A/N: Frankly, I'm convinced this is Killian's theme song. Check it out (Undefeated, by Daughtry) and judge for yourself.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.

Killian woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open. Well, eye, his left didn't seem to open more than a sliver. He was lying on his side on the hard ground, hazy smoke drifting in front of him. He shuddered, pain assaulting him at every front. His head throbbed against the floor, ribs screaming in pain with each gasping breath he took.

Get up, Killian, he told himself. Get up!

He rolled over quickly, telling himself it was better to just get it over with in one smooth motion. His hand grabbed the wall beside him as he got to his knees, a multitude of injuries awakening at his sudden movement. The room spun alarmingly, his fingers gripping the stone far stronger than they should have.

"Is this a bloody trick?" he called out, his voice too loud for his own ears, almost a scream. Hold it together, mate. You've been in worse scrapes than this. Being dead doesn't change anything.

Something felt different, something changed from the last time he awoke in this accursed realm. There was a feeling he recognised, something he'd held onto for centuries without knowing it, something he only started to really understand in the last few years, with her.

Hope.

And somehow, he knew, he just knew she was close. She had to be, for this feeling to be so thick in the air around him, in his chest, the air he breathed despite being dead. If she was nearby, he knew what he had to do.

Using the wall for support, he slid up slowly, his body no longer allowing him to move as quickly. His left knee locked up, and he could feel long gashes along his thigh protesting at each movement. His back felt ripped, torn, and he had no interest in stopping for a peek at the damage. Other parts of him ached as well, his neck, his face, his head pounding in time with what should be his heartbeat. But nothing hurt as much as the white hot pain radiating from the stab wound in his side, just under his ribs and straight through his back.

He forced his right foot forward, a foot that slid slowly despite the twisting in his ankle. He was about to step off the ledge when he heard her.

"Stop!"

A girl, sitting inside a cell just like his, wrapped in tattered rags. He leaned against the wall heavily, breathing hard. His hand slipped under his jacket, cradling his mortal wound, blood still oozing slowly from it onto his already bloodied fingers.

"That's exactly what this is. A trick. Don't move." The girl was probably as dead as he was, but she seemed… worse, in a way, though she had no outward sign of injury.

"He wants you to think you can escape but, you can't. No one can."

"Then what's keeping us in here?" His voice sounded rough, breaking slightly in places, and he cursed himself for giving in before, for crying out from the torture, for not sounding stronger.

The dead expression on her face shifted somewhat, changing almost to fear, as she whispered, "Something you don't want to face."

He knew, now, why she seemed worse than him, knew without a shadow of a doubt. There were no bars in this prison, no sign of a guard or jailer, and yet this young woman had effectively imprisoned herself.

She had given up.

And he knew that no matter his pain, no matter his injuries, he knew he had to keep fighting. Not for himself, he trusted that Emma was coming to save him, but for this girl, who died without hope, without faith, who seemed more dead than he, in his battered state, could ever want to be.

"Well, I'll be the judge of that." His voice was even, now, calm and steady.

She looked up at him, her expression wondering if he'd lost his mind. Perhaps, he almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, he gritted his teeth hard, grunting as he pulled his foot forward and down. His ankle was definitely going to slow them down, but he was more concerned with his leg, his knee not bending properly as he shuffled slowly to the ground. His hand gripped the cement wall, far harder than he liked.

"Time to go," he ground out, as he pushed bodily off the wall.

She scurried back in her cell a bit. "You're mad."

He hobbled forward, his side screaming with each step, various cuts and bruises protesting with each pull of his muscles. He could feel the blood slipping down his face, a gash somewhere on his scalp had opened somehow, the hot fluid running slowly down his hair.

"Perhaps." He reached out his hand to her, now covered in fresh blood. "But I'm the best chance you have." He blinked hard, the blood running into his eye now, he couldn't afford to have both out of commission for what was ahead. He shook his head slightly to clear it, wincing at the fresh stabs that beat inside his skull. Don't stop, so close.

To his relief, and her credit, she reached her hand toward his, stepping out quickly from her cell. He groaned softly, his balance wavering a bit as she stood beside him, but he forced his muscles to lock, forced himself to keep going.

She's here, she's here, she's here. He repeated the words in his head, allowing the hope to seep into his aching wounds, pushing him awake, pushing himself to keep going despite the pain.

"Are you ready?" he asks, his words rough. Days of screaming in agony had made his voice hoarse, but it wouldn't stop him, not now, not from doing whatever he could for as long as he could.

"All right, go," he said, pushing her ahead of him. "Go!"

She took off, running forward to the hallway behind them. She started to turn right, but gasps, horrified, as they both felt more than heard the low growl coming from that direction. The beast, he remembered, a shudder of fear snaking up his back. Nearly slipping on the wet ground, she twisted the other way, rushing down the corridor. He limped agonisingly behind her, a mental image of Emma held frantically in his mind as he pushed the pain to some other part of his mind, for some other time.

"I told you, we'll never make it!" she yells, her voice nearly hysterical with fear.

"We won't," he answers, grabbing her arm and pulling her back, spinning her to face him, "but you will." His one chance to escape, he knew, his one chance would have to become hers, this was the only way to get a message out. He took a breath, trying to calm his fears, his pain, his desperation, so she would have a chance.

"I'll draw the hell beast away, you run!" She nodded, her face a mask of terror as another low growl rumbled through the narrow passageway. A message, all he needed was a message, and he would be free soon enough. Hope, he reminded himself, clinging to that last lifeline that burned with every ounce of his soul.

"Once you're free, find Emma Swan." The words tumbled out, he was almost delirious as he gave her the instructions. "I'm Captain Killian Jones, Captain Hook, tell her to find me. Go!"

He sent her off with a push, hoping she remembered everything, hoping she would find Emma, hoping she would convey the message and bring the others. She ran down the hallway, disappearing around a turn. His hand went back to his pained ribs and he limped as he turned to face the beast, his non-living heart pounding painfully in his chest, his lungs burning for air he didn't need.

A pair of glowing eyes appeared at the end of the corridor, the source of the growling no doubt. He swallowed hard, his mind racing through ideas, plans, distractions, as he stubbornly ignored any fear of more pain, more injuries.

His last thought, as the beast bound toward him from the doorway, was not of him, not of the girl he just pushed toward her freedom.

His last thought was of her, his Emma, and he hoped he could hold out long enough for her to reach him.