab herself in the chest when a yawn startles him. It has been a long day.
“Maybe it’s time to sleep,” Emma suggests, closing the book. She bites her lip as she looks around the cabin, her eyes landing on the bed.
As much as he would love to share one, they had agreed to put that kiss behind them. “I’ll take the couch,” he says, dropping his book on the coffee table.
“Oh.” He wonders if he truly hears disappointment in her voice or if it’s just wishful thinking. “Right, that’s great. I’ll bring you some blankets.”
Emma moves faster than he could, rummaging around a wooden chest. The couch is comfortable and wide enough to fit his long body, but he can’t help but wish he could share the slim bed with Emma, to feel her body close to his. Then again, that would also be a dangerous and torturous situation.
He removes his sweater and jeans, folding them neatly on top of the table. Blankets land on the couch and he turns to see Emma standing far closer to him than he expected. Her eyes are wide and her pupils almost black and he wishes he could read her mind.
“I—”
She shakes her head, taking a step back. “Goodnight.” She blurts out before wrapping herself in her bed, the only thing visible is the top of her blonde head.
“Goodnight.”
Killian takes his time getting comfortable on the couch, forcing himself not to search for her silhouette in the dark. He forces his eyes closed, forces his body to relax, to find sleep so that he might forget his desires. He isn’t cold under the blankets, but there is a lack of warmth that he recognises as the one he felt from her skin. He forces himself to sleep and begs for relief.
---
This was a terrible idea.
Her skin is filled with prickles, a need to move, to run, to touch, to be touched. Her nose is buried in her pillow, hoping her own scent will distract her from the intoxicating scent of his sleeping body. His scent is delicious torture, she knows it well, not only from the day they’ve spent in each other’s company but from all the times they’d pass each other in town.
Her breathing is ragged and she feels as if she can’t take a proper breath. She clenches her hands against the sheets, hoping that it will stop her from succumbing to her nature. She wants to feel his skin against hers again, to feel his pulse against her lips. It has been hours of torture in her bed and she forces herself to endure a few more.
It doesn’t work.
She is standing next to his sleeping body before she has taken her next breath. He is on his back, one arm behind his head and the other over his stomach and his legs are crossed. The blanket that she gave him is at his waist and she can feel how warm his body is even from a distance. His lips are parted and his breathing is even and quiet. His heartbeat is calm and she can hear his blood in his veins.
Her nose is a whisper away from the bulging vein in his neck. Just as she remembered, like the sweetest fruit, like the most powerful poison. She feels his warm breath on her fingertips, sees his eyes move underneath his eyelids and she wishes to know what he is dreaming of. She feels the soft skin of his lips on her forefinger. She wants to feel that softness on her own lips again. She wants to take, to claim him. She wants— She needs—
Emma swallows his surprised breath with her lips, with her kiss, their mouths moulded perfectly to one another once more. She forces herself to pull away, even as her hand clenches in the fabric of his t-shirt. His eyes are wide and she is sure hers are much the same.
“Emma…”
Her name is a whisper from his lips, the most bewitching of enchantments and the most beautiful of songs. Like before, he isn’t stopping her, isn’t refusing her kiss, her touch, and she hears his heart beating fast and loud against his chest. His breathing is ragged and his warmth has risen several degrees. She wants him. She needs him.
Their lips lock in a passionate kiss, his warm hand burning the skin of her neck. She pulls her leg up to straddle him, wanting to be closer and closer. His other hand lands on her waist and she feels the stirring of his arousal beneath her, making her moan against his lips.
Killian pulls away, his thumb on her lips but she is far too gone to stop now, kissing his finger, the palm of his hand, the thumping pulse on his wrist, her tongue licking, tasting. Words pause at his throat, chest filling with a sharp inhale.
“Emma.” His voice forces itself firmly under all the passion that is surely matching hers. “I thought—”
“I know,” she interrupts, her nails running down his chest. She knows — knows that she was the one who stopped their kiss before, knows that she’s the one who ran. She was scared of her desires, scared that he would be afraid of her nature, but she feels the urge of the moon. Feels it urging her to take him, to claim him. “But I need you.” Her teeth nip against his bottom lip, her hands finding their way inside his shirt, and she swallows his moan with a kiss. “Please?”
He looks at her, searching, and she feels her skin crawl with need. His breathing is rapid, his heartbeat under her palm and echoing in her ears, she grinds her hips down against his, involuntarily. He nods, a frantic motion as his hands grip her hips, whether to stop her or to quicken her movements, she isn’t sure he knows which either.
“As you wish.”
His hand grabs her neck and pulls her in for a kiss. His mouth takes control, and she is glad for it — she feels overwhelmed by his taste, his scent, his other hand grabbing her ass and urging her to move against his growing erection. It’s too much and not enough.
His teeth nip her bottom lip as her thumbs find his nipples. She feels his chest hair on her palms and is eager to feel it against her breasts. His hand runs up her bare back and she is glad to have removed her bra before jumping him. His breath stutters as he finds nothing stopping him from feeling her skin and his hand moves back down only to run up her side, shivers making her buck in his lap. His thumb finds the underside of her breast and he inhales sharply. She pulls her lips away from his but keeps eye contact. She sighs as his hand cups her breast, his rough palm on her nipple making her moan.
“Fuck,” he moans, his thumb flicking her nipple. It’s too much. It’s not enough. She removes her hands from under his shirt to pull her own off her body. “Fuck.” He repeats before he pulls her down to run his lips down her chest.
His mouth finds her nipple and she digs her fingers in his hair, keeping his talented mouth right where she needs it. His hand stimulates her lonesome breast while his other hand finds its way inside her shorts and underwear. She stutters out a moan when she feels his fingers on her clit.
“Killian,” she moans and is surprised when he raises himself into a sitting position, his mouth more firm against her breast. “Killian.”
“Say it again,” he demands as he sucks on her nipple and his fingers slide into her wet folds. “Please, say it again.”
“Killian,” she moans, tugging on his hair to bring his face up to hers. His eyes are blown-black and his breathing is heavy. “Killian.” She presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Killian,” She moans as she tugs on his bottom lip when she feels his thumb circling her clit. “Killian.”
“Emma,” he moans and she can see why he wanted her to say his name again. “Emma,” It’s like a shock to her system, like a warm blanket on a cold night, like a kiss, like a bite. “Emma.”
“Fuck,” She groans and pulls his shirt off, needing him naked, needing to see him, needing to feel him. “I need you.”
“I need you too.”
With his hands on her ass, he raises her up on her knees. He tosses the blanket to the floor before pulling off his underwear. After, he pulls her to lay on top of him and she feels his erection against the fabric of her shorts and the tingling of his chest hair on her nipples. His mouth crashes against hers and she is overwhelmed with sensations but needs more, needs it all. His hand pulls down her shorts and she takes them off the rest of the way. His body is warm when she lays back against him and she lets out a satisfied sigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against her lips, his hand running up her bare leg while his other lays on her neck. “You’re brilliant.” His fingers skim the roundness of her ass before moving down. “You’re intoxicating.” His fingers find her wetness and she gasps.
“Please, please, please,” she mumbles as her hips grind against his fingers.
He takes her in a passionate kiss just as his fingers slide inside her. Her moan is lost in his mouth and she digs her nails in his arms. She moves her hips in time with his hand, urging him to take her faster and she gasps when he does. She wonders if this is only a very realistic fantasy, if it’s possible for someone to make her feel this way so easily. She can’t wait anymore.
She pulls away from him, his fingers slipping from her to land on her butt cheek. His eyes are hazy with lust and hers are much the same. She sits on his lap and feels the thickness of his cock against her, teasing her, calling her to her. He inhales sharply and holds his breath, watching the stars shining up in the sky behind her, the glow of the moon illuminating her bare back, waiting for her next move.
“I need you,” she repeats and grinds against him, covering his length with her essence. He nods, his jaw tight and his hand clenching on her ass.
Splaying one hand on his chest for balance, she takes hold of his cock, lining it up to her awaiting cunt. With locked eyes, Emma raises herself up and allows it to enter her. He is thick, hard and warm, and she takes it all in one slow drag. They both breathe out as one, embracing how full she feels, how right she feels around him. How perfect it is to be joined.
His hands run up her thighs, settling at her hips. She closes her eyes at the softness, the warmth of his touch. “Emma,” he calls quietly, his hands urging her hips to move, and she finds him watching her. “You feel amazing.”
She moves slowly, unrushed. She lets her body adjust to this amazing intrusion as she studies him, the effects of pleasure in his face, his furrowed brow, his parted lips, his tightening grip. Her fingers clench over his chest at every wave of pleasure this languid motion brings. Their eyes lock as she moves and she feels it like a caress over her body. His hands drag slowly up her torso and her back arches in expectation of his touch. She gasps as he palms one breast while thumbing the other’s nipple.
“More,” she moans, bucking up and down faster on his lap. “More.”
Emma whimpers as he directs one hand away from her breast but grins when she feels his thumb on her clit. “That’s it, love,” he urges her, his voice tight with restraint. “I want to see you.”
Her nails dig on his chest when his feet find purchase on the couch cushions to thrust up against her. His gasp turns into a moan at the pain mixed with pleasure and dimly she wonders how far she could take it without breaking him. His thumb presses down on her clit and she throws her head back, her orgasm catching her by surprise, a loud moan spilling from her lips.
He slows down his ministrations, allowing her to ride out her climax, her body buzzing in need of more. She lets out a breath and locks eyes with him once more, a silent demand in her green eyes. Killian sits up, changing the angle of his still hard cock inside her and making them both inhale sharply. Her arms wrap around his neck, his soft hair between her fingers.
“You want more?” Emma nods, their noses bumping with one another at the movement, and she thrills at the smirk on his lips. Is this what prey feel under her stare? “I’ll give you more.”
He crashes his mouth on hers, a hard, burning, desperate kiss. His hands run up her back, and she arches against his chest, moaning against his lips at the feel of his chest hair against her hard nipples. He manoeuvres them so that she’s on her back on the couch, his hot, heavy body on top of hers making her feel safe, cared for, in a way she’d never felt before.
The new position sends him deeper inside her, shivers running down her body. He chances a slow thrust of his hips. “Give me more,” she moans, sighing when he complies. “Give me everything.” Her nails dig into his back as he starts a steady pace. “Everything.”
Killian groans as he speeds up, setting a faster, deeper pace, their foreheads pressed against each other. The breath is stolen from her lungs every time he hits that spot inside her, the spot that demands that she take him, that she keep him, that she claim him. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him ever closer and she feels his laboured breathing on her face.
“I want you,” she whispers, nails dragging deep in his skin and she thrills at his moan. “I need you.” She kisses his cheek, his jawline, his neck, inhaling the smell of his blood, his essence. “Can I take you? Can I keep you?”
His hips falter in their rhythm as he pulls back to look into her eyes. She lets him see, opening herself up to him in more ways than the obvious one. His eyes are wide but even that couldn’t hide his desire, and he nods.
Her grin is barely stretched over her lips before they part in a gasping moan when he resumes his thrusts, pushing in deeper than before. She kisses his neck, licking the sensitive spot below his ear, following his vein. She kisses and sucks on his skin, he groans against her skin and his hand tightens on her skin before she bites down until she tastes his blood on her tongue.
“Fuck!”
She feels him spill inside her, a string of curses groaned against her skin. His orgasm triggers her — his talented ministrations joined with the taste of his delicious essence. An all-encompassing climax that makes time stand still, makes her feel like she’s flying. She pulls away from his skin, the mark of her bite on his neck filling her up with pride and satisfaction.
“Emma,” he breathes out, before groaning at the feel of her tongue cleaning up his wound. The renewed taste of his blood makes her moan and clench around him. “Emma,” he whispers.
She pulls back to look into his eyes, the starry night behind him making him look almost ethereal. He moves them to their sides, legs tangled. “I’ve been wanting to taste you for a while,” She confesses and tries to hide her blush at his tired smirk and raised eyebrow. “You smell good,” She shrugs, her fingers following the veins of his arms. “I was trying to keep in control, I didn’t want to scare you or take you against your wishes. But I’ve wanted to…”
His smile becomes more genuine and she lays her hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling his steady heartbeat. “I’ve wanted you for a while too,” he confesses, pressing a chaste kiss on her lips. “Since I first saw you, I wanted to talk to you, to kiss you, to be with you. When I saw that pendant on the floor, I made it my chance.”
She looks down at where her hand is threading through his chest hair. “Bet you weren’t expecting all of this…” She lets sarcasm hide her worry.
“No, I wasn’t.” He tucks a finger under her chin, bringing her gaze up to his. She finds him still smiling, his eyes open and trusting. “But I’m not complaining. This was perhaps the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
“Yeah,” she breathes out, arms wrapping around him. “I’m not complaining either.”
“Well, you complained a lot earlier.” He raises his eyebrow at her, a smile taking the accusation out of his remark.
She rolls her eyes. “That’s because I could barely control myself at a distance, much less in such close quarters.”
She expected arrogance, or pride, but he just looks worried. “Am I allowed to hope that this won’t be a one-time thing?”
She pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Is your stamina that bad? I could go for anot—” She is interrupted when Killian pushes her against her back once more, his half-hard cock pressing against her.
“Oh, I haven’t had my fill of you, you minx.” He grins, grinding against her clit to make a point and thrilling when she lets out an involuntary moan. “But I meant,” he licks his lips and looks at her with sincerity. “After today? When we’re no longer snowed in?”
Emma wraps her arms over his shoulders, her fingers tracing the marks she left on his back. She tries to find that feeling in her gut that warns her, tries to find reasons not to accept what he’s proposing. But she can’t. There is one thing she knows for certain: she can trust Killian Jones.
“When we’re no longer snowed in,” she starts slowly, feeling the tension that accumulated in his body. “I know a great restaurant for our first date.”
His smile is bright enough to put the sun to shame and she knows she made the right decision when he kisses her like he never wants to do anything else. Because neither does she.
WE FINALLY MADE IT, Y'ALL!!!!! @cssns is here for the last time!!! And I am sooooo thrilled to be kicking off our final year!!! Before we get to the fic, I have to say a few words about the team of ladies that helped get this fic here for all of you to enjoy!!
First, to the other mods of the CSSNS - @winterbaby89 @stahlop @jrob64 and @ultraluckycatnd This event wouldn't be here without all of you and I cannot thank you enough for stepping up and helping me through this last round.
To @snowbellewells my magnificent beta for this fic - Marta, I cannot thank you enough for reading, rereading, and rereading AGAIN in order to make this fic the best it could be. Love you, my dear friend!!!
To @motherkatereloyshipper artist extraordinaire - Kit's artwork always leaves me with my jaw hanging open in AWE, and this one is no exception!! I could seriously stare at it for hours!!! Please give her all the love!!!! It's at the beginning of the fic under the cut.
And now to the fic! I so hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!!
Killian Jones stood along the wall of the arena with his fellow fighters, his eyes trained on the opposite side of the stadium where the grand prize of the wretched and despicable contest he’d willingly signed up for was being held. The wretched and despicable contest that the despot Arthur had created for the entertainment of himself and his court, promising to the victor everything they could ever dream of - more money than they could imagine, a place in the upper echelons of society, land, and a beautiful bride on his arm. A bride that, in Killian’s fondest dreams, didn’t care he was missing a hand. But all of that was for the victor alone. There was no prize for coming in second, unless you counted death as a prize.
And Killian did.
Either everything he’d ever hoped for - but which was so far out of reach for a street rat like him - or bringing his miserable existence to an end. That was why he’d eagerly volunteered for the contest. That last sliver of hope his mother - gone for many years now - had instilled in him that his life circumstances had to get better, because they certainly couldn’t get worse, or the sweet oblivion of forever sleep.
He cut his eyes to the left for a moment, taking in his fellow competitors. He didn’t know any of them. The mates he’d trained with for the last year were long gone - scattered to the other corners of the empire to try their own luck in the arena. There were four other men here with him. The one immediately to his left barely looked to be a man at all, but he held a cunning and evil look in his eye that warned not to underestimate him. The man next to him was the largest of all of them with long curly black hair, bulging muscles, deep set dark eyes, and a closely trimmed black beard and goatee. The other two men on the other side of the large one, he’d only seen briefly as they were released into the arena. One was tall and skinny with blonde hair and a scar on his face that gave him a dangerous look, and the other had a mop of brown hair that flopped over his almost simian-looking visage and he held himself with an air of pretension and imperiousness. He’d fit right in with Arthur’s court. He’d probably been an upper house slave looking to be a master instead.
Now, Killian’s attention was drawn back to the other side of the arena where two slaves were needed to get the young woman into the center of the sunken pit in which they were all held. She truly was a beauty, Killian could already tell, and a hellcat to boot. She wore nothing more than a torn and ragged gown that barely covered her most private parts and was nearly the same color as her skin and a thick silver bracelet on her wrist. Her golden hair was a nest of tangles but still glinted under the midday sun as she screamed and thrashed in their hold. Her legs alternately stuck out in front of her - her heels vainly attempting to anchor themselves into the soft ground - or dragged behind her in an effort to become deadweight and too heavy for the men to carry. When that wasn’t working, she kicked at her captors, clawing and biting every inch of bare skin she could reach.
They finally reached the center of the arena where they dropped her unceremoniously in the dirt. It took her a moment to rise to her hands and knees, then she raised her head and Killian could see her face for the first time. He caught his breath at the exquisiteness of her face, made all the more evident by the dirt and tear tracks which marred her otherwise porcelain skin. The color was high on her cheeks, and her lips were full and red. She wasn’t particularly far away from him, fifteen to twenty feet at most, but he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from this distance and under the rays of the sun, although he could clearly see the glint of more unshed tears.
Her gaze swept over the other men beside him before landing on him, and when their eyes met, something came over Killian that he hadn’t felt in over two decades- the wolf that he’d lost when he lost his hand as a lad. An utterly unfamiliar strength flooded him, and his ears rang with the internal howl of his other half as his heart and mind were filled with images of that fateful day.
Killian ran down the crowded streets of the marketplace, a dreadfully skinny boy, one hand holding up the too-large pants around his waist, lest they fall down around his ankles as he ran. His clothes were tattered and worn and hung off his scrawny frame. A boy on the cusp of manhood, his malnourishment was evident in his height, nearly as tall as a man, and the leanness of his face with the beginnings of scruff on his chin.
His eyes darted around the street, taking in the busy vendors with their customers and trying to determine who’d be least likely to notice a pilfered meat pie or a couple of pieces of fruit for himself and his mother. Spying a likely suspect, Killian never slowed as his hand shot out toward his prize. But the shopkeeper was much more aware than Killian had given him credit for, and before he knew it, his wrist was captured in an iron strong grip and he was being pulled behind the small booth.
Without a word, the hulking shopkeeper pulled out a cutlass and brought it down on Killian’s wrist. He was too shocked to even register the pain as he watched his blood gush from the end of his arm. Too mesmerized by the gruesome injury to do anything, he realized darkness was encroaching on the edges of his vision and the sound rushing in his ears was the agonized howl of his wolf - who had manifested only a scant six months ago - dying away to whimpers before everything went black.
It was nearly a week later that he’d woken, according to his mother. She hadn’t been far behind him as he ran through the market and had seen what the shopkeeper had done. She was too late to do anything about her son’s hand, but she’d made sure the shopkeeper would never be capable of such cruelty again. A small dagger coated with aconite from the Monkshood plant leaving a scratch across his wrist was all it took to sentence the man to death before the sun set that same day. She was the one who got him back to the hovel they called home, and nursed him around the clock until his fever broke and he finally awoke. He felt different - an emptiness he couldn’t define - but couldn’t put his finger on why until he looked down at his hands, now hand, and everything came rushing back. His shout of anguish brought his mother running, throwing aside the excuse of a room divider which consisted of a cord strung between two windows on either end of his straw pallet with clothes and rags hanging from it. She gathered him in her arms, whispering soothing words in his ear and rocking him back and forth like she did when he was a small child until his own cries quieted.
Killian,” she breathed. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes and was shocked at the profound sadness he saw there. “I’m so sorry. Your wolf is gone.” She tried to gather him close again, but he pulled back in alarm instead.
“What?” he asked, confused. “Why!? Is that why I feel different? Not just my hand?”
“Losing a limb,” she imparted on a hitched breath, “kills the wolf inside of you. Until you find your True Love.”
“My True Love?” Killian’s confusion and grief were stronger than ever. “But what if I don’t have a True Love? What if…”
“You mustn’t give up hope, my son,” she said fervently. “You will find her someday, and your wolf will return.”
And today was apparently that day. Killian watched as her eyes widened slightly. He could only hope that she could somehow feel the connection between them. The hum of True Love that he didn’t have time to examine or revel in as Arthur rang the bell signaling the beginning of the contest - of which apparently his True Love was the prize.
The other men along the wall moved toward her and then all turned to him, the depraved lust in their eyes as they looked at her turning into gleeful anticipation as their gazes settled on him. In that moment, Killian realized they’d somehow all agreed to band together to take him out first, obviously the weakest having only one hand with which to fight. Killian met each of their eyes in turn as they all drew their swords.
“It’s nothing personal, you know,” the tall, arrogant one said. “Can’t allow such an unsuitable, maimed cripple to claim my prize.”
The taunting words were all that was needed for Killian’s wolf to come to the fore. It had been twenty-two years since he’d transformed, but that didn’t mean he didn’t remember exactly what was happening. His own wicked but gleeful grin took over his face as the power of his wolf filled him and he fell to his hands and knees in front of them. The pain-filled howl taking over his mind ripped from his now open maw while the bones, muscles, and sinew in his arms and legs broke, tore, and mended again into their new form. The men before him were frozen in shock, and Killian became aware of an uproar above him among the spectators of the contest. Arthur rang the bell and screamed at the guards and slaves to kill the beast in the arena, but no one moved to do so.
Killian was fully focused on the men in front of him, but was also dimly aware of his True Love. She was still crouched on the ground, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. The transformation now complete, he let loose a full, ringing howl of victory as he leapt toward the largest of the men, still frozen in terror. His claws sank into the man’s chest, blood flowing like rivers down the expanse of bare skin. Killian clamped his jaws down on his head, his canines piercing bone, until with a powerful shake of his head, the skin of the man’s face and the bone underneath tore away from the skull, exposing the soft brain tissue contained within. The man’s screams were abruptly cut off when Killian swiped his claws from the gaping head wound to the top of his chest.
He then turned his attention to the two men on either side of his first victim. He quickly took care of the both of them - the first, ripping his head off with one swipe of his powerful paw, and the second, using all of his front claws to open his enemy’s chest cavity and gut, his intestines spilling to the ground in front of him - before he turned around looking for the one who’d taunted him in the first place.
The smugness was gone, but a look of grim determination had replaced it as the man, armed with only a sword, and wolf circled one another. The uproar among the audience had all but completely died away, the spectators watching in horrified fascination to see who would emerge the victor.
The man lunged and Killian backed up, well out of reach of the sword his opponent wielded. As they circled, Killian became fully aware of something that had only tickled the edge of his mind in the last several minutes as he faced off with the other men. He had both his front paws! Did that mean that his hand would also be restored when he returned to human form? He had no time to ponder the question as his adversary jabbed toward him again.
“Do you really think you can win?” he asked. His eyes gleamed, and the smugness that had disappeared after Killian killed the others was coloring his countenance once again. “You’re nothing but an animal. I’m going to kill you and skin you and hang your pelt on the wall where I can see it every single day for the rest of my life.”
Killian bared his teeth, a low and vicious growl coming from his throat before he surged forward briefly, snapping at the other man. Giving him a good look of exactly what he was up against. Fear flooded his adversary’s eyes, and the hand holding his sword in front of him began to shake uncontrollably. They continued to circle one another, but the man wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings and was nearing the bodies of two of their dead competitors. It was only a moment later when his foot came down squarely on the innards Killian had spilled earlier and flew out from under him, landing him flat on his back amid the blood and gore-covered ground.
Killian wasted no time. With a mighty leap, he landed on top of the man, his claws making ribbons of his enemy’s bare skin. He’d dropped his sword when he fell, and now reached for it as his screams filled Killian’s ears. Biting down on his upper arm, arterial blood sprayed his muzzle as he ripped it clean away from his shoulder. Killian slung the severed limb away before he turned back and tore the man’s throat out. The terror-filled and agonized screams turned to choking gurgles before they died away completely.
Killian looked up into the seats surrounding the arena. The masses were completely quiet and still, obviously not over the shock of what they’d just witnessed. When his gaze landed on Arthur’s, the despot’s eyes widened in panic, and he made haste to exit his elaborately decorated box. The rest of the audience followed the king’s lead, screaming and running for the exits. With another triumphant howl, Killian ran for the wall and cleared it with a single jump. He quickly caught up with the oppressive tyrant, leaping toward him and landing on his back, pushing him to the ground. He bit down on the exposed skin of his neck and was rewarded with another spray of blood signaling the end of the vile oppressor.
The arena was now empty, save him and his True Love. He leapt back down to the ground and walked slowly towards her. She was crouched on the ground, her head hidden behind her arms, her golden hair shielding most of her body from view. He stopped, unwilling to terrify her even more than he already had, and changed back to his human form. He looked down and gasped when he saw his left hand completely restored.
He moved toward her again as she lifted her head and looked around at the empty arena.
“Where are your captors, milady?” he asked, gently.
“Gone, my lord,” she breathed. “Did you… what…?”
He unclasped the cloak he still wore from around his neck and spread it across her, covering her rags, though there was no one now to gawk or stare lustfully at her. She grabbed the edges and pulled it more fully around her as she rose to her feet, giving him a grateful nod.
“You’re him.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and was filled with an awe that Killian didn’t understand.
“I’m… who?” he asked, confused.
“You’re him,” she answered, a bit stronger that time. “My True Love.”
Killian couldn’t hope to hide his surprise at her words.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitement bubbling over into a beaming smile. “How did you know?”
“You were missing a hand before you transformed,” she explained, haltingly. She couldn’t hold his gaze for any length of time, her eyes bouncing between his and his restored hand that she gently took in her own, her other hand tracing the veins and bones there. “My parents told me before I was taken that if I ever lost a limb, I’d lose my wolf until I found my True Love.”
“You’re a wolf?” Killian almost fell to his knees in shock. He knew there had to be more out there like him, but he’d never met another. Not even his mother. Killian’s wolf came from his father, who’d died long before his own wolf manifested.
She nodded shyly and showed him her arm with the silver bracelet.
“That’s why they put this on me,” she explained. “To keep me from changing. Could you take it off? I can’t. But someone else can.”
“Of course.” He pulled the bracelet off and threw it to the other side of the arena.
She frowned, and Killian thought he’d never seen anything more adorable in his life. “If they hadn’t forced me to wear it, I would’ve made short work of those two before they could get me two steps in here.”
Killian smiled and gathered her in his arms, placing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “That’s my girl.” After holding her for a moment, relishing the feel of her arms around him and the True Love between them, he released her. “My name is Killian. Killian Jones.”
“My name is Emma. Emma Swan.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Swan.”
She smiled softly and finally met his gaze. “You as well, Killian Jones.”
She looked around before meeting his eyes once again. “So what now?” she asked.
“I have no desire to stay here,” he muttered darkly. “Shall we run?”
Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Yes, please. I haven’t been able to change for almost a year. Since they took me from my home.”
“I have no home,” he said, a note of melancholy in his words. He looked at his True Love again, his mate, and felt a bone deep contentment that he’d never known. “You’re my home now, Emma.”
“And you’re mine, Killian.” Her smile was full of joy as she got down on all fours before him. “Let’s run.”
He joined her on the ground and transformed. When he came back to himself, he saw a pure white wolf in front of him with eyes of green. She tilted her muzzle to the sky and released a long howl before running for the wall surrounding them. He joined her, his howl mixing with hers in a haunting melody that sent chills down his spine. He followed her over the wall and they ran, ran, and ran away from their past and into their future.
Together.
~*~*~
Thank you so much for reading and sharing!!! I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear what you thought!!! Please give Kit all the love as well for her gorgeous artwork!!! The Supernatural Summer will continue with more fics and art dropping about every other day through the end of August, and I so hope you enjoy this last round!!!
Look at me posting a chapter of one my WIPs 3 months after posting the previous one! 😂 I really am trying to update more this year on all of my stories so I’m very excited to be posting the next chapter of this one. I love myths and legends and anything to do with superstitions of the sea and I really hope you enjoy this story that pays a little tribute to that genre.
A huge thank you to ultraluckycatnd for her amazing beta skills - another person with the patience of a saint who correctly placed my commas for me!!
Thank you also to MotherKat for the beautiful artwork that she made for this story - I still love my Sea Sapphire critter!
And finally, thank you to the CSSNS mods for putting together one final event last year that allowed me to write this story! 🥰💖
See previous chapters: Chapter 1 OR check out AO3
Tag list under the cut - let me know if you would like to be added or deleted :)
She could hear her name being carried on the wind, the voice of her lady’s maid (who had undoubtedly been sent by her mother to seek her out) pleading, but Emma was not ready to return to the castle just yet. The waves cresting playfully onto the small rocky outcropping on which she was perched were sending salty sprays of water high into the air, soaking through her knee length day dress and turning her carefully styled golden curls into a wild and frizzy mane.
She often came down to this secluded section of the beach just below the castle walls, seeking solitude and a moment of freedom that only listening to the song of the sea seemed to provide to her now. Despite her near drowning all those years ago, her love of the ocean had seemed to intensify; that missing piece of her that had remained in the dark depths of the water beyond Misthaven’s harbour, calling out to her both in her dreams and waking hours, only settling when she was in close proximity to her private beach.
Of course, she wasn’t completely alone; she had faithfully promised her parents that she would always be accompanied by Starkey and Mullins - Royal Naval officers turned full time protection guards to the Crown Princess of Misthaven. They had been by her side from the moment they had been cleared by the royal physician to return to full duties, their imposing figures and unsettling gaze instilling dread into the hearts of Misthaven’s enemies, and cautious admiration in their friends. Emma didn’t view them that way however; to her they were her devoted and overprotective older brothers, close confidantes bound together by their shared experiences, survivors of a terrifying ordeal that they still had no real understanding of.
Another exasperated shout of “Your Highness, please…” finally convinced Emma that her time of peaceful pondering was at an end. Rolling her eyes in her own exasperation to Mullins who was standing some distance behind her in an effort to avoid the spray of seawater while allowing his princess some measure of privacy, he returned the gesture with a smirk before turning to signal to Starkey that they were now returning to the castle. Taking one last glance at the jewel bright ocean glittering under the rays of the mid-afternoon sun, Emma began the short trek back to the castle, stopping to reach behind the small boulder next to her to retrieve her shoes that she had removed in an effort to at least keep one article of her clothing dry and hopefully receive a less tiresome lecture from her mother in the process.
As she pulled on her well-worn, yet reliable boots, tiny zephyrs danced across her little outcropping, sweeping remnants of seaweed and other tidal debris across the rocky surface, playfully tugging at the hem of her dress and the ends of her hair. Those wisps of wind were all gentleness and light; however, they held the hint of an iciness which declared that the autumn months were beginning to free themselves from the memory of summer and embrace the winter that would all too soon bear down upon them. The puff of warm air on the back of Emma’s neck therefore was unexpected, and she stiffened immediately in response. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation - quite the contrary - but it left her feeling unnerved and wondering if her imagination was conjuring yet another illusion for her to fixate on - it wouldn’t be the first time in the last three years…
Just as she was about to step down onto the roughly hewn rock that formed a natural staircase leading down to the sand below, another frisson of warmth touched her, this time spreading across her lower back, causing her to freeze once more. Were it not for the fact that she had been well and truly alone, she would swear that someone was providing her with a guiding hand as she negotiated her steps downward. Reminding herself to stay focused on the precariously slippery surface, Emma ignored the strange sensations seeking to question her sanity and made her way down to where Starkey awaited her, his hand outstretched to assist her to the softness of the sand below. It would be some time yet before the sun began its descent below the waves allowing the moon to rule in its place, so the distinct outline of a human - a man - standing above them, comprised entirely of what appeared to be swirling wisps of wind and sea foam, could not be explained away as a mere trick of the dying light of the day. Another warm caress to the back of Emma’s neck caused her to turn abruptly in time for her to witness the curious apparition dissipate just as a large spray of seawater rose up behind it.
“Joseph…” Emma whispered to Starkey, as she turned again and began to walk the path back to the castle.
Starkey automatically held out his arm to the princess, knowing that if she was referring to him by his given name, then she was in need of a friend who could help to reassure whatever thoughts were causing her confusion and distress. Emma threaded her arm through his without thought, her mind still trying to grasp what exactly it was she had just seen on the outcropping. Was it a sea sprite scouting for a hapless target with which to inflict all manner of mischief upon? Or was it something more nefarious; a spy, sent by the self-styled ‘Queen’ Regina - a bitter and spiteful sorceress hell bent on destroying the kingdom her parents had worked so hard to restore to glory and assume the throne herself once more?
Taking a deep breath, Emma asked her companion a question that had become almost habitual in the last three years. “Are we awake? Or is this a dream?”
“We are very much awake, Your Highness. However, it does not always follow that our dreams do not seek us out even when we are not asleep,” Starkey replied softly, his gaze focused on their careful steps over the sand and onto the care-worn path that would lead them to the rear entrance of the castle gardens. Emma glanced at Starkey, a brow raised in question at his meaning, and with a small squeeze of their linked arms, she prompted him to elaborate further.
“Sometimes our dreams are not mere fantasies of how we wish things could be, or a twisted version of the fears we keep at bay in the light of day. Although you must know, Your Highness, that Mullins and I would never allow even an Agrabahn viper snakelet to enter your chambers…” Emma rolled her eyes even as an amused huff left her lips at Starkey’s teasing words of her hatred of snakes, however, she sobered again as he continued.
“Sometimes, our dreams are memories reimagined to help us make sense of the world we live in, to understand what our next course of action should be, or in some rare cases, to help us to remember what we have lost.”
Starkey fell silent, offering no further explanation, allowing his charge to contemplate it instead.
It wasn’t often that Captain Joseph Starkey, founding knight of the Order of Swans, spoke more than a few words at any given moment - even before the destruction and subsequent sinking of The White Shepherd - preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, unless he truly felt they would assist another. It was one of the things that Emma had always appreciated in the older man; a wisdom borne from his early years working hard to better himself to escape a life of desolate poverty, of settling down with a woman with just as much sense as he (and even more kindness besides), and a keen intelligence that the Naval Academy had been able to nurture and direct into many different avenues of study. Usually, his answer to her oft asked question provided a measure of reassurance that allowed her to breathe easy and ignore the foreign piece of her heart that told her she did more than almost drown in the dreadful depths of the ocean. However, this time his answer went beyond the kind words of ‘Your Highness, we are as awake as the sun that rules high in the sky’ or ‘we are as awake as my Martha is on a Sunday morn, cooking up a storm in anticipation of you and your parents' arrival for dinner.’ Instead, it forced her to consider how much he (and Mullins) had changed after washing up on shore just as she had.
In the days and weeks after waking in her bedroom and to the tearful relief of her father, Emma had begun to question her initial belief that a god had come to her aid and spared her life and that of her guards. It was true that she was the child of the famed Snow White and her former shepherd turned Prince ‘Charming’, David Nolan, a product of True Love that was so rare that upon her birth, the kingdom of Misthaven had celebrated for an entire month afterwards - a tradition still practised today for their beloved princess. However, Emma had never shown any signs of inhabiting any particular gifts that came from being the physical embodiment of True Love - aside from perhaps her uncommon beauty that was extolled throughout the kingdoms and had elicited many a marriage proposal over the years - therefore, she could not fathom how she could have caught the attention of a god who would be so moved as to give her another chance at life.
As she and Starkey neared the rear gate to the castle gardens, cleverly concealed by thick flowering vines, Emma’s attention was brought out of her internal musings and to her current surroundings. She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she had not yet noticed that they were missing a member of their party.
“And where has Mullins disappeared to?” Emma wondered aloud, craning her neck over Starkey’s broad shoulder as he stood behind her, surveying the path behind them as though expecting to see some figure travelling along the hard-packed dirt after them. Emma could not see anything that should give her guardian pause although, the sweetly musical royal jaybirds with their brightly coloured plumage were nowhere to be seen among the trees, the absence of their song giving the small forested area that led to the beach an eerie silence that was unnerving. The more Emma allowed the silence to envelop and penetrate her senses, the more she wished to find herself on the other side of the garden gate and the safety of the castle’s high and impregnable stone walls.
A slight tug on Starkey’s shirt sleeve pulled him out of his trained focus. He turned swiftly back to his princess who stood at a respectable distance from him, but still holding onto his sleeve in a bid for his attention.
“Is anything the matter?” Emma asked, her hand moving to grasp her guardian’s forearm in a gesture of comfort and concern, her gaze assessing, as she tried to ascertain the cause for his vigilance. Starkey smiled, all trace of the fearsome Naval officer wiped away, replaced by the kindly gentleman who was more like family to her than her mandated bodyguard.
“No, Your Highness. All is well. Mullins on the other hand… well I believe he is distracting your lady’s maid so as to give you some peace before you must present yourself to your mother. I just hope that Jane and Mary from the kitchens, Emily, one of the third floor chambermaids, Alice the royal baker’s daughter, and at least three of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting do not catch wind of his methods in protecting your sanity for just a little while longer - they are all quite taken with him it would appear, and would have no qualms in staking a claim on him I’d wager.”
The roguish wink that Starkey cast her way couldn’t completely quell Emma’s suspicion that all wasn’t quite as well as he wished for her to believe. She trusted him implicitly - he would never withhold any information from her, especially when it came to her own safety - however, Emma sensed that her guardian’s behaviour went beyond his duty of ensuring that nothing and no one could come at them unawares. It almost seemed as though he had been listening to something - or perhaps someone - beyond the usual sounds of the natural world around them and into the realm where only the most learned and powerful of magic users dared to explore. It would be no use trying to convince Starkey to confide in her if he did not wish to; the man was as reserved with his thoughts as the marbled idols that lined the walls of the temples to the gods.
“I suppose I should meet Mama sooner rather than later for the last minute preparations for tomorrow night. I imagine she will be in quite the state by now as it's been at least two hours since she last bombarded me with an updated menu for the festivities and a list of all of our guests and their current accommodations. Oh, and of course the decorations for the ballroom - and every other inch of the castle…”
Starkey huffed out a small yet dignified chuckle at his princess’ less than enthusiastic approach to her coming out ball tomorrow night. Pressing on a hidden stone panel, a vine covered door leading into the gardens beyond swung open, revealing her mother already awaiting her arrival with a veritable gaggle of maids and ladies in waiting. Mullins stood off to the side at attention, his Naval training so well ingrained that he was able to maintain his stance while completely ignoring the scathing glares some of the women were throwing his way - only the faint tinge of pink touching his cheeks denoted that he was aware of any attention upon him. Emma sighed; she had hoped that Mullins may have been able to garner her at least a few more minutes before she was forced to endure another dress fitting, flower arrangement inspection, or an umpteenth review of the security around the castle and harbour. All thoughts of what she had experienced at the beach and Starkey’s curious behaviour on the walk back was now firmly shoved to the back of her mind as she prepared to receive her mother’s bubble of excitement, her arm linking with Starkey’s once again in a bid to calm her nerves and give her the strength she needed to get through the next few hours before dinner and hopefully an early night.
********************E&K********************
Queen Snow, despite being known as the kindest and fairest throughout all of the known kingdoms, was also an extremely accomplished strategist; approaching all tasks as though she were heading into battle to reclaim her kingdom. Perhaps that was because she had spent the majority of her youth doing exactly that. Emma could certainly appreciate the similarities between seating arrangements and battalion placements on the field of battle, or of knowing which Prince or Duke would be in attendance and gaining intelligence of the Evil Queen’s movements, and of course, ensuring there was a multitude of delicacies for the good and noble people who will be in attendance was no different to catering to a whole army of battle worn and hungry soldiers.
Perhaps if she were still eighteen, when her world was still a little brighter and the threat of an oncoming war was just a lingering shadow from before her birth, her enthusiasm for a grand ball in her honour might have closely matched her mother’s. But as it was, Emma could only feel the pressure of finding a suitable husband that would also bring a big enough army into the marriage to keep the Evil Queen and her gold obsessed ally King George from forcing all of the kingdoms between Misthaven and the Forests of Glowerhaven to bend the knee to their tyranny. Her parents may want her to marry a man that she loved (or at least learn to), but how could she when she knew that she had left part of herself on the ocean floor, a part that she was sure controlled her ability to fall in love.
“Emma! Did you hear me? Or have you not heard a word I have said these last few minutes? Honestly, you are as bad as your father when I wish to discuss the bi-monthly rotation of chores with Johanna and Leroy!”
Snow looked up from the large, ornate table that was usually reserved for when the Royal Council was in session yet was now littered with guest lists, menus, flower samples, and colour charts. Seeing her daughter - for whom this entire event was being planned for - gazing out of the window that provided a stunning (and highly advantageous) view of the waters that lead to Misthaven’s Western Isles, she sighed, worry and empathy overriding her irritation at Emma’s inattention to the final touches that had yet to be approved. Bustling around the table and moving to stand beside the window, Snow gently wrapped her arm around her while carefully guiding her head to rest on her shoulder.
“Are you worried that Regina will cause another raging storm to prevent all of our friends and allies from attending the ball so that we are forced to postpone your coming out for yet another year?”
Emma slowly shook her head, her eyes still trained on the world outside that held so many shades of blue, green, and white, mingling together as the wind playfully dragged along the water’s surface, creating multi-hued waves that dissipated to nothing more than foam edged imprints upon the shore. The two women stood in silence for some time, each trying to calm the whirl of thoughts that did not wish to be brought to heel.
For the last three years, the kingdom had tried to celebrate their Princess’s birthday and her coming out into society as all women who celebrate their twenty-first birthdays do in some manner or other. However, ever since Emma had washed ashore after experiencing the terror that was the sinking of The White Shepherd, a spate of dangerously violent storms would roll through off the sea on the week of her birthday like clockwork, causing devastation to any who were foolish enough to try and sail through it to Misthaven’s harbour. Even the forests that flanked the castle to the east became treacherous and unseasonably bitter with cold, deterring any from making the journey to meet the princess who would more than likely assume the mantle of ‘the fairest in the land’ after tomorrow night.
“Sweetheart,” Snow began softly, shifting them slightly away from the window and towards a small alcove beside them where two well worn, but comfortable armchairs were placed underneath an ancient painting depicting a grand galleon sailing towards its home port.
Settling themselves into the chairs, Snow took hold of one of her daughter’s hands, and squeezing it affectionately, continued. “I know that you’re feeling the expectation that tomorrow night you must find the man that will help you rule the kingdom when your Papa and I are no longer here, and that it needs to be someone who will have the means to aid our cause against Regina and George if we secure it with a marriage pact.” Emma dropped her gaze to the floor, her chest tightening with false denials that she wished to reassure her mother with, but before she had a chance to let the words form, Snow spoke again.
“This ball is to celebrate you, Emma, our beloved Swan Princess. A beautiful and courageous woman who will rule this kingdom one day using the greatest power in all the realms that she was blessed with at birth - love.”
“Mama, be serious! Love? Against the Evil Queen? The Council wants-” Emma began, unable to keep the incredulity out of her tone.
“The Council do not represent Misthaven nor do they carry the burden that comes with such responsibility,” Snow interrupted, her tone hardening in emphasis of her point. Queen Snow had always been known as a kind, gentle, and motherly monarch that was beloved by her people, however, it has never been forgotten that it was her banners that outnumbered those of Regina’s in the heat of battle and that it was she and her King Consort who had ultimately masterminded Misthaven’s victory that fateful day so many years ago.
Now taking both of Emma’s hands into her own, Snow levelled her daughter with a scrutinising stare, trying to decipher the mysterious notions of her mind. However, the golden haired beauty’s emerald eyes (a perfect mirror reflection of her own) remained as closed off as ever, or at least since she had been returned to them after nearly losing her to the deceptive waves beyond the castle walls. Tamping down her grief at the loss of her daughter’s once open heart to the depths of the ocean, Snow focused her thoughts on the present situation, determined to impart one of the most important lessons she could ever hope for her daughter and heir to learn.
“Love is more than just a fleeting moment, an emotion that elicits a quickening of your heart beat or brings a feeling of weightlessness to your body whenever it is bestowed upon you. Those are wonderful feelings to have and I would never discount them as being anything superficial, but Love, True Love, is a way of life and the only path to long lasting victory against those who would do us harm.”
Emma tilted her head slightly as she tried to process her mother’s words, not yet willing to rule out that Snow wasn’t just getting carried away with her romantic fantasies that often come from the anticipation of attending a ball. Snow continued on as if she hadn’t noticed Emma’s skepticism in the rise of her brow and the almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth that was desperately trying to force itself into staying neutral.
“Love is intrinsically entwined within us - the gods ensured this so that we would love and worship them. Mothers and fathers will rush into burning buildings to save their children, siblings will share what little they have with one another so no one is left out, even craftsmen will create the most exquisite pieces just for the joy it brings to others. And lovers? Well, your father and I have told you our story for so many years, you know that they will face trials and tribulations no matter how perilous, challenges no matter how unfair, and fights no matter how outmatched they appear to be - together.”
Eyes of sapphire blue staring intently at her in the early dawn light flashed across Emma’s mind, even as a whispered promise of a long awaited return lingered across her heart. As quickly as the image - that felt so much more like a memory than it should - materialised, it faded away, leaving behind dismay and confusion in its wake.
Mentally shaking away the longing within her heart for a man she was increasingly losing hope had been more than just a figment of her imagination, Emma tried to lighten the tone of both their moods by quipping, “Then perhaps we should do away with all the pomp and circumstance. If love is all we need to win this war, then I’m sure I can find someone worthy of my love down at the ‘Golden Mermaid’ or perhaps even the ‘Sea Witch'. I’ve met - I mean, I’ve heard - that there are quite a few gentleman pirates that would be more than willing to take up the cause if for nothing more than to infuriate The Evil Queen and her puppet George.”
The raised eyebrow at her daughter’s slip of her long suspected activities outside the castle walls was replaced by a pensive furrow as she thought of the truth behind the casually flippant words. Smiling slightly in memory of her own love story, Snow focused on her wedding ring, the peridot gem as unblemished and glittering as ever in the light of the afternoon sun, a reminder of all she had fought for to be able to have the love of her life by her side and watch her beloved daughter grow into the incredibly brave and beautiful woman she was now.
“It is true that love doesn’t discriminate between classes. By all accounts, I should never have met your father let alone fallen in love with him. A shepherd who had been forced to flee his home and a princess who just happened to be wandering in the forest grieving the loss of both of her parents, feeling completely alone and unprepared for the crown? I don’t know how things would have turned out if I had bowed to the demands of the Council and married a prince or duke from some far away land who was only interested in the wealth and security that the kingdom could provide. Perhaps we would still have defeated Regina, or perhaps, we would have been completely overrun. What I do know, is that was never something I ever had to consider once I met your father. We make each other better. We balance out each other’s flaws. And we share the burdens that life demands of us every day.”
Snow took a deep breath, her impromptu lesson nearing its conclusion. She needed Emma to understand that of all her hopes and aspirations for her, of finding a love like what she and David have, one that has seen through them through the best and worst moments of their lives, and will see them through to the end of their days and the afterlife beyond, is the only one that is of any consequence. She knew that was what Emma wanted too, even if she no longer confided the secrets of her heart - to her or anyone else.
“Emma, you are the only treasure that your Papa and I will guard fiercely with our lives. Your health and happiness is all that matters to us. There is no denying that Regina is regaining strength and that before long, we and our allies will be facing another war where we will have to fight for what is good and beautiful in this realm. However, that is still some way off - she might have King George on her side this time, but she is going to need more than one impoverished kingdom to raise their banners for her. Therefore, tomorrow night, all I want you to do is dance, eat as many of your favourite treats that Granny has made especially for you, and make as many cherished memories with our friends as you possibly can. We will need those memories in the coming years. Thoughts of prospective marriage pacts are forbidden!”
Emma could hear the earnest plea in her mother’s voice for her to listen and take her words as the most important counsel to live by. She knew these last three years since her near drowning she had undergone a significant change in her behaviour that was often perceived as aloof and perfunctory; something that had been heartbreakingly jarring for those she loved. She didn’t know how to explain what had happened and why she had been unable to recover fully from it; only Starkey and Mullins truly understood, but even they had never come up with a plausible explanation on how they came to be on that beach. She could never explain to anyone that her initial belief was that she been saved by Killian Jones, god of sailors and collector of lost souls at sea, and that although logic told her that he had not come to her aid, her dreams refused to allow her to let go of the notion that he had and what was more, he did it because he loved her.
Again time passed between the two women, so much so, that ominous dark clouds began to gather outside, casting shadows across the room. Surprisingly, Emma was the first to notice this change in atmosphere as the wind began to herald yet another tempest to mark the Princess of Misthaven’s birthday. She was about to suggest that they should start lighting the lamp sconces around the chamber themselves rather than wait for the servants, when she caught sight of her mother’s usually bright and youthful face. For once, Emma could see the toll her altered state had taken on those she loved most. Tiny lines of distress marked the corners of Snow’s eyes and lips, deepening the more she tried to bring her emotions under control, the hand that was not still holding tightly onto Emma’s was twisted into the folds of her otherwise perfectly pressed gown, and her verdant eyes - a mirror to Emma’s own - was furiously blinking back the tears that her daughter’s seeming indifference had triggered.
“Oh Mama!” Emma exclaimed, shuffling off her seat to kneel before the Queen and laying her head on her lap, just as she had as a little girl when seeking comfort and safety - she only hoped that this time she was the one to bestow those sentiments.
“I’m sorry I’m not what I used to be. That I - that I don’t reveal myself as I used to. I wish I could tell you why, but I do not understand it myself.”
Snow had leant down to hear her daughter’s soft words of apology, her tears spilling over unchecked as she heard Emma’s confusion and regret. She embraced Emma fully, one arm wound around her back as the other cradled the back of her head, the tips of her fingers stroking through the fine strands of golden hair. There was no need for an apology. Snow would give her daughter anything in her power to give - patience was something she would have no issue in providing.
A short rap on the door, followed by two servants laden with lanterns and tapers entered the room, forcing the moment of quiet apology to end. Emma was the first to stand, helping her mother out of her seat, before they each assisted in bringing light back into the room against the oncoming storm. In short order, the servants left to continue lighting the rest of the castle and Snow went back to poring over the plans for the ball.
“Are you positive that a masquerade is what you really want? We still have time to change it if we send notices right now,” Snow looked up as she spoke, smiling brightly when she saw that Emma had sat at the table and was now looking over the seating arrangements.
“It’s my ball, is it not Mama? I think masquerades are fun - Aurora’s coming out ball might have been passably enjoyable if she had had one. How in all the realms can you have fire and ice dancers perform at your ball and still have it be one of the most dullest nights of your life, I will never know…”
“Emma!” Snow admonished, albeit half-heartedly. King Stephan and Queen Briar had been wonderful friends and allies over the years, but even Snow could not explain away their daughter’s spoiled nature and propensity to complain about anything and everything no matter how insignificant.
“Fine, fine. A masquerade it is. I believe Johanna has already collected your mask from the seamstress and had it placed with the rest of your garments for tomorrow night. But what about the unmasking at midnight? Could we change it to something a little earlier? What about just after supper?” After the tears that had only been shed moments before, Snow felt a relief in being able to playfully haggle with her daughter on the final touches of the ball and end their time together with just the two of them on a lighter note.
“It is tradition for the unmasking to be done at midnight,” Emma murmured, reaching for the quill and ink well so she could cross out Princess Aurora’s and her betrothed, Prince Phillip’s, names from the second table after her own and seat them a little further away so as to create as much space between them as possible.
“Hmmm, yes and you’ve always been such a stickler for tradition my dearest, haven’t you?” Snow laughed. If she hadn’t known better, she would question whether Emma knew what ‘tradition’ meant, given her abject irreverence towards it on most important occasions. Emma’s slight smirk was all the answer she received in return, causing an inelegant snort of mirth from the Queen of Misthaven.
********************E&K********************
The storm had raged offshore, never making landfall but ensuring its presence was known all the same. The booms of thunder repeatedly interrupted Queen Snow’s excited chatter of all of the plans now in place for tomorrow. King David’s sly winks to her at each interruption saw Emma drink more deeply from her water glass for fear of dissolving into laughter and getting both she and her father in trouble.
Some hours later, long after everyone had retired to their apartments and sleeping quarters, Emma sat alone at her dressing table, combing through her hair in the warm light of the candles on either side of the ornate mirror in front of her. The storm had not yet exhausted itself across the water, nor had it appeared to have moved from its position just beyond Misthaven's harbour. The cold and unrelenting winds the storm had stirred up beat against the windows of her bed chamber and rattled relentlessly against the doors that led to her balcony, but Emma was not disturbed by it - she never was. Somehow, she always felt protected from the world outside Misthaven’s borders whenever a storm crossed into the kingdom, a feeling of peace passing over her that was so unlike the cacophony that roared across the water and through the forests surrounding them as though the armies of Ares were surging forth into battle.
As she continued to smooth away the snarls and tangles of her hair, Emma thought about her reasonings for insisting on a masquerade ball. It was true, she did find them particularly enjoyable on the rare occasion she had been able to attend one over the last few years; however, there was also an element of strategy that influenced her desire for a ball wrapped in secrecy and intrigue: to know with certainty who were Misthaven’s friends, and who were her enemies. She would honour her mother’s wish to celebrate her official coming out into society but she would stay on her guard. Emma herself would not be announced until midnight just as everyone else was unmasked, which would leave her plenty of time to get an idea of who could be trusted and who would undoubtedly run to Regina at the first sign of weakness.
Emma sighed, placing her comb on the table as she gazed into the mirror. Her parents may not expect it from her, and now that she knew she had their support, she was in no hurry, but she supposed she should attempt to begin her search for a husband. With everyone’s identities hidden for at least half of the night, it would give her the best opportunity she could hope for to get to know any potential suitors beyond the empty platitudes and overdone fawning that was usual whenever she was introduced at these events, and begin the process of finding someone she could trust and perhaps fall in love with in time.
That foreign piece of her heart pulsed painfully within her at the thought of finding someone to eventually fall in love with - a sharp warning that she did not understand. As though responding to her confusion, a vision formed in her mind of a man with indistinct features begging her to trust him and wait for his return. As the man’s features became more apparent, blue eyes shone beneath dark strands of hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, blue eyes that shone like sapphires…
The thought of sapphires jolted Emma out of her vision although her heart continued to pulse erratically, her breathing ragged and struggling to normalise. Her eyes drifted over to the small built-in jewellery cabinet situated just beside the mirror, her treasured memento from her sojourn into the deep secreted away within it. Suddenly feeling compelled to open the little doors to the cabinet, she carefully traced the delicately carved compartments with a finger until she came down to the last one. Pulling the little drawer out of the cabinet completely, Emma carefully emptied it of its contents: small trinkets gifted to her by her parents and other loved ones, and childhood ornaments no longer appropriate to be worn now that she was a woman full grown. After carefully placing the cameo depicting a swan carved from mother of pearl on the table, Emma began to drag a fingernail around the edges of the velvet lining the bottom of the compartment until she was able to detect the hidden groove underneath. Once she was able to gain purchase of it, she popped out the bottom of the compartment to reveal her Sea Sapphire set in a choker of black pearls.
Emma had never worn the mysterious piece of jewelry, afraid that someone would recognise it for what it was and spread whispers across the lands between here and the Dark Kingdoms of the East, bringing the Evil Queen to their door - with or without an army. There was great power within the jewel but Emma had no knowledge of how to release it, let alone wield it. Holding the necklace against the light of the candle beside her, Emma studied the veins of white running through the jewel, marvelling at how they enhanced the deep blue of the sapphire itself. The longer she gazed at it, the brighter the veins seemed to appear until she was forced to look away for fear of being blinded by it.
Blinking away the spots of colour now dancing before her eyes, Emma glanced over to her armoire where the open doors revealed her gown for tomorrow evening. Of the few details for the ball that Emma had shown some interest in, the design of her gown was something she had been most enthusiastic for. The material used was light and delicate, floating gently about her frame with every movement, giving an impression as though she were gliding through water. The colour reflected the glittering beauty of the ocean that she had become so unusually attached to. Emma had had quite the triumphant victory in negotiating with her mother on what colour she should wear as Snow had insisted she needed to stand out in something striking such as gold or red, perhaps even emerald to really bring out the colour of her eyes seeing as she had been so set on a masquerade. Emma had held firm however; she was to wear a blue that would shimmer in different hues with every flicker of the chandeliers within the ballroom and the wall sconces that lined its walls. Tiny, white semi-precious gems were embroidered into the gown’s bodice, their inclusion in the design a secret nod to the Sea Sapphire that had been gifted to her.
Or had it?
Dismay crowded into the corners of Emma’s mind at the thought that perhaps the necklace had not been meant for her; that it had simply washed up on the shore along with everything else that the sea had hurled at the land in her contemptuous fury that fateful day. Just as quickly however, it faded as a tendril of jealousy began to unfurl at the thought of something that inexplicably felt far worse -
What if the necklace belongs to the Goddess Ursula? A matching set to the Sea Sapphire that she had at one time bestowed upon her beloved Killian Jones? Had she angered the oft volatile gods of the Seas? How will they exact their revenge upon her? Could she be forgiven for her naivety?
Thoughts of wrath and punishment raining down upon her and the kingdom flew through Emma’s mind in dizzying spirals until she could do nothing more than scream in competition with the howling wind outside. It was some moments later that clarity and calm reigned once more and Emma was able to rationalise her head and her heart into something that was much more plausible.
Killian Jones had not rescued Crown Princess Emma of Misthaven the day her ship had been decimated so close to home. He had not gifted her a priceless jewel, nor would he or any other god or goddess seek revenge upon her or her kingdom for having such an item. If any came to seek her out for its return to its rightful owner, then she would return it gladly. But just in case, perhaps she should be bold and wear it tomorrow night. If Killian Jones appears in the midst of the ballroom, perhaps he will consent to one dance with a truly apologetic princess. Chuckling softly at her ridiculousness, Emma nevertheless carefully placed the Sea Sapphire necklace on the small jewellery stand next to her gown and began extinguishing all the lights within her bedchamber.
Noticing that the storm had finally died down, Emma decided to take in the clean scented air that always lingered in its aftermath. She stepped out onto her balcony, a warm shawl wrapped around her shoulders to fight off the icy chill already trying to permeate into every one of her senses. The clouds had parted just enough to allow the full moon to send a silvery shaft of light upon where she stood, lending an ethereal glimmer to the masonry of the castle and the sea beyond. The scene before Emma filled her with a sense of romanticism and enchantment, giving her leave to picture herself as the heroine in one of her mother’s cherished novels of finding love against all odds and dashing away into the night to celebrate their union under the stars. She saw herself sneaking away from the castle using only the light of the moon and stars to find her way to the outcropping on her beach where Killian Jones would be waiting for her, ready to spirit her away to the Palace of Poseidon as his beloved bride and -
Emma again shook herself out of thoughts of the handsome god that had captured her imagination these last three years. Tomorrow night would likely be the last night she would have for some time where she could find some measure of enjoyment before Regina and King George began making their first moves in what would surely be a long campaign. She needed to focus on her reality, not on her hopes and dreams for something that would never be.
Taking one last look at the view of the moonlight on the waves, Emma sighed in weariness, but allowed herself one more moment to purge herself of her fantasies with a whispered invitation.
“Killian Jones, God of Sailors and Collector of Lost Souls, on behalf of the Kingdom of Misthaven and the Western Isles, I cordially invite you to my coming out ball tomorrow evening. Your presence would be an honour and… it would fulfil my dearest wish to know once and for all if you truly brought me back to life …”
********************E&K********************
The light of the now fully exposed moon reflected off the gleaming white sails of the unnaturally pristine ship that was heading into Misthaven’s harbour at full speed. The hull of this grand vessel whose like had not been seen in this realm for many centuries, sliced through the storm tossed waves as though they were nothing more than ripples in an otherwise calm pond, never slowing in its approach nor showing any sign that it was aware of the overcrowded harbour and the need to carefully guide its way to the last berthing slip available.
Across the deck, shadowed figures made preparations to make port, their movements quick and fluid, carrying out their captain’s silent orders without pause, their duties not having changed for years beyond memory.
The Captain stood in his rightful place at the helm, his hair and attire as dark as those under his command and seeming to deflect any and all attempts from the wind to surrender to disorder and dishevelment. He did however encourage its presence, sifting through its whispers of those beyond the pink and white flecked granite walls of the royal castle of Misthaven who were much more inclined to observe the witching hour than most. Finally, he heard her voice, as fearless and enticing as ever, though he could not help detecting the hint of uncertainty that had weaved its way into her words.
“I cordially invite you to my coming out ball tomorrow evening.Your presence would be an honour and… it would fulfil my dearest wish to know once and for all if you truly brought me back to life …”
The Captain smiled widely, his features transforming to that of the young lieutenant he had been once upon a time, when the world was full of opportunities for heroism and valour, and before he knew of the betrayals and machinations of those with more power than he. Now though, after what felt like lifetimes had passed since he had snatched his golden-haired princess - his True Love - from the clutches of those who would have sought to punish her through no fault of her own, he could finally return to her as he had promised. Although he knew that she would not hear him as he could her, Killian Jones answered her invitation, whispering it to the wind in the hopes that it would be carried to her chambers and into her dreams.
“Aye, my love, I will most surely accept your invitation. When we are reunited, all will be explained, at which time I most ardently hope that you will accept my own invitation in return.”
I was looking so forward to this event. I had so many ideas and concepts. But real life happened and my muse ran away so i was unable to write any of my ideas no matter how hard. But with this being the last event I will not turn up empty handed so I made art for all the ideas. @cssns
TRIGGER WARNING under cut has 9 art pieces they are numbered the 9th piece contains images of blood
1.) Sands of time based on the movie/video game Prince of Persia. King Nemo ruled with his brother and right hand Jafar. The King already had sons but one day while wandering the market he found two orphan boys that showed grant potential and took them in. After invading the sacred oasis of MistHaven Killian is framed for the murder of his adoptive father. With the help of Princess Emma he escapes and finds there is more to the dagger and plot behind his fathers death then he thought.
2.) Phoenix Diamond Based off of Onward. Henry never knew his father Graham. ON his 16th birthday his mother gave him a gift from his father it was a magic wand powered by a phoenix diamond to bring Graham back for one day. He tried the spell himself but it didn't work. But when his mother touched the wand it began to glow. The spell went a miss and now they are in a race against time to find another phoenix diamond to bring him back unbeknownst to them the dangers that lie in their quest.
3.) Living in the Dark inspired by Being Human. Killian is a vampire that has stopped drinking from fresh blood. Graham is a werewolf. They get an apartment together and be roommates. They wind up renting from Emma but there's something strange about her son who randomly pops in on the guys. Everyone trying to get a sense of normal life but how can they living in the dark.
4.) Wrong Ship inspired by Doctor Who episode. Jolly Roger magically tranforms into a human woman and goes to find Killian. Confusion and misunderstanding puts a rift into Emma and Killians relationship.
5.) Sandcastles and Riptides Liam and Killian are mermen raised under their grandfather King Triton brother to King Poseidon. Emma is the princess of misthaven raised under her well meaning but over protective parents. Each of their worlds forbidden from each other but fate demands them together.
6.) The Swan and the Hook is a pirated themed story with lots of twists and turns. I know doesn't appear supernatural but trust me there was/is supernatural undertones.
7.) Witches of Storybrooke loosely based on Hocus Pocus. After Henrys mother dies he goes to live in the sleepy town in Maine. He learns the legend of three witches that used to live there and of a candle that was to bring them back to life. Hoping maybe he could find some magic to bring his mother back he ventures into the woods. But he finds there is are two sides of every story when the witches do come back.
8.) Dance with the Devil Killian succeeded in his revenge against Rumplestiltskin and turned into the Dark One as a result. For centuries he stayed in the dark ones castle until one night he heard of princesses coming of age ball. Unable to turn away the temptation he slipped into the ball and had a hypnotizing dance with a beautiful blonde before barricading himself back into his castle. What happens when he finds the same blonde battered and abused in his forest years later?
9.) How a got a pet vampire was a supernatural comedy that came about from a discord discussion of a prompt.
Those were my ideas and maybe some day I can actually write them the titles might change if I do these were just the best I could come up with.
