The damp was so invasive, it had taken residence in Killian's bones and he almost doubted he would ever be warm again. Rough sandstone walls seeped moisture from their large pores: water ran down in rivulets - like the cell was crying over its own fate: stuck in this dark, dank hole below ground.
His eyes had adjusted to the lack of light soon enough. The guard who had thrown him into this hell hole had tossed down the worn end of a candle and a soggy box of matches. When he'd finally got a spark to burn, he'd looked around at his prison.
About ten feet square, the floor was a seeping mess of mud and old, rotten straw. The hatch was at least ten feet above him, made of solid oak and bolted, he knew, on the other side by a heavy, iron lock, whose key hung on his jailer's belt.
Satisfied that for the moment he was securely detained, he snuffed out the candle with his hook and lay back against the wall.
It wasn't the worse place he had found himself, that was for sure. He was confident that once his letter of safe passage from King David was verified he would soon be on his way. When he had turned up in King Alasdair's kingdom, he had anticipated some problems.
The dear regent seemed under the impression that he had deflowered his youngest daughter.
Yes, he had gotten her tipsy on wine and snuck back into her bedchamber. Yes, he had kissed her (and maybe a little more-) but her chastity was intact when he had left with a stolen key to her father's study. Killian knew the king kept a chest of gold in his private office, and it was far easier to break into than the royal treasury. One of his easier thefts. A pirate did not limit himself to sea based crime when such easy spoils present themselves.
But when he had arrived with the mostly intact chest of coins in tow and the letter tucked in his jacket, he had made no more than a dozen steps inside the castle gates when he was dragged to the ground and carted off to his current home.
He closed his eyes, deciding some sleep would be advisable. It was a good half day trek back to the where the ship was docked and Smee and his crew were taking shore leave, ready to set sail as soon as he returned.
The past few months had not passed without incident and he knew he had to keep the men onside if he were to complete his plans.
When he had told the newly assembled crew of the purpose of their journey, he had been met with some disbelief. Smee had frowned and cursed beneath his breath and the other men and muttered among themselves until he had assured them of a handsome payment for their time - even he could not sail a ship alone. They'd still eyed him warily as they left the port for the open seas; their suspicions eased a little by the payment of regular wages, but he knew how to handle them (and Smee, loyal as ever, easily came round after a rum fuelled night on their first, brief furlough).
Setting sail, he had plotted a journey to return the most significant items he still possessed, settle a few old scores and collect some treasures he had hidden away for a difficult day. He knew the men thought him mad. Not that he cared. For the first time in so long, he had found something to hold onto. Love. Emma.
If he were truthful, he still was uncertain with how matters would unfold when he had returned. He knew he had to make some amends for his past deeds. And if he were honest, his time pirating had almost turned into some kind of surreal blur. It had been something he had tumbled into and was deep within before he knew it. He had become a man on the Jolly. He'd never been given a chance to be something else: but here that chance now presented itself, and now he grabbed it eagerly
Still, he pondered how such genteel people as from which Emma came would accept him. He had lain awake at night and ran scenarios for their future through his mind - where would they live? What path would their union take - could they even consider marriage?
He knew not the answers to these troublesome questions. But he knew he loved her and he had to try his best to be worthy.
a/n: Thoughts?