Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A man steps into a darkened tavern on a dark, bitingly cold winter evening. Feather-light particles of snow dust his hair and cause strands to cling together and hang down in front of a furrowed brow. He does not brush them from his eyes as he enters the building, but the heat generated from the collection of bodies and the few scattered candles begins to work immediately. One by one, the snow flakes melt into his hair.

He walks into the tavern purposefully, back held straight and proper. His posture belies the true nature of the establishment- it is in a sorry state. The walls are weather beaten wooden planks tied together with fraying rope. They leave many gaps, some almost wide enough for the man to slip through if he so chose. The wind cuts through mercilessly, and from time to time a layer of snow is deposited across the beaten earth floor beneath his feet. The roof is a piece of waxed linen stretched across each plank, bucking and undulating in the wind. It does a decent job as a roof, although its original purpose undoubtedly was something else.

He is far from the first customer to enter the ramshackle tavern. The small building is packed almost shoulder to shoulder with men, the odor of sweat and cheap tobacco heady in the air. They don’t seem to mind, as the close quarters contact serves to keep them warm. The man is the only one perturbed by this density, as he squeezes through each row of men with increasing difficulty. His shifting gaze alights on the barkeep, who gives the man a sharp nod and wordlessly scoops a flagon of ale from a barrel.

The man leans through the final row of huddled men and grips the flagon carefully. He reaches into a pocket with his other hand and flips the barkeep a bronze colored coin. He does not spill a single drop.

“Have you seen Ciaran today?” the man asks, raising his voice only minimally as loud as it takes to be heard over the low thrum of conversation around them. The barkeep has to lean forward to hear him clearly.

“Aye, lad,” he says. “He left nary a half hour ago. Ye didn’t see him on your way in?”

The man blinks and then shakes his head. “Thank ye,” he replies, and then picks his way carefully through row after row of men once again. He gulps the ale in great swallows and by the time he reaches the gap in the planks that serves as a door, it is empty. He leaves the flagon on the ground.

He manages to track Ciaran down with tremendous difficulty, involving a keen sense of smell and a careful eye to footprints in muddy snow. Ciaran, drunk almost beyond coherence, barely remembers the business they have at hand.

To the misfortune of all touched by this tale, he does.

Coins pass into hands, hands grasp each other in agreement, and a deal is struck. It is struck on the honor of drunks and thieves, but Brennan Jones has never been one to shirk an agreement. He leaves a few coins poorer with a slip of paper tucked carefully in his breast pocket.

It’s passage on a ship for three.

–

Somewhere not too far away, a boy buries his mother. It’s a thankless task, made all the more difficult by the frozen earth beneath his feet. He hacks away with his shovel as if he’s mining for precious gemstones. The wind freezes any liquid coming forth from his eyes, pasting his lashes together like glue. His technique is haphazard, uncoordinated. His face is screwed into a frown, and every strike of the shovel is accompanied by a howl of rage and grief. His dark, curly hair is frost white as snow clings to it. It does not melt despite his invigorating task at hand.

His grief makes him brittle. The shovel mirrors him, the bitter cold weakening its integrity. At one final blow to the ground, the metal end shatters. Pieces of it scatter and slide across the ice. The boy sinks to his knees in front of the shallow grave and wails in agony. Hands covered in splinters cover his face, smearing crimson over his frozen tears.

Her body lies beside him. The hole he has made is not near big enough to nestle her into the earth. The hole in his heart is big enough to swallow the earth whole.

He allows himself moments of weakness, tears finally allowed to fall. Salty water ebbs onto his cut, bleeding hands. He notices this not at all. He has room for one source of pain only, and it isn’t this one.

The sound of his agony draws another boy out of a small, extremely humble dwelling. The second boy cautiously picks his way over to his older brother, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground to avoid seeing the look on his face. He instead finds his gaze fixated on the still, icy corpse of his mother. Her eyes are closed and she looks almost peaceful. He swallows, tries to convince himself that she’s only sleeping.

“Liam?” he says quietly, afraid to interrupt the loud expression of grief. But he can’t stop himself, he sees the blood running down Liam’s wrists and onto the homespun shirt he wears.

Liam quiets, struck by a familiar sense of duty toward his younger brother. To protect him, to keep him safe. He swallows back tears and puts on a watery, unconvincing smile. It doesn’t reach his shining eyes.

“You’re bleeding,” Liam’s brother says in the resulting silence, when it becomes clear that Liam will not be saying anything in response. “Can I help you?”

Liam wants to keep bleeding. He feels as though if he bleeds enough, his spirit or his soul or whatever it is that separates the living from the dead will seep into the frigid earth and flow into his mother. It’s the least he can do, failing the task of burying his mother.

But when his younger brother finally lifts his own tear-filled eyes to meet Liam’s, he can’t bear to let the boy down. With a resigned nod, he pulls himself off his knees and follows his brother into their house.

The younger boy finds a strip of fabric in their mother’s supplies. They sit at their table, and Liam watches his brother’s face as he inspects his palm, pulling each splinter one by one. His brother’s fingers are nimble, deft. When he finishes, he wipes the blood away and tenderly wraps his brother’s hand. A sudden surge of guilt twists Liam’s insides. He should be the one tending to his brother, not the other way around. He grits his teeth, but lets the boy continue working.

Finally, the other palm is divested of its unwelcome additions and is wiped clean. The boy carefully ties two strips of fabric around each hand, to keep the wounds clean and protected. Without a task to concentrate on, the younger boy’s face crumples into grief.

“What are we going to do?” he asks. It feels like a rhetorical question. It’s one that deserves an answer.

“We survive, Killian,” says Liam firmly. He moves his hands under his brother’s, holding one hand in each of his. “We will survive, I swear it.”

Killian sniffs once, and a tear escapes the well in his eye and trails down his cheek. “How?” he asks brokenly, as if he cannot possibly fathom an answer to this question.

Liam swallows back an empty platitude. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “But I promise I’ll look after you.”

It’s not an answer to the question, but it soothes Killian to hear it. He nods, then leans forward clumsily and wraps his arms around his older brother. It’s not something they do often, embracing. But if any situation warrants it, it’s this one. It solidifies Liam’s promise more firmly than any handshake, any signed contract ever could.

“I love you,” Killian whispers against Liam’s shirt.

Liam’s heart nearly stops. He’s never heard Killian say that to him before. He’s always simply understood that to be true. It feels good to hear it spoken plainly.

“I love you too,” Liam says, and in a rare moment of weakness he allows himself to kiss the top of his little brother’s head.

The voyage ahead of them is lined with pain, with suffering beyond what either of them know now. It will be these moments of comfort, of fleeting but powerful joy and love, that keep them true. This is the moment they become each other’s lifeline, and this line is never once broken.

Liam and Killian Jones, from this moment on, would walk through fire for the other.

Their father, alas, is an entirely different story.

Chapter Text

The man stumbles home almost a full week later, drunk and disorderly. He has managed to hold on to exactly none of his money and all of his grief. He comes through the door to their dwelling stumbling and roaring, frightening his boys out of an uneasy sleep.

Their mother’s frozen body lies partially covered in her grave. The sight of it sends Brennan into near hysterics. The temperature has preserved her well, a dusting of snow and ice painting her features a ghostly white. She lies in her grave, upper body protruding and whitened almost like a marble statue. It would be beautiful in the right mindset.

It serves a decent although macabre tombstone. At the moment where the soil begins to cover her lower half, Killian has placed a bough of a fir tree. In lieu of flowers, he has supposed that the tree branch will do. Budding green growths decorate the branch. It’s almost a lovely sight.

Their father disagrees. The sight fills him with a burning rage deep in his gut. He sees his wife’s corpse on display, a half baked effort to bury her with the respect she deserves. He sees a tree branch instead of flowers and sees that even this small offering they could not get right.

“Get up!” Brennan roars, eyes blazing. “Get up, you lazy bilge rats! Good for nothing, unable worms!”

Liam is the first to awaken. His eyes snap open at the sound of crunching footsteps at their door, before his father has a chance to speak. This is unusual behavior in Liam’s experience. His father partakes in drink on occasion, but until today has never shown up roaring and blundering about like a real drunkard. He sympathizes with his father. He has lost a mother, and cannot fathom losing a wife.

Killian sleeps through it, chest rising and falling at an unaltered pace. Liam chuckles softly at the deep sleep his little brother has engaged in, before standing up and moving to interfere with their father. He vows internally to keep his father’s ire focused on himself. He does not have any hope in keeping Killian asleep, deep sleeper though he may be, but he can keep Killian safe.

Brennan’s gaze lands on Liam scornfully. “Your mother lies desecrated yonder,” he says. This is more frightening than the yelling. This anger is as cold as Liam’s mother outside.

Liam bows his head. “Aye, father,” he murmurs. “The ground was icy and hard as stone. We broke the shovel in our efforts.”

Their father snorts. “And have thee so little brains that ye could not solve your dilemma?” It’s a cutting question, but Liam stands his ground.

“Heracles himself could not have broken the Earth,” Liam promises. “Killian and I have been hunting for stones, that we may build her a tomb above the ground.”

Brennan raises an eyebrow. “Where is the lad?” he asks, and Liam fights the pang of jealousy at the softness in his voice. He knows in his gut that invoking Killian’s name has calmed his father in a way Liam himself never could.

Liam turns to Killian’s cot to find his younger brother wide awake, sitting bolt upright. His coarse blanket has shifted off of him and now lies on the floor. His eyes are wide, and from subtle movements Liam can see Killian chewing the inside of his lips.

“Father?” says Killian. “What’s wrong?”

Brennan’s face manages to form a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing is wrong, Killian. I have news to share with ye both.”

Liam’s heart beats harder in his chest. From his father’s demeanor, it cannot be good news.

Killian, true to form, manages to find excitement within himself. He smiles warmly, genuinely. “Really?” he asks excitedly. “What?!”

Brennan’s smile lifts his lips over his rotting, yellowing teeth. Liam shudders. It seems more a snarl, like a dog challenging another to a fight.

He pinches carefully into a breast pocket, pulls out a crumpled slip of paper. “We’re leaving,” he says. He almost makes it sound like a good thing.

Liam isn’t stupid enough to believe that.

“Where?” Killian asks skeptically, and Liam is proud of his younger brother’s skill in discernment. Young he may be, but Killian is no fool either.

“Anywhere!”

Killian blinks rapidly.

Liam’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What does that mean?” he interjects.

Brennan turns a cold glare to his eldest son. “What does it matter to you?” he spits venomously. “What do you have here?”

Liam is prepared to argue, to fight and throw verbal punches at his father. The question brings him up quite short. He has no answer, nothing even approaching one. With their mother gone, he truly has nothing else keeping him anywhere. No ties, no commitments to anyone except Killian.

Killian’s face screws into a frown. “What about mother?” he asks. He has never sounded younger than he does at this very moment.

Brennan’s face goes carefully blank. “Do you think she would want us staying in this place?” he asks. “Surrounded by all these painful memories? Wouldn’t you like to start over?”

“Um…” and Killian, bless him, looks to Liam for an answer. It fills Liam with a loving warmth that almost eclipses the cold fury in the answering glare from their father. He fixes Liam with said glare, as if it’s Liam’s fault that Killian trusts him just a bit more.

Liam does nothing. He meets his father’s glare head on, not backing down or escalating. Waiting.

“She wouldn’t.” Brennan answers his own question quite shortly. “And we’re going to have a wonderful new life, out on the open sea.”

A cold shiver runs down Liam’s back.

Whatever this is, it cannot bode well for any of them.

–

They pack up all their earthly belongings easily. They’ve never been affluent enough for much. Liam and Killian put clothing in a rucksack. Liam slides a ring into the sack as well.

Brennan doesn’t see it. Killian does. His eyes widen in surprise, but he wisely chooses to say nothing in front of their father. He just hands Liam a book.

Books are a rare commodity in their life. Few people are able to read to begin with, fewer still in their station in life. None of the Jones family is capable of it at the moment. The only one who was is cocooned in ice outside the home. Killian may not know the words inside, but he remembers his mother reading from it aloud to him. Whenever he or Liam were sick, or awoke in the night with a bad dream, their mother would gently smooth sweat-soaked hair from their foreheads and read them stories.

“Can we take this?” Killian asks, and Liam takes the book from him and flips open the pages. His mother had been determined to teach him how to read himself, although had not gotten far before she had fallen ill. He recognizes very little, rarely an entire word. He frowns. The pragmatic side of him says there is no use for a book if no one in their family can use it.

But Liam is only a boy, and a boy who loves his mother at that. He could never bear to part with such a vivid memory of her.

“Of course,” he says softly, smoothing Killian’s hair from his forehead the same way their mother might have done once.

Killian beams at him.

The rest of their possessions are deemed useless and unnecessary by their father and are summarily left behind. Between them, the boys carry one bag and their father another. They have hardly anything except for one another.

“We’ll gain more treasure than we can fit in these ragged old things,” Brennan promises Killian, tousling his hair playfully. “We shall be the most fearsome pirate crew in all the realm!”

Killian giggles and smacks his father’s hand away. Brennan’s eyes narrow, unnoticed by Killian. Liam sees it all. He sees their father’s dislike of Killian fighting back, even lightheartedly.

But he acts not on this feeling of distaste. He simply smiles at his youngest son and sighs. “We must be off now, lads,” he says. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

Killian obediently rushes over to his mother’s makeshift mausoleum. They’ve been hard at work in the few days since their father returned. They have stacked rocks high over her head, covering her from the elements and predators. Killian’s fir bough remains perched on top, the final ornament on her grave. It is too tall for the young boy to reach. Liam had hoisted him up onto his back, and Killian had placed it reverently.

“Bye, mother,” Killian says. He places his hand on one of the rocks and holds it for as long as the bitter cold will allow. “I love you.”

It’s a simple eulogy, but one could hardly expect more from a lad of nine years old. Liam waits for Killian to remove his hand and kneels in front of the stone structure.

The most emotional words he keeps to himself. How much he’ll miss her gentle touch, her singing in the mornings, how he’ll miss tidying up with her. He’ll miss those tender years when Killian was a baby and Liam had aided his mother in nurturing him. He’ll miss staying up late with her and hearing her regale him with sordid tales from her youth.

He’ll miss having someone look after Killian with him, the way the young boy needs. Nurturing the loving and tender side, not provoking him into violence like their father.

He’ll miss her love most of all. Without it, his body feels as cold as hers.

He decides to say a little aloud, for Killian’s sake more than his own.

“Goodbye, mother,” he says, and is surprised at how his voice trembles and breaks. “You’ll always be with us in our hearts. As long as I draw breath, I love thee.”

After a long moment of silence, Liam gets to his feet. He’s a little surprised when Killian immediately rushes to his side and gives him another hug.

He hugs his brother tightly.

Their father clears his throat. “Come on lads,” he says. “Our new life awaits!”

Chapter Text

Time passes in an imperceptible blur for the seabound Jones family. The docks are about a two days journey from their home, perhaps longer without a doggedly determined drunkard pressing the two boys onward mercilessly. They fly through the journey as if on wings, arriving at the docks in what feels like no time. A rickety raft awaits them, along with Brennan's unscrupulous associate.

The two men clasp hands and a bag is exchanged between them. They nod at each other curtly. Liam observes this all with a watchful eye, not missing a beat as he sees his father trade his wordly possessions for- something. He can't quite tell what the contents are, only hears a dull clunking sound of hard objects colliding. He frowns, says nothing. Killian stays blissfully unaware.

They step onto the raft. Two oars wait for them. Brennan lifts one experimentally, turns toward his two sons. "Ye lads take one," he says. "I'll pull the other. We'll be there in no time."

"Where?" Killian moans, already tired from the days of nonstop walking and unable to bear the thought of rowing a boat for whatever length of time is required of him.

Brennan, already a man of little patience, has none remaining for his youngest. His face pulls into an ugly frown and he takes a step toward the young boy. "That is none of yer concern, lad," he warns. "You'll row until I tell ye to stop and not a moment sooner."

Killian wilts, shoulders rising toward his neck in embarrassed submission. "Yes, sir," he says timidly.

Liam steps protectively in between his father and younger brother. He says nothing. His glower says everything.

Brennan's eyes flash. His lips rise into a sneer. It is uglier than the frown. "What," he says softly, "do you think you're doing?"

Liam says nothing.

They remain frozen in their stalemate for several long moments. Finally, Brennan breaks. He scoffs, leans over and spits derisively into the ocean below them.

He avoids making eye contact with his children. "Just row," he says tiredly, then sits with the oar braced in hand and begins to furiously dip the end in and out of the water.

Killian and Liam look at each other. Neither of them has ever rowed before. Both sets of hands reach hesitantly toward the single oar and fumble for it. It slips from Killian's fingers and Liam isn't ready to catch the unexpected weight. It thuds to the ground solidly.

Their father's glare never leaves them. Killian stifles a whimper and leans down to pick it up again. Liam rests a hand on his shoulder and stops him.

"I'll take the end," Liam says quietly. "You grab on after I'm in position and lend me your strength."

"Okay," says Killian.

Liam takes a seat, holding the inside end of the oar. Killian sits between him and the side of their small craft and grabs the oar confidently. It takes them a couple of attempts to get in sync and actually dip the paddle end into the water. They pull clumsily and are able to generate some semblance of momentum.

Their father grunts assent and then their small vessel is off. They row laboriously, inefficient but propelled nevertheless. Their father grins maniacally, teeth bared and rowing unrelentingly. It sends a jolt of fear down Liam's back. He's glad he sits between his father and younger brother.

Killian gives rowing a valiant effort, but before long he's panting and heaving with exhaustion. Liam can hear breaths rattling in his chest, wheezing air in and out of a frantically rising chest. His face is red and sweaty, and his tongue is beginning to loll out his open mouth like a dog's. Liam's heart clenches at the sight of it.

But finally, rowing for what feels like hours, the silhouette of an imposing, white sailed schooner slowly rises out of the sea. The sight is invigorating to Liam, who throws himself into rowing with renewed determination. Killian lets out an excited whine and paws at the oar with more energy than he's displayed since they left their home.

Brennan's countenance is unchanged. The manic light stays put in his eyes.

They reach the ship. A small platform is lowered to meet them. Brennan heaves himself aboard. Liam helps Killian, hauls him into his arms. Small and skinny the boy is, but at nine years old he's no toddler. Liam grits his teeth.

Killian, to his credit, does his best to aid. He grips the ropes and tries to climb up, but the strength in his hands has long left him in the rowing. In the end only Liam helps boost the small boy up onto the platform. Killian splays out on the board and gasps for air for a moment.

Liam carefully steps backward, takes a running leap up. He catches a rope, begins to wriggle his way up. A small pair of hands takes a hold of his shirt and pulls. The force helps him, and Liam is in.

Their father looks up. His hands hold the bag of something given to him by his partner. One hand is buried inside. He nods his head absently at his boys and gives the rope a swift yank.

The platform is raised to the deck.

The boys take in the sight. This is quite a new environment to them, and both are struck with nerves. Killian presses himself against Liam's side, and Liam grips Killian's shoulder hard. It's to ground himself more than anything else.

Unfamiliar men stare back at them. Their faces are tanned and weathered, wrinkles running deep in their skin. Hair is streaked with white, dark strands bleached by neverending exposure to the harsh sun. Exposed skin is littered with deep purple and pink toned scar tissue, and artfully adorned with tattoos of varying color schemes. Their clothing is in sorry state, although any large tears have been carefully sewn together or patched with mismatching fabric.

Their stares are not unfriendly, but that is perhaps the kindest way to describe it. What unites them is a look of bewilderment. They glance around at each other, eyebrows raised, and then let their bemused gazes fall upon the two children standing before them. For a long, tense moment there is silence.

Finally, one last man pushes his way through the assembly. The men make it easy for him, parting to give him room. They incline their heads in respect as he passes. Other than this, he stands out in no way. His clothing is just as torn and patchy as theirs, his skin just as roughened by the elements. He stands just a little straighter than his men.

"You're the… transporter," the man says, upper lip curled slightly in distaste.

"Aye," says Brennan. He lifts the bag, reaching inside and pulling out a small wooden box. He opens it with shaking fingers. Inside, a tightly packed serving of a white powder sits.

The man grunts. "Hm. I trust this," a careful eyebrow lifts, "will remain secured on yer person? My men need not the influence."

Brennan nods. His head rockets back and forth on this neck. "Of course, of course," he says, eyes suddenly fixed on the gangplanks beneath his feet. "It is only for trading, aye."

The man stares at Brennan for several long moments, but he refuses to meet his eyes. He snorts. "Very well. I expect ye to hold fast to that promise." His unimpressed gaze then slides over to the two children, expression unchanging. "And who are these? I was not warned we'd have children aboard."

Brennan's gaze follows the man's, a dark look clouding his eyes. "Aye, my apologies, sir," he demures. "My- my wife was supposed to look after them while I came aboard."

"Hmm," grunts the man. "Are they keen, then?"

"Very."

"What are they called?"

Liam has been following along almost numbly. He hasn't known what to expect at any point since his mother died, but this certainly is beyond him. His father has gone from a decent man to a drug-smuggling pirate. Liam, although young, can sense something amiss. The man clearly has little regard for their father.

Liam doesn't want to be brought down with him. So, instead of letting his sniveling criminal of a chaperone introduce them, he takes it on himself. He steps forward, holds out a hand. "Liam Jones," he says. "Nice to meet you, sir."

His eyebrows lift again in surprise. His lips tilt up, quite unlike the sneer he'd worn before. He leans forward and shakes the boy's hand. "Liam Jones," he repeats. What he may think of the lad he keeps to himself. "Markus Dixon, lad. Ye'll call me Captain Dixon. Welcome to the Shadow Sprite."

Liam pumps his hand firmly. The captain's iron grip lights a fire in his torn hands. He bites back a grimace and endures stoically. The captain meets his eyes and nods firmly. There's respect blossoming for this lad, who won't let anyone else speak for him.

Then the captain finds Killian, pressed tight against his brother's leg and biting his lower lip. His hands cling tight to Liam's shirt. The captain kneels, puts himself at eye level. "Eh, lad?" He asks, and his voice is softer. Liam breathes a silent sigh of relief. Everyone seems to harbor a soft spot for his little brother. "Can I have yer name?"

Killian nods, lowers his hands from Liam's shirt. He stays put otherwise and says, "Killian, sir."

The captain's face breaks into a wide smile. "And polite, ye are!" He exclaims in delight, and reaches out. Killian shakes his hand.

The captain's face falls into a thoughtful frown. "Yer hands are in a right sorry state, laddie" he says. "Ye've been rowing?"

Killian nods, a grin tilting his lips. "Aye, sir! Me and Liam!"

The captain's eyes flicker to Brennan, who grins sheepishly. "I couldn't keep em off of it," he excuses. "Lad was eager as anything."

The captain's eyebrows raise. The splinters and the blisters run deep; blood stains both children's sleeves. Any eagerness to row would not have overpowered the pain.

"Get seen by the ship medic," he tells the boys, standing upright and nodding to them. "Yer father and I have business to discuss."

— — —

Killian and Liam integrate quickly. Never very affluent, they're quite used to being put to work and take to it easily and without any fuss. They learn quickly, taught by willing teachers. They learn to tie rigging to the masts, how to scale rope, how to sew. How to dry kelp and weave it to make new rope. How to assess damage on sails and how to repair them. They learn their constellations come nightfall, map reading by day. They use sextants and compasses with a growing degree of accuracy.

Their life settles into a predictable routine. They wake with the sunrise, amble sleepily into the kitchen. There, they aid the cook in preparing some meal for the men going off the night duty, and another for the men just waking. Task done and bellies sated, the boys then head out on the main deck. The specific tasks change daily, but generally their slight weight is used to reach places where a grown man might not be held safely, to repair rigging or sails that need it. The work is enjoyable to them. Fixing things is satisfying for the pair of them.

They most look forward to days they breach land, no matter what it may be. Their first is on an uninhabited island, only a few days since joining the crew.

Their father takes them, just the three of them, on a long walk. He is the happiest they've ever seen him. He laughs loudly, smiles easily. Sings a jovial sailor's ballad. Shows the boys edible plants and how to navigate on land using a compass. He shows them how to make crude maps of previously unexplored land. Killian takes to it especially- delighted in the sketches such a task demands.

Liam's hands are less talented, but he possesses a keen memory and can often remember details Killian slips. Together, they prove a capable cartographer.

On land that is occupied, the mood is quite different. Their father ushers them through streets of various port towns, furtive and secretive. He never allows them to speak to anyone, never lets them stay in any one place for long.

He takes his bag with him. Carries out harried, rushed trades in dark alleyways. Coin and goods are exchanged in the blink of an eye. Often, once the trade is done, their father pushes the children back onto the ship.

Some occasions, although very rare, he gives them a coin and allows them to peruse. These are the days the boys enjoy the most, when visiting the ports. They rush from store to store, eyeing everything they can. Novel, exciting knickknacks and trinkets catch their gazes from all directions.

The first thing Liam ever buys for himself is a simple thing. A small leather loop to pin back growing hair. It's very practical, useful. It is decorated with a pair of bright red beads. They catch his eye and delight him.

Killian gets a small set of marbles. The stones are worn, the color nearly faded completely away. But he can't turn away from them.

Days pass, turn into years. Liam and Killian grow taller, stronger. Both are sure of foot and of mind. Intelligent and fast learners both, and are sure of their place in the world. They get along well with the captain, who respects them both as they respect him.

Ah, but how to describe their father?

He is a man taken to drink. He rises later and later each passing day, irritability growing with it. He works without heart, taking no pride in the simple work to be done around the ship. He is a polar opposite to his children.

At night, he gambles and bets with the crew. Swears at them, drinks their rum, and rarely pays for it. Were it not for his capable and cunning children, they would toss him overboard and have done.

Them, and his business. It's an unsavory thing he's involved with, the crew turning a blind eye only to ensure they still have access to his profits. The goods he smuggles from port town to port town are dangerous, illegal. Brennan takes pride in this. He takes risks, gets paid to do work few are bold enough to attempt.

He loses much in gambling. The drink and the betting are his undoing. Many a tavern at the port towns they frequent turn him down, unwilling to host his boisterous nature even should he have the coin. He's forced into drinking what pittance he can get his crew members to buy for him.

Their willingness to aid him dwindles by the second.

Finally, come two years, they have finally had enough. Brennan is cut off.

Under cover of darkness, the man slips into the headquarters of the Silver Trading Company. A man clothed in fine linen robes waits for him.

"Brennan Jones," he says, loudly and with authority. His sweeps his arms in a grand, flowing gesture. "Your reputation precedes you."

Brennan bows awkwardly. "Aye, and yours as well, Captain Silver."

The man sneers. "To what do I owe this… distinct pleasure? Waste not my time."

"Aye, sir. I come to make entreaties. Few can offer the goods and services as I. I trade in certain items quite difficult to procure. In return, I beg admittance into trading posts run by your Lordship, as well as your endorsement in associated businesses. I promise, sir, this could be quite lucrative for you." At the end of his speech, Brennan bows once again. This attempt is deeper, more convincing. The slight stumble as he straightens his spine is the only thing that gives him away. That, and the faint but ever-present scent of alcohol on his breath.

Captain Silver says nothing for many excruciating minutes. Cold grey eyes examine Brennan intently.

"Your proclivity for the drink is well known among my organization," says Captain Silver. "Many have requested you black listed. Why should I ignore the advice of my trusted businessmen in favor of you?"

Brennan kneels, hands clasped tight before him. "Please, sir," he begs. "For this."

His hands slide into his back, and pull out three small boxes. He presses them forward on the ground as he kneels even deeper.

Captain Silver looks almost disgusted. "Get up, ye mangy cur," he whispered contemptuously. "Hand them to me like a man."

Brennan cringes and does so. Captain Silver opens each box, one at a time. His face grows more and more greedy and delighted at each one.

He levies a glance at Brennan. "Alright, Jones," he says. "You have yourself a deal."

And so it goes.

Chapter Text

Liam is a tall, gangly lad at fourteen years old. He stands eye level with near every man aboard the ship, Captain Dixon the only exception. He’s strong, too, muscles lean and tight from the everyday climbing and pulling huge fishing nets out of the sea. He’s quick-witted and sharp-tongued, able to hold his own in an argument with any man. His hair has been bleached a pale blond color in the harsh sun.

He’s been at sea for two years now. Two years come and gone, and yet the pain of losing his mother still stings. He often finds himself seated on the upper deck come nightfall, staring at the stars overhead. Practiced eyes identify constellations, the Bear and the Fish and the Turtle. He finds the bright star in the sky that points their ship to the north.

He opens his mouth.

He pretends his mother is perched there, listening to him. Smiling down at him as he regales her about stories of her husband and children.

Most of the stories are about Killian.

“He’s growing like a weed, mother,” Liam says. “I swear, he’s a foot taller than he was a year ago. He eats everything in sight! The other evening, he stayed up past lights out just to try and catch a fish on a single line. He caught a fish! Then he cut it into pieces, speared them on a stick, and roasted them on the signal fire. Ate them then and there!” Liam laughs softly. “He’s an animal, he is. But he grows quickly. I’m sure he needs all the food he can get.”

He sends her a mournful smile. “He misses you. I caught him staring at your book this morning.” The smile fades as he contemplates this. “Ah, I do wish we could read it for ourselves. Sometimes if I strain for it, I can nearly remember the sound of your voice reading aloud to us. I know if I knew the words, I could remember more clearly.” His throat grows hoarse, and he coughs and swallows carefully.

“I miss hearing your voice, mother,” he whispers.

He lapses into silence, staring up at the Hunter chasing the Raven across the night sky. He doesn’t know how long he sits, arms wrapped tight around his knees, as he watches the stars and the moon travel slowly across the night sky.

Finally, a rustling starts up behind him. Liam jerks in surprise and whips around sharply.

Killian drops down beside him. He nudges Liam’s shoulder with his own and shoots his brother a small smile.

“What’s wrong, Killian?” Liam asks, immediately worried. Killian is a reliably sound sleeper, usually out like a log and remaining out for the entire night. It’s a skill Liam is incredibly jealous of, wishes he could do the same.
Killian sighs. “I’m okay,” he says. “I just woke up and I saw you gone.” He turns, fixes Liam in a pointed stare. “Are you okay?”

Liam laughs, suddenly finding tears welling up in his eyes. He wants to tell his mother, then, of how proud he is of the lad Killian is growing up to be. Thoughtful, intelligent, sensitive. Everything Liam knew he could be. But he can’t, because his little brother would think him a mad man for speaking aloud to a person long gone.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice hoarse. “I promise. I come out here to look at the stars.” Liam waves a hand up, gesturing toward the expansive night sky above them. “How could I resist this?” he asks.

Killian’s body turns to stare at him, dumbfounded. “Now I know you’re out of your mind,” he says, although Liam is at least mostly certain it’s only a tease.

He takes his chances. He grins, elbows Killian playfully. “I know you’ve a soft spot for them,” he says. “You’re an open book to me, Killian.”

Killian finally breaks, laughing. “You forget! You cannot read! A book I may be, but useless to someone illiterate as you.”

“You cannot read either!” Liam protests.

Killian shrugs, grinning impishly. “Aye, but I know something you do not!”

Liam scowls. “What? Be serious. We share all our secrets.”

“Not this one.”

“Tell me!”

Killian’s eyes light up with mischief. Liam would be delighted if said mischief were not at his own tender expense. “What’s in it for me?” he asks, slyly.

Liam groans, slumps over in defeat. “You are a pirate!” he cries mournfully. “How can I know its worth if I do not know it?”

The sly look stays firmly put. “Ah… that is the question, is it not?” Turning to look his little brother in the eye does not help- only a foxlike, toothy grin shows on his face.

Liam conducts a thorough inventory of his goods and services. He can think of nothing material in his possession that would tempt the young savage. However…

"I'll take your lavatory duty for a week," Liam bargains. Inwardly, he's fuming. Lavatory duty is universally loathed among the crew of the Shadow Sprite, and offering it as a bargaining chip so suddenly betrays his desperation.

Killian is no fool. His grin impossibly widens. "A month," he insists.

"Seven days."

Killian throws his arms up into the air. "Ah!" he exclaims. "You do not take this seriously! I'll keep to myself."

Damn. Killian will not be outfoxed.

Liam sighs, defeated. "Two weeks then, you scoundrel."

"Swear it!" says Killian, thrusting his hand forward to shake his brother's hand.

Liam is suddenly bolstered by this. "No!" he says, shoving his brother's hand away. "If your secret were so valuable, you would not be so keen to have my word. I know your tricks!"

'Tis almost a pity Killian did not lend his hand to his father while he gambled. Killian's cheshire grin gives absolutely nothing away.

"Are you willing to bet on it?" he says.

Liam is defeated. He slaps a hand over his face in utter consternation. "Ah, me,” he groans. His last ditch attempt to wheedle the information out of Killian for free proves quite unsuccessful. “Fine! Fine. I’ll take your lavatory duty for two weeks. Now tell me!”

For a moment, when the grin stays firmly plastered to Killian’s face, Liam thinks he’s about to renege on the deal. He suddenly finds himself worried about what the secret could be. They’ve never had secrets before, and this is all too new territory for him.

“Okay,” says Killian. “But you can’t go back! I’ll hold you to it.”

Liam grits his teeth impatiently. “Whatever you want, Killian. Hurry up and tell me!”

Killian laughs. It shakes his whole body, and the boy leans backward hard and quick. His head falls against the planks below him as he lies down on the bow of the ship. Liam is almost annoyed.

It can’t last. Seeing the joy on his brother’s face does more than enough to win over any hint of ill will. Liam sighs, more for show than any real feeling now, and lies down beside Killian.

They both stare straight up at the night sky.

“You remember the book we brought with us?” says Killian, after his laughter subsides and they take a long, peaceful moment to collect themselves.

“Of course,” says Liam. “Why? Is this related to your big secret?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Did you know that Captain Dixon can read?”

Liam sits up, blinking rapidly. “Can he?” he says, a flare of warm hope firing in his chest.

Killian stays lying on his back, staring out into the night sky. “Aye,” he says quietly. “He’s been teaching me.”

Liam shifts, turns his body toward Killian with a frown. “You were looking at the book this morning,” Liam says, tone carefully neutral. “You haven’t… shown it to him, have you?”

Killian shakes his head. “No. I wanted to, though. I wanted him to read it so I could learn the words, but…” his voice trails away, and he sighs. He lifts his arms toward the sky, reaching out to nothing. “I couldn’t do it,” he says, and his voice suddenly sounds so painfully young and insecure. He sounds like the boy of nine, who’d just lost his mother all over again.

“Why?” Liam asks, and he’s very conscious of the fact that he sounds much younger as well. His voice catches in his throat.

“It felt wrong to share it,” Killian explains. “I thought it should just be ours.” His arms fall back to his sides, and his head twists so he can look Liam in the eye. “Is that wrong?”

Relief courses through Liam’s heart. “No, of course not,” he reassures.

They fall into a comfortable silence. Liam lies back down beside his brother and they watch the moon slowly trudge her way across the night sky.

“Was that your secret?” Liam asks, after time unknown has passed. He’s almost convinced Killian has fallen asleep.

“Aye,” Killian murmurs. If he was not asleep, he wasn’t far from it. “I was going to learn how to read and surprise you. Read it for you.”

“Oh,” says Liam. He doesn’t know what to think.

His chest bursts with warmth. The gesture touches him deeply. It’s as if their mother really did hear his wishes, then sent Killian down to fulfill them. Liam finds his eyes filling with tears, and blinks them away. He can’t let Killian know how emotional he feels right now.

He needn’t worry. When Liam finally finds the strength to look at his little brother’s face, he finds that Killian is asleep.

Liam reaches over and runs his fingers through Killian’s unruly black hair. He needs a comb, he thinks absently, as his fingers catch in tangled hair. Killian, true to form, doesn’t budge. The boy is sound asleep.

Liam sighs. If he sleeps the whole night out here, he’ll surely regret it. He stands up, cracks his stiff back, and kneels down to haul Killian into his arms.

If he would have left a moment sooner, he’d have missed it. A sudden flurry of voices, hurried and passionate, cuts through the peaceful silence like a knife. Liam can’t make out the words, but he hardly needs to. He recognizes the tone of his father.

A soft thud, a groan of pain. The sounds echo across the ship’s deck. Liam freezes, hovering over his brother’s limp form.

Footsteps, hurried, rush toward them. Their father doesn’t look where his feet fall. He blunders forward, crashing into Liam’s body and falling over himself. His limbs wheel, spread in every direction. Liam, by some miracle, catches himself on his arms and holds himself upright, bridging over Killian.

Killian’s eyes snap open when Brennan falls. One of his father’s legs strikes his arm hard, and he yelps in pain. An arm finds his head, none too gently, and strikes his temple.

Killian groans, moves to sit upright. He finally looks up, seeing Liam hovering over him, and stays put. He blinks in confusion.

“Sorry,” Liam mouths at his brother. Killian’s lips twitch upward in a small smile.

Their father pulls himself to his feet. He grimaces, frowning. “What the devil are ye doing out here?” he hisses. “Ye should be asleep!”

“Aye,” says Liam, pushing himself to his feet. He reaches down, pulls Killian upright. “We’ll be off now.”

He quickly begins ushering Killian away back into their quarters. He knows his father’s moods, knows this is about to get ugly.

He’s not quite quick enough.

Brennan makes a break for it, sprinting and cutting them off. “Wait a moment,” he says. His voice is cold, expression colder. “What were ye doing out?”

Killian looks back at Liam hesitantly. He frowns. Liam puts a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Nothing, father,” he says, carefully toneless. “We were just stargazing.”

Their father’s scowl deepens. “Ye expect me to believe this nonsense?! What were you really doing!?” His voice rises, and he leans into Liam’s face. He’s practically screaming.

Killian straightens his spine, pushing his father away with a firm hand to the chest. “Back off!” he yells back. “He’s telling the truth!”

“Killian,” Liam warns, and then steps forward so that he stands between Killian and his father. Killian’s impulse has put them into dangerous territory. Brennan never has any mercy when his children fight back.

Brennan’s eyes blaze with rage. “Yer spying on me,” he says. His voice is beyond angry, icy and steely. Hot anger would be familiar, comforting. This is something new. He sounds as though he’s talking to a stranger, not his own sons. There’s no trace of familiarity. Liam’s heart beats wildly in his chest. His palms grow slick with sweat.

Killian seems to have no such fear. He steps in front of Liam again, righteous anger lighting up his face. “Piss off!” he yells. “We’re not spies! Who would we even be spying for? Yer mind is addled and you reek of rum. Leave us alone!”

Brennan takes another step forward, puts his face right in Killian’s. “Watch yer tongue with me, whelp,” he says. His voice remains the same, ice cold rage it was before.

Killian doesn’t flinch, doesn’t seem phased. Brennan grimaces, and then leans back. Liam sees his arm raise and puts together what’s about to happen a fraction of a second too late. Brennan’s arm swings down, striking his little brother in the face. The blow is forceful, no hold barred.

Killian drops like a stone. Liam rushes to his side, kneels down. He looks up at his father, hatred bubbling up below his tongue. Unlike his brother, he holds it in. But he’s sure their father can see it glimmering in his eyes.

“Go back to bed,” their father snarls. “I’ll deal with you guttersnipes in the morning.”

Liam says nothing. Killian groans in pain and props himself up on his elbows.

Their father sneers contemptuously at them, then turns on his heel and marches away.

Killian flops back onto the deck, breathing hard.

Liam sighs, reaches down to touch his brother’s cheek gently. The skin has split, and blood runs down and onto Liam’s fingers. “You shouldn’t fight him,” Liam warns, “You’ll never win.”

Killian shakes his head. “It’s not right,” he says. The righteous anger is gone, in its place a weary capitulation. “He treats us like we’re- like we don’t…” He doesn’t have the words to finish his sentence.

“I know,” Liam murmurs. He rips a small piece of fabric from his shirt and holds it to his brother’s bleeding face. Aside from actual words of comfort, which he cannot find within himself, this is the best he can offer. He cups his brother’s cheek in his palm.

“I’m sorry, Liam,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have riled him up.”

“It’s not your fault,” Liam says, realizing this suddenly. “It’s his. You shouldn’t be blamed for standing up for yourself. I’m sorry I tried to tell you that.”

Killian smiles thinly. He lifts his hand to cover Liam’s, pushing his brother away gently. “It’s okay,” he says.

Without another word, the boys get to their feet. They dust each other off, clap each other on the shoulder, and head into their quarters.

Killian falls asleep at once, the bloody fabric forgotten on the ground below their bunk.

Liam stares at the ceiling for a long, long time. Sleep takes her time claiming him, but eventually he succumbs.

His dreams are dark, twisted. When Liam wakes, he sits up with a gasp and jolt of fear.

The details of the dream fade from his mind quickly, but he remembers one thing.

Something ill is brewing.

The dread sits with him for a long time to come.

Chapter Text

Their father has been acting suspiciously recently.

Well, more suspicious than usual. Admittedly, that bar has already been placed pretty high. But Brennan has been acting differently than usual, and this Liam observes with no small amount of trepidation.

His first clue has been their encounter a few months past, when the man struck at Killian and accused them of spying on him. Not only was this unfounded accusation strange for their father, his countenance afterward was puzzling. Liam had expected fire and fury the next morning.

Instead, their father had elected to pretend the encounter never happened. Killian especially had been on guard for a long while following the incident. Their father had acknowledged it only once. That next morning, the man had glanced sidelong at the cut grazing Killian’s cheek.

“Ye ought to get that looked at,” he had said gruffly, voice graveled. No other words were exchanged between them. Liam understood it as an expression of caring about Killian’s wellbeing, in whatever capacity their father was capable of.

In the days leading into weeks that follow, Brennan acts as though he is a man pursued. He constantly looks over one shoulder, sleeps ill at night. He never takes his children with him on his excursions and returns from them riddled with fear. He is jumpy, accuses several other crew members aboard of the same treachery of which he accused his sons.

Killian shrugs off Liam’s concerns whenever approached with them. “He’s drinking himself into senility,” says the boy scornfully. “Leave him be.”

But Liam can’t shake a deep, stomach-wrenching fear. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

—

Two men corner a third in a darkened alleyway. They’ve been waiting for him in particular, knowing he’d come. He never could resist the call of the drink. The tavern lights shine merrily through the window, bathing the alley in faint light.

It’s more than enough for the two men to take care of business.

Their target strides through, skulking and slinking through as though this will aid him in escaping detection. He chooses to travel through the alley because he believes Silver’s men will not find him in the dark.

Ah, but the dark is where these men thrive. They wait for him knowingly. When the sounds of his footsteps echo through, they ready their weapons and wait.

They jump him easily. Brennan Jones is unarmed, unsuspecting of an actual organized move. He throws his arms over his face and wails pitifully as the two men attack. One wields a baton expertly. The first strike finds Brennan’s knee, knocks the man to the ground. Once down, the second man swoops in. A hard-capped shoe finds home in his guts and knocks the breath out of him.

They alternate, kicking and beating with the baton. It’s a crude but effective punishment. Brennan screams and cries, curling up tighter and tighter as his blood oozes onto the hard earth below him.

After the man is reduced to a sobbing wreck, the men decide that he has had enough. One of them leans down, hauls Brennan mercilessly to his feet. The smuggler whimpers, impossible to tell whether from fear or pain. The men sneer in the face of his emotional reaction.

“Captain Silver doesn’t take an inch, Jones,” warns the man with the baton. “Ye’ll pay him in blood if ye can’t cough up the coin. Mark my words.”

Brennan nods frantically. “I’ll have it for him!” he says. “I promise!”

The second man scoffs. “How? There’s not a man alive who trusts you to carry a shipment anymore.”

Brennan trembles mightily.

The second man absently rubs a shoe against the wall beside him, staining it with blood. “Yer lucky, Jones,” he says. “Today, yer just being given a warning. If ye cannot pay Captain Silver back by the full moon next…” He needs not finish his statement. They all know what he means.

Brennan swallows a lump in his throat. “I’ll pay,” he whispers, more to himself than to the two men. “I’ll find a way.”

“See to it,” says the first man. He slides the baton back into a belt, nods to his partner. He lashes out with a foot, catching Brennan by an ankle and sending him tumbling back to the ground.

The two men leave.

Brennan lies limp on the hard earth below him.

The men speak true. He has no money to his name, nothing with which to procure the goods he trades in. He has no hope of making the money he owes Captain Silver. He has borrowed much, paid back little. He has allowed himself to use the products, leaving customers unsatisfied and furious.

He has found himself utterly adrift, without so much as a raft to take him to safety.

It takes him a sickeningly short length of time to find his lifeboat.

—

"Liam, Liam, wake up!"

The fear in his little brother's voice, more so than his words, is what rouses Liam from sleep. He sits up suddenly, nearly colliding with the body hunched over him.

It's Killian, of course. The boy's face seems younger in the dark, illuminated by the silvery light of the full moon pouring in through their window.

"What," Liam asks groggily, raising a fist to face and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What is the matter?"

"The light's out," says his brother. It explains nothing. Liam groans, letting his arm fall limply to the side.

"That tends to happen at night, Killian," he explains, unhappy with being awoken at this ungodly hour. Sleep on a ship was hard to come by, and therefore precious.

Killian doesn't even rise to the bait. It's Liam's first real sign that something is terribly amiss.

"Father promised he'd stay with me," says Killian. His voice trembles. He sounds so painfully young again that Liam's anger evaporates like smoke. "To make sure the lantern stayed lit up. So I wouldn't be afraid."

"You were afraid?" Liam asks, suddenly remorseful of his teasing. "You should have woken me."

"Father was here," Killian says. He says it like this explains away everything else. Maybe it does to the younger boy, but Liam chooses not to press him. "He said that everyone is braver than they think. He said I should look into my heart."

Liam's own heart is not feeling brave at this particular moment. An icy feeling of dread touches him deep inside, growing colder and heavier with each passing moment. It twists his gut, filling his mouth with a foul taste. Bile rises at the back of his throat.

This speech is quite unlike their father. He's never been one for speeches. Those few Liam has heard had been spurring, motivating into some action. This one sounds altogether too much like goodbye.

"Where's he gone, Killian," Liam asks, voice quiet. He's almost ashamed by the fear he detects in his own voice.

Killian shakes his head. "He promised he'd stay with me," he repeats, and he wipes something from his face.

It's far from the first promise their father has broken.

There's a dark, cold voice in Liam's gut telling him it's the last.

"We'll find him," Liam says, almost arguing with that voice inside of him. "Get some sleep, and we'll look for him tomorrow morning."

Killian's always been a stubborn lad. He shakes his head mutely, slides off Liam's bed, and throws the door open.

A stranger stands in the doorway outside. Killian lurches backward, wheeling his arms in a desperate attempt to catch himself.

The man takes a nimble step forward and grips Killian by the bicep, stopping the boy's fall. He grins, exposing teeth. It sends a shiver down both children's spines.

"I didn't expect ye up so soon, laddie," says the man, peering intently at the boy in his grasp. "What are ye doing up at this hour?"

"Who are you?!" Liam demands, swiftly rising from the bed and moving to Killian's side. He places a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder, opposite to the one clenched tight in the man's fist. Killian bites his lip, flashing a desperate look toward Liam.

"Aye, cutting right to the bones of it, are ye?" The man chuckles. "Yer father warned me you lads were pert."

The boys say nothing, the mention of their father enough to keep them in line for the moment. The man seems satisfied with this outcome.

"It is my great displeasure," the smile on the man's wide lips says otherwise. "To inform ye lads of this- yer father has abandoned ship."

Only silence meets him once again. Killian has even stopped his minute but persistent struggle for freedom. They stand stock still, shock freezing them in place.

"You," says the man, and then gestures grandly at Liam, "he has traded in exchange for his debts. They were quite outstanding, ye see. He swears you were more than worth it."

The icy touch Liam had felt creeping earlier swallows him whole. His limbs feel heavy, leaden and dead. It takes every single bit of strength he possesses to stay upright. He trembles as the cold eats him alive. Tears, unbidden, spring into his eyes. It's the first time he's really cried since his mother passed.

He couldn't run away if he tried.

Killian is less composed. He wails, renews his struggle. "No!" He howls, and his voice pierces the night like a knife. "Father would never! He loves us!"

The man turns his cold glare to Killian, still trapped in his vicelike grip. "No, lad," he says, and despite himself the tone almost sounds sympathetic. "He didn't."

He forcefully tugs upwards on the boy's arm. It gives a slight pop as the joint is yanked too hard and Killian lets out a yelp of pain. "Do you want to know what he traded you for, laddie?"

Killian bursts into loud, childlike tears. He opens his mouth, but what garbled nonsense escapes from his lips cannot pass for words. The man sneers slightly.

"A rowboat. Naught but a rowboat, boy."

And with that, the two boys are hauled unceremoniously from Captain Dixon's boat.

Killian is thrown roughly over the man's shoulder. His wailing echoes across the sea, swallowed up by her unforgiving fog.

Liam cries quietly, as his own wrist is shackled to the man's arm and he's pulled away.

The crew they'd spent all these years with is gathered above deck, watching the boys go. Various wounds litter exposed skin. Some lean fully on one another for support. Liam takes cold comfort in that these men hadn't let them go without a fight.

Captain Dixon leans heavily on his first mate. His eyes meet Liam's as the boys are being tossed into the rowboat and spirited away.

I'm sorry, the man mouths.

Liam, falling down into an uncertain future, stares mutely back.

Chapter Text

Their new quarters aboard the ship are not nearly as nice as the old ones. This is the train of thought Liam focuses on, to keep the overwhelming despair wrenching his stomach from completely engulfing him. He feels lost, adrift at sea, and this is not merely a metaphor. He has lost the only connection to the world he has left.

Except for Killian. 

The young boy beside him says nothing, does nothing, sits completely stock still beside him. His muscles are rigid, trembling faintly. Liam can’t tell if from fatigue or rage. He isn’t sure Killian would know, either. Without any visual cues, his brother’s emotional state is an utter mystery to him.

They sit together in a tiny, dark room. Calling it a room is generous- it’s an outcropping of the storage compartment. It’s cold. Damp. It reeks of rotting food and mildew. A filthy, stinking blanket strewn over a pathetically small pile of hay is the closest thing they have to a mattress.

It’s loud in there, too. Creaking wood and waves hit the sides of the ship and echo throughout. Perhaps these sounds were present and noticeable on their previous ship, but they seem worse now. More obtrusive, more disruptive. 

The two boys sit together on their blanket. Sleep isn’t even close to being on their minds.

Liam finds some vestige of strength from the cold animal swallowing his heart and reaches up, gripping Killian’s shoulder hard. Killian doesn’t move. He seems near catatonic.

“Killian,” Liam murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Killian says. His voice is monotone, emotionless. It’s a frightening thing to hear from a boy his age. “It wasn’t your fault.”

There’s nothing he can say to that. No pithy response would help, no heartfelt statement. Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing.

Liam gives up on comforting his brother. He doesn’t let go of his vice grip on Killian’s shoulder. They sit together, eyes staring sightlessly into the empty darkness around them for hours.

— — —

Their only warning of morning arriving is the sounds of footsteps echoing from above them. Liam rouses himself from a sort of stupor, finding his arm still propped up on Killian’s shoulder. He grunts, shakes Killian roughly. 

“Are you awake?” he whispers, voice hoarse. It cracks in the dryness of his throat. 

Killian nods. He doesn’t start or jerk in surprise, which tells Liam that he has been awake and alert far longer than him. 

The darkness has not abated whatsoever. 

“I don’t want to leave here,” Killian whispers back, voice frail and warbling. 

Liam sighs deeply. He slumps as the air leaves him, deflates him. “I know,” he says. “But we have to. We can’t stay here forever.”

Silence greets this statement. Killian shifts a little beside him, but doesn’t seem to be ready to stand up quite yet. Without seeing, Liam guesses that his brother is stretching sore, exhausted limbs. 

“Killian,” Liam urges. “We have to go up there. We can’t wait for them to get us.”

“Why not?” Killian asks dully. 

Liam ignores how hearing this utter lack of warmth and hope in his voice pains him. “If they have to come down here and retrieve us, they won’t be pleased.” He swallows, hard. “Imagine if they were all like Father.”

Killian’s movements cease. Liam silently chastises himself for this. He knew invoking their father would hurt his brother. It was the reason he had done it, hoping it would give Killian a fueling burst of rage. 

It doesn’t. Killian has frozen beside him, muscles tense. Silence spills between them for a long, long moment.

Liam stands up, pushing himself off of the floor with weary arms and then resting his arm once again on Killian’s shoulder. Killian wordlessly shrugs the hand off of his shoulder, much to Liam’s heartache. Despite this, the younger boy rises to his own feet.

They take a moment to prepare themselves before they head above deck.

No one notices the two lads for a few minutes. The movements of the men are painfully familiar, it being almost identical to the daily carryings on of their previous ship. It would be comforting if either of them recognized a single face aboard. They stepped closer to one another instinctively, shoulders pressed together. 

Finally, a man notices them. His face remains impassive, cold and emotionless at the sight of them. “You two,” he says. “What can ye do?”

Liam and Killian look at one another, unsure of what to say. 

The man has no patience for their hesitation. “Hurry up, or ye’ll be swabbing the poopdeck all day!”

Liam nods, steps forward. “Aye aye, sir,” he says respectfully. “We’ve been taught to sew, repair cloth and linen sails, cook, read maps, the like.” He doesn’t say everything. He thinks it would be better to keep a few skills of theirs a secret. 

The man eyes them carefully. “Is that so?” he asks, leaning forward to look Killian square in the eye. 

“Aye,” says Killian. His voice is just as cold and impassive as the man standing before him. 

The man’s eyebrows lower slightly. Liam can’t quite read this stranger, but it nearly softens the look on his weathered face. “I’ll have ye aid the cook today, then,” he says. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

The man strides swiftly away, the two boys following closely. 

— — —

The duties of the kitchen are familiar to the Jones boys, who take to the duty with beleaguered willingness. They spend much of their time peeling slightly rotten vegetables and chopping them into chunks for a barely appetizing stew. 

The cook spares them almost not a thought whatsoever. He speaks to them only twice, to gruffly tell them their tasks and to dismiss them when the sun finally sets.

Liam sees it immediately, sees Killian slipping the small paring knife into his waistband. His heart clenches tight in his chest. 

He hates that Killian feels the need to do such a thing, hates that it’s a reckless, nearly good idea for their precarious situation. And quietly, so quiet that he can’t admit it even to himself, he hates that he hadn’t thought of it first.

He catches his brother’s eye and holds it solemnly. Killian doesn’t look away. His eyes burn bright with defiance. He lifts his chin and sets his lips firmly, daring Liam to challenge him.

Liam is the one who turns away. They leave the kitchen, head to the main deck. Neither of them wishes to return to the horrid “quarters” they’ve been allotted. They find a small area where no other man ventures and take a seat.

After a full day of standing upright, Liam welcomes the respite. He settles against the gunwale and sighs, letting eyes drift close. He feels weary, exhausted down to the bone.

Killian sits down beside him, although he sits up on his own power. Liam can’t see him to read his body language, but he can feel the tension rolling off his little brother in waves. He longs to reassure him, to comfort him, but he knows it will not be received well. Killian is too upset to accept it at the moment. 

How could he not be? They’ve been ripped from anything they’ve ever known again. The first time, being taken from their home for a life on the sea, was bad enough. To go through that uprooting once again, to once again have their entire course of life changed in an instant, would be horrid enough without the added agony of betrayal. Of knowing that their father abandoned them, picked a life of crime over them. Sold them for a lark and a rowboat.

It burns Liam’s very soul. And yet, he can’t imagine how it feels for Killian. Liam and their father had gotten along ill these past years. Killian had always been a tad bit closer, even if their father had struck him just recently before selling them into servitude. Killian had always believed in their father a little more than he had.

That belief must leave a bitter, ugly taste in Killian’s mouth.

But Killian says nothing, does nothing. Merely sits, the tension eating him alive, and broods quietly until a man finally takes notice of them.

“If ye aren’t finding a use for yerselves,” says a man, different from the one who’d brusquely taken responsibility for them that morning. “Then it’s best to stow away below deck. Mark my words.”

Killian bristles. It sounds like a threat to the younger boy. Liam’s eyes open to see Killian reaching toward the knife concealed in his waistband. 

“Of course,” Liam says, quickly. He grabs his brother’s wrist. “We’ll be off now.” He may be wrong, but he feels something almost kind in the man’s warning. He’s not threatening them. He’s warning them. Whoever catches them next likely will not be as kind as he. 

The man nods, claps Liam once on the shoulder. “Good lad,” he says, nodding. He hurries away, as if nervous to be caught speaking with the two boys.  

Killian shoots a glare at Liam, who in turn pretends not to notice. Without letting go, he strides off to the ladder to return below deck. Killian is unceremoniously dragged along. He resists just enough to let Liam know he isn’t pleased, but not enough to mount any real hindrance. Liam smiles to himself at the thought. Killian may be refusing to speak with words, but his petulance came across loud as a shout. 

Before they reach it, he finally tugs his arm free. “Liam,” he says, voice urgent. “What about food?” 

Liam stops suddenly, allowing himself to be persuaded. It’s a good point. They’ve been hard at work all day and haven’t eaten a thing since they left the Shadow Sprite. 

“Stay here,” Liam warns. He has an instinct deep inside him that says Killian will be safer interacting with as few members of this crew as possible. 

Killian shrugs, turns away from Liam. The older boy takes his cue and darts away, nimbly dodging the bustling crew members before they can question what he’s doing.

He tries hard to ignore it, but the thought comes unbidden, loud and impossible to disregard. His heart feels heavy and his chest burns at the thought of it. His younger brother, sequestered all day in the galley around food, chose to smuggle out a knife instead. His little brother’s first thought, before feeding himself, had been violence.

What are we becoming? Liam laments to himself mournfully. It is a question that cannot be answered.

He peeks back into the kitchen, scouting out the area. He would rather be in and out without speaking with another soul if he can help it.

Help it he cannot. The cook catches sight of him almost immediately. 

“Nay, lad,” he says. He gazes at Liam dispassionately. “I’ve been ordered not to let ye have anything.”

Liam stares at him, feeling his brow lower and his lips turn down into a scowl. The man is unmoved, unaffected by the teenager’s attempt at intimidation. 

They stare at one another for a long, long moment before Liam sighs and looks away. He thinks about making a break for it, racing into the kitchen and making off with something. It’s a terrible plan. It can only go poorly. 

Tomorrow, they’ll have to be clever about it. They’ll have to sneak and scrounge something to keep their strength up. They’ll walk out of the galley with something more sustaining than a paring knife. 

Liam turns, attempting to keep a haughty air about him. He’s sure it doesn’t convince anyone, but his vestiges of pride demand it of him. He marches back to his brother, sullenly leaning against the gunwale once again.

“Nothing,” Liam says. “We’ll have to go hungry today.”

Killian scoffs, crossing his arms. “Typical,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. 

All in all, it’s a tamer reaction than Liam’s expecting. He shoots the younger boy a grin, ignoring how his dry lips crack and bemoan the action. “We’ll figure it out, aye? Maybe something goes missing tomorrow.”

Killian, despite himself, grins back. “Something else,” he says meaningfully, hand twitching back to his waistband. 

Liam’s smile fades. He can’t bring himself to scold his brother for it, but he can’t praise him either. It’s an ill omen of their unfortunate circumstances. “Aye,” Liam says quietly. “Come now, let’s get some rest.”

It shows Killian’s true depth of weariness that he simply agrees. 

They lie on their filthy, makeshift bed in silence.

And despite Liam’s deep, pervasive exhaustion, it takes him hours to fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Storybrooke, Maine, many years in the future…

Killian Jones wakes up from a deep sleep suddenly. Years of instinct and living life on guard have primed him, given him an uncanny ability to wake at a moment’s notice, instantly alert and ready for anything.

Anything in this case being his dear Emma, nestled into the curve of his body, sleeping soundly beside him. His jerky, rude awakening hasn’t disturbed her.

Her light, golden hair fans around her head like a halo. He sighs contentedly, inhaling and catching a whiff of this realm’s unreasonably strong scented cleaning products. He pretends it annoys him, but it doesn’t. This particular scent, lavender and roses, belongs to Emma. He could breathe it in every day for the rest of his life and die a happy man.

So, what was it that shook him from sleep? What is it that tenses his muscles, quickens his heart? Keeps him from relaxing into his beloved and returning to the realm of sleep?

Killian carefully slides out of the bedsheets, going painstakingly slowly in an effort to keep from disturbing her slumber. It takes him several minutes, and he almost changes his mind when Emma makes a muted, almost whimpering sound from deep in her throat and chases his body as he moves away from her.

His heart beats harder, his chest feels warm at the sight of it. Even in her sleep, she reaches for him.

Finally freed of the bed’s sinister trap, he stands and stretches heavy limbs. He leans down and kisses her temple, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

Emma’s eyes blink open slowly, a hand meandering upward and rubbing at bleary eyes. “Killian?” she murmurs. The other, unoccupied hand drifts toward him.

He reaches for it, takes it in his and laces their fingers together. Emma sighs contentedly. “Wha’s the matter?” she says, sleepiness slurring her words only slightly.

“Nothing, love,” he says, because how can anything be wrong? He has everything he has ever wanted right now. He is the luckiest man alive.

Emma’s eyes blink, and she lifts her head to look into his. Her lips smile at him, although her brows furrow in a frown. Killian sees a sadness to her smile and feels a pang shoot through his gut. His stomach clenches at the sight of her knowing look.

“Lie detector,” she explains simply. “You’re an open book to me.”

Killian smiles at the callback to their first ever adventure, then takes a seat on the side of their bed. “Aye,” he says quietly. His back is to her now, allowing him a moment to collect his thoughts without her reading every haunted look that dances across his face.

Emma scoots beside him, pulls herself upright. She leans against him, tucking her head onto his shoulder and wrapping her arms around him. Killian rests his own head atop hers and relaxes into her embrace.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asks. Her thumb begins rubbing soothing circles onto his shoulder.

Ordinarily, he’d say no. He can’t even pinpoint what’s bothering him, exactly. It could be any number of things. His recent death and resurrection still weighs so heavily on his mind and heart that he sometimes wonders how he keeps his head above water at all.

But she is his lifeboat, his salvation. He could survive being marooned anywhere with her by his side.

So he decides to tell her.

“Do you remember when you found that moving picture box, with that touching scene from your childhood?” Killian asks.

Emma snorts. “I found a video camera with a movie on it, yes,” she answers teasingly. She knows him, knows that he is deflecting but not exactly avoiding the question. Trusts that he’ll share his heart with her.

True love is an amazing thing.

“I still think the name is absurd,” Killian mumbles, and Emma chuckles softly. It’s an argument they have on the regular, although nowadays it’s primary purpose is to annoy Henry. “But I recall telling you that I wanted to hear of your origins.”

Emma doesn’t move a muscle. “I remember that,” she says quietly, solemnly.

“Well, love,” says Killian, and swallows back a growing lump in his throat. “Would you like to hear of mine?”

— — —

The next few days go similarly to their first. They wake up, drag themselves out of their nook and above board. Every third morning, their overseer gives them a bowl of watered down stew. As they toil, it isn’t nearly enough to keep them energized or healthy.

They’ve been aboard for near two months when Killian finally lets loose his anger. Their chores are done for the day and the two boys sit on a relatively isolated area above deck. Liam feels a pang of guilt and regret at ignoring the advice, but he cannot bear their dismal quarters any longer.

Killian is nearly listless. His eyes are dull, cheeks sunken. Liam knows he can’t look any better. They’re starving now.

“We have to do something,” Killian says. His voice is hot with anger, although it does not extend to his body. He leans limply against the walls of the ship, chest heaving.

Liam’s first instinct is to dissuade him, to try and change his mind. But he can’t for the life of him think of anything to say. He feels in his gut it’s a bad idea to try and rob them. The cook has caught every one of their half-cocked plans thus far.

“No,” he whispers. It’s the best he can do.

“Then we shall die,” Killian says. He says it simply. Matter of fact. Like it’s a novel observation of the weather around them.

Perhaps, he’s even right. What little food they’re given can’t possibly sustain them.

“They’ll catch us,” says Liam.

Killian sits upright, face wrenched into an ugly frown. “And do what?” he cries, leaning forward. His voice stays quiet, but the high emotion is not lost to Liam whatsoever. “Starve us more?”

He can’t think of any rebuttal. He understands Killian’s desperation. “What if they hurt you?” Liam asks, furious at how broken and supplicative his voice sounds.

Killian forces himself to his feet, gritting his teeth. “I hope they kill me,” he says. His voice contains no bravado, no false bravery. He really means this horrid thought.

It’s the worst thing Liam has ever heard.

Killian rushes away before Liam can haul himself to his feet and try to stop him. He’s gone before Liam can do anything. Liam watches the place his brother vanished from with horror.

His mind, ever practical, begins working anew. What can he do to help his foolish, idiotic younger brother on his hopeless quest? Cause a distraction?

It’s his best and, really, only option. He takes it.

He meanders to the helm, bites his lip with the fear and anticipation of his actions. The captain catches sight of him and frowns.

“Wha-” the man begins, but is interrupted. Liam’s leg shoots out and catches a nearby sailor in the ankle. The sailor goes down hard. He knocks into another man, who likewise tumbles. Liam dashes away, being sure to trip or shove each man until they are all stumbling.

He flees below deck, heart racing. His head swims in his dizziness.

He hopes it’s enough.

It is not.

Liam hears the shouts first. Men yelling, the sounds of rattling chains. An answering howl that sounds too much like Killian to let Liam remain hiding in the dark like a coward.

He rushes to his feet, scrambles up the ladder and shoves at the trapdoor. It’s barred from the outside. Liam groans in fear, shoves harder. The door doesn’t budge.

Then Killian screams.

Liam pounds furiously against the door, throwing as much of his body weight as he can spare against unyielding wood. He howls in his fury, feeling the heat of rage crawl up from his stomach. It energizes him, gives him a boost out of the listlessness of starvation. He adds expletives to his tirade, cursing his father and the captain and every last soul who saw them slowly starving and did nothing to aid them.

His righteous anger is the only thing keeping him from breaking down and crying. Fueled by the fire, he keeps his grip on the ladder through it all.

He hears the unmistakable sound of something impacting flesh. He hears Killian wailing in agony and despair and he cries out in response, pushing harder against the door.

He’s furious with himself for hiding, for running. He should have stayed and fought, done something brave like Killian had done.

After several long, horrible minutes, the door is flung open. Two men stand over it, leering down at Liam. His skin crawls unpleasantly at the sight of it. At the sight of what lies between them, it nearly flies off of him entirely.

They drag Killian’s limp form between them. His head hangs listlessly down between his shoulders, barely held off the floor beneath him. One arm is held mercilessly in each man’s grasp, legs left to drag against the ship’s deck. Blood, thick and dark, runs from his back and drips slowly onto the planks. Killian’s face is hidden from view, Liam only prays he’s unconscious and can’t feel what has just happened to him anymore.

“Keep him out of trouble,” says the man gruffly, tossing Killian unceremoniously into the hold. Liam leaps from the ladder to catch his brother, to try and soften his fall however he can. Killian writhes and moans against him, gripping Liam’s shoulder with a flimsy, weak grasp.

It’s a bit late for that, Liam thinks ruefully. He hauls his brother to their sleeping area and lays him down as gently as possible.

Killian’s chest heaves up and down, gasps filling the quiet air around them. Liam can find no words for him and merely sits, gripping his hand hard. Killian holds on to Liam as long as he can before, finally, he drifts off into blessed unconsciousness.

Liam, for his part, stays awake the night through.

Chapter Text

Liam spends his sleepless night firmly glued to his brother’s side. The younger boy sleeps poorly, tossing and writhing in his sleep. Cries of pain, whimpers and stifled sobs escape his lips periodically. Liam knows he isn’t asleep for all these moments, but for Killian’s sake he pretends.

He wants to give the boy whatever dignity he can offer.

The wounds are harsh. Without pressing Killian for details, Liam has only the marks to deduce what’s happened to him. The bruising is severe, spread out far across his ribcage. It looks as though a chain of metal links has been taken to his hide. It breaks the skin in only a couple places, but it’s done enough. Killian’s shirt is stiff with congealed blood.

Liam smoothes his brother’s hair back, in the palest imitation of comfort he has to give. He finds himself filled with a despair too great for words. A dark, cold animal has stolen his heart, leaving a void that nothing will ever fill. He feels hollow, empty. He feels weightless, and at the same time so heavy that he should be falling through the ship’s planks below him.

Their father left them to this. The betrayal, always painful in his mind, burns ever hotter now. He left them to this agony.

Liam feels anger take over, although even its red-hot touch cannot melt the icy grip held on his heart.

He can’t let his brother go through this ever again. He can’t ever hide away in safety while Killian tries to save them both.

He won’t be a coward, not like their father. Not ever again.

Killian shifts beside him, groaning. He seems more awake this time than his other brief moments of lucidity. “Liam?” he croaks.

Liam’s heart lurches. He sounds exhausted, weak. He sounds like a starving little boy.

“Killian,” Liam says, putting a hand on Killian’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Killian sneers. “I’m not even going to answer that,” he whispers. He sits up urgently, pulling on Liam’s arm to propel him upward. “Did they find it?”

Liam blinks uncomprehendingly. “What?”

A small, weak smile graces Killian’s lips. “I hid some food before they caught me. I imagine if they had found it, you would have known.” He frowns. “I hope, anyway.”

A blossom of warmth begins to steadily melt his heart. “What?” he repeats, realizing he sounds foolish and doesn’t care.

Killian twitches one shoulder in the best approximation of a shrug he can, wincing as the motion tugs at battered and bruised flesh. “Getting caught was part of my plan,” he says simply. “I was misdirecting them.”

Liam laughs incredulously, embarrassed to find tears welling in his eyes. “You’re too clever for your own good,” he chastises, although his heart is nowhere near in it. “Next time let me help you!”

Killian smirks. “Who, you? You’d get caught far too early. Plans need subtlety.”

“Please,” says Liam, grateful beyond measure that his brother feels well enough for banter. “This is your first plan with any kind of success and look at the state of you!” He intends it to be teasing, anyway, but maybe some of the fear and worry come through too much. He sounds nearly hysterical to his own ears. He can only imagine how he sounds to Killian.

Killian frowns. “I had to do something,” he says quietly, all traces of good humor or bravado gone. “We’re dying.”

Liam sighs. “I know.” He leans toward Killian, meeting his brother’s gaze intently. There’s but one paltry candle lit in the hold, the yellow light flickering and unsteady over Killian’s face. “I’m proud of you,” he tells him. “What you did was foolish, impulsive… but it was brave.”

Killian stays still, staring intently back. “I heard you caused a commotion yourself,” he says, after a long few moments of silence. “To distract them. Thank you, Liam.”

Liam touches Killian’s hand gently. It seems to be one of few places where Killian isn’t beaten black and blue. “Aye, of course.”

They sit there in companionable silence for a little while before Killian grows tired. He yawns hugely, slouching down and curling up on their bedding. “Check the loose plank nearest the galley,” he mumbles, sleep-touched voice beginning to slur. “I hid it under there.”

“Okay,” Liam murmurs, and repeats the soothing gesture of brushing Killian’s hair from his face. “I’ll get it for you. Go to sleep, Killian.”

Killian makes a small, indecipherable noise before sighing and falling into sleep’s embrace. Liam sits up by his side for a few minutes longer before getting up.

He creeps up the ladder as quietly as he can, pushing out the trapdoor and clambering aboard the ship. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t hesitate, but immediately sets off purposefully toward the gunwale. He leans over the side, pretending to heave and glancing around surreptitiously. No one appears to be paying Liam any heed.

At that, he slinks to the galley and retrieves Killian’s stash. It’s meager, but it will do. This, in tandem with the pitiful stew, will be more calories than they’ve had in ages. A loaf of bread and three small carrots are shoved inside Liam’s shirt. He bolts back for their quarters and nearly falls down the ladder in his urgency.

— — —

The hardest thing in dealing with this new scheme isn’t the thefts themselves. Killian and Liam develop a team strategy that doesn’t rely on either of them getting caught. One distracts the chef, the other takes something. They can’t do it often, or take much at a time, but it’s enough. Sores begin to heal, and they have the strength to endure another day.

No, the hardest part about it is the rats. They scent out any size morsel of food stashed in their quarters. It brings them out in droves.

The rats are starving, too. The presence of food brings out the bloodlust in them, turns them into a beast far more fearsome than their diminutive appearance would suggest. They lunge at the boys, biting and tearing with their teeth. They target the soft flesh, the eyes, cheeks, the soft skin under their arms and hidden behind thin shirts. They come in packs, savage and bloodthirsty.

They are at war with the rats. They sleep in shifts, one boy watching and armed with a sharp stick while the other sleeps curled around the food. Protecting the food is their top priority. Liam and Killian have bone-deep scars on their hands where they’ve clamped unyielding fingers around their pitiful food supply.

The stench is unbearable. The scent of blood, of both boy and rat, builds up as the war continues. The rats are undeterred by any number of their dead. It’s a gruesome sight to see, a rat falling upon the corpse of its fellow and devouring it to the bone. The flesh is rendered from bone in seconds.

It’s a chilling reminder of the fate that would await them, should the rats find a weakness in their defenses. If the rats take their food, they’ll be too weak to fight back and the rats will take them too.

Liam sits upright, the sharpened broom handle clenched tight in a shaking hand as Killian sleeps. The skittering, pattering of claws sends shivers down his spine. He’d never admit it, but he fears these beasts far more than any human cruelty. At least humans have the potential for mercy. When he looks into the dark, evil eyes of a rat, there is nothing that looks back.

A shifting of fabric very close-by sends Liam’s heart racing in his chest. He whirls to the source of the sound, stifling a yelp of fright.

In a moment he feels a bit foolish. Killian sits upright, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. Liam carefully schools his features to hide the shock and takes a deep, calming breath.

“Did I frighten you?” Killian mumbles, still rubbing a fist across tired eyes.

Liam laughs dryly, letting the stick fall from his fist. “Perhaps you did,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

Killian chuckles in return. “I don’t know,” he says. “Perhaps. But I feel rested. I can take over the watch.”

Normally, Liam would object to this. He feels the urge to protect, to let his little brother rest and to watch over him. In this world they’ve fallen into, it’s the only thing he can provide. His heart clenches with guilt and he sighs.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. He takes a moment and caresses Killian’s cheek gently. “You’re a good lad.”

Killian shrugs him off, batting his hand away and stealing their improvised spear back from his brother. “Get some rest,” he says gruffly. “You’ve gone mad.”

Liam huffs gentle laughter through his nostrils and allows himself to be herded away, curling on their shared bed.

He’s asleep in mere moments.

— — —

Killian and Liam are hoisted high up the mast, ropes precariously holding them aloft. They sway gently in the breeze, by now used to the sensation of instability in the air. Liam passes Killian tools while the younger boy, whose fingers are nimble and swift, sews patches of fabric into the sail.

It’s a task they’re long used to, having carried it out many a time for Captain Dixon and his crew. It’s become one of their preferred tasks. In this cruel new life they've fallen into, it's almost comforting to carry out a task that they know how to do well.

They don't speak, Liam knowing just by watching what tools Killian will need next. When he runs out of the thick thread, Liam hands him another spool instantly. They've been working as a team for so long now that they need no words.

They're so engrossed in their task that they don't notice the commotion building up on the deck below them. A crowd of sailors has gathered, voices rising in pitch and volume. They move as a unit, flowing toward a single point in the center of the crowd.

It's Liam who spots it first, as the shouting finally beats the sounds of the sea in his ears. Liam tugs on Killian's ankle to get his attention, pointing downward at the scene below them. They simply watch as the crowd breaks into splinters, two men dragging a third between them and everyone else scattering to the winds. The man being dragged looks old, wispy white air stained with grime and grease. He struggles in their grasp.

He is unfamiliar to them. Liam and Killian look at each other meaningfully.

There had been a boat sighted in the morning, their captain letting the crew aboard to parlay and exchange information. Evidently, more than simply information had been traded.

Sure enough, the man is roughly hauled and tossed into the depths of the cargo hold, where Killian and Liam's meager quarters lie.

They must now share their already pathetic living space with another, and a grown man at that.

And as the boys look at each other, another fear rears its head. If there is another slave added, what will happen to them? Will one or both of them be replaced?

Without another moment's pause, they resume their duties.

But Liam can see Killian's hands shaking.

Chapter Text

They enter their quarters with no shortage of trepidation, later in the evening when they’re absent-mindedly dismissed from their duties. The crew seems more distracted by the raid that they’ve just carried out. Liam hardly cares, only knowing that a successful job means they are more careless with the food storage.

Sure enough, he and Killian make out well tonight. It’s simple to pilfer their ration for the evening. Any other evening, they would take their meager meal and flee to their miserable quarters.

Today, there’s a stranger down in the dark. They look at each other, then find their usual out-of-the-way hideout above board to eat. They eat one at a time, Liam first. He eats a few swift bites, giving his little brother the remaining third of his chunk of bread. He keeps a sharp eye out while Killian scarfs his pitiful portion down.

Finally, they can find no more excuses to stay above board. They begin to garner enough attention as it is, a few glances tinged with surprise at seeing them. It’s only a matter of time before someone has a problem and takes a whip to solve it.

Killian and Liam bid a hasty retreat back to their quarters.

They linger outside the hatch door, pausing to look at one another meaningfully. No words are exchanged for several long moments.

Finally, Killian breaks the silent tension with a loud groan. “Let’s get it over with,” he says, sighing mournfully, and flings the door open.

A disheveled man stares back up at them in the shaft of light provided by the setting sun. His hair is greyed, all hints of darker color long washed away. His eyes are wide in shock, set far back and deep in his skull. The shadows cling under his eyes. In the brief moment of light, the two brothers examine the man’s clothing. It is ragged and barely hanging onto whip-thin limbs. The man looks rough, bedraggled, and the bright flash of fear that crosses his eyes when they find him does not escape notice.

Killian and Liam let the hatch fall closed behind them. They are enveloped in darkness.

The silence stretches, long, awkward, tension eating all three of them alive.

The man speaks up first. “How long have ye lads been aboard?” he asks gruffly. His voice breaks, as though he’s unaccustomed to speaking much. He clears his throat as an afterthought.

Liam answers, unable to gauge Killian’s response in the dark. “Many months, sir,” he says, keeping his voice meek and small. They’re all fighting for the bottom of the pecking order, and Liam doesn’t want to give the man anything he could use against them.

To his surprise, the man sighs. “Ah, lad. Ye can well do away with the ‘sir’. ‘Tis many years since I been a ‘sir.’”

It seems a mournful, melancholy remark. Liam withholds his judgment.

Killian speaks up, having fought past his apparent shyness. “Who are you?” he asks. Liam feels him move, take a step away from him and closer toward the man. He hears the clothing shift.

“Name’s Lachlan, laddie,” says the man. “Ah, lackaday. I been sailin since I were old enough to hold me ‘ead up. How’s about ye?”

Liam would prefer to hold back. Killian, apparently, holds a different mindset. “Oh, me too,” he says. “Me and Liam have been here forever.”

The man laughs. It’s a quick, unpracticed snorting sound. Liam suddenly finds himself sympathetic. After all, Liam rarely finds reasons to laugh in this godforsaken life he leads. Only Killian, his spirited and courageous little brother, can find the things that can make Liam laugh. How could this man have any joy in his own life, without a little brother by his side?

“Have ye?” says the man, after he takes a steadying breath. “‘M sorry to hear that, I am. Cannae be an easy life for ye.”

“You neither,” Liam says quietly. The man expressing sympathy for them touches him unexpectedly, and he feels compelled to offer some of his own.

There’s a long moment of silence. “Aye,” the man mumbles. “Well. I cannae offer ye much. ‘Tis hard enough to trust a stranger. But whatever I can do for the two of ye, I’ll do. Tisn’t right, to have children in these conditions.”

It’s been so long since anyone saw the two of them as children. A lump rises in Liam’s throat.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The three of them say little after that. Liam doesn’t want to have any important conversation with Killian, not with Lachlan there. He seems to respect the urge, only asking practical questions about who was to sleep where. The thin hay pile divvied up, the three enslaved souls sleep as well as they possibly could.

It’s unusual for the crew to wake them up or seek them out in the morning. However, it’s also unusual to add a new captive to the ship’s crew. Their main overseer, a man Killian and Liam refer to simply as One Eye, throws open the door to their quarters early in the morning.

Killian wakes up first, nudging Liam awake frantically. Liam comes to with a start, sitting up and looking around wildly. The form of One Eye is outlined by the blinding light of the early morning.
“Get up!” the man demands, shrieking voice cutting through the fog of Liam’s sleep addled mind. “Ye lazy sods, get up! Ye’ve work to do!”

And with that, Liam and Killian’s brief respite is over.

The day continues uneventfully. Killian and Liam are put to work repairing rigging once again. The men all fear to be up that high, leaving it all to them. Rotting, decrepit ropes hold them aloft. They replace the ones they can, steer clear from the ones they cannot.

Once One Eye decides they’ve done enough, they’re done for the day. He usually keeps them up and at it until the light grows dim.

Today, he seems distracted. He frequently vanishes from his usual glaring, leaving Killian and Liam on their own for a significant part of the day. They take advantage, resting while they can.

Killian tugs at Liam’s elbow during one of their respites. “I want to save something for Lachlan,” he says.

Liam objects. Vehemently. It’s difficult enough to keep themselves alive, let alone risking their necks for a stranger. It’s foolish, almost idiotically soft-hearted.

That’s, of course, why Liam finds himself entering their quarters, late in the evening when One Eye finally dismisses them, with an extra tuber and chunk of bread tucked into his shirt.

Killian’s warm, joyful smile makes it worth it. Liam can’t resist it, much to his deep annoyance.

He finds his heart warmed by the idea of it, too, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. He’s almost sad he can’t see the look on Lachlan’s face. The man gasps in surprise when Liam presses the food into his hands.

“No, no,” he says. “Save it for yerselves, I beg ye.”

Killian puts a hand on his shoulder. “You can look out for us better if you’re well fed,” he reasons. Liam hides a snort behind a cough. Killian can pretend to be a tough guy all he wants, but Liam knows he’s a bleeding heart at his core. He hadn’t begged Liam to do this out of self preservation. He’d done it because he couldn’t bear to let another go hungry.

He wonders how Killian has managed to keep such a deep grip on his humanity. It shocks him, seeing this. Seeing his little brother so listless while they were starving had hurt Liam deeply, but this touches him just as deeply. Killian is still the sweet young man he’d always been. Or at least, he’s still capable of being that.

Liam, for his part, doesn’t think he’s capable of that anymore. But it’s a cross he’s willing to bear. He’ll grow hard if he needs to, to protect his little brother’s softness.
Liam thinks Lachlan understands. When he finally accepts it, he eats only half of the bread. The rest, he also presses on Killian. “Please,” he insists.

Killian allows it.

Liam suddenly feels an overwhelming sensation of kinship. In the dimmest, greyest light that filters through the wooden boards of their ship, he and Lachlan make eye contact. A silent agreement comes between them. Liam and Lachlan together will look after him.

Killian, oblivious, lies down to sleep between them.

It’s a long time before either the older boy or the man can join him in sleep.