Storybrooke
Emma Swan was no stranger to loss. It was the one great constant in her life. Everyone she cared for, everyone she loved left. Either they threw her away like a broken toy or they…or they died. It was her curse.
Still, nothing in her thirty years of life could have prepared her for the relentless, unremitting agony of Killian Jones' death. It felt as though some giant cosmic hand had reached into her chest, taken ahold of her heart and began squeezing.
Emma lay upon her couch, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, holding on to the ring, his ring so tightly it would leave an impression on her fingers. There was no relief for this pain, no salve that could even make it bearable. All Emma saw before her were endless decades of excruciating agony. How could she possibly bear it? It was a pain too deep for words, too deep for comfort, too deep even for tears.
My fault. My fault. My fault! It ran like a refrain through her mind. It was her that ran him through with Excalibur. Her that had turned him into a Dark One in the first place. Her that had ignored his pleading and turned him into the thing he'd hated for centuries.
She wanted to fix this, wanted to make it right, but there was no fix. Death was final; death was permanent.
It should have been me! She was the one who had caused all the problems with her Dark One actions. She should have been the one to pay the price. Not him. Never him.
But of course he wouldn't let her take the fall. Stupid pirate! He never thought of himself, of his own good. Even as the Dark One, even having all the darkness in all the realms running through his system he still felt the need to protect her.
Emma heard her cell phone ringing. Turning her head to the side, she read the name displayed on the screen. Mom. She closed her eyes, letting the device run to voicemail. She just…she couldn't deal with it right now; any of it.
After…it had happened last night, she'd fallen completely apart. She doubted she'd cried and screamed that much during the entire rest of her life combined. It was kind of a miracle she had any voice left this afternoon.
Her parents had done all they could for her. Holding her, comforting her, murmuring soothing words into her ear. When the ambulance had driven away with Killian's body—with the other half of her very heart—she'd collapsed, her legs feeling like toothpicks that couldn't now, couldn't ever support her weight. Her father had gathered her into his arms and carried her to his truck, setting her gently on the bench, reaching over and clicking her seatbelt into place.
When they'd returned to the loft, they'd continued to hover—holding her, bringing her blankets to help with the shaking she couldn't seem to control, pressing a soothing cup of cocoa into her hands.
She'd allowed their ministrations. After the first violent outburst of grief, she'd calmed into a cold, almost detached agony. She'd passively let them fuss over her. Let her mother help her into her warmest, fluffiest pair of pajamas. Let them tuck her in for the night like a small child, her father pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.
Emma had dreamed of him, her Killian, her true love. She'd dreamed they were back in that middlemist field, sun shining down on them, perfumed breeze ruffling their hair, love so strong it was nearly palpable radiating off of each of them until they met in the middle, lips, hands, very hearts connecting.
She'd woken up in the middle of the night, disoriented, joyful, happy for one heartbeat, until it washed over her again—the truth of what had happened. And the tears had begun again. Deep, wracking sobs she thought would rip her in two.
Her father had come to her, wrapped her in his arms and rocked her like a little child, his head resting against hers. She'd felt his tears land in her hair as he grieved for his friend, for the pain his daughter was being forced to endure.
In the morning, she'd descended from her room and resolutely avoided eye contact with her parents, who sat at the table, preparing to devour the big breakfast Mary Margaret had prepared.
"Emma," her mother had said hesitantly, "Can I…can I get you some breakfast?"
Her stomach rolled, the idea of eating anything making her ill. "Thanks, mom," she said in a voice roughened and thickened with her night of grief. "I'm sure it's great, I just…I just couldn't eat a bite. I'm sorry."
"Emma," Mary Margaret said, using her best mom voice. "I can't even imagine what you're feeling right now, but you have to eat."
Emma reached for her red leather jacket hung by the door, and ran a hand through her hair. "I, um…thanks for everything, but, I just need to be alone for a while. I'm heading back to my house."
Mary Margaret had rushed to her then, enveloped her in a hug. "Don't do this Emma. You shouldn't be alone right now. You need people who love you to help you through this…"
"I…can't" Emma pushed through the gigantic lump in her throat. They meant well, she knew they did, but their care and concern…it was smothering her, breaking her, suffocating her. She needed a chance to just…make sense of what had happened and she needed her space for that.
She'd run, fled from the flat like the demons of hell were after her. She'd heard her mother calling after her again, and then her father step in.
"Let her go, Mary Margaret. She needs to deal with this in her own way."
She'd been grateful for his understanding.
She'd fled to her home, their home, the promise of their future together. She'd barely made it through the door before collapsing on the sofa, and she'd not moved since.
It played over and over and over again, the moment Excalibur had pierced his flesh, his stifled cry, his attempt to comfort her even amidst his excruciating pain. Killian had once advised her not to dwell on the terrible moments of lost. But he wasn't here to help her through this like he'd been when her mother had been "killed" in their time travel adventure. What she wouldn't give to have his arms around her right now. They had always been her shelter and her strength when she no longer felt like she had any.
But he'd died a hero. The greatest of heroes. His death had meant something. He'd managed to not only push through the darkness, but destroy it once and for all. Despite the pain, her pride in him, in her brave heroic pirate knew no bounds.
He'd managed to push through, do what no Dark One in history had ever done. He'd managed…
Suddenly she heard it. It was faint, garbled, but unmistakable. The call of the dagger.
What the actual hell?
Excalibur, the Dark One dagger, all of it was gone. Totally destroyed. She's seen it disintegrate in her hand. How the hell was she hearing it now?
And in a flash she knew, she knew what had happened. She'd seen a tiny, almost imperceptible look of triumph on Gold's face as Killian lay dying. She'd dismissed it at the time, far more concerned with other things then her true love's nemesis's reaction to his passing.
But now, it all made sense. Somehow, some way Gold had found a loop hole, found a way to reclaim the Dark One power.
Rage swiftly replaced the pain, overwhelming in its intensity. It was one thing for her to accept Killian's death as a hero. But to have his death suddenly be for nothing? For Killian's "bloody Crocodile" to rob his death of all meaning? Hell no! She wasn't going to stand for this.
Emma sat up so quickly her head spun. She reached for her phone and punched in a text message to the son of a bitch with so much force it was a miracle she didn't crack her phone screen.
She was getting some answers, and then she was going to do whatever it took to force Gold's sparkly golden butt to fix this.
Her true love was not going to die in vain. Not while there was still breath in her body.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
The Underworld
Killian slowly swam back to consciousness…or whatever one would call the state of awareness of a deceased person. He opened his eyes, slowly cataloging his surroundings, the message his senses were imparting.
The first thing he noticed was that the pain was gone. Only a moment before his chest had been burning, on fire with pain. It had taken everything within him to bite back the moans after that first, reflexive scream. At least he'd been able to give that to Emma before he passed.
In pain he might not be, but he certainly wasn't comfortable. He seemed to be chained to some sort of barred gate, his arms spread and raised near shoulder level. He was stripped to the waist, perspiration matting his hair to his face, running in rivulets down his chest in the hot, stale air of his current prison.
He had the feeling he was in a large room, but it was rather difficult to tell for sure. The space was dark, save for a small fire that blazed some ten feet before him, a fire that cast weird, undulating shadows around it.
This place was creepy as hell. Killian chuckled humorlessly to himself. Creepy as hell. Fitting, he supposed as that was undoubtedly where he was. He had hoped his last moment of heroism would cancel out a multitude of sins, but it would seem that was not so.
Killian heard a noise, a slight shuffling sound. "Who…who's there?" he asked, ashamed of the slight tremor in his voice. He was no coward. He'd face whatever demons appeared to him manfully.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head swiftly to the left, spying the form of a young woman bound and tied similar to himself. She shot him a curious, almost bored look. "Hardly matters," she said in a hard voice. "You'll be gone in a few minutes anyway Assuming, of course, you didn't piss the powers that be off as much as I have."
Killian had more questions than he knew what to do with, so he settled on the most pressing at the moment. "What do you mean I will be gone? Where will I be going?"
She snorted. "Well, that entirely depends. Just what kind of man are you…other than the obvious-drop dead gorgeous?"
Killian was trying to formulate a reply to that question, when suddenly his attention was arrested by the closing of a door and the unmistakable sound of footsteps drawing near. He instinctively tried to reach for his sword before he remembered he neither had a sword nor a hand free with which to wield it.
A man in long, black robes, with odd, blue hair that flickered like a flame and a 100 watt smile, featuring sharp, broken teeth stepped into view. Following him closely were two…well, Killian didn't really know what they were. They looked like tiny, ugly old men with elongated ears and bulbous noses. Killian thought they looked rather like those creatures from that wizarding motion picture Emma's lad had him watch. What were they called? House elves, he believed.
"Pain! Panic!" the man called.
"Yes, your lugubriousness," the creatures answered, eagerly stepping before their master and bowing obsequiously.
"What's with the mood lighting? Can't see my nose in front of my face."
"Our apologies," the creatures answered. "Trying to save energy."
"What?" The man asked in an exasperated voice. "We're powered by fire and brimstone. No lack of that around here. Turn on some lights!"
A moment later, a switch was flipped, and the prison was bathed in light. Killian's eyes widened as he took in the surroundings.
If he was not mistaken, and he very much doubted he was, his prison was the cellar (or possibly it would be more appropriate to call it the lair) of the home he and the lad had chosen for Swan.
"How's it going?" the blue haired man said sticking out his right hand. "Name's Hades."
Killian raised one eyebrow. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Killian Jones at your service. Pardon my rudeness in not taking your offered hand. I seem to be a bit tied up at the moment."
"Right, that," Hades said, eyeing the chains holding Killian in place. "Just standard procedure. I don't make the rules; I just enforce them."
"Actually, your evilness, you kind of do make the rules," one of the imps offered helpfully.
Hades glared at the miscreant. "Did I ask for your input?"
He didn't wait for his sycophant's answer but plowed on ahead. "So here's the drill. First of all you're dead."
"Somehow I'd gathered as much when I was run through with a sword," Killian dead-panned.
"When she stabbed you with her sword, you felt it, am I right?" Hades said, smile spreading yet wider if that were possible.
Killian didn't dignify the quip with a reply, merely stared the king of the Underworld down with a raised eyebrow.
"You know, I like you," Hades said, stepping up and patting Killian on the shoulder. "You've got spunk. None of that sniveling and crying and begging. Hurts my head. Anyway, let's get down to business. Pain! Panic! The projector. Here's the deal. We watch a movie of your life, your good deeds and bad deeds are weighed and then you get sorted into your eternal destiny: Paradise for the heroes, hell for the villains, and right here in the good, old Underworld for those with unfinished business. Ready to get started?"
"I can hardly contain myself, mate," Killian answered drily.
A large screen was erected before his eyes and a projector was turned on (at least that's what Killian assumed was happening. He'd never seen such a devise. It resembled the moving pictures Swan produced on the Netflix machine, but it was on a far larger scale.)
Peppy music began and a deep voice announced "Killian Jones, this is your life!"
For the next two hours Killian watched everything he'd ever done in his long, long life. Following each deed, an animated scale with big, googly eyes and a wide smile appeared on screen. The scale consisted of two large pans; one labeled "hero" and the other "villain." Every time it appeared a handful of coins landed in the appropriate pan.
It was rather excruciating, watching the terrible things he'd done in his past. The lives he'd destroyed, the agonizing effects he'd set into motion. But there were good moments too. Helping Swan obtain the compass at the top of the beanstalk, turning his ship around and offering his services to find Henry in Neverland, giving his life to defeat the darkness.
When the motion picture had come to an end, the screen went blue. A new musical selection began. Killian vaguely recognized it as the theme to that game show Belle enjoyed so much. Jeopardy, wasn't it called? It played to its conclusion, and then the screen went black.
"Killian Jones," a deep voice boomed, "you have been weighed and deemed to be a hero. You have, however, yet unfinished business to be completed. Until that has been completed, you will remain in the Underworld." The voice changed to one that sounded suspiciously like the blue haired man standing before him. "Our handsome, talented, charismatic, and utterly perfect overlord, the god Hades, will now provide you with your new name and occupation."
New name and occupation? What?
Hades stepped once more into the light, and Killian noticed that he looked far less jubilant than he had when he'd first arrived. He almost looked…frightened. After a moment, he shook his head, bits of fire from his hair falling to the ground and fizzling out. He pasted on a grin that looked far from sincere.
"Colin," he said softly. "I think the name 'Colin' will suit you. Last name…hm…let's see..Delamer. Your new name is Colin Delamer. And as for your new occupation…"
"Oh, oh, oh I know!" one of the imps shouted, jumping up and down with his hand in the air. "We've been looking for a trash man forever. No one wants that job!"
"Gods give me patience!" Hades said with a roll of his eyes. "No! How many times must I tell you pea brains that I assign the jobs around here?"
Silence reined for a moment, and that strange hint of fear passed over Hades's face again before he finally nodded decisively. "A writer. You, Colin Delamer, will be a writer. A very, very, very reclusive author."
Purple smoke billowed around them and Killian felt him himself falling, falling falling, until the darkness swallowed him and he knew no more.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Hades poofed his way back to his spacious mansion on the edge of town. Landing in his study, dressed once more in his street clothes—a well-tailored black suit, brown hair carefully coiffed, polished shoes—he began pacing. He had a bad feeling about this latest Underworld resident. A really, really bad feeling.
What was that last prophecy the Fates had given him? Something about a monumental battle…his defeat…fire and brimstone…yada, yada, yada. All the normal creepy Fates stuff. "When the stars align, Hercules will bring you defeat."
But that wasn't all, there was something else, something on the tip of his tongue. Something Killian Jones's life brought back to mind. Something that scared the hell out of him. When his servants finally arrived, he'd have them look it up in the "Fates' prophecies" record, but until that time…best he keep an eye on this Killian Jones and keep him as far away from the other Underbrooke residents as physically possible.
Notes:
-Here we go! My long (right now, according to my the outline, this will be 30 chapters) speculation fic about what 5b will bring us. This fic isn't a prediction, per se; in fact, I think some of my plans for this story have already been debunked by interviews with the writers. I suppose the best way to describe this story is that it's the story I would write if I was in charge of plotting 5b.
-Sorry about all the angst right off the bat! I wanted to really get into Emma's head as she deals with the immediate aftermath of Killian's death—and, I'm pretty sure Emma's head was in a really bad place until she came up with a plan to save her true love. Luckily, I think I can say that that was one of the angstiest scenes you'll find in this story. It's all uphill from here! (Well, along with the normal roller coaster of danger and adventure and lesser angst.)
-Who was that random woman with Killian when he first woke? Why did Killian get a new name and a new profession? (Btw, his new last name, Delamer is basically the French phrase "de la mer" all slammed up together. It means "of the sea". I thought that was appropriate.) What is it about Killian that Hades finds so concerning? What's all this about a prophecy? How are Emma and company going to find Killian and bring him back home? Keep reading to find out!
-Oh! By the way, in this story, Hades lives in the Underworld version of the Sorcerer's mansion.
-Up next: We start out with Hades's backstory. We find out how he ended up the god of the Underworld—and just what he thinks about that situation. Back in Storybrooke, Emma goes to the Charming's loft after talking to Gold and lays out her plan to get her True Love back from the Underworld (basically an expanded take on what we saw in the midseason finale). Meanwhile, Rumple bids Belle goodbye. Hm…I wonder what his real reason is for accompanying the heroes down to the Underworld. Hint: Never trust Rumple. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever trust Rumple.