Chapter Text
The day on which the Jewel of the Realm pulls into Storybrooke's port is not an auspicious one. It is hardly even a safe one, for all of the temperance considered typical of the region has vanished beneath a storm --- a tempest, really, and one grander than most of those remembered storms still maintained in the living, breathing memory of the surrounding populace --- as dark grey clouds fill the sky. Numerous, they are indeed, and the sun finds itself abruptly left with no recourse but to hide behind that oppressive curtain and cower from the great, galing sheets of rain now spattering against the warped wood of the dock. Periodically, and with frightening regularity, thunder and lightning spill forth from the slaty shroud that has been made out of the sky, forceful and unapologetic.
It is for these turbulent reasons that the lookout on duty at the time --- a rather grouchy little man only semi-affectionately nicknamed, "Grumpy" --- only catches sight of the ship when another burst of lightning illuminates the area, flashing across the silent ship. Yet, once he does, he turns with all of the sharp adroitness of one well-used to his job, cupping his hands around his mouth and bellowing, "The Jewel! She's here!"
Barely a minute passes before, all at once, the whole town pours out into the street, umbrellas and ponchos hastily erected to stave off the downpour as excited chatter fills the air. It cannot entirely be said that this is a common occurrence --- typically speaking, the docks would not have been empty in the first place, and it is only the inclemency of the weather (and the inconstancy of a people not particularly fond of waiting around to get drenched, even in the name of important goings-on within the shipping industry) that has driven them indoors in the first place --- yet it is an efficient one. The townspeople move together with speed and coordination, an entire mob rushing through the town and towards the docks, and the sound of feet slamming against roughly hewn boards mingles with the cacophony of interested voices until the amalgamation of pure noise almost rivals that of the storm.
Only two figures stand away from the fray, and even a careful eye could be forgiven for missing the fact that they are not unknown to one another. They stand as far from one another as it is possible to stand, given their environment, and, insofar as they are together, it is only in their solitude.
The first is a soldier --- or was, or will be. He wears the uniform of a soldier, at any rate: black cloth spread neatly across his figure, name tag still pinned carefully to his left shoulder, name proclaimed by it for all to see. Rumplestiltskin Gold, it reads in careful text. Yet, for all the nobility one might expect the uniform to engender in its wearer, his brown hair is long and loose as a soldier's should not be --- long enough to brush those black-clad shoulders, and to hang into his face --- and his posture is slightly hunched, hands clasping tightly around the heavy, ornate cane in his hand. Unlike the rest of the town, he does not fix his attention on the ship, which continues floating into the harbour; unlike a father, he does not fix it on his son, who lingers at his side. Instead, he holds fury in the eyes he directs towards the second figure, a woman still standing alone at the waterfront, as she moves to get a better view.
She does not hold with the crowd as it further approaches the docks. Rather, she turns and climbs a nearby ladder until she finds herself atop a close-enough building. Her cheeks are rosy from the lashings of the storm, and her eyes are narrow as she squints past the rain, but the shaking of her fingers has nothing to do with the weather. Milah --- just Milah, these days --- pulls a spyglass from an unseen pouch and raises it to her eye, lens fixed firmly upon the incoming vessel, form unmoving once it is directed there. Her long black hair waves wildly in the wind until, quickly soaked, it favours hanging limply in her face; her sensible dress soon follows. Yet she pays neither any mind as she scans the turbulent sea, as she watches, as she waits, as-- There. Another flash of lightning illuminates the area and she smiles.
The Jewel of the Realm is a beautiful vessel --- the pride and joy of Storybrooke's navy, and just as beloved in times of peace. It is the fastest ship in the area, and easily the most famous: after all, under the captaincy of the famous (or, arguably, infamous) Long John Silver, it has reached near-mythic status. Men from other navies whisper that seeing the ship is cursed, that those who go up against her are sure to lose the fight. Still others boast having already done so, for all it is well known they lie. And, for all the military peace of present day, its glamour has not faded: it has now become the primary carrier of all goods passing through Storybrooke, be they imported or exported, and much more than mere crates rests upon its decks --- livelihoods, and commerce, and economy.
On this day, however, the ship holds little of its usual polish. While it is intact --- and riding heavy enough on the waves for the odds to be good that the cargo has survived the storm --- it is also clearly damaged, and the severity of these wounds cannot be assessed without first contending with the pessimistic distortion of sinister, storm-cast shadows. Two of the sails are missing entirely, and a scorch mark is easily spotted on one of the masts. Further char has traced the branching path of past fires along the usually polished wood of her bannisters, and her main deck, usually bustling, stands almost completely empty, save for a single figure standing at the wheel.
The woman drops her spyglass back into her pocket and remains on the roof, waiting.
All the same, every wave must break --- every torrent must end --- and, by the time the ship reaches the docks, the sky has begun to clear. Nearly non-existent is the thunder and lightning, though greyish-purple clouds still linger, and the ship pulls up to the dock just as a single roll of thunder splits the air with all the finality of a promise. Almost at once, the crew pours free of the lower decks, rushing to the sides of the boat to help dock it with unquestioning efficiency and seamless cooperation. A quick bustle of activity --- of shouted orders obeyed, of successful completions reported --- and the ship is docked amid the final vestiges of the waning storm.
The rain has ceased by the time all is done. Grey clouds linger still, but ponchos are quickly stowed and umbrellas are collapsed, and with them departs the looming air of almost-melancholy that accompanies such rainstorms --- a cheer rises into the air the moment the gangway is dropped onto the dock.
It is a glee destined to be short-lived, however, and it drops off, slowly but surely, as more and more time passes without anyone leaving the ship. Just as the storm-damp melancholy has vanished with the disappearing clouds, so too has excitement foundered on the rocks, replaced first by confusion, and then concern, and then wary anxiety. The silence that descends as they wait is uneasy, tense, and the eyes once fixed upon the ship solely for the spectacle watch now for movement of any kind at all.
Eventually, one comes.
Two people --- one young and blonde and sprightly, the other slightly heavier-set --- descend slowly, a bier stored between them with mournful lethargy. The figure held atop it is not visible, covered as they are by a sheet of clean-ish canvas, yet this does not stop the onlookers from peering at them, from trying to make out any sort of identification, from trying to ascertain who, precisely, has died.
So focused are these witnesses on the sight --- on the mystery --- that no one notices the slight gleam of something suspiciously like hope in Rumplestiltskin's eyes as he looks upon the corpse-bearers. So focused are these witnesses on the sight --- on the tragedy --- that no one notices that gleam extinguish itself upon the appearance of a third figure at the top of the gangway. (So fixated is Rumplestitskin upon his hate that he does not notice the gleam twist, warp, until, eyes narrowed, his furious gaze becomes a blatant glare directed firmly at that third figure.)
At first glance, it cannot be said that the third figure --- the third sailor --- is particularly notable. Killian Jones is one of any number of Naval officers, and his garb is simple to suit: a starched uniform nearly identical to those of his fellow crew members. His hair is long and dark, pulled back from his face by a small ponytail secured at the base of his neck, but both are nearly invisible beneath the tricorn hat perched carefully on his head. His blue eyes hold an earnest sort of solemnity as he scans the dock, stopping only as they came to rest on a professional-looking woman standing at the front of the mob: Regina Mills, imposing figurehead of Queen's Shipping and Naval Support, dressed to kill. Her short hair is impeccably arranged, as ever, and her sensible pant-suit without wrinkle, as always, but the frown sitting upon her face does so with the unhappy incongruity of a woman not well used to being discontented and not especially pleased by the experience.
With nary a glance at the rest of the crowd, Killian strides forward, picking his way down the gangway with the confidence of a born --- and tried --- sailor and the decorum of a conscientious man. He does not speak until his boots have landed on the dock, and his voice is quiet when he does, yet the words nonetheless carry, as bad news is wont to do. "Madame Mills," he begins, in that low tone, "It is my unhappy duty to inform you that Captain Silver is dead."
The crowd lets out a sudden gasp at this, many breaths released at once, whisperings spreading through the gathered crowd. It is a many-tongued sort of noise, and enough to cover the sound of the remaining crew members filing off of the Jewel of the Realm and silently joining their loved ones. Later will come further work --- Customs checks and inventory and unloading and repacking --- but this is not the time for such busy work; no one stops the now-sobered villagers from turning and beginning to disperse, returning to their homes through rain-soaked streets. Some, no doubt, count themselves lucky that their friends and family are alive and well and not lying beneath rough canvas as cooling corpses in a cellar or ship-hold or, worse, at the bottom of the sea. The docks return to near-emptiness swiftly.
Once again, Rumplestiltskin does not follow. He retreats a bit, yes, but he does not leave --- merely speaks quietly to his son. "Bae," he says, voice pitched low and almost steady, "I need you to return home. I'll come back later." Then, he straightens. Passes his hand through his son's curly brown hair. Almost-smiles as the lad nods and begins to run deeper into the town. And, with a sigh, slides sideways into a nearby alley, such that he can look out at the rest of the dock without the rest of the dock looking back at him.
Killian still stands in front of the shipowner, neither having spoken as they waited for the dock to clear. As soon as it does --- save for the unseen Rumplestiltskin, tucked into his alley with hatred for company, and Milah, still perched on the building nearby --- she motions for them to walk, face stern and serious.
Yet it is not for nothing that covers should not be held accountable for the contents of their books, for her tone, when she speaks, is more of concern than anything else. "What exactly happened out there, Jones?"
He grimaces --- or, perhaps, frowns --- one hand raised to scratch lightly at his ear. "Captain Silver sought to find the Eye of the Storm," he reports, and the finer points of how he feels about the decision may be sublimated beneath smooth features but his general unhappiness rings loud and clear.
Regina's does too, frustration trapped behind the snarl of painted lips and fighting its way free with a growl. "What the hell was that idiot thinking? It's a cursed stone in a hurricane! You can't just walk up to a storm and charm it with... with rum!" A pause, reconsidering. "Or whatever passes for a good beverage on that boat of yours."
Well-used to --- and well-amused by --- his supervisor, Killian does not directly respond, save for the slightest twitching up-curl of a subdued smile. "Aye," he says instead. "I advised against the idea, but he insisted on steering the ship directly into it. We'd barely approached before a bolt of lightning struck, destroying a couple of sails, singing the mast, and striking Captain Silver directly. As he was incapacitated, I assumed the role of Captain, ordered an about-face, and returned us here. The cargo, I fear, has not been delivered, but it is returned safely."
"The idiot!" Another snarl. Then she whirls, turning to look at where the two pallbearers stand, still and patient as they await orders. "Let me see," she orders, brusquely but not unkindly, and so the sheet is temporarily drawn back. At her nod, it is replaced. "Damn."
"Indeed," Killian says, nodding. "Now, with your permission, Madame Mills, I'd like to dismiss Tink and Smee. Their families await them, no doubt, and I would not hold them here on such gruesome business any longer."
Regina nods distractedly, eyes fixed first on the now-covered corpse and then on Killian as he walks over to settle the bier against the dock and dismiss his charges. When he returns, she asks, with the general air of someone remembering something she would rather forget, "Where's Zelena?"
"I believe she's still on board, Madame."
Another nod, this time more purposeful. "Alright. I need to talk to the both of you. Meet me inside."
Killian returns the nod, taking two steps backwards without turning around, eyes scanning the dock, the buildings, the rooftops, as though looking for something, until-- His eyes catch on a figure, silhouette-dark against the brightening sky as she stands on a nearby rooftop, and he smiles. Raises a hand into the air to wave, just once, before turning around and walking back to the ship.