#cookson stew

[salvadoranarthistory]

Soups, Stews and Chili - Pork - Cookson Stew

[dylmei]

Soups, Stews and Chili - Pork - Cookson Stew

[hvergerold]

Cookson Stew Recipe Six bean stew with pork sausage and BBQ sauce.

[dtmtrends]

Cookson Stew Recipe

Six bean stew with pork sausage and BBQ sauce.

[justforbooks]

Long before Dave Myers, one half of the TV duo the Hairy Bikers, was hairy, or a biker, he was a cook. While still a child, he prepared family meals when his mother, a former shipyard crane driver, became so debilitated by multiple sclerosis she was scarcely able to leave her bed. “Dad and I became Mam’s carers, muddling through each day,” said Myers, who has died aged 66. “Sometimes I got out a cookbook and made a pie or a stew out of whatever ingredients we had in.”

His mother had been “a fabulous cook and was often preparing food while I played at her feet”. His father, the foreman of a local paper mill, would put little Dave on the saddle of his motorbike so he could pretend to ride. “I loved the smell of oil and machinery and rubber; just one whiff would set my pulse racing.”

But it was only half a lifetime later that Myers, after many years of working as a television makeup artist, managed to make an onscreen career by combining these two childhood passions. In 2004, when he was 45, Myers and his friend Simon King, a locations manager on the Harry Potter films, pitched their idea for a TV show focusing on motorbikes and food to the BBC. “It was midlife crisis time and you can’t have more of a midlife crisis than going off on a motorbike,” said Myers.

The show’s premise was that two burly, hirsute motorcyclists would visit foreign locales, often getting off their bikes to cook by the roadside. In the first episode of The Hairy Bikers’ Cookbook (2006), the pair motored through Namibia, stopping off to cook crocodile satay and oryx rolls.

This culinary travelogue ran across three series, taking them to Portugal, Vietnam, Turkey and Mexico, and became such a hit with the viewers that a memo circulated the BBC praising the two men for winning over “a difficult-to-reach audience”. “Basically a ‘difficult-to-reach audience’ translates as ‘normal people’,” said King.

The two self-taught cooks had a disarmingly unpretentious love of food and easy on-screen banter redolent of Keith Floyd, if less bibulous, or Clarissa Dickson Wright and Jennifer Paterson, if less posh. In a sense, Myers and King were the male northern riposte to the Two Fat Ladies. What’s more, their two fat lads were refreshing fare in the age of telegenic cooks such as Nigella Lawson or angry chefs like Gordon Ramsay.

Spin-off shows followed, including The Hairy Bikers’ Food Tour of Britain (2009), The Hairy Bikers: Mums Know Best (2010), The Hairy Bikers’ Mississippi Adventure (2012) and The Hairy Bikers’ Asian Adventure (2014), along with allied cookbooks and a 2015 memoir, The Hairy Bikers Blood, Sweat and Tyres.

What was the secret of their success? “We are mates, it’s not something that’s been manufactured,” said Myers. “We’re not snobby about food. We’re very happy with egg and chips, as long as it’s very good-quality eggs and good-quality potatoes. About 95% of good cooking is good shopping.”

They met by chance in a Newcastle pub in the 1990s when Myers was working there as makeup artist and prosthetics technician on an adaptation of Catherine Cookson’s The Gambling Man starring Robson Green. King, an assistant director on the project, was at the bar ordering a curry. The barman told King that if he ordered two curries he would qualify for a special offer: four poppadoms instead of one. “I just stepped up and said, ‘I’ll have the other curry’,” Myers said.

The pair cemented their friendship with road trips up the west coast of Scotland, travelling with a pan, a single-burner stove, some butter, a lemon and some brown bread. “We’d go up round Loch Assynt, up by Lochinver, and catch wild brown trout.” The idea for the television series was born from these trips.

But, while the Hairy Bikers became celebrated and their cookbooks successful, some worried that their recipes were unhealthy. Their banana French toast recipe, consisting of brioche, bananas, peanut butter and cream, was ominously dedicated to Elvis Presley. One critic suggested that their full-English shakshuka, featuring sausages, lardons and black pudding, “looks as if it should come with a diagram on how to administer CPR”.

Indeed, as their fame expanded, so did their waistbands. By 2012, Myers recalled, he was taking tablets for high blood pressure and to lower his cholesterol, and both he and King were diagnosed as being morbidly obese during a medical. He weighed 17st 12lb, with a 49in waist, while King weighed in at 19st 6lb, with a 50in waistline. “I was prediabetic; human foie gras, basically,” Myers said.

The diagnoses pushed them to make the series The Hairy Dieters: How to Love Food and Lose Weight. Both men lost 3st 7lb during filming and published their most successful series of books afterwards under the general title Hairy Dieters. “Doing it publicly was the thing that encouraged us to make it work. People admired the honesty. We sold about 1.3m copies of our first book. We learned an awful lot from it.”

The following year, 2013, Myers appeared on Strictly Come Dancing, performing a “Tartan tango” to the tune of The Proclaimers’ I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) with his dance partner, Karen Hauer, and becoming, in the words of the show’s judge Len Goodman, “the people’s champion”, winning the weekly popular vote despite sometimes low marks from judges and armchair critics deriding his “ungainly boogying”. He didn’t win, but the Hairy Biker received the longest standing ovation for, fittingly enough, a Meat Loaf-themed paso doble.

Myers, the only child of Jim and Margaret, was born in Barrow-in-Furness ( then in Lancashire but now in Cumbria) and attended the town’s grammar school for boys, where an inspirational teacher, Mr Eaton, encouraged him to develop his artistic skills. He took a fine art degree at Goldsmiths, University of London and a master’s degree in art history.

His first job was as a trainee makeup artist at the BBC. He worked there for 23 years, including a stint on Top of the Pops, before the Hairy Bikers got together. While filming the show in Romania, Myers met Liliana Orzac. “In our hotel there was a striking woman on reception. Nudging Si, I whispered: ‘I fancy her!’” They married in 2011.

In 2022, Myers announced on the podcast Hairy Bikers – Agony Uncles that he had been diagnosed with cancer. He and King made a moving return to the screen in The Hairy Bikers: Coming Home for Christmas in December 2023, in which they discussed his illness and treatment; and had filmed a new series, The Hairy Bikers Go West, which is currently screening on BBC Two, and which King described as “a celebration of a joyous and creative friendship”.

Myers is survived by Liliana and her children, Iza and Sergiu.

🔔 David James Myers, chef and television presenter, born 8 September 1957; died 28 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[clarklola]

Pork - Cookson Stew stew made with six beans, BBQ sauce, and pork sausage.

[norman891]

...

@sleightlyoffhand

Edward eyed the quern stone Haigh had brought back with a less than enthusiastic expression. True, it was better than grinding dried corn into meal using Victor’s mortar and pestle, but it still looked like back-breaking work. But if a bunch of native women could do it by thunder he would too, and the task would not fall to him alone. Hook had selected five other men to take turns grinding the wheat Haigh brought back into flour. It wasn’t a job requiring great thought or intelligence. A simple lesson from Haigh on how he’d observed the women of the tribe using the quern stones and even the slowest witted member of the crew could do it.

Edward took his turn first, starting immediately after breakfast the next morning. He was impressed at just how much wheat Joe Haigh had been able to liberate from the natives, maybe enough to fill the flour barrel… maybe.  He found that trying to work as Haigh had described the women doing a bit much on his knees and back after half an hour, not to mention scraping his knuckles more than few times. Samuel Toomey set up a low table for him to work at and a barrel to sit on which made the job much easier.

As each handful of wheat berries were deposited on the stone, they were ground until they produced a fine powder, which Edward emptied into a large ceramic bowl until it was full. After Victor took what was needed for the next meal, the rest was poured into the flour barrel. After almost two hours, Cookson relieved Edward who headed for the galley to help with the midday meal. Victor was making a pork stew with dumplings, so Edward prepared a batch of his popular biscuits to go along with the meal.

The quern stone had not been kind to Edward’s knuckles, and he found kneading the dough rather painful. Victor noticed the scraped, raw knuckles and shooed Edward from his duties.

“You go, rest your hands,” the big Russian had insisted.  “Go see the captain and doctor about those. They need cleaning and bandaging.”

“I can nae shirk my duties,” Edward protested.

“No,” Victor was quite firm. “If you don’t show captain, I tell him myself.”

Edward washed the flour from his hands. “Nae need for that.  I’m on my way now,” he sighed, disgusted. He had good strong hands, there was no need in his mind for such a fuss over some scraped knuckles. Hook, however, agreed with Victor.

“Why didn’t you stop when you realized your hands were being injured?” Hook asked. He called for Smee to fetch the ship’s doctor.

“My stretch was nae done.  It’s nae terribly hard work,” Edward explained, “but it takes a few minutes tae get the hang of it. That’s all.” He examined the backs of his knuckles, wincing as he flexed his fingers.

“It looks as though the stone got the better of you,” Hook mused as he examined the ragged, frayed skin around Edward’s knuckles. He felt the man flinch.  “My apologies. I’m sure they’re very tender.”

William Evans, ship’s doctor, knocked on Hook’s cabin door and began tending to Edward’s battered hands. He cleaned the wounds thoroughly, then disinfected them with a bit of brandy from Hook’s liquor cabinet. The burning sensation, though expected, brought howls of pain and a string of obscenities from Edward. Finally, the doctor applied some salve to the raw skin and bandaged Edward’s hands.

“Don’t be getting those bandages wet,” he instructed in his Welsh accent. “I’ll change them again tomorrow.”

“And how am I supposed tae carry out my duties if I can nae get my hands wet?” Edward queried.

“Someone else can wash up for Mr. Koslov,” Hook interjected. “I’m sure he can find something for you to do in place of dish washing. Thank you, doctor.”

Edward sighed, not at all pleased with the situation. But orders were orders, and the captain had seconded the doctor’s orders so there was no use in arguing. He hated to look like he was getting special treatment because he was now officially Hook’s consort; it was no secret, but even the appearance of favorable treatment didn’t sit well with Edward.

“There now,” Hook reassured. “You must take care of those hands. You don’t want them to get infected.  Then who would be able to ease the pain in my shoulders?”

“Aye,” Edward agreed. “I was nae thinking. It’s damnable frustrating, it is, sir.”

“How well I know,” Hook said ruefully. “Besides, you need to get those hands healed up if we are to go on another hunting expedition.”

“Och! That’s right. I’ve been keeping an eye on when the moon rises. It should be rising with the dawn in about two weeks.”

“You’re a strong fellow. You should be ready by then.” Hook commented. “Why don’t you go rest until Mr. Koslov needs you to help with dinner.”

“I’ll no turn down a chance at a nap,” Edward started to stretch out on the chaise, but Hook stopped him.

“I’m supposed to be speaking with Mr. Haigh shortly. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to nap in the bed chamber?”

“Not at all, sir.” Edward said, heading for the bedroom door.  “Can you get a man tae let me know when Victor is ready tae begin prepping dinner?”

“I’ll have Mr. Haigh take him a message once we’re done with his report. Rest well.”

Edward closed the door behind him and flopped on the bed. His hands ached now, and he prayed they would heal in time.  Haigh was good at intelligence gathering and procuring needed items, but Edward doubted he could hunt or shoot a bow as skillfully as himself. Not everything could be brought down with a thrown knife. He was glad the man had not run into any trouble while he was on the island, or so he assumed, for he’d heard no pistol shot.

Edward started seriously planning for the next hunt. He was considering suggesting they a little further to the east than they had on the first expedition. He did not want to overhunt any one area, or at least rotate between sections of the North side of the island. He could almost smell the mustiness of the leaves on the forest floor and feel the cool breeze on his face.  

There would still be a fair bit of meat left in two weeks, but no need in waiting until they were entirely out or running low. That would be when Pan would probably decide to go off in search of more boys and send Neverland into another deep freeze. Snow made tracking easier, but the bitter cold was not something Edward wanted to contend with, especially when smoking the meat on the beach.

He was almost asleep when he heard a light knocking at Hook’s cabin door. “Haigh,” he thought to himself as he drifted off.

Hook sat at his desk, perusing some of Joe’s charts when the man arrived. “Ah, the ever-resourceful Mr. Haigh.” Hook said syrupily. “Do have a seat and enlighten me on your recent adventures.”

[aurorasmitty]

‘cause there’s a beauty in being broken, i’ve been seeing it || aurora & hook [closed] {part 2}

Aurora paced in her room, feeling an angry injustice at how her life had turned out. James was always going to be a weakness to her; he could tell her the most vile things, and then turn around and ask her to go to bed with him, and she’d do it! She had no willpower around him. It was as if he had some sort of hold on her.

When she had first joined the crew, Rory had been so happy. What she had told Sam was true; she never said no to any of the men for fear of what they might do. But at the start of it all, she stayed in Hook’s cabin. He had been charming and sweet, and offered her something that no one else had been willing to: revenge. 

The months that followed had been utter bliss. Rejuvenated by the idea that killing those that haunted her dreams and quiet moments, and melted by the captain’s sentiments and kindness to her, Rory had thought she’d found her happily ever after. 

James had bought her pretty dresses, nice perfumes, adorned her with precious jewelry. He had punched a pirate for making a crude gesture at her behind her back. Hook always made sure that she had her heart’s desires, although she never asked for much. All she had truly wanted, was to be with him. 

Three months had passed; they talked to each other about everything, and Rory had never felt so connected to someone before in her life. Sure, his blood thirst for Pan was a little odd, but after he’d explained what the demonic boy had put him through, she understood. She too, was after blood, after all. He knew more about her than anyone, and she felt so safe with him. She could not have known how three words would have changed everything. 

Fifty five years ago...

Midnight peeked through the captain’s window and blushed, before heading on her way to make her rounds over the world. Aurora stifled her moans as she let her head fall back. Hook had his hand on her waist, keeping her in place on his lap, and the sheets fell around them in a wrinkled mountain range. He was looking up at her in an intense concentration, trying to hold off until she was where she needed to be. 

After they both came crashing down together, Rory lay atop his chest, the two of them in a sweaty, heaving pile. Every time together was similar; rough and passionate, lots of yelling. She was sure the crew was tired of it, but she didn’t care, and neither did he. They wanted what they wanted, when they wanted it. 

Rory disentangled herself from his legs, and rolled to the side, resting her chin on his warm shoulder. 

“That was...” he started, wrapping an arm around her. 

“Incredible,” she finished for him with a satisfied sigh. James leaned forward and kissed her damp temple. 

They lay like that for a while, the boat tipping them forward and back in time with the gentle waves. Aurora felt a warmness wash over herself, skin tingling where his hand sat, and she closed her eyes, a smile forming on her lips. 

“I love you,” she murmured, resting her head on his arm. 

Fifty four years and 364 days ago...

“Do you like it?” James asked from the doorway of a freshly cleared out room. He had his arm around Rory’s shoulders, hugging her into his side. 

“Yeah...” she said slowly, and looked up at him. “What is it for?” She asked, confusion washing over her face. 

“For you,” he smiled down at her.

“What do I need a cabin for?” She asked, a nervous chuckle following. “I stay with you,” she explained, glancing between the two bunks, and then back up at him.

“I thought you’d like your own space! You’re right down the hall from me now,” he told her, in a far too cheerful tone.

“Well...I didn’t mind sharing with you,” she said, shrugging his arm off of her. 

“I have a lot of work to do, and you shouldn’t have to be holed up in there with me all day, sitting quietly so as not to disturb me. Now you can have your own place you can go and do whatever you like,” James explained. This wasn’t just a room to do whatever she wanted; this was literally just a room with bunks in it; it felt like she’d done something wrong and now she was going to have to go sleep in the doghouse. A sad feeling washed over her.

“James, if this is about what I said last night, it isn’t necessary. I didn’t mean anything when I said that I lov--” she started to lie, and James raised his hand. 

“No, I know. I just thought you’d like your own space.”

“I do, I just--”

“Well, it’s settled then. Your dresses are in your closet already. I’ll see you around, yeah?” He cut her off again, before kissing her sidebrain and heading down to his room. 

Fifty four years and 350 days ago...

“Yeah, no, we’re not together. Never were, Starkey. Go ahead and try your luck. Haven’t had her in my bed for two weeks,” James’ voice carried through the galley door. 

Rory stood just outside, back to the wall. She was furious. Every time she had gone to him the last two weeks, there had been some sort of excuse as to why he couldn’t see her. Now it was clear. He was finished with her; they had never said it was anything official to begin with, but still, after three months of near daily shagging exclusively, one would think that it meant something. 

Rory was about to turn and leave, even though she was starving, but then the pair spoke again, and curiosity got the better of her. 

“You won’t be pissed off with me?” Starkey asked, and Hook laughed. 

“No, mate, seriously. Look on her as the ship’s whore for all I care,” he stated callously. “She’s a good lay, too,” he added with a laugh. Aurora closed her eyes as the hollow pit in her stomach swelled with rage, and she took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the fire in her stomach sprang to her eyes, and she decided to take action. 

Rory dropped her trousers, and pulled the oversized shirt she was wearing tucked in down over her bum. She brought her belt around her waist, making a sort of shirt dress out of it. She tossed the trousers into a broom cupboard, fluffed her hair, and flounced into the galley.

Ignoring the captain and Starkey at the table, she moved to the easiest target, Cookson. He always got nervous around her, and with her new attire, his eyes struggled to look anywhere but her tanned, exposed thighs. 

“Hiya Henry,” she said in a cheerful voice, coming around to his side at the counter. “Whatcha making, handsome?” She asked, leaning back against the table, letting the hem of her shirt rise a little higher. The cook visibly blushed, and glanced at Hook for help. He must have heard James’ crude comments, and Rory wasn’t about to back down now. 

“Uh,” Hank started, eyes darting back to the potatoes he had been chopping. “Stew,” he replied, and Aurora gave him an over the top smile. 

“Ooh, very nice, I can’t wait for supper. You are the best cook on the seven seas, you are,” she smirked, running her hand along the back of his shoulders and she stood up straight, walking round the counter. “What are you boys talking about?” Rory asked, turning her attention to Hook and Starkey. She wandered over to them with a smile that didn’t let on how much she wanted to smack James. 

“Oh, just maintenance on the ship,” Starkey lied easily.

“Huh,” Aurora replied, and then leaned her hands onto the table, presenting a nice view for Cookson should he happen to look over. 

The sound of a knife dropping and him scrambling to retrieve it meant that it had had the desired effect. “So, James,” she started, turning to face him just in time to see him retreating from an arched neck to try and see her behind. “You busy tonight?” Rory asked, swaying her hips from side to side where she stood. Disappointingly, as Rory expected, James nodded. 

“Yes actually, I have some things to go over with Smee,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“Oh, what a shame,” she half pouted, and then tapped her hands on the table a few times before straightening up. “I guess a girl’s got to find her own entertainment tonight,” she murmured, strutting towards the galley door. 

Just as she arrived, Aurora stopped and turned around. 

“You busy tonight, Johnny?” She asked Starkey. If she wasn’t so pissed off with Hook, she’d have been amused with Starkey’s subtle glance at the captain. Hook was staring at her, jaw clenched now, before he gave Jack a minuscule nod. 

“Nah, I’m free,” the pirate replied as soon as he got the go ahead. 

Aurora put on an award winning smile, despite how much she wanted to scream. She walked out the door, hips swaying as she used to do walking down the boulevard with Devyn back home to get boys to honk their horns at them. She quickly turned around, holding onto the door frame as she leaned into it, biting down on her bottom lip gingerly.

“How about now?” She amended, raising her brows suggestively. 

Starkey slipped quickly out of the booth to follow her, and she caught the cold gaze of Hook watching her before she took Jack’s hand, and led him towards her new room. If it was a ship’s whore James was making her out to be, a ship’s whore she would be. 

[alchemistc]

The Price 2/?

Summary: Killian Jones has no desire to return to Misthaven, but his captain and his crew are tied to the kingdom in a way he has never understood, and they consider it a duty to be there for the Choosing. Once every fifteen years, the witch in her high tower chooses a man or woman among them and whisks them away, in payment for all she has done to save this kingdom, and to most it is considered a blessing to be chosen. All Killian wants is for the Choosing to be finished and The Jewel to return to sea, and to forget once again all that Misthaven has taken from him. 

tagging @kmomof4

Chapter One

Chapter Two

When Killian had been a young boy, he’d found himself often at odds with the world around him. Or at least, that was how Liam told it.

He was too young to remember it all, or even most of it, really, but to Killian Jones, the world had been the tavern, and the town surrounding them, the sea before them, but it had been more. His mother had called him fantastical, whimsical, when he brought home strange flowers she’d never seen before, and told her stories of faeries and goblins and beasts with kind eyes.

The rest of the village hadn’t been quite as kind.

He’d been so young he could barely remember their faces, but the taunts, the jeers, the whispers of the mad Jones boy they never bothered to keep silent when he wandered by, those memories remained.

He remembered only one instance of true danger, in all that time. The beasties and ghouls he’d weaved stories of were long gone to his memory, but this one moment in time stayed etched in his mind.

It had been a terribly warm day, but his mother had been insistent on cooking a hearty meal, and so the fire in the stove drove the heat in their cottage to a near unbearable level, and as Killian shifted, he’d felt the drip of sweat down the back of his neck.

Mother and father were speaking in quiet voices, too quiet for Killian to pick up on the words, only the tone of the conversation - an unhappy one, and Killian hoped for his brothers speedy return from his errands in town if only to help keep the peace. He much preferred when father was gone.

The book was far more advanced than Killian was truly prepared for - words he’d never seen popping out here and there, phrases that held no meaning to him, a full story of things he couldn’t begin to understand, but still he struggled through the letters one by one, wishing father weren’t there so that he could ask mother what the words meant, flinching every once in a while when the voices across the room from him became momentarily loud and clipped before returning to a whisper.

They’d spent the afternoon thus, tense and uncomfortable, the heat barely tolerable, the tension stifling, the book straining Killian’s eyes as he struggled to let it take him far away from the entire situation.

He’d just skittered to a halt over the word ‘rapscallion’ when his fathers voice rose above the din, and he’d looked up blearily only to feel the room spinning around him, and father stalking towards the sill where the flowers he’d presented so eagerly only that morning sat.

“What in gods name are these doing here?”

“Brennan, please, they’re just a few flowers.”

He’d turned to look at her with an expression so incredulous Killian had felt like cowering, but something dark and eerie had settled behind his fathers gaze, something that made Killian creep forward, away from the book, to stand between his mother and the demon lurking in the shadows behind eyes so much like his own.

“Did he bring you these?”

There was accusation in his voice, and at the time it had been nothing but fuel to fire Killian’s dislike of the man who visited them only just often enough to call this place home, but looking back, he was certain his father hadn’t meant Killian himself.

“I brought them!”

He barely came to his fathers hip, then, and it had felt like the bravest three words he’d ever spoken. Brennan had leveled him with a dark look.

“Did she tell you to say that, boy?”

There was a dark anger in his voice, but Killian had been too angry to care, indignation at being called a liar making him stand taller, his whole head tilted up to stare right back.

“I found them. I found them in the forest, and I brought them home for mother.”

But Brennan Jones had turned his focus away from him already, spinning to his wife. “Haven’t you the sense to tell the boy what he’s wandered across and burn it in the fire? Or did I truly marry a damn fool?”

His mother, usually so timid in her interactions with Brennan, tilted her chin and stuck him with a look that would have cowered Killian. “It’s a silly superstition. They’re harmless.”

But Killian wasn’t so sure. The room was still hot, but he felt light headed and queasy, now, the room spinning where he stood, and no amount of muggy air could explain the strange shadows leaping under his fathers skin.

“Harmless? It’s killed plenty an idiot before, darling, don’t think you’re somehow above it.”

Killian had felt an anger wash over him like nothing before, or for a long time after, and mother and father had begun to shout at each other, loud, angry voices jumping back and forth over Killian’s head. The room began to spin more wildly, and Killian had felt like screaming.

He would have, too, a righteous tantrum coming on, but mother had clutched the edge of a chair, the color draining from her face, just as the door swung open and Liam entered.

Sunlight and cool air drifted in on a breeze, and Killian had blinked, breathing it in.

He’d dashed across the room before his brother could say a word, snatched the flowers from their cup of water, and torn towards the door, hefting them with all the might of his six years, beyond the hedges and into the twilight.

It was only years later that Killian had discovered the plant again, though this one took on a different form, a different name. The flowers had been nightshade, a plant that had supposedly been eradicated from Misthaven in the Purge, hundreds of years before. In other realms, in slightly different arrangements, it had been called dreamshade.

When he’d learned of its uses - in brothels that used the plant to spice their drinks, in taverns half a world away where sailors whispered of the poisonous effects of the plant on a blade - he’d understood with perfect clarity exactly what he’d done. What he’d brought upon them.

Darkness.

Death.

------

He finds Liam bent low over a table, staring wistfully at the stew before him, as though trying to decide if it was worth it to raise his head to eat.

Killian claps him soundly on the back, grinning at his brother when all he receives in response is a low groan. It is a rare occasion to see his brother pulled so low by drink, and he enjoys it for a moment longer before waving over one of the bar maids. She smiles curiously at him, something familiar about her, but nothing Killian can easily remember, and so when she walks away to gather up a meal for him he tosses the feeling aside.

“How are you faring this fine morning, Captain?”

“Fuck you,” comes the mumbled response.

Killian clutches a hand to his heart, delighted. “Such language, and from a gentleman!”

His brother merely groans.

This, Killian decides, is a rare treat, and he means to fully enjoy it. With some prodding, he eventually manages to force a few spoonfuls of broth on his brother, and eats his own bowl in relative quiet, punctuating it every now and then with a far-too-cheery exclamation that makes Liam wince. It’s a fine stew, one of the few things Killian truly enjoys about his time ashore - Eucrates Cookson was the worst cook ever to enter a galley, and he is always grateful to eat a meal that doesn’t taste of black smoke and char.

“Where did you wander off to last night, little brother?”

Killian supposes he deserves the dig for the torture he’d been enjoying through their meal.

“Away.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“Did you? You were enjoying swindling your former crewmates out of pointless trinkets all night. I hardly thought you’d notice.”

Liam sighs, lowering his head to a hand held up from the table by his elbow. He rubs slowly at his temples. “By the time we’d finished the song, you were long gone.”

Needing no reminders of it, he attempts to steer the conversation back to the curious case of his honorable brother conning old friends, but to no avail.

“You should be more careful to hide your disdain, brother. The Swan is important, to these people. Our people.”

“Your people, mayhap.”

His brother levels him with a look. It is an old argument, and one neither desires a rehash of.

“I went for a walk. Wandered the beach. Drank up the rum and fell asleep.” He pauses, wondering if he ought to tell Liam about the strange dream. In the end, he decides against it - far better to put the memory of it aside for good.

“There’s been no word.”

Liam has lived through more than one Choosing, and knows the standard for the event, but Killian only knows that at some point within the day, the Swan will come to her decision, and some man or woman of Misthaven will be taken away to the castle far up in the hills where she resides. He’s never bothered to spend much time learning about the particulars.

“We should bring the barrels ashore when we’re done here. We’re much more likely to get a good price on them today, while everyone thinks their life is about to change.”

His brother gives him a beleaguered glance, but Killian feels no guilt for suggesting they take advantage of the buyers in the bay. There is a small, petty part of him that wants to punish these people for putting their faith in the Swan.

“I’ve already spoken to Murtagh. We’ve agreed upon a payment. His men will offload them tomorrow, and after that he’ll have our next destination for us.”

Killian bites down on the disappointment - Murtagh is known to choose routes and destinations that provide the greatest profit - at the greatest risk to whomever he sends to retrieve his wares. The crew always finds a way to make themselves believe it is an sign of their own skill - Killian often spends his time thinking up inventive ways to tell the man to fuck off and just hire some pirates to do the job.

“And what, exactly, am I meant to do with my day then?”

“Join in the merriment, Killian. Enjoy yourself, for a change. Perhaps you could, if I may be so bold, have a little fun.”

Of the two of them, Liam was the one that commanded respect, the man to whom they looked to for hard decisions, but he was also the one more likely to tell a horrible joke, to break out in laughter, to grin behind the wheel of the ship as they caught a strong wind. Killian was far more prone to bouts of melancholy, and he preferred a scowl to a shrug, a smirk to a smile. Fun was hardly his main concern. His main concern was keeping his brother alive and well, and the crew after that.

“I’m going back to the ship,” he tells Liam, and Liam merely sighs.

“I thought you might.” His brother studies him carefully for a moment. “If you’re going to be there, you might as well do an inventory. We can resupply in the morning while we wait for Murtagh’s orders.”

He nods, standing, readying himself to leave, but something makes him pause, and as he passes by Liam he claps him on the shoulder, catching his brothers gaze, hoping somewhere in there he’s able to understand the apology in Killian’s eyes.

Liam clasps his arm near the elbow, nodding swiftly.

Later, he’ll wish he’d said more. Spent more time teasing his brother, laughing over his discomfort. He’ll wish he’d decided not to board the ship, that instead of wandering off the night before he’d stayed and joined in with the other men ashore. Later, he’ll wonder if isolating himself might have been the wrong decision, if spending more time with his crew and his brother might have prevented an undesired outcome.

But that would be later. Now, he takes fast, eager strides down the length of the dock, and boards the ship, happily adjusting to the nearly indiscernible sway of the deck, and gathers up a log from the desk in the captain’s cabin.

He starts from the hold and works his way up to the deck, taking note of how low they’ve run on fresh water during their last trip, jotting down a reminder to talk to Liam about it before they embark. The creaking of the ship, the groan of the boards beneath his feet, the steady sound of the calm water surrounding him, all those things are a welcome respite, and he slips peacefully into a quiet rhythm, losing an hour or so before he makes it back into the sunlight above deck.

He’s humming, quietly to himself, a sea shanty they’ve all sung a time or two, to frighten off a long storm, to pray for a strong wind, remembering the first time he’d sailed as Liam’s first mate - how happy he’d been, how proud to see them both alive and well, how he’d known, at that very moment, that the both of them were meant for great things.

It hadn’t turned out quite that way, in the end, but they lived their lives as free men, beholden to nothing and no one but the man paying for their services, and that was good enough for Killian.

The breeze was light, airy and fragrant, and Killian lifts his head to catch the scent, only to nearly reel back a moment later - it is a smell he is familiar with, flowery and bright, and one that has no place so far out from the mainland.

He whips around at the sound of footsteps behind him, and blinks, trying to make sense of what he is seeing. There is a figure, there, suspended halfway between here and somewhere else, and as the image shimmers in and out of focus, it seems to him as though it were made up entirely of petals, full flowers blooming in the sunlight and fading back to buds, then pulsing back to life once more, the rhythm steady as his own heartbeat, until finally the source of it emerges like a shadow peeling itself up off the side of the mast.

Killian stands his ground, unwilling to show fear despite his distaste of magic, and the woman who’d shimmered into existence tilts her head to take him in, annoyance in her own expression.

The gesture is horribly familiar, and Killian tries to ignore the memory of the siren the night before as she takes a few steps towards him, the heels of her strange boots echoing unpleasantly along the deck.

He’s never seen the Swan before, but he knows without having to ask that this is she. She seems almost to float, and though she’d appeared out of shadow and dust she seems more solid to him than anything he’s seen before, more real than any bit of his life has ever been.

He hates it, and her, more than ever.

Killian stares, taking in the neat line of her jaw and the shimmering texture of her skin, pale but nearly glittering in the bright light of the sun; her hair nearly white, pulled back and away from her face, bringing her profile into sharp relief - the high cut of her cheeks, the sharp edge of her nose, the curl of her lip, and he has but a moment of confusion before he realizes what, exactly, is happening.

The bells from the church begin to toll - the one nearest the shore, first, and then farther up the hill, another - the fort far atop the cliffs begin their own refrain, and Killian knows that all across the land more will follow suit.

The Swan has chosen.

A beat, and then she sighs, staring at him with that same disapproving frown she’s worn since she appeared, as though she hasn’t just charged into his life and ripped his existence apart at the seams. “You may be the first idiot in a hundred years to draw your weapon against me; you’ve had the audacity to do it twice in less than a full day.” There is nothing admiring about the way she says it, but nothing threatening either, as though she finds the idea little more than a gnat to swat at.

It takes Killian a moment to realize what she means, but the understanding brings him no comfort.

“The creature in the water. That was you.”

She hums, low in her throat, but it is not a pleasant sound. “Not a dream, unfortunately.”

He wants to scream, to rail at the heavens, to shimmer out of existence just as she’d entered it. Instead he straightens, tucking the sword in his hand back into his belt. Raising his head and pulling his shoulders back, he tries at an unconcerned air. “What happens now?”

She tosses an impatient look his way, as though she expects him to know the proper protocol for being spirited away by a powerful witch, away from his family and the only home he’s ever known. Finally, she flicks her hand carelessly through the air.

“I will allow you time to say your goodbyes, and gather anything you cannot bear to be parted with.”

He will not give her the satisfaction of letting her know that the only thing he cannot bear to part with is the only thing she will be taking from him.

He has never considered this possibility. In all of his moaning and groaning, all of his attempts to fight their return to Misthaven, never in any of his arguments had he considered that he might be the one the Swan chose. And now, faced with it, he has gone a bit numb.

“And then?”

There is something in her gaze that makes him think he should feel like a ridiculous fool for asking the question, but he stares her down, unwilling to play the terror-struck man, or the idiot. “And then we leave.”

It is only now, as he considers how he will say his goodbyes to his brother, to this ship, to the sea - it is only now that he truly gives a thought for what the Swan must do with those she chooses. He’s only ever had a vague notion that they dusted her tables and perhaps served her meals, and he wonders now, why she is being vague in return. There is no one else to overhear them, and he will be in her service for the next fifteen years. Surely it would be easier on her just to tell him right away.

Perhaps it’s so terrible she thinks he’ll make a run for it, or try to strike her down. Both are unlikely - she’s one of the most powerful sorceresses this world has ever seen, and if he attempted either she would surely put a stop to it.

“If you’re quite done thinking of ways to run me through, we are on a schedule.”

Killian forces himself not to react, staring at her carefully, trying to discern if she is just a good judge of facial expressions, or if she’d used some sort of magic to invade his mind.

“Both,” she tells him, straight faced and impatient. “Now, this brother of yours, let us find him so that you can -.”

“No.”

She stops dead in her tracks, having stalked half the distance between the two of them, and eyes him with sudden interest. “No?”

“It’s better if I don’t say goodbye.”

He cannot stand the idea of it - of making this real. Perhaps, if he writes a letter - she snorts at that, and Killian turns a hard glare on her that seems to amuse her - perhaps if he leaves Liam a note, it will be enough.

Fifteen years, after all, is hardly a lifetime.

He ignores the woman entirely as he walks past her, and makes his way up the stairs to the hatch of the captain’s quarters.

The room is quiet, and Killian tries to close off his mind, unwilling to share these final moments with the woman just outside it. Without knowing whether or not he is successful, he takes his time wandering the space - eyeing the books on the shelf near the windows, neat and orderly, running his fingers across the finely carved chest tucked into one of the walls behind the ladder, drinking in the sight of his brothers small, tight script, so unlike Killian’s own, on one of the logs laid out on his desk. Killian replaces the inventory list beside it.

Outside the window, ships are anchored in the harbor, the sun beating down on them, the ocean swaying below them, and Killian wonders when he will see anything like this again.

It is a sobering thought, and he turns back to the desk, pulling out a sheaf of clean parchment from one of the drawers, reaching for an inkwell and quill.

When he is done, he stares at the words laid out in a flourish on the page, so at odds with how confined he feels in this moment, his last breath of freedom.

He lays a sand dollar across it, swallowing against the memory of it - a gift he’d given to Liam the first time they’d been allowed ashore by Captain Silver. It makes a sick sort of sense, leaving that behind as his goodbye, really.

When he returns to the deck she’s still there, leaning against the side of the ship, eyes taking in the bay curiously. She doesn’t turn to look at him right away, and for some reason, this irritates him. He makes a disapproving noise, low in his throat, tempted to reach for his sword again just to see what she’ll do.

“I assumed you’d want a moment,” she tells him, gesturing vaguely at the ship, still not looking at him.

“I’ve said my goodbyes,” is all that he will give her, and she sighs, then, turning to him finally, the reflection of sunlight off the water bathing her in light that should warm her features. It didn’t.

“This will feel strange.” He means to ask her what, exactly, she is speaking of, but in one breath he is staring past her shoulder out to sea while she grasps at his arm, and the next he is gasping for breath, his stomach churning, the wood beneath him turned to stone as he tumbles knee-first into it, and a swirling cloud of unnatural smoke drifting away from them both.

He clutches at the wall beside him while she gives him an impatient look, dragging himself to a crouching position and still attempting to catch his breath.

“You can find your rooms one flight up the stairs, and the kitchens down two. I will expect you in the library this evening. Do try to make yourself presentable, by then.” And with that she turns away from him, her steps echoing through the chamber she’d magicked them off to.

“Wait-.” It comes out more a wheeze than anything else, and Killian forces himself to stand, pulling air into his lungs. “That’s it?”

She huffs, swivelling on her heel to hold his gaze. “Usually my guests like to take their time parting ways with their life. We have departed...unexpectedly early.”

Taking another deep breath, he sends her a glare that would have scared a normal person half to death, but only makes her set her mouth in a fine line. “Oh, have I made a mess of your schedule? How inconvenient of me.”

She grimaces, and Killian takes a very small amount of pleasure in the way her steps echo more loudly as she spins around and walks away from him, this time.

It takes him another few minutes to catch his breath, the pressure against his chest slowly easing, and he vows never to allow her the pleasure of transporting him around like that again. After a time, leaning against the wall becomes unnecessary, and he pushes away from it, searching for the stairwell the Swan must have taken, eyes adjusting to the chamber lit by lanterns glowing without flame.

There is an archway, to his left, which seems the best option, and he is halfway there when the sunlight hits his face.

He turns toward it, instead, wanting to catch a glimpse of all that still lives and breathes below him.

He’d have been better off staying in the musty shadows of the place. The tower he is in rests high above the rest of the castle, and as he looks out over meadows and forests, he feels a chill rising within him.

Below him lie valleys and hills, the forest encroaching on one side and a lake lying undisturbed on the other, green for miles and miles in every direction he can see from this viewpoint. He cannot catch even a glimpse of the sea, so far off in the distance it must be.

Still feeling ill, and far more tired than the day should have made him, he turns away from the window without another glance, and heads toward the shadowy alcove he hopes leads to the stairs.

Liam,

I am sure you will find comfort in knowing where I have gone, though I shall not. I have lived too long under your shadow, it seems, and must now make my way as the object of Misthaven gossip for a time. There is a certain irony in it, I suppose, and over time I may even grow to find it amusing.

Do not be worried, I have no delusions of shaming you by refusing this ‘gift’ I have been given.

Turk will make a fine First Mate, though he may be more lenient with the men than I have been in the past. Perhaps that is for the best.

Take care, Liam, for I shall expect to see you unchanged when I am free. I have taken the liberty of borrowing mothers ring - though I know how dearly you treasure it, I could not think of any other thing I would like more to have with me.

I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, brother.

Killian

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