A/N: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, torture - both physical and psychological, lots of blood, and more violence. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.

Chapter One: Knock Me Down

He wakes on smooth stone, cool under his cheek, replacing the sensation of tears and golden hair spread across his skin, the last memory he has of life.

He looks around as he sits, trying to figure out where he is. He's in a cell of some kind, that much is abundantly clear. They all look the same in his experience - small, empty, bars across one side, though the actual details vary from each imprisonment he's had the pleasure of serving in his centuries.

All the memories from his death assault him at once just them, the vivid pictures flashing suddenly behind his eyes.

the marks on her family's wrists, condemning them to death

her face, Nimue choking the life that can't be stolen

gathering the darkness and handing her the sword

preparing himself for the bite of it, the pain much worse than anything he could have imagined

her face and - oh gods - her tears

her touch, holding him as he collapses against her

life draining from every part of him and then gone all at once

He's gasping, the memories choking him with the intensity of it, and he wonders if a heart torn in two can be broken further.

Emma.

He thought death would be something different, something less solid than the hard floor and sharp stones against his back. Perhaps this is a stop on the way to his eternity, a place of atonement, to make up for all the wrongs he so clearly remembers, and that's just the last few days.

He asked for this, he begged her for this, his penance for a life poorly lived, but now that he's here, he's damn well not spending his death sitting still and waiting in some brig. He stands, heading toward the door.

Whatever entity has him imprisoned has seen fit to leave him his hook but change his attire, clothing he's never worn before covering his body, though it's similar to what he has slowly gotten used to in his time with her.

Emma.

Just the thought of her leaves him reeling, and he catches himself on the bars across the entrance, leaning his forehead against the cold metal. He thought he could do this, end himself to save them all, but bloody hell, he misses her with a fierceness that burns through his dead limbs.

He takes a shaky breath, wondering for a moment why a deceased soul needs to breathe, but finding comfort in the familiarity nonetheless.

He straightens and gets to work on the door. There's no lock he can see, nothing to pick or smash with his hook, the thick bars seamlessly moulded into the carved stone at the ceiling and floor.

Damn.

But he grins anyway, remembering the words he'd told her lifetimes ago, when everything was simpler and he was less dead.

I love a challenge.

He begins to trace his way around the cell, walking slowly to examine each stone, searching for weakness or another method of escape. He might deserve to be here, but he hates the inaction of waiting in a cell for some unknown jailor to descend at will. Let him come to me, he thinks with a smirk.

A noise behind him startles him from his circuit around the room, and he spins toward the entrance. A man stands in the doorway dressed in a suit, complete with fashionable tie and polished shoes and looking vastly out of place amid the dank decor. A larger man stands beside him - familiar, though Killian can't place from where. The bars, so solid a few minutes ago, are completely gone as if they never were.

"What the hell?" he mutters quietly.

"How… apt," the newcomer says with a grin, his voice clipped, elegant, refined.

"So this is hell then?" Killian asks, raising an eyebrow.

The man steps closer almost lazily, confidence oozing from his every move. "Not quite, but you're not exactly wrong either."

"I suppose I'm meant to ask who you are and then beg for mercy?" He doesn't mean for his tone to come out quite as biting as it does, but what value is there to holding his tongue here? He's dead, he deserves the right to stop playing games with monsters who claim to hold power over him. What's the worst that could happen, anyway?

"Allow me to spare you the trouble," the man replies, offering a short bow. "Hades, at your service."

Ah, yes. Another god. How wonderful.

"This is the Underworld."

Another bow from the god. "In the flesh, so to speak."

Enough talking.

"Why am I here?" Killian asks, hoping to get to the point so he can resume his escape attempt. Not that he has any idea what he's escaping to, dead and forgotten souls probably populating this land for miles around. For a moment, he allows a glimmer of hope to light in his heart, perhaps there's someone here he knows, family he's left behind all those-

He chases away the thoughts with a forceful shake of his head. Impossible. Liam wouldn't be in this state of limbo, not with the heroic life he lived. And Milah… well, he could only hope she would have moved on long ago, finally reunited with her boy . There should be no one here for him, no one until she joins him, eventually, hopefully not for a very long while.

Regardless, the urge to flee from captivity is one not easily reasoned with, and he itches to do something, to move, despite the presence of the lord before him.

"That's complicated," Hades replies, "and on a need-to-know basis. Let's start with a job offer, shall we?"

A what?

His confusion must show, because Hades is already answering his unasked question.

"You've been very kind to me over the years, Captain," he says as he strolls slowly around the small space. "I've had the pleasure of meeting many of the souls you've dispatched here and, I must say, I'm impressed with your… stamina. You had good thing going there for a few centuries, far longer than most of the villains I've encountered, even the magical ones."

"What's your point?" Killian asks through a clenched jaw.

"Ah, direct. I love that about you." Hades grins, a frightful look, but Killian is done with fear, now. "I'd like to continue that partnership for a bit longer. See, in the end there, you kind of slacked off. Joined up with the heroes, made a turn toward the side of all that is good and, let's be honest, boring. I'll agree to send you back up there for, I don't know, a hundred more years, in exchange for triple that in souls by the term's end?"

Back up there, back to life, to her… He can't control the leap of hope that starts in his heart at the thought of seeing her again, being with her, alive.

But at what cost?

He shakes his head firmly. "I'm not doing it."

Hades wags a finger at him as he approaches, his grin now leaning more toward dangerous than mirth. "I knew there was a catch with you," he says. "Defiant as always, Captain. Can't say I appreciate the attitude, but it's not altogether unexpected."

He's close, now, his face inches from Killian's as his eyes darken and the smile slips from his face.

"You have hundreds of years of experience being a pirate, and still you choose the novice career of hero, Captain," he says, his voice low and threatening. "No one defies me, Captain. Not even a legend."

Strong hands grab his arms just above the elbows and he's pulled back with a gasp as Hades steps back, his easily confident smile back in place. The other man, he remembers wildly, struggling in the iron grip. He kicks backward, striking the other in the shin, but the tight hold on his arms doesn't weaken in the slightest. Moving fast, he snaps his head back violently, cracking the other man in the nose as stars burst painfully behind his eyes, and his arms are released. He stumbles as he steps away but doesn't fall, turning quickly to meet his attacker.

Not fast enough. The other man's fist slams into his eye, sending him reeling backward into the wall. His vision blurs and he can almost feel the swollen beginnings of a bruise forming on the left side of his face.

Before he can recover, another beefy fist crashes into his gut, forcing out his breath as he doubles over. He staggers, the wall not enough to hold him up anymore. A knee follows the fist to his stomach and he falls to the floor, wheezing slightly. He wonders again about the nature of breathing in this realm of the dead, but he doesn't dare stop trying to pull in the air his body seems to crave.

He sees the fist coming, aimed directly at his head, and he ducks underneath it, satisfied at the sound of bone and skin against cold, hard stone as he spins away. But the large man doesn't make a sound, just pulls back his hand to try again, Killian barely able to stand as he faces him.

"I've fought ogres scarier than you," he taunts, feeling the crazed grin that creeps across his face, pulling his lips back in a snarl. "Is that the best you've got?"

The man advances, but Killian is ready, his fist hitting the other's abdomen with a force that… does nothing. Absolutely nothing. The large man barely slows at the punch as he swings his hand once again toward his head. Killian lashes out and grabs the other man's wrist, spinning his arm to the side as he jabs forward with his hook, slicing it across the other's chest. Blood, bright and red, springs from the fresh wound, but the man comes closer still, his huge fists aimed at his face.

He's tiring, he can feel it, he can feel the sweat on his skin along with the slow trickle of blood on his cheek from the first punch, his quickly swelling eye beginning to block all sight on that side. He's tiring, and he's dead, and he can't figure out the rules of this obvious game he's now stuck in. It's a game, it's always a game, for those with the power to abuse others. If he can just survive long enough, he might be able to determine how things work, and then attempt to undo them, as he's always done.

A mighty big 'if'.

He dodges one punch but the second catches him at a glancing blow to the jaw, and he tastes the blood slowly filling his mouth from where his teeth break the skin inside his cheek. He spits out what he can before turning back, but once again, he underestimates the large man's speed. A hand clenches around his throat, shoving him backward into the wall, the other hand joining the first as the man squeezes tighter. His hook and hand claw uselessly at the man's arms as he fights for air, it's the farthest he can reach from where he's pressed against the stone. His efforts draw blood but the tight grip doesn't waver.

He can't breathe, can't escape, he can only watch as the man lifts his knee, driving it again and again into his abdomen, his ribs screaming in agony though he cannot. He wants to shout, to yell, to release the air the other man forces with each blow to his middle, but the fingers are strong against his throat, closing off all exits for his breath. His vision begins to darken at the edges, and he's prepared to welcome the unconsciousness that's sure to come soon enough. Tears fill his eyes, not of despair, but of frustration and pain and exertion. Not that anyone there cares about the distinction, but it matters, to him.

The hands release his neck suddenly, tossing him roughly to the floor, and he can only crouch, gasping, as the black spots in his eyes begin to fade. A foot slams into his stomach and he sprawls on his side, certain something's fractured if not outright broken as he frantically pulls in all the air he can. The large hands grab his jacket and pull him forward off the ground, one releasing to smash into his face - once, twice. At the third blow he's barely holding on to awareness anymore, his head lolling weakly. His lip is split, skin broken in other places on his face, blood trickling from his mouth, his cheek, his forehead.

"Enough."

One word from the god of the Underworld and the man releases his grip. Killian falls to the ground, his head cracking hard on the unyielding stone. His face feels puffy, distorted, his left eye swollen beyond sight, and his chest is sore and battered, each gasp for air shifting bruised ribs and muscles, his breaths coming too hard and too fast to make up for the many he's lost in the other's crushing grasp.

"I think we've overstayed our welcome for a first visit, Captain," Hades says as he kneels beside his good eye. "But rest assured we'll be back. We do have so much to talk about." He pats him on the shoulder and stands, walking to the doorway.

"Come, Claude," he says to the large man at his side. "You've done well. You can come back and play with our new toy another time."

Without another word, the two vanish, leaving Killian alone once more, the bars as solid across the former opening as if they were always there.

Claude, he thinks, trying to remember, his memories the only thing he truly has anymore. Claude…

He barks out a pained laugh, the motion jerking his bruised chest, but still he laughs. Claude, the guard he killed in Regina's castle and then carried to Wonderland all those years ago, the first step on his journey toward what he thought was revenge, toward death, but was actually toward her, the one who'd given him life after so many centuries spent merely breathing.

Emma, he thinks, and this time he smiles, his bloodied lip cracking further, fresh iron dripping into his mouth.

He can work on his escape later, once he's had a chance to rest.

With her name as a prayer on his lips, he drifts into the darkness.