A/N: This was originally going to a oneshot. The longer I wrote it, the more I saw that it would be...hard to accomplish in one take. I'm predicting maybe 5-6 chapters? Depending? Feminist interpretations of Hades/Persephone are my JAM (honestly, why have the kidnapping and Stockholm Syndrome version when you can have...well, actually, anything else) so I got pretty stoked about writing this. That being said, it's obviously not a clear cut Greek mythology AU. Doing so would be OOC and just not nearly as fun as heavily changing the situation, major players, etc. to fit these two the best - so you're reading this for like...the historical accuracy of mythology, you should be reading something else.
Then again, if you watch OUAT, I'm willing to bet you're used to bastardizations of Greek mythos. What...was...that Underworld arc...
Anyways, I really hope you guys like it.
-/-
It's death, death, and more death.
A tad monotonous, if you asked Killian, but no one hardly asked him much at all. Sure, there were the pleas to save and the pleas to spare (as if he had any bloody control over either - he's no more than a jailer), but as far as the asking...no one asked him much at all. There was the general understanding of what death and the Underworld and being the god of the Underworld meant. No need to ask very many questions at all.
(He'd asked his share of questions - beginning with 'why' and ending with 'me'.)
He'd gotten saddled with the job, see.
The last thing Killian has ever wished to be was god of the Underworld. The sea, he'd thought, would be a domain that would befit him far better - his father was a minor god of it under Poseidon, leaving Killian's mortal mother pregnant and never bothering revisiting her and as much hatred as he's always held for the man, the sea has always ran in his blood. Alas, it wasn't what was meant to be. What the then-newly crowned god of the skies and the heavens and all things light and bloody perfect wished, he got.
Zeus and Hades and all the rest were dead of the bloody Olympians, now, as dead as gods could be. That left them - centuries old and with some trace of godly blood in their veins - as the new rulers.
It left Rumplestiltskin as the new ruler, namely. He'd just hoarded the nearest damn gods (and if suited - or not quite suited, Rumplestiltskin's face had curled in that dreadful snarl that passed as a smile - the ever lesser demigods) and assigned them to their new roles. Killian had pled for the sea, reasoning that he and his ship (his ship, he misses, nearly wishes a bloody ship could die if it meant a reunion in the Underworld he's trapped in) and his experience with the waters would be a perfect match. The ocean was already his domain, the smell of salt and brine called him home since he was a boy. If he was forced to watch over a post formerly held by an Olympian, he'd gladly take the ports and docks.
But Rumplestiltskin never liked him, much. Told him he'd be perfect for the Underworld - given the skull and crossbones on his sails and around his neck. Given the way he'd seen his mother die, his half-brother, all the rest he touched.
Pain and suffering would suit him much more, was the insinuation.
Rumplestiltskin knows best, if what the mortals above him prayed and sung hymns about was any indication. And thus, Killian became the jailer. Shepherded the dead to their designated places, saw the horror in the eyes of those who left behind widows and widowers and orphans. There were the dead and more of the dead. Constant, he supposes, but dreadful nonetheless. It's an endless deluge, see, people can't seem to stop dying if they'd as much as tried to.
(Sometimes, Killian is convinced they bloody aren't - when the boats keep getting fuller and fuller and his tasks more and more strenuous.)
Killian taps a restless pattern against the steel arm of the throne he's sitting it - not feeling a shred like the royalty he's meant to. He's always hated kings - now he is one. For more the three centuries, he's been the king of the Underworld. Passing judgement on others while avoiding passing judgement on himself.
He sighs heavily.
"Smee?"
The man in question appears quickly, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to Killian. Underworld or not, it seems at least this hasn't changed in the slightest. "Yes, your majesty?"
He used to call him his Captain. Killian infinitely preferred that title. "Bring the next one in, aye?"
Smee nods quickly. "There are lines outside, your majesty. Have you ever thought of having someone else make the judgements? Just to share the burden?"
"Smee," Killian hisses sharply. "How many bloody times have we have this conversation?"
Smee looks - rightfully - shamefaced. "Several times, sir."
"And how many bloody times have I given you the same answer?"
"Too many," Smee replies stiffly. "Sorry, sir."
The answer - of course - is that he doesn't trust anyone else with the job. As much as he may detest it, may resent it, may wish it on anyone else, he can't trust anyone else to do it. He can't trust them with that power, with those thoughts, with those duties.
Killian sighs. "I'll be quick, aye? Reckon I can get through a good chunk within the hour. In the meantime..."
"I know, I know," Smee nods. "Just house them, make sure they don't throw each other in the River of Lost Souls."
Killian nods. "Precisely. Thank you, Smee. Bring the next one in and leave us alone."
"Of course," Smee says, already heading out of the door. He shepherds in the next mortal, an unassuming woman who slouches as she walks in with one tentative step in front of the other.
"Welcome to the Underworld, lass," Killian greets, voice ringing through the high-ceilings of the throne room. "Sorry you've had to come so soon."
She's young, he can tell, no older than thirty. He's had too many young visitors over the past year. It only ever seems to grow greater.
The woman swallows, seeming to steady herself. Her spine straightens and her eyes finally come up to meet his. "And this is where I meet my judgement?"
"Aye," Killian nods, not unkindly. "This is where you meet your judgement. We'll try to make it quick so we can get to the rest, alright?"
"Alright," she says with a nod, her eyes screwing shut.
Killian laughs at that, a bit, shaking his head. "I'm not going to hurt you, lass," he holds his hand out for her to take, ringed fingers reaching out towards her from his throne. It's easier, he's found, to let them approach you rather than the inverse. Walking up to someone already scared, already scarred by their recent deaths, could only scare the bloody daylights out of them. Letting them approach him, here, made it a bit easier on the both of them.
They didn't have to be afraid. He didn't have to chase.
Killian gives the woman a small, encouraging nod. He's impatient - impatient to get this over with, to get to the rest - but he's doing his best not to show it. Showing impatience could only make them more scared, more unwilling to let him do his damned job. The woman eyes him speculatively when she opens her eyes, walking forward step by cautious step.
"Just shake my hand," he encourages lightly, "and I'll tell you where you belong. As long as you haven't murdered anyone without remorse, I doubt you're going to Tartarus, so let's just do this quickly so I can get to the people behind you - aye?"
"Okay," she replies, a tad unsteadily. She's inches from him, now, her hand hovering inches from his outstretched one. "Okay."
Her hand slips in his, then, and he sees all he needs to when he closes his eyes.
She had a son, a mother, a father who died when she was a wee lass. She worked in the village, helped her mother at the market, and a terrible, all too common sickness struck her villages and she and her entire family fell sick. A familiar figure from a few memories like this, the Savior - he's gathered she's a minor goddess with some sort of healing powers, hence her name - appears in this woman's memories, quickly rushing to the village, going through hosts of the sick and saving those she can.
The woman told the Savior to get her mother and her son first, to heal them instead of her with the precious remnants of their time and their sickness. The Savior followed her instructions, quickly rushing to aid the older woman and the young boy. The last thing the woman remembers is the Savior's face, soft and remorseful as she tucked behind a blonde strand of hair behind her ears and gently setting her hands atop her shoulders though she knew, she had to know it was too late. Almost angelic, the woman looks from this perspective, crying tears for a woman she doesn't know and a soul she couldn't hope to save. It reminds him of -
The woman's hand leaves his.
"The Elysian Fields," Killian rasps, opening his eyes again. "The Elysian Fields is where you belong, lass."
It's a rare judgement - few exhibit such selflessness enough to warrant it - but Killian supposes this woman has. Saving her family ahead of herself is a noble act, indeed. The Asphodel Meadows did just fine for most mortals - average citizens with average lives. The good and the bad balance out in most (the irony of him, of all people, deciding what made people good and what made people bad is something that would be amusing if it weren't bloody terrifying) mortals. The Meadows allowed them to live their lives much as they did before.
Tartarus was reserved for the worst of the worst - ruthless killers and those who preyed on the vulnerable and people who violated others in the ugliest sense of the word. It was typically clear who belonged there within seconds of seeing their eyes - the death that already lingered behind them. A handshake and he can see their worst sins, their worst thoughts.
Some of them haunt him - the terrible things they've done and the awful things they want.
The woman looks at him in shock, her jaw dropping and her eyes widening. "You think...the Elysian Fields?"
"Aye," he says, nodding with a slight smile. It's not often he's able to deliver good news and, well, though she's been separated from her family for years to come, news of paradise is at least slightly uplifting. "The Elysian Fields - I do hope you enjoy your time there. You've earned it, lass."
"Is it," she hesitates, biting her lip, "is it as good as people make it out to be?"
Killian's smile widens. "Better."
"Is this some kind of trick?"
"I don't do tricks," he promises. "The door to your right across the room should take you where you need to be - someone will escort you the rest of the way."
The woman is still awestruck, overwhelmed by the declaration. "I - thank you. Thank you so much."
He shrugs. "It's what I'm here for, I suppose. I wish you a nice afterlife," he cranes his head around her to see the front door once more, "Smee?"
"Yes, your majesty?"
"Do escort this woman to the path to the Elysian Fields, please. Then bring the next one in, will you?"
-/-
Emma sighs, cleaning her hands for what must be the thirtieth time today. She runs the bar of soap over her palms, lathering it over her skin in the basin, and tries not to think of what her hands are incapable of doing.
(They can only do so much, see, can only heal so much. And when people die, they're dead and while her magic can do many things - it can't bring someone back from the dead.)
She flicks her hand, ridding it of the water that lingers in between her fingers, in her palms. Washing her hands in between healing people, while she could, was always a good idea. Even if she may be immune to diseases, the last thing she needs to do is pass sickness on to more sick people. Emma grabs a cloth, patting it through her fingers, and she hears a delicate knock on the door.
Emma doesn't even have to look to know that it's her mother. She can feel her easily enough. "Come in," she calls, setting the cloth down and leaning against the basin.
"You alright?" Snow asks, peering into the washroom. Emma gives her a quick nod, eyes fixed on the candle illuminating the room.
The wax is getting closer and closer to the brass. Soon it'll be out, unable to burn anymore. "I'm fine," she tells her, her voice falling a little flat.
"Emma…" Snow says, walking up to her and settling her hands on Emma's back. She sighs, shutting her eyes and resisting the temptation to cry. It's endless, the death. No matter how many people she saves, there will still be droves that die - candles that run out of wax, sickness that gets into the body and the blood of people she can't all save.
"I'm fine," she insists again, but her voice is too thick for the protest to have any sort of weight.
"C'mere," Snow insists, grabbing her still damp hands (more of a blessing than a curse, it feels like, because with all they can do it still won't be enough). She pulls her forward, walking backwards until they're out of the room. All Emma can do is keep her eyes pinned to her bare feet. "Let's sit."
They wind up next to each other on a chaise, but Emma is in such a daze she can hardly notice.
"You need a break."
"I need to go back," Emma moves to stand. Snow's hands on hers stop her.
"You need rest," Snow insists, sounding every bit like the goddess of the home and hearth and the queen of a formerly crumbling kingdom. Authoritative and warm all at once.
Emma groans reluctantly, but stays still nonetheless.
"They'll be alright for another few moments," Snow's hands tighten around Emma's, a frown forming on her face. It's not a promise she can keep, Emma is sure, but it's one she tries regardless.
"A few minutes," Emma concedes, but her tone makes clear she won't do more than that.
They sit in silence for a beat, both seemingly unsure of what to say, what to do. The past year has been difficult - they're powerful and powerless all at once - and they've both been so swept up in duties that there's hardly room for much else. Snow makes room, David too, but Emma is always rushing off to the next task. The next person, the next village, the next wave of sickness that she can't catch but everyone without godly blood can.
"There's something in the," Snow hesitates, her voice catching, "the air. There's something in the air."
Lightning crackles ominously above the castle, for one. The sound of thunder nearly shakes the walls. Add it to the feeling of death and despair, it's a hard feeling to shake. They've been housing victims of the sickness, putting them under the care of healers and Emma when she's home.
"It's in a lot more than that," Emma manages, her face solemn. She hangs her head.
"You've helped a lot of people," Snow murmurs. It's meant to be reassuring, but it stings all the same.
"Not enough."
"You're doing all you can."
"There's only so many people I can save," Emma rasps out, her heart heavy. Heavy with remorse, heavy with duty, heavy with all of the hearts that stopped beating because she couldn't get to them in time. She tilts her head up to face her mother, her eyes filling with tears. "But it's not enough. I'm supposed to be the Savior."
"And you are," Snow reassures her, hands sliding to her shoulders. "You are. But there's only one of you, honey. There's only so much you can do."
"People in our kingdom are dying left and right. I should be able to do," Emma wipes a tear from under her eye. "I should be able to do more. I can't just sit and let that happen."
"And you aren't," Snow insists passionately, grip tightening on her shoulders and forcing her to meet her eyes. "You're helping these people."
There's a tense silence that sits between the two of them.
"Soon I won't have anyone left to help," Emma says finally.
Snow opens her mouth to reply, but the door creaks open before she's able to. They both turn to face the new arrival, finding David at the door drenched in rainwater. He grabs one of the cloths they always have strung around - a match for the crackling fires in every room - and immediately sets on patting himself down so he doesn't leave puddles everywhere.
"Welcome home," Snow says, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.
"Hey," David greets with a grin, pressing a kiss to Snow's cheek and then one to the top of Emma's head. "Just got back from the fields. I'm doing my best to protect them, but with the storm there's only -"
"So much you can do," Snow finishes with a knowing, tenuous smile. "I know."
David notices the redness in Emma's eyes, then, and his face falls. "You alright?" he asks, kneeling down so that he's eye level with her. His hand comes up to cup her cheek in a soothing gesture.
Emma nods quickly. "I'm fine. I need to get back to the hall, need to get back to work," she staggers to her feet and David follows. He immediately steadies her, hands on her shoulders. He's getting water all over her, but she can't find it within herself to complain.
"You won't be of use to anyone if you're not taking care of yourself," David frowns.
"Yes," Emma says. "I am taking care of myself. And I will. Alright?"
She's being a little too curt with her father, too harsh. Emma's face falls immediately but David's face is quick to show his forgiveness. Emma leans forward to hug him, arms curling under his and face buried in his shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Emma apologizes, her eyes falling shut at the comforting gesture. She breathes in and he smells like wheat and work - everything that the god of harvest is meant to. The scent of rain is less reassuring, more of a sign of the struggle behind, in front of, and ahead of them.
"You have no reason to be," her father assures her, hand cupping her head. "Just be kind to yourself, honey. That's all your mother and I want."
"I'll be kinder as soon as I've done all I can," Emma replies, her heart feeling heavy in her chest. She pulls back to look at her father, swallowing the lump in her throat. He sighs, seeming to accept this is as good as he's going to get. "I'm going to go down to the hall, help who I can. You guys need anything?"
"No," her mother says, still sitting on the chaise. "Just let us know if you do, alright? Water, a helping hand, any of it. Just let us know."
"I will," Emma promises, stepping backwards. Her father gives her a small, encouraging smile. She catches her mother's eye and she mirrors the expression. "I love you both."
"And we love you," her father replies readily.
She sighs, turning around to leave the room.
-/-
Emma is able to heal everyone in the hall, but there are still more suffering in villages that couldn't make it to the castle. She's planning to venture back out tomorrow, try to help who she can. But, even gods get tired. Even their magic ebbs and flows.
Even she gets weary of it all. She clings to the railing of the staircase as she walks upwards, the weakness of expending that much energy taking ahold of her.
Emma sighs, sinking against the door of her bedroom as soon as she enters it. This past year, things only seemed to get worse and worse. Thunder sounds again outside - a storm that seems to be never ending - and she can't help but flinch at the show of lightning through her window. She doesn't understand what the fuck Rumplestiltskin's deal is as of late, but whatever it is all these storms happened around the same time as the sicknesses started to spread.
There's the old wives' tale that rain makes you catch colds. Even if it were true - rarely does it make you catch death.
She bites her lip, considering this for a moment. The rain beats a steady rhythm outside, a relentless tapping that never gives way to silence.
Emma wishes she knew the cause of the sickness that's begun to spread in her kingdom, taking the toll of lives with it. She has her suspicions, sure, given the timing of the storms (storm, really, because it's just one incessant one that strangely never seems to flood more than the crops) and Rumplestiltskin's relative silence. Her parents have done whispering of their own, about what it all could mean and the god of the skies' suspiciousness and the sickness that doesn't spread quite like any other.
Thunder sounds again, this time shaking the ground underneath her feet.
Emma considers it, the aftershocks reverberating through the walls. Rumplestiltskin would obviously be of no help - asking what it all meant when she's sure he has something to do with it. If she wants to know the root cause of death, she's going to have to ask someone who would know. Someone who sees the aftermath rather than just the condition beforehand.
Emma grabs her shoes and her cloak and resolves to head for a vacant temple. She leaves a note to her parents describing her plans, telling them she might be a long while.
-/-
She gets to the temple in three hours, a relatively short ride.
"Hook," Emma says, the name of the god of the Underworld falling from her lips in a reluctant hiss. She doesn't like temples, really, never has. Begging and pleading with the gods hardly seemed to do anyone any good at all - didn't grant a great harvest or good health. She's the Savior, she should know, the daughter of a god and a goddess. Either people are already doing their jobs or they never will. Expecting change from people who live forever is futile.
Asking for answers might not be. Asking for favors is pushing it, but something she's willing to try nonetheless.
As infrequently as she goes to the temple, she can't help but notice this one is collecting dust. There are hardly any of the normal offerings she'd find at the altars of the god of the skies or the seas. No gold, no fruit, no flowers litter the area.
With all the death lately, you would think there would be.
Rumplestiltskin's temple seemed to get all the traffic, these days. Hook was rumored to be cruel and unforgiving, as dark as death itself. Reasoning with him was like trying to catch smoke in your hands - impossible and self-defeating. Legend has it he takes pleasure in torture, basked in blood, laughed in the face of orphans and all the rest. Her parents dislike Rumplestiltskin - always claimed he seemed to have a sinister air - but seemed not to care for Hook much, either. Whether the horror stories are true or not, enough people seem to believe them.
And he could be her only hope.
If there's anything who could have a possible explanation for all the deaths - it's the god of death.
Emma sighs, tapping her foot against the stone of the floor. "Hook," she repeats. "What does a girl have to do to summon a god around here?"
It's goading, she knows, but that's kind of the point.
There's still no response. Emma rolls her eyes. She knows he heard her, she's technically a goddess herself even if she dislikes the label as much as her parents do theirs. The gods always hear each others' summons. He's being stubborn, maybe a little petulant.
Maybe a little too busy getting his kicks from sadism to have much time for the Savior.
A grimace forms on her face. "Third time is a charm. Hook, it might be in your best interest to talk to me."
Still nothing.
Emma huffs in frustration - her hair is damp and sticking to her face and her wet cloak sends a chill to her bones. If he's going to be stubborn, he's going to be stubborn. She turns around to leave, resigning herself to the fact that if she's getting answers, they won't be from him. Emma's boots slosh and she groans, cursing her decision to even come here. The water made it all not worth it, the water -
The water, she remembers. Hook wasn't always Hook, god of the Underworld. He was a pirate before then, lost a hand and came up with the moniker. Tales may range widely in their truthfulness, but she remembers that. A pirate demigod, son of the god of the bottom of the sea. Davy Jones, she thinks was his name.
Jones.
"Killian Jones," she tries, the name lingering in the back of her mind.
"It's about bloody time you got it right," comes an accented voice from behind her. She turns to face him, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Dark haired and wearing a long leather coat, he looks every bit like the darkness he's meant to personify. The metal hook attached to the end of his left arm is hard to miss.
It seems all she needed to summon him was the right name.
His eyes narrow as he takes her in, as if trying to place her. It seems to click into place a moment later. "The Savior," he rasps.
"Emma Swan," she introduces herself, figuring she should start with her real name if she summoned him with his. She won't ask how he knows who she is without having once seen her in her life. There are a lot of things she doesn't understand, questions she needs answered - this one can wait. "I need your help."
"You do?" he asks in surprise, his eyebrows raising.
"I do," Emma repeats.
"Well," Hook sighs. "I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so if you'll be asking for favors I'd like to know quickly."
"I want to know why people are dying like this. It isn't normal, for any sickness, to kill mortals like this. And it isn't normal for storms to last this long," Emma answers. Thunder sounds outside the temple, further illustrating her point. "I just want to know what's going on so I can stop it."
His brow furrows. "You're asking the wrong god, lass. I'm hardly in control of storms or sickness. I can honestly say I have no bloody clue."
"But you know death," Emma says bluntly. "You know death, you get to see the dead, talk to the dead. If there's any way we can figure out what's happening here, it's by starting there."
"Why not bother Rumplestiltskin?" his mouth curls around the name, spitting it out as if it's poison.
Emma digests that, for a moment. "He'd hardly be forthcoming."
"And I would be?" Hook questions, eyes narrowing into thin blue slits.
Emma stares right back at him, unperturbed. "You have more skin in the game. The dying affect you pretty directly. I don't think you know why, but maybe…"
She bites her lip, considering this. Hook doesn't seem to know any more than she does, if he did she'd be able to see through one of his lies by now. And as much as he hates Rumplestiltskin, she doubts he'd waste the air it took to defend him from such accusations. But there has to be some truth in the Underworld, has to be a clue of what's going on - the dead have to know something even if the living and the immortal don't.
Hook groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maybe what?"
Emma comes up with an idea, then. It may be a stupid, ridiculous idea. But she's desperate, the situation is desperate, and she won't have the blood of her people on her hands. "Take me to the Underworld with you."
The words leave her mouth in a rush.
Hook looks at her as if she's grown a second head. "And why the bloody hell would you want to do that?"
"I just need to ask some questions, figure out what I can," Emma insists, pleading with him. "I can't help my people if I don't know what the hell is wrong with them. I can heal one at a time, but if I'm to cut off the source of the sickness entirely, then-"
"Why not ask the mortals you've healed?"
"Don't you think I've tried that?" Emma says, trying to make him understand. Understand her need to do this, understand how much these people need help. "There's only so much they know. There's no common water source, there's nothing that they're doing in particular to cause this. Everyone is just getting sick all at once and there's - there's nothing connecting it. Maybe it's something towards the end of that sickness, maybe it's something that someone realizes right when they die, I don't know."
"So what," Hook retorts, looking unimpressed. "You think because your parents are some minor gods who have decided that they're too humble for Olympus -"
"Rich, coming from you," Emma cocks her head to the side, squinting at him.
He just rolls his eyes. "Right, and you're loquacious to boot. Moving back on the path I was on before you interrupted - you think because you have some godly blood in you that means you can ask for a bloody tour of my domain?"
"I'm not asking for a tour," Emma retorts. "I'm asking for answers. I just want to stay there for a little bit so I can get a clue of what the hell is happening."
"And what do I get out of it, hm?" he proposes, his eyebrows raising. Hook brings a hand up to his lips, eyeing her speculatively. "Your servitude for all eternity or something along those lines?"
"Something along those lines," Emma grits out. "You get less people flooding your domain."
"And if I happen to like the company?"
"You don't," she answers dryly. "Too many people to judge, less hours to do...whatever it is your hobbies consist of."
"Maybe judgement fulfills me, perhaps that's all the hobby I need," Hook challenges.
"It doesn't."
Hook frowns, considering this for a moment. His eyes stay on hers. "You care an awful lot about mortals, don't you?"
It's hard for her to fathom why people wouldn't.
"The way things are going, I can't..." she steadies her voice, trying to compose herself. "I can't stop people from dying. It's like trying to reverse a current."
"Sea metaphor," he snorts. "Charming."
"From the man that wanted to be god of the sea?" she raises her eyebrows.
Hook balks, at that. It seems as if she hit a nerve. Emma is relieved the rumors at least got that much right - he predates her parents by a few centuries so it's always difficult to tell. "You shouldn't listen to every story you hear."
"I don't," Emma crosses her arms. "If I did I wouldn't have even bothered coming here - what with being unable to interrupt your ritual blood sacrifice."
Hook gives her a light, smug sort of smile. "Who says you didn't, love?"
"You look pretty bloodless."
"Perhaps I don't like getting my hands, well," he lifts up his namesake glibly, "hand dirty. I have enough servants, lass. I hardly need you."
"You'll need a lot more if the flow of people keeps coming in like this," Emma reminds him curtly.
"All the more to get assistance from, eh?" he smirks, but Emma can see through the bravado easily enough.
"Please," Emma scoffs. "The boats get full and the people get restless."
"And what do you know of the Underworld? I don't believe you've ever been there," Hook replies, sounding bored as he leans up against one of the stone walls of the temple. "You'd do well not to speak on things you know nothing about."
"And do I?" she presses.
His brow furrows in confusion. "Do you what?"
"Do I know nothing?"
He takes a beat to answer, an odd expression coming over his face. Hook's mouth forms a hard line and he just stares at her for a moment, eyes carefully examining her. Searching for something, whether that be a hint of what she knows.
"You're a goddess, after all," he admits, cocking his head to the side. "You have to know something. What that something is needn't relate to the Underworld."
Emma huffs, grimacing. This line of conversation isn't getting her anywhere. "Here's something I know: you don't like Rumplestiltskin."
"Careful," he grins tightly, tapping his ear then gesturing to the ceiling above him. "Wouldn't want to upset the omnipresent and omnipotent."
"Gods can't eavesdrop in the temples of other gods, now can they?" Emma states. She knows this well enough, it's why her parents have always been so free with information. It's their castle - they refuse to call it a temple - so he can't hear them unless he's standing in front of them.
Hook chuckles, shaking his head. "Smart lass."
"There's your motivation," Emma says simply. "If making your life a living hell - well, bad analogy - if making your job miserable isn't enough of a reason for you to let me see what's going on for myself, let pissing off Rumplestiltskin be."
Killian seems to ponder that, for a moment, fingers scratching behind his ear. "You drive a hard bargain."
"Then do we have a deal?" Emma proposes, her hand coming up in front of her. An offer for him to shake, to cement their agreement.
Killian just stares at her hand, expression torn.
"C'mon," Emma goads, smiling slightly and holding it out a little further. "It's not going to hurt you. It's just a handshake. Do we have a deal or not?"
Hook brings his hand up to hers and she can't help but notice how it shakes, just a little. It hovers just inches away from where her fingers are reaching out, as if he's hesitant just to take that final reach. "What will the people here do without their Savior?" he asks finally, his voice low. "What will they do when they have no one to heal them?"
Emma's face falls.
"That's what I thought," Hook murmurs, lowering his hand once more.
"I -" she clears her throat, steadying herself enough to say the words. "More people will die whether I heal them or not. If I don't figure out why, even I can't save everyone."
It stings to say - stings to picture the time she's running against, every life she'll lose while she's away. But it's what she has to decide, what she has to do. Either Emma can watch person after person die or she can stop it at the source. Emma made her decision.
Her eyes flicker from his eyes to his hand. Hook seems to finally get the point, hand finally, slowly coming up to encase hers. Hook stands stock still, closing his eyes as if he's waiting for something.
Something he doesn't seem to find when he opens his eyes again.
"I can't see anything," he frowns down at their joined hands, thumb skimming over the back of hers.
Emma's expression turns confused, her forehead wrinkling and her face pinching. "What, did my hand blind you?"
"No," he shakes his head quickly, hand withdrawing from hers. "No, I suppose it's a god thing, you can only...only mortals."
Emma is very quickly wondering who the hell exactly she just requested help from. She raises her eyebrows, baffled. "Okay, then."
He nods, swallowing. Hook looks around at their surroundings - his bare, abandoned temple - and taps his foot against the stone. "I can only spend so much time up here, lass, and only in this temple. I don't suppose you'd like to leave now?"
"That was the idea," Emma shrugs. "Do you need to make arrangements or something?"
"Not at all," Hook shakes his head. He stares up at the ceiling, studying the patterns in the marble. "Staying for a few days, then. I think I can manage that."
His eyes return to hers, a concession of sorts.
"Do you need to make arrangements?" he asks.
Emma's thoughts go to her parents, of the worry they'd be filled with if she didn't return home soon. She focuses, for a moment, thinking of the note she left back home and imagining adjusting it, rewriting it according to her current, albeit haphazard, plans. Magic from this length away is always tricky, expending energy she doesn't often have, but she's not going to be be doing any healing for at least the next few hours. Emma wrinkles her face in concentration, willing her magic to work with her. She feels a pull from a long distance away and feels like it has.
"Done," she breathes out, nodding. "Let's do this."
"The advantages of being a goddess," he snorts, shaking his head. "Oh, the misery you could put me in…"
Emma can hear the teasing in his voice, but there's an underlying edge to it that's recognizable to keen ears.
"Remember," she offers, "you're likely going to annoy Rumplestiltskin with this. And there isn't much he can do about it."
Hook chuckles. "Quite right, then," he holds out his hand, much like she did before. It still shakes, just a little. "Take my hand."
He grins and she can't help but take note of the fact he has prominent dimples, as uncomfortable as he looks now. It's as if he's not used to interaction like this, not used to innocuous touches and acknowledgement that he's someone to ask for, someone who can help. Emma remembers enough loneliness from her earlier years - when her parents had to give her up when she was a baby, leaving her alone with powers she didn't understand while they had to fight off a goddess with a grudge against the both of them - to recognize it in him.
She remembers the way it made her feel, the way it still makes her feel sometimes. The Underworld must be a lonely place and it shows in him, in his slight hesitance and discomfort. He's a bit prickly on the outside, defensive and challenging, but Emma knows enough from experience to recognize it for what it is. Guardedness built from years of being alone.
Emma sighs. She isn't here to analyze the mind of the god of the Underworld, she's here to help her people. She takes his hand, fingers clasping around his. Hook's hand steadies in hers. He pulls her forward, just a bit, until they're nose to nose.
"Might want to hang on," he suggests with a grin. His breath fans across her face. She's still damp from the rain, hair only barely drying and clothes heavy. This - he - warms her just the slightest bit.
She rolls her eyes, but holds on tighter all the same.
"On the count of three," Hook murmurs, his eyes fixed on hers.
"Okay," she agrees, feeling a pang of nervousness in her gut.
"One…" he begins, his voice nearly a whisper, "Two...three."