Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3234044.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Once_Upon_a_Time_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Captain_Hook_|_Killian_Jones/Emma_Swan
  Character:
      Emma_Swan, Captain_Hook_|_Killian_Jones, Rumplestiltskin_|_Mr._Gold,
      Baelfire_|_Neal_Cassidy
  Collections:
      Black_Swans_&_Red_Hooks
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-26 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 7732
****** I Die Anyway ******
by Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary
     Based on a Tumblr prompt: a Captain Swan take on a bit of dialogue
     from the film 'Man in the Iron Mask.' What happens when Princess Emma
     falls in love with one of the guards assigned to her by her future
     father-in-law.
***** I Die Anyway *****
Emma runs out of the dining hall, sobs caught in her throat and hands clinging
to the sodden neckline of her dress. She promised herself that she wouldn't let
him see her cry, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that his vicious
words and even crueler actions had the power to wound her. For years, ever
since she turned sixteen and was considered a woman by gods and men, she had
lived at her fiancé's court, learning how to live and rule and die as people in
the Dark Kingdom would expect her to. And every second of that time, waking and
sleeping, has been one torment after another. She knows the story, of the
unfortunate accident that left King Rumplestiltskin's heir lame, yet she cannot
find it in her heart to forgive the bitter, venomous young man who has made her
life a living nightmare and whose bed she'll one day be forced to share.
Tonight, it was the cut of Emma's gown that had offended Prince Baelfire. He
had begun by chiding her that the skirt wasn't full enough to hide her trim
waist and rounded hips, the bodice was cut too low and without the proper
amount of concealing lace; he claimed that only strumpets wore dresses such as
hers, ones that hugged womanly curves and revealed even the tiniest amount of
bosom. She had politely reminded him that the beautiful satin and lace creation
had been requested for her by him, and that his own father had remarked on the
modest sophistication of it and how it made her look just as a maiden should.
The mention of the King's approval had apparently been the last straw, or
perhaps it had drawn too close to defiance against his opinions; Baelfire had
gripped her upper arm roughly and dragged her from her chair, leaving her
asprawl at his feet. Making a Princess and one's fiancée kneel like a whore in
the presence of the entire court would have been trying enough, but he had
ripped the offending lace off of her décolletage and poured his goblet of wine
down her bodice.
She gulps at the air as she runs, desperately trying to breathe and to halt the
tears that keep welling to her eyes. All her life, at the court of King David
and Queen Snow, she had been treated with dignity and respect. She so easily
could have turned out to be a shallow, spoiled creature, but her parents had
raised her to believe that every life, every person deserved to be treated with
kindness and fairness. Not even servants who were turned out for thieving would
be treated in the callous, degrading manner to which she had just been
subjected. Emma's tears finally fall at that thought, as she wishes yet again
to have this sham of an engagement broken and to be wrapped in the safety of
loving arms once more. She hears her name called softly and whips her head
around at the sound. She whimpers in distress when she sees who has dared
Prince Baelfire's wrath by going after her, because of course the gods would be
cruel enough for him to witness her humiliation.
Her marriage had always been a fact—a betrothal negotiated and set in stone
less than a year after she had been born, so that an alliance could be formed
between the two kingdoms. Emma had been raised knowing that she would marry for
duty, but she had not been prepared for the utter dearth of affection she would
know once she set foot on foreign soil. Almost the instant she had been
received at court, all of her carefully hand-selected train of ladies-in-
waiting and handmaidens had been dismissed by the King and replaced with menial
servants and guards. In the nearly four years since then, Emma has been only
allowed to speak with her parents' ambassador, three of the wives of the Dark
Kingdom's leading nobles, and people who work for the King or for Baelfire. The
men set to watch her at all hours have been trained as soldiers, spies, and
assassins by the King's marshal, Duke George, and "fraternizing" with the
prince's fiancée has been strictly discouraged. And swiftly dealt with if even
suspected.
Yet for all that, Lieutenant Jones has followed her from the scene of her most
recent degradation. Emma gasps and runs to him, pushing his shoulders roughly
in attempt to get him to turn around. "Go, you fool! He'll see this as an act
of disloyalty, unless you return immediately! I don't want-"
He stands at attention, heels clicking sharply and echoing through the hallway,
and offers her his arm. His eyes touch hers only briefly, so she can see the
spark of pity, of understanding before they resume their accustomed blank,
unfeeling look—a skill honed by years of burying defiance and resentments deep
enough to avoid detection. "My lord Baelfire must have neglected to recall that
your highness is not supposed to be traversing the halls without an escort, my
lady. It is no disloyalty to the prince to see that his orders are executed."
Even though the words are everything that is correct and she's smart enough to
know that listening eyes and ears will report this tableau to the King, Emma's
heart breaks a little at the crisp, clinical propriety. She hates to see anyone
broken and bereft of their own will, as it is something she so often feels even
in the hours and rooms that are her own. She manages a mumbled bit of gratitude
and places her hand on top of his, their bodies as far distant as such a stance
can allow. As he leads her along the corridors toward her room, her eyes
furiously search out the nooks and shadows for royal spies. When they reach the
outer door to her chambers, Emma throws caution to the wind, pulling him
through with her and bolting them in quickly.
He frames her face with his warm, calloused palms, noticing the lines of pain
and the puffiness around her eyes from her unshed tears. He places a soft kiss
to her forehead, and Emma melts into his body with a sob of relief. For a
moment, all he does is hold her, shelter her from the embarrassment and the
torment that he couldn't save her from less than an hour ago. But then
something changes. Though still pliant and trembling in his arms, she manages
to find the strength to twine around him. Her lips brush against the small,
exposed bit of his throat at the top of his uniform collar. He freezes as she
moves over him like a vine, climbing higher until her mouth is brushing along
his.
He breaks, threading his hand through her hair and angling her head just so. He
stares into her hooded, needy gaze before kissing her thoroughly, yet tenderly.
Emma's moan of desire startles him, reminds him of where they are, who she is,
who he is, and that their lives are not their own. "No. As much as it grieves
me, no. If anyone sees us, if anyone suspects, it's death."
A single tear, born of both joy and sorrow, drops down her cheek. "If I don't
kiss you, Killian, I die anyway."
Her lips and words, so dangerous and persuasive. He finds himself drowning in
another kiss, in the feel of her limbs holding him tightly. His heart beats
frantically against the cage of his chest, seeking the warmth of her palm where
it rests above its erratic rhythm. Emma's tongue slides daintily along his
lower lip, as if in supplication. He opens his mouth to devour hers, recklessly
tasting and exploring every inch. They lose all sense of time and self, knowing
nothing except how right it feels to be lost together, consumed by the other.
But all too soon, his honor and his duty prevail, despite the fact that they
have been given to dishonorable men. "I must go now. I love you too much to
endanger you this way."
Emma grasps his coat lapels, desperate for him to see and understand. "I don't
care about the danger. Please, Killian! We can run away from here; we can be
free from this place. I don't need any of this—these pretty trappings, because
all they are are bits of gilding for a cage. My cage and yours. A tyrant who
degrades his future bride and makes eunuchs of his men doesn't deserve your
loyalty or mine, and an oath made to a liar is no oath at all! Take me away,
and we can build a life free from this prison."
She punctuates her argument with a kiss—one that he ends all too soon. Killian
takes her hands in his, reverently kissing the knuckles and then turning her
hands over to place a kiss into each of her palms. "I am so sorry, my love. I
cannot un-swear my vows, and I cannot take you away from the palaces and
comforts you were born to."
Emma's knees refuse to support her any longer, and she collapses into the
nearest settee. With one last look, filled with all the promises that he longs
to offer and yet refuses to speak, Killian leaves her chamber and closes the
door behind him.
===============================================================================
The next morning, Emma is rudely awoken and commanded from her bed with barely
enough time to wrap her dressing gown over her shift. She is dragged out to the
balcony where the King stands sipping his morning cup of coffee in a delicate
porcelain cup. He gives her a baleful glare before she is deposited by her
guard at his side. Below in the courtyard is a scene clearly created
exclusively for her eyes—as a test. Balefire sits in his specially designed
chair, watching as Duke George flays open the back of one of his soldiers. The
lash falls with brutal accuracy, stripping bits of skin away with each tug and
calling up lines of blood to drip from torn flesh. The spectacle is so
consuming in its violence that it takes her a few moments to recognize the long
black hair, no longer pulled back in its tidy queue, and has to bite her lip to
keep herself from crying out, especially when she hears the power-mad voice of
her fiancé.
"I want to see bone, you catamite! Make him truly suffer! Are you lashing him,
or giving him a massage, old goat?!" One of the guards stalks over to the
Prince and speaks low into his ear. Baelfire turns most of his body around in
his chair, narrowed eyes locking quickly onto where she stands at the balcony.
A few barked commands and a wave of his hand changes the scene. Killian is
unshackled from the whipping post and dragged by two of his fellow guardsmen to
a block. "Several witness have denounced you for having touched the Princess,
my fiancée—my property! Since you need to learn to keep your hands to
yourself…"
She barely holds back her startled gasp and the bile that rises in her throat
when his left hand is placed on the block. With the snap of a finger, the
executioner pulls a red-hot blade from the fire and severs the hand from his
arm just above the wrist. His howl of agony rips through her, heart and soul,
yet she cannot even shed a tear for fear of making his suffering worse. If
Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin believe or even suspect that she truly cares for
Killian… So, she does something that has proven useless in recent memory—she
closes her eyes and prays. "My apologies that you had to witness something so
off-putting this early in the morning, but my son insisted on avenging the
slight to your honor immediately. It's just that we felt the lesson was best
delivered swiftly."
"The lesson, your majesty?"
The King's eyes glint dangerously, and she knows she has come perilously close
to revealing that which must remain secret at all costs. "Why, that whatever
the item in question may be, one does not steal anything from our family,
dearie."
He walks away after giving her a theatrically elaborate bow. She wants nothing
more than to disintegrate, to crack and crumble like a smashed stone and
scatter her dust to the winds. The guard remains at her side as she watches the
army healers rush to attend the whipped and beaten man, as they attempt to save
his life. Baelfire has his companion wheel him away from the scene of torture,
uninterested in the agony and torment that will go into keeping one former
soldier alive. Before long, Killian is deemed stable enough to move and is
carried away in a stretcher beyond her sight.
Later that night, in a secret meeting with her parents' ambassador, she begs
him to find the injured and disgraced lieutenant and somehow smuggle him to
safety. She also breaks her silence regarding the indignities she has suffered
at the hands of her fiancé and her future father-in-law. The aged courtier
promises to do his best, but reminds her that only gods can enact miracles.
Less than a month later, Emma's rooms are deemed unsafe from would-be
assassins, and she is given chambers in one of the castle's many towers. To add
insult to injury, her kingdom's ambassador is recalled home, but not before he
is able to smuggle a message in cipher to her which she burns immediately after
reading it. It is done; he is safe.
By the end of the year, preparations for her wedding to Prince Baelfire begin
with renewed enthusiasm on the part of the citizens of the Dark Kingdom. No new
representatives arrive from her father's court, and the King brushes aside her
concern over the lack of letters and information as unimportant in the midst of
planning for her marriage. Yet all the shrill talk of finery and feasts doesn't
prevent rumors reaching her eager ears of a new, dangerous enemy of the state:
a pirate with a hook in place of his left hand who plunders and burns any ship
bearing the colors of the Dark Kingdom.
***** If I Die Young *****
Emma paces the full circuit around her tower room—her thinly veiled prison
whose only exits are the door to the winding staircase and a fatal drop to the
jagged rocks and the surging surf that wait at least a fathom below her window.
She's tried every single excuse she can think of to delay the wedding, but her
time has finally run out. She'd begged her future father-in-law to postpone
until the spring winds came, making the sea crossing possible for her parents
to be with her on her wedding day. An ocean voyage during the raging storms of
winter was utterly unthinkable, with not even mad men daring to hazard his life
in a gamble with the god of the sea. Merchants, travelers, royalty, and
commoner alike all waited until spring mellowed and soothed the almighty wrath
of the waters.
No matter where she stands, the dress set on display absorbs her every thought.
It truly is a beautiful gown—the under-dress is made of a soft silk that's so
white it appears blue when the light hits it just so; the overdress is made of
cloth of gold, spun and woven especially to match the sheen of her hair; the
lace is also made of finely spun gold and a fortune in pearls, diamonds, and
emeralds are sewn into the stiff skirt and bodice. She absolutely loathes it.
Everything about it screams the fact that she will be just another ornament,
just a jewel in the crown of the Dark Kingdom. And like a priceless bauble, she
will be expected to remain still, beautiful, and mute.
She growls under her breath again, cursing the weight of it, the cut, and how
it makes her resemble a doll more than a woman. She grinned at the last because
she had managed a two week delay by pleading her womanly moon time, and surely
his majesty would want to do his best to ensure an heir in her belly as soon as
possible, yes? But that had been thirteen days ago. Despite not agreeing to
wait for her parents to attend the festivities, every other request of Emma's,
no matter how bizarre, had been met with almost obscene speed. Even when she
asked that they be married by a quite specific holy man—practically a hermit
who eschewed the monastic life of the temples and venerated the saints, gods,
and goddesses of love from all lands with a very small ascetic community of
believers high in the mountains.
Her will had been done, and the ancient reverend had arrived just this morning.
She had met with the priest briefly when he was received by King
Rumplestiltskin and Prince Baelfire after breaking their fast. The last delay
tactic, her final card would be played that night. Emma had asked for
permission to come down to the chapel where she would become a married woman
and to be allowed to have the holy man hear her confession and then to hold a
vigil in supplication to the goddess of the hearth and of motherhood. Though
her fiancé's eyes had sparked with a feral curiosity at her sudden show of
piety and then darkened with fury at his father's acquiescence, she had managed
to remain calm and not reveal the hope for salvation from this sham of a
wedding that she had allowed to carry inside her heart, a tiny yet fiercely
glowing coal.
She had been the picture of calm, regal poise all through the final fittings of
that monstrosity of a dress that keeps weighing on her mind, even when she's
turned away from it with her eyes closed. Not for the first time, she moves
quickly to the window and forces the glass open. A cold, wet wind howls into
the room and the snarling, crashing waves reverberate through her whole body as
they pummel the cliffs and the stone walls. She wonders if falling would feel
anything near what she's imagined flying to be like; would she die by hitting
the rocks, or would a wave lift her up before dragging her down to the depths?
She's heard a legend, a half-told tale that mermaids are drowned women, reborn
to serve the lords of the ocean and lure sailors to a watery grave. If she's
brave enough to jump, whose soul will she seek and claim and devour?
But she isn't courageous enough, because some part of her refuses to give up,
refuses to believe that all hope is lost, and so refuses to let her die.
Despite the fact that it hasn't seemed to do her much good, she breathes yet
another prayer as the salt-laden, bitterly cold winds press against her
body. Let him be safe. Let him be happy. As foolish a wish as any she could ask
for, but if the gods will that one of them suffers, she wants it to be her. She
finally does what she usually does after sending her achingly hopeless prayer
to the heavens and sits on the window ledge staring at the horizon, wondering
where he is and what he is doing. She has no doubt that he found his freedom
somewhere in the realms—her father's former ambassador had at least given her
that small measure of comfort, slipping her a message to inform her that
Killian Jones had been spirited to safety.
Her heart pounds painfully against her ribs in panic every time she thinks of
him, and it takes her a long time to calm herself by repeating the words of the
letter. For merely daring to touch her hand, innocently and chastely holding it
on top of his while he escorted her to her rooms, Prince Baelfire had had him
whipped ruthlessly and dismissed from service. Those injuries would have been
hard enough to bear for any man, let alone one as proud as the young lieutenant
of the guard who had steadily and quietly earned her trust and regard over the
four years she had been living at court; but her vicious fiancé hadn't stopped
there, commanding that his left hand be taken as well. Making Emma stand on the
balcony above the courtyard and watch it happen was only part of her
torture—the severed hand had been embalmed and presented to her as a gift.
Such casual cruelty formed the base of her violent loathing of the lame Prince,
and all his other behaviors simply confirmed her aversion. If he had discovered
that Killian had claimed her heart and soul, had given her a few precious
kisses and fleeting moments of happiness, then he would have done far worse
than separate a hand from the lieutenant's body. She shivers at the thought of
such a fate befalling the one man she has ever loved. "My lady! You'll catch
your death sitting in that wind! There's a storm a'brewin' out there and make
no mistake. Me old bones can feel it when we're in for a right hurricane. Come
now and let's get you bundled up proper—it won't do for you to get a chill on
the eve of your weddin'. The holy father has sent for you like you asked, and
the King said to make certain you don't go out without right warm clothes."
The scullery drudge turned lady's maid, Johanna, bustles about like a force of
nature all her own, quickly shutting and latching the windows tight and
chivying Emma toward the wardrobe. The woman is kind, considerate, and as
companionable as possible; she often reminds Emma of some of her better
nursemaids and governesses growing up. But for all that, Johanna is careful to
discuss nothing of import and answer almost none of her charge's questions.
Emma has no doubt that her employment and her life would be forfeit at the
least should the maid take it in her head to show any sort of loyalty to anyone
other than the King and the Prince. Johanna continues her prattle about the
terrible weather in the offing and how it's considered a good omen in the Dark
Kingdom for a rain storm on a wedding day—a sign that the gods show favor to
the couple and that their marriage will be free of such tempests. Emma only
listens with half an ear, impatient to see the priest and lay her case before
him.
Johanna strips Emma and replaces her wispy, insubstantial satin gown for
something plainer, warmer, and sturdier. The woolen material is fine and soft
to the touch, clearly made of delicate lambskin, dyed to a brilliant shade of
green. Emma slips on a short pair of boots for the trek across the castle steps
and through the bailey to the chapel that was originally built into the thick
fortress wall; it seems an age since the last time she was allowed outside, to
see the sky without a pane of glass between her and it. Johanna wraps her in a
thick cloak as well—a dark, heavy fabric lined with rabbit's fur for extra
warmth. Her task completed, Johanna walks with Emma out of her rooms where they
are joined by a pair of guards.
Ever since she had been practically imprisoned within her "new suite," she has
had at least two guards flanking her every movement outside of her bed chamber.
All a part of the King's insistence that the security of Emma's person is a
matter of life and death to the people of the Dark Kingdom, anxious for the
consummation of her marriage to the Prince and the begetting of more heirs. The
last possibility makes her shiver uncontrollably as she and her entourage make
their way down the winding staircase and increases the number of prayers that
the hermit will take pity on her plight. When they finally reach the ground
floor, Johanna remains by her side instead of heading off to report to the
King, or whatever other duty it is that she fulfills when she isn't acting as
lady's maid.
"The King was quite specific in his instruction that the Princess Emma not be
left alone in the chapel." The guards hadn't expected her to continue with
them, but grunt their acceptance of her presence. After all, a king cannot be
bothered to communicate every single instruction to every single servant and
soldier within the palace. Emma sighs resignedly, though not in defeat; she had
hoped to be able to put her case to the holy man face to face without a prying
audience, but there's still the inviolable sanctity of confession, so she will
still be able to have her private conversation. It simply means that she won't
be able to look him in the eye—her words will be the only tool she can use to
convince the hermit that she requires his aid and that her causes are just.
Emma breathes in the moist air as soon as they begin the walk across the
bailey, relishing the fleeting exhilaration of being free. Johanna's prediction
of a storm proves accurate when a mist begins to fall and the rumble of thunder
echoes distantly through the courtyard. But all too soon, they approach the
chapel. Her heart drops when she notices that not only are there guards at the
front door and on the walls above, but soldiers are also stationed at the
temple's other exits. It seems that King Rumplestiltskin refuses to be
overestimated in his desire to keep what he deems his property. She is ushered
into the chill quiet of the sanctuary with little fuss or fanfare, and the
guards immediately shut and bolt the doors behind her. The stones echo hollowly
the rustling of her skirts as she moves to take off her boots; one always
approaches a god with humility, with head and feet bared.
Instead of moving to do the same, Johanna places her back to the doors and
remains still as a statue. Perhaps, for all her unswerving loyalty to
Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire, the woman fears the eternal lash of a deity more
than the whip hand of her temporal masters. Emma doesn't truly stop to question
her servant's motives, calculating in her mind just how low she'll need to
speak in order for her to converse freely with the priest. With her heart
beating a rapid staccato against her ribs, she daintily lifts the hem of her
gown and makes her way to the front of the chapel. The penitent's chamber is
little more than two golden booths with a latticed grill between the two.
Normally, they are much simpler affairs of solid wood, so that the confessor
and the confessed are hidden from the eyes of anyone congregating in the
sanctuary. Yet even here, the King's lust for all things useless and gaudy
displays itself, so she can clearly see the rough brown woolen of a monk's
robes through the scroll-work.
Emma takes another bracing breath of air—though this one is not at all fresh
and tainted by the sting of stale incense—and assumes her place as a penitent.
She kneels gracefully, thankful that someone thought to provide a cushion for
her comfort. From her position, she can see only his hood in profile; but
custom dictates such anonymity, and so she bows her head and places her closed
right fist over her heart. "Bless me, father, for I am a sinner. I—I'm sorry
that you were disturbed from your solitude, but word of your devotion and piety
reached even my ears. When I learned of your life of holiness, I saw it as a
sign that my prayers might be answered, and so I asked that you be sent for."
Several seconds pass before she hears an answer in a deep, soothing voice.
"There is no need to apologize, my dear. Even those who have chosen to live
apart from the world must occasionally obey the commands of those who have been
given power and authority. And I must myself confess to having been a trifle
curious about you, your highness; for even in the mountains we hear whispers of
what passes in the halls of Kings, and word of a princess as blessed with a
kind heart and a strong, yet gentle spirit as with beauty is something that
gods and saints do not ignore. Now tell me, dear—what sins do you have which
burden your conscience?"
Emma bites her lip, sending yet another prayer winging into the universe,
hoping that she has chosen wisely and not in vain. "Father, as you know, I am
supposed to be wed tomorrow. But I confess that I do not love the man who is to
be my husband, and that there is no possibility of growing to even tolerate
him. I confess that I cannot enter the sacred bond of marriage with him without
besmirching and fouling my soul."
She hears a sharp inhale and gains the courage to look at the holy man again.
His body is rigid with tension, and yet she can see the rise and fall of his
chest. "You speak dangerous words, your highness. Ones that could be construed
as treasonous or even blasphemous. You know that the gods exhort us to love all
of mankind and be charitable to those who are our enemies."
"Forgive me for being so bold, father, but one can feel compassion for a
wounded animal and yet strike it dead before it brings harm upon others. I am
not here to discuss and enumerate my fiancé's faults, but they are relevant to
my lack of devotion to him. I could forgive him his cruelties to me, even
though they are beyond counting, but I cannot ever bring myself to share with
him even a morsel of compassion because of the vicious ill-treatment and ill-
will he has shown to—to someone I truly care for."
"And this person you mention… Who is he, and what trespass was committed
against him?"
"His identity matters naught to you, priest! I would forfeit my life before
ever endangering his. Father, please hear me! I had you summoned because you
are my final hope at averting disaster. I beg you, please give me sanctuary!
Not even the King would risk the displeasure of the gods if you heed my plea
for mercy and offer me your protection! I cannot marry Baelfire and am prepared
to die to prevent it. I will not surrender my body—certainly not where my heart
is not mute, but rather vehemently in rebellion against such a match.
"I cannot beseech the blessing of the gods on my womb and pray that I conceive
when my entire being revolts at the thought of that tyrant's touch! It would be
a far greater sin to nurture his seed and bring forth a child into this
ruthless world who will never be loved by its father. My parents, if they do
know of my suffering, have no means by which to redeem me. I might as well be
an orphan, utterly bereft of family and friends! Please, holy father, for
pity's sake have mercy and grant me sanctuary."
A soft, sad sigh reaches her ear. "My dear Emma, you are not without friends in
this land. Would you truly commit the ultimate offense to the gods by
destroying yourself? By harming that beautiful body and soul which angels
surely had a hand in creating? Could you truly die by your own hand?"
Her chin jerks up in defiance of his cloying, honeyed words, and she angrily
grasps and rattles the grill between them. Her eyes spark with fury, and all
semblance of quiet, regal control are lost. "Yes! I love another beyond life
itself, and since I cannot bend my will to submit to the Prince, I will gladly
sacrifice my life to the sea. And I pray that god will at the least take my
soul out of pity!"
She rises abruptly, body all but vibrating with contained wrath at the
capricious nature of gods and their servants. She begins to stride back across
the sanctuary when she halts abruptly, noticing that Johanna is no longer
standing in front of the doors. In fact, she's not in the chapel at all. A
shiver of fear ripples down her spine before she is hauled back against
someone's body. Someone whose chest is a plane of solid muscle; someone whose
right hand is rough and calloused on the palm, and littered with scars along
the back and the knuckles; someone with a hook where his left hand should be.
Emma has to bite back a moan when a beloved, now tenderly familiar voice speaks
into her ear, lips ghosting over the shell and lobe. "He'll have to fight me
for you, love, because I'm not about to let you slip through my fingers again."
Tears stream down her face as he holds her tightly and kisses her hair, her
neck, her shoulder. She reaches a hand behind her to run her fingers through
his hair, a sob and more tears descending when she discovers that it's far
shorter than he ever kept it while she knew him. Emma finally turns around in
his arms, cupping his face in her hands as her eyes trace all the changes
wrought on his adored features. His own eyes are clear and open, dozens of
emotions flashing across them at a dizzying speed. His skin is darker, tanned
and chapped by the sun on the sea and the winds. There's a scar that cuts
across his right cheekbone that's new, and lines of pain and anger around his
lips and eyes. But it's him! And he's alive and he's safe and here!
And then Emma forgets what it's like to breathe because she's pouring every
fiber of her being into kissing him. Later, she'll ask him about the escape;
and he'll tell her that Johanna has long been a spy for her father's
ambassador, who helped smuggle him out of the castle and into the next kingdom.
She'll ask him about his hand, and he'll tell her how weak and close to death
he had been from the infection that set in. She'll ask him about the rumors of
a dreaded pirate who gives no quarter to ships sailing under the Dark Kingdom's
colors, and he'll tell her how he hoped and prayed that she had heard and knew
he was coming to rescue her. She'll even ask him about the priest, and he'll
tell her a wild tale of convincing a holy hermit to pose as a pirate for a day
while he swept in to save the woman he loves more than life.
But in that instant the only thing that matters is that she has been starved
for him for months. His monk's robes and her cloak are quickly discarded,
falling to the floor in front of the altar steps. One of her hands is buried in
his hair, and the other clings to his shoulder. Without breaking their kiss, he
kneels slightly, manages to catch her legs, and with her help, brings them up
to wrap around his waist. He presses her back into the stone wall beside the
penitent's chamber, blazing a hot trail with his lips over her chin and down
her throat toward her shoulder. She whimpers at the feel of his leather-covered
erection rubbing against her desire-slicked folds, and her breath comes out in
soft, frantic pants. "Oh, Killian, I've missed you!"
He startles a bit at the sound of his own name falling from her lips, but
continues to lick and suck and nibble and tease her flesh. "You are the first
and the last person who's called me that, Emma love. Needed a more fearsome
name to go with my reputation as a plundering, rapacious pirate."
The bitterness and anger in his tone tear at her heart; she was always the one
to see the clouds, and he the sunshine. Knowing that Baelfire has taken more
from him then his hand breaks some final piece inside her, crystallizes a
decision that she didn't even know she was making. "Let's seal it then and turn
you into a legend."
She uses the leverage of her hand in his raven hair to pull his lips back to
hers before reaching between them to tug at the laces of his trousers. She
locks her legs around him and sucks his tongue into her mouth when she senses
that his more gentlemanly nature finally understands her words. A long, low
moan vibrates through him when she frees his cock and runs the head against her
bare, soaked slit. "I don't care, Killian! Damn and forget every last one of
them! It's you and me in the eyes of the saints and their gods—only us! Make me
yours. I want you to ravish me; you can feel how much I want you to!"
With a hard, quick kiss, he agrees and then desperately looks around the
sanctuary. The only flat surfaces are the floor itself, the priest's bench in
the penitent's chamber, and the high altar. With a feline grace she's never
seen, he ascends the few steps two at a time and sits her on top of the purple
satin altar-cloth without even jostling her or shifting her in his arms. He
runs his hand over her hair, eyes seeking, urgently trying to read her own.
Whatever he sees reassures him, and fiery need blazes across his features once
more. He dips his head to her chest, mouth teasing the tantalizing hints of the
tops of her breasts. Emma moans, wrapping her arms around his neck and
threading her fingers through his hair.
She feels a sudden tug and then hears the rip of his hook through the fabric of
her gown. Cool air rushes over her flushed skin through the drooping halves of
her bodice. A part of her brain blesses Johanna for being too hurried to bother
with undergarments before blanking on everything except the sensation of his
lips wrapped around one of her peaked nipples and of the head of his cock
pressing against her entrance. He takes his time, slowly easing in and out,
burying himself deeper with each controlled movement. Emma whimpers at the
agonizing pace, using her bare heels to dig into his ass and spur him on. He
lets out a throaty chuckle that she can feel all the way through where they are
connected, and her eyes roll back into her head.
"So impatient, princess! Tell me something, darling—do you often fantasize
about being taken by a devastatingly handsome pirate in a temple? Do you touch
yourself and imagine it's some villain come to steal you away from your
castle?" Her eyes are dark, hazy jade shards glittering with lust. Caught up in
the intensity of her gaze, he gasps when she tightens her thighs and slams her
feet against his lower back. Her movements cause him to jerk forward, tearing
the gossamer veil of her maidenhead and filling her to the hilt. If there is
any discomfort or pain on her part, he can't tell, because her body reveals no
such thing and the feel of her sheath rippling around the entire length of him
is positively divine.
"Only if the pirate's you, Killian." Her words and the sinfully delicious kiss
that follows them work like magic and release all of his pent up longing for
the woman beneath him. He sets a pace that will no doubt leave both of them
sore later, but the all-consuming need that drives them seems fuel by something
greater than their passion for each other. Outside, the storm has truly
descended. Waves crash and break and crash again upon the ancient cliffs and
fortress wall. Lightning strikes all across the countryside, and thunder whip-
cracks overhead and rumbles almost continuously. He aches for her even as he
relentlessly pounds his hips into hers, as every inch of his length is
gloriously milked by the lush, tight confines of her cunt. She's spread out on
the altar now, ass barely resting on the edge and back arching to meet him.
Another flash of his hook, another rip leaves her dress torn completely in two,
so that she truly resembles an offering—a virgin sacrifice.
Emma moans and mewls as his cock hits the end of her with every thrust. He
growls at her when she reaches one of her hands up to toy with her
breasts—mounding her flesh in her palm or rolling her nipple between thumb and
forefinger; she uses the other to tease the both of them—two of her fingers
held steady so that they brush along the rigid length of his cock, and her
thumb working the pink pearl that lies above her sex. Her every sound makes him
mad with lust, and the rippling of her tight pussy and increasingly wet heat of
her arousal only spur him harder. He grips her thigh harder with his hand and
drives his hook straight into the altar, but even this is not enough. He slides
his fingers down her leg to grasp her ankle, throwing her leg above his
shoulder before leaning back down to nip and suck at her stomach and breasts.
Her whimpers and moans are now full-fledged cries of pleasure—incoherent sounds
of approval and curses interspersed with his name. The harsher angle allows her
to take every last centimeter of him, and the moist slap of flesh against flesh
echoes as a low harmony to the waves and the thunder. Her orgasm flashes up and
down her spine before flowing out to every nook and cranny of her body; every
muscle trembling and contracting with the sheer power of it. Her mouth forms
into a small "o," yet the only sound that comes from her throat is a high
keening. Her sheath becomes impossibly tight in an instant, sending him
hurtling after her. A white-hot shaft of pleasure jolts through his being,
leaving dots of black and stars to swim across his vision as his seed spurts
into her.
He slips from the warmth of her welcoming body and falls to his knees before
her, resting his head against her thigh. Everything washes over them as they
recover from the sheer intensity of their combined pleasure, still and
immovable as the rocks being pummeled by the surf and the tides. He manages to
come to himself a bit before she does, placing gentle, reverent kisses along
every exposed inch of her skin that he can reach. Seeing goose bumps start to
form alongside her cooling sweat, he tucks himself back into his trousers and
goes to fetch their cloaks. When he returns to wrap her up, the smile that
wreathes her face is beatific.
===============================================================================
The story spreads like wildfire, and every telling of it is different.
Some say that the pirate with a hook for a hand killed the princess in her bed,
leaving her cold body to be found on her bridal morning by a distraught and
broken-hearted prince.
Some say that her body was never recovered, but that her torn and blood-
spattered gown was found by the guards who had to break down the thick wooden
doors of the chapel—ripped in two, draped upon the altar with a few shorn locks
of golden hair.
Still others say that she leapt to her death, weeping for the loss of her lover
and unwilling to go through with a shallow, empty union. This version is most
often told by young swains to pretty maids, spinning the tale out to include
the princess' prayers being heard by the Sea; of how she became a siren and was
eventually reunited with her bold, one-handed sailor in death.
The story no one hears is that the princess was discovered missing in the
morning; the guards placed around the temple and her rooms were all found with
throats slit; and the beautiful wedding gown was stripped of all the jewels and
gold, leaving only the white silk behind, stained with a smear of blood.
Yet every single teller is consistent on one point: the princess was never seen
alive again, and the pirate with a hook for a hand dropped off the edge of the
world.
***** Coda *****
The blacksmith moved to the village with his young wife, oh, at least five
years ago now. Terrible thing to happen to such a lovely couple really. Didn't
hear the story 'bout that? Well, he was a smithy's apprentice, and she was some
merchant's daughter. Her father fancied someone wealthier for her, someone with
land or money or power, most like. But the young man and her, well, they loved
each other; and so he struck a bargain of some sort with the man to prove his
worth. He spent a year puttin' in his time at the forge and working for her
father somehow, and one day there was a horrible accident—a fire, I think it
was. The young man saved his master, but his hand were crushed and burned by a
fallin' beam. Healers had to take it off.
Don't know if they got her father to agree or if they packed up and ran off
together, but I've never seen a better match. For all her looks and fine
speech, she learned to work side by side with him in that forge and make no
mistake! He wields the hammer on the tougher stuff, and she takes the place of
his other hand. They can make a good and sturdy shoe, or a bit of fancy work to
pretty up the house and make your missus happy. And nowadays, though they're
careful round him, you can see 'em trainin' that rascal son of theirs. Got his
father's looks, but his mother's feisty eyes and gumption. Never met a lass
with greater nerves, and a heart as big as her face is pretty! Downright happy
they are, even with the trouble they've had.
Now me, well, I've lived here for ages…
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