Part one: Killian.

How I miss the ocean!

There is an exhilarating sense of freedom when one's atop the deck of a wooden sea vessel, crossing the oceans; the scent of salt and it's gritty taste on your lips, the winds that blow your ship around, under the whim of the weather, the vast, endless view of the sea and the sky, unified by a distant line that can only be seen at dawn and dusk, between the golden reflection of an emerging or setting sun… and just the immensity of the starry night above your head. The stars have always been there and will continue to be there long after this world and all the others that sit parallel to it are long gone.

And they will very certainly be there long after I draw my final breath, which, alas, might not be too long from now.

I still chuckle at the irony; I'm no older than thirty seven and yet I am over three hundred. By any standard I should have been pushing up the daisies since many years ago and yet, I feel I am still too young to die. I am now the same age my brother Liam was when he passed away in my arms. My darling brother, my only family… And then, there was her, with her dark hair and deep, blue eyes, my Milah, who quite literally died (also in my arms, might I add) from a crushed heart, slain by the husband whom she had abandoned only a year earlier. My, how the years passed, not slowly, mind you, but swift like a northern wind, pushing my thirst for revenge and fueling my anger together with the white and crimson sails of my only other love: my ship, The Jolly Roger. My desire to claim his life… it was that sunken feeling of wanting payback for my love's untimely demise that kept me young for so many years. It could easily be said, that if I were to join some sort of support group, I'd go for anger management… and maybe that which the people of this realm call the A-A. I might just have a small, petty drinking habit. It really is nothing extraordinary; after all, my loves, who has ever heard of a pirate with no small bottle of cheap, handmade rum safely tucked in his inner coat pocket?

Well…, alas, my love of the buccaneer's bevvy is costing me my life now. Now, at last, when I have finally found peace, when love has come back into my life through so many years of darkness and shone a light of hope in my heart, now that I have found meaning and desire to live, to breathe, to love, to laugh and just feel joy… now, just now, I am diagnosed with a terminal liver ailment. "Three hundred years of boozing will do that to you…" Dr. Whale had said to me. "I am so sorry, Killian."

Devil knows what he called it; I believe he said… wait, I jotted it down somewhere, let me… ah this bloody hook… right, here it is: Cystic fibrosis in stage two cirrhosis of the liver. Bloody hell… Basically, and to make matters short and easy to understand, my liver's turning into a black rock. And in this realm of no happy endings, where no measure of magic can undo what the cogs and coils of fate have set in motion for me, it basically means my failing organ will not so slowly poison my blood until I cease to be. Like Dreamshade, only slower. In no more than a month and no less than one week, I will be dead.

I have already written a letter; in it I specifically asked to be taken out to sea in my Jolly Roger… and be set light to so I can melt into the horizon with my faithful ship. Me crew has slowly died through the years while the unnatural life their captain enjoyed allowed me to see each and every one of them sadly disappear into Davy Jones' Locker. I figured it fitting for me to join them there… with a little more glamour, of course, a dashing death for a dashing pirate.

I sit now here, atop a fence in this modern town of Storybrooke, waiting to see her, as always. At eight sharp in the morning, she steps into that pub house called Granny's and emerges with a bagel and a tall cup of black coffee. She blows into it twice, sometimes three times, and takes a tiny sip through that little peephole on the lid. She usually will burn the tip of her tongue and fan her open mouth with the hand holding the paper bag with the bagel in it and then she will walk the block to the brig. That's what she does: She's what they call a "Sheriff", a trooper and a soldier and yes, a savior. She has saved each and every living thing that now dwells in this village, my sad besotted self included.

She has a son. He is sixteen now. He's a mighty good lad, with a good heart and a keen eye to see the good in people whom anyone else might deem beyond repair. I knew his father, back in Neverland, where I dwelt for so many years (hence my very elderly yet still young and handsome as all hell condition) in search of living long enough to find a way to slay the man who killed my Milah. But when a boy named Baelfire (Bae, we all called him) was washed up into the Jolly Roger, it set in motion a whole lot of events that would lead me to the woman I love now… You see, that lively lad I rescued was the son of my late love Milah and her husband, Rumplestiltskin, who made it his devilish task to see to her death, not to mention the tragic loss of my left hand and my utter misery. I knew he doted on his boy; probably the only strain of kindness in his heart. Killing the lad would have damaged his soul enough for him to wish for death and hopefully, bring about my own and allow me to join my Milah. But the boy had her smile; I could not bring myself to kill him, to harm anything that would have come from her womb… he could have very well been my own child. So I took it upon myself to train him as a skilled sailor, maybe a lieutenant, later in life. He soon became like a son to me, or a younger brother, not to mention an apt seaman and a fast learner.

Alas, it was not meant to be… We fell out, and he came to this realm, where he met that darling creature with the coffee and the bagel, and together, they begot a son.

He died a few years back, saving his father's life… that same immortal father whom I have discarded from my black list, both out of pity as well as for the love I feel for his grandson. Oh, the irony that I should indeed go before him! So many years I planned and plotted for revenge… and then, seeing this poor, shriveled man lose first the son he adored and then his wife… that poor girl. I had tried to hurt her before, but lived to regret it. Blind anger can make a man do many a thing he'll be sorry for. Belle had also recently left this world after a tragic miscarriage. He may have been my foe, but I do know the feeling of losing the woman you love and at this point in life, now that I can clearly tell good from evil and think of myself as a fairly decent bloke, I would not wish that angst and pain on anybody, not even Rumplestiltskin.

As for Bae, to this day I visit his gravesite and after I ensure no one is watching, I produce a flower, which I place atop the soil that covers his casket. I also normally shed a tear or two for my late, almost adoptive son-brother and rival.

Then there's her.

I met her in my quest for revenge, six years ago. Indeed she was beautiful, but being the ruggedly handsome man that I am, female beauty of the flesh was not an uncommon or unobtainable asset for me; I had had many a man's wife, daughter, sister and maid. So that in itself was not what made me fall for her. I'd rather say that it was her inner fire that caught me like a bug circling a lit torch. She is a woman of strength and resilience, probably the only person intelligent enough to outsmart a cunning pirate like myself, not once, but repeatedly. She, just as I, knew what it was to lose hope, to love and get your heart broken. She was not one to be jested with; and her fear of going through life unloved, that other, tender side to her, that need for her to have someone just wrap her arms around her and be there, no matter what… that was my final undoing.

My lady Swan… my Emma.

It took aches and pains and more than a few drinks to get her to finally stop seeing me as an unreliable former foe. She was distrustful, as was I. How could we not, with the lot we both got in life? But we found each other. I fell for her from the moment she pulled my hair and held a knife to my neck. What! I AM a pirate; I like the rough life, all right? She was able to see through me just as much as I saw through her, something no one else in any realm had been able to do. I think it was just as much of a surprise to her as it was to me. She was good in a blade fight as well. I had to fight her more than once, but I never would have hurt her; it would have been like hurting a half of my own heart. Every passing moment I kept thinking of ways (excuses, rather) to get back to her, maybe even side with her, and when the opportunity to save her son arose, I didn't hesitate. She kissed me then, once… and my fate was sealed. I fell like a ton of rocks. She had warned me I wouldn't be able to handle it and she had been right; I was completely undone by her kiss and the hopeful promise of maybe eventually getting another, more meaningful one replaced what hatred and vengeance remained in my heart with the beacon of hope that was Emma Swan. Then there was that bloody curse that separated us for a whole year until, once again, I found myself in the perfect spot to get her back into my life… so I found her, jogged her memory, and brought her back to the town where I continued my wooing of her through the dangers of highly rabid flying apes who had once been innocent bystanders, and a green-skinned sorceress who nearly finished us all… she eventually yielded one night, after one too many attempts on my part to claim her heart; I had managed to set up a perfect candlelit dinner atop the deck of the Jolly, surprised her by showing her I could actually dance (and that I did have more wardrobe in my quarters aside from my usual leather getup) and showed her all that I knew about the stars of her realm which, I must say, are beyond fascinating; she leaned into me, kissed my lips, called me by my name, embraced me, shared my bed, made love and entwined her soul with mine. Bliss, in all the extension of the word. And we have hardly spent a night apart since.

Bloody hell, who would have known that that bright, beautiful angel would turn out to be the true love of a no good, vengeful ruffian such as I?

Like every morning, she sipped her coffee. But she didn't walk to her brig. She frowned and looked immediately in my direction. Busted. And, like always, I fell into her bewitchingly adorable smile as she walked to me.

Placing her coffee on the fence, she placed her arms around me neck and gave me a gentle, happy kiss. "Didn't feel you getting up this morning…" She smiled.

I rolled my eyes and lied. "You know I don't like to be seen visiting Bae's grave love…"

"Really?" She moaned.

"I have a thing!"

She narrowed her eyes. "I've seen you naked and without your hook brace, how much more of a "thing" can one have, Killian?"

I had to laugh. "That you have, love. Point taken. And proud to return the favor." I added a wink to the line.

She looked into my eyes as I desperately tried to conceal my sadness, but instead of carrying on with her chatty talking, she furrowed her brow at me. "Something's up, isn't there? Something's going on."

"Well, you're the all-seeing one, not I."

She put her bagel beside her coffee and came back to my face, studying it. Did I mention I also loved her funny little skill to see clean past a person's lies?

"Hook…"

"Swan…"

"What aren't you telling me?"

I sighed deep and bit my lower lip as I tried to divert my gaze elsewhere. I hated this; I hated it more than I hated this realm's visual rendition of Peter Pan and its completely unrealistic and unflattering version of myself. And that's saying a lot. But if one policy had won me the heart of Emma Swan and in turn, her hand in marriage, it had been honesty, something rather precious and hard to come by when you're a pirate. Why should I start deceiving her now?

"Killian?"

I closed my eyes and nodded. "Yes, darling. There is something."

Oh, I loved that little scorn she made when a particularly painful problem arose, where she'd press her lips together and look down. She reached out and grabbed her coffee and bagel and turned to me. "Walk with me…"

We reached the brig (she called it police station) and she set her drink and breakfast down on her desk. I sat on the chair before it and she saddled herself on the desk. "Ok, spill." She sighed in all seriousness. "What have you done now?"

I laughed a sad laugh. "It's not so much what I've done, love, but what I will do soon."

"Shit, you're not in another epic rumple-killing binge, or anything of that kind again, are you?" She raised her brows. "The poor guy's been through enough, baby, I'll have to chain you to the cell…"

"Yeah, you do have a thing for that, don't you? Sounds sexy…" I raised my eyebrow at her. "But no, love, the dark one's life is permanently safe from my hook now. And I mean permanently."

"Well…" she leaned over, looking more concerned than anything. "What is it?"

I don't often weep in front of people; call it misogynistic if you will, but eighteenth century Enchanted Forest Captains don't usually burst into a melodramatic episode when they ache, especially not in front of a lady. But this time, the thought of hurting her, the idea that yet again her love would leave her, the idea of her crying over me and hating her miserable luck was enough to set me off. Not the insanely loud hollers of a hysterical maiden bawling… but I hung my head and wept all the same.

"Oh no…" I heard her whisper. "You… didn't go to see Neal, did you?" I could hear her voice cracking in unison with my heart. "You got the test results…"

I sniffed and looked up. "Aye…"

"And they're not good…"

"They're not, my love…"

She swallowed. "Well?"

I once again reached into my pocket and produced the paper with the diagnosis. She read it at least ten times (I could tell she was going over it; I knew how she moved her eyes when she was unable to focus) before looking at me, tears welling in her own eyes. "Does this mean…?"

I stood up and held her to me. "Aye, love. It does."

She held me back and I could feel her shaking her head in repeatedly adamant "no" motion. How I hated to see her cry.

"There must be something that can be done!" She pulled from me. "I mean, Regina or Mr. Gold, they could…"

"No magic can heal this, Emma." I whispered. "Were it a sleeping curse, or anything from our land, magic would work. But you know that that's not the case here!"

"Bullshit!" She shouted. "Rumple cured Belle when you shot her!"

I winced at the memory. "That was a flesh wound, love, this is a terminal disease! A life for a life is the only way and that's rather unthinkable at this point."

"Well, I'm not giving up until I hear it from him AND Regina AND I all put together!" She hollered. She did that a lot when she was sad; I was her own way of masking her pain.

I sighed and walked to her, cupping her in my arms once more. "I already spoke to Mr. Gold, darling. That's why I left so early. I got the results last night. And if Rumplestiltskin himself was unable to save his own son when Bae gave up his life for him, and was helpless as his son lay dying … Regina won't be able to, either. He has enough to deal with, first his son and then his pregnant wife… Emma…" I held her face in my good hand and hooked her right arm, pulling her to me. "...You know how that goes, my love, once a life is lost, the only way to stop or revert that demise is with the hefty cost of another life…" I hugged her as she wept miserably in my arms. "I've had it with death… no one will die now, especially not for a waste of human blood such as I…"

"You're not a waste…" She wept, muffled by my chest. "You were never a waste."

I sank my face in her hair and took a deep breath. Oh these memories were the ones I'd take! Her scent, her soft, milky skin grazing mine while making love, the whisper of my name in my ear from her lips, the twinkle in her eye, her smile the day she said "I do", the sight of her being a mother to the son whom I now loved as my own and her uncanny ability to make me smile and bring out the best of me under the direst circumstances… why did it have to be so?

That night, we spent it alone on my ship. We left a note for Henry at the flat, telling him we'd be out; he must have been relieved, thinking that if his old lady and her bow (his stepfather now) were to have a night to themselves it was probably awkward for it to happen in an open loft apartment where even the faintest sound of a mouse running through the pipes would be heard from bathroom to kitchen to dormitories. And we were rather loud, so it was a safer bet.

It was a sad but beautiful night for both. We ate, talked about other trivialities, made love at least three times and then cried ourselves to sleep, rocked by the gentle tide under the Jolly Roger. I caressed her mop of golden tresses and tried to keep my weeping as quiet as possible so as to not wake her up.