Sum’:Once again trouble fall upon the peaceful coven, spreading its darkness on each Hook. Only this time only one will remain and with the help of the Savior, will decide the fate of the rest of their secret family…
Notes: That’s it! First big chapter (or at least it looks like that on my google doc haha). And to be honest things gonna get fun now :D And a lot of thing will happens lol but umh first another terrible ending lies ahead…
(PS to @kmomof4, just stay in your grave okay? don’t try to come out, you’ll probablyend up in your cozy hole anyway…)
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After finding all her strength back from her emotional rollercoaster, Emma had been walking down the halls, looking for Whale as she texted her father to meet her by Killian’s chamber as soon as he could. It had been hard, but she’d found her loophole, and Emma was happy to finally have the end in sight with the healing of her pirate. She had almost reached the reception hall when she heard someone running behind her.
“Miss Swan. Miss Swan!!” the voice she recognized as belonging to Dr. Whale called out.
Killian had only to close his eyes to be transported back there. That dreadful hovel with its table of pain. Those callous hands dragging a dull-edged blade along his jaw. And nothing ahead of him but more suffering. No hope.
Focus on the differences. Warm, soft bed, no splintered, uncomfortable wood. Blankets and a gown instead of cold nudity. The din of automation replacing the scratchy ring of imprecise steel. Similar pungent disinfectant but less decay, less blood and pain and fear. And, most important, gentle touch. No intent to hurt or degrade. Only meticulous, loving care from the one person on Earth he trusted without reservation.
“Holy crap,” teased Emma, “I think we need to get Whale to put a sign on your door warning that there’s a handsome pirate inside.”
Knowing that he still looked like a wreck despite a neatly trimmed beard, he played along for her sake. “And what would its purpose be, to entice eligible nurses inside, or warn them away from his jealous bride?”
“I don’t mind them looking,” smiled Emma. “What’s the point of having a gorgeous husband if a girl doesn’t show him off every once in awhile?”
Killian clenched his teeth as a wave of violent shivering overtook him; to a casual observer it would have appeared as if he were suddenly chilled to the bone despite climate-controlled surroundings and the layer of blankets draped atop him. Through nauseating pain, he heard Emma lay aside the razor and felt her grip his elbow in solidarity.
Whale remained hesitant to classify them as seizures, stating that the corresponding brain activity did not match any known convulsive disorder and responded to none of the anticonvulsant drugs they’d tried. Of course, that didn’t rule out the possibility of eventual development into actual seizures, as most of the slave fatalities had experienced just before their deaths.
Killian had managed to catch snippets of conversations, grave tones and sobering words that betrayed what they seemed to be trying to hide from him. He would probably have guessed on his own, anyway, with his worsening state mirroring the course of the slaves who had preceded him in death. Sometimes he was able to comprehend what a shame it was, for him to have survived so long only to succumb now, when peace had returned to his home. In those moments he tried to take solace in the thought that he’d been granted more cherished memories with his wife and daughter, without a threat hanging over them, when he could focus on lavishing them both with the fierce love he felt for them. Emma would remember. Hope… he liked to think she would.
None of that mattered in the moment, though, as quivering muscles shocked every single inflamed nerve ending into high gear, enveloping him in a fog of inescapable agony.
Emma met his watery gaze with a sad, stiffly calm smile, and he read the desolate grief in her forged reassurance even as he realized that the attack was finally subsiding.
“Morphine?” she asked quietly, but he shook his head. Hope would be coming by for a visit soon, and he wanted a clear mind for her.
Her grip on him relaxed by degrees as some of the tension drained away from his body.
“I’m so sorry, Killian,” she whispered. “If only we could somehow bring magic back. I might not be able to stop these attacks, but I could at least heal your wounds and prevent some of this pain.”
She sniffled and before Killian could summon the breath to respond, she continued,
“It doesn’t make any sense; I mean, we thought it was related to the Vocivore, but maybe we’re wrong, ‘cuz it seems like we should have found something by now…”
“I have something to report about that,” came Regina’s voice from the doorway. “But you’re not going to like it.”
Emma turned with a weary expectancy, and Regina stepped inside. She was the very picture of classic irritated aloofness, but she did glance at Killian and say,
“Sorry for barging in like this.”
“You found something?” demanded Emma, and Regina stopped at the foot of the bed. Her scowl could whither the blossoms off an apple tree.
“It’s those damn pigeons.”
“The… pigeons,” repeated Emma slowly. In his mind’s eye, Killian saw a ragged pink feather coated in slime; white, powdery droppings splattered on chancel cobbles; black and amber irises reflecting nothing but pure animal instinct. He heard the trilling cooing that had been the quiet backdrop for many a scream, memories as clear as if the blasted birds were right there in the room with him.
“Those ridiculous pink pigeons, Sheriff Swan,” Regina confirmed, completely oblivious to Killian’s uneasiness. “I cannot fathom how, but they’re the ones responsible for the magical shielding. Pesky vermin.”
Emma looked unconvinced, and Killian wanted to agree, but considering how the birds seemed inextricably linked to the Vocivore’s presence, perhaps the idea wasn’t so farfetched.
“Regina, are you sure? They’re just dumb birds. How can they possibly block magic?”
“I’m… still working on that,” admitted the queen. “But I know I’m right. Did you hear about those hooligans who set off the fireworks in front of City Hall this morning? Right in the middle of an inter-realm council meeting?”
“David filled me in, yeah; said he thought it was some Lost Boys from the Wish Realm.”
“Well, as disruptive as it was to the meeting, it was a hundred times worse for our feathered friends. They took off like their tails were on fire and made for the Enchanted Forest or… Madagascar or somewhere; trouble was, they’re too stupid to remember that for long, and they were back within 10 minutes. But in that time, there was a brief window in which I could almost access my power; it was there, just on the edge of awareness, just out of reach.” She made a growl of frustration, both hands tightly fisted. “I thought for a second that the shield was collapsing for good, without us having to do anything about it, but wouldn’t you know, we’re stuck with our usual luck again.”
Regina looked like she’d rinsed her mouth with lemon juice as she continued ranting. “The first bird to come back, while we were still searching the area for any unexploded fireworks? A pigeon. A fat, iridescent pink pigeon. And that’s when I made the connection.”
“Well, I’ve been saying we needed to get an exterminator, but just because you saw one doesn’t necessarily prove that they’re the culprits.”
“I think she may be right,” Killian said with another shiver. “They were… fairly strongly bonded with the Master. Sometimes would even ride on its shoulders.” He cringed as the haunting outline of the beast filled his imagination, complete with winged companions, its tentacles pulsating as they reached toward him….
“And we have only recently started noticing them around Storybrooke,” added Regina. “Just about the same time as magic failed. They’re remarkably distinctive, and I remember being surprised the first time I saw one.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Emma began, still doubtful. “But it can’t hurt to check it out. So say it is the pigeons. What’s the next step?”
“That’s the bad news.” Regina glanced at Killian in apology. “It won’t be a quick fix. Short of poisoning them, or making the town somehow inhospitable to birds in general–both of which are options that I can’t see our critter-loving neighbors approving of–we’re down to trapping and relocating each one individually, or trying to figure out what exactly gives them the ability to block magic. And either way, it’s going to take time.” She folded her arms, waiting for questions, but Emma and Killian were quiet, mulling over the situation. “I’ve tasked Robin with the job of bringing one to me for study. Don’t tell your mother.”
Killian was only half listening as a whole movie’s worth of scenes replayed in his head. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere. He felt foolish for not noticing their conspicuousness before, but, of course, he did have other things to worry about at the time.
He felt his spirits sinking impossibly lower as the consequences of the news took shape. No quick solution would mean no magical healing. He’d be stuck in this infernal hospital, recuperating in the conventional way, spending whatever time he had left uncomfortable and in pain. Somehow, the Master had managed to orchestrate continued torture for him; even in death, it was having the last laugh at his expense.
“Pigeons,” scoffed Emma. “Pigeons and a crab. Who would have guessed?” Seeming to sense Killian’s dark musings, she stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Sorry, Killian. This sucks.”
“They must have evolved together,” muttered Regina absently. “Developed some kind of symbiosis; they shield the Vocivore, and it gives them, what, shelter? Protection from predators?”
“Blood,” realized Killian suddenly. The inspiration had come out of nowhere, a thought buried deep within his subconscious that had burst unbidden into full awareness. He’d only ever seen it out of the corner of his eye, with no attention to spare, his own misery and how long he’d been given before the next Session at the forefront, always. But there they were. Pink bodies fluttering to earth, a writhing mass behind him as he left the church, squabbling among sticky smears and warm pools, dipping dainty beaks, plunging belly-first in some macabre bathing ritual…
Then outside. They would be strutting through the gutters, congregating near fresh corpses while his tunnel vision kept him limping in the direction of Z’s cottage, never truly seeing how beady little eyes sized him up even as blood-crusted heads burrowed into decaying flesh in search of more nourishment.
“Um… what?!”
Killian returned to reality to find Emma and Regina staring at him with matching expressions of revulsion.
“The pigeons, they… they seemed to fear the noise and, f-for the most part, remained in the rafters… during…” He hesitated, winced, then carried on with great effort. “But afterward… the Master didn’t care about the stains on the floor, yet I never saw fresh blood when I first arrived. I… I think the pigeons… consumed it.”
Killian thought he might vomit. Both of his visitors seemed to share the feeling.
“Okay, that’s… disgusting.”
Regina gulped and plastered on a weak smirk. “So. ‘Carrion’ pigeons. I wonder if their feathers are just stained, then, or if they turn pink from some substance in the blood they eat, similar to flamingos.”
“Gross,” moaned Emma. She took a sip of her bottled water. “But hold on a sec. If they’re so fond of… that… then why did they make their way all the way to Storybrooke? There’s way less… that… around here.”
“Guess they can do without it. Or maybe they live off roadkill out here.”
“Overcrowding?” suggested Emma, answering her own question. “Better nesting sites?”
“Would have made an intriguing Exchanges topic.” Killian cringed at the thought. “Had I known to ask.”
An uncomfortable silence descended upon the trio, until finally, Regina grunted her irritation at the whole thing.
“Well, I can try to confirm all of this once I get my hands on one of those little pests. Guess it’s good to finally be getting some answ-”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hook, get your Thank-You cards ready; I’ve just-” Dr. Whale paused when he noticed Regina in the room. “Oh. Your Highness.”
“Victor.”
Whale caught Killian’s glower and smirked. “What’s that look for?”
“I’d explain but I’m still recovering from that utter shipwreck of a salutation.”
“Sounds like you’re feeling better. Guess I’m wasting my time, then, working around the clock?”
“Did you have something to tell us, Whale?” Emma’s feigned irritation fooled no one–it was obvious she anticipated more important news.
“We’ve had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to the data gleaned from you and Detective Jones.” The physician held up a cautionary hand. “Results look promising, but this is by no means a sure thing, and there’s no guarantee of long-term success. We’ll of course continue to tweak it as we go along, but for now I think Killian could benefit from an initial dose as soon as possible.”
“You think you’ve found a cure, then?” clarified Regina.
“A therapy,” he corrected. “To slow the degeneration and maybe, eventually, reverse it. Tested on some lab animals, then this morning on two rescued slaves who were near death. They seem to be doing better.” He pulled a hand-labeled vial from his pocket and set it on a table with a flourish. “The FDA would burn my license and probably toss me into prison for this. Good thing none of us officially exist.”
As Killian stared at the little container of clear fluid onto which, suddenly, all of their hopes were pinned, he was struck with unexpected anxiety. It was all well and good when there was nothing that could be done, his fate seemingly sealed. Now that there was a reported chance, he wanted nothing more than for it to work. He wanted to live, to be a husband and father, to watch Hope grow and be there for her. The vial represented that future… and what if it didn’t work?
Whale took Killian’s silence as reluctance, and he sighed. “Yeah, I can’t guarantee its safety either, or provide you with a list of possible side effects. Just that for you, with your weird, extra barrier that we still don’t entirely understand, I’d like at least the first few doses to be administered directly into the CSF, and we do know the risks and side effects of lumbar puncture. But, well… listen, if it were me or a loved one in your position, I would still say that we need to try something, because the risks don’t matter once the condition becomes terminal. Make sense?”
“None of that is in question,” said Killian slowly. Then he flashed a short, tired smile at the physician, radiating self-deprecation. “Believe it or not, I actually do trust your medical expertise. I was only… praying for its success, I suppose.”
Whale looked genuinely touched, for a fleeting instant. But soon enough his cocky demeanor was back. “You’re right: I’m not sure I do believe it. I’m gonna take that admission as another symptom and then we can just carry on the way we always do.”
He tossed some forms at Emma, ordering,
“Read and sign for him. Assuming you want to go through with it, we’ll be back shortly to perform the procedure.”
He left in a swirl of white lapels, muttering a polite farewell to Regina on his way. The queen turned back to Killian and Emma, wearing a slightly uncomfortable grin.
“Well. Good news, then. Or, a seed of hope, at least.” She brushed invisible dust off her jacket and made other I’m-about-to-leavecues.
“Yeah. Thanks for filling us in about the pigeons.” Emma glanced down at her phone, and a tiny frown creased her forehead. “Although you could have just called me.”
Squirming, Regina blustered,
“I… thought the news would be better delivered in person. And… well… maybe there’s a… small part of me that wanted to see how Killian was doing.”
“That’s most appreciated,” said Killian. “Thank you.”
Regina nodded stiffly, shot an, “I’ll keep you informed,” then exited.
Killian gritted his teeth through another bout of shivers–thankfully shorter this time–and when he could open his eyes again it was to find Emma watching in sympathy.
“Hope that’s over with for now. You don’t wanna be doing that while they’re trying to stick a needle into your spine.”
Throbbing and aching, Killian grimaced. He needed a distraction. “Everything okay, love?” he growled. “You were rather tight-lipped toward the end there.”
It was then that he noticed the tear tracks staining her face.
“Emma?”
She lay aside the consent forms and wiped at her cheeks. “I’ve been so scared, Killian. Starting a month ago, but it hasn’t stopped even with your rescue. I… well, Whale’s been pretty pragmatic about your condition, and… truth is… I was starting to prepare myself to lose you.” She caught two droplets before they had a chance to fall. “I mean, how horrible is that? You aren’t even gone yet and I’m coaching myself to start saying goodbye.”
She started to reach for his hand but stopped and gripped his wrist instead.
“That’s human nature,” he pointed out. “I’ve been doing it, too.”
Her eyes glistened with sad questions. “We didn’t… I mean, Whale thought that…”
“No, no one’s told me anything; not before now at any rate. No one had to.”
Emma leaned forward to kiss his cheek gently, brushing back some stray hair as she murmured,
“I’m sorry, Killian. Shoulda known better than to give up so soon.”
His eyes found the vial, which Dr. Whale had left on the table. “Do you think it will work?”
“It has to,” she said simply. “If nothing else, to give us more time. And you know… Whale’s kinda the expert at this sort of thing, even if his attitude leaves something to be desired.”
Killian was tiring rapidly; it had been one hell of an afternoon, and this was the most he’d participated in a conversation since his rescue, if not longer. But he still had one final question before hopefully catching a nap between interruptions.
“Whale mentioned ‘data,’ gleaned from you and Jones. Did I hear that correctly?”
Emma waved a dismissive hand. “Just a couple of tests he did on us; no big deal.”
“You subjected yourselves to becoming his laboratory animals, all on my account?”
“And to help the other rescued slaves.” She flashed him a twinkling grin, which softened into loving fondness. “But… yeah, mostly for you.”
“Thank you, Emma, truly.”
She graced him with a quick kiss, saying,
“You’re welcome, and like I said, no big deal, and that’s all we’re gonna say about that.” Noticing his heavy eyelids, she smoothed an eyebrow and then sat back. “We better do that paperwork before you fall asleep. Want me to hold it up so you can read it, or I could read it aloud to you…”
“Don’t bother about it, love,” he murmured. “You can read them yourself if you’d like, but I think we both know that there isn’t much they could say that would change our views on the matter.”
Killian cast his eyes on Hope’s artwork once more before succumbing to his weariness. Perhaps it would guard his dreams and bring positive thoughts from here on out. Because now that he had a fighting chance at survival, healing his psyche had suddenly become that much more important, and it would most definitely be a longer road than the not-insignificant path to physical health.
AN: Well, obviously I failed to get this posted quickly enough. Blame @cocohook38 and @lillpon for killing me in their own wonderful ways :) Less than 36 hours til I’m on the plane to Ireland!!! Sorry to make you wait for the conclusion! It’s really not that long of a trip, though. I should be back to somewhat functional by July 10 :D
I’m looking for some milestone that gives me an excuse for “Winter Whump” to have lasted this long… XD The closest I’ve come is that I probably had the first inklings of what the premise would be sometime last summer, as sign-ups for the event closed June 30, 2018. So the final chapter will be released approximately 1 year later. *Shrug* Best I can do.
Detective Jones’ first impression, as Regina pushed his wheelchair into Killian’s room, was that his twin looked markedly worse than when he’d last seen him. Not that he’d expected a miraculous recovery–magic was still being suppressed somehow, so any healing would have to be done in a conventional manner–but Jones would have thought that a few days of intensive medical care might afford him some measure of regained strength. Instead, he appeared even more gaunt then before, and very little color could be seen on his skin, apart from the purplish black where bruising still had a gruesome foothold. His eyes were closed, lids brushed with dusky shadows, and he wore a barely discernible frown, as if suffering from pain even in sleep. Emma was at his bedside, of course, resting one hand over his bandaged arm where it lay atop his blanket. Henry was there too, sitting in a chair in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. He was the first to notice the new arrivals, and he greeted them with a wan smile.
Jones had a fairly good poker face and thus could be confident his shock would not be apparent to Emma. Which, upon reflection, served little purpose anyway; she knew how bad her husband looked, no doubt about that. Jones nodded a somber hello as Regina rolled him to a stop near the foot of the bed.
“Hey. You outta here?” murmured Emma, setting her phone on the table so she could have both hands free.
“At last,” he replied, matching her volume. “Just thought we’d stop by first and see how things are coming along.”
Emma looked slightly evasive as she said,
“Improving, slowly… his visit with Hope seems to have really made a difference.”
“I imagine so,” Jones said with a grin. He saw the framed artwork on the table and thought fondly of similar creations by his own daughter. If that didn’t help Killian to feel better, then nothing would.
Emma ran a finger gently along Killian’s cheek. “Hey. Want to say hello to Killian and Regina?”
“It’s okay,” Jones assured her quickly, “you can let him sleep.” But Emma persisted with her caresses.
“No, I think he’ll want to see you.”
Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Killian opened his eyes, struggling to focus; first on the frame at his bedside, then on his wife. Finally, he looked in Jones’ direction. An unnerving, dull sort of vacancy colored his stare, which Jones uneasily attributed to whatever strong pain medications were keeping him somewhat comfortable.
“Ahoy, mate. You’re looking significantly more chipper then the last time I saw you,” Jones lied. “Guess that git Whale has his uses, after all.”
Killian might have been trying to smile; Jones couldn’t be sure. His lips were quivering, their movements jerky and barely controlled, mirroring other small but noticeable tremors disturbing his person.
“I’m glad you came,” said Killian in a voice tremulous and feeble enough to be a perfect match for his outward appearance. He took a moment to catch his breath and then added, “I wanted to thank you for coming after me.”
He did not elaborate, but Jones knew the words were heartfelt.
“I only did what I felt I must,” responded the detective humbly. “Just as you did.”
The following moment of awkward silence was eventually broken by Emma.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“On the mend. I’ve been assured I’ll make a full recovery.”
“And… your heart?”
Jones glanced in Regina’s direction; had she explained her theory to Emma? “Back to normal. Alice and the second Jolly Roger cruise are scheduled to return to port this afternoon; with any luck, I’ll be capable of meeting her there.”
“You’ll be able to meet her there and give her a one-armed hug hello,” Regina told him impatiently.
“So you really think the monster absorbed the curse, and that’s what weakened it enough for Mom to blow its brains out?” Henry asked of Regina, confirming that she’d at least shared the idea with those currently in attendance.
“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
“Even with the shield against magic, though?”
That was a valid point, though Jones was certain he’d felt the same symptoms as the too-familiar curse, and Emma had mentioned seeing the telltale green light. He’d been too preoccupied to notice that detail himself.
“There had to have been some magic allowed,” reasoned Emma. “Unless you’re telling me the Vocivore could convert…” She paused abruptly as if realizing at the last second what she had been about to say so casually in Killian’s presence. “Well…” she stammered, “get its energy the way it did and… have the control it did… all with purely natural processes.”
Killian was staring resolutely at Hope’s artwork as if it were a lifeline cast into a roiling sea. In apology, Emma began running her fingers through his scalp, gently massaging the tension away.
“It very well could have been,” shrugged Regina. “We might know more once the necropsy is completed. The other possibility is that the shield isn’t 100% effective, or allows certain types of magic through, or something. The bottom line is, yes, I believe that’s what happened, and yes, I think the poison is gone for good now.”
Jones felt a stab of uneasiness as he pictured the unlikely chance that Regina was mistaken. Alice would appear on the gangplank, all smiles at the news of the monster’s defeat, but before she could take a second step toward him, a wrenching pain in his chest would throw him backwards, out of her reach, forever…
“It was all for nothing, then,” came Killian’s halting voice, breaking into the terrifying daydream, and it took Jones a moment to connect back to the previous conversation.
Emma’s “Oh, Killian…” mingled with Regina’s, “What was?” and Jones’ double winced as he clarified,
“All we needed was for Jones to get close, and we could have slaughtered that demon months ago.”
On the one hand, it was heartening to hear Killian following the train of thought with such lucidity. But the audible bitterness in the words tempered any possible lifting of spirits.
“We… we couldn’t have known that,” murmured Emma as she stroked him for all she was worth, desperate to soothe. “Of all the ideas, the infinite number of things we could have thrown at it, how could we have expected that to be the one thing, even if we had known about the residual poison…”
Killian did not appear mollified in the slightest, and Jones could easily sympathize. It wasn’t that Killian would begrudge anyone their collateral freedom or safety after his hard-won victory, or even expect gratitude for his sacrifice. But to think that there had been an easier way would have made anyone a little bit resentful that they’d been subjected to such torture for no reason. There were limits to what a person would willingly suffer, after all, even in the name of love…
Jones was voicing his objection even before it had taken solid form in his mind. “Actually, mate, I’m not so sure about that.”
All eyes were upon him now. He offered an apologetic smile before continuing.
“That curse… it didn’t work on just anyone. Or I would have been cut off from any human contact for the span of decades. But that isn’t the way it happened.” He drew a breath, considering. It wouldn’t be a comfortable truth, what he was about to share, and there was no guarantee it would help Killian feel any better about the whole thing. But it would justify the struggle, and as far as Jones knew, it was accurate.
“The poison was enacted to separate me from the one I loved. It only affected me in proximity to Alice. And from the admittedly brief impression I got of the monster… there wasn’t a lot that it truly loved.”
Killian looked away as the words sank in, a flash of nauseated loathing crossing his face, followed by humiliated shame. Emma swore under her breath and rubbed one hand across her eyes. But Regina appeared taken by the idea.
“Huh. And Killian’s immunity, granted by way of being a former Dark One, meant that he was in the Master’s presence for far longer than the rest, making it possible for it to grow fonder of him than usual. It makes sense.”
Though she seemed reluctant to cause her husband further distress, Emma added her own evidence in a low, almost angry tone. “Those last few minutes… It did seem to get weaker the closer it got to… to Killian.”
“So really,” concluded Regina, “everything had to happen the way that it did. We’ve learned that it did not care for female voices, so that rules out Emma as a possibility. You were the only one who could have done this. Or, at least, the only one who would have been successful. Sounds like a one-in-a-million chance, everything lined up the way it needed to: your resistance, the way you were able to hide your true purpose from the monster, even the length of time you spent there. A week earlier, and maybe the Vocivore would not have had the time to develop a strong enough bond to be affected by the curse. We got lucky.”
Silence reigned in the room for several long moments as everyone thought of countless ways the scenario could have fallen apart and led to a more dire outcome. Killian lay with his eyes closed, but Jones knew he was not asleep. His forehead creased in an uncomfortable scowl, and every so often, his jaw muscles would jump as he clenched his teeth. Emma continued to play with his hair, probably hoping that the gesture would keep him grounded in reality.
Rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, bringing with them a sense of purpose as they drew closer. Then Dr. Whale rounded the corner, wearing a grim expression. He hesitated for an instant when he noticed the somber crowd in the room, then focused on Jones, of all people.
“Detective, good; I’m glad I caught you. Care to join me out in the hall for a minute?”
Somewhat nonplussed, Jones glanced at Regina, then said,
“Aye, of course.” He turned his attention back to Killian, who was listlessly watching the exchange. “Take care.” He smirked as he added, “Don’t let this bully drive you too hard.”
Killian answered with a weary nod of acknowledgement but did not seem to derive much humor from the jibe. Regina once again took over escort duty, and Henry got up to exit with them both.
“I’ll be back to see you again soon,” promised Henry.
Just before following the rest out the door, Whale held up an admonishing finger toward his patient.
“Stay put, Hook,” he commanded, as if Killian could do anything else. “I’ll be right back in to take a look at you.”
Regina paused outside of the exit but Whale gestured toward a window further down the hall.
“Over there.”
When they reached the desired rendezvous, Whale positioned himself in front of Jones so that he could look him squarely in the face. Without any need to be prompted, the physician made a blunt statement.
“Hook isn’t doing well; I’m sure I don’t really need to tell you that.”
Jones couldn’t see Regina’s face, but Henry was in view, and his closed off expression mirrored the wary anticipation with which Jones awaited further explanation.
“We performed another MRI this morning, and the neural deterioration is continuing at an alarming rate despite his being away from whatever caused it in the first place. I’ve got people searching the compound for clues, and we’re awaiting any information the dissection of the monster might provide, but if something doesn’t change soon, I wouldn’t expect him to last another week.”
Their little corner of the hospital seemed to go deathly silent for a moment, as if even the plumbing within the walls had paused out of respect. Jones’ heart went out to Emma, keeping vigil over her weakening husband and unable to provide much more in the way of assistance. To lose him now, after what they’d both been through…
“Bloody hell.”
“What about the treatments you were working on with the other slaves?” Henry sounded slightly panicked, and rightfully so.
“And I thought he had better protection then the others,” added Regina, icy cold in her own way of dealing with emotion.
“What was a benefit to him before is now a definite disadvantage. For whatever reason, the protection also is making him more resistant to all attempts to slow the progression. Like some extra blood-brain barrier or something, but nothing that we can obviously see from his scans. That’s where you come in, Detective.”
Whale’s eyes bored into Jones’ as the physician attempted to drill into him the seriousness of his next words. “Emma has already agreed to allow us to study her, the only other example of a former Dark One that we have easy access to. But we’d like to run a few tests on you, too, as a sort of control subject, since your biology is basically the same as his except for the Dark One-ness. Would you be willing?”
“No question,” Jones agreed without hesitation. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Whale looked relieved, as if he had truly doubted whether Jones would agree. “Great. Thank you.” He drew a big breath, clapped Jones on the uninjured shoulder–which still wasn’t the most comfortable gesture he could have made–and added, “I’ll take a look at tomorrow’s schedule and give you a call with instructions later this afternoon.”
With that, he whisked away, headed for Killian’s room.
Henry ran a hand through his hair, looking shell-shocked. “Man, I… I mean, I knew it was pretty bad, but… not thatbad.”
Regina briskly aimed the wheelchair toward the elevator, practically marching down the hall. “He’ll be all right, Henry. Whale’s pretty smart, despite his looks, and don’t forget, we’re still working on getting magic back, too. We’ll figure something out.”
No one brought up the fact that magic had been unable to help the victims brought in before its disappearance. The prognosis was grim enough as it was.
AN: HUGE thank you to @justsomewhump, who unknowingly helped to make the resolution to this story so much better! The original thought was to have the poison defeat the Master no matter how it tried to escape, because it only loved itself. But justsomewhump’s amazing (and detailed!) comments helped highlight how it felt about Killian. One of the weaknesses of the original plot line was exactly what Killian brought up in this chapter: all of the suffering could have been avoided if only Jones had gone into the Vocivore’s presence earlier. But having its love focused on Killian gave his sacrifice a deeper meaning and meant that no one else could have done what he did. Which is much more satisfying, in my opinion :) So THANK YOU, friend (and happy belated birthday)!
No immunity, not in the end. He had resisted as long as he could. But now, he no longer had any control over his body. He could do nothing but lie helpless, paralyzed and at the mercy of the creature endlessly circling. Tapping that eerie cadence around and around, stopping only to prod at him, squeeze and pinch and crush. His ankle. His hand. His ribs.
Killian could not even scream anymore. Sometimes he felt on the verge of knowing why. The tentacle snaking down his throat did not truly hurt, though on occasion it inspired such panic that he would rather be dead than endure its presence any longer. Then the moment would pass, he would lose concentration and forget the invader, and try to beg an instant’s peace, and wonder why even the smallest hint of his pathetic pleas would not come forth.
YOU CAN NEVER BE FREE OF ME. I SHALL HAVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.
Yes, Master.
Had there truly been a time when that commanding voice held no sway? The mantra scripted, the despair half-pretend?
NO MATTER. SAY IT FOR ME AGAIN. FEED ME YOUR MISERY.
No hope.
IT IS REAL THIS TIME.
No hope.
THE BATTLE IS LOST.
No hope.
NO HOPE. NO HOPE, TRIPOD. NO HOPE FOR ANY OF YOU. KILLIAN.
Killian?
*****
Emma burst into the waiting lounge, cursing, her heart pounding as if she’d just sprinted up to the top of the clock tower. Of course they would page her as soon as she ran down to the cafeteria for five minutes; she should never have let her dad talk her into taking a snack break.
“Whale?” she called urgently even as she spotted the physician’s distinctive shock of bleached hair across the room. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked even more haggard than before; apparently, the past 30 hours had been rough on him, as well. He did not get up when he heard his name, opting to merely wait until Emma had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Dr. Whale gave her a reserved smile before speaking.
“He’s out of surgery.”
For an instant, Emma thought she might black out from the relief. Whale rubbed at bloodshot eyes, continuing,
“We did everything we could for him, for now. His lung has been repaired, his shoulder reduced, and temporary closures provided for his other injuries; they’ll have to be addressed at a later date, when he’s stronger. He’s had probably a dozen units of blood and may require more over the coming days.”
Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and realized that her father must have cleared up quickly downstairs in order to be able to be with her, and then snuck in while her attention had been riveted on the physician’s words.
Whale sighed and stretched his neck.
“I’m not going to lie, Emma; he’s not out of the woods yet. He’ll need constant supervision in the Intensive Care Unit until we’re sure he won’t crash on us at any second. The biggest complication that we’re dealing with right now is the neurological condition which, I can’t even remember if I told you, has gotten exponentially worse since Wednesday.”
“The brain shriveling?” clarified David, and Whale nodded.
“The best thing for thatwould have been to keep him sedated while we work on a therapy, like we did for the others, but for some unknown reason, every sedative we’ve tried has only made everything worse. His blood pressure will fall, or he’ll develop an arrhythmia or respiratory depression or something else equally as dangerous. It’s totally bizarre, and none of the other slaves have reacted this way. Bottom line is, I don’t think it’s safe to keep throwing different sedatives at him and hoping one will stick. We’ll allow him to wake up and just try to keep him comfortable with painkillers.”
Around a lump in her throat, Emma managed to ask,
“But didn’t you say the brain condition is slowed down when they’re sedated?”
“I did,” shrugged Whale. “But faster brain deterioration will kill him slower than a clot caused by low BP would.”
Emma nodded slowly, the long list of threats to her husband’s life squeezing at her heart until she could not speak. Behind her, David quietly asked,
“What about something like total anesthesia? Would that slow the condition?”
“That would be even more risky than sedation,” explained Whale. “With general anesthesia, you always want to use the smallest dose for the shortest amount of time, otherwise all sorts of bad things can happen, from respiratory arrest to brain damage.”
A moment of heavy silence filled the room, uninterrupted by the background noises of the busy hospital. Then Emma squared her shoulders.
“So when can I see him?”
With great reluctance, Whale stood up, unfolding slowly like a man many years his senior.
“Let’s go,” he groaned. “He’s going to be disoriented at first; hopefully you can help with that.” He glanced at David, then back at Emma as he added,
“Only you, though. For the time being, at least.”
David caught Emma’s hand in a quick squeeze. “Give him our best.”
*****
His Master had its clawed hand around his arm, squeezing without involving any of its nails. It hurt the stake driven through his wrist. But that was, after all, its privilege.
Harder, Master. Take what you will. I am yours.
“Killian.”
Bloody hell. Swan was in the church. He could hear her. He could almost see her, if he tried hard enough to open his eyes and focus. Impossible!
I SHALL HAVE HER TOO.
No!
A piercing pinch. A whimper without sound.
Yes… Master…
*****
It could only be an extension of his Master’s recording experiment, but how it was supposed to succeed was utterly mystifying. Any little sound stalled before it even started, not just the screams he wanted to unleash. So how would his Master glean any sort of energy from him this way?
THAT IS NOT YOUR CONCERN.
Killian’s elbow twitched and he felt an immediate jolt of stiff pain in his shoulder. He could not say when he’d been torn loose from his imprisonment, what almost certainly should have been the structure against which he’d breathed his last and surrendered his soul. The figment Emma was back, or perhaps had never left, though their Master had yet to make good on its threats against her. It must wish to drain the last remaining drops of scream energy from him first, wringing him out like a filthy, useless rag, scraping him down to the rind and then beyond.
She called to him. He could not acknowledge.
I AM HERE, insisted his Master. He felt it. Its marks of possession carved into his flesh. Unyielding limbs pinning him, holding him still.
Which of its appendages was slender enough to slip inside a nostril? Killian had no recollection of that particular trick.
“Hold still–”
DO NOT MOVE, TRIPOD.
Something twitched deep down inside his chest, sparking a powerful urge to retch. The Master’s device between his teeth confirmed itself as not-tentacle by its texture and flaccid presence, no roiling, pulsating muscle beneath its rubbery exterior, and yet it began moving again, this time sliding up his throat and exiting in one long, slippery slither, its tip scraping irritated muscle as it went.
Gagging hurt, but coughing was worse.
“Breathe,” urged many voices, Emma’s and at least one other. Z, if she weren’t dead and could speak. Or maybe it was only after death that she would.
FILL THOSE LUNGS WITH SCREAMS.
*****
When Dr. Whale had first led Emma inside, she would have sworn it was the wrong room. Her emaciated husband was simply unrecognizable, even compared to what she’d seen of him the day before. Discolored, withered, and limp, taped and wrapped, sickly pale skin free of dirt but painted with a sheen of sweat. After so many situations just like this, she probably should be at least somewhat accustomed to all of the gadgets necessary for life support, but they shocked her every time. Whale’s team had at least traded the I/O line for a more long-term central line, which she knew would cut down on the number of needle sticks necessary for blood sampling and the like.
Emma sighed. He was going to hate this. He always did, but now the parallels to his time as the Vocivore’s slave–not in control of much of anything, feeling trapped and helpless–would make it that much worse. Not to mention the damage to his hand that would take away all autonomy.
Well, she told herself, it was a miracle he was even around to hate it. And besides, it would be different this time. Magic would return soon; it had to. And then, even if she couldn’t heal everything completely, she might be able to shorten his length of stay in his least favorite place.
No, she realized. She now knew of several places that would rank lower than this.
“Killian?” she called again, tenderly stroking his bony arm. In the 15 minutes she had been with him, he had showed some brief flashes of near-awareness: slight limb movements, fluttering of his eyelids, minute grimaces eliciting pangs of sympathy within her. In response to her voice, his heart rate would pick up momentarily, though it was difficult to tell whether that was from glad recognition or startled anxiety. In between, however, he would settle back into a frightening stillness that only the monitors proved could not be death.
A few minutes ago, a couple of nurses had removed the endotracheal tube from his throat after Whale had declared him stable enough to breathe on his own. The bout of choking that followed was painful to watch, but Killian still seemed mostly out of it as they attached an oxygen mask to his battered face. His eyes fluttered briefly open but did not focus before slipping closed. Since then, it was back to nothing again.
Whale appeared beside her and leaned over Killian in order to have a listen to both lungs.
“He’ll come around in his own time,” he assured Emma. “This is not unusual after such extensive surgery.”
*****
Something had changed.
The paving stone had warmed, softening into something almost comfortable, a concept so unfamiliar as to be suspicious. The persistent cooing from up above mingled with an utter cacophony of bewildering sounds, none of which belonged to any reality within the horribly familiar confines of the sanctuary. And the light touch on his arm, the gentle stroking along intact flesh… for the first time, it was not altogether unpleasant. Which would only confirm what he no longer feared: total, unreserved surrender.
Does it please you, my Master?
The end of the deception and the fight.
IT IS GOOD.
He could feel it prodding at his chest with its cold, unyielding legs. He did not pull away. No horror stirred his heart, though he knew it wanted something of him.
WAKE UP.
More places were being petted, encircled, or invaded than his Master had limbs to account for; nothing made sense. And why was it insisting he wake up when he was already awake? Perhaps he could appease it with a groan.
Killian coughed. His whole throat felt raw as if acid slime had eroded all the tissue away.
I may no longer have any screams to give.
His ankle spasmed. Stabbing, burning cramps spread up his wrist from an oddly immobile hand. But his Master seemed unfazed by the revelation and continued its touching.
“Please–OPEN YOUR EYES–Killian. It’s time–YOU MUST WAKE–wake up now.”
The babbling had returned, voices on top of voices, all begging to be heard amidst the rolling of whitecaps pitching the floor into sudden, violent motion, squashing him down as though he weighed a thousand pounds, and in an instant, Killian was retching like the greenest of new recruits on their first day at sea.
If he’d thought coughing hurt, his stomach trying to eject what wasn’t there took that pain and magnified it a hundredfold.
“…Pretty common, too, after anesthesia…”
Shut the hell up, Whale, and let a man die in agonized peace.
HE WON’T ASPIRATE WITH THE NG TUBE CLEARING HIS STOMACH.
“Trust me.”
His Master’s suit had turned white.
The bucking slowed, gravity returning to normal from his feet upwards. Killian’s eyes were watering in lights far too bright and colorless, lacking any hint of refracted hue.
It wasn’t a white suit. A white coat.
“Killian?”
Tilting his neck even the slightest degree seemed to drive iron stakes all around its perimeter. Killian blinked away the tears into which his Master’s image had dissolved, leaving behind only smeared shapes and hazy colors as it bellowed a whisper,
I REMAIN.
His first in-focus sight had to be of bloody Whale, leaning over him in professional study. But the physician’s voice hadn’t been the only one to blend with the Vocivore’s menace.
“Swan?” he mumbled, almost noiseless, and promptly gagged. What he’d taken for a tentacle tightened on his arm in trembling reassurance.
“I’m here, Killian.” She moved into his field of vision and his weary eyes looked into her face, desperate for the calm that only she could provide. “You’re safe; you’re at the hospital. You made it.”
Though his vision remained blurred and unsteady, there was no mistaking the relief on her face, nor the steady stream of tears coursing down her cheeks as she tried to smile.
Sudden, paralyzing panic overtook him; he could not remember… his Master, it was there, always there, but beyond its looming presence… only fragments. A life. Such a precious life… and a corpse…
“Wh…” he tried, then, “H…”
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” interjected the bothersome physician. “You had a tube down your throat to help you breathe, and there still a smaller one going down into your stomach to help with nausea and for feeding later.”
The majority of Whale’s words got lost in the storm clouds of confusion and worry, and Killian chose to ignore the rest. But moving to keep Emma in view brought a wave of such intense pain that the room lights went out and a high-pitched, pressurized buzzing filled his ears.
“For the love of God, Hook,” Dr. Whale was saying, muffled at first but slowly clearer as Killian’s senses returned. “Hold still; there’s about 101 places you could tear open and we just finished putting you back together.”
Killian could only gulp unsatisfying breaths under the weight of the several cannonballs that seemed to be piled on his chest. In a much more patient tone, Emma pleaded,
“Try and relax, Killian; everything is fine. Hope is fine. The monster is dead. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
Hope. It was Hope, the corpse. Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead. Emma was saying one thing, but he saw another. Hope dead. Maybe Emma didn’t know. So many terrifying scenes jumbled in his head. So much screaming and pain and despair. And Hope’s corpse, there among the flashes. The wounds were real. The Master was real. But Hope dead was not?
How would he ever be certain?
Emma’s touch; that felt real. Whale and his lackeys, as they performed their checks and asked questions he could not possibly comprehend… less so, but then again, their knowledge struck him as far beyond anything he could ever conjure.
Whence came the corpses?
I HAVE CONSUMED THEIR SCREAMS. THEY ARE DEPLETED.
His Master once again circled his bed. And Killian closed his eyes. Resigned to the torture.
*****
Emma watched her husband slip back into a troubled slumber and scrubbed at her face. The brief moment of clarity had been equally as encouraging as heartbreaking. He knew her; that was certain, and momentarily seemed to soothe at her touch, but the long periods of terrified delirium before and after had been difficult to stomach. Not to mention the apparent anguish that any small movement caused him.
Whale finished scribbling a progress note and pursed his lips. “Well, that went about as well as could have been expected. His neuro scores are encouraging, so we don’t have to be as concerned about hypoxic brain injury.”
Clearing her throat, Emma resumed resting her hand on Killian’s arm. Whether or not he consciously felt her presence, subconsciously she had to believe that she could provide a bit of a buffer between him and his nightmares. “Sure didn’t last long.”
“Combination of post-anesthesia and his pain meds. Really, sleep is the best thing for him, as long as it stays peaceful like this.” He checked a readout on the complicated IV pump and made a quick adjustment. “It’ll probably be like this the first few times. You may have to keep reminding him where he is and all that; he might not remember each time he wakes up. By tomorrow morning, I’d expect him to seem more alert and possibly stay awake for longer periods of time.”
The physician yawned and did not even seem sorry. “It’s going to be another long night, Emma. People in and out frequently. You’re welcome to stay, but no one would be surprised if you decided to go home for a couple hours’ sleep.”
Emma shook her head. “I need to be here for him.”
“Your choice.” He headed for the door. “Don’t hesitate to call someone if you have any questions or concerns.”
After he left, Emma watched Killian breathe, reassured by the small cloud of condensation that formed on the inside of his mask each time he exhaled. Then she composed a quick update to her father; she knew he would take care of spreading the word to everyone else waiting for news. That accomplished, she settled in for her lonely vigil.
Killian had endured a month’s worth of little to no rest, and low-quality sleep when he could get it. Compared to that, three or four nights of watching at his bedside was nothing.
