Chapter Text
Killian gracelessly took a seat on the edge of his well-worn chair. Alice was already perched on a stool in front of him. He extended his hand out towards the assortment of hairbrushes and combs on the adjacent table and fumbled through them until he settled upon his preferred aid. The former Pirate Captain hummed a soothing sea shanty while he gingerly ran the hairbrush through her wild curls. He was so engrossed in his task, he didn’t catch sight of the way in which Alice recoiled each time the rigid bristles intertwined with her stray knots.
“Ow! Papa, it hurts!”
At his daughter's behest, Killian hurriedly set about trying to unbind the brush from the clump of hair it had entangled itself in.
“Bl- sorry, Starfish. This task demands a certain amount of care. I seem to have gotten preoccupied by my own thoughts. Won’t happen again.”
“But I don’t understand. Why do you have to do this every day? I don’t like it.”
“You’re going to have to elaborate,” suggested Killian, cocking an eyebrow.
“Why do you have to brush my hair every day? You brush it so it looks different. Can’t we just leave it?” Demanded Alice. She pivoted on her stool to face her father before her expression shifted from one of undiluted defiance to one of someone immersed in deep contemplation. A moment of tranquility and then Killian watched as the blood drained from her face. Her forget-me-not irises met his bewildered gaze, she hesitated and then added, “It’s ‘cause of the Witch in my dreams, isn’t it? She has hair like me. Why do I have hair like her, Papa?”
Her words reopened a gaping wound Killian had long since tried to conceal. He felt his muscles tauten as the fires of sorrow rained over him. No matter how eager he might normally have been to entertain her every question, this subject went leaps and bounds beyond what he’d surmised he ought to brace himself for. His face betrayed dismay as his insufficiently thought out objections manifested in the form of a solitary, strangled murmur. He narrowly refrained from interjecting that both Liam and Alice’s own namesake were also endowed with voluminous curly locks but he opted against divulging those details upon being briskly reminded that the curls atop their heads were exceptionally tighter than those of his daughter’s. No, in his mind, he'd comprehended precisely from whom she’d inherited her untamed tendrils and he couldn’t stomach the notion of it- couldn’t suffer to concede that so much as a trace of that heinous demon resided in his little girl. And so, every time the skies were set alight by the amber, violet and magenta haze of sunrise, he committed himself to meticulously neatening Alice’s main until not one ringlet remained in his field of view. He felt that his employment of this drastic measure was nonsensical, excessive, even. Here he was, an erstwhile Pirate Captain, going into a mild, internal frenzy over something as superficial as the appearance of his child’s hair.
“Her hair is more often braided than not, love. Well, that’s what I gather from your descriptions. Not exactly you're coloring either. I’m not sure what you're getting at,” retorted Killian, his tone imbued with the ghost of vexation.
“It’s not always braided, Papa,” the girl explained. “Why can’t I leave the tower?” Killian released a dispirited sigh, settled his forehead against his palm and absent-mindedly set about massaging his brow. He knew she didn’t need to have the gift of prophetic dreaming to divine what his, as of yet, invariable response to that question would be. The inquisitive lass was presumably about to scrutinize him over another matter shrouded in mystery.
“We’ve discussed this, Alice. There’s a spell keeping you entrapped- a barrier, if you will,” Killian replied, his barely veiled exasperation bleeding through the cracks.
“It’s her isn’t it? You’re not telling me something. You told me lying is bad!”
“I haven’t lied, love. In time, I’ll gladly disclose everything you need to know,” Killian reassured her.
“If I can’t leave here, can’t I know why now? You’re being imperious!” Alice paused momentarily, an air of perplexity crossing her features before she tilted her head to meet his matching pair of eyes. “Was I bad, Papa?” she breathed, her voice breaking under the weight of realization.
An all-consuming twinge of remorse and heartbreak twisted at Killian’s insides. The solemn quality to her tone left him bereft of speech. Had his equivocacy been the thing that precipitated her drawing this inference? Or, perish the thought, did she conjecture that some virtuous entity might be keeping her retained here as retribution for some long-unremembered infant’s mishap? He couldn’t be instrumental in her giving credence to those ideas. But was the truth far more harrowing than any fabricated tale he could spin? The mother she’d so craved was markedly the most malevolent individual he’d had the displeasure of crossing paths with in his near three hundred years. The conniving witch had been the one to entrap her flesh and blood in exchange for her own liberation. Her initial ploy necessitated that both birth mother and father forsake the newborn so she might starve to death, and Gothel’s intentions now were likely far more sinister than anything his mind could conjure.
“No, no, no, Starfish. Don’t ever think that,” implored Killian, tenderly wiping a stray tear from Alice’s cheek.
“Papa, please!” Alice yelled, beseeching him to trust her with a genuine response. She pulled away from his touch and abruptly rose to her feet. Her distressed cry engendered more anguish than even the unendurable sensation of his heart being torn from inside his chest had; worse than the feeling of white-hot knives piercing every inch of his torso. He was immensely conscious of the fact that he couldn’t continue perpetually dancing around this subject. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to confess.
Alice was visibly shaking now, her breath hitched at uneven intervals, her already reddening eyes contrasted with the cascade of tears threatening to spill from them.
“You liar! You promised to always tell the truth!”
“Alice! I’m doing what I bloody can to protect you!” The Pirate barked back with more fire than he intended.
And then came upheaval. He should have heeded the signs. He was well-acquainted with her impulsive outburst and their tendency to sharply escalate by now but given the theme of the discussion that had sparked the onset of the impending tempest, he mentally readied himself for what could conceivably be the one to surpass its predecessors.
Alice started pacing erratically, somehow managing to cover the entirety of the wooden surface of her place of confinement in the space of a few minutes. She muttered some incoherent jumble of words under her breath, which rapidly transformed into an unsettling display of hysterical yells through unbidden tears. Killian’s intermittent attempts at pacifying her were to no avail. Instead, her eyes flashed back to her stool and before her father could think to react, she elevated the rickety piece of furniture above her tiny head and propelled it directly into the glass lantern beside her bed. Killian watched with bated breath as glass shards tore through the air and cascaded over his shoulders, missing him by a hair's breadth. On instinct, he instantly dashed to shelter Alice from the downpour but the moment he reached her she was already bounding towards her next target. He obstructed her path and in one swift motion, he seized her by the waist and spun her to face the other way in order to evade potential injury. Exhibiting this sort of intemperate reaction was hardly anything abnormal for his daughter but he was confident neither himself nor his brother, nor any child he’d encountered, for that matter, had behaved like this at her age. He’d be telling a deceptive tale if he was to deny that it terrified him. The young lass had no regard for her safety in the midst of her fits of rage.
Killian scarcely had time to come to grips with all that was happening. Soon, the little lass had wrestled her way out of his restraint before racing to her methodically arranged porcelain dolls.
“Alice, careful!” he warned, arms held up in wordless surrender. She disregarded him coldly, not even taking the opportunity to spare the man a glance.
Needless to say, she didn’t heed his caution. Alice picked up as many of her dolls as her small arms could comfortably bear and the next instant, she was hurling them into the adjacent wall with unwarranted force. One or two toppled head first through the window, the rest suffered some minor damage. Amidst her distressed cries and disconcerting screams, she sucked at the air like it had suddenly become thick and was now almost too difficult to draw in. This was assuredly one of the most severe outbursts he’d ever witnessed. Killian advanced towards her at a snail's pace, hoping not to exacerbate matters but his efforts were in vain. She had already gathered up what was left of her toys and proceeded to strike and trample over the poor sods, occasionally sparing a moment to aimlessly toss them about the place; one after the other without delay. Killian was promptly compelled to shield his ears and he winced when Alice unexpectedly let out a pained, earth-shattering shriek. It must have surely been sufficient to alarm the entire kingdom. Birds in the nearby clearing cried out and scattered. But the racket didn’t bother Killian in the slightest. For all the frustration and feelings of despondency he endured as a direct result of her entrapment, it could be of no consequence when pitted against the emotions that must be coursing through her little head on a daily basis. He almost deliberated over letting her continue, owing to the fact that he was quite cognizant of the cathartic effects damaging property had on a person. That was, until he recalled that the dolls were forged from porcelain and stared down to see their mangled faces. Alice blindly reached for one of the glass vials of sand and dirt he’d brought for her amusement. Without hesitation, he grabbed a hold of her, scooped her up in his arms and dragged her away from the wreckage. She thrust it into the air and his heart ceased beating at the prospect of what might have resulted had he gotten to her a second later.
The portrait painted by the glass and sand strewn surface reawakened a long-disregarded concern. In truth, he incessantly asked himself if he’d done the right thing in lavishing her with nonsensical souvenirs from the outside world. A previously dormant part of him ruminated over whether he’d been morally justified in occupying her days by tutoring her and coercing her into studying the particulars of things she may never have use of. He had been adhering to what was, in all probability, a foolish notion that someday she’d experience the world as she should have always been able to. But what if she was fated to be caged in this elevated, stone dungeon for the rest of her days? What if he perished in this tower and Alice was left to gaze upon his immovable corpse for all time, so all alone and terror-stricken, with no means of ever escaping? What if, in the absence of his guardianship, that Witch was free to do with her as she pleased. All this time he’d spent believing, if they danced like hell, he’d swear she’d never hit the ground. The remnants of hope were but a candle’s flicker when juxtaposed to the blaze that burned so brightly years ago, when he first held his weeping babe. But now was hardly the time to plummet down that rabbit whole and discard all hope lest he stop striving to find a way. And for Captain Hook, not finding a way wasn’t even worthy of fleeting consideration, especially when his Starfish’s future was at risk.
Despite Alice’s near-indistinguishable protests, he maintained his grip on her, competing to keep her steady in his arms. For he wasn’t about to allow her free rain and risk her getting an untold number of splinters in her bare soles. He made an effort to facilitate her in reaching a more serene state but it was as fruitless as he’d anticipated it’d be; his pleas for her to try to compose herself appeared to fall on deaf ears. Still, she persisted in trying to wrestle her way out of his grip, her arms flailing about indiscriminately while her shrill cries rent the air with no indication of dwindling. He felt her uncontrollably shaking as she wept, and he cradled her while providing her with earnest words of solace.
Killian didn’t need to unpuzzle her behavior. The former sailor was all too mindful of the fact that these were not the ramifications of a simple quarrel over some blasted hair brush. The poor lass was long-surpassed the brink of unappeasable frustration with her situation. Confined to the expanse of a single room in this bloody tower since birth, spending her daylight hours yearning to know the feeling of the coarse, emerald grass between her toes. She didn’t have to verbalize her reasons if she couldn’t. He understood, or at least he always tried to. How he wished he could trade places with her. He’d have given anything to afford her just one day of freedom.
Killian didn’t even notice that his own vision was becoming obscured by a thick layer of moisture threatening to leak out of his eyes; the corners were already raw as a result of him unconsciously fighting to choke back the tears. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to keep his emotions pent up anymore. Eight years he’d watched his child suffer at the hands of a Witch and perhaps eight years of fending off the feeling of unbridled hopelessness that was forever inching towards him had at last taken its toll. And for once in a long, long time, he let himself surrender to the overwhelming, inaudible sobs that battled to escape his lips.
It took until the fall of dawn for Alice to start simmering down. Killian hastily dabbed at his own eyes with the sleeves of his disheveled shirt, privately praying she hadn’t caught sight of him weeping along with her. She seized the opportunity to untwist herself from his other arm and shuffled over to the wall behind her father, where she clumsily slumped down and sat with her back touching the wood, face pressed to her knees. Killian saw no purpose in stopping her in her tracks. He just requested she stay away from the glass, which he then carefully swept out of their way. Once he’d finished, he gathered the pieces onto some threadbare fabric, folded it a few times and tied the corners together with some loose string so he might more easily dispose of it. He risked a glance at Alice and it was immediately brought to his attention that she hadn’t had anything to drink yet.
“I’ll fetch you a glass of water,” said Killian as he sauntered to their supply. “Bloody he-,” he broke off mid-phrase and coughed. “I mean shrubby shell…errrr....fish,” the dark-haired man backtracked, nervously scratching behind his ear as he spoke. “Ah, it seems our water bucket is in need of replenishment. I can’t have you dehydrating in this heat now, can I, love?”
Killian discontinued talking and crouched down to her level. He playfully outstretched his hand to her and though he wanted nothing more than to embrace her heartily, he knew better than to touch her when she got into a state like this. He tilted his head to one side and said, “I’d prefer not to leave you like this either. Love, please respond. I promise, I will find a way to free you. The gory details are simply better left in the past, for now at least. Someday you’ll understand, Alice.” He exhaled deeply, surveying her for any indication that she might consider acknowledging him. He nodded to himself, deciding to feign an upbeat attitude for the sake of his endeavor to lift her spirits.
“I’ll be back before you know it!”
With difficulty, he half-hopped, half-stumbled to his feet, internally noting how much more wearisome such a straightforward feat had become in his old age. He took one last, hopeful glimpse at his Starfish and ambled towards the tower’s only unlocked window. Just how he managed to clamber up and down the length of the tower for eight years ceaselessly baffled him. He favored the idea of not making himself scarce at a time like this but there was no feasible alternative. She must’ve been parched and he needed to rid himself from the hazardous fragments of glass somehow. Perhaps allowing her some space would assist in improving her mood.
*****
Killian was near approaching the tower’s sole entrance. He dug his extremities into every memorized crevice and crack, being careful to maintain a firm footing. His upper limps protested and he cried out with every upward heave. He could hear his Alice now. He chuckled triumphantly through his pain. How it enraptured him to hear that she’d recovered enough to resume playing. He tried to discern what she was saying. If she was feeling forgiving enough, she might let him join her in her games.
“And dear me, what a state your hair is in!”
“The brush has got entangled in it! And I lost the comb yesterday.”
Ah, the sweet sound of his daughter’s boundless imagination! She’d inherited her affinity for devising elaborate stories from him, whether they be expressed through literature or play.
The climb seemed endless. The stress of the day’s events wore on Killian and he had adopted a more cautious approach to the task than what was typical of him. He could hardly focus on what Alice was saying.
“Suppose he never commits the crime?"
"That would be all the better, wouldn't it?"
“You're wrong there, at any rate. Were you ever punished?”
"Only for faults.”
"And you were all the better for it, I know!"
"Yes, but then I had done the things I was punished for. That makes all the difference."
"But if you hadn't done them, that would have been better still; better, and better, and better!"
As Killian drew ever closer to his desired destination, he couldn’t help perceiving something rather curious. His smile waned as he resorted to listening more attentively.
“If Papa won’t tell us the truth. Then I say we stage a mutiny!”
"I know what you'd like! Have a biscuit?”
That final voice was unlike anything he’d heard before, and it was decidedly not Alice’s. His breath caught in his throat and a new, sickening lump formed in his neck. His heart thrashed behind its bars and drummed thunderously in his ears as he quickened his pace, abandoning all consideration for his own safety.
Hook adjusted his limbs so he could more easily hoist himself over the window’s ledge as he prepared to defend Alice at all costs should there indeed be a trespasser awaiting his return. He just prayed Alice hadn’t accepted those damn biscuits.
With one final upward pull, he was finally able to behold what was lurking on the other side. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the utter chaos and absurdity that ensued before his eyes when he entered.
“Bloodiest of hells,” he breathed.
Killian looked incredulous. His eyes dilated and his jaw hung open. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
A cyclone had formed from his and Alice’s discarded apparel and it encircled Alice with enough momentum to lightly scrape the walls, glass from their surviving light fixtures was spattered everywhere and the porcelain dolls were suspended from the ceiling and everything of considerable height capable of accommodating to their weight. They swung on his hammock and positioned themselves on every surface, bouncing up and down in elation. Some were adorned with the miniscule pirate attire he’d bought for Alice to play dress-up with, most of them were grievously marred by now; some of their eyes were quite literally hanging in by a thread and others’ faces were fractured horrifically. They were all indisputably sentient. Some scaled everything they could and howled “Mutiny!”, while the toys below cheered and urged them on, each one of their incomplete faces contorted with menace. His gaze landed on two of Alice’s best-loved dolls; the now eyeless Red Queen and the White queen- both named after pieces from an old chess set- who were suddenly fast approaching him. But little did he know; the Red King was already dangling upside down behind him. The animated toy bided its time until Killian stepped backwards, then it latched onto the back of the Pirate’s collar, flipped itself onto his shoulders and used its icy digits to try to cover his eyes. Other dolls decided to assist and clung to Killian’s clothing and limbs. He stumbled and staggered, doing his damnedest to shake them from his legs, cursing them as he did. After he pried the Red Kings stubby fingers off his eyes, he was finally able to see Alice. Her face was still buried in her knees. It looked like she might somehow be too overcome with emotion to pay attention to all that was transpiring around her.
Gaining little success in trying to get the little buggers off of him, Killian resolved to do something moderately drastic. He hobbled over to the pale of water that he’d used rope to lift into the tower before his ascension. He grappled it by the handle with his hook, gripped the bottom with his hand and gracelessly poured the numbingly cold water over his crown. The dolls screeched, hastily fled and dispersed themselves about the place once more.
Raising his hand to shield his eyes, he returned to his pursuit to locate Alice, but was instead made aware that her bed sheets were arranged as to form a minuscule, fabric pirate’s ship around the girl, complete with rigging and a deck. Although mostly obscured by the whirlwind of garments, he could see that some of the dolls were hanging from a half-formed main mast. This was a bloody nightmare. He’d witnessed an array of different types of witchcraft, and plenty of it in his long years but never anything like this. Plainly, Gothel must have cast powerful enchantments on the tower at some point. He wondered if they were triggered by the occupant's current feelings towards visitors.
A tumultuous gust wailed in his ears. It made him feel off-balance, it objected to his every step but he had to press on. He had to get to Alice. For the commotion in the topmost part of the tower could be nothing compared to the furious chaos that must be ensuing in her tiny head for her not to so much as acknowledge the calamity. He should never have strayed from her side.
“Alice!” He bellowed, the sheer desperation apparent in his voice. He couldn’t hear himself over the rustling and howling of the unnatural gale. From what he could tell, she didn’t look up but he saw she had brought her hands to her ears.
The wind resisted his every effort to advance and his sodden garments and hair glued to his skin, making the chilling breeze biting his flesh close to insufferable. It took all the strength he could muster just to put one foot before the other. The closer he got, the more items of clothing thrashed at his face and torso. Fortunately, the sensation was akin to one you might expect from being repeatedly beaten with a handful of feathers. Still, their contact with his skin was unpleasant to say the least.
“Alice, love-!” Still no response. A sudden jolt of terror struck him and he frantically began rummaging around for his cutlass, all the while fearful that it might have gotten caught in the current. It was as if his old companion had accessed his thoughts; the cutlass had already started gliding towards him, his eyes broadened reflexively and he responded by promptly unsheathing his single-edged sword. He held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon; always leveled with the nose. The bloody bastard had volition enough to retaliate on its own accord, and quite skillfully at that. He had stalled the cutlasses every strike and his blade shivered under the brutality of its compelling strength. He swiped it aside, exercising unyielding vigilance.
Everything was going rather swimmingly- all things considered; the cyclone of clothing was beginning to lose considerable momentum and his opponent and himself seemed to be quite equally matched. That was, until he felt something through his vest, whipped his head around and swore so loudly he feared Alice might pick up on his foul language. An oar, a keepsake from his favorite rowboat no lest, had thought it a good idea to prod him in the back more than once and was seemingly goading him into challenging it. This was bound to take an interesting turn.
Hook whirled around, slicing an inch off the paddle in one swift movement. Had he not known better, he’d have sworn the thing seemed upset and betrayed by his actions. He booted it right in what he presumed to be its face and spun back round to lunge at the cutlass, fresh determination coursing through his bones. The sabre backed him into his easel, it quickly became unstable and toppled over under his weight, yanking him to the ground with it. He rolled out of its way and narrowly missed its edge as it brought itself down, slashing through the dead center of the canvas. He leapt up in time to avoid getting slapped across the face by the oar’s paddle.
As time progressed, he came to appreciate that he was actually beginning to find enjoyment in this ludicrous three-way-duel. He chortled with each clank of his sword upon realizing that the cutlass and oar were in no way fighting to injure him but rather, they were almost impishly trying to keep him isolated from his daughter. Like hell they would. And one could never be too cautious with the likes of Gothel and her sorcery.
Unbeknownst to Killian, Hatter; Alice’s ebony top hat, had been dancing contentedly above his head for quite some time. To his great surprise, the hat unceremoniously tumbled onto his head, settling right over his eyes. Killian made to tug it away from his line of vision but misfortune befell him. He blindly brandished his sabre, hoping against hope he’d be able to counterattack as adeptly as he had prior to the accessory's interference. He listened closely for any indication of movement, noting each and every shift in the unabating winds so he might determine their whereabouts. He reacted instinctively and astonished himself by continuing to dodge there every assault.
Then, Hook overheard the most wonderful sound in all the realms; Alice had fallen into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. It made a smile tug at the corners of Killian’s lips and ignited a renewed rush of determination to get to her. Finally, he was able to successfully peel the top hat‘s brim over his eyes- the damn thing didn’t want to get off his head any time soon- and returned to setting his sights on the oar. He raced after it and thwarted one or two crafty attacks before effortlessly slicing his formerly-treasured possession into three unequal segments. No doubt incapacitating the cutlass would demand he apply a wider array of expertise but nothing a bit of quick thinking couldn’t handle. Hook waved his blade in figure aids, the swords clanged noisily as they clashed together and a piercing ringing sound reverberated in his ears. The cutlass slashed the fabric of his vest and shirt at the midsection. It missed the flesh behind it by a mere inch. Enraged, Killian doubled down on his faceless opponent, grunting and utilizing all his strength in his attempts to back it into the window. Killian’s sabre was illuminated by the sunlight as he brought it up beside his ear and with one brutal blow, he severed the other blade clean in half. Its separated remains wasted no time in plummeting to the base of the tower.
He withdrew his sword and returned it to its sheath. He resolved to employ his hook to nonchalantly cast the airborne garments out of his path as he trudged forward. It was noticeably easier to do this now that the turmoil was dying down and with that in mind, he was at last able to get to Alice. When she inclined her head fractionally, he stooped down and presented a hand.
“How about a tea party, Starfish?” Killian offered, tipping his top hat and grinning broadly.