Warning: This chapter contains explicit descriptions of violence and gore. Do not read if that is a no-go for you.
This is quite the long one, but it didn't make sense narratively speaking to split it up, so enjoy! It was a beast to write, and I've spent so much time rereading and tweaking and proofing that I finally just had to throw it up and hope for the best, so I really hope everyone likes it.
Silence traveled in a wave before them as they strode along the packed dirt streets of the small coastal town, whispers following in their wake. Most of the words were indiscernible, but occasionally the hiss of a moniker known across the Enchanted Forest could be heard echoing like a curse.
Hook…
The port was not a busy one, but it was in possession of a deep bay, and the Jolly Roger loomed over the docks below, the laborers and fishermen glancing at its pennant and the men aboard as if a ghost had risen from the floors of the sea to haunt them.
Hook and Emma moved at the head of the crew as they climbed the rising path into the town square, ancient cobbles and ramshackle stone walls framing the port's only tavern. The sky was barren of clouds and the sun glinted brazenly off the steel of their weapons, none drawing more glances than the infamous hook at the end of the Captain's arm. Patrons resting along the porch of the tavern shrunk back as the group moved across its length and into the cool interior, the reputation of Hook and his crew clearing their path.
While their days in Neverland had been well-spent, Emma was eager to enjoy their time ashore in the Enchanted Forest and take advantage of Hook's company while they partook of the luxuries that ships could not provide. In the past, it had been unusual for him to disembark and join the men, though Emma knew that would change now that she was by his side, neither liking to be parted from the other for long. Not fond of crowds, and far from tempted by the vices in town, Pidgin and Quill had remained aboard to watch over the ship.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the tavern, but the scene was comforting and familiar once they did. Every eye in the place was turned to where they blackened the door, the bar wenches frozen in their movements as they tried to weigh whether the crew was here for revelry or trouble, and how much they could expect from either circumstance. Their question was answered as Skirts pushed his way through the other men and stood just behind Hook, jingling his coin pouch merrily as he raked his gaze over the serving wenches. The tension lingering in the room evaporated.
"Ale for my crew," Hook demanded, heading for a table in the corner as the men followed, Skirts trailing as he caught the eye of a dark-haired woman adjusting her corset, "and rum."
The common din of the tavern resumed as its patrons relaxed enough to turn back to their drinks, content that the Captain and his crew were merely here to enjoy themselves. Williams and Ephraim pulled chairs beside Hook and Emma, Cowry and Maddock taking the seats with their backs to the door. Owen, suspicious to a fault and ever ready for some trouble, leaned against the wall near the door, leering at the women brazen enough to meet his eyes as he fingered the hilt of his sword. Avery, losing lessons never learned, headed toward the first game of dice he laid eyes on. Maddock almost seemed out of place amongst the crew, his face young and unlined, no sight of the scars that crossed the other men, his boot tapping nervously against the warped floorboards while they waited on the wenches to bring ale and drink. Cowry clapped his hand solidly on the youth's back and Maddock stilled his foot, smiling at the older man.
"Tell us then, Skirts," Hook drawled, nimbly lifting a bottle of rum from a serving wench as she approached the table, laden with drink, "recognize any of the lovelies from our last stop here?"
According to legend aboard the Jolly Roger, Skirts had a tried and true method of determining how much time had passed in the Enchanted Forest while they were in Neverland. Skirts true passion, outside of pirating, was women. He didn't care whether their tresses were red, or black, or grey, whether their corset needed to be cinched or let out—he loved them all, and apparently never forgot a woman, nor how much she may have aged.
Skirts had been hovering at the edge of group, hesitant to commit to sitting and drinking when his thoughts were very clearly focused on other needs. The pirate's eyes roved back to the dark-haired woman with fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the skin of her hands and neck still youthful, but beginning to paper with age and hard work. Jutting out her hip coyly, she winked at Skirts.
"That wench there look familiar, but I won' know until I git a closer peek," he chortled, grinning lecherously and miming an act with his tongue that had the crew roaring as they shoved him on his way.
They didn't expect the portly pirate to return for some time with his prediction, but no one was in a rush for answers, preferring to enjoy the fresh food and drink. Dice were tossed with some of the more adventurous locals who were eager for the chance to win a few pieces of gold, and the crew settled in for a rousing day of celebration—glad to be able to make use of the treasure haul from Neverland. Williams stuffed his gullet with plate after plate of chicken and vegetables, and Ephraim disappeared to the back of the tavern with two willing girls at his side. Maddock had turned his chair to another table, joining a nearby game of ha'penny, and Owen continued his stoic appraisal of the room from his post at the door. Emma and Hook watched the merriment as their fingers and lips found one another between drags of rum, listening for any scraps of conversation that may hint at when they had returned to the Enchanted Forest, or if there was any important news moving between the ports. They certainly didn't want rumors about their absence, or curious questions, traveling, so Hook and the crew were always discreet when it came to searching for information on their return.
When Skirts finally showed his face once more, he was in high snuff, his clothing skewed and his pants loosely laced over his wide belly, cheeks red and winded as he dropped to the table, snatching a near empty flagon and downing the remnants before tearing a chunk from the bread on Maddock's plate.
"Hey," Maddock huffed, turning from his game and giving Skirts a shove that did little to displace the large man from his seat.
"You can complain when ye work up an appetite as I do," Skirts teased, roughing the young man's hair before turning his attention to Hook.
"Well, old man," Hook pressed, arching an eyebrow and gesturing toward the back hallway that Skirts had ambled from moments earlier, "enlighten us, how did the wine age?"
"Oh, I reck'n three years at least 'ave come'n'gone," Skirts started, chewing his bread around the words. "I recall that mouthwatering tart from our last leave here."
"Three years?" Emma demanded, slapping her hand on the table and making the dice jump and scatter. "You can tell that from what's under her skirts? I don't bloody believe it!"
Skirts grumbled at the inquisition, his cheeks somehow reddening further, and Hook laughed as Emma went back and forth with him over his questionable talent. Cowry smiled softly at the easy banter and removed himself from the table, heading to the other side of the tavern where he invited himself into what looked to be a rollicking conversation between several drunkards. Emma was still arguing with Skirts when Cowry returned and pounded his fist on the table, interrupting the noise.
"Seven years," Cowry uttered lowly, his gaze meeting Hook's uneasily as the number sunk in. "Almost seven years have passed since we left Port Bastisse."
A strained quiet settled across the table and Hook leaned closer, his voice dropping. "You're certain?"
"Aye," Cowry muttered. "Ask four drunks the year and at least two will have the right answer, but none of them will likely remember it the next day."
"What's wrong with that?" Emma asked, already doing the math in her head. She had turned twenty-one shortly before meeting Hook, and seven years would put her at nearly twenty-eight if she went by how the years here had passed while they were in Neverland.
"It's a touch longer than we're used to, love," Hook added, waving at the men to return to their revelry as he took a deep swig from the bottle of rum resting between them, "not that it matters in the grand scheme of things. It's simply unusual. Ordinarily, a few years pass by at the most."
"Well look at that, Skirts," Emma jabs, her fingers circling around the neck of the rum as she tugs it gently from Hook's fingers, smiling around the glass as she takes a celebratory draw. "You were far more than a few years off. I guess that means I get your share from the next haul."
Skirts grumbled, seeking solace in the rest of Maddock's dinner, much to the young lad's annoyance, but there was no more talk of time and years and their passing. As Hook had said, it mattered little. For the crew and its Captain, any people they'd once loved or hated were long gone, so what was another seven years swept away in a breath? For Emma, it was a strange and liberating feeling, shucking the bonds of time. While her body had retained its youth, bathed as it were in Neverland's magic, to this world, she'd grown older, its land and people leaping forward without her. Her thoughts shifted to the only person that had once mattered to her in this place, Columbine. Emma wondered if she was still free, alive even. News had spread before they'd even left for Neverland that the refugees of the north were growing bolder in their defense of what little they had, that there was no shortage of hanging trees for thieves and brigands. The betrayal was still bitter at the back of her throat, and Emma knew that no matter how much time had passed, it would always be a knife in her gut, that moment when she'd realized Columbine was abandoning her, leaving her to die, or worse. She took another mouthful of rum, washing the memory away and reaching across the table to take her turn with the dice. Though the atmosphere had shifted, curiosity and uncertainty circling everyone's thoughts, the crew tried to settle back into their meals and drink, hoping to reclaim the easy frivolity that had disappeared at Cowry's revelation.
It wasn't meant to be.
Emma's eyes snapped from the dice to the doorframe, her fingers squeezing Hook's thigh beneath the table at the same moment Owen shifted, his casual posture tensing slightly. Hook leaned forward just enough to glance through the rheumy windowpane to his right, scowling briefly before his features returned to a careful mask of indifference.
The rest of Hook's crew shifted in their chairs as the noise of shuffling boots approached, interrupted by the occasional sigh of metal caressing metal as the footsteps climbed onto the porch outside, reverberating along the planks. A few seconds passed and the doorway was suddenly filled by another group of men—a crew. The regulars withdrew further into their corners, aware that while one crew of pirates may not spell trouble, two was most certainly the quiet before the storm.
Outwardly, nothing much changed among Hook's men—they'd been together for so long that it was second nature for them to follow Hook's lead unquestioningly. The dice still rolled and flagons of ale were tipped back, but the knuckles around them were whiter, and eyes watched the newcomers carefully. Cowry had slipped quietly back into his seat at the same moment Maddock turned his chair back around, abandoning his game with the locals and, sensing the shift in the winds, keeping his eyes on his plate. There was a tense moment where the newcomers hovered in the door, eyeing Hook's crew tersely, but it passed and they moved inside, commandeering the few empty seats left.
The bar wenches cautiously brought more drink to the new men and the normal din of the tavern resumed. For anyone familiar with the sea and those who lived upon it, there was no difficulty in telling a pirate from the king's men and merchants—the lack of livery, the swagger that comes from having none to answer to beyond their captain—and these men were clearly pirates. It seemed the townspeople enjoying the tavern had reached the same conclusion, and once the doorway was clear, more than a handful rose from their seats and hurried into the sun, preferring the company of chores and wives to the undercurrent of tension at their favorite watering hole.
Emma looked around the tavern for one of the bar wenches, but after serving the newcomers, they'd quietly disappeared somewhere into the back. The realization heightened her unease. It had been a long time—seven years, apparently—since they'd docked in this particular port, and they knew nothing of the crew that they now shared the tavern with, or who their captain may be. The way the strangers threw glances between each other, it was evident that whoever their captain was, he hadn't joined them on shore. In contrast, Hook's sway over his crew was obvious, each man looking to him for direction before returning to their drinks, his orders as clear as they were silent. His left arm was still tucked below the table's edge, his hook curled in Emma's grip, hidden from sight. While it was probably clear to the other crew that Hook was the Captain, Emma doubted they had any idea just who he was.
Her thoughts drifted to Pidgin and Quill, the two men they'd left aboard. Neither were well-versed in combat, but Quill was more than capable of using his iron pots to devastating effect, and Pidgin was always at the ready to send an alarm should there be trouble brewing. He may have been old, but no one other than Emma was capable of sneaking up on him in the rigging, and the port was small, if there had been trouble at the ship, they would have heard.
"I think we need some more ale," Emma muttered, desperate to relieve the silence and to get a more thorough once-over of the pirates and their weapons, which was difficult to do from her seat. She pushed away from the table and headed towards the back of the tavern where the barkeep was running a rag aimlessly over a wet trencher.
Hook nodded his agreement as she rose, knowing he need not be concerned about his Swan moving freely though the tavern. She was no bar wench. She'd survived in the ruins of the north for five years before joining his crew, and now she had even more skills at her disposal, should they be needed. She was more than capable of taking care of herself, but it didn't stop his eyes, darkened with something feral, from following her path to the bar, nor the eyes of the newcomers, he noticed. He couldn't help the low snarl that moved from his throat, and didn't bother to disguise the warning in his eyes as a few of them glanced in his direction.
Mine.
He may not need to worry over her safety, but he could bloody well make certain they knew she was spoken for.
Emma returned quickly with two jugs in one hand—the heavy, earthenware kind, he noted, good in a scuffle—and a deep bowl of stew with bread sopping in it. She dropped the bowl in front of Maddock and nudged Skirts deliberately with her leg as she sat the jugs on the table within reach of Cowry and Williams.
"Go on, Skirts, clear out," she ordered, sliding easily into his chair as he grumbled. "With you sat here, Maddock won't get a bite to eat, and your belly is big enough as it is."
Maddock grinned at the steaming bowl of soup and tucked in as Skirts shuffled over to the empty seat at Hook's side. It was another sign that trouble was brewing, Skirts sticking around. Usually, after a brief second-wind and a bite to eat, he was ready to move onto the next course with a willing woman, but the air in the tavern was heavy, the tension building rather than dissipating.
Her eyes met Hook's and neither needed words. Several men from the other crew had gathered together and drifted not far from Owen, looming behind Maddock and Cowry. The ringleader was an older man, thin and wiry with a scar running through his cheek and lip, his stringy, gray hair capped with a dirty bandana. Swan had placed herself at the side of the young lad, and on the edge of their group, certain that if a brawl were to arise, she would be in the best position to use her magic without harming any of their own crew.
Hook would have preferred to have her by his side—he couldn't help but feel that terrible things leaned into them when they were separated—but he understood her caution. Her control of her magic was still tenuous, and worrying that she may hit one of them would not make it any simpler for her to wield.
The few patrons left had probably decided it was safer to stay in their darkened corners than to chance pushing through the pirates to get outside, but there was no more forced laughter or conversations. A deadly silence hung in the air.
The four men gathered nearby shared a few more glances before the greasy one with the bandana nodded, coming to a decision. They closed the short distance to Hook's table, their flagons still in their hands, and feigned interest in the game of dice that had been abandoned before glancing up at Hook with curiosity. These were weathered men—Emma could see the scars that crisscrossed their skin, the fresh wounds still red and tender that decorated their bodies. Their blades were nicked and well-worn, but still lethally sharp. Nothing about them made her think they would turn away from a good fight.
"Well, aren't you a pretty thing," the ringleader leered, turning his gaze on Emma and licking his lips as he dragged his eyes along what was visible of her body. "Do you spread your cunny for all the men here, or just the Captain?"
"Watch your tongue," Owen hissed, moving before even Emma could react to the words. His warning came as he drew the hilt of his blade from his side. "The Captain doesn't take kindly to careless words from spineless dogs."
Flagons jumped and the table rattled beneath the weight of Hook's fist as he brought it down, his eyes locking with the beady stare of the scarred pirate as he looked up from beneath heavy brows.
"I'd take heed of that warning, mate," Hook cautioned. His words were deceptively calm, but Emma wasn't fooled. There was a bottomless void in Hook's eyes as he stared down the interloper—in that moment they were the eyes of a man who had looked into the dark grave of the earth and found only his own face looking back. "I've been known to cut out men's tongues for far less."
The greasy man in the bandana sneered as his men shifted behind him, his lip twisting unnaturally beneath the pull of his scar. Seconds ticked by as they held each other's gaze, but finally the interloper gave in, clearing his throat and looking away from Hook—his surrender the affirmation of a man who had been measured and come up wanting. Not that he was keen to back down in front of his fellow pirates—common sense seemed to be in short supply with this crew.
"Is that so?" he parried, bumping his elbows against the men behind him and studiously avoiding Hook's gaze. "Problem is, I ain't worried 'bout what your captain doesn't 'take kindly to'. I don't know your captain, and I don't know this crew, which means you may bluster, but you ain't nothin' to worry about. Besides that, these waters here, they belong to Captain Marwood."
Emma rose from her chair at the slight, her mind snapping to the well of magic inside of her at the exact moment Williams drew his blade, Avery moving quickly toward the table with his own cutlass firm in hand. It seemed a reckoning was coming, but a raised hand from Hook stilled the movement of his crew, and as evidence of the sheer authority he radiated as a Captain, the twitching hands of the rival pirates as well.
"You've made quite the mistake, mate," Hook drawled, retrieving his rum, seemingly unconcerned with the bloodbath threatening to erupt as he leaned back and took a swig. "First, you insult my lass, and now you insult me—but because I believe in good form, and it's clear you're at a loss as to who I am, I'll give you a chance to rectify your error, you see—" and he lifted his hook from below the table, the wicked curve glinting in the light as he gestured broadly and chuckled "—all of these waters belong to me."
"That can't be—you can't be," the man stuttered, his eyes following the ominous path of the hook as he licked his lips and swallowed dryly. "He's been dead for years. Long dead."
"I can assure you, I'm alive and well—not that hell wasn't interested, simply couldn't stomach me."
"If you're him, where've you been all these years?" A few of the other pirates grunted in approval of this line of questioning, bumping their ringleader with supportive camaraderie, the scarred man allowing a tentative smirk to cross his face, as if he'd caught out an imposter.
"The voyage back from hell is no fair-weather affair, mate, but if you're curious, I'd be more than willing to send you along as a gift to my good friend Davey Jones…once I finish my drink. There's no helping the rum down there."
The entire tavern was still as Hook swirled the deep amber rum in the jug before downing another mouthful, but by the time he'd thumped the heavy bottom against the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the other pirates had skulked a few steps back before retreating through the door, no shortage of worried glances cast back over their shoulders. Emma dropped back into her seat as Hook's crew sheathed their weapons, glad that the run-in hadn't resulted in a bloodbath. After a few minutes Hook nodded to Owen, tipping his chin toward the door. Owen quietly ducked out of the tavern—Emma could only assume to keep an eye on the troublesome crew that had just left.
"Oi!" Hook shouted, rapping his fist against the table once more and glancing across the darkened tavern. "Barkeep!"
The few locals remaining startled at the thump of Hook's fist, watching from ducked necks as the barkeep and his girls returned from the back, the older man scurrying over to the table where Hook's crew had reclaimed their seats. Hook wasn't about to let his first trip ashore in some time end on such a dismal note.
"More rum," he demanded, pulling his coin purse from his greatcoat and emptying a good portion of it onto the tabletop, the barkeep scrambling to contain the cascade of silver and gold coins bouncing and rolling every which way, "and keep the ale flowing for whichever good patrons have remained."
"Yes, Captain, of course, of course, sir," the barkeep stammered, backing away with the glint of gold between his fingers. He jerked his head toward the girls and one of them rushed over with more rum, her eyes lingering coyly on Hook—the sight of gold must have made her brave.
Emma didn't feel the least bit guilty shooting daggers in the lass' direction.
"Oh, and barkeep, prepare your best room, and a hot bath as well," Hook added, waggling his brows at Emma, his good mood very much returned at the thought of having her hot and wet and writhing around him.
Only a few rounds later, Owen returned and headed for Hook, bearing news that the crew had returned to their ship—a galleon that had docked after their own arrival—and that she'd set sail, crossing the horizon only moments ago.
"Pidgin and Quill?"
"All's shipshape, Captain."
"As you were then," Hook ordered, satisfied with Owen's report. "Swan and I will be lodging here tonight. The rest of the day is your own, but I want you—as well as Ephraim and Cowry—back aboard by sunset."
Emma ambled back over to Hook's side once Owen had moved off, an impish twist to her lips as she slid across his lap, threading her fingers between his.
"That bar wench seemed quite interested in capturing your eye, Captain."
"What bar wench?" he purred, his hook bringing her more solidly to his chest as he tucked himself against her neck, his teeth nibbling along her sensitive skin and spreading heat in her belly. "There's only one lass here who's captured my attention, among other things."
His teeth marked a burning line along her jaw and she dipped toward him, capturing his lips as they both angled to deepen the connection. Emma loved claiming him like this, knowing it was a warning to any of the girls looking his way—that he was taken, he was hers—but need coiled and throbbed between her legs, and suddenly the tumult of the tavern was too much. She wanted her senses filled with him—not the noise of the tavern.
"Maybe we should take this somewhere with a bit more privacy," she urged, grinding herself against the thick hardness pressed into her thighs, feeling how wet she was already for him.
"Aye, a few more coins should hurry that old sod along," he agreed, rising suddenly and sweeping a delighted Emma into his arms as he kicked a chair out of his way and carried her toward the back.
Emma wandered the narrow streets of the port town, Araapo, she had learned it was called, taking in the ebb and flow of life here as she went—the pots being emptied in side alleys, the shopkeepers moving their most colorful wares to blankets and tables outdoors. The town was small, and it didn't take long for the border to appear in the distance, steep hillsides with well-trodden paths rising alongside herds of grazing oxen. She watched the people as they passed by her, all of them giving her a wide berth. It was expected. Rather than blending in as she would have once done, she made no efforts to disguise the blades on her legs, nor the quiet confidence that rolled from her shoulders as she walked. The townspeople were not unlike the cattle afield in that way—they knew she was not one of the herd.
It wasn't a strange feeling, the feeling of not-belonging. It was one she had grown up with and had never been able to shake until recently—until Hook.
She belonged with him, aboard the Jolly with their crew.
But she still didn't belong here, in towns like this, she never would.
She'd traveled between realms, discovered a magic all her own and that of some mysterious entity that had chosen her. They'd battled a sea monster from depths unchallenged by any man and lived to tell the tale—all while here, for seven years, the run rose and fell and these people toiled along the same rut they'd worn into the earth long ago, emptying their chamber pots and hoping for a clean wind—but not even the wind could run free among these buildings and paths.
She'd lived more in the time she'd been with Hook than these people had lived in all of those seven years.
Emma couldn't imagine her life being any fuller and more satisfying than it was right now with Hook at her side. He knew her heart as well as he knew her body. She couldn't stop her thoughts from drifting back to the night before, desire stirring in her belly at the thought of her pirate.
She shuddered as Hook's fingers trailed down her spine, hot water racing along the valleys of her body as he moved lower, his calloused hand palming the swell of her backside roughly.
"Do you like that, Swan?"
A slow groan fell against the flesh of her arm, her skin tingling from the press of her teeth as she anchored herself against the waves of pleasure still breaking inside. Her own slick wetness coated her thighs and if she were to look back, she knew his face would be fucking sinful.
The warmth of his hand disappeared followed by a resounding slap that blossomed into a beautiful sting. She whimpered, jolting forward against the edge of the tub as water sloshed over the edge.
"I expect you to speak when your Captain asks you a question."
"Yes," she breathed, wriggling her bottom and searching for the weight of him again. "Yes, Captain."
He chuckled darkly, tenderly running his fingers along her reddened flesh as she felt the firmness of his stump against her thigh, steadying her.
"You're a naughty lass," he chastised, using his arm to hold her as he dipped his fingers once more into her sopping folds, dragging her wetness up as he circled her puckered entry, eliciting a trembling moan from her lips. "Tell me, Swan, would you let your Captain take you, even here?"
"Yes," she panted, gasping as she felt a finger push gently into her, stretching her in a way that stirred a wicked need to have him claim every inch of her flesh. "Yes, Captain, please…"
"Perhaps one day, you greedy minx," he purred, canting his hips so that the head of his cock parted her folds, barely slipping inside. She bucked against him, desperate to feel the burn of him sinking into her fully. "Now, now, Swan, none of that. Be still, Captain's orders."
Emma whimpered as he slowly pushed into her, just barely teasing her over and over, wetness leaking down her thighs from her swollen flesh as he tortured her with unhurried, drawn out thrusts that rubbed that delicate place inside of her, making her hungry for more.
"Please, Captain," she moaned, begging now, her thighs shaking as his cock dragged slowly within her. "Killian…please…"
He thrust forward with a growl, her walls clamping around him at the sudden stretch, her panting breaths spiraling as she started to lose herself beneath him, lights and fire crackling along her skin.
"Is this what you needed? All of me?" he murmured, pulling out and slamming home once more, setting a desperate pace as he claimed her over and over, her name falling from his lips as she pushed herself from the edge of the tub and reared against his chest, his angle changing as he thrust up into her, her hands folding around his fingers and his stump.
"Emma…" he whispered into the golden waterfall of her hair. "Emma…oh, love…"
Emma was drawn from the pleasant memory by a man from across the market—some tradesman or other. He'd caught sight of her leaning in the shade of an awning and changed his course to head her way, perhaps curious about the woman with the gold hair and whether or not any gold graced her finger, but he didn't make it more than half way across the square before he met her gaze and saw something that unsettled him—the path his eyes took to the blades strapped at her thighs made his decision all the more clear. He tacked quickly and headed for a nearby stall selling baskets, picking up one or two and pretending to examine the weaving before dropping them and hurrying off, casting a last glance in her direction.
Instinct lingered, it would seem. These people understood in their gut that she may look like them, but she was nothing like them.
It was time to head back to the ship and home—she had a Captain waiting for her, and found she was eager to leave this place and be back on the open water. She made to leave when the sound of something heavy striking wood caught her attention, and she turned to see what the commotion may be.
A grizzled man with a long beard leaned over his table, a heavy wooden mallet clutched in his fist as he glared at the ground in front of him.
"Watch yer hands, thief", the man barked, waving the mallet warningly, "if ye'd like to keep 'em."
Emma tilted to see who he was arguing with and the skin on the back of her neck crawled, bile rising in her throat as her fingers twitched for her blades. Cowering out of reach of the man was a small boy, his body curled even as his eyes darted wistfully to a basket of fresh pears. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a pear, and she would bet the boy never had. Her stomach knotted at the memory of days she went cold and hungry as a child, her empty belly groaning and gnawing. He was a wee thing, and she could see even from afar that his arms were too thin and his face was missing the stoutness of youth, instead it was taut and pale. When the boy didn't flee immediately at the shopkeeper's warning, the man raised the mallet once more, swinging it toward the boy—but he was fast enough at least to stay out of reach, and darted into the shadows of an alley not far off.
Swallowing her disgust at the man who wouldn't share even a piece of fruit with a starving child, she made her way over to the table, running her fingers along the firm skin of the pears. The old shopkeeper eyed her warily, but then his gaze fell on the feather bracelet wrapped around her arm and he smiled generously, dropping the mallet and waving a fat hand over his wares, inviting her to peruse at her leisure.
Emma pulled a square of red cotton from her trews and chose some goods—several juicy pears, a muslin wrapped cheese, and a handful of fresh figs with sticky skins. Tying them off and pressing a gold coin into the shopkeeper's hand—too much, she knew, but it was all she had—she turned to find the young boy. The alley was shadowed, a stack of crates nearly blocking the entrance, but peeking around them she could see his narrow face watching the market longingly.
"Hey," Emma called, but the boy dashed further into the alley. She followed, ducking down near a pile of scrap he had tucked himself behind. "It's alright, kid—look."
She pulled a corner of the makeshift rucksack loose, showing him the food within. The boy stepped forward involuntarily before moving back once more, his eyes narrowing even as he licked his lips. Poor thing, he'd probably learned the hard way that gifts were never free, and that sometimes the cost wasn't worth the full belly.
"It's all yours," she insisted, placing the package on the ground between them and stepping back, her hands raised. It wasn't until she had moved nearly to the entrance of the alley that the boy scampered forward and snatched the bundle, nearly loosing the pears in his rush to gather everything and escape.
Emma watched his small frame as he disappeared into the shadows, her thoughts carried back to times she knew were better off forgotten—times where hunger and fear and bone-gnawing cold made her think about how little she had been wanted, how little she had been worth to her parents, or anyone else—but not anymore. She brushed herself off and stood from her crouched position, ready to head home.
The soil crunched behind her, her gut twisting as she realized something was wrong, but by the time she spun around, her hands already moving for her blades, it was too late—something heavy connected with the side of her head and she crumpled to the ground, only a brief flicker of a shadowed face remaining behind her eyelids.
Hook narrows his eyes against the sun, the pit of unease rolling in his stomach when it confirms what he already knew—something was wrong. Emma had left the tavern to explore the town not long after daybreak and it was already nearing noon, long past when he'd expected her to return to the ship. The Jolly Roger creaks behind him on her moorings, echoing his disquiet. He worries the rings on his hand as he strides up the path to the tavern square, leaving the men behind to finish readying the ship. While the docks are fairly quiet, there's enough foot traffic in the town that it's easy to discern in which way the market lies, and after only a few turns, he finds himself among the shops and tables that are a familiar sight in most port towns—the barrels stocked with dried fish and goods—but no sign of his Swan.
"You, lass!" he snaps, seizing the cloak of a woman passing by between his fingertips, her steps faltering as she whips around to face him. He's under no illusion as to how these townsfolk perceive him, so he isn't surprised when she flinches at the sight of him, cowering slightly until she understands he means her no immediate harm. "I'm looking for a woman, golden hair and a pair of blades strapped to her legs—as opposed to a lawful merchant or farmer as one can be." He waves his hook back and forth between them and the girl's face pales further. "Have you seen her?"
"N-no, m'lord," she stammers, her eyes following the gleam of his hook as she speaks. "I've not seen anyone like that."
"I'm no lord," he mutters, releasing his hold on her cloak as she scurries off. The unease in his gut deepens, twisting. Something had gone badly, very badly indeed.
"Captain, is it?" A gruff voice calls from nearby, and Hook swivels to find an old man, his beard gray and resting on the round chest of someone who's done well for himself. "The woman you speak of, she was 'ere."
"Where has she gone?" Hook growls.
The merchant's raises a thick eyebrow and looks pointedly at Hook'. Wasting no time, Hook reaches within his greatcoat and snaps a single gold coin onto the splintering wood of the table. The old man's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak, but his eyes alight on Hook's rings greedily and he merely wets his lips before glancing once more at the heavy length of Hook's coat.
"If you don't speak what you know," Hook seethes, tamping down the desire to drag the man across the table and plant his hook in his back, "I'm going to use this coin—" he draws the coin loudly across the table and picks it up, holding it between himself and the greedy merchant "—to carve each of your eyes from your skull, and we shall see how fares your appetite for gold when you're a sightless beggar."
The old man stumbles back a few steps, his hands raised as the words tumble from his mouth. "She purchased some food and followed after a thief, a boy who always lurks nearby, toward that alley across the way—t'was the last I saw her, I swear!"
Hook tosses the coin back toward the merchant with little care for how the man has to scrounge for it in the dirt, turning swiftly and striding across the market toward the narrow opening of an alley that lies tucked behind a stack of crates and barrels. It is a small lane, appearing to be mostly used for storage and quick passage from one portion of town to the next, but despite that it is well-lit by the noon sun. It doesn't take more than a few heartbeats for him to notice the small puddle of blood just within the cover of the buildings. He reaches down to touch it, but there is no warmth left and most of it has already soaked into the dusty ground. It seems wherever she was taken, it had happened early on in the morning. A small, meandering trails of drops, barely visible, lead farther into the alley.
Rage rises in his chest as he paces further into the alley, hoping for another sign of her, but there is nothing—just her blood fading into nothingness. A snarl tears from his throat and he swipes at a stack of crates, the wood splintering and cracking as it topples to the hard ground. From behind another pile of scrap, a shadow startles into movement.
Hook rounds on it, the fury lacing his features softening as he sees the lad standing just out of his immediate reach.
"Are you a pirate?" The voice is small and laced with curiosity, but not fear.
Hook's eyes alight immediately on a familiar item, a swathe of worn, red cotton, a piece he's seen her wipe across her brow many a time.
Emma.
"Aye, lad," he nods, kneeling down and schooling his face into something more comforting. "And I'm looking for one of my own. I do believe you've crossed paths." He motions toward the fabric the boy clutches, a few rations still visible within.
"Was she a pirate too? She was awful nice."
It doesn't escape Hook's notice that the child is thin-cheeked and bears the marks of rough hands on his arms, and he understands innately why Emma had brought food to the boy.
"She is, lad. Did you see what happened to her?" Hook asks, holding his fingers smeared with sticky blood and dirt up for the child to see.
"One of the pirates had her," the boy whispers. "The other ones. I was eating—she gave me this," he reminds Hook, then regretting his confession, pulled the sack closer once more to make clear he was not offering it to share. "I heard someone loud and big, so I hid. When I looked, I saw his sword—like yours—and your friend with the yellow hair. She was hung over his back. She looked asleep."
"These other pirates, do they make land here often?"
The boy nods, tipping his head toward the docks where the Jolly Roger was docked. "Not today though because your ship is here."
"That's true, lad. What if they still wanted to come to the town, is there a place where they may have moored if not at the docks?"
"There's a bay nearby," the boy said after thinking for a moment, his eyes darting back to the food in his hands. "I go sometimes to get eggs. It's outside of town, north, I think, then back to the sea. There's a path."
It's the years of experience feigning one emotion or another that allows Hook to keep his features calm, even as dread and hate and regret roils in his gut, making his fingers twitch for his cutlass.
They had taken her.
He'd dismissed the danger presented by the rag-tag group of blowhards, and they'd gone and taken his Emma.
"You have my gratitude, lad," he manages to grind out, reaching for his coin purse and removing the few coins he had left, pressing them into the child's small fingers. "Use them wisely."
With that Hook stands and brushes past the orphan, continuing down from the alley and through the streets, fury pressing him and fear biting at his heels. His Swan was far from defenseless, but the fact that all had been quiet since her disappearance did not bode well. Sometimes it only took one blow to the right place to silence a person forever. It takes him no time at all to reach the docks, and the activity on deck stills as he approaches the ship. The men are well acquainted with his tempers and moods, but the barely constrained havoc they can see in him—it's a rage they haven't witnessed for many years, and the lack of Emma by his side makes it all too obvious what has happened.
"Captain?" Cowry calls, his hands staying the rest of the crew as Hook paces the dock like a feral beast, his greatcoat snapping as he spins on his heel, caught between wanting to split the nearest living thing in half and calm himself so he can think clearly and find Emma.
"They've taken Swan," he finally hisses, his gaze rising to meet the crew. "A beggar-child saw her being carried off, and her blood stains the ground where she was last seen."
There's a rolling of anger and hostility among the men, their hands moving to weapons as they await his orders, a thirst for blood building in all of them—Emma had become nothing short of family to them in the time she'd been aboard.
"We cannot leave the Jolly unmanned, but neither can I move to find Swan on my own."
Hook knows his men—he knows them down to their bones. Some of them had served beneath Liam once, so many years ago, and others were hand selected over the years to fill out his crew. All of them are loyal and would follow him to the locker should he ask it of them. He knows which of his men are poets at heart, and those whose blood rises on a shiver when they plant their sword through the body of another. He knows which of them wash away their sins in women and drink, and which of them rejoice. Today he needs the murderers at his side, the men who sleep no less for the blackness of their hearts and the swiftness of the death they bring.
"Owen, Ephraim, and Williams—you're with me, mates. Everyone else, prepare the Jolly and keep careful watch. The pirates moor northwest along the coast in a protected bay, but we know not what their plans are."
The men move into action, the majority of them preparing for a fight while Owen and Ephraim join Hook on the dock. Williams appears a few moments later. He'd quietly disappeared below deck as Hook called his name and was only just returning, a sturdy bow and quiver looped over his torso.
"We take no quarter," Hook informs his men as they head back through town, weapons drawn and faces grim. "They'll be expecting us, I imagine, so we'll need you picking off any lookouts, Williams."
"Aye, Captain," Williams nods, his voice low and quiet and steady as ever as he loosely draws his bow, eyes scanning the streets and buildings as Hook leads them through the small town.
It doesn't take long for word to spread before them and the townsfolk scurry into buildings and shutter themselves inside, the streets emptying as if a plague were sweeping through—and perhaps one was. If she had been taken from him, if she was gone—he would paint every home in this town red and raze it to the ground as surely as Death itself.
Hook releases his breath as they move past the edge of town, away from the jumble of buildings and alleys that provide too much cover for foes. A single path climbs slowly upward through fallow fields, its dusty track skirting the foothills of the mountains that butt against the shore and march toward town. It's most certainly the way they would have taken Emma if returning to a ship, and glancing at the rugged foothills beside it, he knows there will be more than enough places for the rival crew to hide if they're looking to cut him down and remove a rival captain.
Coming to the same conclusion, Williams focuses his attention on the rocky crags. There are no words exchanged between the men as they walk, both Owen and Ephraim flanking Hook, alert and listening for signs they're being followed. Williams is light on his feet, his eyes never still as he circles the trio, but it seems whatever the rival Captain's intentions were, it was not to attack them in force and prevent their arrival. No, Hook was beginning to think this Captain—whoever he was—fully intended that Hook and his men reach wherever he was holding his Swan. He wanted the glory of holding Swan's life within his hands while Hook watched, unable to save her.
He was a fool.
He was a dead man.
"Down," Williams mouths, and Hook ducks as Williams releases his bow, an arrow flying past and disappearing into the low crags of the mountainside, followed quickly by a second. Judging by Willliams pleased hum, both arrows had found their marks.
The sun continues its slow march above them as the men traverse the rising countryside, the path eventually veering due west toward the sea as the arm of the mountains tapers down. Fear nips at the edge of the cold rage beneath Hook's skin. With every passing breath, he worries that perhaps Emma is in more danger than he imagined, or already dead. He's seen her magic firsthand, and he knows if she's able, she would fight, she would destroy whoever held her to get back to him, but her magic is also new to her, and her confidence in it is tenuous.
Williams picks off another two men along the way, but other than that, they encounter no more resistance. The familiar trace of brine on the wind alerts them that they're nearing the bay, the path climbing once more in the distance toward a low ridge. The climb has no cover, and once again Hook's belief that this rival captain wants them to reach the bay unhindered is proven true. There are no more lookouts, and though the ridge would be a perfect place to station a few men, there are no signs of any. Perhaps this was due to William's skill with bow, all of the advance lookouts already killed.
Hook pauses and casts a dark look to his men before tipping his chin toward the approaching ridge, his muscles taut with a need to rend and rip and destroy anything standing between he and Emma.
"Now is the time to remind these dogs why Captain Hook and his crew are the terror of the high seas, men."
"Our pleasure, Captain," Ephraim growls, letting out a low chuckle as he swings his axe once or twice through the air, elbowing Owen in the side for good measure. It has been too long since Hook's crew had faced an enemy not stilled by cowardice, and the men at his side are eager to indulge their vicious tendencies at their Captain's request.
They take no care to silence their footfalls at they take the cap of the ridge, the wash of the tide in the distance a lullaby, and none of them are surprised when they crest the top to find two men already moving from their camp on the ground, running headlong in their direction, swords at the ready.
Williams is beside them one moment and gone in the next, his feet carrying him lightly down the ridge as he knocks an arrow and lets it fly toward another group of men farther down the hillside. The shaft buries itself in the neck of a burly pirate before a second follows suit, taking out his partner. Owen surges forward toward the two men closing in on them, his cutlass drawn back like a snake before it springs through the chest of the closest pirate, ripping thickly out his side as Owen twists and carries forward.
Hook let the rage fly from him like a dark, winged creature, his pulse thumping in his ears over the cries and wet grunts of battle as the four of them strode down the path at a steady clip, their momentum never pausing as they moved toward their goal. He is almost surprised at the amount of men waiting—more than an ample amount for a crew, but still not enough to feed the beast he's loosed. Hook's cutlass dances like an extension of his body, cutting swathes through the air before finding the soft, vulnerable places on his enemies, his hook fixing itself viciously in others as he slashes and tears himself through the wall of men separating himself from Emma. Behind the rampaging beat of his heart he can hear the roar and thunk of Ephraim painting with his axe. The man is nothing if not brutal, no finesse in his attacks, but the brute strength of a crazed bull. Time had slowed, only rushing back to him as he takes a deep breath and realizes there is nothing but silence.
Ahead of them waits the sandy ring of the bay, and behind them stretches a trail of human waste. What was once fifteen or so men reduced to nothing more than pulp and gasping corpses.
Hook eyes the grouping of tents that squat in the middle of the bay. They were erected in a half circle and block whatever lies at their center from view, but they do nothing to hide the massive galleon that looms in the distance, moored close to the mountains that encircle the bay. The ship of a dead man. His three men pull even with him, all of them short of breath and splattered with human shrapnel. It's just as Hook moves to step forward that a tidal wave of energy rips through the tents—like a cannon exploding in every direction at once. The fabric of the tents tear from their anchors as the wave of energy rips towards them and butts against the rising ridge, a soft wash of something familiar folding over the four of them like a fading wind.
"Emma," he chokes, and rushes down the rest of the path, covering the distance between him and the tents with little care for any men remaining to thwart him.
Her magic wrapped him in warmth, sparking along his body and ghosting across his skin like the remnants of her breath. She was alive. He closes in, heart hammering as he darts around the side of the closest tent, it's fabric still dancing loosely against the sand.
A guttural whimper shatters the silence. It fades to a wet gurgle that rattles drags on against the sound of someone yanking a blade from unwilling flesh.
Emma.
Hook barely registers the sound of his crew barreling after him, the whip of cloth against his cheek as he rounds the last tent post, breaking into the cleared circle of the camp, but his eyes find her immediately and relief pours into his chest like the ocean emptying itself. The man he can only assume is—was—the captain kneels at her feet, his hands threaded through the innards falling from the cavity that was once his abdomen, all color washed from his face and his eyes clouded with the glassiness of death as he looked up at the woman standing over him. Her face is downturned, her brow knit as she studies the blade in her hands, thick reams of viscera slipping from its steely edge and puddling below.
"Emma," he breaks, the sight of her alive and returned to him forcing the air from his chest.
"I think I nicked it on his ribs," she mutters, wiping the blade along her trews before sliding it effortlessly back into its place, the dismay leaving her face as she turns fully toward Hook and smiles, the bridge of her nose crinkling and eyes sparkling.
"You bloody, beautiful goddess," he growls, striding forward and jerking her against him. "Gods, I love you Emma."
He doesn't wait for her to return the words. All he can do is take her lips hungrily, washing away the fear that had gnawed at him in the heat of her breath and the rightness that is her lithe form pressed to his, her hands threading through his hair, the push and sway of their bodies making them stumble a few paces back.
"I love you too, Killian," she whispers against his lips. "I love you."
"I thought I'd lost you."
"You found me."
"I'll always find you, Swan—though it seems you weren't in need of my dashing rescue."
"Hmmm, I don't know about that," she murmurs, her smile faltering as she looks around her. "I'm lucky I woke when I did. From the look of these tents and that ship, there's a lot more than the few men I took care of."
Her movement pulls his gaze to the side of her head and he carefully pulls her tresses out of the way with his hook, revealing an oozing, swollen knot crusted with blood. A growl breaks from his throat at the sight and he drops her hand, rounding on the dispatched captain just as his body finally surrenders and topples to the ground, his insides sloughing onto the sand.
Owen strides across the smoldering remains of the fire and sinks his blade deeply into the back of a pirate struggling to right himself, Ephraim moving to the others that all seem to have been blasted aside by the force of Emma's magic, making certain there are no survivors.
Hook turns back to the captain's remains, roughly turning the body onto its back with his boot. He searches for recognition in the man's face, but finds none. Whoever this Captain Marwood once was, he'd made the mistake of assuming he and his crew were the deadliest in the Enchanted Forest. It seems seven years missing had done some detriment to his reputation…if this man thought he could simply kidnap one of Hook's crew and lure him into a trap.
That simply could not be allowed to stand.
A remedy was in order.
Scraping the viscera clinging to the bottom of his boot with some disdain, Hook turned to one of the prone bodies lying nearby and tore through the shirt with his hook, exposing the man's chest. No hesitation in his movements, he drew the reddened tip of his hook through the still warm flesh, carving a sluice from top to bottom in the rough shape of a hook and ending with a flourish.
"Gather what's left of the bodies," he orders, standing over his handiwork and admiring the way the blood wells up from the macabre signature. "Mark them and hang them from the yards of their ship. Tie what's left of their captain to the helm and return it to port—a reminder to all that Captain Hook has returned, and he shall not be crossed."