Killian Jones was no stranger to nightmares.
Vague impressions from long forgotten memories of dark, windy nights sending bolts of terror through him with every flash of lightning lingered in the depths of his mind, always causing him to jump slightly at the first crack of thunder before a storm, even after all the many centuries. Sounds of battle and cannon fire echoed in his ears, the smell of bitterness and rot that dripped through his dreams like the sap that caused it. The feeling of what could have been sand sprinkling across his face if he hadn't watched the ash pour from the fist of a demon. The sight of a never ending sea before the bow with the shadow of an island never changing, despite the strong winds and white caps that seemed to carry them over the edge of the world and yet no farther away, screams of loss and loneliness and hate and despair and agony carrying every present on the the cloying sweet wind.
All images unwanted and unsought, making him break from his sleep with a racing heart and a cold sweat rolling down his skin. More often in the beginning, though even still it happened once in a blue moon, it wasn't uncommon to wake with fire in his wrist and blood smeared across his side and caked under his nails from scratching at the scars on the end of his wrist. Even shadows of his brother and his love were often interwoven with aspects of his rage and self loathing, pain and despair.
Nightmares no longer rattled him, merely raised his heart rate and forced him to breathe deeply of the sea air for a few hours while he focused his mind on forcing the shadows back into their cages and towards other tasks.
But the dream that brought him to the helm this night was one he never thought he'd ever have to run from.
As he palmed the smooth wood of the helm, the dry, cloying breeze that seemed to perpetually blow off the shores of that accursed island doing little to settle his stomach as he tried to breath through the bile that sat high in his throat.
He grit his teeth, swallowing hard, allowing his gaze to wander to his hook, looking like a curve of moonlight at the end of his arm, the familiar tiny lurch in his belly that always accompanied any serious perusal of the implement making its appearance. But it seemed to spike a little more deeply this night, his mind very easily conjuring the smears of crimson that would look almost black in this light, with perhaps a tiny stipe of red flashing like a falling star if the light hit it right.
"Tick tock, dearie ."
The words felt like ash and honey, rot and sugar, in his mouth as he raised his hook, his deformity, his manifestation of his sin, and with a scream of satisfaction and agony, and brought it down upon the prone figure before him with every ounce of strength his arm and his rage and his grief could muster. And he felt the bone give way, the crack echoing with the memories of a woman's screams in his ears, until, with another hard shove, driving the perfectly sharpened tip further and further, the memories faded into the very real screams of agony of the form before him, writhing and twisting around the metal embedded within it, unable to escape, twitching like the worm it was.
The hook drove in further, and the screaming changed to laughter, even as the tip of his hook caught on the muscles and tore and stretched, and the maniacal cackle was interspersed with wet hacking as he felt warm droplets spray across his face with every gurgling cough.
No fall of rain had ever felt so sweet.
He continued to press the point of his hook further in, each wash of warmth that flowed over his knuckles, his palm pressed against the chest next to where he was digging the life out of the body, feeling each heartbeat under his palm, felt like the caress of a finally avenged phantom hand, savoring each fraction of eternity longer between each throb, until with one last cut of sigh, the warmth faded and with a crack and squelch, the metal pulled free and at long last, breathed a free breath.
He stood tall, each breath burning his lung as he tried to pull the sweet fresh air as deeply into him as he could, and watched the carcass melt into balck sludge as rain began to fall.
And there beneath the downpour, each drop feeling like the vindication of lifetimes, he watches as his revenge was slowly washed away into nothingness, until all that was left was his body, his hook, the void.
And the rain.
He'd woken with triumph in his heart, his muscles itching with restless energy, eager for fighting or fucking or flying. Anything to burn the dancing energy that made his skin crawl and his fingers numb.
He was no stranger to these dreams either, the fulfilment of his centuries long quest, a vision that he frequently had on the better days.
But this was the first time, as he made his way up the ladder from his quarters to the deck above, clothed in naught but a pair of linen sleep pants, the brace and weapon he had decided would not leave his arm while they were anywhere near the reach of the undying isle, and the shirt he wore on instinct, concealing his brace even within the privacy of his own quarters.
He thanked all the gods that he didn't believe in that the deck was empty, the frantic pace of his heart still causing a shaking in his hand, the lingering joy in his dreamt victory sitting like fine rum in his gut. He wasn't sure how he would address any queries as to abrupt and disheveled appearance, given the particular guests that currently graced his ship.
But in the sacred silence he only ever found on the empty sea, he studied his hook and allowed himself to mull over the dream, and roll around the new emotion that was building in his chest, above,a round, and through his satisfaction.
Guilt.
It wasn't an emotion he was acquainted with in his sober hours, a deep cavern within himself he always kept carefully sealed until the liquor in his system lubricated the doors enough to crack open and allow the monster within to seep out. But even at his most inebriated, never had he looked upon the idea of his fulfilled revenge with anything other than longing and satisfaction.
However, now, under the disgustingly familiar sky, he felt a man he thought long dead start to rise within him. A man he thought had died under these same skies.
And this man looked at that satisfaction with a scornful frown. Had he not chosen, the moment he looked down at a scarred compass rose and elected to be a better man, to allow the hate in his heart to no longer drive him?
Did he not make an unspoken promise to Swan that he would be the better man? That he could care about others?
But he couldn't help with argue with that man.
Had he actually broken his oath in the satisfaction that his dreams could bring? Could he not take the small joys where he could find them? After all the nights spent sweating in his bed, unable to rise for the shaking in his limbs as he tried to master the terrors his mind had conjured. Could he not satisfy the craving in his mind with a dream that meant as much as the taking of a whore did when satisfying of his physical craving?
Was it a sin to wish?
Fate brought a rueful smile to his face as it seemed to provide some sort of answer, or perhaps reposing the question, when not a moment passed after he posed this moral quandary to himself when he saw a familiar head of blonde hair start to emerge from below onto the lower deck.
She had her arms wrapped around herself, though he was unsure if it was from the breeze or if there was something chilling her from the inside. He watched her sigh, meandering across the deck over to the rail, leaning over to stare out at the vast expanse.
He dropped his eyes, afraid, maybe, in the back of his mind, that she might somehow sense his gaze, and therefore find her solitude broken. He did not wish to impose on her presence, and he felt that, perhaps, he too did not wish his ruminations intruded upon.
And in keeping his eyes so lowered, he did not hear or see her approach until she spoke softly next to him.
"Quiet night, huh?"
He turned his head just enough to catch her face out of his peripheral. She wasn't looking at him.
"Aye." He paused, unsure how to continue. She didn't appear inclined to break the silence again. "Savor the sound of the breeze, Swan. Soon enough you'll crave the silence."
Beside him, she scoffed quietly, "I already 'crave the silence'."
Unsure how to answer her, he responded with the only thing he could, "Don't we all."
He saw her shift in his periphery, turning to look at him. The moon was bright enough to send veins of silver through her hair and highlight the deep shadows under her eyes. He caught her glance down to his wrist, but refused to shift, even as he felt a slight flush crawl up his neck, anticipating judgment or at least a comment about his deformity.
But as she always did, Swan caught him by surprise.
"So what's the reason you are up here, trying to rip the knobs off your wheel?"
He turned slightly, raising a brow at her. She met his eye, a brow of her own raised, before her gaze flicked to the helm and she nodded towards it slightly, and his eyes followed hers. Sure enough, his grip on the helm was tight enough to whiten the skin of his knuckles, and unde the senture of her eyes, he forced his grip to relax.
He allowed his eyes to flick back to her, only to find her already studying his face. He gave a false smile that slid off under the weight of her stare. "Its nothing, Swan."
He spoke softly, feeling as if the night itself were trying to listen in, intrigued, perhaps, at the truths they might spill in the shadows of the stars. But even as he finished his words, she was shaking her head, turning her body to face him fully, a frown creasing the skin of her brows.
"You can't lie to me," she said quietly, her searching eyes appearing almost silver in the moonlight, full of a question he couldn't decipher. Or perhaps one he did not wish to answer.
He dropped his gaze to his hook, a scoff of his own escaping, "Aye, I'd forgotten about that little trick of yours." He licked his lips, scraping his teeth on his lower lips as he twisted the hook in the moonlight, feeling the weight of her silence. Her inescapable silence.
She waited.
He scoffed again, dropping his hook and reaching once again for the helm with his other hand, refusing to look at her, instead sending his self-accusation out towards the sea.
"Just pondering what sort of sin makes a man a sinner."
It was as if the night itself held its breath, the sea stilling and the breeze falling quiet as it waited, as he waited.
When she spoke, her voice somehow caressed the silence, not breaking it, but molding it, reshaping it. "Well, I think it takes more than one sin to make a sinner." She shifted, and he felt her gaze drop as if it was a physical force, and she came to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out at the sea. "And as for the sin? Well… I guess it's the choices they make isn't it?"
Choices.
He felt the word shiver down his spine, giving him the exact absolution he had hoped to find in the night, and suddenly angry that it had been given to him so freely.
"But what of a man's heart?" he snapped. "Is a man who carries hate within him that he does not... cannot" he slammed his hand against the helm, "forgive it any better than the man who acts on it? Or is he worse, not only harboring his hate, but being too much a… a coward to see it through to the end? Is he…." his voice gave out. He sucked in a breath. "What sort of man is that?" he whispered, begging for…. He wasn't even sure, just pleading with life itself, perhaps.
"Do you know how they treat orphans in my world?"
For the first time, he turned to face her fully, and the fire in her eyes surprised him.
"Some kids get lucky. Parents pick 'em early, and they get to grow up like normal kids." She turned to consider the helm, bringing up a hand to caress the wood just above his hand. "But for the rest of us, we got shunted from place to place, most of the time nothing better than a meal ticket. And those were ok, for the most part. But sometimes they…. weren't."
She let the end of her sentence hang, dangling into the imagination.
"There was this one place, a guy. He smoked a lot and his favorite thing to do was using the kids to put out his cigarettes." He watched her other hand slide up to rub at a spot on her arm, one that seemed to have an unnatural shine in the moonlight. "One night, it got … bad. And after he'd fallen asleep, I stood over his bed with his straight razor in my hand and I …. almost…I wanted to…." her voice faded as her hand fisted. She sucked in a deep breath, before she turned back to him, forcing his eyes to meet hers again.
"Does that make me a bad person? That I stood over that man and considered…. That I wanted to kill him?"
He was quick to defend her, "Not at all. Anyone would have felt the same. If what he did to you is anything near as severe as what I inferred, the bastard probably deserved it."
She smirked slightly, like he'd said exactly what she wanted.
"Exactly. He definitely deserved it. And despite wanting to and having all the reason in the world to follow through, I didn't. If the world was held accountable for the thoughts it has, we'd all be sinners."
"Maybe we all are," he muttered. And she rolled her eyes.
"Good lord, I am not letting you use your self loathing to put me and David and Mary Margaret on the same level as Regina or Rumpelstiltskin. Anger has its place. But a person can only ever be judged by their choices. That's how people change."
He looked down at his hook. "And you think people can? Change?" he clarified.
"Of course they can. If they chose to."
He grit his teeth, still unsure of his thoughts and his emotions, unsure of how to answer her. But even in the midst of his turmoil, his eyes fluttered shut at the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. "Because it's the choice that matters."
He opened his eyes, meeting hers, and as his eyes picked out a distant blip of land on the horizon behind her, he allowed her words to sink into his spirit and convince him.
"Aye. The choice that matters."