With his brother’s life on the line, Killian Jones finds himself on a quest for a cure in the form of a mythical bird. What he finds instead is Princess Emma of Misthaven, bound and cursed to serve Lord Rumpelstiltskin. Together, he and the princess make a pact: she will cure his brother and he’ll return her home. But the road is a long one, with surprises along the way, and feelings can change…
Rated: T Warnings:
depictions of illness, enslavement, mild violence
Here it is at last, my contribution to the Captain Swan Little Bang! Please be sure to check out the artwork and gifset done by the fantastic @fairytalesandtimetravel and @sailingcaptainswan that goes with this fic. I may have cried.
Many, many thanks to ALL of the authors and artists involved with the CSLB for making this so much fun to work on, keeping spirits up and listening to complaints and commiserating about how hard writing is.
Special thanks to @emmaswanchoosesyou and @idoltina for beta’ing this and helping me beat it into shape and also keep it to the word count.
Tales are told in taverns. In some ways, the breath spent telling tales keeps the tavern walls up far better than the gold spent on ale and hunter’s stew. If tales in taverns ceased, no new adventures would be had, no songs written, no maids lured into bedchambers that weren’t their own.
Killian Jones has grown up hearing all sorts of tales. The ones his mother told, then his father, then the captain that spun a tale of why Brennan Jones sold his children into slavery. Then it was sailors’ tales, ones speaking of krakens and mermaids, harpies and sirens, white whales and storms that could only be caused by the wrath of the gods.
Birds that healed any illness.
This particular tale, the mythical healing bird, is what keeps Killian in his seat. His head hangs low, his hands keeping warm on this chilly night by cupping his warmed cider. There’s plenty of tales to be told in this tavern, all of them in increasingly thick burrs from the bawdy men around him, and Killian’s fingers tighten around his tankard when the group nearest him bursts out laughing.
He’s had too little sleep in too many days and his nerves are frayed worse than the lines on the Jewel after a storm.
It All Starts With a Dance 