Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or Once Upon A Time - the trolls Edward Kitsis and Adam Horowitz do. If I did, I'd make them canon faster than lighting.

PS.: this is an AU work, therefore, as much as I love, cherish and venerate Greek mythology - details and some myths have been modified for this story's sake. Please bear with me.


She stared at the sea.

Every morning, every dawn, every day she spent on that island, she abandoned the soft linen sheets, her silent, bare feet bringing her to the shore, like a pale ghost bathed in gold, and she lifted her gaze to the horizon.

When she had been just a girl, long ago, too long ago, she had marveled at the immensity of Poseidon's domain: the rage and the power behind the storms, the constant flow that never stopped in its depths, the living creatures that found home in the darkest abysses and most enchanting corners, full of coral and green and silver and gold in the expanse of underwater.

She had felt free whenever she had been close to the water, when her sisters and she had played, splashing each other in between shrieks and teasing squeals as siblings usually did.

She had felt happy.

Oh, the irony.

Now, the very same oceans she had so loved during her childhood were the bars in her cage, keeping her prisoner, held in the middle of nowhere, her cries and pleas to leave constantly ignored. No amount of begging or apologizing would deter the Olympians after they had banished the young goddess to Ogygia, her current home.

The home she had never asked for. The home she abhorred with as much spite as one could, the venom she would never had believed she could bottle up in her spilling out in waves, waves like the ones crashing on the shore surrounding the island. Her island. Her home.

Cruel folk, the Olympians. When they saw it fit to punish anyone - mortal or God, mermaid or nymph, king or shepherd, nereid or satyr; no matter who, - they always made sure to find the penance especially devised for the victim. They were twisted, sad, cruel fates; those reserved to the ones who dared to go against their wishes, as Sisyphus, Tantalus or Prometheus had learnt the hard way.

Calypso had been the wiser of their wraith and resentment too. Long ago, too long ago - just when she had left her childhood behind, when naivety still kept a hold of her mind and her heart, her body experimenting the changes from child to woman, the eyes of men and Gods wandering none-so-subtly towards her lithe form and silky skin - she had fallen.

She had fallen for him.

A son of kings, a son fated to be her undoing.

Her heart had spoken, her feelings hushing the voice inside of her pleading for her to reason, to see, to look. To unveil the lies that he had fed her, the promises whispered in between kisses and languid embraces, passionate encounters being their haven, their place to oath each other their eternal love.

The place to trap her, to lure her to follow some of his schemes, a plan to go against the Gods' ever-unwavering commands. Calypso, young as she had been, always the dutiful and obedient child, had not been too keen at first, wary and scared of the repercussions the both of them would have to face if fate got in the way and his methodically measured plan dissolved to pieces - but he had swept away her fears with caresses, sweet vows and soft kisses. Her trust had poured out of her very soul, wielding him, a cloak he had gladly worn and made use of in order to achieve his goal.

Until, as she had feared, Fortune, fickle as she was, had intervened.

He had fled, nowhere to be seen or found. Sometimes, she wondered if the corner of the world he might be hiding in would be so far away that it made it impossible for him to listen to her desperate cries for help, the tears she had shed when she had been taken and judged for treason, the pain she had endured, the shame she had felt when the Olympians - her family, her siblings, - had seen it fair to settle the penance supposed to be carried by the mastermind behind the betrayal on her shoulders instead.

A soul must be punished. A body must bear the pain. A mind must pay.

Calypso had been paying for that mistake since then, the coin for such payment burning against her palm: isolation.

They had banished her to this island, a charming paradise cloaked and hidden from civilization. Upon her arrival, she had been shocked to discover her prison to-be was faraway from what she had expected - maybe a dingy cell, covered in dirt and moss, stains in the walls trapping her and nauseous odors suffocating the air she would breathe in for as long as she stayed. Maybe eternity, as the immortal blood coursing through her veins promised with a bitter smile. You chose this. You chose him. You have to face the consequences now.

Oh, how wrong she had been about the place the Olympians would cast her out to.

There was no dirt in Ogygia. No monsters. No fear, no tension. No danger, no beasts, no bones or flesh threatened to be lashed at or bitten. No hurt.

No physical hurt, that was.

An overwhelming feeling of peace had settled over her when she first set foot on the sandy beach that welcomed her, and she came to realize not long later that was the norm whereupon reaching Ogygia's shores. Everything enchanted the foreigner: the sweet scent of flowers and the ocean breeze, the vines wrapping around a natural cave blanketed with such vibrant green foliage their eyes might sting when staring directly at them. Water spouted out of fountains into streams, where birds sang and rested and other animals dozed off or grazed, mild beasts willingly prancing around and not afraid of interacting with humans.

A place filled with beauty and passion.

That was Calypso's lair.

That is Calypso's lair.

That would always be Calypso's lair.

And no one but her would be the wiser, the very marvels and enchantments of the island for her eyes only. Some may say her penance was meek in contrast to others imposed on other men that had been faced against the Olympian's fury. Some may say she had been lucky, too lucky. She got to spend the rest of her immortal days in an island of wonder, surrounded by beauty and peace. A paradise maybe closer to the Elysian Fields than one would had dreamed of.

Calypso would have faced foul creatures, unbearable pain, and excruciatingly hard tasks. The bruises, the blood and the sweat pouring from her flesh, anything, she would cope with it all if it had meant she would not be alone.

And yet, the young golden goddess only found herself surrounded by company when, every few eons, some hero was washed up on her shore, fallen from the sky, just like Icarus had. Every time, her heart would flutter, her very soul growing wings at the thought that this time, maybe this time, they would stay, choose to stay, choose her. Had she not everything they would ever wish for in her island? Was she not an immortal Goddess, an ethereal vision for any mortal, who would share that same fate by her side if they wished so?

Even if she had yearned for them to do so - even if they wanted to, the curse bestowed upon her condemned her to stay alone. Always alone. And with eyes full of regret, they left, back to their homes, their freedom. Away from her.

Delphos, Olympians, Apollo himself - her destiny was sealed.

Loneliness would be her only ally, her only company.

So she stared. Stared at the waves, their dance entrancing her as a lonely tear fell from the smooth, pale skin of her cheek to join the salty ocean waters, slipping away from her, just like everybody else.


He stared at the sea.

The realm his father reigned over. His home, where he had always felt at ease, light of heart, happy.

Killian had not learned of his father's identity until was a young lad, when his mother had taken him and sat him down by her side to explain about the connection he had always felt with the ocean breeze, the salty water, his very own call of the sirens in the blue depths of the sea. They were all a sign of his Olympian parentage, she had told him: his heart pumped the blood of the God of the seas, horses and earthquakes. He remembered how she had laid her hand over his chest, the rough calloused skin from journey after journey spent working her fingers to the bone only bringing him calm and respect for the woman who had meant more for him than anybody else in his entire, miserable life.

Until her.

Milah.

After his mother's passing, he had taken to the ocean, not too sorry for leaving the small hut he had shared with her behind. He had spent his childhood there, fond memories of lazy afternoons lounging on the sand and singing old sea shanties flooding his mind as he stepped aboard a ship after making a deal with the captain. The place he had lived for as long as he could remember with his family, - the only family he had ever had and had seemed like cared about him at all, - was now a mere building, four cracked walls, decrepit and falling down, the feeling of warmth, welcoming and kindness that had always ignited inside him at its sight now long gone. Killian had known then that he would find his way home, his own place in the world.

And he had. He had found his refuge there, where it had always been, waiting with open arms for him to hold on and never let go. The ocean. The tides guiding his days, the stars his roof, the sound of the waves rocking against the ship replacing the lullabies he had fallen asleep to when he was a child.

He had never looked back.

It had not come as such a surprise when he became the youngest captain to sail the Egeus and beyond. As his sailors hushed between themselves when they were under the impression that he was not paying attention, 'he speaks to the sea like an old friend, and the sea listens to him in return'.

They were not wrong. Even if Poseidon would not appear out of thin air and make himself known before him claiming his role as a parental figure, - not that Killian, nor any other offspring from Olympians and mortals had ever expected anything along those lines, - Killian had always known he was there, out there, down below, his home in the blue, dark abyss out of Killian's reach yet where from he was sure he was being watched over.

It may had been wishful thinking. It may have been the lonely heart of an orphan desperately yearning for the warm hand of a father over his shoulder, guiding him in his course of the waves in search of adventure.

He had never longed so much and so desperately for fatherly advice in his life than when he first fell in love. Crashing down, breath knocked out of his lungs, heart lodged in his throat as she sat across from him and smiled.

Milah.

How must have the Fates cackled at the idea of having the young, reckless and brave captain fall for a taken woman. He had never been in search for love, never had sought it, never had wondered if he had ever been missing out for not sharing his life, his heart, his soul with someone. Until her.

Killian had taken Milah on the adventure she had always longed for, had offered her the world. The horizon was theirs; with her by his side, he was sated - he was done. He would have never dreamed of how what they had left in their wake would later break into pieces the future he had always envisioned for him and his love.

An abandoned child who would flee just as his mother.

A devastated father who would be turned into a heartless monster by the Gods in punishment for the lengths he was ready to go in order to get his son back.

A monster who, foregoing his misery, had hunted them down and crushed Killian's love's heart to dust.

The man she had been tied to - a worthless imp, the shadow of the man that Milah had married long before he met her for what he had learnt, - became Killian's own nightmare. When the face, spirit and kind eyes of the woman he had pledged his heart to should have been plaguing his heartbroken self after her demise, only the cruel sneer of the creature that took her away from him appeared instead. Where the salty breeze, the rush of adventure, the needle of a compass had been all he had needed to live his days, now the bloodlust, anger and hurt had taken over. His thirst for revenge had grown roots in his very core, unwaveringly making its way through his entire self, transforming the charming, roguish and bold sailor into a broody, revenge-driven and cold pirate with one sole purpose left to achieve before joining the lost souls in Hades.

Bring the monster to Hades along with him.

And yet, for all his devious schemes and journeys dedicated solely in following the creature's trail, Killian had encountered all kind of obstacles in his quest. The Gods of Olympus would most not certainly let the chance of playing with what they considered a tragic hero's quest for love pass them by without interfering. Alas, Killian had been beaten, tossed, messed with for far longer than he would have ever dared to imagine. Lady Athena would be one of the few willing to offer some kind of advice or protection during his very own odyssey, - along with Lord Ares, who saw the fire of battle reflected in the eyes of the heartbroken captain.

Killian often wondered if the Olympians enjoyed meddling with mortals' fates in order to make history, to ensure their names would not be forgotten with time. That had been not his purpose when he commenced his crusade: his goal was made of dust and pain, blood and sweat.

So he stared. Stared at the approaching storm, the wind picking up with such intensity the sails almost tore as they soared, foam flying in every direction while waves crashed like lovers meeting halfway in a clumsy, wet and longing kiss. Thunder roared, tremors hitting the very core of the Roger and lighting the only source of light that was left from the earlier open and luminous day, steadily becoming a nightmare, a place where tales were born to feed children's fears before they went to bed.

Killian smirked.

Captain Killian Jones may become immortal, after all, in those stories.


Killian was decidedly confused as to where he was, to say the least. His last fleeting memory was of his beloved ship being tossed back and forth, as if trapped inside some struggle between a group of giants or some other form of beasts clashing in between the waves, until a blaring and pained screeching sound halted him, a violent shake of the Roger sending him crashing down to the deck. Limbs slipped through the wet panels with no way of stopping until his head banged forcefully against the railing, turning his world as dark as he imagined his heart had been.

Or had turned into after Milah's death.

He was oddly wary of musing if it had been his own father sending that nefarious storm his way. He knew Poseidon didn't enjoy getting involved with his offspring's affairs, but knowing that he would have actively attempted to help take Killian's life was, even if he was not extremely adamant in admitting it, discouraging to say the least - and hurtful to openly acknowledge it.

His last thought, he vaguely recalled with a silent sob, had been a prayer for his beloved protector, Athena, to finally let him leave this world. If there would be no way to obtain his revenge against the monster that had taken Milah's life, if the Olympians were to maintain this cat and mouse game of theirs with their hero to get rid of that beast they had created in some of their sick, twisted schemes with mortals, then he would gladly join Hades by his willing foot.

These were the thoughts running through his head when he suddenly came to the realization that there was someone there with him, in the sand, the sound of the waves crashing by his slumped form lulling him to go back to Morpheus' nether world and leave… this odd island where he appeared to be stranded in.

It was the softest touch, a mere brush of warm skin gracing his forehead and carefully swiping away wet strands of hair from his forehead that made him aware of this presence by his side. Even if he wanted nothing more than to succumb to his fatigue and forget everything that he may had cared about in any way in his life, his very soul screamed at him to be on guard, to fight, to grip his sword and defy whoever may pose a threat to his persona. He was a survivor, through and through.

But, at the same time, some other part of him - a dormant voice that had stayed calm and quiet for years, that he only vaguely recognized as the side of Killian Jones that had been awakened when Milah was by his side, - silenced his battle-ridden self, shushing it and murmuring in Killian's ear how he was safe.

He desired nothing more than laugh at that, if he were honest with himself - he had been all but safe for years. Either way, he managed to turn his head to the side and open one bleary eye, the sole motion sending waves of pain through him as he fought hard against the throbbing and aching of his body to focus on the sight in front of him.

And he found himself speechless, a real paradox written in a porcelain face framed by sun-kissed curls, the slightest trail of freckles dusting her nose and cheekbones.

Such a beauty. Surely she must have been one of the Gods' own creations, sent down to their realm to torture mere mortals like himself.

Such a beauty.

But it was her eyes that made him pause.

The gentleness, softness and grace with which she appeared to be treating him clashed fiercely with the emotions swirling in them: a brew made of anger, despair, pain and resignation.

Killian had no clue as to what to make of it. What to make of them.

What to make of her.

He vaguely pondered if he had indeed left the mortal realm and they had allowed him join the Elysian Fields - rapidly discarding the idea. They would never grant him such an easy escape.

The wetness on his lips brought him back to the present, and he carefully swiped his tongue against his lips, savoring the sweet, fragrant taste. Nectar.

That must have been how she got him to wake up.

How had she known he would not burn at the mere touch of the food and drink of the Gods? How had she known there was Olympian blood running through his veins?

His confused expression must have alerted her, because she sighed and, with a reassuring nod, she finally spoke.

And her voice, unlike any siren or nymph he had ever encountered in his seafaring adventures, enchanted him, a charm carefully woven in each one of the words she uttered.

"Your eyes. All of you, children of Poseidon, own those blue scorching gazes, trapping whatever creature may dare to look into them as if by a spell."

Spell? She dared to accuse him of using some spell?

The idea was absolutely preposterous in Killian's mind as he continued his unabashed examination of this marvel, this amazing creature that he had encountered by sheer luck. He did not know if he would have any ability to talk at all, but he found his lips already forming a question against his will, his voice all but throaty and raspy sounds coming together in a rather slow drawl. "Have I trapped you, too?"

She laughed quietly, a sweet, too short and yet too pained sound that made his heart throb almost painfully against his chest, and he oddly thought how bizarre it was that it hurt more than the injuries he must be suffering from the shipwreck he had miraculously survived. "I was vacuumed against them a long time ago, I'm afraid." She paused, feet tucked beneath her as she sat studying him, the vaporous silk of her pearly white chiton blowing gently against the winds and tossing with her hair almost lovingly, like they were playing with the golden strands. They might well have been for all he knew. "What's your name, sailor?"

He attempted to clear his throat in order not to sound so choked, so helpless facing this woman. This goddess. This… savior. His savior. "Captain Killian Jones, my lady."

She nodded curtly. Once again, she pierced him with her eyes, and he found himself unable to look away. He wondered silently if he would turn to stone, as legend spoke the Gorgons did with the sheer power of their cursed gazes, but this woman was most certainly not one of those foul creatures. If her eyes held indeed some kind of power, then he would gladly find himself prey of its danger. So much for a survivor - it seemed as if he had found his weakness.

And for the moment, Killian Jones couldn't care less.

She finally released him from the power of her stare, choosing to focus on the sparkly, vast waters that had brought his body to the shore where she had found him. "Welcome to Ogygia, Killian Jones. I'm Calypso. Let's see how long it takes you to stand on your feet again."

She rose to her feet in one fluid, graceful movement, and Killian could only stare up at her in wonder. A goddess indeed. So awed he was contemplating her that he almost missed her next words, barely muttered under her breath, and he could barely taste the scorn in her tone, leaving him cold and hollow, a chill running up his spine and bringing back memories long forgotten, words of fate and death and curses whispered cruelly by the Moirai in his ear. "And leave this Godsforsaken island."


Hiiiiii!

See, back in June, I had this crazy idea - not so crazy...? - while talking to a friend, comparing how Emma's story was so similar to Calypso's (cursed for someone else's mistake, - even if we can get into debate because actually Calypso *did* choose to support Atlas in the whole Titans/Olympians battle, - always left alone, everybody choosing to leave her behind...). Being the Greek Mythology whore that I am, I saw it way too fit for my two favorite characters to NOT write something about both of them.

So here it is.

I really hope you liked it - I am having too much fun with this. And they give me loads of feels. As always.

Love always, dearies!

PS: "What the Water Gave Me" by Florence and the Machine was kind of perfect for this tbh. And Enya's "Orinoco Flow", just because. Lalala.