Chapter Text
"Storms don't come to teach us painful lessons, rather they were meant to wash us clean."
- Shannon L. Alder
The rain tore down upon them in sheets.
Bellowing orders to his crew, Captain Killian Jones held the wheel, leaning heavily into the swells; sweat covered and exhausted. Waves swallowed the Jolly whole, rising from the depths of the sea to smash again and again against her hull, wood creaking angrily under the feet of her crew.
This storm was a fearsome creature. Appearing on the horizon as they chased their folly across the sea, it was on them in a matter of minutes. With nowhere to hide, the Captain pushed hard and ploughed ahead; straight into the face of it. He had been at the helm since the first gust of salt spray had whipped angrily across his face, signaling the start of the assault, and the darkened sky gave no indication that the tempest which had set upon them would abate.
Lightning lit up the world, sharply contrasted the yellow painted gunwales against the black swelling waves, frothy across the peaks. Up, up, up they went again, only to crest and plunge back onto the surface . Salt spray stung his face as he narrowed his eyes against the assaulting wind. Up and down they rode, rigging pulled taunt and straining against the wood, the sails snapping - wild and angry - at the tempest that rolled around them. The crimson flag above them snarling, curling and thrashing against the main mast like a vicious creature promising death and despair.
The sea was part of him, as much as it was part of the world. They had weathered their share of storms, the Jolly and he. But this storm was different. Never before has he endured this punishing wrath of waves, beating against the decks in a near constant drumming, drowning out his shouted commands and sending the crew into barefoot stampedes, sliding to and fro across the salt drenched planks; hands grappling at ropes and straps to keep from going overboard.
His Jolly hated storms; she groaned around him utterly dissatisfied with their predicament. If the sea was part of his soul, the Jolly Roger was his very own beating heart. He had loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her, all those years ago with Liam. Shipwrecked themselves, she had appeared to him, sitting docked peacefully in the calm bay, as a siren might appear to a drowning man.
He needed her, and he would follow her to the depths of the sea if fate would have him do so.
She was the only home he had ever known.
She has seen him through his greatest joys and his deepest, darkest, most consuming pain. The hook in place of his left hand gleamed against the dark wheel, illuminated momentary by another crash of lightning. With that hook, he carried a piece of her with him, always. She was the only thing he needed.
Another swell, the Jolly listed dangerously starboard, curling into the waves intent on drowning her. His arms shook, head bent low to press against the force of the storm, hook and fingernails together dug into the wood of the wheel, the leather soles on his boots sliding slightly from the pressure of keeping his ship steady; grunting as he threw his weight against the wheel once more.
Killian closed his eyes tight quickly, clearing them of the howling wind, salt stray and rain. Opening them to focus instead on the gouges he had scored in her wood, the first and only time he has ever hurt her intentionally. Navigational guides, a map of sorts which he had carved for a young lost lad who could have been his son if only...
Storms always made him think of Baelfire.
There seemed to be no end to this nightmare. The sky was dark, thick with salt and fear, quarterdeck lamps long ago extinguished to better navigate through the dim, the only light now came from the lightning guiding their way out of this watery hellscape. Their prey, a Gallon, popped and bobbed ahead of them, tossed about as a child’s playtoy in a pond, sails heaving in a steady rhythm as they too rode the waves of the gale.
Fear snarled in Killian’s gut, but he would not let her go down. No matter the energy draining out of him as the seconds ticked slowly by, no matter the heavy assaulting torrent pounding down on them. No matter the fearful acceptance on the faces of his crew, many who had stopped momentarily in their battle against the angry sea to offer a prayer to a God before heaving the rigging taunt again.
No , Killian thought as he strained against the pull of the ocean, not today.
Time grew sluggish, the fingers on his right hand cold with wet and terror. Face determined, kohl darkening further the gleam in his eyes. Not today, he thought again, hardened with certainly, pouring every ounce of remaining strength into holding firm against the helm.
The Jolly seemed to shudder underneath his feet, as a dog might shake water from its fur. Sails billowing together and snapping once more against the hold of the rigging. Not today, she agreed.
Her prison had started to take on water almost as soon as the first sea swell crashed over the deck.
Water swirled around her knees, her dress sodden and heavy. Tendrils of hair plastered to her face and neck, like frigid cold fingers reaching to drag her to the bottom of the sea.
She would die here today.
The ship creaked again as she cowered against the bars of her cage in the bowels of a pirate ship.
A sob rose in her throat, but she caught it in time to force it back. No , she thought bitterly, she would not waste her remaining time wallowing in pity. If death did find her, curled alone in the brig of this Gods forsaken ship, she would not spend her final hours indulging in it.
She thought of her parents, guilt bitter on her tongue. They would look for her, thinking she had been taken.
Tears had stung her eyes, having fled in the middle of the night on a horse from the palace stable, the feel of the wind like freedom as she pushed the beast harder towards the scent of the sea.
They would blame themselves, thinking they had failed to keep her safe, furious with grief when they found the mare tethered to a rail at the port, a small note tucked under the saddle.
She had taken precious little with her when she fled, feet bare on the cold stone of the hallways, her shoes tucked into the bag she’d kept hidden, the memories of only a month before lingered in the shadows, taunting and humiliating. Hush wench, someone will hear- his whispers which had filled her with excitement before she knew the real truth of them hissed now in her veins as her skirts swished around her legs.
Shouting clamoured from far above her head as the men thundered through the hallways and upper decks, breaking her from her memory, feet numb with cold in the freezing water. She could not make out what they were saying beyond the angry, desperate shouting, but then came the unmistakable sound of cannon fire.
She had booked passage the week prior on a small merchant vessel which shuttled crops and livestock to and from Camelot, the name she had given the first mate was of a serving girl from Arendelle, the memory of Anna’s wedding sharp in her mind. She had silenced any other questions with a gold coin and a raised brow- I trust this will buy me peace- the portly man’s throat bobbing as he plucked the piece from her hand- aye, lass, we set sail at daybreak. The crew had watched her, unnerved by a woman on board the captain had said, eyes narrowed at the heavy cloak she had stolen from the maid’s quarters, the simple grey wool pulled down around her face.
They were dead now. All of them. Chased down and gutted while they screamed and begged and writhed on the blood soaked decks. She’d hidden, though not well enough, in the hold with the sacks of grain, body pressed tightly to the floor, fear shaking her limbs. It had done her no good, the small bag she had kept secured to her person under her corset hot and painful against her skin as they pulled her from the bowels of the ship, the sunlight a stark contrast to the death and havoc which had rained down on them from the men who stood then before her.
Pirates.
Neal had told her tales of pirates. Hateful men. Dangerous and cruel. They had taken him, plucked from the sea and sold him as a slave to an island of demons. She had sighed, head on his shoulder as his cheek pressed into her hair, fingers tracing bold patterns on her knees. She thought he was lying, unable to see his face as they sat too close to each other, trying to impress her with tales of danger and sword fights and fairies with lost wings. He’d taught her shanties- I was part of the crew, you know- the feel of the horse beneath her like the roll of the ocean as they flew across the glen, humming them into her hair years later, sweat slicked and quiet in the dark of the barn, their oasis against the world.
Or so she had thought.
The third volly was deafening, having struck the ship and she was pitched suddenly sideways. Head slammed against the crude metal bars, hands scrambling to find purchase and haul herself upwards out of the water which had now reached past her hips. A sharp sting on her left palm made her bite her lip, lifting her hand to her face to see in the dim light. A gash cut across her palm, blood weeping steadily down her arm.
Another boom shook the hull. More water. More yelling. But this time, she strained to listen, more voices seemed to be involved. She screamed, joy crawling over her skin. They had found her - somehow, someway, they had come for her.
Metal clashed closer to her now, the steady thudding of running feet thundered above her head, shouting and cursing, blades clashing together and the unmistakable silence of death.
Neal had taught her many things, her heart sinking into the cold empty pit of her stomach as she stood on the deck of the merchant ship she had boarded to escape the memory of him. He had taught her of promises made in the dark which were far too easily broken, of liars and heartache and bone-deep fear which blossomed into hope and dissolved into empty relief. He taught her she didn’t know enough of the world and the cruel realities of men.
But he had been wrong about pirates- the Captain welcomed me, as if I should be grateful to be there, on his wreck of a ship.
The deceptive tales he had spun, bare chest warm under her fingertips as the scent of the straw beneath them warmed the air of the loft, were no more than the fantasies of a boy.
Emma knew that now, frigid with cold as she waited for death. Neal had taught her only lies.
The loathsome Captain with cruel eyes and an even crueler smile had not welcomed her when he pulled her onboard- fighting and clawing, spitting and screaming at the men who held her, their fingers digging into her flesh as she fought against their grasp. The heel of his boot pressed into her shoulders, knees aching after being tossed to the bloodsoaked deck, his voice mocking and evil in the brilliant light of day.
More cannon fire.
Hope bloomed, weak and timid in her chest.
She shouted again, voice sounding faint to her own ears. She slugged through the now waist deep water, weighted down as she was by her skirts. She needed to get out of this cage before the water reached much higher.
An answering shout echoed down the dark hallway towards her, a cry all she could muster, clutching her injured hand against her chest and sobbing now, tears tracking down her cheeks as another shout joined the first.
They had found her. She wouldn’t die alone in the dark today. Her mind rejoiced with this news, repeating a new hopeful mantra, not today.
Chaos erupted by the fifth folly of cannon fire. Sections of the Revenge’s hull exploded and flew like kindling into the night as the red-warm glow of the fire which had started on the forecastle with the first direct hit. Another blast rocked the ship under his feet, this time from the port side. The Jolly circled the burning ship like a snapping illusive dragon; fire spewing from her guns in all directions. Her constant barrage illuminated the bridge of the Revenge in a hellish orange glow. The crew of the captive ship scattered, shouting and disorganised; those who remained on deck were cut down swiftly by Killian’s men; time and experience together made the crew of the Jolly Roger a formidable foe.
Men spilled from the Revenge into the sea, swallowed alive and flailing into the deep black depth.
Relinquishing the helm to his quartermaster, Killian swung aboard the Revenge, intent on hunting down her captain for himself. Four fallen crewmen later, the missing captain had still not been located, nor would any of his crew share his location. No matter- brandishing his cutlass at a deckhand with two daggers, he would find the bastard if it meant he torched this ship, and every one after her.
Killian parried and attacked, never taking his eyes off his opponent’s blade, metal gleaming in the dim. His body, exhausted from the perilous fight through the storm over the last few hours, found a fresh reserve of power; a reserve intended to dole out retribution on those who wronged him and his crew.
Swiping to the right before finally spearing the crazed-eyed man with his cutlass and kicking him swiftly off the blade; Killian turned his back to the gunwale, collecting his breath for a moment before vaulting onto the helm, long leather coat flaring out behind him, shining black against the night.
The storm rolled on behind them, picking up momentum over the expansive sea, leaving in her wake an utter calm. Eerie after so many hours of toil; the water now tranquil as a mill pond as the Jolly continued her predatory circling. The noise was spectacular, the booming and creaking of the barraged hull under him as his crew set forth another round of cannon fire from the starboard guns. His crew were excellent hunters, they would take the Revenge down soon enough.
Over the constant keening of the wood all around him, Killian picked up the shouting of his men and they carved their way below deck. He waited another few moments, unwilling to go below until the upper deck was cleared. Sheathing his cutlass, he pulled a pistol from a holster on his lower back and kicked the hatch to the Captain’s quarters open with the toe of his boot. Weapon aimed in front of him, hook raised and ready, he quickly slipped down the steep stairs and landed in a pile of unkempt clothes which had obviously ransacked in a hurry.
Eyes scanned the dim room, lit intermittently by the near constant bombardment from the Jolly’s guns. Papers and maps littered the desk and unmade bed. Empty. There was no one here. Hadn’t been for awhile if the decaying meal on a chipped porcelain plate was anything to go by.
Killian swore under his breath, tossing the mattress and finding little in the way of loot. Angry now, he lashed out and kicked the small table, overending it and sending the discarded dinner setting smashing into the wall.
Pulling the door of the cabin open, he stood to the side of the narrow hallway as several members of his crew dashed passed. His first mate, took up the rear of the group, stopping to update Killian on the assault; they would clear the holds of goods and be back on the Jolly in an hour as long as Blackbeard didn't have something else up his sleeve.
A shot rang out below him, from the very bowels of the ship. Likely a lock broken, as his men favoured hand to hand combat over awkward firearms; especially in close quarters where the margin for error was narrowed considerably.
Killian stood for another few moments, breathing in the last breaths of a dying ship, smoke burning his nostrils, filling his lungs. It was a victory to be sure, but a hollow one. His hunt would start again, chasing the scourge of a man across this realm once more.
Something wasn’t right, Killian could feel it in his bones. He hadn’t been alive this long without developing an acute survival instinct, and it was screaming at him now. He was missing something. Something important… something...
Water sloshed against her chest as shivering racked her entire frame, stress and fear shaking her hands so hard it was all she could do to hold onto the rough bars on her cage. The voice hollered from the passageway behind the heavy wooden door which was pushed steadily open against the flood of the water, the lantern hanging from the ceiling in the corner flickered and died.
Bloodstained and large, he filled the doorway.
These were not men sent to save her.
Emma pushed away from the bars, backing up against the hull, palm stinging enough to bring tears to eyes as the gash touched the swirl of rancid water around her.
“You’re alright, lass, you’ll come with us,” his voice was kind, rough from shouting. He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a cornered wild thing. She simply nodded, unable to form words apart from wordless cries that, try as she might, she could not contain any longer.
“Hold on,” he rumbled again, running his hands up and down the vertical bars, from chest to hip, searching for the padlock holding her in. She nodded again, stronger this time, a jerking motion causing her hair to swirl across the water’s surface, now reaching almost at her shoulder blades.
“Ah,” his smile was wide and kind, eyes mischievous even in the dim light of the prison, “‘re it is!”
A bubble of joy, small and barely perceptible bloomed in her heart, she wouldn’t die here today.
“Right, stand back, lass,” He pulled a pistol from the back of his shirt, kept awkwardly above the waterline to protect the powder. She shrank back further into the corner, sliding along the wall, feet uncertain, the skirts of her dress pulling around her feet threatening to overpower her and drag her down.
It was a clean shot.
He reached into the water and tossed the lock aside, opening the gate to extend a hand towards her, a courtly gesture delivered with ridiculous flair considering their circumstances. Her feet faltered then, relief and exhaustion at war inside of her, his hand warm against the cool of her skin.
“Good evenin, m’lady,” he smiled again, “shall we depart?”
A laugh escaped her then, bordering on hysterical and she allowed him to pull her through the cage which had held her, weighed down as she was by the yards of dress still around her, the buckles of the small bag digging into her ribs.
Another boom rocked the ship, causing Emma to cry out in fear, and it was at the top of the first ladder that the next cannon fire exploded against the hull, feet unsteady as her rescuer turned to check the still deserted hallway to their left, the ship slammed sideways, and her cry of shock was cut short by her head slamming into the wall.
In the end, there wasn’t much on board worth salvaging, a few trunks and several bags of coin; standard fare. The crew made fast work of it, and it hadn’t taken more than a quarter hour to transfer the goods from the Revenge to the lower hold on the Jolly .
“Captain!” Smee’s voice rang clear in the now quiet night, cannons having stopped their unrelenting assault, the soft crack-hissing of the still smouldering fire from the Revenge ’s forecastle popping in the background.
Killian turned, giving the first mate his undivided attention. “We’re missing Scarlet, sir.”
Of bloody course they were.
He barely contained his eye roll, as undignified as it was, and pushed away from the helm.
“Get her ready to set sail, I’ll find him.” He moved across the wide gangplank connecting the two ships, the Revenge now resting heavily on her port side. He took the stairs two at a time, the creaking of the hull ominous in the dark hallway.
“Scarlet!” He called, irritation colouring his voice, ears straining against the crackling of wood. He had been pulling the lad out from where he had no business being since he was the height of Killian’s hip, sallow faced and serious. You’re a pirate- Killian remembered his voice, sharp despite his size, ears too large for his head while the bruise on his face had bloomed into a dark shade of purple.
Killian had nodded solemnly before lowering down, his knee in the pool of blood which ran through the street- aye, I am that.
He had always had a soft place for children, the wide-eyed stares which reminded him so much of himself as he and Liam scrapped and survived despite the cruelness of men, had been unable to protect so many of them while under the service of Pan, he had done what he could for the ones he encountered along the way.
But this boy was different, and when he held out his hook, the lad took the curve of the metal, wiped quickly clean of the blood and gore which had clung to it from the skirmish on the street only moments before. Killian produced the small knife, having pulled it free from where the lad had lodged in the kidney of the man who had pulled a pistol on Smee.
The boy had followed him, knife tucked carefully into the leather pouch, trotting dutifully at his heels into the tavern and hovered safely behind the swirl of his long coat. A sharp exchange of words and a slash across the barman's face, rivers of blood on the polished wood, and the child was free.
The walk back to the Jolly has been a short one, but the boy's small stride had slowed them considerably- what’s your name, lad?- and as the sails of the Jolly came into view, crisp and white and pulling tightly on her lines like a beast ready for battle, he felt a small hand tug once on his jacket before curling itself around his hook.
They call me Scarlet, ‘cause of me mum.
“Well lad, I think it’s only right and fair that you get to choose a name for yourself should you wish,” the deck quiet as the boy took in the spectacle of the ship, her sails snapping impatiently above them, the wood polished to a high shine.
He had picked William, causing Smee to blush profusely and usher the boy down into the galley.
“Scarlet!”
“Give me a hand, eh, Cap’n?” a muffled voice came from below his feet, down another level in the main hold. A yelped curse carried down the passageway. Killian started forward towards the sound, fist clenching in tension around the hilt of his cutlass; he hated this blasted, bloody ship.
A rustle of wet silks and a grunt of exertion met him at the ladder, the blonde lulling head of a woman rested on William’s shoulder as he struggled against the weight of the fabric.
“They left her in the brig,” Scarlet offered, face bloodstained and covered in the grim of battle, smile wide despite the wreckage around them.
“Is she dead?” Killian asked, voice hard as his eyes raked across her pale face, her hair clumped like the tendrils of a kraken. Glancing lower; taking in the heavy, sodden dress streaked red with fresh blood.
“Not yet,” Scarlet spoke finally, hauling her up the final rung of the ladder, his arms under her armpits, face sweating. Killian’s irritation rose, suddenly like a snapping impatient beast, as he watched his men struggling with their ward. They collapsed with her on the passageway floor, hair plastered to her neck, head lollying to the side. He issued an irritated curse and tipped the point of his hook under the front laces of her gown, ripping the ties loose and freeing her from the heavy weight of the dress, a weight which would surely drown them both if the water rose much further.
“Move, now.”
Scarlet hauled her up easily, kicking the dress away as he manoeuvred the last ladder to the deck, his shadow plunging the hallways into sudden darkness before the sun broke again, twinkling off a small buckle tangled in the bodice of the dress he had ripped away.
A small linen bag pulled away as he fished the buckle out with the tip of his hook, still warm in his palm from its hiding place against the lass’s body.
“Well,” he murmured, “what do we have here?”
She was asleep, curled tightly on the bunk. Scarlet had covered her thickly in blankets, having lit lanterns around the room as well, which was a kind gesture, considering she had been found alone, half drowned in the dark.
A quiet knock on the door announced the arrival of both her ruined dress and their supper. He shook out the garment knowing it was likely beyond salvaging to its original state and hung it on a peg by the door. A deckhand, fairly new to his crew, handed him a tray, bowed his head quickly and scuttled away. Killian closed the door softly, placed the tray on the desk, selected the seat furthest away from his guest and started eating, slowly, making notes in his log, casting small glances back at her as he worked.
The hour was late now, the lantern on his desk burned an hour lower, he yawned, chair legs scraping slightly against the floorboards. The room fell quiet for a minute before a faint rustling and small pained gasp caught his attention, and he shifted in his seat, head bent over his work again, making small but noticeable noises to ensure he did not startle her, at least, no more than she was going to be already.
She sat up slowly, one hand keeping a fierce grip on the covers as she moved. Killian kept working, allowing her a small amount of privacy to collect herself.
Her hair had dried, somewhat matted, into golden waved tendrils around her face. The rest of her features were obscured in the low light, but the shadow across her cheek seemed far more pronounced here in the relative safety of his cabin then it had been when he had seen her below the deck of the Revenge . She hadn’t seemed to notice him yet, instead her attention focused on the array of windows lining the backside of the room, below which the bunk rested. She clutched the blanket tighter, a shiver racking her small frame.
Scarlet was at the helm, the ship calming as he guided her with expert ease through the remainder of the storm which has assaulted them since they have given chase to the Revenge, Killian could just make out the sharp cut of the lad’s voice from above, muffled by wind and wood and weariness.
His crew had fought well today, and as Scarlet climbed the stairs to the upper deck leaving the warmth of the quarters for the time being, he told him so. Will had smiled, the same goofy, ridiculous smile he had carried all his life that Killian had known him, and with a quick a backwards glance to the sleeping woman on the narrow bunk, Will bellowed orders at Andersen to get below deck and eat something before he fell over.
He would have to relieve Andersen towards dawn, possibly get a small amount of sleep between now and then, but he had questions that needed answering before he could rest. He took two measured breaths, pulling himself higher in the chair, imposing and deadly; just as he needed to be.
“You’re awake,” a strong clipped voice came from the other side of the room. Emma turned, grip tightening even further. She met his eyes, dark rimmed and deep blue, narrowed slightly in contemplation of her. “And alive.” He added pushing the chair back slightly from the desk, the journal laid open before him, abandoned for now. She said nothing, watching him with an unease which skittered sharply up and down her spine.
“You have nothing to fear from me, lass,” he muttered, raising his left arm from his knee to rest it on the table. A gleam of metal caught her attention.
Neal had spoken tales of a man with a hook for a hand. A man who was a monster. A traitorous pirate who had killed his mother and driven his father to become the beast of a creature caged beneath the palace.
She had thought them merely fancy tales. Nothing more. But the man cocked an eyebrow, a sneer breaking across his face, half hidden in shadow.
She knew of this man. The villain who had lived for hundreds of years, who sold children to demons and toyed with the lives of women and men who dared cross his path.
Neal may have been a liar, but there was no mistaking the pirate in front of her.
Captain Hook.