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Regina told him once that it wasn’t the memory of her crimes, the rehashing of her sins, that kept her awake at night. The blood and the screams and the heavy beat of an untethered heart were nothing but white noise when you had lived the kind of life she had. It was the remorse that churned like eddies in the darkness, rising up and choking whatever light she had managed to grab hold of in the witching hour.
He hadn’t understood then. He wished he didn’t now.
Captain Hook wasn’t a man prone to regret. Partly because he was a practical sort who knew it served no purpose. Partly because indulging in it would shift the focus from his wrongdoing—downplaying his past—to his current, tenuous present. After all, what was regret if not an awareness of what might have been if different decisions were made? It may be a slow and agonizing process, but regretting your history was a certain type of grief that let you move on. He didn’t feel like he’d earned that right yet.
Deep down, he knew he deserved to be haunted, and embraced it as a reminder of how much he had changed and how bad he truly had been. There were days when he almost felt whole, and it scared him that he could slide easily back into his villainous ways without the constant nudge toward right.
Which was precisely what happened.
Of course, they had forgiven him. She had forgiven him. That was simply what heroes do. They find the good and latch onto it like the world depends on it. He smiled bitterly at the certainty that his latest escapades had tested even the legendary tolerance of the Charmings.
The trees were dead or dying on the cold winter day. The brown leaves littered the ground as if to remind visitors that all things must end in good time. Except for him, apparently.
The wounds he carried, old scars mixed with fresh lacerations to his soul, were too much for the narrow confines of Emma’s house. The freshly painted walls were too clean for his eyes, which had been to hell and back, collecting enough misery to last even his extended lifetime. The happy voices were too loud when his mind still echoed with the tortured moans of the cursed and damned. The love too pure to ever make sense as the darkness whispered to him, beckoning his return to madness.
He had succumbed. Gleefully. Raced into the void without the slightest resistance. He had hurt the ones he cared about, purposefully and with great satisfaction. He had watched Henry cry over his desertion; seen the grief in David’s face as he dined with his family for the last time; watched Snow tenderly kiss her infant’s cheeks, her tears bathing the tiny lad in a mother’s love in the hope it was enough to last the rest of his life; watched Emma kill her own happiness for the countless time, the savior saving everyone but herself.
It was all his fault.
Emma took more than her fair share of the blame, and he would be lying if he said there wasn’t some deep-seated anger at her blatant disregard for his wishes in Camelot. It may be true that her actions led them to that horrible place. But it wasn’t the whole truth. He could have—should have—fought his way free. Clearly, he had been able. He simply hadn’t wanted to until the end.
Or rather, what should have been the end but turned out to be another excruciating middle in a lifetime full of transitory finales. He had died a hero, doing the right thing at the last possible moment.
It wasn’t enough. He was beginning to doubt anything would be.
A chill wind blew through the meager protection of his coat, seeping into his bones and freezing his blood. He knew he could turn around and walk back to her new house, full of warm rooms that had witnessed his descent and judged silently. The walls held on to the memory of his wicked taunts, spiteful words, and the desperate attempt to lash out at the only person who could have possibly understood what he was going through.
He had wanted to hurt her, and he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Even now, the rancor threatened to spread. The reverberation of all Dark Ones in his mind, the constant sound of the blade singing to him through every reunion, every murmured reassurance, every compassionate benediction, was enough to drive him from town. The silence didn’t help, but he couldn’t risk his volatile emotions pulling his loved ones down with him.
The cemetery beckoned, the gravestones reminding him that he had survived once again. Against all odds. Against all reason. He had prepared his soul, made peace with his end, and finished his unfinished business.
Still, on some level, he had lingered. His conscious mind had let go, but his traitorous heart had wished for one more moment, one more day, one more night. Emma may not have been able to tear hers in two, but when he said his goodbye to her in the deepest level of the underworld, he was fairly certain she had taken a piece of him with her.
Perhaps that was why he was spared. Somehow the idea that he was the reward, instead of the recipient, made his return from the dead easier to take. But the solace was short-lived. As had happened every morning since his resurrection, his feet carried him to his gravestone.
Killian Jones.
The simplicity cut him like a knife. Emma had confessed between gasping breaths, stray tears, and tender kisses that she couldn’t bear even the thought of the stone edifice. She hadn’t been able to stomach putting into words a life that ended far too abruptly and by her own hands; a soul abandoned in a red-hued world amid betrayal and painful hope.
Her parents, worried over their grief-stricken daughter, hadn’t forced the issue. Attempting to soothe her sadness, they responded with murmured reassurances that the etching could be added later when the words didn’t feel like stab wounds.
The first week back—between frantic need and hushed conversations—some devil had pushed him to push her, though. It was unusual, to say the least. Perhaps a remnant of his possession. Perhaps a relic of their parting. He needed to know. The blank canvas of his death made him wonder if he had really lived at all.
One word was all it took to calm his lunatic musings. Home, she said. She would have eventually put Home .
The easing of his worried mind hadn’t lasted. More’s the pity.
The soft rattle of leaves broke into his thoughts, the realization that the wind had changed directions distracting him from the ghosts that refused to leave him be. Restless energy compelled him forward, chasing the gust a short distance to freshly tilled earth. The damp smell assaulted his senses, dirt compacted and smooth beneath his feet.
Another simple marker. Another life lost in this endless struggle to make the world a better place.
Robin Hood deserved better. He was a good man who didn’t wait until he had scorched the earth to repent his evil ways. A father, a leader, a hero. A person who accepted his fate but refused to be controlled by it.
Robin had as big a hand in defeating Hades as he did. Bigger, perhaps. He had been there in the final moments, had stood in the path of certain death, and never wavered.
Why hadn’t he gotten a second chance? Why was there another Lost Boy wandering the forest encampment of Storybrooke? Why was there another infant who would never know her father?
He tried to find words, but only the raspy sound of his uneven breathing could force its way past the lump in his throat. Eyes blurry, he fell to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt that covered the legend he had been fortunate enough to walk alongside. A brother-in-arms, a co-conspirator, a friend.
The certainty that Zeus had sent the wrong man back almost made him sick.
Apologies, hollow and unspoken, coursed through his veins. Silent promises to do better, to be better, chasing them like shadows in the sun. He couldn’t understand what fate had in store, its vagaries making a mockery of justice, but if anyone deserved a blood oath, it was this man who had given his whole being to the cause.
He stayed there until the rain soaked him and the twilight made it difficult to see. The way home seemed long and winding, his heart battered and his soul bruised in ways unfathomable to most.
He couldn’t understand why he was here. Not when other, more worthy candidates weren’t granted the same reprieve.
A bright white feather fluttered across his vision without warning, pulling peace in its wake. Scenes of hundreds of years of mayhem faded, the angry cries for vengeance quelled, the sinister snickering for power dulled. All that remained was the gentle sound of water lapping on the shore, the lovely memory of Emma’s smile, and the quiet swish of an arrow finding its mark.
He basked in the warmth that spread through him, the certainty that he did have a purpose in this second life. He patted the tombstone, fingers tracing his friend’s name before turning away. Towards home.
It wasn’t peace exactly, but it was something. Something suspiciously like healing.