Summary: Intending to return to Neverland after his quest for revenge comes to an abrupt end, Killian Jones finds himself in Duodenary, a realm whose existence allows Neverland, and the people therein, to live forever. After months of trying and failing to find a way to go home, a princess comes looking to him for help.

Warnings: Language

Notes: For justanotherwannabeclassic, who sent me the following: "Prompt: I'm feeling quite celebratory for the upcoming holiday, so Killian, Emma, and fireworks." I was thinking it would be fun to do it in a fantasy realm, and then this is what happened. Love and gratitude to high-seas-swan, literatiruinedme, and seastarved for reading it through, and again to seastarved for helping me with the banner. This story is complete, only in need of minor revisions. I'll be posting one part every other day. I hope you like it!

Killian Jones, leathers and all, sits in a skiff in the warm waters of a shallow, coastal bay, preparing to step out where no one else dares.

The Jolly Roger is miles away, out on Clockwork Bay proper, where the great, circular current turns and turns, trapping any sailor fool enough to cross into the calm waters of the gyre. The land of Duodenary itself is an atoll, divided rather equally into twelve counties, called Duos. Down in the very southern – or six o'clock, that is, having spouted cardinal directions to the locals before, only to be met with complete and utter confusion – corner of the island, there's a narrow outlet to the greater oceans. They're called the Pelagy, and they're frightful seas. When he'd first arrived months ago, intending to go back to Neverland after he'd returned to the Enchanted Forest, only to find the Dark One a distant memory, he'd nearly lost the Jolly Roger to the writhing waves. The salts were incredibly potent, burning in his lungs as they'd sailed through a storm, and he'd known immediately that he wasn't where he wanted to be.

Wanted, perhaps, being too strong of a word.

Several months – and the grueling process of adjusting to a new realm, with new magics and monsters and, perhaps worst of all, laws – behind him, he now finds himself knee deep in a shallow bay in one of the twelve counties. Despite any wish they might have to return, he and his crew still have to survive. Surviving he's more than familiar with, and so he – and his crew, to an extent, although they seem to be content to live from the fruits of his own labors – turns himself into a wrangler. That is, he's a seeker of magical creatures, and the power they possess.

It had caught him much by surprise when he'd discovered that it's not jewels and gemstones, metals and fine cloths that are valued in Duodenary. Or at least, not nearly as valuable as the magic he finds in the great animals living in the sea. And so Killian, being a pirate, had followed the prizes where they had lead. He and his crew had sailed around the inner circumference of the atoll, from Duo Nine to Duo Eleven, just the night before, where they'd thrown their riches around for an entirely absurd amount of wine. Come morning, to replace the treasures they'd lost, he'd set out to wrangle, as is his supposedly temporary occupation.

Typically, the lot of them grumble when he insists on facing the beasts alone, but on this fine morning, with raging hangovers and sour attitudes, they'd only waved him away before collapsing back below deck.

And so, having only imbibed a touch of rum, he'd rowed in alone on a skiff at precisely four in the morning, when the realm's bright, white sun was only just making its way around the edge of the horizon. Honestly, he and his crew are rich enough to buy estates on land. But – and they say it with less and less conviction each time – they're working to go back to the Enchanted Forest. No amount of money in the sea can open a portal, and when he utters the words magic bean at the locals, they look at him as if he's grown a second head. What better way to search for another way out than to travel the seas, to jump from town to town, never lingering?

What better way to die, he thinks, on quiet nights, out on the deck where the starlight shines warm and colorful in the darkest part of night, than to always wander, to allow time to take its toll.

"Now," he says, to himself, once he's made his way into the very shallowest of waters in the clockwise-most direction. Steadied by a curving, rocky shoreline, Killian throws a small anchor down into the sands below. He has a mighty, biting rope coiled down at his feet, and he loops it up and over his shoulder when he steps out and into the waters. Likely, it would be a better idea to shed his clothes before hopping overboard. But there are spirits about, translucent critters whose jelly-like tendrils pluck at his skin, leaving him with something half between painful and pleasant zipping along his legs.

"Where the bloody hell are you?" he says, pulling a spyglass from his coat, wrenching it open with his teeth. He stands motionless, watching the gentle waves around him for any telltale disturbance, waiting and waiting, until –

"Ah." He tucks the spyglass back into his coat. "Got you."

Killian hefts the rope higher over his shoulder. There's a nasty barb at the end, and it squeaks as it drags wetly over the leather of his vest. He tucks it carefully into the coiled loops of the rope. The harbor, of course, is several leagues across, the water dragging at his feet, and so it's slow going across, time ticking away.

The trouble with living in Duodenary, though, is that it runs on time. Even the land itself is reminds him of a clock, the sun turning around and around at the horizon like a burning second hand. Small inlets lead to harbors of all shapes and sizes along the coasts, the one he's currently marching across with some difficulty, boots sinking down into the fine, white sands, just one of eight in Duo Eleven. As a matter of fact, each of the twelve Duos in Duodenary are divided equally amongst the twelve Lordships by the area of sea they possess. Clockwork Bay, he's learned, is much like a commonwealth, seas meant for all, but the harbors belong to the local royalty.

Royalty, he thinks with a sneer, stepping carefully through a bed of algae, muck slick and heavy on the toes of his boots. Although, he concedes, unlike in the Enchanted Forest, the royalty here is…tolerable. They appear to hold little power, by comparison, and they have little taste for pomp and circumstance, the sort that belies their capacity to kill and maim for their own pleasure.

That is – or so he's told – aside from their annual celebration of their freedom from Neverland.

"From Neverland?" he recalls asking.

"Why do you think this place runs on time?" a surly harbor master had told him. Terribly bored, she seemed, to be explaining the minutiae of the history of her realm to a foreigner. But all the same, he had pressed her for more, to which she'd said, "You didn't think Neverland got that way on its own, did you?"

The woman's tone had reminded him of his days in the Royal Navy, under the thumb of stern tutors and a sterner schedule, blushing furiously whenever he couldn't tell them the answer to one of their questions. She'd explained that Neverland was once much like Duodenary, people and animals alike, aging until their inevitable death. Brought more and more quickly by the skirmishes between the two realms. In the end, Neverland valued youth and land, Duodenary valued time and pleasure. So they struck an accord, closing the portals between them, the only connection remaining being the time that flowed to Duodenary, and that which flowed back.

That which being fuck all, as far as Killian knows. He'd stopped asking questions after that, knowing all he needed to know. That none had passed between the two realms for centuries, and none remained who were interested in doing so.

No matter, he thinks, stopping in a bare patch of sand as he approaches a pod of what look an awful lot like narwhals. They're small, measuring no larger than the span of his arms, hand to hook. Once more, for good measure, he adjusts the rope around his shoulder, before uncoiling it, the barb at the end swinging like a pendulum by his leg. Here on the edge of the harbor, where pockets of salt water and marsh grasses serve to hide much of the wildlife, he knows the narwhals have retreated. Out in the sands, he splashes the heavy, crooked blade into the water, at which point they begin to scatter.

Most of them, that is, as he'd suspected. One yet remains – their leader perhaps – her yellow, coiled horn twirling as she spins in the water, threatening him with the jagged point at the end. Hence why none aside from he are foolish to venture into these waters on foot. He twirls the barb once more before he looks carefully over his shoulder, the rope clutched tight in his hand.

When he spots no one, and nothing of consequence, he turns back to the creature, and drops the ugly rope down into the shallow waters below. Startled, she stops her spinning, and swims closer, hesitantly, as he relaxes his stance, tucking his fingers into the loops of his belt. Her beautiful, intelligent eyes shimmer up at him, and with a shake of its head, it appears to asks him a silent question.

"Not what you were expecting, eh, love."

The narwhal snorts, spraying a bit of water on his face. Killian wipes a patient hand over his brow, and grins down at her.

"Let's get down to business, then. I shan't parse my words with you, darling. The people of this realm, they want to take your time from you."

She makes a curious noise, to which Killian waves his hand.

"I think take is perhaps too strong of a word. The time you've lived, magical as you are, is a powerful asset. They'd like that I extract it from you, and sell it to them for an entirely obscene amount of this realm's currency. Which, if you'll forgive the tangent, is made of stone, and takes up nearly half the weight the Jolly Roger will hold. Terribly inconvenient."

He glances down, finds the narwhal peering behind him, no doubt where more of her kind prepare to assault him with their horns. But he remains impassive, shifting back and forth on his feet when she looks back at him.

"In short, the magic I have here in my jacket will do nothing but restore your youth," he says. "They want the years you've already lived, not the ones you have left. And you won't forget, either. That's…important…"

Forgetting, of course, reminds him of Neverland, and the much more sinister magic that it possesses, still blackening the edges of many of his own memories, it seems. At least the creature before him shan't suffer the same fate.

"So," he says, clearing his throat. "What say you?"

Killian's not surprised that she seems uncertain and so, despite the discomfort, he grimaces, and settles down in the water, sitting in the sand. He's soaked up to his chest, now, but the lady before him seems to appreciate the advantage she gains. She looks him straight in the eye as he reaches his hand into his coat and removes a thin vial filled nearly up to the cork with clear, unsuspecting liquid. It sloshes heavily inside, and Killian holds it out so that she can see, peering up at it with impossibly large, white eyes, swirling with black, like she's a fire inside, smoking to get out.

"I'd pour this on my hook, see?" He splashes his hook in the water, reaches inside his coat to pull out yet another vial, this one empty, clinking neatly against the other. "I'm afraid I'd have to poke you a bit, love."

The narwhal seems altogether displeased by this, although she doesn't leave, like many have before. The narwhal, for its long life and intelligent spirit, is highly valued in the markets of Duo Eleven. Used to heal, light fires and candles, to turn the great windmills when summer sets in and the winds turn tepid – it's a powerful sort of magic. One that he prefers not to use, that he forbids on his ship, outside of grave injuries. They've lived for centuries without it, he figures, they can go without until they find their way back.

If they find their way back.

"Just a little one," he defends, when she snorts in his face again. "You'll hardly feel it. Poke me back if you wish, darling, you've got the means."

She stills in the water, letting herself drift with the outgoing tide a bit before she swims slowly back. He tilts his head, opens his arms wide, and says, with all the earnestness that he can manage –

"Do you trust me?"

She hesitates, rolls once in the water to rehydrate her skin before she pops back up at him, dipping beneath the surface to nudge at his leg with her coiled horn. Again, he throws a shrewd look over his shoulder before he turns back, and strokes her smooth skin, feeling blubber and muscle beneath. He taps at her horn, marveling at its shape a moment before looking back in her eyes.

"It's up to you, love. If you'd rather not, perhaps you'd like to…speak – " For lack of a better word, he thinks. " – with your companions, see if they're interested, perhaps?"

The narwhal seems to make a decision, then, sidling close, and exposing her pale, tender belly. He pats at it, gently, and lifts his hook where she can see.

"Aye?"

She moves closer still. And so Killian, with the utmost care, nudges at her flesh until he finds a particularly insensitive stretch of skin just beneath her fin. He pours the liquid in the vial over his hook, waits for the rippling magic to settle down into the polished steel before he rests the sharpened tip on her body. It takes a bit of shuffling, but he tucks the vial back into his coat before pulling the cork out of the second with his teeth.

"Did I ever tell you," he says, words partially muffled by the wood in his mouth, "about the narwhals in the Enchanted Forest? Well, of course, I'm sure I didn't, given that we've just met. They're not nearly half as intelligent or beautiful as you, but they are – and this is the truth, love – nearly half the length of my ship."

Killian babbles at her, bidding her between grandiose tales of the narwhals in the Enchanted Forest to remain as still as she can. He's found that the silly stories he tells relaxes the creatures. Builds a rapport, as well. There's a pod of pale pink dolphins just off the shores of Duo Five, who come to him every time he makes port. In the dark of night, when his crew have drunk themselves half to death, he wades out into the lagoon, watered down coffee in his flask, always telling them the same story, of the great orcas in Neverland, who can tear down whales ten times their size. Dolphins love a good, bloody tale, as it turns out.

"There you are, darling," he says, when he has what he needs. With the magic applied to his hook, the time trickled out of her in pale, yellow wisps. The color changes from creature to creature, but the consistency does not. Once he wriggles the cap back down into the glass with his teeth, he watches as the narwhal grows younger, watches her horn shrink and her skin grow brighter. The smoke in her eyes dissipates, and in moments, she looks up at him with clear, crystalline eyes.

"That didn't hurt a bit, now did it?" he says grinning down at her. And he imagines, if she could, she'd be grinning up at him, too.

The narwhal swims in a wide, arcing circle around him, gleeful in her body. It's a wonder to him, really, that there aren't hundreds of wranglers. Although, he supposes, it's easy to spot a creature like her, and worry that her horn could only be up to no good. He's seen wranglers before, stringing whales up by their tales, cutting into their flesh and leaving them to bleed in the water. The very first he'd seen, in fact, he'd waged an easy battle with, toppling the mainsail and forcing the crew to swim to shore. It was later that same evening that he'd returned to the ship alone, only to find the very same whale, flesh wound and all, looking up at him from beneath the water. Curiously intelligent, they are, all of the magical animals in the waters of Duodenary. When Killian had apologized for the crew's behavior, and their ghastly captain, telling him how they were likely sleeping away their exhaustion on the beach, the whale had nudged gently at the hull of the Jolly Roger. Of course, then taking the spoils from the brigantine, he'd discovered a handful of vials. It was the price they fetched, really, that convinced him to take up the mantle himself, a wrangler, talking to the sea creatures on a whim, and discovering that, like the whale, they seemed to respond.

"Go on, then," he says, when he stands, nearly toppling over with the weight of the water on his leathers. The narwhal stops before him once more. "Unless you'd like to poke me, first. Do what you need to do, love."

She snorts, one last time, before she sinks beneath the surface, brushing against him before she disappears. The waters around him ripple as she goes, and Killian watches with as much fondness as he dares, out here in the open. The crew thinks he wrangles much like the others they've seen, and he's perfectly happy to let them go on believing it. A reputation, after all, is worth its weight in gold.

"Wrangle it good, did you, Captain?" when he's rowed his skiff back to the Jolly Roger. The crew awaits, along with several lifted brows when he drips all over the deck.

Killian smiles, looks back over the bow to spot the narwhal and her companions as they splash through the water, seemingly in farewell.

"Indeed."

Having learned their lesson – at least for the next day or two – the crew spends their evening in one of the towns, drinking only water as soon as their cheeks begin to flush with the strength of the ale in the taverns. Killian joins them once he sells the magic gained from the narwhal. On his return, shouting gleefully –

"Drinks all around!"

– they'd begun a chant. Captain Hook, they'd said, over and over again, until they'd forgotten what they were doing, and begun to cheat one another at dice. Though it was rarer these days – failing at one's plan for revenge, centuries in the making, can really get a man down – he'd played alongside them, long into the hours of the Duodenarian sunset.

Come morning, he leaves the crew to their own devices, and takes the Jolly Roger back to the very same harbor, unsurprised to find the very same narwhal as well, and several of her companions.

"I'm afraid I only have three of these vials," he says, smiling when a pup, likely born only weeks ago, swims between his legs. "There's an age limit to this thing, you know. I fear I'd wink you straight out of existence."

Once more, he settles in the water, lapping now just at his stomach, the rains thin and the tides shallow. He watches as they seem to tussle amongst themselves, chattering at one another in whatever tongue it is that they speak. He finds himself wondering idly if he could learn it – he knows seven other languages, one more certainly couldn't hurt – but then again, he fears what he would sound like if he tried to make the same noises, a harsh pop in the back of his throat. He doesn't dare try it, even on the water by himself.

"Take your time," he says, and leans back to watch.

Killian realizes that, sitting here like this, a dark spot in clear waters, he's vulnerable. To stray waves, to predators, to enemies. Then again, any enemies he'd made are in Neverland, in the Enchanted Forest. Given that Duodenary knows neither of these realms, he's safer than he has been since…since he was a boy, really, before his mother passed. He's made a few enemies here, of course, but to be frank, he's really only a pirate in title these days. Even what his crew thinks he steals, he asks for. Occasionally a creature says no, and he invents incredibly tall tales of how the animal had bested him, once telling them he'd been swallowed by a whale, only to pry his way back outside of its mouth. At least he lies, he supposes. Cheats at dice. Aside from that, he's become something of a businessman.

It's with these thoughts in mind that he lets his eyes drift close, the narwhals still locked in a raucous debate. If any of his enemies can find him here, then perhaps they deserve to –

"Well this is cute," a voice sounds from behind. Killian, for all his reflexes learned in battle, is slow to get to his feet, and to draw his sword, weighed down, yet again, by wet leather and the sort of warm exhaustion that settles on late spring afternoons. When he turns, the light born of the three o'clock sunshine flashes in his eyes, and he has to shift his stance, and turn his head to catch sight –

Bloody hell.

– of the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Standing, herself, knee deep in the water, arms folded over her chest. She somehow manages to be both sharp lines and soft curves, wrapped in leather and a quiet sort of confidence that gives him pause.

"Not that I don't enjoy a visit now and again," he says. "But who are you, love?"

The lady looks amused, and ignores his question, instead looking down at the narwhals that have fallen silent underfoot. Though at first – when he'd leapt to his feet – they fell in line around him, now they swim relaxed between the two of them. In fact, as he watches, they seem to fall in line with her, swimming around her feet.

"You know," she says, "when your crew told me that you were wrangling in the harbor down counterclock, I seriously wasn't expecting this."

Killian lowers his sword, although he doesn't sheathe it, despite the fact that hers remains at her hip.

"I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage," he says.

"That's kind of the point."

"Care to tell me your name, at least?"

"No," she answers, bluntly.

Despite her brashness, he smiles, looking her up and down. The woman before him must have been panned from the white golds in the mountains of Duo Nine. Wavelets of her hair dance softly on the eight o'clock winds, even tied as they are, fluttering over her shoulder. Her shirt billows in the breeze, revealing a sharp V of creamy flesh. The leathers of her boots and of her pants are plain, but of a high quality. Much like him, she prefers cotton and leather to the silks that have gathered a mad following in the markets of Duo Six. She wears a simple sword at her hip, but this too is tellingly crafted. And when he turns his head, he catches an ornate crest emblazoned in colored onyx just beneath the hilt. It's likely his imagination, but when he leans forward, he thinks she smells of salt and sugar all at once.

The lady begins to fidget under his scrutiny, and so he feigns a bit of a bow, looking away for a moment before he tells her, "Well my name is Killian Jones. Although my some prefer to call me by a – "

"Hook, I know."

Well aren't you infuriating, he thinks. Talking with her seems to be getting nowhere, and neither does holding his sword. He slides it back into its sheath, and he watches her instead. Watches the way that her eyelashes flutter, head tilting faintly to the side. Surprised by the sheathing of his weapon, then, although given how he'd behaved with the narwhals, she already knows that he's…not quite what he makes himself out to be. At least, not here in Duodenary, where he seems to have the opportunity to start over. Killian takes a step forward, water sloshing up and over the rim of his boots. She looks him up and down, narrowing her eyes, not quite in suspicion, but not wholly in curiosity either. She's wary too, and he judges, by the look in her eye, that she has good reason to be. Next, he swings his hook where she can she, swiping away the moisture on the tip. She glances at it, appraising. Appraising all of him in fact, as she favors one foot, and then the other.

Ah, so she wants something from him.

"You want something," he says, aloud.

She wrinkles her nose, and he knows he has her.

"Come now, love, why the closed lips? If I'm remembering the last few minutes correctly, it's you who approached me. You went to enough trouble to seek out my crew. Tell me what you want."

He takes another step, and she lets her hands fall to her sides. Her pupils dilate, and she licks at her lips. Killian is no less affected, and he thinks, to the growing list in his mind, that she's not uninterested.

"I'm looking for information," she says.

He hums. "Of what sort?"

She shakes her head, biting at her lips.

"No matter," he says, "what could I possibly know that you wouldn't? If you know of me well enough to seek out my crew, you must also know that I'm not from this realm. Although…I am a wrangler." He taps thoughtfully at his chin. "There's nothing telling that you're not one, too, though I've not heard of you."

"You don't even know my name, yet," she protests.

"Oh, believe me, love, if a woman such as yourself were a wrangler, I would have heard."

She frowns, and he presses on. "Well, let's puzzle this through, then, since you seem content to stand silent. You want something from me – information, you say – and the only possible expertise I could have is related to the creatures in your own seas. Bad form not to be educated about your own waters, although I think – "

She doesn't get to hear what he thinks, though, because she lifts her hand, pinches her fingers together and, suddenly, he finds that he's quite literally mute. He grinds his teeth, and gestures at his throat, then at her.

"Listen," she says, as if he has a choice. "My name is Emma Swan. I'm the daughter of the Lordship in Duo Twelve. Yes,I'm coming to you because you're a wrangler and, although you didn't ask, no, I don't trust you. You're a pirate, and I'm a princess. I'm sure you've heard the stories." She pauses, and although the magic cinching at his throat is harmless, he still bristles. Even so, now that she's in control, the truth comes spilling forth.

"But here's the thing," she continues. "Something's happening, and I'm trying decide if I can at least trust you not to stab me in the back while I tell you what it is. Right now you seem more likely to talk me to death, so I shut you up for a second."

She – Swan, he thinks, turning the name over and over again in his mind – seems to finish, then. Killian waits for a moment, then gestures at his throat once more. He expects a deft flick of her wrist, as easy as the way she'd bitten the words out his mouth. But she looks rather demure. A bit embarrassed, even. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt. At the very least, the inopportune silence grants him a moment to look her from head to foot once more, to watch as the narwhals, still in silent attendance, rest at her feet.

"Okay." She hesitates, and takes a step forward, before she says, with some measure of amusement in her frustration. "I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing sometimes, give me a second."

Killian laughs, or he tries to. She bites her lip when no sound emerges, and goes back to waving her hands. When nothing happens, she seems flustered. She pauses, breathes deep before she attempts to summon the magic once more. He, meanwhile, taps impatiently at his wrist. This, he's learned, is the Duodenary equivalent of telling one to go get oneself buggered by an animate sword. As he suspected she might be, Swan is terribly affronted, and the next motion of her hands gives him back his voice.

"My apologies, love, I – "

"Seriously?"

She stalks around him, stepping towards his skiff as though she's ready to command him to weigh anchor. Truth is, he's so enthralled, he might actually do it before he could get his head on straight.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" she says.

"Aye, it's been said before." He clears his throat, and then, "Now tell me, Emma Swan, why might I, a lowly Captain, be interested in helping you, a close relative of a Lordship? And what's this something that's happening?"

"I…"

Killian steps closer, looks her straight in the eye, trying to look as trustworthy as he can. She grinds her teeth, chewing on her lips before she says –

"It's the sea." And though she's been careful to shutter herself from him, she can't seem to help the grief that creeps into her tone of voice. "The magical creatures that you wrangle. They're…"

He quirks a brow. "They're what, Swan?"

"I'd rather show it to you."

Killian hums, leans back on his heels. "First you startle me, then you make demands, use dubious magic – "

"A silencing spell is not dubious."

" – and now you're bound and determined to show me something. I have to admit, Swan, you've lost me."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was never planning on asking for your help in the first place."

"Oh? Then why are you?"

She hesitates, and looks down at the narwhals by her feet. She shuffles, digs a bit deeper down into the sand, and then peers back up at him from beneath her lashes.

"You don't hurt them," she says, simply. "Why?"

Killian looks down, too, eyes coming to rest on the first of the narwhals that he'd wrangled, for lack of a better term. She peers back up at him, eyes still bright, youth restored, body buzzing happily as she swims and swims, in tight circles around and between them.

"I've committed all manner of sins, love," he says. "I can't atone for them, it's too late, but I can, at least, avoid digging myself an even deeper pit in hell."

Emma frowns, and when she looks up at him, squinting against the sunlight dappling off the water, he's struck with a sense of familiarity. Like he's known her before. Like if he reached out and touched her, he would remember the way that her skin felt under the weathered pads of his fingers. He tilts his head, and when he scratches beneath his ear, she watches his hand, and he feels that the gemstones in her eyes have been haunting his dreams for centuries, now. Her voice when she speaks, the way she drums her fingers against the hilt of her sword – it's all so terribly familiar, and yet not.

"So is this how you always do it?" she says. "You ask them? Let them decide?"

He shrugs. "They're perfectly intelligent creatures, Swan, they can choose for themselves. There's perhaps nothing more cruel than not letting something be in control of itself."

Yet again, she appears to scrutinize him, looking him up and down. He waits, patiently, and prepares for the long haul. But she surprises him, closing the distance between herself and his skiff with a few, long strides, and says, with grave finality –

"I'm taking you."