Bird of Prey

by Shoedonym

The problem with living in a world of magic, he would argue, is that the lines between fact, fiction and fairy tale blur. And still, Killian is told to never visit the lake on the third full moon of Spring. But it doesn't stop him. Swan Mythology AU.

1. i, ii, iii, iv

A/N: Inspired by Germanic/Celtic Swan mythology, inspired by Patrick Wolf's Magpie, and figured CS AU week was as good a time as any to force myself to post it. (Fits in with Days 1, 3 or 7 of the AU week take your pick cause I sure can't.) Swan Mythology AU

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Bird of Prey ( 1 / 2 )

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One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for a boy
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret, never to be told

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The problem with living in a world of magic, he would argue, is that the lines between fact, fiction and fairy tale blur.

They blur and blend together until hearsay becomes rumour, rumour becomes bedtime story, story becomes legend, and legend spreads through every village, right up to the point where Killian is told to never visit the lake on the third full moon of Spring.

To him, his mother, his town and his world, the facts are simple - it is dangerous, the swans cannot be trusted, the swans will lure men into the depths, down beneath dark, black waters until they come out the other side.

(Well, the 'Otherside'.)

The facts are simple: beware the bathing swans.

And yet it is his favourite story, the gentle rumblings of his mother's voice lulling him in between words of cloaks and feathers, foolish boys and epicures of more than just food and gold and wine.

As a child he thinks it is merely what mothers do, telling tall tales and fairy fables to their children, drawing gentle fingers through their hair and hushing moral lessons against heedlessness and greed into their pillows. In retrospect, it was a far more serious warning, one that deserved more heed than he gave it.

And only partially for the reasons he was told.

But these things are always better realised with the benefit of hindsight, and at fifteen Killian knows no better.

What he does know is that the stories and warnings from the townsfolk each and every Spring only make him miss his mother more. They never get the story quite right, their songs more superstitious and less intriguing, their voices never soft, their voices always humourless.

But that night, the moon is full in the sky and it bathes the house through the open shutters, and his mind wanders to other things that bathe in a lunar light.

Maybe it's because he misses her, the sorrow eating more at him than it usually does, and maybe it's because Liam has left, and his father has been gone for hours. The noise from the town square comes in dull through the open window and it's a poor, poor substitute for how this time of year used to feel.

And maybe it's because he's having trouble remembering how her voice would sound calling his name.

Perhaps that's why he does it; perhaps that's why he goes.

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One for sorrow…

The path to the lake is well trodden, but Killian barely pays it any consideration, veering off it and down his own lesser trampled short cut, stumbling slightly on the wandering thicket of sticks that are barely visible in the dark.

The forest on the edge of the hill is difficult to navigate in the night, his worn and weathered boots slipping over dead leaves more times than he cares to count, but at least the ground is dry. The ground is dry and the air has a lingering warmth, and each and every single step he takes builds a boyish anticipation in his chest, in his fingers, in his toes. He tells himself he's not breaking any rules, he tells himself he'll be fine – he's old enough he can handle himself.

Killian couldn't say for sure why he is rushing so much, heart beating impatiently between breaths - he could pretend he needs to get back before his father notices him gone; he could pretend it's to reduce the risk of getting caught; he could lie to himself.

Truth is he runs because he's eager, eager to rekindle the things his mother took with her.

He definitely expected the night to be more eerie than it is. Fifteen Springs of cautionary songs drilled into him and he'd assumed the woods would be deathly quiet, for the breeze to not even dare, to feel an otherworldly chill to his bones.

But it's the same as it always is, and if anything, the nocturnal creatures are more vocal, owls hooting incessantly over his head, the birds barely caring about where he's going or why.

And every step he takes towards the water's edge makes him wonder what he will see when he gets there.

Killian almost expects the whole thing to be myth, a joke told once or twice that snowballed, maybe the result of a witch pulling a rouse, a drunk imagining things. The contemplation is futile, an attempt at trying to lower his own expectations – whatever those expectations actually are – and he skids into a large rock that sits half-in half-out of the water, low hanging branches of the old oak tree shrouding him as the woods meet water's edge.

It's not a myth.

It's definitely not a joke.

The rock is cold and sharp beneath his hands, the water even more so as he wades a few inches in, but all he can focus on are the distant images, shadowed and swimming in the depths of the black lake. There are still two figures further down on the shore, and Killian watches, rapt and disbelieving as they swing off their capes – white feathered cloaks – placing them safely on the cobbled bank and walking calmly, unhurried to join the others, naked bodies disappearing seamlessly without ripple.

And nothing happens.

The women are varying ages, each as unfairly beautiful as the next, and Killian is plain and simply too stung with incredulity to even dwell on the fact that they're not wearing any clothes (he can barely tell at this distance). There are women as pale white as the moon that shines above them, and those who having shirked their black plumage drift into the water, skin brown and black, the lake as dark as they are. They swim and chatter, voices rippling just as the water doesn't, their laughter echoing pleasantly through the reeds.

But nothing happens.

There is no great evil ritual, no bacchanalia, no drowning of poorly fated men with the seduction of their bodies. There isn't even any magic, no great swells of weather to match – actually, the only sign of any enchantment is the quiet wisp of white light that swirls each woman as they disrobe and re-robe, hopping to and from their swan form.

Killian's almost disappointed.

These are the great swans, messengers of the fairy world, that he's spent his whole life hearing horrors about, and he stays there for what must be hours, waiting for the great stories to unfold.

But they don't.

And it only intrigues him more.

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No one believes him, of course.

They don't believe that he would live to tell the tale, nor do they believe that the creatures would be so benevolent. It is almost as though they pity him in his desperation to convince, seeing straight to his original intentions with a sympathetic glance.

The townsfolk wake the next morning, each one thankful that their sons and husbands, cousins and friends are still in their beds, secretly hoping that the swans had spared their loves one's lives for another. And it is a terrible thing to wish upon others, but they wish it every year, and the superstition sits unpleasantly in Killian in the light of his recent discovery.

The fact that no one knows if anyone is missing doesn't seem to matter, and they take the silver off their doors.

He tells his father, but his father barely listens – most likely assuming it's a game – clapping the boy gently on the back, assuming it will convey his response to the conversation.

The other children don't believe him either, his friends playfully start calling him the Boy Who Cried Swan.

It only takes him a few short days of light-hearted bullying before he realises that he's going to need proof.

So he waits, a whole four seasons, each full moon that passes egging him on, increasing his determination – his excitement – at the prospect of seeing the incomplete legend unfold once more before his eyes and proving them all wrong.

(Somehow, it is still about sorrow, the plan that he formulates a distraction from an empty house and a busy heart.)

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Two for joy…

Killian can barely wait for the sun to set the next year, sneaking down to the old oak tree before the light even disappears beneath the horizon. It's as warm as he remembers it being the last time, but he wonders if the whole thing was a fluke. It causes him to shuffle nervously as he paces back and forth, running over the plan in his head as the light dims.

Wait until they're all in the water, grab a cloak, run. Wait, grab, run.

The last point was pivotal.

But luck is on his side again tonight it would seem, and he watches as a flock of ten or so swans, both black and white, glide with grace, descending upon the surface of the water. He smiles to himself, and begins to feel jittery (not that he wasn't already), and perhaps a little too eager.

But he waits. Step one.

They paddle to the same pebbled bank that he remembers from last time, and several small bursts of flashing white silver twinkle in the night, as the swans metamorphose into their human counterparts. He sees them once again, the full length feathered cloaks that shroud them from head to toe swung off from their shoulders, letting them fall delicately upon the ground. In a few short moments they are all drifting back into the water with the same simplicity that he remembers all those moons ago.

But he waits.

Killian doesn't really know anything about the hearing of swans, doesn't know if it is different with human ears, and none of the stories for all their sinister details even broach the subject. He doesn't want to chance his luck, and smothering the warm, anxious bubbling inside of him before it gives him away, he focuses on his stratagem; he creeps.

Fortunately, he knows the lake well, it being safe on every other day of the year, and he steps through woods (with less silence than he would like), but he can still see the women off in the distance and he is far too entrenched in tree and shadow and feels no threat.

And they are lying there, black cloaks and white coats just within reach, gathered on the ground so innocuously, glittering impossibly in the dim like a warning – they are his proof. He picks the smallest of the lot, thinking it'll be easier to carry back with him; lighter to steal with quick fingers. They are so far away from him in the water, and it so close, and so he enacts step two of his (really rather simple) plan.

Grab.

Killian knows a lot about the cloaks, of course he does. While he knows nothing of their hearing, he knows everything about the feathers. They're woven into every single one of the celebrations of the springtime festivals, like King Arthur's sword, like dragon's fire, or a pegasus' wings, they are central to the whole thing. Dances, puppet shows and tavern shanties carry their message with admonition (of course) but with also a tip; a clue; a weapon.

The white feathers in his hands are softer than he was expecting, careful to double check that he is holding it at all and that it is not dissolving through his hands. Dry and soft, yet hard and tightly woven together, and he runs his fingers over them wondering how it is all knit and forged (and yet knowing it is magic). It's a splashing from far, far off behind that startles him, and he reluctantly draws his focus away from the cloak, but as he turns in place, spinning on his heel to make a mad dash, he is stopped.

Stopped in shock or fear he has no clue, but one of them – one of the women, the swans – is standing about twenty feet in front of him.

He's also not sure if his mouth drops open because he's scared; he's been caught, or if he's floundering for some words to say in defence; in apology, or, whether it's because she's completely naked.

Killian may have been too in awe of the whole thing last time to care about their lack of clothing, but this time she's far too close, and he finds himself looking staunchly at her face, desperately trying not to look or see anywhere else. She's eyeing him suspiciously, watching and calculating his intentions, and the two of them stare, Killian's mouth slightly agape, feeling his pulse liven for a multitude of reasons.

But it must be written all over his own face – the tension and the not knowing what to do – because it makes her smile, a wry sort of thing, a smile curling her cheeks as she watches the jaw he can feel clenching.

Neither of them move.

The third and most pivotal part of his plan is failing with every second and all he can do is stand there.

But he can't run now, doesn't know what will happen when he turns his back on her (if his feet will even carry him) doesn't know why she hasn't alerted the others, doesn't know how long they've been staring because all he can feel is the thrum of the feathers in his hands and the blood in his ears.

There is also a significant part of him that can't seem to move, can't even shuffle his feet, because he is dumbstruck - literally stunned by how stunning she is. That is one part at least that the stories got right. The swan – the girl, really – in front of him is beautiful, long hair more silvery than gold in the moonlight. The worst part is she looks about his age.

(It allows his mind to wander, to wonder.)

But her cloak in his hands is a weapon.

Tearing his eyes away from her face at last, he looks back at the feathers in his arms. The legends always said that any man who possessed one of the cloaks had control over the transformed swan to whom it belonged – that particular part of the story always bitten as though an unpleasant taste on his mother's tongue.

Killian hears the sound of pebbles, the sound of her feet treading closer to him and when his eyes dart back up to hers, his eyelashes flickering, heart immovable in his throat, she is still smiling knowingly at him, unabashed.

And extends her hand.

He's not quite sure how the cloak in his hands is supposed to control her (maybe it's not hers at all) but she doesn't even seem concerned with this contemplation of his, as his fingers grip the cloak (his proof) with more conviction with every step she takes towards him.

The conviction fades so quickly he wonders if it was ever there at all as her fingers meet the cloak, pulling it without a fight from his grasp.

It's definitely her cloak though, and the part of the tale that was supposed to give the most hope, the most protection to it's human protagonists, dawns on Killian as another by-product of whispers and hearsay. She's still looking at him as she swings the cape over her shoulders, still right in front of him. Killian averts his eyes over her head and away from looking at the naked stretch of her body, with a scratch behind his ear.

And yet again, the stories let him down. With the feathers still around her shoulders, she does not disappear in the twinkle of light, does not transform in front of his eyes.

And yet again, she must read it on his face.

"It only works when the hood's up."

The sound of her voice should startle and surprise him, it should probably also make him run, but –

"I'm beginning to think there's hardly any of this legend that's actually true."

"Yeah, well, we prefer it that way."

Killian feels no less flustered now that she's clothed, his curiosity only increasing with every little thing he discovers is an untrue stanza or a distorted episode. Her own tone of voice is so calm and casual, only proving further the misunderstanding between her world and his – she doesn't see him as a physical threat, nor does she seem preoccupied about luring him anywhere to drown.

"What else have we mere mortals got wrong?"

The teasing in his voice is unbidden, fear almost entirely replaced by intrigue (fear eradicated by attraction), as she peers back behind her towards the others of her kind. But she does not appear alarmed by their proximity and she turns back to him with an audacious and honest smile of her own.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Isn't that part of the plan anyway? Drag me into the depths of the lake?"

But she doesn't answer him, only sets him with an eye roll and a smug smile that huffs through her nose and curves through her cheeks in a way that double-crosses him.

Killian spent an entire year thinking about proving to everyone he'd ever known what really happened with the swans on the lake, and every thought of that is driven from his mind that night by the girl. She doesn't go back into the water with the others, treading instead through the trees just beyond the shoreline aimlessly while he does the same beside her. But it is less like following and more like a circumstantial companionship, each hesitantly asking questions of the other.

Their answers even more hesitant.

Killian can't help but try and flirt with her, teasing her light-heartedly even if his mannerisms sometimes betray his self-assurance (he is only sixteen after all). Oddly enough, she seems more content to talk with him when he does, shrugging it off easily, but the more they talk the more wary of him she seems to grow. Killian's own hesitations fade with her continued unthreatening presence, but her confidence seemed to lie in dealing with his more flirtatious attempts.

But after a while it doesn't surprise him when her reasoning reveals itself in the form of another question - it is what she has heard and expects from his kind, it is what she expects from men.

("Really? Is that the best you've got?" "Oi!")

She tells him little of the mechanics of the night, even less of her world beyond, mostly answering his questions with ones of her own, confused and curious of the world of men.

Killian has nothing to hide of his world.

(Except that he says nothing of Liam, nothing of his parents.

Then again, she never mentions family either.)

He learns that just as his people have stories of hers, the swans and her world have tales of humans. More fables, more facts and more warnings about men, and she tells him this through shrewd eyes and fidgety hands, as though telling him she knows, telling him her guard is up, and that she won't be taken for a fool.

And though it seems strange with their caution so at odds – his dwindling while hers rises – they continue wandering and talking in that way teenagers seem to know best: with unsure intentions but surer determination.

But she, Emma, she latches on to just how scared the townsfolk are of her swans, redirecting the question back again and again. Inquisitive and enquiring about the dances and fables, festivals and songs they tell of her own people, and perhaps it's a terrible idea, perhaps they'll get caught.

(Perhaps it's a trap for him rather than her.)

Their feet hang from one of the old oak tree's roots, toes disappearing beneath the black-dark lake, and Killian makes her a promise.

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Three for a girl…

A lot happens the year that Killian turns seventeen, and a lot will happen in the next, and it all makes him feel a little scattered around the heart, a little older around the eyes. He spent a great many weeks thinking of Emma, now not so keen on sharing the truth of the swans, more content to keep his secrets to himself.

(It's perhaps in part that he no longer has anyone to share his secrets with.)

And he thought of her, until he didn't.

Truthfully, it was easy to forget her from day to day, real life so far removed from that peaceful night that it's almost a dream to him, treated as such in his memory at least. He does not think of her that first night he finds himself sleeping secretly in his neighbour's stables, does not think of her when his stomach gives up growling in favour of clawing.

(But he misses her, in a way that's difficult to pinpoint while she still feels like a distant dream. The year has truly weighed him down and the helplessness makes him question what happened, everything that's every happened.)

Winter fades, the snows melt but do not take their chill with them, and the thoughts of Emma, of the swan-girl, creep more often into his thoughts with every daffodil and other Spring flowers.

And when that night comes, and the sun disappears beneath the line of the trees, Killian steals more that day than a loaf of bread and a few spare coin.

He steals a dress.

This time when he gets to the lake, he sees her standing beneath the oak tree waiting for him. He takes a selfish moment to watch her as his feet crunch loudly enough to give him away.

He'd forgotten in his wallowing just how beautiful she was, just how real she was. His memories almost entirely made up of the curve of her cheek bones and the taunt of her eyes. Seeing her now, anxious, cloaked, and arms crossed against her, he curses himself for not remembering just how she looked, a lump in his ribcage that is unfamiliar chiding him for it. He curses himself for not remembering her hesitations, her secrecies, her existence beyond the magical.

The snapping of a twig gives him away, and she turns so quickly that her cloak reveals a little too much of the skin beneath.

"Killian?" She hisses it into the dark, impatiently and curious, and when he whispers back a reply, the tension does not leave her shoulders or her brow.

She doesn't look as happy about the idea as she had when he suggest it last time, doesn't seem happy at all, restless instead and sceptical, as though the last year had allowed her to overthink the whole thing. But she fidgets less when she sees him, suddenly steeling herself and monitoring her own behaviour. When he steps closer, smiling gently at her, she tucks gold hair behind an ear and looks him over, cataloguing changes.

(Longer hair, a thinner face, more weathered clothes, brown coat too narrow for his shoulders. He hopes it doesn't matter.)

"Are we sure about this?"

She asks with a deep sigh, her tone about as gentle as her agitation.

"Do you trust me?"

But she doesn't answer the question. And Killian can see just how uncomfortable she is to know that what she does next is not an answer, is not even a blurry indication of whether she trusts him.

She is concrete resolve, stubborn determination.

She drops her cloak. It falls to the ground in muted sound, but Killian looks immediately away, distractedly moving his tongue over the corner of his lip as she grabs the clothes from him hastily. Killian only turns away, muttering something about giving her privacy, and the only reply she gives him is an equally muttered response about humans.

It wasn't something fancy when he'd picked it up - in fact that was the point - some patchwork thing of deep reds, but it suits her, and it's tight and flattering, but no where near as revealing as her usual. Killian grins at her when she shows him, as she tries to move it about, tripping a little over her feet and struggling to figure out how it is supposed to sit. His eyes deliberately rake over her, obviously yet innocently, and nodding encouragingly with his eyebrows high in his hair, lips turned in an impressed frown. She pushes past him, failing to hide her own laugh.

("Seriously?!" "What? It's what everyone wears." "You better hope you're right." "You're not as threatening as you think you are, lass.")

It could have gone one of two ways.

Emma could have either found the whole exercise daunting, the sparkling lights and loud music, the drunken dancing and the raucous behaviour of the people overwhelming. He certainly wouldn't have blamed her. It was a strange mixture of fun, joy, and celebration, while the lyrics were sinister, the feathered costumes crude and cruel.

Alternatively, Emma could have taken it in her stride, entertained by the stories being dramatically told to groups of small children, silently keeping the anomalies to herself, weaving through the people and the markets eagerly.

And, of course, she was a combination of the two.

The thing he noticed most were the reactions to her from those around them.

They barely noticed anything different about her.

Or more specifically, most didn't notice.

He saw the looks no doubt as often as she did, the looks from the other boys as Emma and Killian meandered through the stalls of silver door ornaments, stylistic swan shapes meant to protect those who lived inside. The boys were inexplicably drawn to her.

Only, Killian knew why. She was far too beautiful to go unnoticed, her hair golden in the scattered torch light, and try though he did to pick something for her to wear that wouldn't draw attention, the effort was futile –

She was more swan than woman, more temptation than otherwise.

The attention only made her stand taller.

Every time someone leered towards her with silent, watchful eyes, she put more distance between her and Killian, as though trying to prove a point. The faith she gave him clearly only extended so far, more and more suspicious of him with every subtle stare she received. She watched him when she thought he wouldn't notice, still with thoughts in her eyes, cynicism in every feature of her face.

She had not been like this last time, but he couldn't blame her – she was in his world now, the lake was her safety net.

However, it never occurred to Killian that she was seeing just as much as she was seeking.

They chose to sit high upon an old stone wall that climbed uphill, sloping through the centre of town (from the guild hall to the town square) mugs of fresh but flat cider warming their hands. That is where they are when she asks. Really, he should have expected it – in between pulling and grinning at her from musician to stall, trying to make her smiles a little freer, her thoughts far from the looks of others, she'd been looking at him.

"You're different."

She'd been watching him for longer than he'd acknowledged, watching him with a particular thought in mind. Killian tried to ignore it, the look bordering too closely to pity, scared that it would tip in that direction.

He drinks from his own mug to stall, looking down at her shoeless feet as he does, toes stretching out before her.

"Different to what?"

"Last year, you were different last year."

The large gulp he takes of his drink, diverting his attention to somewhere far away from her, does nothing to dissuade her questions.

"What happened over this last year that you're not telling me?"

"It matters not."

The conversation makes him uncomfortable, but he cannot find it in himself to be too blunt with her, doesn't want to ruin the happy medium they have found. They barely know one another, Killian barely knows who he is this year, and he would really rather they didn't get into it.

(But he wants to know her, far more than he wants to know himself and it is a conundrum – reveal more than he would like, or not bond with her on this cool night.)

"Okay, it's fine, you don't need to tell me. It's just –"

He turns to look at her and while her voice is soft and whispered, it is nothing compared to the expression on her face. It is all concern and further confusion, and that thought in her eyes is like a knife to his throat. She's prying, she knows it, and his jaw is twitching but he realises that his isn't pity, it's understanding.

"Just what?"

"You look… starved? Or something, I dunno. In more ways than one."

It's understanding, it's compassion. It's a relief to Killian.

"I've had a change of… circumstance." The word feels too big in his mouth, an uncomfortable shape, taking too many syllables to say. He's barely explained it to anyone, drifted out of his old life to the point where it no longer needed voicing to anyone, and the one word hangs bitterly in the air.

This time she times a sip of her drink with his sigh, keeping her face towards him, waiting, drinking and waiting.

And he tells her. He doesn't mean to, but he does. Tells her in no certain terms the torture of the past year, vagueness his friend - mumbling through the harshness that is his father disappearing, the easiness with which he fell into stealing because no one would hire an unskilled boy. He keeps it abrupt, keeps it factual, and all she does is watch him, drinking, as though each word confirms the thoughts in her head.

There is no pity, even as she whispers an apology that she should not feel. He doesn't know what else to say, so he smiles at her instead, a small sad thing that doesn't last, and doesn't hide anything at all.

Part of Killian wonders if this is magic too, the way she has compelled his confidence simply by being in front of him, simply by sitting next to him in the dark of night. There's something about it that makes him want to say more, wants to tell her of where it is he is disappearing to in a few weeks, but he doesn't want to change the mood of the night anymore than he already has.

It almost feels good to have someone know how he is, even while they both know she can do nothing to help him (not in the practical sense). Almost. He still feels unsettled, heart lodged as uncomfortably in his chest as the reluctant truth had been clawing out of his throat.

Killian has had enough of wallowing, does it enough on every other day of the year, too much to do it to her now. The look on her face, rolling her bottom lip in her teeth, in contemplation, makes him want something he does not think he can have. She is so much brighter than his feelings, so much softer than the world he lives in, and suddenly Killian is determined to forget himself in lieu of knowing her.

He leaves his clay mug on the ledge, leaping down with a thud upon the road, cleaning his hands on the leg of his pants, grinning up at her mischievously.

"I'm not sure I like that look. What now?" She asks, playfully suspicious of the smile he now wears, finishing her own cider and jumping off the wall after him, as he asks with a dramatic flourish -

"Would the lady care to dance?"

There's the distinct possibility they spun one time too many, and bumped into too many other dancers, because his head is dizzy and his stomach hurts from laughter, and for the first time in a year Killian has well and truly forgotten. It is not like all the other days forgetting the reality of Emma, the existence of the girl who should be living beneath feathers.

No, this time he forgets everything else.

He forgets that tonight he will be heading back into the woods to his makeshift home, he forgets that he wonders if this will be the last time he will see her. He forgets that she is supposed to be an enemy to the people around them, forgets the dances he used to know the steps to.

Her laughter is unfair, and he doesn't remember it being like this, all teases and slyness it had been and wasn't anymore. There is no sense of distrust in her expression, no curious thought she is trying to pry out of him. It's just her smile, genuine and soft, as she steps backwards hitting another poor girl as she bows; it's the feel of her hands, genuine and soft, it's the blush on her face as she avoids eye contact with him the moment he's too close.

It's the sound of her giggle in his ears.

Everything else is background noise.

The dance is lively enough to keep their spirits high, twirling and racing into positions, while neighbouring dance partners laugh and spin in just as little coordination as they do. And even when the dance is over, and his feet are sorer than his heart once was, slumped against the wall of the bakery for air, Killian forgets who they should be to each other.

(He forgets that he usually feels older than he is.)

The laughter dwindles from her face first, as they rest a shoulder each against the old blue building, but it does not disappear entirely, it leaves little crinkles in its wake. He leans in a little closer noting with a mixture of delight and dread the way the warm air thickens as he does so, and the way her eyelashes flicker. But the move was not that way inclined (not intentionally anyway) and he only looks at her curiously, an eyebrow raised to question the suddenly very serious look on her face.

"Aren't you tempted?"

Her question is exhaled with a puff of the air she has not yet caught, breathing still rattled by their dancing. They are quiet as he contemplates this, the noise of the town square behind them a haze, the happy wheeze of their breathing louder. This adventure apparently cleared nothing up about her apprehension of humans.

He plays dumb, looking at her lips as he responds.

"Tempted by what?"

(And they are still answering questions with questions.)

Maybe he's not entirely playing dumb. She must know, must see it when he looks at her that he's seeing something he likes, something he would want. But the question is layered, and Killian isn't quite sure which temptation she means.

Emma glares at him impatiently for his indirect response, cocking her head to the side and watching him with her thoughts still in a whirr.

She pauses.

"You really don't care, do you? You know, about, well – all of that, this."

"Does that surprise you?"

He says it though he knows that it does surprise, knows that she's confused that he doesn't leer at her the way she's been warned about, the way she's witnessed tonight. He flirts where he knows it is harmless (but that's about all he knows how to do). Killian is far from perfect and he is still a human, and he knows exactly what it is the others see, knows the bait, the want - because he feels it.

It's just that there's something else he wants – he wants to feel that glimmer of something that happens when her soul grazes his, the one that makes his blood impatient in his own body. The one that asks for more than another glimpse of her skin.

He's still not sure if that makes it worse.

The words are a whisper upon his cheek.

"Thank you."

It's her move to make, and she does make it, slowly, stepping up on hesitant toes to kiss him. It isn't awkward, it isn't rushed and he wonders if it should be, if it should taste of confusion and feel like a rash mistake. Killian can't even tell if the kiss, the way her lips fall into his, are a part of her thanks – that is until his fingers trail tentatively along her jaw and it makes Emma sigh unevenly into him.

It's only partly a thank you.

It's not a promise.

But it is hushed, a silent barb in their trap. Chasing her lips and her waist and her hair, pushing her back up softly against the stone wall, their mouths meeting just as often as their noses and Killian's cheeks burn. Should they be more wary of one another as her hands find his face, should they fumble through the feeling and be rougher?

But the myths about swans and the myths about men aren't all true.

So they never really catch their breath.

And while he may have spent the last year momentarily forgetting her, he doubts there's any chance of that this time, the taste of the snare - of Emma - too real upon his tongue. And he's not sure what he thought the kind of spell kissing a swan would cast, but surely it was nothing like this, surely it was nothing like the way her hands moved through his hair as softly as her lips. He is caught in a trap he never expected.

The stories never warned him about this.

.

.

Four for a boy…

Killian is perhaps more nervous about going to the lake than he ever has been.

It's less to do with the chill in the air and the storm hanging in the atmosphere, less to do with the two years it's been since he saw her and more to do with what he's wearing - crisp white pants with a black shirt and vest. He feels less and less like the boy who used to come.

Which is somewhat a good thing.

But it has been two years, he had warned her as she'd stood back on the shores of the lake, her feathers once more across her shoulders that he didn't know how long he'd be. She seemed to have nodded almost distractedly when he told her, but betrayed no other thought, and despite the missing her and the memories, it had been a good two years.

("Don't worry, I'll be back, you won't get rid of me that easily." "A girl can only dream.")

Liam's influence helped more than he had dared to hope it would (he had sorely missed his brother) and he's almost excited to show Emma who he is now, how he is better than he used to be.

Less starved.

And he'd thought of her just as often as he knew he would. Killian was happy learning the ropes (literally), his life as a midshipman giving him a purpose he'd never had before, a purpose he hadn't known he needed, but his fellow shipmates spoke often of lasses left behind. Of sweethearts and more licentious girls, some for a coin, some for a wide enough smile.

All he could think of was Emma.

Killian told no one, let them think what they wanted, and let him think of her waist beneath his hands, her skin peering out from beneath white plumage as she left, a sad smile on her face, traces of a kiss on his cheek. He could not say to the others that he had a girl back home, could not call her anything at all. But he had touched her this time, and she lived in the memory of his skin as well as his eyes.

Though, he made a point of reminding himself (time and time again) how little he knew her, how one long kiss between two teenagers in the shadows does not a romance make. Reigning in how he felt did little good.

The crack of thunder wakes him from his reverie.

And the storm breaks before he gets to the water, the leaves suddenly loud around him, rain breaking from the sky and crashing into the trees. It means nothing to him at first, Spring is usually a wet season, rain helping the plants heal from Winter. He does not remember that he used to see the weather on this night of the year as an omen. Despite the sun already having set, the woods somehow feel too dark, the air between him and the trees wider, more sinister than they should be.

Perhaps he has been away too long and doesn't remember the woods well enough, perhaps it's because there are no stars.

But it isn't too dark to spot the figures running through the thicket.

And Killian halts.

It startles him, senses suddenly on high alert. He's never seen another soul here on this night, and a sense of dread overtakes him, just as disbelief does. Beyond the sound of the rain there is nothing else, not the footfalls of the other people running through the trees, not the wind and Killian starts to believe he imagined it -

The wind. He can see the branches swaying, can feel it cooling the water on his skin as it falls down from his hair to his face.

But he cannot hear it.

He swears aloud to himself before he runs, down his old short cut and only vaguely in the same direction as the other figures – in the direction of the lake. His feet make a sound on the leafy floor even while nothing else does, but it draws no comfort, he is too anxious to get to the water's edge, too worried about the shadows that had run passed him but not seen him.

The moment he breaks out of the line of the trees, noise is immediately returned to the world, hitting him with the full force of the wind, to the point where it nearly knocks him over.

Out here, where the moon usually shines with a simple light upon the water, it is dark, blue and heavy in the air, not a single sign of light, and he wonders how he can see in the dim at all. His hand reflexively reaches towards his side for his sword, cursing once more out loud when he realises he does not have it.

Two years with it by his side at all times and he chose the worst time to leave it behind.

And cruelly he panics for a moment wondering if Emma is okay, hoping against hope that the swans have not come tonight, hoping that whatever magic is afoot she is safe from. The myths had proven so wrong in the past few years, and knowing Emma, knowing the feel of her gentle touch, he finds himself needing to protect their secrecy (protect her secrecy).

(It is cruel for reasons he does not yet know.)

And it is cruel because the moment the thought occurs to him, she appears, climbing around the oak tree, stopping still in her tracks to stare at him.

His memory is a sore substitute, and the two years have been very, very kind to her if the shape beneath her cloak is anything to go by, even if her hair is stuck to the side of her face with the rain.

"Hello, love."

"Go."

Admittedly, after two years, he had not imagined that being the first thing she would say to him, shouted through the hissing sound of the storm. It throws him, but he only questions it by squinting his eyes and turning his head at her quizzically.

"I mean it, Killian, go – come on, you can't be here."

She still hasn't moved, two hands on two branches, shielding something, her body annoyingly visible through the crack in her cape. He only questions her more, this time verbally.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Emma is visibly panicking, eyes unsteady, glancing to and from his own eyes hastily and her words fall silent through an open mouth (failed attempts). And Killian cannot stand it, he has missed her, and she is making him more nervous than he already is. However, his started movement towards her set her off again and she begins shooing him once more, physically trying to get him to leave. When her hands collide with his chest she does not pull him towards her as he had so frequently imagined she would, she pushes him away.

She becomes impatient with the way he will not listen, trying to turn him around, tone becoming more and more forceful.

And a burst of light erupts into the sky.

("Killian, please, I'm begging you – go back.")

It isn't thunder, too blue for that.

He looks over her shoulder this time, past her head and down the length of the shoreline, and what he sees leaves him frozen in place.

The blurred, distant figures that he had seen before were real - are real, and very visible, wading in the shallows - only, they are no longer alone.

He almost confuses the figures for a moment as two swans in human form until he notices that one of them is most definitely not female – a boy barely older than himself – his face and body silhouetted in the night, clothes stripped and abandoned on the shore in a heap with their feathers.

Another crack, another blue light.

And Killian feels a chill that no longer has anything to do with the wind, watching in horror for that thing that the fifteen year old version of himself had wanted – for the stories to come true. The women swarm out from underneath the water singing, laughing, circling, hair sticking down the length of their necks, no longer seductive, no longer alluring.

Now it is all feral.

The man, unfamiliar to Killian, does not appear threatened, and seems to be in a mindless stupor.

Until suddenly, he isn't.

And he is screaming, and flailing, uselessly shouting for help, the swans laughter not loud enough to drown it out – but they do drown him.

Killian attempts to move, instinct telling him to race from their hidden spot and down into the water to help, to stop the thrashing as the boy struggles against the slivers of light and clawed hands of birdlike talons. But Emma's own hands have found themselves in the open collars of his vest, fiercely gripping him with fists, and a sad and resigned expression on her face, bare heels digging into the pebbles, keeping him cemented in place, keeping him from helping.

She won't look at him, eyes making contact with the base of his throat, but it doesn't matter Killian's own eyes are busy watching a boy drown. He barely feels his hands buried and twisted in the feathers, fingers gripping her arms beneath, grappling for what he's not sure. It keeps her there, it keeps her fingers curled against his drenching clothes, while the rain slips over her feathers with ease.

(He's grappling for her to ground him to reality, from being swept away in the folk tale.)

The boy does not go quietly.

And the sound of his undignified shrieks somehow linger long after he's disappeared beneath the surface, long after Killian has lost sight of him, bouncing against the surrounding hillside as laughter fades.

Fades to the sound of rain.

He doesn't know what to say and neither does Emma, the two of them waiting for someone or something to burst the silence, now that the bubble has been burst. But neither of them want to. Killian still for his part is in shock, allowing the rain to continue its downpour along his face and into his clothes not even thinking of it.

His mind is otherwise occupied.

And it all sticks uncomfortably.

He wonders as Emma's head tilts up to read him, whether stories still count as myths when you know them to be true, when you have seen them for yourself.

When you've heard them slip and scream beneath water.

And truthfully he isn't sure he knew how he would feel when he finally looked back at Emma. Would he feel fear, would he feel horror, contempt? Would he feel betrayed and cautious? He holds off looking at her, fearing that the feelings he has cultivated the last two years, sleeping uncomfortably aboard an old wooden ship, the ones that lived there welcome to do so, will suddenly hurt him.

So, he closes his eyes, searching for the courage to look.

Attempting to find the courage for something anyway, because the truth is he isn't scared of her. Perhaps he should be, perhaps he should hate her, perhaps the old song verses should ring in his mind, the ones that tell him of their seductions, of the way they will do anything to get them into the water. Killian has never thought himself a greedy man, but he still wants for something and maybe that is cause enough, maybe he is next.

It is a trap, don't go to the lake.

But he feels none of this (and he keeps his eyes shut because he knows he should), only finding himself feeling sixteen again and wondering what is true and what isn't. The only thing he knows is true is that despite what's happened and how they feel, he and Emma are still holding each other in the relentless rain, and the only thing Killian has are questions.

His voice breaks a little as he breaks the silence, eyes still firmly shut, fingers still in soft feathers.

"What else have we mere mortals got wrong?"

Her voice is as raw as his.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."