Written for a prompt of Killian being tempted by a siren using Emma's form. This is set after he sacrifices himself and before he arrives in the Underworld.

after the end of our story

He's dead.

Or at least, he thinks he is.

The skiff sails down a river, moving without wind or waves and guided by some unseen hand. A lantern is hung above the bow, swinging back and forth from the mouth of the swan. The whole boat is shaped like the large bird, carved wings that cup and cradle him as he lies on his back and stares up at the moonless sky.

A sailor was always buried at sea, sewn up in his own hammock and consigned to the deep. But no linen shrouds his face and he floats instead of sinks, drifting along water as dark as ink. He thinks he might drift forever, the river doesn't seem to end and he catches no sign of shore or bank beyond the yellow cone of light.

Gold hair, that was as bright as the sun gone white as the moon, silver and gold, he'll take either one, for he's a pirate and she's a treasure, a hidden jewel with gemstone eyes.

Memories seep from him like the blood that stained the blade and soaked the ground when she ran him through. Silver hair and red lips, and a love that was a blight and damned them both. He remembers, and then he doesn't, it slips away like it was stolen by the wind. She is taken from him piece by piece, the words he'd longed to hear before she was swallowed up by darkness, a soft pink gown and a softer smile, he's a gentleman and she's a lady and deserves a proper courtship or as best as he can manage in this strange land. All the pages of their book, their tale, their story of Neverland and New York, beanstalks and ballgowns, a broken pirate and a lost princess...it passes through his fingers like sand, impossible to hold and then it's gone.

Gone…

Gone…

Gone...

He's dead.

Her eyes were blue, sea and sky and sadness. She loves him, and he loves her, though at first it was merely an amusement, a warm bed and petty posturing in front of a snivelling coward to make his men laugh and bolster his tale. He steals wives as well as gold, he bows to no king and flies no flag save the Jolly Roger. She is his and he becomes hers, and they'll go back for her boy, one day, when he's old enough, one day...the sorrow that never quite leaves her even as he shows her wonders.

One day.

One day he comes back, coward turned Crocodile, and then she's gone.

Sea and sky fade away, another tale forgotten as black water laps at the boat and he drifts on.

The moon does not rise though the sun never set, and the stars...there was a man once, a good one, with broad shoulders that carried too much weight and yet never bowed. He knew how to read the stars, to raise the sail, a sailor and a brother. Blood kin and bound, in honour and duty and love. The face is twin to his own, a reflection in a mirror that slowly goes dark.

Is this death? To be taken apart piece by piece until nothing was left? The swan boat carries him along...to the end of the world and the end of time and he closes his eyes.

He's dead.

He decides he can live with that.

There's no sound save for the lap of the water against the boat and a pleasant hum in his ears. His heart no longer beats and the rhythm is something else, it rises and falls and makes his fingers twitch. It's a song, sweeter than honey and more intoxicating than spirits, filling his head with dreams of coy smiles and low necklines, pearl-pink skin and quivering thighs. He's dead, but parts of him are stirring to life and he rises in more ways than one, sitting up and peering around into the gloom. The voice sings without words, just as lovers sang their pleasure in his bed and he loses himself in the sound as he lost himself in soft breasts and flared hips. It's driving him mad, scrambling to his knees in the boat and searching fruitlessly for the source.

Look down

She's under the water, a mermaid without a tail, swimming on her back and looking up at him. He snatches the lantern from the swan's mouth and holds it over the side of the boat so he can see her better, the yellow light revealing plump cheeks and delicate collarbones, pert breasts and slim legs. Gloriously bare, hair streaming over her shoulders and the shadow of her navel a dip that he longs to trace with his thumb. She disappears and he feels frantic worry immediately claw at his belly before a splash alerts him that she's dived under the boat and is on the other side now. A smile lights her face when he finds her again but she doesn't stop singing, the lilting call draws him closer and closer to the dark water until he's almost touching it. Her hand rises, palm open and he places his over hers above the river.

The boat is more than big enough for two and he can easily pull her up, but something makes him pause before plunging his arm under. He lifts the light higher and frowns, feels the Swan rock under him.

Swan.

Her smile falters, brows knitting together as she beckons and he doesn't answer. Long fingers probe from under the waves but don't break the surface and he realizes quickly that she can't. She's trapped, only able to reach him through her song and her palm turns and beckons again. More insistent this time, sinking down and rising up. He wants to follow, wants it more than he can remember ever wanting anything.

He can't remember ever wanting anything.

He can't remember anything.

Swan

Lips pull back in a grimace, hands turn to claws as the song grows louder and he feels his eardrums will burst from it as pain lances through his head and he collapses back into the boat with his hands clapped over his ears.

Hand.

There's only one.

The Swan rocks more violently this time, nearly tipping over and the lantern knocks on it's side. Light dances over his face and gleams off the curve of the hook.

"So you have heard of me?"

He pulls himself back up and peers over the side. She's still there, glaring up at him and he blinks. The shape of the face, the curve of the jaw, the slope of the breasts. It pulls at the back of his mind while the song is a muted, muffled noise that is as sour as vinegar and as foul as bilgewater.

"You're not her."

The eyes widen, cheeks going hollow instead of full and long strands of golden hair floating away in thick clumps. She withers before his eyes, beauty fading as the creature underneath was revealed. Shark teeth and mottled skin, like a bird plucked of its feathers and stripped of all plumage. They stare at each other, until she sinks down and the river swallows her whole.

His name is Killian Jones.

He's dead.

But she's still alive and she's the most stubborn woman he's ever encountered in all the realms he's travelled. Their love is a beacon, a guiding light and as he sinks back into the embrace of the swan boat and stares up at a sky suddenly filled with stars he wonders if perhaps their story is not quite finished yet.