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capnjay21 · 4 years ago

Text

Brink 6/?

But this woman was neither mermaid nor Brave, radiant but fierce — and the cool touch of steel to his skin reminded him of the sword she had pointed at his throat.

“My name is Emma Swan,” she said, in answer to the question he had yet to give voice to, “and I’m here for my son.”

Season 2 Canon Divergence; Hook never escaped Neverland, and once the curse breaks Pan comes to collect the loneliest lost boy of them all - the one in possession of the Heart of the Truest Believer.

one | two | three | four | five | ao3

A/N: and here is chapter six! this one goes out to @carpedzem because she is amazing and sweet and lovely and has been INCREDIBLY patient in me getting this out :D a fair warning to all - Hook gets a little dark in this chapter, but bear with him. as we all know, he’s turning it around! Rating: T

my teeny tiny lovely taglist: @carpedzem @superchocovian @optomisticgirl @phiralovesloki

If anyone else wants to be tagged with updates for this fic (which could be helpful, given how sporadically I drop them I’M SO SORRY) then just let me know!

***

It was a simple enough plan; the difficulty had been in laying it in near total silence, so as not to alert the boys sitting at camp of any unusual rustling nearby. One of the nets Starkey often used for hunting was easily, conveniently, wide enough to cover the form of a boy – and given the look he and Hook had shared one he’d given the thought a voice, Emma chose not to think too closely about what its previous uses might have included. The idea was to tie it aloft in the dark canopy, then lure one of the boys away from the camp and trap him underneath it. All, ideally, without him alerting the others to his predicament.

Her heart hammered against her ribcage at a steady pace, a symptom of the near constant state of anxiety she had been in since Henry had walked out of her arms and disappeared back into the trees, but adrenaline coursed through her with a nervous energy. The bravado of her intent aside, it didn’t change the fact that she was gearing up to kidnap a child.

Even after everything Hook had told her about the Lost Boys, and after meeting Pan himself, it was difficult to see them as anything except that – boys. If monsters were all they were, surely Henry would not have believed he could make a home with them. She trusted his judgement above all else. It didn’t sit well in her gut, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

The trap was just about set. At the side of the clearing stood Hook (no, Killian – damn, it was hard to try and disassociate) readying himself to creep as close to the camp as he dared, before figuring out a way to split one of them away from the pack. Emma was just searching for her own hiding place, when their plans were entirely derailed.

Out of the undergrowth stumbled a boy, a head or so larger than Henry, staring at his shoes as he went, clearly not paying any attention to where he was going. Starkey and Noodler immediately darted into the brush, and Hook gesticulated wildly for Emma to do the same, but she reacted a second too slowly.

The boy looked up, clapping eyes on her instantly. He froze where he stood, his eyes growing wide as saucers, lips parting in confusion. He was thin and lanky, in the way that boys in the early teens often were, and an angry, scarlet scar had been drawn across his right cheek – and it looked like it was still fresh. As he stared, Emma stared right back, frantically wracking her brains for a way out. She couldn’t spare a glance at Hook or his men without giving away their position, but one cry from this boy would draw the entire hoard towards them. Emma made to grab for her sword, but something stopped her.

He didn’t seem – well, he certainly didn’t look threatening. If anything he appeared fascinated by her, blinking as if he were sure in a split second she might vanish from sight. He took a halting step toward her—

There was a heavy thunk, and he collapsed down into the dirt. Hook stood over his motionless form, brandishing the hilt of his cutlass aloft.

Once Emma recovered from the shock, she gaped. “What the hell are you playing at?” She felt an urgent sort of indignance at the bump she was sure would begin to form on the back of the boy’s head.

Hook (shoot, Killian) merely arched an eyebrow.

“Did you want the boy or not?”

Starkey quickly set about dismantling the trap while Noodler hauled the boy over his shoulder, and their troupe scarpered before their good fortune had the chance to change its mind.

Hook led them a few miles east at a punishing pace, wanting to put as much distance between them and the Lost Boys’ camp as possible. It wouldn’t do them any good to begin questioning the boy somewhere near enough to the rest of his number to allow them a rescue of some kind – although Hook assured her that without Pan’s direction, they almost certainly couldn’t coordinate well enough to pull off such an attempt. Given Pan’s penchant for omnipotence, Emma didn’t find that exactly reassuring.

Pan was connected to every living thing on the island, or so Hook had told her, and it wasn’t hard to believe. She had felt… something, from the moment she got here. It yearned for his touch, breathed for his blessing; they were the trespassers here. Even the trees themselves appeared bent towards each other, the rustle of leaves now the harshest of whispers eager to give them away.

Shit, she had been on this island way too long. She was starting to sound like H—Killian.

Killian. Killian Jones.

She just couldn’t see it.

They settled in a small clearing, tying the still unconscious boy tightly to a tree so his head lolled down onto his chest. There was little else to do except wait for him to come to, but even those few moments of stillness began to make Emma restless. It was the first move on the offensive she had made since she arrived on the island – but it was about time she stopped reacting and started acting.

At their captain’s instruction, Starkey and Noodler disappeared into the undergrowth, panning out in different directions, just to make sure they hadn’t either been followed or accidentally stopped a little too close to something far worse.

“So,” Hook mused, shirking off his duster and folding it carefully atop a rock. At this time of day the heat was at its most oppressive, and Emma could spot the sweat glistening from his brow. She herself was doing her best to stop her hair from sticking to the back of her neck. “Now you have a Lost Boy. What exactly are you planning to do next?”

Truthfully, Emma hadn’t exactly thought this far ahead. She had a vague idea of what she wanted from this, but the means hadn’t come to her as quickly as she’d hoped they would. To be perfectly honest, she was surprised to not have met with any resistance from Hook before now.

She let out a long breath, and decided to be honest. They’d agreed to trust each other, hadn’t they?

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Get him to talk? Take us to Henry, maybe?”

Hook – Killian – did not look convinced. “Sooner the sun would rise in the west, I expect.”

“I can be persuasive.”

He gave her an appraising look, one that lasted a beat too long and, if she wasn’t mistaken, lingered rather indelicately on some of her assets she knew men found particularly persuasive. She only realised the incidental dual meaning in her statement a few seconds too late.

To her surprise, he didn’t take the bait.

To her greater surprise, that almost irked her a little.

“I’m sure you can,” he continued brusquely, turning to glare at their captive against the tree. “But these aren’t ordinary boys.”

Emma followed his gaze. For a split second, she thought of the boy’s wide eyes as he took her in for the first time. He’d seemed almost – curious.

“He doesn’t have to be our enemy,” Emma pointed out. “Pan’s a monster, right? And he’s still a kid. Maybe he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this.”

Hook eyed her closely, tilting his head to one side.

“You hesitated.”

Emma blinked. “What?”

“Before, when the boy came across us. You went for your sword but you hesitated.” He peered at her carefully. “Why?”

Her lips parted – had she? She didn’t really remember, it had all happened so fast. He’d tumbled out of the brush almost right in front of her, freezing in place once he saw her. All she could really recall was thinking how – just how –

How young he looked.

How nothing like she’d imagined a Lost Boy would look up close, after everything Hook and his crew had told her. He was just a kid.

And she’d been a kid like that, once.

She was spared from fumbling through a response first by a loud sniff, and then a groan from the opposite side of the clearing. Both she and Hook immediately turned to look at their captive, the boy beginning to stir against his bindings.

“He’s coming to.”

“Alright, just leave this to me,” Emma said, injecting far more confidence into her tone that she felt. Gripping the hilt of David’s longsword, but keeping it in its sheath, she started in the direction of the boy.

“I’d never have pegged you for such an optimist,” Hook muttered, but kept his distance all the same. Emma chose to ignore him. Seeing as the pirates and the Lost Boys were apparently brutal enemies, it was probably for the best that he stayed out of the way.

The boy lifted his head, blinking blearily against the light and made to move his shoulders, before realising with alarm that they were trapped at his side by the rope. He immediately began to struggle, attempting to rip himself free but the knots held fast – then his gaze shot up to his surroundings. His wide eyes flickered first to Hook, then Emma, and his expression crumpled in fear.

“H—help!” he hollered, perhaps hoping to draw the attention of any nearby allies, “Help me, help! Peter!”

“Hey, chill out!” Emma hissed.

“Help, anyone – they’ve got me, I’m here!”

Trying to think of something to shut him up, Emma reached for the buckle of her scabbard and scrambled to take it off. Once she held the sword in her hand, certain she had his attention, she dropped it onto the ground and lifted her arms in an open gesture. Perhaps if he didn’t think of her as a threat, she could at least get him to stop crying out. The last thing they wanted was to draw any additional unwanted attention.

“Look – I’m not armed. Just calm down, alright?”

It had something of the desired effect, and he momentarily stopped struggling to survey her warily.

“I’m sorry about that bump on your head too, that’s gotta kill. What’s your name?” The boy’s lips tightened, as if he were reluctant to talk to her. “I’m Emma.”

“Are you a pirate?”

The boy’s gaze flickered down to the sword lying on the ground, so Emma nudged it a little farther away with her boot.

“No, I’m not a pirate. I’m just looking for my son.”

“Your – your son?” The boy’s mouth dropped open, agape. “You’re a mother?”

Given everybody had one, Emma was beginning to find this fascination that mothers could exist from the inhabitants of Neverland pretty damn irritating.

“Yeah, I am. I’m Henry’s mom. Henry?” Recognition flashed in the boys eyes, but he quickly tried to suppress it, schooling his features into something a little more neutral. Emma didn’t buy it for a second. “You know him, right? Can’t be that many new kids on the island.”

The boy kept his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“You’ve got a terrible poker face, kid,” Emma pointed out, “so you might as well just tell me. Where is Pan keeping him?”

“Pan doesn’t keep any of us,” the boy spat. “We want to stay. We want to be here.” With a force Emma would not have attributed to him, he suddenly lunged as far forward as he could, the rope tightening and groaning in protest. “And when I get out of this I’ll make sure you know why.”

“Look, I’m not your enemy.”

“Oh no?” The boy’s eyes were wide, his lips trembling as his pupils darted back and forth between her and Hook. “Then what’s he doing here?”

Clearly referring to Hook, Emma spared him a glance. His mouth was set in a grim line and he stood a little straighter, shoulders squared. For a moment she considered sending him away, if only for a few minutes so she could get this boy onside – the bad blood between the pirates on the Lost Boys was clearly very, very mutual. After a beat she dismissed the idea. She had nothing to be ashamed of, especially not working with Hook. He was putting himself more at risk with every moment he spent helping her. He’d given her weapons, food, allies; and she wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to see what she had promised him in return, let alone use it.

She was the dishonest one here, not Hook.

“Hook is my –” She stumbled on the word. Would ally alienate this boy completely? In her moment of hesitation, Hook’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “He’s helping me. And so will you, if you know what’s good for you.”

The boy threw back his head and howled – fully, howled – with laughter.

“And why the hell would I do that?” he wheezed out between breaths, but his jovial demeanour was not enough to make her forget just how much the boy was straining against his bonds. His wrists were turning white with the effort. Emma had always heard talk about the strength of a sailor’s knot, and she hoped it would hold up here against the brat stood before her.

“You want to be on the right side of this when it all goes down,” she said, far sharper than she had been intending to be with him.

The whole point of this, her entire angle was that he was just a kid – and she couldn’t believe that a kid was capable of all the wrongdoing Hook had laid at their feet without a shred of remorse, without even the smallest desire for things to be different. She would know. She was a kid like that, once. And her lonely heart had yearned for a better life, even as she convinced herself it would never be possible.

But then Henry had found her. And now she was determined to grab that life by two hands, and fight to get it back.

“And, look – I know you must have had a family once, and maybe one day you stopped believing you could get back to them. But I’m here, I’m here for Henry but I can help you too. All of you. I can help you get home – if you help me get my son back.”

Even before she’d finished speaking the boy was shaking his head, lips curled in disbelief. Emma tried not to let her heart sink at the vehemence with which he immediately rejected the idea out of hand.

“Don’t you get it?” he spat. “I’m here because I don’t want to go home. None of us do.”

Emma let out a noise of frustration. “But Pan’s a sadist – just look at what he did to you.” She gestured vaguely at the scarlet scratch underneath his right eye.

The boy’s expression lit up with a savage delight, and Emma had to force herself not to take a wary step back.

“Oh, Pan didn’t do this. Henry did.”

***

“Oh, Pan didn’t do this. Henry did.”

Emma didn’t move a muscle. Even from where he stood a few paces away, Hook could practically see the cogs whirring behind the jade of her eyes – weighing up the odds of truth against a lie, that her boy had been the one to scar the Lost One in front of them.

Hook would put his wager on truth. Pan didn’t lure them onto the island to stay nice little boys, and he’d yet to meet one that wouldn’t immediately stab one of his comrades if he thought it might elevate himself in the eyes of their leader. That was why only the nastiest, the most vicious, took their places close to Pan. Felix, Rufio – they had bloodied their hands more times than he could count with not just his men, but those within their own ranks as well. And there was no doubt about it; this Henry was a special favourite to Pan, no matter how little time he had spent in Neverland.

But then, he didn’t know the lad. Emma seemed perpetually convinced of his innocence, of his goodness. Perhaps he couldn’t be so easily persuaded. After all, there had once been another boy who had resisted Pan’s influence.

Well, most children think they’ve found paradise when they lay their eyes on Neverland’s magic. Why else leave home in the first place?

I came so a family I loved could live.

The memory rose, unbidden, from the crust of his weary heart. For the first time, he realised the startling parallels between when he had first met Baelfire, and Emma and Henry’s brief but devastating reunion those days ago.

I have to give you your best chance.

Perhaps there was a chance her lad was made of sturdier stuff – the courage that had carried Baelfire, too.

“You’re lying.”

Emma’s rebuttal cut sharply across his musings. She still hadn’t moved an inch, but he spotted the hand clenched into a fist at her side, the stiffness of her jaw. It wasn’t exactly news to him that she couldn’t always maintain a tight lid on her temper, and Hook was wary of the results it might wrought.

“I don’t need to!” the boy laughed maniacally, clearly delighting in the effect his words were having on her. “He’s a Lost Boy now, he’s one of us! Henry is one of the most vicious recruits we’ve had in ages!”

He spotted Emma flinch, with every word so carelessly flung at her causing more damage than the last, and a swell of anger began to rise in Hook’s chest. The brat probably was lying, just because Emma was giving him everything he wanted. She was playing right into his hands, was allowing herself to get smaller and smaller as the boy’s arrogance and amusement grew, and he couldn’t believe – frankly, he was irritated – that she was giving up on her lad so fast. That she was so quick to believe the drivel this boy was spewing.

In the wake of the inerrable faith he had endured from her for days, he wanted to shake her by the shoulders and tell her no, her Henry was better than that, he had to be. It was ridiculous to believe anything to the contrary.

It couldn’t all be for nothing. It just couldn’t. Not after she’d come so far.

And then the boy spat in her face.

The movement was sudden, unexpected, like a snake suddenly recoiling and striking harshly, and Emma stumbled back in surprise.

It only took a second for her to recover.

Letting out a strangled cry, she flung herself at the boy who, for all his straining against his bonds a moment earlier, was now shrinking back into the tree trunk attempting to get away from her. Hook was at her side in a flash, his right arm around her waist hauling her back from doing any real damage.

Emma struggled against him, sharp nails and fury, but Hook held fast.

“Stop! Swan, stop.”

“What are you doing?” she spat, but he was asking himself the same question.

Why did it matter to him if Emma hurt the boy? He cared not a whit for him. It was her stupid idea in the first place to take one as a hostage when he’d much rather gut them for all the injury they had caused him and his crew. He’d been acting purely on instinct when he lunged for her, but for some reason – for all he’d like to see that boy with his eyes gauged out, the idea of Emma Swan doing the gauging was just – it was just –

You went for your sword but you hesitated. Why?

Hook already knew the answer to that.

And, he realised, he couldn’t bear to see her forget it. Not like he had.

“Let me talk to him,” Hook said harshly, after feeling her slow against him. He loosened his arm. “Let me do it.”

Please, let me. Let me do it. I couldn’t bear it if you did it.

Emma stopped struggling, breathing heavily as her eyes met his head on. “Do… what?”

He could tell from her hollow tone. She already knew.

He was a survivor. This was how he had survived.

He could feel Emma’s eyes on him, but he pushed her from his mind. She was nothing to him, and no one. He thrust it all into quiet, all thoughts of her, of Henry, of Bae.

Calmly, but with the familiar ache of old bones, he touched every angry part of him, every dark night or hallowed breath, every ugly thought or thoughtless act; he let it all flood his senses until there was nothing else left. When the alternative was to feel helpless, he chose this, he always had, and he probably always would. He would rather be darkness, he would rather be the fury that roiled within him, the Neverbird’s mournful wail and the storm at the centre of the harsh sun above. He was Milah’s dying gasp and Rumplestiltskin’s hoarse cackle. Pan’s sinister fury. Silver’s blithely tossed coin and Brennan’s promise of courage before the last light went out.

He was all of it and he was nothing pure.

This boy was not a boy. He was a Lost One. And he had just spat in Emma’s face.

“What’s your name, boy?”

His approach was slow, delicate. His boots crunched on dead leaves underfoot. All the bravado the boy had boasted evaporated in the space of a few seconds, and he tried to make himself as small as possible. The trunk at his back prevented him from shrinking any further, and his gaze dropped fearfully to the hook that swung dangerously at his side.

“N – Nibs.”

Stupid fucking name for a boy.

“Nibs?” The boy nodded quickly, huffing out a panicked breath. “Now tell me, Nibs, do you remember Rufio?”

Rufio had been the cruellest. Rufio had split his crew apart in a raid in the dead of night, had sent an arrow through Jukes’ throat, had carved his name into Bones’ shoulder with his teeth. After Noodler had grabbed him from behind, Rufio had sheared off his hands and laughed while he did so, a terrible and piercing thing. Hook hadn’t heard worse from men twice his age.

“Do you remember what I did to Rufio? No?” The boy didn’t move, only kept his eyes fixed squarely on Hook as he reached him, trying almost desperately not to breathe. “Well, let me take the opportunity to remind you. You see this hook?” To illustrate the point, Hook lifted it to Nibs’ cheek, letting the round curve of the tip brush against the boy’s cheek, who flinched as its cool touch made contact. “I shook his hand with it.”

He brought it down the side of his face, letting the sharp point linger on his neck.

“And then I plunged it into his gut and ripped him open until his eyes wept tears of crimson.”

Rufio had screamed, and Pan had ended the game there – had called the first truce. Had grudgingly accepted the losses on both sides to be fair, but not before he had hauled Noodler, weeping from his place on the ground, and reattached his hands while the man screeched in agony. It was a warning, for them both. Pan had never let his boredom run away from him again, nor had he tried to provoke Hook in such a way since.

Nibs’ breathing had turned heavy, and scared.

“The lady would like to know where her son is. I intend for her to discover it. Now,” Hook reached his hand into the boy’s hair and squeezed tightly. Nibs gasped loudly. “Think carefully before you answer; how helpful would you like to be?”

Nibs kept his eyes shut as he gaped through an answer.

“I – I can’t.”

Hook pulled a little tighter. “That is not a helpful answer.”

“I don’t know!”

“Hook.” Emma’s voice drifted distantly from behind him, but he ignored her.

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed.

The boy babbled quietly between whimpers. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t…”

“Speak clearly.”

“It d-doesn’t matter,” Nibs whimpered, “it doesn’t matter w-what you promise, or what you c-could do to me…” His eyes finally opened, and Hook could see them shining with unshed tears. “It’s n-nothing compared to – to what He w-would do to me, if – if I –”

“Hook, stop. Stop!”

He didn’t realise when she had approached, but both of Emma’s hands were suddenly on his right arm, one at his elbow and the other wrenching his hand free from the back of the boy’s head. In surprise, he let go – and then realised her face was coloured a deep scarlet, and she was trembling. Nibs sobbed with relief.

“He’s just a kid!” she cried, and the wave of Hook’s fury crested into indignation.

She had let him do this. Had wanted to do it herself, in fact, and would have if he hadn’t bloody stopped her. Only now was she remembering her saintly act, wanting to hurl some holier-than-thous about the true meaning of innocence when she didn’t know a damn thing about it. Emma Swan had been in Neverland for a matter of days. Hook had lived there for over two-hundred years. It had taken so much more from him than her, and he had never let himself be ashamed of the measures he took for survival.

But one glance from her was like shining a light on all its ugliness.

Hook quailed under that kind of exposure.

“Do you want your son back, or don’t you?”

“I –”

“This, Swan – this is the only language they understand!” he thundered, and he couldn’t work out why he was so angry with her. But he was. He was vibrating with fury.

For Noodler, for Bones, for Jukes, for Mullins and Kits and Carter and Clyde, for Skylights. For Baelfire.

For Liam.

“I am tired of watching you flail about aimlessly, making this up as you go along – either you buck up and realise what needs to be done or you can forget about saving your boy!”

Hook wrenched his arm free from her grip, and started walking.

He didn’t care which direction, he didn’t care how far. He hated the island, hated the trees and the mist and the dirt and the magic, even the sea – he hated all of it.

Bust most of all, he hated the way Emma Swan was looking at him.

***

The sun had long since dipped below the treeline by the time Emma acknowledged this might have all been for nothing. The early evening was rapidly approaching, and they were no closer to getting any answers out of Nibs at all. In fact, after Hook’s outburst, he had completely clammed up and refused to speak a word to her no matter how she tried to cajole him. She was starting to consider whether it might be worth just letting him go. They were losing light, and time, not to mention Hook was being no help whatsoever.

He had stormed out into the forest for a while, but he’d had enough of a head on his shoulders not to go far, and once he had returned he had focused his attention on reviewing their supplies and checking the perimeter. Once that was done, he had sat down against a large rock at the centre of the clearing, and had taken to tossing stones out into the brush.

It was almost childish, a behaviour which Emma found particularly difficult to marry up to what she had seen earlier.

I plunged it into his gut and ripped him open until his eyes wept tears of crimson.

Had he really done that? To a boy?

He’d warned her that he wasn’t a good man – often enough, in fact. And the way he spoke about the Lost Boys suggested blood had probably been spilled on both sides. It was a conflict she knew nothing about, that had been going on for longer than she’d been alive, probably. She’d told Hook that she wanted to start trusting him, and she believed him when he told her the Lost Boys were dangerous. The way that kid had talked about Henry – it made her fucking blood boil, and without Hook she was sure she would’ve ripped Nibs a new one and not felt a twinge of remorse. She’d even been prepared to let Hook wrest the information she wanted out of him by any means necessary.

But when Hook had his fist clenched in that boy’s hair, she just couldn’t stop imagining it was Henry instead.

These kids weren’t responsible for the way Pan had twisted them all up into knots, were they? And he had already started doing it to Henry.

Mom, I’m going to save magic.

She couldn’t let herself believe that the only way to get out of all this was to resort to torturing kids, not least because her son might never forgive her for it. He wanted her to be good. It had just taken one trembling boy that reminded her too much of Henry for her to remember that. Still, she was disappointed it had driven an even greater wedge between her and Hook.

He sat with his back to her, and flung another stone out into the undergrowth. With a thwack it hit its mark, whatever Hook had been intending to throw it at, and his hand rummaged around in the grass for another one.

Emma decided it was completely ridiculous that they were sat apart, stewing like two kids who had gotten into a fight at recess. He hadn’t just straight up and left her, no matter how tired he claimed to be of her, and that had to mean something. So it was about time they talked.

Leaving Nibs to be watched over by Starkey, Emma crossed the clearing until she stood beside him. From the way his shoulders tensed, she knew he could tell she was there.

“So,” she started, scuffing her boot in the dirt. “You kinda lost it a bit there.”

“I’m not going to apologise if that’s what you’re after.”

Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Please, I’m not in eighth grade. I’m not going to fall apart because you raised your voice.”

Although, come to think of it, it was perhaps the first time she had heard him do so.

Hook finally turned, angling his body so he could look over his shoulder to where Nibs was standing, eyes downcast and motionless. “Is he talking?”

“Hasn’t said a word.” With a sigh, Emma dropped down onto the ground in front of him, so she could still see the boy in her line of sight. “Whatever Pan’s threatened him with, he must be terrified.”

Hook grunted in agreement, before turning his attention to his hook. Over and over, he ran the forefinger of his right hand across its curve, and it gleamed dangerously even this late in the day. Emma had never really thought much on it until now, but he must be able to cause a great deal of damage with it, and although she had witnessed quite a few practical uses for it over the last few days when it came to putting up camp or starting fires, its primary function still had to be as a weapon.

In the stories she’d heard as a child it was almost a comedic device – the character’s name was Captain Hook, so of course he had a hook for a hand. There was no point thinking anymore about it.

Except he had told her his name was Killian Jones.

“Why’d you pick a hook?”

The question was out of her mouth before she’d really had a chance to think about it. Killian’s eyes shot up to meet hers, looking perplexed so she hastened to continue.

“If there’s anything I’ve learnt so far, it’s that all these fairy tales… they started off as ordinary people.” Before anything else, Mary Margaret Blanchard had been a person to Emma, who breathed and cried and made mistakes, just like her. In the end, all Regina Mills had really wanted to be was Henry’s mother, no matter how grotesque the way she chose to go about it. “The Evil Queen, Captain Hook… you said your name was Killian Jones.”

Hook clicked his tongue. He looked as if regretted telling her already. “I haven’t been Killian Jones in a long time.”

“Well, you told me that was your actual name, so it’s more recent than you think,” she pointed out drily. Otherwise why would he have bothered mentioning it? “And I’m asking him. Of all the things, after you lost your hand – why a hook? And not a… I don’t know, a fake hand. Or a dagger.” He lived in a world with magic for God’s sake – maybe he could’ve grown it back?

He looked as if he wouldn’t answer her, and for a long time he was silent. His stare merely drilled a hole into the ground between them, and not for the first time Emma wondered what it really was he was thinking about. Then, after a long moment, his lips parted.

“The Dark One, he…” He gritted his teeth, like it was hard to get the words out. “It was the first thing I had to hand. A hook. I was desperate, I stuck it into his chest – right where his heart should be. And he laughed.” Hook scowled, his expression dark and furious. “I never wanted to forget that feeling. How helpless, how weak I was. I was so small next to him. I wanted to pierce his skin one more time with that hook, but for it to make him bleed – to show him I’d never be that weak again.” He raised his eyes skyward, letting out a long breath. “It’s a reminder – and my penance. The price of true strength.”

“Violence isn’t strength.”

Hook finally looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

Perhaps if he’d asked her a year ago she might have agreed. Back then, strength felt like putting on her red leather jacket and punching back at the world. Emma couldn’t speak for the hook, but the way he talked about it made it sound like his own armour.

“Believe me, I used to think the way you do,” she began. A lifetime ago. Before Storybrooke. “I thought I was strong. Then Henry found me and I learnt – I learnt what real strength is. It’s perseverance, it’s belief. It’s seeing the best in people even when it’s hard. And I couldn’t just give up, revert back to my old habits, not after he’d given me this second chance, you know?”

She’d given up on Henry once, before she’d even held him; but he had never, never given up on her.

“He wanted better for me and he kept believing, kept telling me to open my eyes and take it no matter how many times I told him I didn’t want it anymore, that I didn’t need it.”

When you went through the wardrobe you appeared on the side of the street. Your parents were trying to save you from the curse!

Sure they were, kid.

To her surprise, she felt a familiar sting behind her nose and her face began to flush, so she tried to hurry through the rest of what she was stumbling out as quickly as possible. Thinking about Henry like this – it made him feel so close, even though she knew he was so far away.

She laughed bitterly. “He’s still doing it now. Hell, he actually wants to live in a place like this because it’s what he truly believes will make me happiest. That,” she finished emphatically, “is strength.”

Just in case the sudden tide of emotion gave her away, she resolutely did not look at Hook even though she could feel his stare on the side of her face, instead choosing to pick up a stick and stab lines into the dirt. Perhaps he was trying to discern if she was speaking any word of a lie, or perhaps he was about to laugh in her face. It didn’t matter, she didn’t care. She just didn’t want this strangeness between them anymore. Even if he was furious, even if he was scared – if he hated the Lost Boys it was fine, she wasn’t there to judge him. She didn’t want him to think she was ashamed to be near him.

He was just there to help her get Henry back. That was the most important thing of all.

Finally, he looked away.

“I can’t remember how that feels,” he admitted quietly. “To want to – for another person, I mean.”

And all of a sudden, something became startlingly clear to her. So much so, that she was almost annoyed she hadn’t realised it before.

“Gold took more than your hand from you, didn’t he?”

Hook met her gaze, and Emma was struck by just how wretched he looked. It was perhaps the most open she had ever seen his expression, his every thought was written into the downward curve of his mouth, his eyes wide and sorrowful. Of course. Of course Gold had taken something far more valuable. It should have been enough just knowing the kind of man Gold was to realise that.

Now, she decided. Right this second. Without the bravado, without the careless grin. None of the performance he put on from the start of the day. Now he looked more like a Killian Jones.

He stood abruptly, surprising her. Three paces away his duster sat on the rock where he had placed it when they arrived, and he began rummaging through the pockets. For a moment, Emma’s memory flashed back to the drawing she had found tucked carefully between two books in his cabin, and she was sure he was about to pull it out and show her exactly what Gold had taken from him.

Killian did pull out a piece of parchment, but it was one far more familiar than the one she had been thinking of. After he walked back over, this time he perched atop the rock he had been leaning against, and let the parchment fall to the ground between them. Dust and blades of grass blew outwards from where it landed, and Emma felt a spike of irritation rise at the sight of it.

It was Pan’s map.

“What are you doing with that?” She’d left it behind for a reason.

“This is how you’ll find your son,” Killian insisted, pointing firmly at the map. “Not that.” He didn’t need to tilt his head in the direction of Nibs tied to the tree, but his meaning was implicit. “Think about what you just told me. You’re already making progress.”

Emma scowled. “I told you, I don’t want to play Pan’s game.”

“Why not? Henry is.” At Emma’s shocked expression, he barrelled on. “I believe he did scar that boy’s cheek, and what’s more I believe he did it with a longsword.”

Henry is one of the most vicious new recruits we’ve had in ages!

“Stop it.”

“You said it yourself, he’s building a life here. And what is that, really? A scratch?” Killian shook his head. “It’s nothing at all. I’ve seen an alley cat deliver worse. He is doing the minimum of what’s required while he finds his feet here, spilling a little blood so he doesn’t have to spill more.” Either way, Emma did not like the direction of his thoughts, and if Killian sensed her pending denial then he became more emphatic to combat it. “You must realise it. Pan controls everything on this island – what he asks for, he has to receive. And until you acknowledge that you are beyond even my help.”

She didn’t want to. She avoided Killian’s gaze because she knew it would ruin her resolve to not think of things so helplessly. It didn’t seem smart to start playing a game while simultaneously accepting that the result had already been decided – to her mind, it was probably why nothing had changed in Neverland for however many centuries. If Pan controlled everything and everyone then there was no way she could win this. She was as ineffective as a gnat against his skin, and she may as well be one of the gaunt mothers they had seen turning the corners of the Maze of Regrets, wishing and crying out, never to realise they were trapped in a place that never changed, that never could change.

The pirates, the Lost Boys, Tiger Lily and the native tribe. They were all just chasing each other round and round the clock, waiting for the gears to run down but knowing they never would. It was violent and infinite and fuck she just wanted the temperature to cool down for just a second so she could think.

Only she was the rogue element here. Which just proved…

“He doesn’t control everything on the island,” she realised. Pan couldn’t control her, but he could control Henry, making him come to her and beg her to leave him behind. He also gave her that map because he wanted it to show her something painful. “Sometimes he can only control what you see.”

Pan wanted to get rid of her, that much was abundantly clear – and that meant she had to represent something more.

“What are you talking about?” Killian asked, likely exasperated that she was ignoring his advice once again.

“The Maze,” Emma was rushing the words out, her heart beginning to thump rapidly against her ribcage as her excitement grew. “They’re mothers, you said, looking for their kids. You said they’re left there because the boys don’t want to go to them, but what if that’s not it all? What if they don’t know?”

Killian’s eyebrows knitted together. “What’re you getting at?” She stood, unable to sit there waiting for a second longer. “Swan?”

Emma turned to stare at Nibs, still staring at his boots and scuffing them in the dirt.

“I’m going to give him what every lost kid wants,” she said firmly, beginning to march over to him. “A mother.”

Nibs instinctively looked up when she approached, but quickly lowered his eyes, such had been the standard since Killian’s outburst a little while ago. The boy had been determined to stay silent, perhaps hoping they would deem him worthless enough to merit just letting go. Emma was determined to not let it all go to waste.

“Nibs,” she said blithely, “that’s a funny name. You had it all your life?” As expected, the boy did not reply. “Don’t suppose it’s short for anything… like Nabil?”

She’d heard it at the Maze – every sound that had come from there, every pained cry and plea, had remained etched into her memory afterwards. It was good, she’d decided. Good to have a reminder of what she was working for, and what she might become if she gave up. She was going out on a limb here, praying for a miracle and that there was some connection between a name she had heard scattered on the wind, and the little lost boy in front of her.

From the way he looked up at her, gaping with wide eyes, she felt she might’ve hit her mark.

“Wh – where did you hear that?” he asked hoarsely.

Triumphant, Emma smiled. “From your Mom.”

“My… mother?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t understand.”

Emma tried to think of the best way to convey what she knew. She cast her mind back to Starkey’s maps of Neverland. “You ever seen that big structure, the one at the mouth of the river that comes down from the mountain? The pirates call it Misery Bay.”

Only later had she realised why.

Nibs’ eyes flickered fearfully. His tongue darted out to his dry lips. “We… we don’t go there. That’s where the witches are.”

“Witches?”

“Witches,” he affirmed. “They eat children. At night they cry, thinking about all the meals they can never have. Peter traps them in the Maze of Witches so they’ll never catch us.”

It was such a bald-faced lie that it made Emma furious. Those mothers could have been there for centuries, trapped, and all along their sons had never known that they were there – had in fact been afraid of their grief, as it were a weapon that would cause them harm. Every day the boys got a little more lost, and the mothers lost a little more hope that they would ever find their wayward children; and through it all Pan watched, and laughed, and let everyone around him fall into even greater misery.

“You’re wrong,” she replied gently, “they’re mothers, Nibs. Pan doesn’t want you to know, but moms come back for their kids all the time – I’m just the latest in a long line.” Somehow she’d escaped the Maze’s magic, and although she had no idea why she was grateful. “He wants you to stay lost so you can be soldiers in his war.”

The struggle Nibs was facing in digesting what she was telling him was written all across his features, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The scarlet scar under his cheek appeared to wink up at her, whispering Henry in a way that made her feel queasy.

“Peter, he… wouldn’t.”

It wasn’t easy to start doubting the person you believed in most – she had enough experience of that.

“I’m here for my son. I love him so much, I want to take him home. But Pan wants him to forget all about me.” Even giving the errant thought a voice was frightening. “Your Mom’s in that maze, Nibs. I’m sure of it.”

“Not – not my mother,” Nibs frowned. “She… she was only ever interested in money. She wouldn’t come for me.”

“Sometimes we need to lose what’s most important to us before we realise how much we treasure it. I won’t leave Henry again.”

Determined, Emma circled the tree and began tugging at the knots that kept the boy in place. Starkey let out a noise of alarm, and she could hear Killian scrambling to his feet and reaching for his cutlass in the background.

Even Nibs seemed startled at the development. “What are you doing?”

“I’m letting you go,” she muttered, huffing at the effort of tugging the rope free. Damn those sailor knots and how goddamn tight they were. “Now you can either go back to Pan, tell him where we are and get us killed, or you can go to that maze and find your Mom.”

The last knot loosened and Nibs sprang forward, wincing and rubbing at his wrists. With more than a little guilt, Emma noticed the angry red lines circling them from where he had pulled at the bonds. It only strengthened her resolve, even as the boy stared at her warily. It looked like he didn’t quite believe he was really being released. Killian was the one who had said it – only Lost Boys could enter the Maze. It stood to reason that Nibs would be able to get in there and confirm what she had said for himself.

“Find your Mom,” Emma repeated, “then come back here and help me get Henry back too.”

Please, she begged silently, please, help us.

The boy looked first at her, then over his shoulder where Killian stood, hand poised and ready on his cutlass. Then Nibs stared back at her, expression completely neutral, before he tore off into the forest without a word.

No sooner had his shadow touched the treeline before the boy vanished from sight. Emma couldn’t even hear him moving through the undergrowth, as if he were a ghost or had taken to the air – maybe this was the gift of the true inhabitants of Neverland. They knew how to bend the forest around them like an old friend, they didn’t have to fight against it the way she did.

Dusk kissed the trees now, and the light was rapidly fading. What had once been clear twenty feet away now blurred and ran between each other, and she almost didn’t notice Killian stepping up beside her, staring out at where Nibs had vanished.

He made an uneasy noise. “Now what?”

Emma bit her lip, placing her hands on her hips. “We wait.”

“You’re taking a big risk here, Swan.”

“I know,” she muttered. It was probably a big ask, making Killian put his trust in one of his greatest enemies – but something on the chessboard needed to change. Perhaps she could make this knight a turncoat. “He’ll come back, don’t worry.”

She spoke with far more assurance than she felt, and they both knew it.

Please come back, she begged silently into the sky.

He had to come back.

***

Hook didn’t like it one bit.

Staying in one place for so long was bad enough – he had learnt, through years of skirmishes with the Lost Ones and the natives, that doing so only left you an easy target for an ambush – but the idea of entrusting their fate to one of Pan’s minions was borderline repellent. Emma, unfortunately, could not be persuaded to the contrary. She had insisted on their setting up camp exactly where the boy had left them, and waiting on his return. Hook would merit a lot of shortcomings to Emma Swan since he had met her, but blind faith and gullibility had not been among them. The boy hadn’t even said he would return. He had simply run off into the woods without a single word either way.

Still, despite his misgivings, Hook did as he was bid.

Starkey and Noodler had set about laying the bones of their camp, pulling the canvas sheet out in order to provide shelter. Hook could taste it in the air, rain was coming. Much like the day before he had met Emma Swan, they were due a storm of the like he preferred to endure at sea, as safe as could be weathered aboard the deck of the Jolly Roger. It might not come tonight, but by the end of tomorrow, he was certain. The breeze was thick and moist as it lured the evening closer, and Hook started a fire.

They roasted a hare they had caught for supper and split it four ways, adding a helping of nuts in order to try and assuage any further rumbles of hunger, and Hook had cast a doubtful look at their remaining supplies. They had enough for another day or two, but they would soon need to replenish their load from the Jolly Rogers’ stores if they were to remain inland. Even this many years after claiming her, his spirits rose at the prospect of returning to his ship, for however short a time. It did not suit him to be so far from her bow.

Convince Emma Swan to leave Neverland and I’ll give you what you want most.

It felt as if the longer he spent with Emma Swan, the less he wanted her to fail.

She had impressed him today. Even if she insisted on ignoring Pan’s map, Hook had never once considered that the Lost Ones had no idea the Maze of Regrets existed – not in its true form. Witches. If he had ever wanted further proof of Pan’s wickedness, the fact that the Lost Ones were unknowingly being kept from their mothers was more than enough. Hook hadn’t doubted for a second that it was the ferocity of the boys that kept that Maze alive with sorrow.

Emma, however, had seen right through it for what it was.

I learnt what real strength is. It’s perseverance, it’s belief. It’s seeing the best in people even when it’s hard.

Had he ever been that way? He couldn’t remember now. For so long all he knew how to be was this. The only person he thought to look out for was himself. Hook would have made that boy suffer as much as needed until they got what they wanted – but Emma had pulled apart Nibs’ arrogant veneer, exposed the child underneath and found another way.

He wants you to stay lost so you can be soldiers in his war.

Seeing the best in people, even the Lost Ones. How, he could only wonder. How did she do it?

Gold took more than your hand from you, didn’t he?

Hook’s heart thumped heavily in his chest when he thought back to that moment. It was too much, too soon. He’d wanted to give her something, make her focus on unlocking the map, but he had opened up too far. He should never have told her his name. Even so, when her tongue curled around it, and her mouth let it fall like the gentle droplets of early rain, something fluttered in the pit of his stomach.

Killian.

He took a steadying breath.

Too close.

He was handing her over to Pan, anyway. None of it mattered.

Was he?

Something snapped in the bushes to his right, and Hook’s eyes were drawn immediately to the sound. In the dark he couldn’t make anything out, but rose cautiously to his feet anyway. A glance back at the fire showed Starkey and Emma speaking in low voices. Noodler stood at the opposite end of the clearing, one of his palms flat against a pine. He often did so when he was deep in thought. Nobody else had heard.

It could’ve been an animal, or the wind shaking something loose from the branches of a tree. It could be nothing at all.

It could be Nibs.

Something stuttered to life in his chest at the thought.

Emma’s optimism was wickedly contagious.

No sooner had he reached the edge of the clearing, than his eyes landed on the source of the sound.

A boy, grey eyes sullen, face smeared with dirt, was crouched amongst the brush. In his hands he held a spear with a sharp, inky black point Hook knew must be dreamshade, and he doubted he was alone. The boy stared back at Hook, defiantly, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.

Fuck Nibs.

Before Hook could raise the alarm, a shout came from behind him.

“Captain!”

From the other end of the clearing, a wall of three Lost Ones had emerged, brandishing wooden swords and bows, arrows already notched in place. When Hook turned back to the boy he had seen, he realised four more had lifted themselves up from the ground, fierce spectres of youth and darkness. A glance all around confirmed that which he’d already suspected.

They were surrounded.

“I expected this from you, Emma, you’re new here. But I’m especially disappointed in you, Captain.”

Pan’s voice was positively dripping with malice, stepping out of the dark until his expression was illuminated by the firelight, his eyes black and dancing with amusement. Hook let out a long, aggressive string of expletives.

Noodler and Starkey were standing with their swords raised, trying to work out which boy to settle on as their target – but Emma’s blade was pointed squarely at Pan. As the boys in front of Hook advanced, he allowed himself to be herded back over to join the others.

Pan shook his head in disappointment. “You know better than to ignore my rules.”

Hook said nothing, merely glared back at him.

“It’s – wait, what is that expression you’re so fond of? No, wait, don’t tell me,” Pan affected an expression of concentration. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

One of the overeager Lost Ones loosed a black-tipped arrow, and it sang just past the skin of Hook’s cheek before clattering to a stop on a trunk behind him.

“Oh, that’s it.”

Pan smiled, but his eyes were dark and hollow.

“Bad form.”

#jay writes #brink #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #canon divergence #cs au #killian jones #emma swan #neverland #cs au week #I hope you guys like this!

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evilsnowswan · 7 years ago

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Summary: [Rumbelle Mermaid!AU] based on this prompt by repeatinglitanies: “In a world where people are aware of the existence of mermaids, Belle is a mermaid who lives in the world’s largest aquarium along with other sea creatures. She enjoys looking at the little humans who come to visit, especially a floofy haired boy who comes every week with his father….” An injured Belle is captured and brought to Gold and Milah’s aquarium. Gold is a marine biologist dedicated to protecting the creatures there, Milah wants to turn a profit, and their son has his own ideas about how to befriend a mermaid.

Rating: G/Teen Link to full story: [Read on AO3] Previous Chapters: [Coverart][Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10]

Current Chapter: 11/? Chapter Summary: Gold’s idea and Indigo’s reaction.

This one comes with beautiful art by the wonderful @kamdensl. Thank you so much again! She’s perfect, and adorable, and I love her to bits! ❤ I’ve been dying to share sweet Indigo in her field-trip!gear with you all. (Please, love her). She goes with both this chapter and the next.

Soundtrack:

Mask Makers mood: [X] Trust/ Outside the Medical Wing/ Meeting TEACHER: [X][X][X][X]

Chapter 11

Most days, she didn’t mind the food, the games, or his company. The sweet milk he gave her tasted a little funny and the beak-feeder she was to drink it from took some getting used to, but she had gotten used to a lot of things lately. It reminded her of birds feeding their young ones - hence the name she had chosen for it.

Names had to be either descriptive or meaningful - or both. Sometimes that made them dull.

Her own name - beauty - she had grown into it. She didn’t feel particularly beautiful. The ocean held so much beauty, it felt wrong to call herself special. She had pretty scales. Not everyone had a tail like hers, and it got her noticed. That much was true. But her so-called beauty paled in comparison.

The beak-feeder, for example, was much more interesting and thus infinitely more beautiful in Belle’s eyes. A beautiful, curious little object that filled her with awe and wonder. And it filled her with questions too. So many questions. She didn’t know where to start or how to start asking them.

Why the merling girl? Who was she? Was this her beak-feeder? And where was she now?

All her attempts at asking the airling about her had failed. Either he couldn’t understand, or he didn’t want to. She would try again, but not today. Now was not the time. She didn’t feel like labored, broken, fruitless conversation. She wasn’t in the mood for games or learning new symbols. She just wanted to be left alone, stare at the water, and dream of home.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the airling step away. She could have propped herself up to keep him in view, get a better look at what he was doing, but she couldn’t find it in herself to move.

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she had a say in anything anyway.

She had taken the milk, sat in the one-armed kraken, and let him touch, and manipulate her body in any way he wished, while the little red sun warmed her skin. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was the real sun that tickled her nose and drew the sprinkling of sun spots from her soul and right onto her cheeks. If she concentrated hard enough, she could make herself believe that it was a warm rock her body rested on, and that the salt she tasted in the air came from the waves breaking on it - rather than from the hiss-spitter clutched in his hand.

Only, the airling’s footfalls sounded nothing like the big waves that pounded on the shore, nor were they like the smaller ones that lapped at it. His legs didn’t roll and crash into the open space in front of him. His feet wouldn’t wash over sand and rocks with grace. His walking was very stiff and rather jerky, as much unlike water as anything could be. There was a tendency to shuffle. He could stride out if he wanted to, leaving him exhausted.

Belle sighed and turned her head, studying him.

He had given her a squishy round thing - almost like a sponge and alarmingly red - that fit into her palm perfectly and tasted like floater when put into your mouth, and which she was to throw if whatever they did hurt her.

She had understood that pretty quickly, but had thrown it precisely at his head once or twice before -just because- regardless. Because she had been bored, or displeased, or wanting to annoy him back. It would have been easier to just hand her more throw-things to express those sentiments as well, she thought. Maybe different colors or shapes. But he was a quick study too, and by now could tell which was supposed to be which - most of the time.

Right now, he wasn’t paying attention. His focus was turned inward, eyes exploring a world she couldn’t see, lips forming sounds that weren’t meant for her ears - and which she wouldn’t have understood even if they had been- and eyebrows drawing together, forcing deep folds into the smooth forehead.

Something was wrong.

Instinctively, Belle froze, listening for whatever had caused his mood to shift so drastically. Had something happened? Her eyes and ears didn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Nothing suspicious, no imminent danger. But perhaps the airling had spotted something she had not. After all, it hadn’t been he who had found himself entangled, trapped in silent death’s clutches, had it?

Unease growing in her belly, Belle bit her lip.

The airling, he looked so… sad. But there was more to it than just your regular low spirits.

She had learned to read him pretty well. Airlings were much harder than merlings, but it wasn’t like there was much else for her to do around here anyway, he was with her almost all the time now, and practice made perfect. Yet, Belle struggled to make sense of his facial expression and general agitation.

Her fingers closed around the squishy sponge.

What was going on?

Squinting slightly, she took aim, but didn’t let it fly just yet. Instead, she propped herself up on one arm, raising an eyebrow at him and flopping over onto her back with a playful grin. Perhaps a game would cheer him up? He seemed to enjoy playing those almost as much as she did. She’d agree to a round of Ding Snatcher or Four Eggs in a Row, if that was what it took.

Belle held her breath as his hands touched her arms and torso, the rough fingertips on her sensitive skin making her squirm and laugh. Under his touch, she felt herself relax again, and he smiled at her, his eyes crinkling.

He had old eyes, Belle noticed. Cut from weathered sandstone that braved the waves and storms. They reminded her of something she hadn’t felt in a very long time: trust.

Belle sucked in air, a tiny gasp of surprise.

His hands had stopped moving, but the happy little tickle was inside her chest still- and starting to spread. She traced it to her twitching fin, and felt it jump the gaps between her fingers. The sense of calm, peace, and stability she had felt a mere second ago had rolled back on the horizon and turned into a sizzling wave of warm, effervescent energy that made it hard to keep still.

Her heart beating faster and cheeks flushing with anger and confusion, Belle clenched her fists and squeezed the little sponge hard, then threw it in his direction.

When he shifted his gaze, her indignation evaporated into thin air like foam on hot sand. She couldn’t help but smile at the puzzled look on his face and the attentive concern she found in his eyes as they swept over her face and body.

His hands formed a question. He shook his head.

Still smiling, Belle pressed her lips and her fingers together. No, she wasn’t hurt.

Little bursts of energy fizzed in her tail and belly, and she blew out her cheeks, batting her eyes to try and quickly dispel some of it before the urge to move, to swim and dive, grew too strong and overpowered her. The little water box she lived in now wasn’t built to withstand such whims. And her tail and fin weren’t strong enough to support silly endeavors like the one she yearned for, even if it were.

The airling burst out laughing, but then his face clouded over, and he turned away from her and began to pace. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with excess energy in her limbs.

When he didn’t stop, worry and despair drawing lines on his face again, Belle wished nothing more than for a magnificent wave to rise from the tense silence, break in his path, and wash them away.

The strangely euphoric feelings that had had her feeling more positive and energized- she could feel them dying, her lungs slowly clogging up with dead tissue, choking her.

Belle never took her eyes off him. Thunder boomed and clapped in her chest so loudly, she feared she might lose the gift of sound permanently. She was so focused on the airling and what he was doing that she didn’t notice someone else enter their space until they moved in on the newly recalibrated center of her universe, and made her jump in fright.

Jumper Girl.

Belle hadn’t seen her since-

all the white hot energy coalesced in her belly, causing it to flip-flop and then drop out. Nausea and panic crept up into her chest and closed up her throat. Belle tried blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes, but it didn’t seem to be working.

Was he sending her back? Back to the glass coffin and the soapy, dead water and mindless fish?

Eyes flicking to him briefly, Belle’s heart thumped, her belly churning as she worried over what would happen next.

Would she be asked to jump again?

Sitting up, hands by her sides and fists clenched, Belle felt tears trail down her cheeks and shifted her tail awkwardly. It felt much heavier than she remembered. Swimming without aid, let alone performing multiple jumps in quick succession seemed like a sheer physical impossibility. She’d never swim like that again.

“IN-DI-GO?”

His voice broke through her stupor, and she turned her head with a grimace.

She refused to answer - didn’t know how, yet opened and closed her mouth helplessly, looking for reassurance despite herself, and he took her hands.

Voice and eyebrows rising, his face troubled, he asked her something, and Belle glanced down at their linked hands as she held the tears back as best she could.

Her best, however, wasn’t good enough, and she sagged, covering her face with her hands in shame.

The airling pulled her into a hug. She let it happen, listened to the rhythm of his heart beating. How curious was it that their hearts were on opposite sides of their chests? Airlings and merlings were so different, and yet so alike. Watching them was like watching your own reflection on still water. The same, almost, but not quite.

She had gotten used to so many strange things that no longer felt strange to her at all.

Their way of communicating would forever stay alien to her, but even if she failed to distinguish the meaningful parts - save for ‘gemstone’ and the little boy’s name - the airling gibberish had grown on her, become familiar. She noticed nuances now, subtle changes in pitch and volume, patterns of stress and intonation that allowed her to infer- or at least, make an educated guess on- the meaning of what was being said to her with some certainty. Knowing the context, the speaker or their intent, helped a lot and made it even easier.

Belle had no way of knowing what he said as he held her in his arms, but the string of sounds was a warm current against her ear, harshness turned soft and soothing, and she instantly felt a lot calmer.

Pulling back and smiling up at the airling, she quickly ran a hand over her eyes. She chuckled tearfully.

It was going to be alright.

A sudden movement to her right caught her attention. Jumper Girl was off to the side, arms folded around herself protectively, watching them. Belle wanted to smile at her too, maybe wave, but just then she caught a glimpse of something that sent cold chills down her spine and mobilized her with such fear that she reflexively leapt up and almost dove off the sunbathing platform in panic. Covering her head with both arms she pressed herself flat onto the warm surface, her scream another silent one.

Gemstone, he said again. A question. Confusion.

After a moment’s hesitation, she slowly turned around to face him, her eyes wide. The white pelt draped over the girl’s arm had her heart beat a rapid staccato against her ribcage.

Were they going to skin her?! Skin her alive?!

She had heard the stories, heard them sung a million times. Merlings making contact with airlings where water meets land. Merling maidens seeking those in need of help, those who are dissatisfied with their lives or lonely, and being coerced into relationships or servitude before brutally slaughtered for their skins. The tears they shed into the sea as they sat and wept turned the water salty, and from their blood the fish and corals were born into this world, to fill the ocean with a far greater beauty than any airling eye would ever get to behold.

The airling. He was looking at her with concern in his eyes; smiling at her now- a smile bright with affection and warmth. He had been good to her, Belle reminded herself with a deep breath. Even after the incident. Even after she had endangered his family. He had shown her nothing but kindness. He never lost his temper. He didn’t mind when she got grouchy from pain and nostalgia or moaned about the food and games.

No, his hands caressing her shoulders and back assured her. He was not going to hurt her. Not now, not ever. His touch whispered and hummed on her skin, singing a lovely little tune of its own, and she sighed, feeling the tension ebb away.

He nudged her.

Belle reached out a trembling hand. The pelt was soft, despite its wetness. Baby seals just grown out of their whitecoat stage was what it looked like, but it felt different under her fingertips. This was no relict from the Great Killings in the North, no airling hunter’s trophy.

Immensely relieved, but slightly bewildered, Belle let the airlings carefully drape it around her shoulders, then help her arms through strategically placed holes that allowed free use of her hands.

The coat was large and long, reaching down over her torso and covering part of her tail. Her skin, heated and dry from the little red sun’s beams, welcomed the luxurious, heavy cool. It closed in the front, where the airling father tied a loose strip into a knot to keep everything in place. Then he drew up a smaller part attached to the back, bringing it over her head.

The rich smell of ice and salt engulfed her like a hug, her skin breathing into soft fur, and Belle felt a lump in her throat. They had turned her into a gigantic Ice-Lover from the Green Island, the Isle of Mask Makers, between the Arctic and Atlantic Oceans and east of the Ice Uplands.

Staring down at her own body covered in snow-white furs, Belle’s imagination pushed to life, woken from its slumber and propelling her mind forward fast, and she began to wonder. Green Island, was that where they were? Or perhaps the airlings would be taking her there? She had only heard of its airling population in her people’s darkest and creepiest songs. The sewers of skins, the makers of masks; They who called upon the ghosts of the dead and carved their bones with their teeth. If they saw you, they would put you to sleep forever.

Belle shuddered, her heart gripped with terror and curiosity alike.

Perhaps she would find out if the stories were true- or just something merling fathers told their young daughters so they’d stay close to home and far away from the airling world. As long as this airling was by her side, she might even live to tell the tale.

Wherever it was they were going, at least they were going somewhere, she thought, readily rolling over onto her belly and on top of a hard piece of something like wood, shaped like a seal’s belly. On the count of three, the airlings then moved it onto another platform, not unlike the one she took her sunbaths on- only this one could float.

She gripped the handles tight and they pushed her towards the opening. Towards where the airling disappeared to sleep and reappeared in the mornings; then through, and into another place that she had never been before.

Belle looked around wildly, cast her eyes around the open space expectantly, but it was just another box. Another long, narrow box made from stone, dark and lifeless. Her face fell a little.

But they kept moving. In and out of boxes, up and down, through endless caves and tunnels and openings that closed behind them with a loud click, until finally, something wonderful hit her nose and filled her ears.

Birdsong, saltwater.

She didn’t hear the waves, but they couldn’t be far.

Belle’s fin twitched. She pushed up on her hands and shifted her weight to get a better view. In front of her a wall eased out of the way to reveal yet another opening, and behind it- a glowing horizon, and a vast body of glittering blue.

She gasped, sucked in heady air. The squeal that escaped her, she couldn’t have held it back if she tried.

Beside her, the airling chuckled, covering her hand with his. The evening breeze picked up and caught in her hair, playing with a loose curl. Her heart was thumping with excitement, her breath coming hard through her nose, and she squinted in the orange light of the setting sun, sinking towards the water.

The beautiful, beautiful water.

His voice was gentle and full of reverence as he bent down to whisper something in her ear, and her smile widened.

As they slowly lowered her down to the ground, she squirmed and wriggled, eyes set on the waterline. Had he not held her back by the shoulders, she would have dashed for it, dove right under that smooth surface, the itch tickling every cell in her body, the urge to swim far greater than any conscious thought.

The airling helped her disentangle herself from the fur coat. Laughing, he shook his head, let go and took a silent step back from her, putting the strap of fur to his lips and bending to pick up her coat. He shook it out, draped it over the floating sunbed, straightened his back, and waved her off towards the sound of water lapping against a stone-made shore.

Belle lunged forward, let herself hit the water face first, and pushed off with a long stroke.

Wonderfully cool and calm turquoise blue threw its arms wide in welcome, washing around her body, caressing her tenderly from head to fin. Salt danced and swirled around her, and she twirled underwater, feeling as light as a jellyfish on a wave. The silence took a breath and winked at her. Belle closed her eyes and listened for a while, floating on strong invisible hands.

Before she could decide to head back up to the surface to breathe air, a shrill sound from above split the relaxing refuge in half, forcing her to open her eyes and recollect herself, gathering all her little pieces back from inside the water’s melody.

When she breached the surface, so had another, and they were coming towards her.

Both of them went back under.

Belle felt the string of pulses, clicks and whistles vibrate against her skin, the sound reverberating in her body.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, so as not to interrupt. She had to wait her turn, listen to the pulse pack fully before making a response, or it would be considered rude. She was entering into their home, a visitor in their world, and needed to conform to etiquette.

Belle held her breath, listening intently.

“Greetings, merfolk!”

The pulses grew louder as the dolphin came closer, zoomed past, and gave her a quick once-over. And then it went off into the opposite direction.

Dolphins know no secrets, they know the truth, was what her father used to say to her when she was a child and tried to spin him some seaweed to get herself out of trouble.

“Gree-ee-ee-tings,” the dolphin trilled.

Dolphins were able to see inside you, inside your body and soul, so they could see your true self and all your emotions, could see how excited or calm you were; and they were particularly attuned to attitude, so the inner attitude that you had about them- if you appreciated them, if you respected them, if you took a polite and sensitive approach to them, maybe showed some curiosity and open-mindedness, they would know that immediately.

The dolphin came back, stopped, and looked at her, its body forming a soft S-shape.

“TEACHER,” it said, opening its mouth. “TEACHER.”

Self-identifying whistle.

Belle waited, put a hand on her heart. Waited another beat.

“Belle,” she answered. “My name is Belle.”

Belle kept very still, waiting for the dolphin to take its turn in their conversation. When conversing with each other, each dolphin listened to the other’s pulses before producing its own.

TEACHER came up and nudged her nose a few times, and Belle scratched them under the chin.

“Female,” TEACHER said, using her self-identifying whistle again. “TEACHER.”

Dolphins would understand what it was you intended to do, or what you would like them to do, well before you had even fully formed the thought in your own mind.

She nodded.

TEACHER gave a displeased little click, and Belle felt the blood rise to her cheeks and temples.

My apologies, TEACHER, she thought. Please, continue.

Emitting a low squeak and whistle, TEACHER moved yet closer, almost touching her forehead to Belle’s.

“Come.”

Belle closed her eyes, and immediately saw the pictures flash before them.

A migrating pod, a cluster of floaters, silent death’s web, a black wave, a deserted beach, rain - PAUSE - hands and eyes, airlings. A familiar face and familiar places - full stop.

She exhaled. Breathed in.

A pool - this pool. More airlings. Young airlings, old airlings, sick airlings. Sick or hurt airlings swimming in the pool with TEACHER - full stop.

“Come,” TEACHER repeated, nudging her arm. “Come. Come. Come.” She eased back a little, did a slow roll, turned back, and looked at Belle, scanning, prompting, asking her to move.

Come where?

“Hurt,” TEACHER whistled low. “Hurt outside, hurt inside.”

She circled Belle, touched her side with her fin, made it so Belle’s hand would slide over her back, open palm, and come to rest just next to her dorsal fin.

“TEACHER. Come, Belle. Come.”

Belle understood, gripped onto it lightly with both hands, and the two of them were off, circling the pool, diving and swimming, going fast and going slow, parting the water and feeling it rush over shared skin.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumbelle art #mermaid!belle #ouat fanfiction #rumbelle au #my fic #fic: indigo

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