Summary: When a sailor recovering from injuries sustained during the war against the Dark One is tended by one of the noblewomen of the realm, he knows it is not meant to be; he is too hurt, and far too unremarkable for one as good as she. Little does he realize that time cannot heal all wounds, nor can it make him forget the angel who once eased his troubled mind. Rated E for Explicit. [ on ao3 ]
i wrote this entire fic in five days, listening to nothing but the decemberists, tom waits, and rihanna. i’m excited to share it with you guys; never has a fic come to me this easily. look for an update tomorrow.
Part 1: Wounded
Killian watched with horror and despair as it happened before his very eyes: his brother, resplendent in his captain’s stripes, his eyes flashing as he raised his sword above his head. The sword coming down, slicing neatly through the enemy sailor. Opening his mouth to yell, looking across the deck and meeting Killian’s eyes. The look of utter shock on his face as he was run through, a blade bursting through the placket of his usually neat coat. The quick and violent bloom of blood, his brother looking down while reaching up to touch the blade. No, Brother! You’ll cut your finger! was the foolish thought he sent Liam’s way before his captain-brother fell to his knees, just another body in the carnage taking over their ship.
He took a step, pausing to slash at a snarling sailor with a wicked-looking dagger in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Making quick work of the enemy, he rushed toward his brother, thinking only to be at his side, he was ever at his side, what would he do without his brother at his side?
He did not notice the sneer of a new threat, the captain of the enemy vessel. Did not heed the way the man stalked toward him, did not attend to his own safety.
Before he reached his brother’s still form, he felt a sting at his back, then fire at his arm. He looked down, a sense of near-wonder stealing over him; where has my hand gone? he thought with incredulity. Raising his wrist to the level of his eyes, he watched an arc of blood spurt in the air, framing the enemy captain perfectly as his dark smirk advanced. Raising his right arm, Killian made quick work of the infamous commander of the Dark One’s navy, quite surprised it had been so easy to defeat him.
He watched with detachment as the smirk fell from the dead man’s lips, felt prickles of nausea tease at his throat as dark flurries assaulted his peripheral vision. His knees buckled, and the last thing he saw as he fell was the swoop of the horizon turning into a blue, cloudless sky.
And then he saw no more.
“Shh. Shh. It’s all right. Shh.”
Ah, Killian thought with relief followed immediately by annoyance. My angel attends me once again. He felt the coolness of a damp cloth at his brow and gritted his teeth. It was the eighth night in as many days that he’d awakened from the terrible dream-memory, the one in which he’d lost far too much for a man of his two and twenty years.
And for all eight of those nights, the angel had been at his bedside, mopping his brow to draw away the fever and the remembrances with her soothing words and gentle voice.
“Go back to sleep, Lieutenant Jones.”
the next wounded soul (1/11)–a cs ff in three parts (rated E)
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 