The curse, he's told, will last twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight bloody more years! He's spent centuries in Neverland, hunting down any lead he can, any information he has, all to defeat the monster that murdered his love. It took him so damned long to find a way to kill the unkillable monster, and now he has to wait. Patience is a virtue he does not possess. He's waited far too damned long, and he'll be damned if he'll wait a second longer, much less nearly thirty fucking years. The monster, he's told, will be swept up in this curse. He'll be impotent, but he won't recall a thing until the curse breaks. He won't remember why I want to drive my hook into his chest, won't remember the woman I'm avenging, won't remember any of it! Revenge won't be bloody worth it if the bastard doesn't remember it! Gods above, he's waited far too long! He refuses to spend another twenty-eight bloody years twiddling his one remaining thumb in this dome-surrounded wasteland, with nothing but Cora and her ogres for company.
He's told there's supposed to be a Savior. The miraculous daughter of Snow White and her Prince Charming, meant to break this curse, deliver her people, restore the happy endings and all that rot. From the way her remaining countrymen spoke of her, she may as well have been made of solid gold, possessed the wings of an angel and arrived with a herald of trumpets. The Savior, set to bring down the fury of all the gods on the Evil Queen. Needless to say, he isn't placing his faith in an infant. He's not yet so desperate as her people, her parents, her entire kingdom to place all his faith at the feet of an infant. There have been times he's grasped at straws, but he isn't hinging all his faith–the vengeance he's waited centuries for–on one girl. Nor is he waiting for her to grow up and break the curse to accomplish his too-long-life's work. Twenty-eight bloody interminable years. No way in hell am I waiting that long! Why fate is determined for this to take so damned long, he has no idea. But he has no intention of waiting on Cora's schedule.
"Poor Rumple spent the last months before the curse locked away." Poor Rumple indeed, he scoffs at the simpering witch, directing his rolling eyes to himself. Showing so blatant disrespect is far from wise and he remains acutely aware of it. Their 'alliance', such as it was, had begun with a failed assassination attempt. Not that many of his alliances outside of his crew had consisted of loyalty, not in centuries. But the balance of power of their arrangement had never been so glaringly obvious. Or the balance had been tilted in his favor in the past with others, where it wasn't with Cora. They merely represent a means to an end to the other. She wouldn't hesitate to reach her hand inside his chest again and this time rip out his heart, should she feel the urge. Blatantly disrespecting her seemed to cause that urge to come to the fore.
Poor Rumple, locked away, he thinks to himself and sneers at the thought. Locked away, however, presents him a point at which to begin. From there, it isn't difficult to determine where. Undoubtedly within the Dark One's cell, wherever it is, there is something. Some magical artifact, some plan, something intended to keep his magic and his mind intact. The man was too much a coward to give up magic for his own son! Surely he wasn't about to let his student strip it away from him with no plan. No way in hell the Dark One would allow a pissant upstart like Regina to divest him of his power! Possibly there's a way for Hook to reach the same land, to trigger the Crocodile's memories. He wants the man to remember, wants to watch the recognition spark in his eyes before the light fades from them. It's only a few weeks' journey to discover the cell. He carefully navigates his way through the ancient mines, following the path deeper and deeper underground. A few shafts of light come through holes for air, catching on floating dust, revealing the cell before him. Jagged bars that look more like cave formations than bars to a jail cell. Shelves carved into the rock on the back wall, with an empty ink well and a curled scroll tucked in a nook. Curiously, Hook unfurls the scroll, glaring at the looping scrawl of his enemy spelling out the same word across the page. Line after line, curling around the repeating four letters, covering the entire two feet of parchment.
"Emma," Hook whispers out, jerking his head against the strangest twinge in his heart at the sound of the name. "This was your priority, Dark One?" Must be the Savior's name, Hook shrugs. Why the Savior's name is significant, Hook has no idea. How the Dark One of all people would know her name or its apparent significance, Hook doesn't want to imagine. Recalling the demon, he doesn't want to fathom any parents that would willingly give the Dark One that kind of power over their unborn child. Plenty have, and it sickens him. Then again, these are the same parents that, if rumors are to be believed, sent their newborn off into an unknown world alone. Some part of him, buried deep down, experiences the slightest twinge of sympathy for the girl. Alone, abandoned, and with the Dark One expressing a specific interest in her. Shaking it off, he pockets the scroll, figuring it must be critical if the Dark One expended so much effort on it.
"It may appear I was mistaken about you, Savior. It appears you are, in fact, the key. You may be the only one to break the curse after all." Perhaps now, I too must place my faith in an infant. He leaves the mines and strides off through the woods while it's still light enough to avoid the ogres and reaches what remains here of civilization.
The Curse packed quite the punch. The land is ravaged, completely destroyed. Ogres have taken back the abandoned territory, now that the armies of the Queen have stopped deterring them. He almost chuckles at the thought. One beneficial thing about Regina, the lack of ogres. Apparently, years of civil war deters ogres. Who knew? Ironically, the constant fighting acted as a deterrent to the ogres, who would much prefer easy prey at little risk to them. Day and night have passed, but no one has aged. It's not clear how long it's been, as the seasons haven't changed. Late fall cold rains still pound down on the ground, freezing in the night. Night after night. Days begin bleeding into one another as the stars stand still. This is what bothers the old pirate the most. Centuries, all of his too-long life he spent sailing, and he watched the stars. Followed them, allowed them to guide him. Now, however, the stars give no guidance nor indication of the passage of time because none has. The same constellations have shone overhead for far longer than they should have, but he's lost track of how long. He simply knows they should have moved long before now. Hook can feel his frustration all but boiling over, preventing him from feeling that familiar hopelessness from so long in Neverland. However long it has taken, it's been too bloody long. He's been on Cora's schedule and is bloody sick of it, but there's not a damned thing he can do about it. Not wanting to stare at the unnerving stars, he wanders into the tavern at night, leaving with the cold morning light. He rarely drinks alone, but whispers from those left behind by the Curse begin to command his attention.
"The Dark One uttered a prophecy. Queen Snow's daughter, on her twenty-eighth birthday, would return and restore her kingdom." A former palace guard explains. So the twenty-eight years is the bloody Dark One's timeline. That's just fucking fantastic. Anger like he hasn't known in years takes over his limbs and it's all he can do to keep it under control. Instead, Hook tosses back his drink, catching the cautious side-eye his drinking companion flashes him. He's no explanation for why he wasn't swept up in the curse when his family was. But a bit of coaxing at the tavern has the man opening up about all kinds of details. As luck would have it, the Dark One shared much in his days of captivity, following his capture by Snow White and her precious Prince Charming. Something about renegotiating a deal over another set of parents, another set of royals, and their first-born child. Once more, Hook feels the same disgust that parents would sell their baby to that demon.
"Mate, what made the Dark One deliver a prophecy about the Savior in the first place?"
The man jerks, his shorn head catching the lamp light of the tavern. "Your guess is as good as mine." Hook narrows his eyes at the man and can tell it's not a complete answer. But it seems no amount of prompting will force the man to continue down that track. Must have been in service to Snow White then, he muses. After all, the guard seems to remain loyal to his former sovereign. After another swallow, the man continues. "The Savior's the only way that the curse breaks. She's our only hope. Tha's something both he an' Queen Snow agreed on. Princess Emma is our only hope." Hook expels a quiet sigh that his drinking companion doesn't hear. Of bloody course she is.
"All I know is the Evil Queen shows up, 'bout half-hour or so before the Curse is cast, offers to free him from the cell." Hook nods, leaning in, listening intently. Since he saw the cell, he had wondered why the Dark One never attempted to escape the prison. The old guard, tongue loosened with plenty of drink and happy with the rapt attention, leans in and continues with a gruff voice. "However, he refuses. Says he's exactly where he wants to be. Far as I know, I think he wanted to get caught in the Curse. And I think he wants it broken. Why, I've no clue. Used to giggle about bails on fire when it got late. Used to cackle for days on end, so maybe he was just out of his fuckin' mind." The dark skinned man turns back to his drink, shrugging his shoulders.
Killian all but drops his drink, face going pale, anger instantly cooled like a bucket of ice cold water has been poured on his head. Baelfire. He remembers the dark-haired lad who looked so much like his mother, bloody terrified of his father reclaiming him and yet furious at his abandonment. The boy he taught to sail, taught to navigate by the stars. It's a pirate's life for you, mate. His memory brings up the last time he saw Bae all those years ago, surrendering him to the Lost Boys. He betrayed all that remained of Milah. He abandoned the boy that was almost a son to him.
He tries pretending nothing just happened, like he didn't just spend a moment drowning in his memories. His drinking companion is eyeing a lovely young thing across the tavern, twirling her dark curls around one finger and giggling, blouse revealing more than a hint of cleavage. The man's focus is far from Hook's lapse in attention. Thank the gods for small mercies. "Ah, thanks mate, you've been most helpful." He slaps a handful of coins on the bar. The man glances back, an almost dazed look in his drunken eyes, then grins slightly at the pile of coins on the bar. "Tonight's on me." Without looking back, Hook strides from the tavern, tamping down memories and the feelings attached.
He clings to what he's learned, that he's been abiding by the Crocodile's timeline and his refusal to play by that bastard's rules. He has to act and has to act now. He's going to find a way to the Land without Magic. Once there, he's going to skin the Crocodile, whatever it fucking takes. To hell with Cora, to hell with waiting. If there's one thing he abhors, it's waiting. The more he's learned in what remains of this world and the more he's managed to piece together, the more he's realized that the curse needs to break for that to happen. If he's forced to await the curse being broken, he's going to do his damndest to break the damn thing. Preferably without waiting nearly three decades for it. That means the Savior. She's the key to breaking this. He was mistaken in the beginning. His impatience led him to make the wrong conclusion. He, like the rest of her people, is dependent on the Savior fulfilling her destiny and breaking the curse in order to take his revenge. Waiting twenty-eight years, however, is something he will not be forced to abide.
So, with a determination he hasn't felt since leaving Neverland, Hook sets off to his ship. The old girl answers his command, and with ease, he sails around what's left of the coastline. He travels what remains of the ports and villages, coaxing out information with all the ale his money can buy. Many of the countless days are spent getting blackout drunk, waking to hangovers to start a new day, much the same as the previous. Hook supposes it may have been a good idea to tally the days and have some manner of keeping count. But he never does. He continues sailing from ruined port to ruined port until he hears the location of a beanstalk supposed to house the sole means of creating a portal left. He'd previously known of the beanstalk's existence, but not its location. It's been so long at a standstill since that night in the tavern. He's not even sure how long it's been. Hook's been sailing his ship with nothing to show for it. For the first time, a smile stretches across his stubbled face. He's getting one step closer.
After tiresome days and nights trekking through the forest, fighting and dodging quite a few ogres that never used to be this far north, he finally spots the beanstalk. The gigantic plant shoots high among the clouds and Hook feels that grin split his face again. An enchanted leather cuff on his wrist and the feeling of revenge closer and closer within his grasp, Killian Jones climbs up the beanstalk. One vine at a time, he climbs. Arms and legs almost burning in a familiar exertion from years of climbing in the rigging, and yet he grins as he slowly inches closer to his goal.
Miles of climbing later, he touches down in a stone courtyard of sorts. The tales of what happened here are brutal. Giants decimated and destroyed the humans, then destroyed the bean fields out of spite. The brutal stories fall in line with what he sees. A courtyard destroyed all around him. Stones from what were barriers at one point lay scattered and destroyed on the ground. Skeletons lie among the rubble, too large to be human. What was clearly once an impressive castle now lay forgotten, filthy. Vines overtake part of the structure, suffocating it. Windows shattered in the corridor connecting them. He's heard tales of what the ultimate battle entailed, but staring at the damage drives it home.
He glances down at his wrist, thinking he's lucky. After the battle, the final giant left alive, the most vicious of the lot, cursed the beanstalk. The only reason he's made it this far is Cora's insistence on being prepared with the protection spell in the form of the leather cuff. He's fortunate to possess it, given that up this very beanstalk lies the only way to the Land without Magic. There's no way in hell the simpering old hag would have ascended this beanstalk and confronted the danger at the top with him. He's not fool enough to believe she ever intended to wear the other cuff. He's a lackey on this mission, or would have been if he remained under her thumb. No reason for her to exert herself or dirty her own hands. The witchy hag promised him vengeance, but there's not a chance in hell she'd indeed intended to deliver. Too much loyalty to the teacher who helped improve her life to allow him to cut down and kill his Crocodile. Too much enjoyment dangling his revenge in front of him, toying with him, taunting him, to actually give in. Too much desire for power to allow him to squander it by simply killing his Crocodile without seizing the power of the Dark One. Cora had withheld the location for this exact reason. He wasn't wholly dependent on her for his vengeance, and she didn't want to risk him setting off on his own for this Land without Magic. He chuckles a bit at the thought. She didn't want to risk him doing exactly as he is right now.
Under the cuff Killian spies the tattoo, the heart, her name, Milah, and the dagger of the very monster that ripped her from this world. His jaw grits as he swallows back the pain and anger. Neither will help him against the monster that lies up here. If he's killed by the giant up here, the deadliest of the lot, then he'll never send the Crocodile to hell. If he's killed here, he may see Milah again, but he'll never be fit to face her without doing his damndest to avenge her. Not without proving he was willing to fight to the death for her, the woman who still has his heart, all these centuries later.
On the ground at his feet, Hook spies a broadsword. Near the hilt, he reads the curling script, carving the name Jack. It remains held in the grip of a skeleton. Jack died fighting. Hook nods as he continues onward, borrowed poisoned broadsword carefully in hand. If there's one thing he can respect, it's the courage and honor it takes to go down fighting. There've been quite a few noble, brave, stubborn idiots over the centuries that have gained his attention. They earned that sliver of respect from him as they suffered noble deaths.
Exercising some slight level of caution, Hook waits and listens. Waiting for the sounds that will suggest his unwitting, unwilling host is asleep. He hears nothing, feels no movement in the ground beneath his feet, sees no changes but keeps cautious as he proceeds onward very carefully. Indeed, hoping the giant is asleep and taking the chance of him waking is risky, he acknowledges to himself. Ordinarily, he'd have come up with a cleverer plan of some kind. Possibly something to guarantee the giant would be unconscious. By that thinking, however, finding Jack's sword was a stroke of luck. Unconscious, dead, makes no difference to him, so long as the giant is out of the way. His is a simple plan. Wait for the giant to fall asleep, enter the treasure room, find the golden compass, and run like hell. Simple. It's the complicated plans that never survive first contact with the enemy, wisdom he remembered from years before he ever became a pirate.
Swaggering boldly into an enormous room, his breath catches in his throat and his jaw goes slack. Sunlight gleams off jewels, casting their rainbow sparkles to the far walls and high ceiling. Gold gleams and practically gives off its own aura of a glow. Silver sparkles beside it. Coins from every nation, many no longer existing, fallen empires from days long past, lay in piles in trunks, spilling over onto the stone floor. Anything that can conceivably be made of gold or silver is, and just sits in piles and strewn across the floor from wall to wall. Jewelry lies scattered among the chests, rings and necklaces shining, bracelets sparkling. Gold bars sit in stacks, some neat and precise, others crooked and leaning, all over the room. The entire room is filled to the brim with treasure. Stories of the treasure room never held a candle to this bounty. Hook is a bit ashamed to discover his jaw hanging open like a schoolboy, but the pirate can't help the greedy grin that spreads across his face. Mentally calculating how much he can carry down, pocketing coins and jewelry here and there, he swaggers forward with the same confidence he always demonstrates. A wire catches on his shin as he steps forward. Eyes shooting wide, he throws himself to the ground behind him, rolling behind a stack of gold bars. A large iron cage tumbles down from the ceiling, right where he was standing.
"Shit," he whispers as he regains his breath, but still feels the ground continue to rumble after the cage has settled. The shaking is getting closer, the stacks of treasure collapsing to the ground with deafening clangs and crashes. The giant. "Bloody hell," he mutters. Hook regains his feet, sword in hand, and runs for cover. The giant storms into the room, pissed as all hell. His long brown hair is tied back from his brown beard and he's wearing a tunic and trousers. He's screaming bloody murder, ready to crush the bones of the intruder. Hook forgoes the higher ground that would make him visible to his enemy and chooses to bide his time in the shadows, taking in every detail he can. Something around the giant's neck captures his eye, however. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" Hook whispers. A small, slightly curved shape, brown and shriveled, hangs from a string around the giant's neck. A bean and if he's not mistaken, it's the last magic bean in existence. Admittedly, a bit worse for wear, but a bean!
The giant is still snarling around his treasure room, trying to scare out the intruder. Hook considers quickly. The compass will guide him, but he needs more. Even with the golden compass, he lacks a means with which to create a portal. His means of doing so hangs around the neck of the giant and he no longer has need of the compass. With the bean, he won't require the guidance of the compass. Only to think of the land to which he wants to go, rendering the bean far more valuable than the compass he has yet to find. Now how to obtain it… "OI! YOU BIG GIT!" Hook shouts, stepping out into the light. The giant turns with a snarl, but pulls back as he registers the sword, a look of dread in his eyes. Packs quite a wallop, doesn't it? "Hand over the bean, and I'll walk out of here and leave you with your life!"
The giant glances between the bean in his hand and the pirate with the sword, clearly weighing his options. A sword that slayed his fellow giants, poisoned and able to kill him. It's abundantly clear the giant, for a moment, thinks through the possibility of simply killing Hook where he stands. It may be a straightforward plan for the giant, but his eyes take in the almost predatory smile stretched across Hook's face. The giant's glass face shows the moment his understanding hits. Trying to dispatch the man with the poisoned sword isn't a clever idea. Hook registers, even if he doesn't understand or doesn't care to recognize the sadness in the beast's eyes as he looks at the bean. Finally, with one last glance at the sword in the pirate's hand, the giant tosses the bean on the ground. It lands about five feet to Hook's right. "Take it and go." The giant sounds resigned, looking lost at the shriveled bean on the ground, but maintaining a cautious eye on the sword.
Hook scoops up the bean with a smile, offering a nod. "Deal's a deal, mate." Hook's all but whistling on the way back down the beanstalk, bean and several coins and jewels pocketed away, Jack's sword across his back. Someone will be willing to buy it off him. If not, it's a fine sword. But he knows precisely what he's off to do. Thanks to all his time in the taverns with Prince Charming's people, or what's left of them, he recalls the tale. Princess Abigail's true love fell victim to her father's curse. Poor sap got turned to solid gold. Her kiss failed because of the gold barrier, so she enlisted the help of her reluctant betrothed, who utilized the restorative waters of Lake Nostos. True love reunited, the day saved, the royal's a bloody hero and all that tripe. But the tale gives him a destination to restore the magical potential and possibility to his trophy.
Anticipation rousing the blood in his veins, he sets off for Lake Nostos. Hook is justifiably a touch paranoid, waiting for Cora to turn up. There's no way in hell she missed the fact that he used her protection spell to climb the beanstalk without her. There's no bloody way she just forgot about a loose cannon like him. His actions spell betrayal, simple as that. And Cora isn't one to abide betrayal. He virtually dashes through the woods, scarcely stopping for rest, slicing through ogres all along the way. This bean in his hand is hope and the way he's going to reach the Crocodile. As he pauses at the shrine to the spirit of the lake, he considers making an offering of his own. Small treasures, a few weapons, flowers and fruits that have suffered the ravages of time, weather, and age. He shakes his head, negating the superstitious notion as he proceeds with his hope of reviving the bean and reaching this new land. That hope practically suffers a swift and sudden death at the banks of what was once Lake Nostos.
"Bloody buggering fucking hell!" It's a dried up pit, full of rocks, dirt and dead plants. But not water. Perhaps he should have offered a tribute after all. "I may be a simple pirate, but I know one thing. Lakes have water," he mutters to himself, pacing the sandy soil and scowling at the pit. He's come too damn far, and he's too bloody close to be stopped by this. Any competent sailor worth his salt can find water, and that's what he's damn well going to do. Sliding slightly down the sides of the bank, he walks what was the bottom of the lake, around the skeletons and rusted armor. Odd thing to encounter at the bottom of a lake. He spies a diadem lying near some of the armor tangled in some dead plants. That's right, the lake was tied to a bloody siren before Prince Charming came along. Hook paces the bottom of the pit. The sand beneath his feet feels different at the center. Harder, heavier, not as loose. Hook steps to the center of the pit with growing anticipation. Kneeling down, he shovels dry sand out of his way with his good hand and smiles again as he meets damp sand about a foot down. Gently, he skims the bean over the moist sand, watching the brown shriveled thing fill out and begin to glow opalescent.
Hook lets out a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. Magic, in the palm of his hand. His passage to the Land without Magic, now in the palm of his hand. Satisfied now, he tucks the bean safely away and marches off in the direction of his ship. He's got a journey ahead of him, one that's been all too long in the making. But there's no way in hell he's making it without his ship. The journey back to the Jolly Roger takes him a few days. A trek he makes constantly watching his back and scarcely daring to sleep, lest Cora discover the extent of his actions. Not only has he betrayed her, but he's on the cusp of success. If she were to attack him now, she'd have everything she required to leave this world and him behind. The fruits of his labors tucked securely in a leather pouch at his hip, Hook maintains the same frantic pace to where he moored his ship, checking over his shoulder every step of the way.
Standing proudly at the helm once more, feeling the waves roll under his feet, he breathes in and out slowly. The enchantment of the Jolly Roger embraces him with open arms and mirrors his anticipation back to him for the coming journey. What he's wanted for so long, now finally so close to within his grasp. With that thought, directing his thoughts to what he knows of the Land without Magic, he tosses the bean into the waves. He braces himself and sails straight through the swirling emerald light of the portal. Sailing through the tunnel of water is so familiar at this point, Hook thinks he could do it blindfolded. The Jolly Roger makes it a smooth journey, unlike traveling through a portal without her. No harsh landing here. Simply a swirling tunnel of water to navigate as he focuses on the Crocodile and everything else he's ever heard about this Land without Magic. Hook emerges from the chaotic portal and looks to the port now before him.
Strange lights flicker from tall wooden and metal posts. Other posts are connected by wires, odd looking metal boxes attached at the tops. Crafts he can barely recognize as boats, most definitely not constructed from wood, bob up and down where they are moored at the docks. Carriages made of metal move forward, propelled by nothing Hook can see, their paths illuminated by lanterns of some kind. Hook gathers a deep breath. Rather than the foreign sights, this is what confirms his location in his mind. Magic customarily provided a tangible feel to the air. In the Enchanted Forest, it felt excited, like crackling energy waiting for direction. In Neverland, it felt suffocating, pressing down like it could crush the world beneath it alongside the weight of the humidity on the island. In other worlds he's been to, it felt like a warm blanket, a tickle at the back of his neck, a zing in his blood. Now, he notes the absence. The absence of magic. A grin splits his face, and he lets slip almost maniacal laughter. He's made it to the Land without Magic.
Hook breathes out a sigh of relief in the bracing salty air. He's made it to the Land without Magic, and Cora's trapped in the Enchanted Forest. He's survived cutting the witchy hag out of their arrangement. Mirror magic isn't powerful enough to peer into separate realms, and there are no stowaways on board. Whether or not she knows–and there is decidedly little doubt in Hook's mind that she knows–there is no longer anything Cora can do to him. She can't retaliate. She can't stop him. He no longer has to watch his back for Cora. It relieves one burden from his shoulders.
Carefully docking, Hook departs his ship and enters the peaceful town, keeping his eyes out for any sign of life. Hopefully, he can charm some of the locals out of some answers, like where he is. He recalls a name from Cora. Storybrooke, Maine, not that the names mean anything to him. If possible, he'd like to obtain a map. He's always been quick to familiarize himself with exotic and wondrous lands, and a map remains often the most expedient way of doing so. Hook swaggers down the street, into the center of the town. Around a corner, between two brick buildings, he spots a familiar red knit hat that confirms exactly where he is.
"Smee," he whispers, stopping himself just in time, holding back from the impulse to approach his first mate. The man won't recognize him. It won't do to have an utter stranger approach him like an old friend. Shame, though, Smee's the first familiar face I've seen in ages. Hook considers, though. Smee was a mediocre sailor, nothing remarkable as a fighter, but he was damned good at uncovering information. Acquiring the rare and hard-to-find with ease was what set Smee apart. Hook needs someone knowledgeable about this town and world, and capable of procuring information about the Dark One. Mind made up, he walks down the street towards Smee.
"Excuse me, sir," Hook calls out. The red knit hat startles and turns, revealing the familiar face. A round face that could almost be mistaken for friendly, covered with a clipped brown beard and mustache, and with wide darting eyes. He's dressed differently though, aside from the hat, in a tan jacket and trousers made of an unfamiliar material. Hook offers what he intends as a charming smile, but by the slight widening of Smee's eyes, he can tell it is slightly more intimidating than intended. Or Smee remembers me. It's a bit problematic to tell. He always gave me that look. But despite the familiar nervousness, it lacked the recognition. "I was wondering if you might be fit to answer a few questions for me."
"I-if this is about Jacobson's poker game, you can tell him he doesn't need to send a leg-breaker. I'll, I'll get him what I owe him. I, I just need a little time." Smee scrambles to explain, words a bit of a rush, hands out placating. "Look, I'll give you what I have now, just-"
"It's not. I'm not here to talk about Jacobson." Hook raises his hand, halting the man. Got caught up in another mess he can't handle. Good to see Smee hasn't changed. "I was inquiring what you could divulge about the town. I'm seeking someone and some information about him." Smee looks on, unimpressed, and Hook sighs. Some things never change, do they? "I can pay quite generously." That causes the pirate's eyes to light up.
His eyebrows raise expectantly. "In that case, what can I do for you, mister…?"
"Jones." Hook answers curtly. Something about his own surname feels odd and unfamiliar to Hook. A bit like an old coat that one hasn't worn in years and feels stiff and oddly tight in places it didn't use to. It bothers him for a moment, just how foreign his own name sounds to his ears. After so long being Captain Hook, and having refused to sully the name Captain Jones with piracy, being addressed as such feels strange. Haven't been addressed as Jones since I was a lieutenant.
"Forgive me, but I don't think I've ever seen you around, Mr. Jones."
"I'm new in town," Hook answers quickly with a genial smile.
Smee narrows his eyes and cocks his head slightly. "No one new comes to town, been that way since…" he trails off with a frown, looking into the distance. Seemingly failing to determine his answers, he shakes his head. Must be whatever fog the curse placed on his memories. "Well, since forever."
"Well, here I am, defying that time-honored tradition." Hook continues with an insincere smile and a flourish of his hand, then decides to shift focus to what he rightly wants to know. "I'm looking for a man." I suppose he'd be a man here. Providing the description of a Crocodile will have me deemed a mad man. "I'm afraid he goes by a different name here, so unfortunately I cannot supply that detail. About this tall," he holds up a hand at about the Crocodile's height, "walks with a limp, older gentleman." Craven murdering bastard. Smee nods slowly.
Smee shifts slightly before he answers, glancing over either shoulder. "It, um, sounds like you're talking about Mr. Gold. If you're looking for him, try the pawn shop. Uh, think it's Mr. Gold's Pawn Shop and Antiquities, might be wrong about the wording." He shrugs, with an uncertain look in his eyes.
"I did say I could pay generously, yes?" Hook raises an eyebrow from his frown and holds up a fistful of coins. Smee grins as Hook drops the fistful in his hand. "Should be more than enough for your gambling debts." And any other mess you find yourself in, Hook grumbles almost fondly as he watches Smee pocket the coins.
"Yeah, based on the description, you're looking for Mr. Gold. I, um, I can escort you to his shop, if you like." Hook nods and gestures with his hand for Smee to lead the way. He catches Smee glancing every so often at his hook, furrowed brow, head cocked. As though the answers are right before him, but he can't grasp them. After a few glances, Smee shakes his head and keeps walking without another look, apparently giving up on the questions. Suppose the curse can't fully suppress three centuries worth of memories, if something about me seems familiar to him. Good. It means the Crocodile may very well remember me as well. They both continue their way down the main road.
"Bit late, he may or may not be there, and no," Smee says with a glance over, "I'm not just saying that for more payment. I've, uh, I've done a bit of work for him in the past. Just odd jobs here and there. Man's got a cot in the back of the shop, in his office. Sometimes he stays there." Hook nods as Smee rambles, providing relatively more information than he anticipated. Smee twists the old red knit cap in his hands as he babbles and leads. Hook catches himself staring at the habitual familiar gesture, remembering when Smee would do that just before battle or before traveling through a portal. Or as he delivered bad news to his captain, Hook thinks with a dark chuckle. Smee snaps him out of his memories as he continues. "He's also got an estate out in the woods, may be there. Or making rounds for the rent. It's, uh, it's getting to be about that time of the month."
"The rent? He has tenants?"
Smee looks over with both eyebrows raised and stops in his tracks, shocked. "Mr. Gold owns most of the town, Mr. Jones." The slight nervousness in the man's voice doesn't escape Hook. It seems you've done well for yourself in this world, Crocodile. They continue as Smee points to a plain storefront. Mr. Gold's shop appears as nothing remarkable from the street. No lights shine from inside through the lowered blinds and a small sign on the door reads 'Closed'.
"Thank you ever so much for your assistance," Hook states, swaggering towards the door while glancing over either shoulder. Empty street, so whether the bastard is inside or not, no one is going to witness him enter but Smee. Hook peers through the window, between the spaces in the blinds. There are two rows of glass cases and all manner of objects going down the length of the shop. They lead to a final glass case and a curtained-off area in the back. The objects lining the shop produce peculiar shadows in the darkness.
"His, uh, his office, if you're looking, it's behind that curtain then."
"Anything else you can tell me about him?" Hook asks, already reaching for another fistful of gold coins. They reflect the peculiar orange light from the poles overhead as Smee considers for a moment, then nods.
"He's, well, he's an extremely private individual. No, um, friends or family. At least that I know about in town. Doesn't interact with anyone much beyond rent payments. All except the Mayor, I guess." Smee thinks for a bit longer as Hook hands off the coins. He sorely misses the days when this sort of information came much cheaper, and his first mate was far more forthcoming. "Oh!" Smee snaps and continues. "While I, uh, did some of those jobs for him? There was always this old binder, really thick, black, no labels on it, that he kept adding to." That seizes Hook's attention.
"And what was in this binder of his?"
Smee shrugs. "Not sure. He just, um, used to always keep it handy while at work. Every now and again, he'd add something. Sometimes these big chunks of papers, sometimes only a page or two. Never all that consistent, and I never got a real good look inside it."
Hook narrows his eyes. "A good look or no look at all?"
"Saw the opening page was a clipping from a newspaper. It was something about a little boy finding a newborn baby girl by the side of the road. Actually, not that far outside Storybrooke city limits, come to think of it. Before I could read any further, Mr. Gold, well sir, he snatched it back. Christ, the look on his face," he shudders, wringing that cap in his hands tightly. "I, I think he was about ready to kill me. I, uh, I got the feeling he was keeping track of something, or someone, you know, with the binder." Hook's brow furrows in consideration. Whatever it is the Dark One has been tracking in this world, he has a feeling he knows what, or more accurately who, it is. And he feels, deep in his bones, a need to find her. The Savior is the key to breaking the curse. She represents the necessary final step before he takes his vengeance.
"And this binder, it would be in his office, yes?"
Smee nods. "Most likely. He kept it on his desk whenever he wasn't adding to it. As far as the office goes, there's also another door. Around back, straight to it. I, uh, don't recall Mr. Gold having any alarms, but he is, uh, the type to take the law into his own hands when he's stolen from." He shudders again. "He's, um, not exactly the type to wait for the sheriff to handle a break-in. If, um, that'll be all?" His eyes are darting around the darkened street as he replaces his cap on his head.
Hook nods with a grin he knows is far from reassuring. "You've been most helpful. Rest assured, mate, I'll not have you implicated in my wrong-doings. I would, however, advise that you walk away now, and quickly, if you wish to keep your hands clean. And I'm much obliged to you for your discretion." Smee nods and leaves wishing him a good evening and good luck.
He thanked Smee for his discretion, but it's about a fifty-fifty chance the man says something. Hook gave the name Jones. The only one who would recognize that name, ironically, Hook almost wants to know he's in town. He'd be ecstatic if that bastard recalled the name Jones. Such recollection would negate his search for the Savior. Hook is examining the lock on the door. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion, but the longer he lingers here without taking action, the more suspicious he's certain to appear. The possible alarms constitute a risk he'll have to incur.
He picks the lock, darting glances over his shoulders at the darkened street, then grins as the door clicks open and swaggers in. At the sound of a bell, one that is actually fairly quiet but deafening in the silence, he freezes and curses. Darting glances all around, Hook spies nothing changing, nothing moving to intercept him. The confident grin returns as he dares breathe a sigh of relief at his good fortune.
The grin slides off his face as he spots a glass case in the far corner, holding his left hand suspended in some kind of liquid. He kept it? After all these years, that bloody bastard kept it?! Hook stares at his well-preserved left hand, encased as a trophy, with nothing short of shock and disgust. On his finger is the silver ring he took from a naval captain all those years ago. His finger is still crooked from where he broke it as a lad and it didn't quite set properly. He can see the same callouses, the same cuts, everything. Hook knows every inch of that piece of flesh and despite the centuries, he can feel his cauterized wrist burn once again.
The sight of his hand freezes him for a moment before he can shake it off. Deciding to return for it, he focuses on the task at hand and hurries behind the curtain. For a moment, he curses himself for not looking around. Then Hook breathes a sigh of relief that the office, while full of junk, is mercifully unoccupied. Sitting on an old wooden desk is, just as Smee described, a thick black binder. On shelves against the wall are some fine atlases and maps, Hook presumes of this world. Without even a moment's pause, he scoops up the binder, holding it in the crook of his left elbow and collects the atlases and maps with it. He curses the fact that he neglected to bring his satchel from his cabin. Hook snatches up his left hand as he leaves. It's not as though he can achieve anything with it. Hook certainly can't reattach the damn thing, but he's sure as hell not abandoning it with the Crocodile.
Hook stalks quickly down the street, back to the docks and doesn't stop for a moment until he's back in his cabin. He sets his hand on the desk, then begins to page through the binder. His assumption, or fear, was correct. It's about Emma, the Savior. The newspaper clipping Smee had mentioned is dated October 24th, 1983, describing events from the day before. A boy dressed in strange clothing found a baby girl wrapped in only a blanket on the side of the road. Both were taken to a diner nearby. The local authorities were looking for their parents, but if none came forward, then both children would be sent into foster care. The image of the boy strikes Hook though. It's a fantastic rendering that catches every detail, down to the lad's freckles and wide, frightened eyes. Strange clothes indeed. The boy was from the Enchanted Forest as well, he'd bet his ship on it he's so certain. He wonders for a moment why Snow White and her Prince Charming would send their only daughter, their only hope, their salvation, through to another world with only a young boy to care for her. Why wouldn't her parents come through to this world with her? Why wouldn't they want to be with her to shepherd her to her destiny? Wouldn't she be so much more likely to succeed if she had the help and support of her parents? Hook jerks his head and tamps down the feeling that seems suspiciously close to concern for the Savior and her well-being. He instead focuses on the relevant details of the news.
"Exactly how long has it been?" Hook whispers as he pages through more of the binder without really reading any of it. Based on the thickness of the binder, much has happened to the girl, but in how long? At some point as a child, she took the surname Swan. Emma Swan seems to have been through a hell of a lot. He once again stomps down the twinge of sympathy for the Savior. Hook turns to the last page. A police report, if the letterhead at the top is any indication. Something about children being removed from the care of a man named Nelson, in a place called Blanchard, Oklahoma. Removing Emma was apparently pending a home to place her in. Though why they'd abandon her in a place like that, when it'd been deemed unfit as a home for other children under Nelson's care, including Emma, he doesn't know. Why they wouldn't consider the possible consequences of leaving Emma Swan to face the full extent of Nelson's abusive behavior…
Hook once again notes the strange twinge of sympathy for the Swan girl before he tamps it down, taking note of the date. September 19th, 1997. "Nearly fourteen years," he whispers. At a minimum, his mind adds unhelpfully. It's not clear how old this particular report is, it could be far longer. Fourteen years, halfway through the curse. It seems he once more has a target. Blanchard, Oklahoma, wherever the bloody hell that is. He consults the maps from the Dark One's shop, plots a course for what appears to be the nearest port, and sets sail for the port of Beaumont, Texas. As far as transport from there, north, he'll manage when he gets there. He's always been charming enough, and if that doesn't work, he imagines gold is gold in any realm.
"I'll find you, Savior. Wherever you are, I will find you. And I'll haul you kicking and screaming to your destiny if I have to," Hook promises. "And when you do succeed, Savior, and the curse is broken, then I'll take my revenge on the Crocodile."
