It was a miserable town, really, but to be fair - all of them were. The coast of this particular sea was not a particularly kind place to live - it was always cold, and the storms were frequent and harsh. The money from the ports never made it to the coffers of the men who had actually earned it, as was the way things went in the Southern Isles. This was before Queen Bettina's reforms, you understand. Times were harsher back then.
Of course, Killian Jones was of the opinion that most towns, and cities, and reality in general, were miserable. He was a hard man to impress, and even harder to please, which is quite typical for a sea captain, and a mercenary one, at that. There is also the unfortunate matter of Neverland - who can blame a man for finding the world a bleak and colorless expanse of misery, after a few dozen decades in a realm like that?
But even those who had not been marooned in such a place would be hard pressed to call this town anything but miserable. A port town in the cove of a great cliff, it bore the worst of the stretch of coast's weather, and being placed in such a corner, surrounded by tall expanses of rock, the wind tunnel the landscape created battered the poor village constantly. The people who lived there did so only because they had no other choice, and the same could be said for the ships that docked at its port as well. The buildings were run down and patched together with cement made from the local mud, which had a distinct smell of cow manure to it. Even the name was miserable: Plitsblasse, which was the name of a slimy type of fungus that grew inside a ship's latrine, if not cleaned properly. It could give you a fever, if you breathed too much of it in. A fitting name for a hole such as this, in Killian's opinion.
There was only one inn, and it was owned by a woman named Elfriede, who shut down the bar at dusk every night and kicked anyone out who dared to make the slightest noise after dark. Still, it was the only place to get a drink, unless you could persuade the old harbor master to share his flask with you. But doing so usually trapped you in a conversation about his various ailments, and Killian knew quite too much about the old man's bunions as it is, thank you very much. So Elfriede's it was.
Killian was, unfortunately, quite familiar with this town, and Elfriede's inn as well. Most of his time was spent hiring himself and his crew out to various merchants of varying levels of respectability, and Plitsblasse and her miserable little cove was conveniently located roughly halfway between Huxton and Rathanök, the two biggest port cities in the kingdom. Killian's ship, in her latest incarnation, was stealthy, fast, and excellent at avoiding the royal flûtes, with their complements of overzealous soldiers and sticky-fingered taxmen, and as such his services were in high demand.
So it was with a certain degree of surprise that Killian greeted the barmaid, who for the first time in his tenure as a patron there was not Elfriede herself. Instead, a young girl with mud on her face and a ragged scarf tied around her head stood behind the bar, looking up only briefly at Killian's entrance before turning her attention back down to her cleaning.
"Afternoon," she said, as Killian sat, maybe a few seats closer than usual to the tap. She was pretty beneath all that mud, he could tell. Maybe if he were a few shades less miserable, he would work on charming that muck off so he could tell for certain. "What can I get for you?"
"Rum," Killian said. His voice was scraped hoarse from the wind, and he winced, rubbing at his throat. "Hot, if you can make it so."
"I can," the barmaid said, and promptly disappeared into the kitchen. Killian stared after her absently and felt weariness settling deeply into his bones.
The only others in the bar were old Agatha and her pile of books, who lived in that corner booth as far as Killian had ever been able to tell, and a couple of sailors in the back, looking even more exhausted than Killian felt. One of them was asleep, face down on the table. Or maybe he was dead. Both were equally possible.
Killian was starting to drift off himself by the time the maid returned with his drink, a steaming mug that she placed carefully by his arm. She'd wrapped it in a cloth to protect her hands, and Killian noticed with a vague sort of bemusement that it was the filthy wash rag she'd been using to wipe the bar with before.
It did nothing to dampen the pleasure of a warm drink after months of nothing but the half-frozen, stale swill from the ship's stores. It was spiced with something, lemon and something a little sweeter, and it was probably the nicest thing Killian had encountered in quite a while.
"You are an angel," he pronounced, after his first, careful drink. It tasted just as heavenly as it smelled. The maid simply shrugged, turning her back to attend to the pile of dirty glasses on the opposite side of the bar. "Truly, you are. You've made a weary sailor's day."
"My life's true purpose is finally revealed," the maid replied dryly. Killian nearly choked on the rum, grinning in surprise at her back. "You need a room, sailor? Give me a yes, and you'll help me fulfill my destiny twice over when I go up and shake the spiders from your sheets."
"It seems I am to be your damsel in distress then," Killian said, "for I loathe spiders, and the fair Elfriede never lifted so much as a finger against them."
The maid whirled around, a ring of mugs hooked in either hand. Her eyebrow, crusted with that wretched mud, arched up towards her hairline - whether in amusement or disdain, Killian couldn't tell. Honestly, he'd take either one. "You're not much of a damsel. Your face is unshaven, your eye is bruised, and you smell like the inside of a sheep pen."
Killian surprised himself, then, by laughing. It had been quite a few months since he did it, so being out of practice, it came out sounding like a dog's bark. "And your face is covered in cow manure, my lady. Seems to me we are well matched, in that sense."
The maid scrunched up her mouth in distaste, lifting her mug-laden hand to wipe at her forehead with the back of her arm. "Drat. I thought I'd gotten it all."
"Not quite," Killian said, laughing again at her struggle. She gave up abruptly, her muddy face pulling into a sort of sulk.
"Twelve silver for the room, and a copper for the drink," the maid said, scowling. "If you've been here before, you know where the till is. I'll be back with your key."
"A daring display of trust," Killian said, as she marched toward the stairs. "I might take off with the contents of your safe."
"Damsels don't know how to break safes," the maid said with a scoff, and disappeared. Killian laughed again, just for the sake of laughing, and finished his drink.
Well, he thought. How about that.
The maid did not return again; instead, it was Elfriede who gave Killian the key to his customary room, along with a stern admonishment to keep quiet during the night.
"None of that yowling, you hear? Bloody sailors, always bringing girls around. Guests have to be signed in, you know!"
Killian rolled his eyes at her. The yowling had been a nightmare, actually, not a girl. Let the hag think what she wanted, though. Killian owed no one an explanation.
"Quiet as a mouse," he promised, tucking the key into his sleeve. Elfriede scowled again, and retreated to the bar to fastidiously count the money Killian had left in the till.
It was Old Agatha that kept Killian company the rest of the afternoon, until dusk fell and Elfriede descended upon all of them. He sat down with the intent to see if the maid would show her frowning, grubby face again, but of course, she did not - but Old Agatha had plenty of good books, and news of the general state of the world that Killian had missed while out at sea, and was happy to share both. It was a good night in a miserable town, and Killian slept soundly for the first time in months.
He did not see the maid again until the next morning, when he came down to break his fast before returning to his ship. She was in the same spot, behind the bar, wiping with that same wash rag, and she looked straight at him when he walked into the room. Her face was no cleaner than it had been the night before.
"Coffee," Killian ordered, and sat down. The maid nodded, and wordlessly disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, his mug was wrapped in her rag again. "Thank you."
"Two copper," the maid replied. Killian dropped the coins in her outstretched hand, and they disappeared into her apron. There was a hint of colored ink on the skin of her arm that winked at Killian playfully as she pushed up her sleeve. A tattoo? On such a young girl? Killian grinned at her slowly, even more charmed than before. "No spiders, I assume?"
"None. I thank you for your assistance."
"It is, as they say, written in the stars," the maid said.
"Then I shall thank the stars tonight, when they awaken to greet me," Killian said. "We are well-acquainted, you understand."
The maid just rolled her eyes again, but there was a tilt to her mouth that Killian liked to think was a smile. "You're setting sail today."
It was not phrased as a question, but Killian answered it regardless. "Aye." He sipped at his coffee, which was perfect, of course. Spiced again, with something deeper and headier than last night's. Cinnamon? No, it couldn't be. Elfriede couldn't afford something as expensive as that. It was a miracle she stocked coffee at all. "To Huxton. A week's journey, if the sea is kind."
"Then you'll need this," the maid said, and pulled a small bag out of her apron. She tossed it straight at his face, and only several lifetimes' worth of sailor's reflexes allowed Killian to catch it. "But don't thank me. I hate to be thanked, and it will only ruin the moment."
Killian sniffed the small bag - it was the same heady spice from his coffee. "Ah, lass, it's too much. Let me pay you for it, at least."
"I don't need your money," the maid said, and Killian did believe her - as filthy as she was, her dress still looked new, and well made. It was hard not to notice such things.
"And I don't need this luxury," Killian said, and watched her face go still for a quick moment, as if frozen. "But I will accept it anyway, and take comfort in it. Tha - "
"Don't!" she said, wagging a finger at him, her mouth pulled into a smirk.
"Fine," Killian said, and reached out to grab her wrist. "At least let me show my gratitude another way."
The maid's expression turned wary, but she didn't pull away, and Killian kept his gaze leveled with hers as he slowly, carefully, kissed the back of her hand.
Her face was flushed by the time Killian released her. It was hard not to notice that as well. "You are far too old fashioned, and a bit of a snake," she pronounced, "aren't you? Don't answer. I don't want to hear you lie."
"I only lie when it accomplishes something," Killian told her truthfully. "Anyway, I have a feeling you'd see through it if I did."
"Your feeling would be right," the maid said. She fidgeted a bit with her scarf, then suddenly turned away, swiveling on one heel. "Safe travels, sailor. Enjoy my gift."
"I will do nothing less than treasure it, I assure you," Killian told the back of her head. He watched, smiling, as she took a deep breath and marched back into the kitchen, disappearing again without so much as a tilt of her head.
It was not until Killian was back on his ship and sailing away from miserable little Plitsblasse that he realized he never asked her for her name. But then again - she did not ask either. Perhaps that is how fate goes, Killian thought.
If pressed on the issue Killian would simply have said that it was mere coincidence that the majority of jobs he accepted after that involved that stretch of coastline between Huxton and Rathanök. His crew were not fooled, of course. But his crew were hardy, loyal and - most important of all - quiet, content to earn their living and respect their captain's white lies. Such is the case with sailors who have worked together for over a century: you tend to get a little too comfortable with everyone's bad habits.
The maid was not always there, of course. Sometimes it would be Elfriede to serve him his rum and coffee, and Killian would sleep amongst the spiders once more. But the more he visited, the more often it was his mud-splattered maid, with her spices and spark of conversation that did more to invigorate Killian's weary spirit than any magic or medicine he'd ever tried before. And he had tried many.
Each time, she would give him a little bag of spice, and each time, it was different. "This one is for tea," she'd say, or "only use this with red meat." Killian could never quite put his finger on what spices they were, exactly, only that they made his food and drink taste better than ever before. The bag itself seemed to hold exactly the right amount to sustain him until he sailed back into Plitsblasse's port. He suspected it was a spell of some kind; that kind of domestic magic was easy enough to coax out of a local sorcerer's apprentice, or one of the numerous sea nymphs that liked to emerge from the water to dance on the beaches on clear nights.
In return, Killian would bring her gifts as well: trinkets, really, from the places he traveled to. Jewelry, stones, sweets and candies that were hard to obtain in the Southern Isles. It was the little wooden carvings she seemed to enjoy the most, however - the first one being, naturally, a spider.
"I've not seen such delicate knifework since - well," she said, examining the token. "Look, you can see each little hair on its legs!"
"Yes, I had to keep it in my trunk, lest I awake in the middle of the night and give myself a scare," Killian said. The maid simply rolled her eyes at him - a favorite pastime of hers.
"Who is the artist? Someone you owe money to, perhaps?"
"Loads of it," Killian agreed. "I find myself deeper in debt with every animal he carves for me."
The maid tucked the little spider into her pocket, leveling him with a fond, yet stern, look. Most of the maid's fondness came with a healthy side of skepticism. It was one of the many things Killian found perplexingly charming about her. "I thank you for your sacrifice. You are a true damsel through and through, to throw yourself on the altar of poverty for my favor."
"Poverty? Investment, my dear knight. Debts will mean nothing, after all, once you marry me and take me away from all this," Killian said, waving his arm at the merry splendor of the inn.
The maid laughed. "I think I need to slay a few more monsters before I'm ready to settle down into matrimony."
"Then I shall wait patiently in my tower until you are," Killian said, and smiled at her scoff. "What shall I commission from him next? Lady's choice. A dragon, perhaps?"
"No," the maid said, leaning against the bar. The ends of her scarf trailed through a puddle of spilled whiskey; she didn't seem to notice. "A swan. Carve me a swan, sailor."
"Very specific. Do you have a swan familiar? Is that how you make my coffee so enchanting?"
"They're my favorite animal," the maid said, conspicuously ignoring the issue of magic.
"Then a swan you shall have," Killian said. "I will entreat him to take extra care with it, too."
"Whatever you say," the maid said, voice rich with amusement. "Make sure it's a female."
"Is there a difference?"
"Why yes, male swans wear trousers. Also, sometimes they have goatees," the maid said, and then practically skipped away, back to her kitchen. Killian shook his head after her and was utterly useless for the rest of the day, lost to the power of her smile.
The truth was, as you've probably already guessed, that Killian carved these trinkets himself. It was his brother's hobby, and one that Killian only adopted years after his death, when the time came that it no longer felt like he was burning himself alive to think of Liam, and the things he'd enjoyed. The long nights in Neverland had honed his skill to perfection, and it was child's play to make the little statues for his maid, but still - with the swan, he took extra care. He kept it small, so she could keep it in her pocket, but he worked on it for weeks - burning his candles down to their wicks each night until he finished.
The maid, for her part, stared at it for a very long time after he presented it to her. He had left the base attached, and only half detailed so that it seemed as if the swan was emerging straight out of the block of wood. Its wings were extended, and its head turned towards an imaginary moon. The maid stroked it with her stained, dirty fingers, and then carefully tucked it into her pocket - the one in her blouse, this time, next to her heart. When she lifted her face, there was an expression upon it Killian had never seen before.
"I'm coming to your room tonight," she said, "don't lock the door." And before Killian could gather his wits to reply, she was gone.
What can be said, about the night that unfolded thereafter? That Killian paced the minutes away until she appeared, that she'd scrubbed her face raw to get as much of the mud off as she could? That his hands trembled, that her heart pounded so hard he could feel it against his cheek? All of this, you probably already know. People have been falling in love since the beginning of time, and this sailor and his maid were no different. Such is the way these stories go.
Their time together changed, from then on. Killian gave up all pretense, and docked his ship at Plitsblasse for entire days at a time - and as often as he felt he could inflict upon his crew. The maid was always at the inn, whenever he came to call, and he never paid for a room, for it was her bed that he laid his body upon at night.
Still, she did not give him her name, and Killian did not ask. She knew his, by then, but all he ever called her was "Swan." Or, sometimes, softer things, under the right circumstances. Killian was not a man afraid of affection, as some men often were, in those days.
But it was more than just the pleasure of a woman to touch, after so many years of abstinence, that made Killian keep returning. In fact, it was her conversation that he missed the most, even on the long nights, when the sound of the waves and the too-familiar noises of his ship were all he had to keep him company. It was her dryness and her prickliness, the spark of her humor and the smirk she'd don whenever she got a particularly good joke off, usually at his expense. The iron will he could tell that she had, lurking beneath the surface. The compassion, too, and an undeniable sense of honor that she very clearly wished she didn't possess.
It was that compassion that she gave him when he finally told her of the Neverland, and of the curse he bore, as best he could. It had surprised him, actually, that she never questioned the extra shadow that dogged his heels wherever they went, for she had to have noticed the troublesome fellow after so many nights together. But she never mentioned it, until he told her.
"My elder brother Liam was the first captain of my ship - the Jewel of the Realm, she was called back then. We served King Domnall of Misthaven." Swan went rigid against him, and Killian craned his neck to give her a wry smile. "Finally, my secret is revealed - you are in bed with an old man."
"King Domnall," Swan repeated, her faraway gaze locked on the ceiling. "Killian, he ruled almost two hundred years ago."
"Aye. He was a right bastard, too." Swan snapped her chin down to look at him, incredulous, and Killian gave her a helpless shrug. "I did warn you it was a fantastic story, darling."
"You are a fantastic man," Swan said, "so I expected nothing less. Ignore my surprise; go on."
"Very well." Killian turned his eyes inward, and concentrated on keeping his voice steady. He had not told the tale to anyone before, and some parts of it he hadn't even thought of himself for years. "My brother was a decorated sailor, and I had some measure of trust by proxy, just by virtue of being his brother and first lieutenant. We often were given tasks directly from the King - things he wanted to accomplish discreetly, mostly. The Ogre Wars were just ending, see - and Domnall had made many enemies. None of what we did could be called honorable by any stretch of the imagination, but we believed it to be at least necessary. Until Domnall's daughter took ill - that was when we were sent to Neverland."
"Princess Fiona," Swan murmured, a strange note to her voice. "She died young."
"Did she?" Killian sighed. "I never thought to inquire after her fate. She was a sweet girl."
Swan made a small noise of agreement, and tucked her face closer against Killian's arm.
"Everyone knew of Neverland. It was in all the stories, and every so often you would meet some poor chap in a pub that claimed to have been there and survived it. But Domnall actually had one of the sails required to travel there, which he gave to us. Fate knows how he acquired it, but he had plenty of treasures stowed away in that great castle of his." Killian paused to clear the bitterness out of his throat. "He told us that there was an herb that could only be found there, one that would cure the princess' illness. We believed him - why would we not? We were soldiers; we went where we were told."
"He lied," Swan said flatly.
"Yes," Killian said. "The herb was poison. An incredible poison, in fact, the strongest I've ever encountered. Liam fell victim to it, as did most of our crew."
Swan clutched his arm tighter. "Oh, Killian - Domnall was a criminal, one of the worst rulers Misthaven has ever had. What he would've done with it - oh, I'm sorry."
"It was long ago," Killian said, with some difficulty. "It is why I serve no sovereign, and fates willing, never will again. I don't think I could stand it."
"Honestly, I can't really stand it now, and my life has been a daydream in comparison," Swan said darkly.
"You are a daydream," Killian told her, just to see her roll her eyes. She did not disappoint. "You see, Neverland isn't just a place, it's a state of mind. You have a Neverland, as do I. We all have one, and going there - it's easy, if you have the tools for it, but leaving is much harder. The veil cannot be mended after it's torn, and once you are there, it is hard to remember that you ever existed anywhere else. There is a saying there - 'a man dies every time you take a breath,' for breaths in Neverland last lifetimes everywhere else. And I took many breaths, there.
"There were others, too, who were trapped the same way I was. The most fearsome one was a boy who called himself Pan - he wasn't much of a human anymore, if he ever was. Perhaps he was just cruelty and greed given form and shape. There is no way of knowing. I fought him for years, at first with the aim that if I vanquished him, I could escape, but eventually it became...well - "
"Personal," Swan finished for him.
"Quite." Killian grimaced. His extra shadow was gesturing at him, taunting him with silent words, as it always did whenever Killian spoke or thought of Pan. Sometimes the two shadows even fought each other, but thankfully his natural companion was ignoring the intruder's antics - for Swan's sake, most likely. "I killed him eventually, and got what was left of my ship and crew out. But the extra shadow is the price I paid - it attached itself to me, at the moment of his death. I don't know whose it is, exactly, for Pan had no shadow, and I was too distracted at the time to see from whence it came. Perhaps it is a curse - or perhaps not. There was not much in Neverland that had the ability to be known, so perhaps the answer is that there is no answer - the Neverland's version of a scar."
"It's a nettlesome fellow, that's for certain," Swan said, lifting her head from Killian's shoulder to peer at the shadow. It snapped its black teeth at her, and she gave it a dark smirk. It shrank back slightly, abashed. "Does it ever harm you?"
"Sometimes," Killian told her truthfully, and she winced and gave a great sigh, as if irritated.
"It has to be dark magic," Swan said, turning her head away from it in dismissal. The shadow leaped onto the ceiling in protest, but she simply ignored it. "Maybe it's Pan's soul. When you killed him, he latched onto you in a last bid for escape."
"I bloody well hope not," Killian said, appalled.
Swan smiled up at him, and craned her neck to kiss his chin. The vengeful shadow raged silently on the ceiling above them, a flickering, angry ghost.
"I see you believe me," Killian said. "Or else you are very good at pretending."
"I am good at it," Swan said, "but I am not, currently. I knew there was something funny about you from the moment you stepped foot in the inn. Didn't I tell you?" She shrugged. "Not everyone has two shadows, you know. I would not have come to your room that first night if I were not prepared to go to bed with a strange, implausible man who has surely done strange, implausible things. Shadows and demons and Neverlands - pah! I've heard worse."
"The mark you carry is a sight nicer," Killian said, reaching out for her arm. The curling, flowering vine that wrapped itself around her wrist was one of Killian's favorite things to look at in the world, and it was up against some very stiff competition. Especially when he'd so recently divested her of her skirts. "And probably lacks the nasty associations of mine."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Swan said, a touch darkly. "A miscast spell. That is all. I prefer yours - it's a testament to all you've survived. And all you endure, still."
"A magical vine?" Killian asked, tracing its leaves. "My daring Swan, are you a witch? Speak truthfully. I swear that my devotion will be unaffected. I understand times have changed, now, what with all these evil sorceresses running around, but in my time they were as common as garden grass."
"I," Swan said slowly, and slid her arm down to clasp his hand, "am in bed with an old man."
Killian laughed. "All right. Keep your secrets."
"It's not a secret. I'm just utterly overwhelmed by your...maturity. Is that the right word?" She laughed. "I can't bring myself to say 'seniority.'"
"You called me old fashioned, once," Killian said.
"And I was right," Swan said, sliding the back of her hand down his cheek. It was the kind of tenderness she did not often display. "You're not immortal, are you? It was just Neverland that prolonged your life?"
"Of course I'm mortal," Killian said, snagging her hand and pressing it to his breast. "Do I not feel mortal?"
"You feel like milk and honey," she said, and wrapped her legs around him. "The sweetest I've ever had."
"I hope you don't say that to all the damsels you rescue," Killian said, smiling helplessly up at her.
"Just the ones I like," Swan said, and there was no more talking after that, not even from their shadows.
If there are laws that guide the universe, than one of them surely must be that golden times of peace and comfort can never last - particularly when they are so welcome, and so yearned for. Killian knew this as well as any other victim of the fates, and so it was with resignation, and a fatalistic sort of stoicism, that he watched the tides turn towards darker, more dangerous waters.
"War," Swan said flatly, her fingers wound tightly in the lapels of Killian's jacket. "Surely, Misthaven's queen will be able to - "
"The Bear is fierce, but fierceness alone cannot stop the greed of an entire kingdom," Killian said. "Swan, surely you know the Southern brothers have had their sights set on Misthaven for years? Why do you think they've been building their treasury, so quickly, and so dishonorably? Their people suffer, so the princes can arm their navy."
Swan made a noise of utter frustration, pressing her forehead into Killian's chest. She was trembling, in what Killian thought was fear, but when he reached out to comfort her, she pulled away. "You've seen them? Out at sea - you've seen their ships?"
"Aye," Killian said. "It's why my last job fell apart - that bloody silk merchant. I had to turn back, there were too many warships, circling Huxton's harbor, and the shipment I carried was late."
"Can they win?" Swan asked, eyes wide and desperate. "Surely you're more familiar with the girth of Misthaven's navy than I - tell me, can they win?"
Killian looked at her for a long moment, considering. It would be a mistake to think that simply because he had not asked meant he did not wonder, or suspect - but Killian was a pirate, a sailor, and a survivor, and so of course he did both. His first theory had been that she was a spy - a magical one, perhaps, for kings and queens often turned to such minor creatures as fairies or dryads to accomplish their ends, and a miserable inn in a miserable port town is perfect for gathering information from miserable sailors. But no spy would be so naively ignorant of news such as this, not one that was exceptionally bad at their job. No - she must be a runaway. The daughter of a rich family, nobility most likely, who fled to escape an arranged marriage, or simply the pressures of her life - but a war between her homeland and her adopted sanctuary would certainly give a woman like that a fright.
It did not matter, either way, to Killian, for he already was far too deeply in love to care. She could have been an assassin sent to slit his throat as he slept, and he would have opened his arms to her anyway - such is the way of hearts like his. So he looked at her desperate face, and did the only thing he could: told the truth.
"Yes," he said. "In an all-out war? Absolutely, they can. Easily."
Swan brought her hand to her mouth, horrified. Killian's shadows whirled around her feet, agitated by her distress, the natural shade attempting defending her from the snarls of the unnatural one.
"Darling," Killian said, stepping over the silent battle and embracing her. "It's not as simple as all that, don't lose hope yet. The brothers won't attack until they are certain of their victory - for if they lose, they will have bankrupted their kingdom for nothing. The King may be too old to care for ruling, but even he will notice something like that - and the princes won't risk his wrath unless they're sure they will succeed. There's still time."
"Time for what?" Swan asked. "What can be done?"
"To get your loved ones out of Misthaven," Killian said, watching her face go slack with surprise. "Come now, don't look at me like that, I'm not a fool. You have family there?"
"Yes," Swan said slowly, turning her face down and avoiding his eyes. "But it's not that simple."
"Then let's make it so," Killian said. He reached out and touched her face, rubbing a smear of mud away from beneath her eye. After so long, he barely even noticed the grime that was ever present on her face. "Tell me your complications, and I will help you unwind them. I have a ship, and a crew, at your disposal. Surely, whomever you love, wherever they are, together, we can get them out of harm's way."
"You would do that for me," Swan said, lifting her chin to look at him once more, with that dry, skeptical wariness that had first caught Killian's attention. "I haven't even told you my name."
"I don't need to know anything that you do not wish to tell me," Killian told her truthfully, "and besides, I know you well enough. I know your smile and your heart, and names are far less important than that."
"Such a typical man, to think sleeping with a woman means that he understands her," Swan said, but she was smiling, and Killian laughed.
"You must know, love," he said, "that there is not much that I would not do for you. You must know, by now."
"I do," she said, and leaned into his embrace. "I do. Oh, Killian."
Killian held her, and kissed the crown of her head. "So you will allow me to help?"
"Yes, I - " she pulled away, wiping at her face. "I need to...do something, first. How long - we wouldn't have to leave tonight...?"
"Of course not."
"Then meet me tomorrow. Early daybreak? I'll come to the docks. We can...talk, then."
"I will be there," Killian promised, and kissed her to seal the promise. She kissed him back, harder than she'd ever dared to outside the privacy of her room.
They did not linger, although both of them wanted to, and as they parted, she kept looking over her shoulder as she walked away. She looked as if she were afraid she would never see him again, and Killian, for all his previous optimism, left with a great dread in his heart.
In Neverland, time had a way of melting away into mist, and so it was that years, even decades, could pass and Killian would not even notice. Sometimes he wondered if it even was that long for him - perhaps it was not immortality that Neverland offered, but instead a form of time travel. He had no way of knowing for sure.
Yet there was no time that had ever passed as slowly for him as that night, as he waited for daybreak. His crew were restless, anxious to get on with a proper adventure after so many tedious months working for tedious reasons, and Killian could not sleep, still arrested by the look in Swan's eyes, and the fear that he had glimpsed within them.
Yet the sun did come, as she did every morning, and Killian saw Swan's silhouette before his tender even reached the shore. She was dressed in her usual clothing, with her usual film of grime across her face, and not for the first time, Killian wondered just what the hell she did with those cows to get that much muck all over her face.
"Good morning," she called out, waiting patiently as he tethered his boat and climbed up onto the dock to join her. "I brought you your coffee. Free of charge, this time. A gift from Elfriede, to thank you for your loyal patronage."
Killian took the mug from her gratefully. It was still warm, suspiciously so in light of the chill of the morning breeze, and the red in Swan's cheeks that revealed how long she'd been waiting. "A gift from Elfriede, you say? I did not know she held such regard for me. Perhaps I should be running off with her, instead."
Swan smiled at the joke, but there was sadness in it. "She would not have you. She only has eyes for respectable men."
"I'm plenty respectable."
"Yes," Swan said, and paused for a long moment. "Yes, you are. In a very unique, precious way."
Killian stared at her stricken face, and the dread in his heart started to stir, thickening into dismay. "You have bad news for me."
"Yes." Swan's shoulders stiffened, and her chin lifted.
Killian drained the coffee in one long gulp, ignoring its temperature. She'd added a spike of rum to it, he noticed. Definitely bad news, he thought.
"I'm not coming with you," Swan said.
Killian stopped short. It was not hesitation - there were a number of outraged, disdainful things that he wanted to say, and he was simply torn between which one to choose first.
"I know what you're thinking," she said, and Killian scoffed loudly. Her eyes narrowed. "I do! I know. Trust me, I know. But I've not...been honest with you, or at least - I've not told you some things. My father always used to tell me that keeping secrets is the same as lying, and I never believed him until now. Because you deserve to know everything, and I just...I can't tell you. And I know it's wrong of me. I know it."
Killian took a measured breath, and took a step back to get his bearings. She flinched, a little, clearly taking it as a subtle rejection. "You can't tell me, or you don't want to? There's quite a difference, and if you're willing to stake your safety on it, Swan - "
"I can't," Swan said. "I mean, I won't. It's not that I physically can't - it's not an issue of magic, or at least not this part of it. It's a matter of yoursafety, Killian. Or your...security, rather. If I tell you everything…"
Killian could imagine. "Right," he said, resigned. "Then you are a spy. I thought at first that you were."
"I'm…" Swan paused and bit her lip, looking torn. "Of a sort. Not...really, though."
"You do realize that I am not actually a damsel in distress," Killian said dryly. "I've survived much more than you could possibly imagine, and then some more, on top of that."
Swan smiled sadly, and reached up to briefly touch his cheek. "I know," she said.
Killian sighed. "You have your reasons," he said, after a long moment of frustration. "If I can't persuade you from them - "
Swan shook her head.
"Well. I suppose I saw this coming, in a way." Killian turned to toss the empty coffee mug into the surf, taking the opportunity to turn his face away, so she would not see the dismay that surely was upon it.
"I do not mean to reject you," Swan said softly, the words almost swallowed up by the sounds of the waves. "Did you mean it? When you said that you and your crew were at my disposal?"
"I do not say things I do not mean," Killian said sharply, his pride still stinging.
"Then I would still ask something of you," Swan said. "Your help."
"I am, if nothing else, at your service," Killian said wearily. "What would you ask of me? Aside from allowing you to remain in danger, which will take quite a lot of my fortitude as it is."
Swan winced. "My kingdom is in more danger than I," she said. Taking a step forward, she reached out her hand tentatively, and graced him with a relieved smile when he took it in both of his.
"And what would you have me do about it?" Killian asked. He'd meant to say it flippantly, but it came out sincerely instead, and at the look of pained relief that appeared on Swan's face, he could not bring himself to regret it.
"Sail to Misthaven," Swan said, and pulled a small, bound journal out of her apron. "You will find my loved ones in the Morning Forest. There's a map, in here." She tucked the journal into Killian's vest, her hands lingering at his throat. "Ask for Robin Hood. And - " here, she seemed to falter, her fingers clenching into fists against his skin. She took a deep breath, and looked up, directly into his eyes. "And if you still love me, then you will know what to do then. If you still love me, you will know how to help me. And if it's your face I first see, then I will know I have not lost my chance."
"Swan," Killian said, feeling as if his heart were twisting into a great, tangled knot inside of his chest. "I would never, could never - "
"Don't say that!" Swan exclaimed. "You can't say that until you know. And I can't explain it, but - just go, and I promise you will understand."
Killian pressed his lips against her forehead, clasping her shoulders tightly. She shuddered a little, and the ends of her scarf and the tangled ends of her hair whipped around them, frenzied by the morning wind. The world grew soft around them, and even the monstrous sea quieted, as if it were afraid to intrude.
"Kiss me properly," Swan said thickly, and Killian obeyed, for he could do nothing else.
It was a curious kind of kiss, not the kind that they had ever shared before, and Killian felt a strange sensation that was much more than the usual sort one feels when kissing the woman one loves. It was like a kind of pulling, that began in his chest and then soared up his spine to the back of his head, and he noticed - in a distant sort of way - that his knees were trembling like a schoolboy's. Swan's hands were clutched painfully tight on the sides of his face, and it felt as if they were held together by some great, outside force - a pair of invisible hands, pressing them together.
He felt lightheaded, when she finally released him. Swan's face was a beautiful blur, her eyes a colorful splash of blue and white against the grey mud of her face.
"I love you," she said. Killian tried to answer, but found that he could not. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
It was the last thing he heard before the ground rose up to meet him, and as he surrendered to an empty darkness he dimly felt her hands still cradling his face, keeping him steady as he fell into the cold.
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