A/N: Based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow short story by Washington Irving, and the Sleepy Hollow Fox tv show. This fic has been rattling around in my brain for over two years now, and I am so thankful to finally be able to share it as my second fic for the CS Supernatural Summer. Be advised that the opening sequence could be triggering or uncomfortable for those who suffer from claustrophobia, or simply do not do well in tight spaces.
Killian's eyes flew open and a gasp filled his lungs. A dank, earthy note hit the back of his throat, forcing a cough to expel from his chest. He saw nothing but utter darkness and wondered if something might be covering his eyes. Reaching up to check, his hand hit a hard surface right above where he lay. Rough, brittle wood brushed against his palm and bits of debris fell in the wake of his inspection.
Where the devil was he?
A far off voice echoed in his ears. His name. Someone was saying his name. The compulsion to find this person overwhelmed him and he began to press against the barricade above him once more. With elbows bent out to his sides to try and leverage that which covered him, Killian met the edges of the structure and cold dread seeped into his chest. Raising his knees, they too hit the confines of his prison, and when he stretched his legs back out, only for his feet to find the same resistance, the awful truth came over him.
A coffin. He was lying in a coffin.
Memories of a duel flashed within his mind's eye. Metal clanging against metal as he and the man he'd once known as Rumple von Stiltskin fought on the battlefield. Though, it had become clear rather quickly that his foe was no longer a mere man.
"You once fooled me into thinking I'd met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge," Rumple sneered. "You humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me." He pushed off Killian, freeing himself from the blade he'd become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. "I bet you never imagined I'd actually find him. Find him, and become him."
The rest of their bout played out in Killian's head, until the moment of his demise pierced his consciousness. The Dark One had run him through. Killian fumbled over the buttons of his coat, feeling for the wound and trying to determine whether he ought to be relieved or alarmed at finding none.
He remembered the sharp pain then the numbness that had quickly followed. The glint of a dagger in the Dark One's belt and the rush of blood over his hand after embedding it in the demon's gut. He remembered collapsing to the ground and seeing a swirl of darkness envelop him. Had it been death?
No. It couldn't have been, for he was alive. He could feel the panicked rasps burning his lungs, could smell the petrichor of recent rainfall and the pine that made up his coffin. His pulse raced, heart hammering in his chest which was clothed by the heavy wool of his uniform. He could move his limbs, could cry out for help, and feel the sting of fresh terror pooling in his eyes. He was most assuredly alive, but for how much longer?
How long had it been since they'd committed his body to the ground? Was the earth still loose enough to try and displace? Could he dig his way out, and make it to the surface before he suffocated?
Scooting along on his back, he positioned himself towards the middle of the box and raised his knees, slamming them into the roof with as much force as he could muster. He supposed he could thank the war for his regiment's limited resources and the shoddily constructed coffin that was splintering apart with greater ease than he could have hoped for.
Dampened earth began to spill into the cavity, choking the air. Killian pulled at the fabric around his neck, maneuvering it up to his face to cover his mouth and nose as he kicked the dirt down towards the foot of the coffin. Once he'd packed as much of the earth as he could into the corners he shimmied his way towards the opening with his hands over head. With one final deep breath, Killian forced his arms and head clear of the opening. He tucked his legs beneath him and attempted to stand, pressing through the sodden soil until his fingers could feel the brisk air of freedom. Hoping to gain greater purchase, he lifted his leg to stand on the coffin lid. The jagged edges of the splintered wood scraped painfully along his calf, and Killian had to bite back his cry for fear of expelling the precious air in his lungs too soon.
With a new elevation by which to leverage himself, Killian raised up onto his tip toes braced against the outside of the pine box and scrambled for the surface, clawing his way upward until the night air ruffled his hair and mist clung to his face. He couldn't stop the watery laugh of relieved madness that erupted from his chest as it heaved against the pressure of collapsing earth while he wormed his way further out of the hole, finally crumpling to the ground once he'd wriggled free.
Puffs of air billowed from his lips as he gazed up into the night sky. The moon and stars had never shone more beautifully in his eyes which hazed over before hot tears streaked down his muddy face. With a deep groan, Killian raised himself up into a sitting position to survey the graveyard around him, wiping away the grime and tear streaks with the sleeve of his coat. Not that it did much good. Getting to his knees so he might try and stand, Killian was stopped by the sight of the headstone. His headstone.
Captain Killian Jones
Born 1748 - Died 1780
The stone was worn and mossy beneath his fingers, the letters fading from the erosion of time like those he'd seen in the old cemeteries back in England. But how? It couldn't have been more than a few days old, carved while his body waited to be interred by the Army. He swatted away the knowledge that such a stone would have likely taken weeks to actually complete, and adjusted his shoulders to ward off the shiver of foreboding that threatened to cascade down his spine.
A snap of branches and hushed voices drew his attention back to his surroundings. Off in the distance he spied four silhouettes, smaller than what he'd expect from adults, and could therefore only surmise they must be children. What the bloody hell were children doing scampering about a cemetery at night? And during a war, no less?
"You there!" Killian called out, standing on shaky legs which made him steady himself against his headstone.
"Run!"
The young boy's shout rang out among the headstones as the four figures took flight. Killian hobbled after them, his muscles and joints protesting with each stride he made towards the edge of the cemetery. Some of the stiffness had just begun to loosen when he hit the treeline, allowing him to weave between the trunks and saplings while calling out to the scattering youngsters.
Breaking free of the brambles, Killian stopped short when he came upon a hardened, black surface, like a suspended river of pitch. Crouching down to examine the strange sight he noted the yellow glow that illuminated the area around him and fixed his hearing on an unfamiliar buzzing sound. When he looked up he was struck with bewilderment at the towering post that appeared to have some sort of lantern affixed to it. How on earth did anyone manage to light the thing at such a great height?
Turning his attention back to what could only be a road, Killian tested the stability and composition of its surface by taking a few hesitant steps upon it. The children had long since disappeared. Spinning around on the spot, Killian tried to gain a measure of bearing to remember in which direction they'd sprinted off. Once more the sight of carved wording caught his eye and his breath seized in his lungs. Several yards ahead was a sign with a familiar name, but the marker itself was not as he remembered.
Before he could make his way over for closer inspection, the ground beneath his feet started to rumble. Light flooded around him and a monsterous sound bellowed from behind, causing him to turn just in time and avoid being barreled over by a gigantic machine traveling at a far greater speed than his mind could comprehend. Glowing red eyes watched him as the beast continued to hasten down the road, leaving Killian with prickles of terror skittering along his skin and labored breaths stuttering in a frantic rhythm with his heart.
His body was tense and on full alert when he made it to the sign announcing the boundary of the township that lay beyond. The small, seaside hamlet that had been his home since his father had brought him and his older brother to the colonies after their mother had passed in England. A community of farmers and fishermen, simple folk who had tried to stay out of the fray when the revolution had brought war to their doorsteps. But even with the added numbers of naval and infantry on both sides, it would never have been able to boast the population Killian now saw etched next to the town's founding date.
Welcome to Storybrooke
Founded - 1633 / Population - approx. 50,000
Killian swallowed hard and swiped a hand down his face, the drying mud and grime flaking off into his hand. This could not be real. It had to be a nightmare, a fever induced nightmare he was tormented to suffer while his body waged its own war against the trauma he'd experienced on the battlefield.
He might have been able to convince himself of such a tale were it not for the fact he knew he could never conjure up such images as he was seeing once he'd crested the ridge that overlooked the port town.
Croaking out a lament of despair, Killian questioned, "What the bloody hell has happened to me?"
~/~
Approximately two hundred and fifty years ago in Storybrooke, Maine…
Killian Jones' grip on the delicate glass clutched in his hand was becoming perilous. Casually slouched against the doorframe that led into the grand parlor of the von Tassel house, he watched with clenched jaw as the object of his affections was spun around to the merriment of the music the humble yet lively quartet was providing to the party goers. A party being held in honor of von Tassel's daughter, Milah. The aforementioned object of Killian Jones' affections.
It ought to be his arms holding her, his feet moving along in time with the music, his face catching her smile, and his eyes sparkling back to meet her gaze. Not the upstart interloper Rumple von Stiltskin. Killian snorted into his cordial glass. von Stiltskin. If that were truly the man's name, Killian would eat his cap.
Since the day the tailor had disembarked from the ship that had brought him to the colonies, Killian had suspected the man to be putting on airs. Given his profession, it was expected that he would be well-dressed. Regaled in finery with an unmuddled accent of the Old World, Rumple talked a fine game, but Killian knew, deep down, the man had not grown up in the privileged society he sought to ingratiate himself into once he'd opened shop. His scheme of beguiling the ladies of status with his bolts of silks and fashions currently promenading down the streets of Paris (or so the man claimed), had done its job rather nicely, which would not have mattered to Killian one bit had it not been for the lady of status on whom he'd chosen to set his sights.
Milah gave a delicate curtsy and extricated herself from Rumple's hold, joining a group of other young women when the song ended. The quartet begged the gathered assembly's indulgence as they took a well earned respite from play, and Killian's eyes tracked the tailor as he perused the fine collectibles on display upon the drawing room's shelves. Trays of refreshment passed and Killian homed in on the way Rumple pocketed delicacies with one hand while sampling with the other. It was a ruse Killian had employed himself when he'd first gained an invite into the lavish lifestyle of the von Tassel's household. Back when he'd been unsure from where his next meal would come, until Mr. von Tassel had hired him on.
Killian had worked his way up through the staff's ranks, from lowly field hand to foreman to estate manager, with hard work and determination. And perhaps a good dose of charm and cunning as well. He was not about to see all of his efforts come to naught from an usurping interloper with the visage of a crocodile who seemed to have his reptilian eyes set on the von Tassel fortune by way of their only daughter. Killian had been welcomed into the family's fold as a trusted asset, all but assured his place within their dynasty, despite his humble beginnings, with only the formality of Milah's father's blessing standing between him and his desires of a home and family.
Killian would not be denied. He would not allow this man to slither into von Tassel's good graces without a fight.
The quartet resumed their places and Killian wasted no time in springing from his vantage point in order to head von Stiltskin off before he could reach Milah.
"May I have the pleasure of a dance, love?" Killian crooned in a low bow before the chestnut haired beauty and her twittering entourage.
Her pale eyes flicked to a point just behind him and Killian's jaw tightened, knowing she was giving that appraising look to the oily suitor hovering closely by. Always hovering closely by.
"Of course," she demurred, handing her goblet off to one of her ladies in waiting before setting her hand in Killian's proffered one.
His arm wrapped around her perhaps a little too tightly, their proximity to one another not exactly proper, but the melody was a quick step with the dancers becoming a blur to the spectators clapping along from the corners. Milah's cheeks flushed pink, her eyes sparkling from both mirth and the reflections of candlelight they caught with each spin around the room. Her laugh, always the loudest and most infectious, rang out above the cheers from the gathering when the song came to an end, and Killian revelled in the fact that Rumple von Stiltskin had been unable to pull such a reaction from her during their interlude.
"Another?" Killian requested, but his invitation was waved off.
Pressing her hand to her chest where her breaths were still coming in quick succession, Milah shook her head and declared a need for some air. Offering her his arm, Killian escorted her to the porch where her needs would be met while gaining them a bit of privacy from over eager ears.
"Are you having a good time, love?"
"I am," Milah replied brightly, the setting sun casting an auburn glow that haloed her curls. "It was lovely of my father to arrange the party for me."
"Indeed." Killian tried to keep his response light, but the grind of his teeth had not escaped Milah's attention.
"Oh, my. Is someone jealous about my being introduced into society?" Milah taunted with a coquettish expression. "Do you not wish to see me happy?"
Killian took her hands in his own and peered down at her. "Your happiness is all I wish for," he said earnestly. "I simply see no reason for you to be paraded out in such a manner."
"And what manner is that?"
"As though you were seeking a match. As though things hadn't already been decided-"
"Nothing has been decided," she reminded him with a mischievous glint in her eye.
Killian's grip tightened infinitesimally, his jaw following suit with a brief flicker. "You know your father would deny you nothing, Milah. If you told him I was your choice, he would give his blessing and make the announcement this very evening."
"Perhaps." She shrugged her shoulders coyly before slipping her hands from his and turned, treading the length of the porch with a seductive sway of her hips.
"Why must you play with my heart so?" Killian embittered, stomping after her. Grasping her elbow, he spun her back around to face him. "You cannot possibly be serious about the tailor."
Her shoulders rose and fell with another dainty shrug before a soft cough alerted them both to another member of the von Tassel staff.
"His Lordship requests your presence, Miss Milah. He is ready to give his toast."
Milah gave him a nod of appreciation then followed him back inside, leaving Killian to stew a moment as he watched the beguilingly vexing woman retreat.
Night had fallen with thick swirls of mist by the time the party ended. While most said their farewells and headed for home, a small group gathered around the parlor fire, enjoying a night cap. Killian's mood had continued to sour throughout the course of the evening. Downright surly, once again slouched against the doorway, he watched the tailor scoot ever closer to where Milah was perched on one of the cushioned chairs next to the crackling fire. Tempted as he was to adjourn to his master's study in order to procure something stronger for his tankard, he didn't trust the crocodile with his Milah for even a moment, regardless of the few friends still mingling and the matron quietly knitting in the corner where she served as chaperone.
"Someone should tell a story," one of the young women chimed, most likely an attempt to draw out the hour so the men did not have to depart just yet.
"Here, here," one of the men replied. "A story! A ghostly tale to freeze the blood within our veins," his voice dipped low so as to not be overheard by the still knitting chaperone, "so that we might warm it up again with more wine and a bit of feminine comfort."
Laughter rumbled through the room and the women all blushed, but Killian noted the way Rumple swallowed nervously. Not a fan of ghost stories, was he? A devious grin bloomed across Killian's lips and he sauntered over to the fire. Placing his tankard on the mantle, he turned to face the crowd.
"It seems to me that a story is very much in order. I think it only wise to inform our newest resident of the legend that plagues our fair hamlet."
"L-Legend," Rumple stammered while the men elbowed one another with knowing looks. "What legend?"
Killian shifted his posture so as to look upon his quarry, his head now profiled in the firelight with one side of his face ablaze from the light of the flickering flames and the other shrouded in darkness. "The Legend of The Darkness of Storybrooke," Killian answered with a low timbre that had the ladies gasping excitedly. For they all knew of the legend, the story recounted on nights such as this ever since the town had been established.
No one knew for certain from where the tale had originated, and it's verses were altered slightly with each telling as the narrator took liberties for their own creative devices. This telling would be no different. Sharing looks of significance with his friends, Killian began weaving the haunting tale while relishing each tremble, bead of sweat, and expression of fright that escaped the cowardly tailor.
Long ago, though no one knows quite when
A Darkness inhabited this land from ocean to glen.
It is said the entity, seeking desperate souls to corrupt
Made a deal with a man leaving him internally bankrupt.
A most unholy union of a parasitic nature was born
Giving the man unspeakable power and the Darkness corporal form.
Together they lured and schemed and plotted
Until the man's heart blackened and rotted.
Worrying what it would mean to have the host's heart grow still
They sought out a witch to correct it with her blasphemous skill.
"A new heart is what you require," the crone did tell
"But take heed, this new one will end up failing you as well."
With a fresh heart procured thanks to the witch's ill placed trust
The Darkness and his man continued to indulge in every evil lust.
But every decade or so when the mist swirls low and the moon is at its crest
They must find a new heart to rip from an unsuspecting chest.
Be vigilant, dear friend, should you see the Dark One cloaked
He'll appear to you thrice before your time is revoked.
There be but two ways to avoid such a fate
Crossing the toll bridge, or obtaining his dagger whose edge is not straight.
For the first, they say he cannot cross after the witching hour
While, the second is rumored to be the source of his power.
So be cautious, my friend, of the road at night or of deals from a stranger's lips
He'd sooner tear out your heart than help you, for the Dark One lies, the Dark One tricks.
~/~
It was the night's chill that made his hands tremble as they clutched the reins of his mare, at least, that's what Rumple was telling himself. Each faint owl's hoot and snap of a distant twig had him jolting in his saddle, the inky blackness thick with specters conjured from his own imagination as Jones' words lingered in his ears. Were it not for the full moon, positioned high above the sparse canopy of the wooded trail that led back to the main road, he would most likely have succumbed to the vapors long before now.
By some miracle he had not shamed himself in such a way in front of Jones and his rabble, or the fair Milah and the other ladies that had remained long into the night in front of the fire at the von Tassel home. It had been easier to dismiss the legend out of hand when surrounded by a warm hearth and the company of others, regardless of how tangible an image Jones had conjured the demon Darkness and his henchman host into being with the way he wove the tale with embellished gestures and cunning inflections. Now, alone, with only the moon, faint woodland sounds, and the steady cadence of his horse, Rumple could not dispel the disquiet that mounted within him and swirled through his spirit like the dense mist of the forest floor.
Awareness crept along his spine, an ancient instinct of self-preservation that alerted him to the fact he was not alone in these woods. A hush fell over the forest with only the soft clop of his horse's hooves breaking the silence. Rumple held his breath and cast his wide eyes to his left and right, taking them briefly from the trail until a hint of movement snapped his attention to a cluster of trees shrouded in fog.
Was that a hooded figure he'd just seen?
Urging the mare into a faster pace, Rumple shook his head. No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous. He admonished himself even as his hands visibly shook and stuttering breaths hung in petrified puffs before him. Branches creaked overhead from a sudden gust of wind sweeping down the main road that had finally come into view, and with it a nearly imperceptible laugh that threatened to freeze the very marrow of Rumple's bones.
There was no mistaking the figure this time. Looming just beyond the treeline on the other side of the road, his black cloak snapped in the breeze while the hood obscured his features. Rumple frantically flicked the reins and dug his heels into the horse's side, forcing the animal into a gallop. His pulse thundered in his ears, and the pressure in his chest turned to agony as fear gripped his heart.
The toll bridge. He had to get to the toll bridge.
Craning his neck to look behind, he saw no sign of the dark figure, but kept his relentless pace, nonetheless. He knew his mare would be unable to sustain such speed for long, but the terror flooding his body when another laugh howled on the wind overruled any sense of mercy he may have felt for the poor beast beneath him.
Sweat poured from Rumple's brow, every muscle screaming from the strain of frightful constriction on his sinew, and his knuckles were surely white beneath his gloves from the way he fisted the reins. Not even the sight of the toll bridge, illuminated by the moon's soft rays when he rounded the bend, could alleviate any measure of panic. For his mare was tiring, her pace slowing, and no amount of kicks or snaps of his crop could get her moving again.
The deep, menacing timbre reverberated through the air once more, prompting Rumple to abandon his horse and race to the bridge on foot. Dread chased his heels, and terror tore through his lungs with each footfall until he found himself miraculously on the other side of the bridge. Hunched over with heavy breaths of painful exertion, his hands were braced against the tops of his knees while he scanned the road from whence he'd just travelled. His mare, having traversed down to the bank, was likely having a drink from the stream, but no evidence of any other creature could be discerned within the darkness. Heaving one last sigh of relief, and still trembling from his ordeal, Rumple straightened and turned towards town, only to find his path blocked.
Petrified, except for the rapid shallows of his breathing, Rumple gazed up at the dark, hooded figure, certain his heart had stopped. An evil chuckle resonated from deep within the Dark One before his arm lifted and his hand stretched out towards Rumple's chest. Pleas of desperation fell from his lips while tears streamed down his cheeks, all the while, the Dark One's hand continued to reach forward, his laughter triumphant in Rumple's ears. Warmth trickled down his legs and pooled at his feet. His knees failed him, collapsing him onto the sodden earth, pungently dampened with his own fright induced void where he continued to beg for his life.
The ominous chuckle turned into a full on guffaw. The Dark One staggered backward, his arms wrapping around himself as though in glee, and his hood fell away, revealing none other than Killian Jones, joyously chortling beneath the cloak. Other cackles rang out from the darkness as two other hooded figures appeared, pointing and jeering at Rumple's pitiful form. Hot nettles of humiliation prickled along the back of his neck as still more joined their number, causing Rumple to cower.
"Good thing he's a tailor," one of the young men heckled, "He needs new trousers, by the smell of him."
Another chorus of laughter rang out, striking to life a seething spark of indignation deep within Rumple's spirit.
"He'll need more than new trousers when word gets around of how he ran like a coward and pissed himself," Killian sneered. He crouched down, his nose wrinkling in disgust from the pervasive odor still hanging heavily in the air. Bringing himself eye level with the wretched man before him, Jones mocked, "What woman would want to be shackled to such a yellow-bellied coward? For that matter, what land baron would want such a man for a son-in-law?"
"You-You set me up?" Rumple stammered accusingly. "Wove that tale to instill a sense of foreboding in me, so you could torment me?"
"Oh, the legend is real enough," Killian professed. "Everyone 'round these parts knows of the story of the Dark One, but none are fool enough to lend it such credence as to disgrace themselves in the manner you have."
"You w-won't get away with this," Rumple protested, though his words were choked by the tears that threatened to add to his shame. "You are a brute and a scoundrel."
"He at least knows how to hold his bowels," a scathing voice sounded from behind his tormentor.
Jones stood, tucking his thumb into his belt as he settled his weight onto his back foot with an arrogant stance and equally smug expression. Holding out his other hand, Milah stepped forward and placed hers within its grasp, allowing him to pull her into his side and wrap a possessive arm around her waist.
"I've seen enough," she told Jones with a haughtily raised chin and eyes that did not deign to look upon the disgraced man any further. "Take me home."
"As you wish," Jones murmured, casting one last victorious look upon his defeated foe.
Alone once more on the cold, dark road, Rumple found he had more than just the moon's rays, the woodland sounds, and his mare - now returned from its respite - to keep him company. A newly born desperation for vengeance cried out from deep within his soul, and with it, a promise was declared into the night, still swirling with the spectres of his imagination.
"I will not rest until I have my revenge," Rumple vowed. "There is no cost I would not be willing to pay in order to see Jones get his comeuppance."
Making his way back down the lane towards town with the weight of what he must do now in order to salvage his reputation, Rumple did not hear the gleeful reply that trilled on the wind.
Oh, how we love a desperate soul.
~/~
Several years later, during the American Revolutionary War
Killian awoke before reveille, wishing to finish his latest letter to his dear wife, Milah, before he would be expected to report for battle. Following in his brother's footsteps, Killian had enlisted in the Colonial Navy not long after his marriage to Milah. With the mounting taxes from the crown ravaging the Storybrooke landowners, Killian had felt it prudent to both secure himself a way of providing for himself and his young bride, as well as protect the inheritance of her family's fortune.
His brother, Liam, being much older than he, had already established himself within the ranks and had taken Killian under his wing, as a good big brother would be wont to do. It wasn't long before Killian himself rose to the position of Lieutenant under his brother's command, patrolling the Northern Atlantic and protecting ports from invading British ships after the colonies had declared their independence. He'd spent too many years far removed from his home in Storybrooke, and from the wife he had left behind, with only a handful of shore leaves and countless letters by which to keep their love growing.
Truth be told, though his affections for her had not waned over the years and leagues that kept them parted, Killian knew they were both only playing at the notion of love. True love, that is. Theirs had been an infatuation, a feeling of being in love with love when they courted and wed years ago, to say nothing of the social dynamics and expectations thrust upon them from their peers and parentage. Killian longed for the war to end so that he might return home and begin to know his wife for the woman she was and not the one she presented to him in her letters, wishing to keep alive the image of herself as she was the day they wed, lest he find himself wandering.
He had never wandered, though. Oh, his fellow crewman had coaxed him a time or twice to dip his wick in the welcoming warmth of waxen and wanton beauties who wished to show gratitude to the heroes fighting for their freedom and independence whenever they made port. He'd always managed to refrain. His vows to Milah, and wishing to display good form under the watchful eye of his brother and captain being the crux of such resolutions.
How he missed that watchful eye.
Killian's chest tightened, remembering the battle that had led them back to the shores of Storybrooke. They'd been tasked with protecting the port which served as a repair station for ships damaged in skirmishes at sea. During one such conflict a week ago, Liam had been struck down by a volley of cannon balls that had splintered the main mast, leaving the Jewel crippled and without its captain. Without a moment to process his loss or channel his grief, Killian took command and managed to drive the British frigate out of their waters, winning them a significant victory. One that came with a cost Killian had prayed neither he nor Liam would have to pay.
With barely any time to give his brother a proper burial at sea, Killian and his men had received orders to present themselves to the Army General leading the infantry currently stationed just south of Storybrooke. Upon their arrival, Killian had requested a short leave in order to grieve the loss of his brother and to travel the scant fifteen miles that separated him and his wife, but had been denied. It seemed the redcoats were making their way on foot to try and take the port town by land since their advances by sea had been unsuccessful. Yesterday they'd received word the British army had made camp not far from their present location and fighting would be imminent come morning.
Morning had now come.
After setting the ink on his letter, Killian sealed it and handed it off to his cabin boy who had already reported to his captain for duty.
"See to it this letter is delivered to Mistress Jones today," Killian ordered.
"But Cap'n! The battle! I-"
"Do as you are told, lad," Killian barked, sending the scamp away with a dutiful salute and a jolt of terror in his step.
He took no pleasure in being hard on the boy, knowing the prospect of witnessing a land battle first hand was a thrilling one for a lad of his age. Despite the many harrowing experiences he'd had during the war at sea, he still held idealistic views of youth that blinded him to the bloody realities which were about to spill themselves upon the valley separating themselves from the enemy. Killian had no wish to see the boy in harm's way, which was why he had determined the errand for him. It was also the only way to ensure his letter would reach Milah, should the worst outcome befall him.
The bray of the bugle sounded, ordering the men to their positions. Swinging his coat over his shoulders, Killian finished readying himself, tucking the last letter he'd received from Milah in the breast pocket over his heart before departing the tent and facing what was to come.
He could have never imagined who it was he would come face to face with on that blood soaked battlefield just hours later.
"How's Milah?" Rumple von Stiltskin taunted with his sword gripped lackadaisically in his hand as he approached a haggard and muck covered Killian.
"Who?" Killian feigned ignorance while squaring off with the man, each of their swords twirling in readiness as they positioned themselves to strike.
Although he was not as Killian remembered, with a strange pallor upon his complexion and a bravado that had been absent during their last encounter, there had been no mistaking the man Killian had once brutally terrorized not but a few miles from where they currently stood when he had emerged from the fray and set his sights upon the weary captain.
As expected, Killian's response was brushed aside with a disbelieving and chill inducing chitter of a laugh. "Only too happy to dig out the memory," Rumple said. "But. It gets really messy."
The inflections in Rumple's voice sent a shiver down Killian's spine as dark imaginings coupled with the impossible things he'd witness the man do on this very field permeated his mind.
"She's dead," he lied. Clearly in possession of some unnatural sorcery, Killian wasn't about to risk Milah's safety by acknowledging her whereabouts to the man who had evil glittering from his visage. "Died long ago. Now, what is it you want? You fight with the British, but I know you hold no loyalty to the crown, so why are you here?"
Rumple stilled and narrowed his black eyes at Killian, his quiet countenance an unnerving juxtaposition to the cacophony of chaos erupting around them in the boom of cannon fire and shouts of soldiers.
"We have unfinished business you and I," Rumple stated. "And I have waited long enough to slake the thirst of my vengeance."
Without warning, like a snake which had tightly coiled itself, Rumple struck with lightning speed. Killian barely managed to block his advance, and the two began a deadly match as they dueled among the gunshots and bayonet strikes. Killian quickly grew tired. Already weary from hours of fighting, his sword felt heavy in his grip and he soon began wielding it with both hands while his opponent blocked or sidestepped every strike as though engaged in a quaint country dance.
Killian was no amateur with a blade or the tactics with which to brandish it, however. Using one of the tricky maneuvers his brother had shown him, he suddenly gained the upper hand and before either of them knew it, Rumple found himself hilt deep upon Killian's sword. Instead of a choking gasp of death, a twittering sound of mirth escaped the man's lips. His eyes flicked down to where Killian's hand held the embedded blade before flicking up again with a fresh taunt on his lips.
"You'll have to do better than that."
"What the devil?" Killian exhaled on an incredulous breath..
"Not the devil, dearie," Rumple giggled. "You once fooled me into thinking I'd met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge," he sneered. "You humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me." He pushed off of Killian, freeing himself from the blade he'd become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. "I bet you never imagined I'd actually find him. Find him, and become him."
"No," Killian whispered. "That's not possible."
Rumple began to circle him as Killian's mind frantically tried to make sense of the moment. The Dark One? He was a legend. A fable told to children in order to dissuade them from the company of strangers or venturing out too late at night. He wasn't real. He couldn't be.
"Oh, I assure you, I am real enough," Rumple snickered, coming to stand before Killian once more. "Real and powerful and immortal."
Killian felt the cold steel of Rumple's blade penetrate his abdomen, the shock of its assault choking off any cry of pain that might have left his lips.
"Too bad the same can't be said for you, dearie," The Dark One whispered into his ear, twisting the blade so it would inflict maximum damage and ensure death to his victim.
Killian could feel his strength leaving him. Clutching at the Dark Ones vest as he began to sink towards the ground he spotted the hilt of a dagger tucked into the man's belt. With the last of his strength, Killian unsheathed the dagger - the edge of which had a strange wave pattern - and plunged it deep into the demon's gut.
Hitting the ground, Killian gasped staccatoed breaths as the life drained from his body. Only vaguely aware that his enemy had crumpled beside him, the last thing Killian saw before oblivion overtook him was a mass of darkness swirling overhead, dragging him into the black void of the beyond.