Thanks for reading (and for the lovely comments/favourites, which are always exciting)! This one's a long one, but I hope you all enjoy.
Once again, I have to give my deepest gratitude to my beta, Trish Tavor. Seriously, she is amazing!
The Past - 1829
It took only two days to reach the prison. Still, Killian's discomfort caused the time to slow to an almost unbearable crawl.
Loaded into a prison wagon, he was thrown about with every bump on the road. At first, he'd tried to hold onto the bars to keep himself steady, but his hands ached too much and grew too blistered to keep it up forever. The wagon was made up only of bars and a roof, with hardly enough room to turn around and certainly not enough room to stand. To make matters worse, a torrential rain started to fall on the evening of the first day. Huge droplets blew through the bars with a painful force, soaking Killian to the skin with each new gust of the chill autumn wind. He wished desperately for his coat, but they had taken it away before loading him inside. As a result, he could only fold in on himself and shiver.
Despite the cold, the rain was a blessing in some ways. The soldiers hadn't bothered to provide him with food or water, and after twenty-four hours, his throat was already burning. Even though his hands were numb and shaking from the cold, he still cupped them again and again to catch the rain and bring it to his chapped lips.
Worst of all by far were the people. The soldiers didn't allow Killian out, even to relieve himself or stretch, nor did they do anything to make his journey remotely comfortable. They even left the manacles on. Killian was quick to point out that it was a stupid idea; after all, it wasn't like he was going anywhere. As it turned out, the soldiers didn't like criticism - particularly when it came to their intelligence - and Killian had the bruises to prove it.
The soldiers also did nothing to protect Killian from any angry people they came across. He came to dread going through villages and cities. At best, Killian got insults or rotten fruit thrown at him. At worst, he got rocks or excrement.
The Present
Emma stared at him. "Seriously? Why would they do that?"
Killian's silhouette shrugged. "The general populace doesn't look upon pirates kindly."
"Not liking someone doesn't usually make people throw things at them, in my experience."
It was hard for Emma to wrap her head around a police force that wouldn't protect a prisoner. Most people don't like thieves either, but Emma was generally treated with at least some dignity and detachment during her own arrest and incarceration. Public humiliation was difficult for Emma to imagine, even if she remembered learning about it in history class. Of course, being arrested and cuffed was humiliating, but there was no one there to see it. No one jeered at her at her trial, never mind throwing things at her.
Although it was dark, Emma could still feel Killian's gaze upon her.
"Your world is less harsh than mine was, then. In my experience, most people will take any chance they have to prey on the weak, or those they perceive as lower than themselves. I imagine that you think that people like your parents fill the Enchanted Forest but, I assure you, they're a bloody rarity, even for their time."
To her surprise, there was no bitterness in Killian's tone. He sounded as matter-of-fact as though he were stating the weather. At first, Emma felt a twinge of sadness that Killian could be so completely disillusioned. Then, she thought back to all of the bullies she'd come across: other children, adults who talked down to her as a child, people who threw her away as easily as an object that had ceased to be valuable, the people she tracked down as a bail bondswoman. She'd been disillusioned by people too, but she'd never quite thought of it in terms of the way Killian had just described.
"My world can be harsh too," Emma found herself saying. "It's just harsh in a different way. People still prey on the weak. They just do it less obviously."
After a moment, Killian nodded. "I suppose it's human nature, whatever your time or your world."
Perhaps that was exactly what made a hero, Emma mused; perhaps a hero was someone who fought against the need to raise themselves up at another's expense. She glanced towards where she knew her parents were sleeping and once again felt a keen longing for them. Killian was right; they were rare.
She had never appreciated them more.
The Past
The journey served to teach Killian a hard lesson that he'd been slowly realizing throughout his life but never entirely accepted:
People were fundamentally evil. He was glad that he had never tried to become king, because he certainly didn't want to risk his life to protect these people. They deserved what they got and more. Collateral damage was not only acceptable, but morally right. He could see why his grandmother had burned people during her crusade for the throne. He would gladly watch the villagers burn, and he would relish their screams.
Thoughts of destroying them in painful ways kept him occupied during the worst moments of those two days. In a way, it was his hatred that made the entire situation bearable.
It was still raining when they reached the prison. Killian hadn't expected to be taken all the way to the capital, so being taken to a different prison wasn't a surprise. What did surprise him was which prison he was taken to. It was a higher security prison with menacingly large stone walls. It sat on a cliff over the ocean and was visibly buffeted with huge waves that shrouded the dark stones in mist with each thundering collision of water against rock. Killian knew that cells went all the way down the cliff, with special trapdoors at the end of the hall that allowed the water to rush in and drain out with each swell of the ocean. The worst prisoners were kept lower down, where more water would rush in. At the bottom, the prisoners were often up to their waists in it at high tide.
The prison was notorious throughout the kingdom as one of the worst, but it was significant to Killian for more reasons than that. His grandmother had been kept here while awaiting her fate. The king had been reluctant to take her to the capital in case there were any surges of resistance; the prison was easy to defend. Here, his grandfather had met his grandmother and then carried her away. His mother had told him that Katie Crewe had chipped away at the wall of her cell with her fingernails until they broke and blood dripped down her fingers. I die a Queen, she had scratched painstakingly into the wall.
"Why would she do that?" A five year-old Killian had demanded.
"To leave something solid behind," Christine said, stroking her son's hair with a gentle hand as he sat in her lap. "Memories are flighty things to leave behind; they fade from existence with those who carry them."
Her words had given Killian chills, and he'd had to turn around to burrow into his mother's front for comfort. He didn't like the thought of lives just disappearing, blown away like ashes on the wind, as though they had never existed in the first place.
"Is that why you write in your journal?" He'd asked, his voice muffled against the cinnamon-coloured cotton of his mother's dress. He didn't like imagining a time when the only thing that remained of his mother were a few books filled with writing.
She hummed in agreement. "But I'll be around for a long time yet."
Then she had rocked him, singing into his ear with her soft, dark curls falling loosely around them both:
Oh can't you see yon little turtle dove
Sitting under the mulberry tree?
See how that she doth mourn for her true love:
And I shall mourn for thee, my dear,
And I shall mourn for thee.
O fare thee well, my little turtle dove,
And fare thee well for a-while;
But though I go I'll surely come again,
If I go ten thousand mile, my dear,
If I go ten thousand mile.*
The song was echoing through his head now in his mother's smooth, ringing voice. Odd, considering that he hadn't thought of it for years.
The Present
"Your mom told you about her mom's time in prison?" Emma was unable to keep curiosity from bleeding into her voice. The little bits and pieces she'd heard about Katie Crewe fascinated her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You asked about my parents, Swan, not my grandparents." He pointed out drily. "Besides, I know very little: only what my grandfather told my mother, and who knows what she left out of her journals or the tales she told my brother and I. We were children after all." His voice had turned wistful.
Emma shot her companion a meaningful look that was completely useless in the dark. Still, she couldn't imagine hinting more obviously that she wanted to hear about it than she had already, which meant that Killian was purposefully ignoring her. She was surprised that he hadn't learned by now that it wouldn't work
"And?"
From his irritated huff, Emma knew that she had won. Smirking, she settled back to listen.
The Past - 1769
For a fifteen year-old, Kathryn knew that she had lived an accomplished life. She had accomplished more than many people did in a lifetime waging wars, gathering followers, raining vengeance down upon her enemies...
Perhaps she should have been bitter about her imminent death, but it had been expected, really. All she could feel was a numb detachment, as though she were moving through a dreamscape rather than reality. Maybe that was why her fingers didn't hurt so much from their abuse; well, that and the cold. Even though it was summer, the chill from the ocean was unshakeable. She would like to pretend that she didn't feel the cold, but she was used to the soft red sand of the deserts in the far east that continued to radiate heat even after the sun set.
She had little to no nails left on her hands, but she was almost finished, so it didn't really matter. All she had left was the "n" in her name that she painstakingly carved underneath her message. She would have written "Queen Kathryn" underneath, but she supposed that saying "queen" once was enough, and she didn't really have enough nails left to sacrifice to the wall.
Part of her hoped that leaving her words and her blood in these walls would be enough for her spirit to stay here. She would haunt the guards until they all drowned themselves, then drift over to her castle and drive the traitor who sat on her throne to madness until he killed himself too.
Oh, and that traitorous advisor who had the audacity to offer her freedom in exchange for a fuck.
"You're much younger than I expected."
The voice startled her; she had reached a point where she barely noticed the swelling of the water beneath her feet. Now the floor was damp rather than flooded: low tide. Guards only ever checked on her when they didn't have to get their feet wet.
Katie glanced up with a frown to see a familiar face. Even in the shadows of the damp dungeon, she could recognize it, simply because it was the face that had landed her here. She had only seen it from a distance, of course, since a captive - even an advantageous one - was not important enough for her to deal with personally.
She scowled at the wall, continuing to scratch at it in a determined effort to avoid looking at him. "Is there a reason for your visit, or are you just here to gloat?"
"Well, my family is now on the side of your enemies," the man said with a rueful smile. "So I'm on guard duty."
With eyes ablaze, she turned back to him. "They would entrust a bastard to watch me?"
To her irritation, he was now leaning against the bars with his arms hooked casually around them. He looked as comfortable as though he could be in his own home, rather than in a prison. "It's a gesture of goodwill. Besides, I volunteered."
"And they let you, because you're not as important as your father's real children, but you're still somehow considered important enough to confirm your alliance." Her voice dripped with disdain. "You could have been ordered to 'volunteer', but I suspect that you're here for more than that. Revenge?"
"Curiosity," the man replied. His grey eyes raked her up and down. The image of the menageries that the Eastern lords had shown her popped into her head. She could still picture the tigers with their yellow eyes, restless and dangerous, pacing behind the bars.
She refused to be one of those tigers, so clearly trapped and angry. She was a queen, after all. Kathryn sauntered over to the bars herself and leaned against them. "And has your curiosity been sated, now that you've seen me?"
He shook his head, dark curls flopping across his face as he did so. Up close, she could see his face had laughter lines, although he didn't look old enough to have them.
"No. As I said, I expected you to be older." To Kathryn's surprise, there was no maliciousness behind his words.
She leaned closer. "I'm an old soul."
"How old are you?" He asked. His name was John, she recalled.
"Fifteen."
John let out a low whistle.
For a moment, Kathryn actually studied him. He had a large, beaky nose and small lips masked by a beard. Still, there was a certain charm to him, particularly from his mouth that looked as though it smiled more than it frowned. She would almost call him handsome, if she cared about such things.
"You don't look so old yourself, bastard," she observed.
"I'm twenty-four." He leaned towards her now, a stupid grin on his face. "But I'm an old soul."
Kathryn looped her own arms around the bars, manacles clanking against the metal.
"You're stalling. I can see the question on your face."
The man bit his lip, looking down as though gathering his thoughts. Kathryn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If she had a limited amount of time left in this world, she hardly wanted to waste it waiting for the man in front of her to get up the courage to speak.
"Why did you kidnap me?" He asked finally.
"I miscalculated," Kathryn said coldly. "I assumed that your father would care enough about your life to not take the risk that he did. I would have preferred to kidnap one of his real children, but you were more conveniently located."
Now, John raised his head, face blank. "But you didn't kill me."
"No."
"Why?"
Kathryn smiled, pressing her face against the bars. "Because I was going to torture and kill you in front of your family as soon as I captured them. It was a much better punishment than receiving your head. Of course, I wasn't expecting to be betrayed." Here, her smile gave way to something more feral. "When I get out of here, I'll make them suffer. I'll castrate them, leave them tied in the hot sand with water just out of their reach, then whip them, then cut off more bits of them until they beg for death. And only then will I burn them, one by one, piece by piece."
The Present
Emma couldn't resist interrupting. "Your mother told you that?"
Even though she hadn't met Henry until he was ten, she couldn't imagine telling her son that even at that age.
"No, Swan, of course not." Killian sounded affronted, and Emma couldn't help but wince. "It was in her journal. For all I know, she imagined it."
The Past
The shock on John's face almost made Kathryn laugh. The poor boy. He'd probably been pampered his entire life, even as a bastard. He'd been adopted, after all, and made more or less legitimate. Still, no one with a brain believed him to be anything else but the scum of the streets. That didn't mean he'd lived the life of the scum of the streets, though. He'd probably lived a life closer to what Kathryn should have lived.
After a moment, John's shock turned to curiosity once more. "You seem awfully certain that you will get out of here."
"I'm the legitimate queen. I have thousands of followers who would die for me without a second thought. And I have the people of my kingdom, who will rise up to save me, as they should." Kathryn sounded much more confident than she felt.
John shook his head in disbelief. "You've been burning the people of your kingdom. They're too scared of you to support you, nor do they particularly care who sits on the throne. And your armies have scattered or surrendered."
While she knew his words were true, Kathryn only raised a mocking eyebrow. She wondered if the man had a key on him. Perhaps she could pickpocket him.
Before she could try, though, John sighed and moved away to sit on the floor. He propped his head onto his hands. "You don't have many friends, do you?"
It was a strange observation. Kathryn was so surprised that she let out a laugh.
"Of course I don't have friends. I have loyal subjects."
John shook his head, brow furrowing. He had very dramatic eyebrows, thick and low so that they almost shaded his eyes. "Isn't that kind of lonely?"
Once again, Kathryn was baffled by the man in front of her. She'd never been spoken to in such a frank way, not even by her most trusted advisors. It showed the man's lack of breeding, to be sure. She knew that the north was an odd place, full of rough men who picked their livings out of mountain rocks, but she had expected the ruling lord's son to have more manners and common sense. Perhaps he hadn't been raised as a full son of the lord after all.
As a result, she pitied him, and decided to actually respond to the question. "I'm a queen," she explained, speaking slowly to adjust to his level of intelligence. "I'm not meant to have friends and be happy. I'm meant to rule."
"In that case, I wouldn't want to be king," John said confidently.
Kathryn scoffed. "Of course not. It's hardly your place to think about such things or even hope to understand. You couldn't rule an ant colony, never mind a kingdom."
After a moment, John shook his head again. Then he turned to her, grey eyes intense. "I'm sorry."
Yet again, Kathryn found herself thrown off guard. "For what, bastard?"
"You must have had a terrible life to be such a terrible person."
The words stung. It was odd for the words of someone so inferior to herself to actually hurt her, but somehow they did. No one had ever said that to her before, and she felt the ridiculous urge to defend herself.
"Does pursuing justice make me a terrible person? I watched my brothers and sisters cut down in front of me. I heard the dying screams of my mother, begging the murderers to spare us. I had to pretend that I was dead. I had to lie on the floor, an eight year-old child, feeling the hot blood of my family oozing into my clothing and staining my skin. I had to bite back screams and trembling and stay absolutely still while my family died, knowing that I would die too if I tried to help. Do you know how old my youngest sister was? Four months."
She paused for breath, fists clenched against the bars. "Then I was hunted down from the moment I left the city, only escaping because of a loyal guard who was then shot down within the year by an assassin intending to kill me. Then, at eight years old, I had to prove to countless lords and ladies that I was worth supporting. I had to raise armies and lead them before I was even a woman."
By now her voice had dropped to a furious whisper. "You think I burned people for nothing? I burned them because they deserved it. I burned them because they stood in my way. I would burn this entire kingdom if it meant that I could kill those who killed my family. I've worked too hard to regain my birthright, and I'll be damned if I let anyone take it from me."
Her eyes were so blinded by tears that she didn't see John stand and move towards her. She only realized he had moved when he had grabbed her hand. His hand was rough, but it was warm against her freezing fingers.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, his own voice thick with emotion. He swallowed audibly, then continued. "I'm not saying that what happened to you was right, because it wasn't. But if I were your family, I wouldn't want you to throw your life away on something stupid like revenge or a birthright. I would want you to live."
Kathryn shook her head. "What do you know? You're not my family. You're just a bastard."
"I know people," John shrugged. "And I know what it's like to be bitter. And I know that things hurt a lot less if you move on."
"And how am I supposed to move on?" She snapped. "I'm waiting to be executed. My life is over."
John hesitated, eyes lost in some thought. "It doesn't have to be."
To her surprise, Kathryn found her heart pounding at his words. It was foolish to trust this stupid boy, but she somehow found herself filling with something light that she hadn't felt for a long time: hope. Maybe desperation was the cause, but she found that she couldn't push it away.
"You would trust me not to stab you in the back? You would trust me to keep my word and not just kidnap you again?" She asked incredulously.
John shrugged. "You might stab me in the back. But I think it's about time that I returned the favour of getting a second chance."
Perhaps for the first time in her life, Kathryn was humbled. There was clearly more to this man's story than met the eye, and she was suddenly curious about what it was.
"You'd seriously risk your life - and your family's - for me?"
John rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Well, not entirely. I'm not actually on guard duty. My family has ended the alliance because King Clayton is asking for way too much. They're already on their way home; the negotiations have failed. The original deal was simple: save me and get you. A longer term thing isn't in the cards, it seems."
A habit of suspicion was hard to break, and Kathryn felt old instincts kicking in. She became aware once again of John's hand covering hers, and finally pulled hers away. "And you'd double-cross them?"
He shrugged. "Well, they're not very nice."
Kathryn shook her head. "You seriously broke in here just to see if I was worth saving?"
"It was worth it just to see if I could break into the kingdom's most secure prison. It was a fun challenge."
Without a doubt, John was mad. In this case, his madness was beneficial. Kathryn could think about this whole idea of a second chance, or she could kill him and be on her way. The lovely thing was that she could save that decision for later. Either way, she was going to live.
John extracted a key from his belt and paused. "There is one condition for this, though."
Kathryn rolled her eyes. Of course there was. "What?"
"Stop calling me bastard. We're friends now. That means we're on first name terms, Katie."
"That is not my name, John." She said his name like a disease, but John looked pleased nonetheless.
Once again, he smiled what Kathryn had now dubbed his shit-eating grin. "It is now."
Maybe she would have to kill him after all.
The Present
Here, Killian paused. The silence stretched on until Emma began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep. She glanced over at his silhouette only to find that he was sitting up now, completely still but certainly awake from the way he held his head.
"What?" Emma whispered.
He glanced at her, and she could see the stars reflected in his pupils.
"I've often found it to be an interesting turn of fate that my grandmother found redemption within that prison, while I..."
He began to fiddle with his hook, clearly embarrassed.
"Found the opposite?" Emma finished softly.
The Past - 1829
Killian had always considered the ocean to be a friend. He had ridden the waves into adventure, been lulled into sleep by the lapping of water against the hull of the ship, and thrown his enemies into the water to be swallowed and vanquished.
In the lowest level of the prison, he realized what a fickle friend the ocean could be. At high tide, he was thrown repeatedly against the bars of his cell and the harsh stone walls. The cell was too small to stand in, which meant that he barely had room to breathe and risked getting his face smashed in whenever he did.
The cries of the other prisoners would fill the hall with a gruesome chorus that eventually faded into a frightening silence. It took two days for the first man on the floor to give up and drown. Killian had watched them carry his body past his cell to throw out the chute into the ocean; apparently it served more purposes than making their stay uncomfortable.
Killian had expected torture, but this was a new, unfamiliar form of it. He was used to beatings and starvation; he almost wondered if that would be more bearable. At least he occasionally received water and food now, although not nearly enough. He became used to gritty salt stuck in his hair, his clothes, his eyelashes, his skin. He slept when he could at low tide, but it never seemed to last long enough, and he feared missing his daily delivery of water and food. Sleep was especially difficult in the cold.
He began to regret not killing himself when he had the chance, Milah be damned, and the thought constantly echoed through his mind. It would be so easy to just stop fighting the waves and let himself drown. Clearly, no one was coming for him, anyway. He lost track of the days he spent in that hell, each one blending into the next with the same darkness and repetitive deafening, crashing waves.
Soon, he began to hallucinate. His mother appeared to him the most. She would reach out to touch him, but then she would disappear. Most often, he watched her die. Sometimes she blamed him for her death and everyone else's. He wouldn't be able to tell whether the salt water running down his face was from the waves or his eyes. Lyanna would scream for help, Uncle Connor would call him weak, Lord Alasdair would goad him. His past haunted him awake and asleep.
As a result, when someone came to visit him, he thought she was a figment of his imagination.
"Killian. I thought I told you that I never wanted to see your face again."
The pirate squinted as the woman raised her lantern. It took a while for his eyes, so used to the dark by now, to adjust to the harsh light and see the woman in front of him. She was small with a boyish figure, dull brown hair twisted into an intricate bun, and cold, dark eyes. Her dress was far too nice for a prison, made up of layers and layers of purple silk and lace. Her rather large nose was wrinkled in disgust, whether at him or the conditions of the prison, Killian wasn't sure.
"Giselle," he said, his voice coming out in a rasp. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Her mousey face twisted into its usual expression of dislike that she wore around him. "I'm supposed to confirm that it's really you and not some other filthy pirate. I assure you, it's no pleasure to be here."
Again, she wrinkled her nose. She lifted a dainty foot from the floor to look at her delicate purple slippers, now stained brown and soaked through.
"And will you tell them that it's really me?" Killian found that he didn't really care, either way.
"Of course," she sniffed. "I already saved you once. It's your own fault if you can't manage to keep out of trouble." Giselle raked him with her gaze, looking down her considerably sized nose. "God, you look disgusting."
Killian didn't doubt it. His clothes were torn and so was his skin. He could feel it stinging from the salt. Losing weight was inevitable with what he was eating, and his hair was matted. Even his shoes were gone.
With that observation, Giselle turned to leave, pulling out a handkerchief to hold against her nose.
With considerable effort and clanking, Killian moved forward enough to place his gaunt face against the bars. "Lord Alasdair's position suits you well. I imagine that he would be quite proud of you for carrying on his work."
Giselle stopped, her entire body tensing. It was a low blow considering his role in Liam's death, Killian knew, but one he couldn't resist or regret.
In a movement that was entirely too controlled, she turned back to Killian. Her face looked positively demonic in the glow from the lantern.
"Goading me won't entice me to free you."
"Power is a disease, isn't it? I remember you telling Liam about all that you would achieve once you were the king's advisor." Killian was acutely aware of the way Giselle stiffened at his name. "Even in other kingdoms I've heard about you. You're corrupt, they say. You use everything for your own benefit. You bask in power the way a dragon basks in gold, killing anyone who gets in your way. Just as you had me kill Lord Alasdair so that you could take his position. Are you plotting to marry the king, now? It wouldn't surprise me."
Giselle approached him slowly, almost in a predatory manner. Power did suit her; he imagined that she would look far less confident if the bars between them were to disappear.
A hot, powerful hatred surged through him. "Tell me, were you actually pregnant? I don't recall hearing any happy announcement. I suppose that if you were, you would have murdered the child as soon as it was out of your womb."
At this, Giselle finally snapped. She lowered her head until her face was only an inch or so away from Killian's, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of retreating. He didn't even flinch when she spat at him, nor move to wipe it off of his face.
Instead, Killian lunged, wrapping his hands around her neck. Giselle let out a gasp of surprise that Killian cut off with his hands, watching coldly as her eyes stared frantically into his, pleading. She clawed at his hands to no avail, slowly weakening from her lack of breath.
His voice came out in a growl. "So you did kill him."
He released the pressure on her neck just enough to let her answer.
"Her," Giselle whispered between small coughs.
"How did you do it?" Killian snarled. "Did you kill her before she was even born, Giselle? Did you flush her out before she could even draw breath? Or did you smother her in her early living moments? If so, this is poetic justice." He squeezed her neck a bit more tightly, reveling in the way her frantic pulse beat against his hands. Then, once again, he released her slightly to let her speak.
Her eyes were wet now. "No. I... hid my... pregnancy. And... gave her... away."
The news made Killian's heart stop. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Liam had a child, if Giselle could be believed. "To who?" Killian demanded.
"A family... in the... city. Went to... school with Lydia... her husband... lawyer." She was crying in earnest now.
"A last name, Giselle. Or an address."
"Over... my dead... body."
He moved his hands to her shoulders and slammed her head against the bars.
She whimpered, before gasping, "Adler."
Then Killian let her go, watching without sympathy as she collapsed to the floor gasping. A few droplets of blood were trickling down her pale, blue-tinged face. As soon as she had the breath, she started screaming for guards. Her dress was now stained a muddy brown, the silk ruined. Who looks awful, now? Killian thought vindictively. The sound of pounding footsteps echoed down the hall.
After a moment, Killian laughed. Giselle scurried away in surprise, staring as Killian moved his hands away from the bars to clutch his stomach, shaking with mirth.
"For someone who prides herself on manipulating others, you're pathetically easy to manipulate." He choked out.
Before Giselle could even process his words, two guards had arrived. One reached for Giselle, helping to her feet, while the other approached the cell menacingly.
"He tried to kill me," Giselle sobbed, face buried in her hands.
"A bit stupid of you to let her down here alone." Killian observed, smirking. "Although, I suppose you didn't imagine that someone as cunning as her would be stupid enough to come close to a criminal, did you?"
"That's enough," the guard who wasn't helping Giselle snarled. His face was purple with fury. The other one was younger and pale, stunned rather than angry. Killian could have crowed in triumph; he couldn't have asked for better guards if he'd tried.
Killian moved towards the bars deliberately, still smiling. "I'm surprised that you don't have more casualties here, mate. How on earth have you kept this job? Or are you new?"
The man reached for his belt, undoing it slowly, menacingly. He slipped the keys off first, but continued to slide the belt out all the way.
"I hope you don't lose your trousers. That would be quite a sight for the lady," Killian mocked.
"Stop!" Giselle snapped, voice breathy but still authoritative. "He's up to something!"
The guard ignored her - blind to everything but his own hotheadedness - and unlocked the door, raising his belt.
Adrenaline flooded Killian, and he rolled out of the way so that the belt only clipped his shoulder. He jumped to his feet and lunged at the guard, sending him careening to the floor, keys clattering beside him. The brute was taken by surprise, which meant it took him a moment to react. When he did, it was with flailing fists and a flailing belt. Killian barely felt them as he lunged at the guard again, keys in hand, and began stabbing down at the man's beefy neck. He didn't stop until the man stilled beneath him.
He turned to find the other guard standing between him and Giselle, his sword held between them.
"Put it down, lad," Killian panted, hand still holding the keys with a death-grip. "If you leave now, I give you my word that I won't hurt you. On my honour."
"Pirates don't have any honour," the boy declared, swinging the sword at Killian.
He dodged easily and tripped the boy, the sword clattering down the hall. Killian went after the sword, only to be grabbed by Giselle, finally spurred into action. He elbowed her hard in the stomach until she let go. Once he had a weapon in hand, he paused to catch his breath, taking in the sight of the guard fleeing down the hall. Only Giselle remained, face white with terror.
The other prisoners were screaming, yelling at Killian to give them the keys. He ignored them, staring at Giselle.
"He's going for more guards. Even if you kill me, you'll die," Giselle pointed out.
Killian pretended to consider, leaning against the wall in what he hoped appeared casual rather than pained. In reality, he was exhausted. "I spared your life before. It's not my fault if you can't stay out of trouble."
He slowly pressed the sword through her neck, watching as the life left her eyes with grim satisfaction.
Unfortunately, he only had moments to savour his victory. He could hear more soldiers coming, which meant he had to move. He ran down the hall, ignoring the hands now reaching out between bars of various cells, begging for their own freedom.
Killian considered, then tossed the keys towards one of them. He didn't care whether other prisoners were saved, but at least they could distract the guards.
Finally, he reached the chute that let the water in and let the dead prisoners out. He pushed it open cautiously, looking down at the angry ocean below. It was a risky plan that could very well result in being smashed against the rocks.
He had very little to regret leaving, if he died. In prison, he'd had a lot of time to think about death, since his had seemed imminent. Most everyone he loved had died or betrayed him. Even Owen, his only friend, could be a traitor. Death would mean little to him. Only three regrets would haunt him, if he were to die: leaving Milah behind, never meeting his niece, and never being a father.
Better to die there than here, though, he decided. He would die for certain, if he was too afraid to jump. Slim odds were better than none at all.
Killian knelt down to fit through the hole and dropped into the turbulent waves.
*English Trad., "The Little Turtle Dove"