Crown Prosecutor Cora Miller was a mystery to Storybrooke. She'd lived in a mansion just outside of town for years, but no one knew quite how long she'd occupied the house and never saw anyone other than her enter or leave it. A few people had whispered that she had been married until her husband died in uncertain circumstances years prior, but no details arose to confirm or deny. Even when some of the town's busybodies had worked up the nerve to visit her once, they'd returned with nothing to report, pale, shaking, and refusing to utter a single word about her or the house. After that, no one had dared try again and she lived in complete isolation, save for when she was working.
Nor was her mystery constrained to her past, for no one even knew what she looked like. The only times she left her house were when she went to work. Even then, she was in full judge regalia; her form was swathed in layers of red and white cloth, brown hair of an undetermined length swept up behind her head, face hidden behind a heart-shaped judge's mask, and voice muffled by the long, swirling horn she used to pass on her rulings. Many of the townspeople had speculated about her appearance, but, much like the interest in her past, the excitement had long waned with no further details to fuel the fire.
The only thing actually known about the woman was that she was - up until, in recent years, such punishments were forbidden except in cases of treason - nothing short of a hanging judge. The townspeople had gossiped and jeered when she'd first taken the job, certain that she couldn't command sufficient respect to maintain such a role, but, as the number of bodies hanging from the gallows steadily increased and the smell of rotting corpses took over the town, they quickly fell silent. Now, her name was never spoken; instead, the townspeople had dubbed her "the Queen of Hearts", and even that moniker was mentioned only in whispers (if it was spoken at all), used in horror stories told to terrify the town's younger children.
The tales were far-reaching, even reaching out to the sea, and it was for this reason that, as he approached the courtroom, Killian found a great sense of dread stealing over him, a sense that only worsened when he actually entered her chambers and caught a glimpse of the scene within. She was seated on a great throne atop a dais, a crowd of people gathered on either side of a long aisle leading to it. As if her mere presence weren't imposing enough, each person clustered in the hall turned as he entered, curious eyes watching from behind masks as the guards holding his arms lugged him forwards.
As they reached the center of the hall, the guards forced him to his knees, ordering him to kneel as the announcer read out the charges against him. Killian tried to focus on the words, turning all of his attention to them in an attempt to ignore the pain radiating from his left wrist, but his efforts failed. He only registered what was occurring around him when the bystanders stood, vacating the room. The guards at his side left as well, though the shackles remained on his wrists, leaving Killian alone with the mysterious woman before him.
She lowered the mask and stood, dropping it onto the throne on which she'd been seating and descending from the dais with a regal air. With the mask gone, Killian got a good look at her face, feeling a chill drop over him. She was clearly older, somewhere in middle age, but she'd retained an elegant beauty that clung to her. She moved effortlessly, gliding towards him the way a predator approaches its prey. She was smiling, but her red-painted lips held what was more of a cold sneer than an actual grin. Killian stayed kneeling, back straight and rigid in controlled attention, barely shifting at all.
When she spoke - ruby lips parting to reveal viciously white teeth - her voice was low and smoky. Each word held a sense of deception, even as she spoke from rote. "Captain Killian Jones, you are here today on the charge of the kidnapping and murder of Milah Gold. How do you plead?"
Killian spoke, his voice rough as he forced out the words. "Not guilty."
Her smile didn't falter. "I know." Her voice lowered. "And I suspect that Rumplestiltskin Gold has something to do with it, doesn't he?"
Killian straightened further, barely restraining himself from surging to his feet. "What do you know of him?" He allowed the bitterness to seep into his tone towards the end of the sentence, unconsciously passing his hand over the bandage on his left.
Cora smiled. "We've had dealings." She waved her hand, condescendingly placing it on his cheek as she leant down next to him. "Your pretty face buys you a lot, but not my secrets. They're too valuable." She straightened, beginning to walk in a circle around him. "You're just lucky that he and I aren't on good terms. It happens to benefit me to let you go."
Killian allowed surprise to fill him. "Mercy seems a bit out of character."
Cora grinned her predatory smile again. "Oh, not mercy, Killian. You're going to help me. I'm the only one who can give you what you want: your revenge." She walked further away, settling back onto her throne and raising the mask over her face. "I'll be in touch. Guards!" In seconds, the guards had returned, stepping back to his side and hauling him to his feet. "Let him go."
Killian grinned, a smile of combined relief, fury, and pain filling his countenance. "Thank you, milady." With that, he turned and began to walk away, marvelling at the out-of-character actions of the Crown Prosecutor as the guards fell in behind him.
"Wait, one more thing…" Killian stopped and turned, waiting for her to continue. "If you are going to be useful to me later on, I need to know…You're a captain… On which ship?"
"The Jewel of the Realm." As he spoke the name into the silent room, the atmosphere seemed to chill all at once, an expression of shock passing across Cora's face visible even from behind her mask.
What no one knew of Cora Miller could fill volumes, but there was one secret she held above all others: Cora Miller used to be Cora Mills, and Cora Mills was a mother. She and her daughters were hardly on the best terms, but she had kept tabs on both Regina and Zelena over the years. She'd heard that Regina promoted a measly sailor over Zelena, and she'd sent out spies to find out the name of the man who'd presumed to come between her daughters, but they hadn't yet reported back. Now, she had the perfect opportunity to take him out in one fell (and legal) swoop.
She barely spared a second to think before she shouted, "Guards!" Within seconds, Killian felt their hands tighten in bruising grips on his arms. She stepped forward, hastening to stand in front of him. "My dear Captain… I've changed my mind." Killian opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. I have something far more satisfying in mind. I'm going to leave you in jail with your thirst for revenge unquenched." She raised her voice as she continued to speak, her muffled voice malicious from behind her mask as she spoke to the guards. "Take him to Neverland." With that, the guards began to move, dragging him forward with force enough to knock his feet out from under him.
The Neverland prison was one well-known to the inhabitants of Storybrooke. No one knew what its real name was, referring to it only by the name given to it for the fact that, save prisoner-transport ships, no sea-faring vessel could dock in the port. It was a vicious place, rumored to be completely impregnable. Even as Killian managed to get his own feet under him, he felt as though he were falling the entire way to the docks, his mind in a haze of confusion as his trial ran through his mind, words and phrases echoing around in his brain.
He came back to his senses when the rocking of wood under his feet caught his attention, pulling him from his thoughts. It was dark outside, black as pitch with no moon and few stars. The guards were pulling up the gangway, neither paying close attention to him. He'd been shackled to the mast, his hands caught by circlets of metal around his wrists, and they'd clearly dismissed him as a threat, giving him more or less free reign to look for an avenue of escape. Unfortunately, there wasn't one; the shackles refused to give, the wood was far too thick to break, and there was nothing he could use to try and pick the locks (not that he knew how to do that, even if there were).
It was only then, when he'd just about given up hope of escape, that he understood what he had to do. Biting back a scream, he pulled at the shackle on his left arm, yanking it roughly over the mangled remnants of his arm. Neither guard noticed - nor even looked at him - so he turned and ran, climbing up to the side of the ship and diving overboard, sinking deep into the waves.