The first day, all was chaos.

The last thing any of them had seen was a purple cloud racing towards them and engulfing them, obscuring the surrounding town and trees and road. Killian panicked at the blindness cloaking his sight so that he could not even see his own hand inches from his face, until the very air around him pulled him from the ground and pressed against him, binding him, and suddenly there was a roaring in his head, the lurching sensation in his stomach. The more inquisitive part of him found it interesting, this traveling by curse, seeing as how he had escaped its predecessor; but even that was for only a brief moment. To say that it was a smooth landing was being generous. However, as the cloud cleared and he stumbled a tad to the left, looking around him at those who were either on hands and knees or on their back staring bewilderedly at the sky, he silently thanked his sea legs for serving him well on land for once.

Everyone began speaking at once, gesturing to their clothes, some crying, some still gazing about, bemused. He, himself, took a few moments to orient their location—trying to ignore the fact that he'd just said goodbye to her, that she no longer remembered him, and distraction was the key—and instantly recognized the castle in the background. He'd seen it before, perhaps even trespassed inside a time or two in past centuries, and unscathed and intact, it sat statuesque atop its rock foundation.

"We're back," came a voice as weary and defeated as he felt.

Killian turned to find the prince beside him, arm-in-arm with the princess and the both of them staring out where he had just been. It was a statement that required no answer, and he didn't feel up to giving one. So the three of them stood in silence. Lost in their own worlds within a world.

Ever the hero, David was the first to brave breaking their respective reveries. "I guess—" Killian politely averted his eyes as he cleared his throat—"I guess we better start figuring out shelter and food for everyone. We can use the castle for tonight, and tomorrow people can decide what they want to do, if they want to try finding their home."

"Home…"

It was a barely a whisper, and yet it rang hollow from the princess's lips. A tear slipped down her cheek as she dropped the prince's arm and began walking towards the castle, a solitary figure returning to an empty shell.

A week then two passed.

The Charmings and Regina had banded together to make sure that everyone was provided for. Some had decided to venture out into the wilderness on their own, claiming that they'd had enough of curses and new lands—they wanted to settle down once and for all, and a bustling, over-crowded castle was no place for that. Killian was rather inclined to agree with them, but he'd offered his services to David and Mary Margaret, so by their side he remained.

The days spent themselves out in overseeing plans to fortify the castle and its defenses, coordinating efforts to scout the surrounding wilderness to see what had stayed the same—or changed—in these near three decades of the last curse.

However, amongst all the meetings and reconstruction, he noticed a certain princess excusing herself more and more often.

Two months now. Towards something. Away from everything.

Killian never mentioned the princess's absence nor the tension in the prince's stance, and David never mentioned the bad habit Killian had of drumming his fingers when he was stressed or the dark circles under his eyes.

Killian never let on that he noticed how David's eyes constantly flickered to the door of any room they happened to be in, searching, no doubt, for the suddenly reclusive princess who only made an appearance at mealtimes; and David never let on that he knew of Killian's middle-of-the-night wanderings in quest of the ghost that haunted his dreams.

Neither of them spoke of the loss shared between them.

Neither of them was fooled, but even then, neither felt so alone knowing that.

It was one of those nights.

The kind Killian hated most in this cursed non-cursed life, when he would wake with her name on his lips tasting like salt and memories. Or just tears and longing. Those were the nights he paced the corridors of the home she should have had, trying to fill it with images of her in each press of his boots against stone. Making up for lost time, he told himself, as he pondered what her life would have been had she grown up knowing these very halls as well as he now did.

On this particular night, he was in the west wing, imbuing the moonlight-soaked floor with his own recollections of the bright spill of her hair against the darkness of jungle, when he heard a faint thud from behind a closed door. Knowing that this area had reverted back to being private royal quarters, and that Dave and Mary Margaret slept a few doors down, he lay his ear against the wood to listen for movement within. There was rustling. He could track steps from the right to the left, slow, steady. Not the footsteps of a burglar. Nevertheless, he quietly withdrew the dagger hidden in his left boot, and entered the room, knife held at the ready in front of him.

To say who was more surprised, he or Mary Margaret, he couldn't say.

"I'm sorry—"

"My apologies, m—"

They both fell silent at the clash of their words.

He cleared his throat, resheathing the dagger. It gave him time to school his expression, for while the princess, over these past few weeks, had become more gaunt, she was very nearly the apparition that had brought him here in the first place, her dark tresses being the only difference. The reminder was almost too painful, so instead of meeting her eyes, he cast his own about the room.

"My apologies," he tried again as he took in the crib and various toys on shelves. Killian knew exactly where he was—not that he had been in there before—and felt out of place amongst the trinkets destined for a lost girl and the grief clinging to everything like dust. He turned to leave. "I didn't mean to intrude. I thought—"

"It was her room."

"Aye," he said slowly, hesitating on the threshold. Should he go and get Dave?

"I know what you all think," she said as if answering his thoughts, "David tells me every day. Asks me to interact with everyone, to let people know not to give up hope." She reached out and touched the trim of a drape. "But it's just…I never had time to mourn losing her. The curse came, and I forgot her almost as soon as I saw her for the first time." A small, sad huff. "Two minutes. That's how long I had with her before I had to let go. No mother should have to go through something like that. And then we all woke up—because of her—and she was there and I could touch her, and although I knew how hurt she had been and how hard it was for her to find happiness, I thought—I thought we had…time…"

She stopped her roaming to look down at the crib. ""I feel close to her here," she said as if that were all the explanation that was needed. And in truth, recalling his own nighttime meanderings, it was.

Mary Margaret turned to resume her pacing but her foot made contact with something under the bedskirt. Bending down, she reached underneath. When she stood, she was holding a small object. It was difficult for him to see what it was, but he thought he could make out the shape of a…a hat? A doll?

She stared at it a long moment, tracing some indeterminable pattern with her fingers. "I know you think about her, too, Killian."

The use of his name startled him, and his eyes flashed to her face to find her watching him. For a moment he saw similar eyes finding the measure of him, regardless of what he had revealed or not, and he found himself equally unable to lie to the mother as he was the daughter.

"I think about her every day," he admitted, feeling an instant unburdening. "I promised her I would."

"You love her."

No lies. "I do."

The truth unfurled in the space between them.

She suddenly crossed the room and reached for his hand, pressing the toy into it. It was in fact a doll, he noticed. But upon closer inspection, he recognized the blue of the uniform, the domed-hat.

But how did she—? "It—it's a naval officer," he marveled.

"I think you should have it." Her small smile was both an offering in itself and an unspoken understanding.

The morning broke over the mountains in a blaze of gold, and it seemed a fitting scene for the fire burning within him. Today, his new quest began.

The horse sensed his urgency and whinnied; but just as Dave had taught him, Killian tightened the reins and spoke low, soothing words to the steed. The saddle shifted as someone made adjustments to it.

"Just double-checking everything," the prince's voice reassured. After a couple more jerks on the various fastenings, he gave the horse a pat on its flank. "I think you're all set."

The three of them—Killian, Dave, and Mary Margaret—had already said all that needed to be, stratagems discussed, provision packed, the vial tucked away in Killian's coat pocket, right against his heart. Nothing left to do except to start.

He glanced from one friend to the other. "I'll bring both of them back."

She spoke next, the sound as bright as the day around them. "Home."