xellewoods

Summary: Years after ruthlessly humiliating the man known as Rumple von Stiltskin, Killian Jones faced him once again on the battlefield, though it was clear his foe was no longer an ordinary man. Before succumbing to the fatal injury the Dark One’s blade had inflicted, Killian managed to strike a blow of his own with the being’s own ripple-edged dagger. Now, nearly two hundred and fifty years later, Killian finds himself alive and back in his hometown. However, whatever awoke him from his cursed sleep had also raised the Dark One. With all of Storybrooke at risk, can Killian find a way to stop the Dark One once and for all? Perhaps so. With a little help from Deputy Swan and her boy.

A/N: Based on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow short story by Washington Irving, and the Sleepy Hollow Fox tv show. This fic has been rattling around in my brain for over two years now, and I am so thankful to finally be able to share it! If the opening scene seems familiar, it’s because I posted it last year for @killian-whump​’s birthday.

Thank you to all of the mods and participants of the @cssns​! I have so enjoyed being a part of the event the past few years! Much love to @artistic-writer​ for her beta services (and for the amazing Killian manip in the art!), and to @kmomof4​ for her cheerleading support.

Be advised that the opening sequence could be triggering or uncomfortable for those who suffer from claustrophobia, or simply do not do well in tight spaces.

Rated T / Available on ao3 and ff.net / buy me a coffee

Part One

Killian’s eyes flew open and a gasp filled his lungs. A dank, earthy note hit the back of his throat, forcing a cough to expel from his chest. He saw nothing but utter darkness and wondered if something might be covering his eyes. Reaching up to check, his hand hit a hard surface right above where he lay. Rough, brittle wood brushed against his palm and bits of debris fell in the wake of his inspection.

Where the devil was he?

A far off voice echoed in his ears. His name. Someone was saying his name. The compulsion to find this person overwhelmed him and he began to press against the barricade above him once more. With elbows bent out to his sides to try and leverage that which covered him, Killian met the edges of the structure and cold dread seeped into his chest. Raising his knees, they too hit the confines of his prison, and when he stretched his legs back out, only for his feet to find the same resistance, the awful truth came over him.

A coffin. He was lying in a coffin.

Memories of a duel flashed within his mind’s eye. Metal clanging against metal as he and the man he’d once known as Rumple von Stiltskin fought on the battlefield. Though, it had become clear rather quickly that his foe was no longer a mere man.

“You once fooled me into thinking I’d met the Dark One on the road over the toll bridge,” Rumple sneered. “You humiliated me that night. Left me exposed in front of the woman I desired and stole her away from me.” He pushed off Killian, freeing himself from the blade he’d become impaled on and cast a simpering smirk upon his opponent. “I bet you never imagined I’d actually find him. Find him, and become him.”

The rest of their bout played out in Killian’s head, until the moment of his demise pierced his consciousness. The Dark One had run him through. Killian fumbled over the buttons of his coat, feeling for the wound and trying to determine whether he ought to be relieved or alarmed at finding none.

He remembered the sharp pain then the numbness that had quickly followed. The glint of a dagger in the Dark One’s belt and the rush of blood over his hand after embedding it in the demon’s gut. He remembered collapsing to the ground and seeing a swirl of darkness envelop him. Had it been death?

No. It couldn’t have been, for he was alive. He could feel the panicked rasps burning his lungs, could smell the petrichor of recent rainfall and the pine that made up his coffin. His pulse raced, heart hammering in his chest which was clothed by the heavy wool of his uniform. He could move his limbs, could cry out for help, and feel the sting of fresh terror pooling in his eyes. He was most assuredly alive, but for how much longer?

How long had it been since they’d committed his body to the ground? Was the earth still loose enough to try and displace? Could he dig his way out, and make it to the surface before he suffocated?

Scooting along on his back, he positioned himself towards the middle of the box and raised his knees, slamming them into the roof with as much force as he could muster. He supposed he could thank the war for his regiment’s limited resources and the shoddily constructed coffin that was splintering apart with greater ease than he could have hoped for.

Dampened earth began to spill into the cavity, choking the air. Killian pulled at the fabric around his neck, maneuvering it up to his face to cover his mouth and nose as he kicked the dirt down towards the foot of the coffin. Once he’d packed as much of the earth as he could into the corners he shimmied his way towards the opening with his hands over head. With one final deep breath, Killian forced his arms and head clear of the opening. He tucked his legs beneath him and attempted to stand, pressing through the sodden soil until his fingers could feel the brisk air of freedom. Hoping to gain greater purchase, he lifted his leg to stand on the coffin lid. The jagged edges of the splintered wood scraped painfully along his calf, and Killian had to bite back his cry for fear of expelling the precious air in his lungs too soon.

With a new elevation by which to leverage himself, Killian raised up onto his tip toes braced against the outside of the pine box and scrambled for the surface, clawing his way upward until the night air ruffled his hair and mist clung to his face. He couldn’t stop the watery laugh of relieved madness that erupted from his chest as it heaved against the pressure of collapsing earth while he wormed his way further out of the hole, finally crumpling to the ground once he’d wriggled free.

Puffs of air billowed from his lips as he gazed up into the night sky. The moon and stars had never shone more beautifully in his eyes which hazed over before hot tears streaked down his muddy face. With a deep groan, Killian raised himself up into a sitting position to survey the graveyard around him, wiping away the grime and tear streaks with the sleeve of his coat. Not that it did much good. Getting to his knees so he might try and stand, Killian was stopped by the sight of the headstone. His headstone.

Captain Killian Jones

Born 1748 - Died 1780

For today's #13spookycsdays offering, I have a little one shot with some Halloween-tinged feels. There are a few small mentions from 6a episodes of the show, but nothing major as far as spoilers. Henry continued to date Violet from Camelot, and Belle gets to be more involved in the hero fun instead of just miserably wrapped up in Rumple, but I think that's really all you need to know. I hope you all enjoy! :)

Summary: The Storybrooke crew has enough time and peace to plan a little Autumn revelry aboard the Jolly Roger for the kids of the town. The young Author, the librarian, and Emma and Killian, work together to provide some Halloween thrills and chills as well as a haunting story...

Can also be read on AO3 or ff.net if you would prefer...

by: @snowbellewells

Moonlight trickled down a lovely, filtering illusion of brightness amidst the night's shadows, illuminating the surface of the water and glancing off the copper sides of the lanterns Belle had hung around the deck, burning low for effect. Grinning widely in spite of herself – a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous quirk to her smile, Emma Swan waited in the hall below decks, just past the stairs up from the crew and captain's quarters on the Jolly Roger, where their special guests couldn't see her. The elegant old girl bobbed gently with the rise and fall of the waves where she lay at anchor a mile or so out of Storybrooke harbor.

The children circled on the floor around Belle's seat at the stern were wide-eyed, rapt, and silent at the story she wove for them, the lights flickering intriguingly over their faces. Not a single one fidgeted or spoke, their eyes focused on the petite librarian – familiar to them in her pretty skirts and high heels from everyday life in their little town, but transfixing to them tonight in the dark, flowing garb of a gypsy, the moon and pale glow of the wavering lantern flames glancing off the golden hoops in her ears and the rings on her fingers and bracelets clanking together on her arms while she gestured in telling her story. Shadows played over the upturned little faces as well. It said something about just how immersed in the little nighttime cruise Belle and Henry had dreamed up as a fall community event, and Killian had all too enthusiastically agreed to, that even as the story of a horrible cursed monster who chose exile and his strength over love concluded and Belle paused, the sadness in her eyes only visible to those who would know to look, that they didn't recognize her story was in truth woven more from fact than fiction. Belle paused and gestured for a bashful Henry waiting in the wings to join her. Emma couldn't help but smirk even more, adoring the young man her little boy had long since become, as he flushed and looked to Violet seated at his side on an old barrel and she urged him forward with an enthusiastic grin.

Belle's natural storytelling gift had been so evident that no one else would notice she clearly needed a moment to compose herself once more and a pause to gather her still raw emotions. But she looked up at her grandson from where she sat as Henry came to stand at her side, Emma could see her mouth a "thank you" to him, which he responded to with a quick squeeze of assurance at Belle's shoulder. Soon he was beginning to read his own story, voice just a bit shaky at the start. Emma knew that Henry was more than a bit anxious, as he had not read any of his works aloud for an intended audience before, and she smiled fondly at her lanky, dark-haired son, bespectacled, and wearing his school uniform with a maroon and gold striped scarf in an effort to look like Harry Potter for his costume. He cleared his throat and his ever-deepening voice had soon wrapped them all up in his own tale, just as Belle had done before him. He will never have a more captive audience, and her maternal pride in his gift wants this moment, this recognition of his talents, for him.

Her eyes flitted over to find Killian at the helm, one arm propped on the ship's wheel, looking at ease and happy with the scene set before him. He wasn't actually steering them anywhere while they sat at anchor, but he still looked the very picture of dark, dashing pirate captain in the red vest and black leather duster he had brought back out for the occasion, appearing more dangerous Captain Hook than he had for some time. It had been all she could do not to snicker and pat him on the cheek when a few of the little girls had been too meek to talk to him upon boarding the Jolly and their wide, guileless eyes had lingered uncertainly on his curved metal appendage. Unable to bear the hurt puppy look on his face for long, however, Emma had plied him with caramel apples on sticks to hand out as snacks, and felt herself fall for him even more to watch her pirate charm and befriend every last child, even the most shy and uncertain – those ones most of all, if the truth were told.