Three hundred years was, considering it from a neutral point of view, a large amount of time where knowledge and experience would turn a man wise. Some would even come to believe that it could turn a man stoic before the most tragic events. The ironic repetition of a life paved by the loss of loved ones would make more than one man laugh bitterly. He had had his share of nights in the company of a bottle of the finest or not so finest alcohol, laughing at the sweet irony. Fate had a strange and twisted way to play with your life, Killian Jones had come to realize. It was not so much by anger that he had let the thought possess him; he had even wanted to applaud the delicious irony of his sole existence seeming to lead him to this time and this land.

Time where he found himself in love with the savior who had broken the curse that had stopped dead his existence. That curse he had escaped and yet been caught by, frozen for twenty seven years, waiting patiently for her to break it.

It was that kind of irony that had had him laugh and smile without afterthoughts, an irony that was sweetly delicious; if there were a big scheme of things, it would seem perfect. Him and her, the irony was indeed beautiful. Sparks and blonde hair had pulled him out of an ocean of ghosts, pulled him out of an endless madness he had given his body to.

His eyes tried to take into the beauty of the outline of the sea. It was not the boundless horizon that was gorged with possibilities and maybes. Killian found no reliance, no relief, no hope or joyful feeling in the spread sea. His heart did not beat with the familiar and warm pang that animated his whole being. Pirate at heart with the sea running in his blood, this time he felt like a stranger in his own element, the sea rejecting him even though he knew all too well that it had nothing to do with his old mistress.

His flask held carelessly between his fingers, he did not even have the courage to bring the dear alcohol to his lips. His eyes were dry and his cheeks moist, his heart had no more bravery to give and no more tears to provide. Much like the name caved in the dagger, his tears had marked his cheeks with loss; Emma was gone, and he was empty.

A foolish heart would yell at the sky, would find the responsible and try to kill them. Three hundred years ago, he had sworn to kill the Dark One at all cost, no matter the price to pay. Irony had a twisted way of mocking him; he had sworn revenge on the man who had taken everything from him, the entity that had taken his love and his hand.

Now the very monster he had dedicated his life to destroying was the woman he loved.

The thought alone made him clench his teeth, jaw set tight and eyes burning with anger; she was no monster. With closed eyes he only saw her smiles, the dimples of her cheeks and her sparkling eyes. He could not associate the distorted smile of the demon to her kind and warm smile. Coldness bit his bones and froze the blood in his veins; worry cut the air out of his lungs.

Where was she now?

What had happened to her once the demon had swallowed her whole, her body vanishing from their realm and no clue left for them to hold onto.

Shortly after her sacrifice (he refused to think of another noun to qualify it, refused to tarnish the glory of her action), her words craved in his mind with burning letters, his heart heavy by the pain, the regret of not telling her the words sooner and now ever, the hatred he felt for the man still comfortably asleep in his shop, Killian had dropped to his knees.

David had set a kind hand on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around his wife; both of them could barely manage to stand on their feet, ripped away from their daughter - once again taken from them at the price of a learned lesson of courage. That's what heroes do, Killian thought, the bitter lesson sinking deep into him. Killian had barely heard the breathless call of his name, it was Robin trying to reach for him but he had not listened, his fist encountering the hard ground as he had slammed against it until his knuckles were bruised.

Henry.

The name fell from his lips as a whispered cry. Who would break the news to him? Killian had gathered himself up and had brushed past Hood and his comforting stance - he had wanted none of it, and still did not desire any soothing balm over the cut and burning flesh. Much like one of Cora's heartless dolls, his eyes empty of emotions, he had walked stoically to the loft where Henry had been safe, waiting for his mother's return. He wanted the pain, raw and heartbreaking, he wanted to feel it in his bones and every cell of his body, as a reminder of the life in him and the love he felt, reminder of her very existence.

David and Snow had followed him in silence. He had known he had to do this, no matter the swelling of his own heart, there had been someone who needed him then and it had been enough to force his dizzy mind to work. Henry had been sitting behind the table in the diner, his book before him and his eyes were still marked by a hopeful smile because he had saved the day, becoming a rightful hero in the line of his mother and grandfather, saving his world and his moms.

Killian had merely been aware of the presence of the whole family behind him, Regina holding onto Robin, Snow trying not to break down, and it had not taken more than three seconds for the boy to understand what had happened. As if time had slowed down, Killian had seen it all; the way Henry's face had crumbled, the way tears had started forming at the corners of his eyes, hope vanishing to leave room for fear, incomprehension, a maelstrom of emotions, pain, loss, disbelief, anger. His fingers clenched over the hard cover of the book supposed to bring back happy endings.

Instinctively, Killian's arms had found Henry and brought the little boy trying to fit into a man's shoes close, the one with a heart too good and too fragile as loss cast its shadow over him. Both of his parents gone, Baelfire and now Emma. The floor had been swiped out beneath his feet and Killian's arms tightened around Henry to keep him upright before David got a hold of the boy, pulling him into a firmer hug.

Killian's hand had found the bank, trying to keep his stance alright. His breath had been shallow and uneven, his mind pounced upon by the aghast memories of them sitting right here. It had been just as if her perfume were still clogging the air. His eyes had burned again with useless tears, wanting to mourn a love that was not dead, an unfound body to cry upon.

He had not seen them after he had taken his leave for the port.

Nobody had followed him and he couldn't help but be thankful they had not tried to hold him back. It was only then that he had sunk on the floor, his back against the guard wall, his limbs not really attached to him anymore, the flask carelessly hanging from his hand.

Fate was a bloody demon that had played with him all along. Rum could not even soothe his pain. The demon was tapping in the dark waiting for him to be defenseless to swallow his being, its sharpened claws only waiting for the soulless and hopeless to fall in its grip, willingly, no fight to be had. Killian's eyes glued to the neck of the flask, as if the imprint of her lips was visible. One last kiss before the oblivion, he delicately pressed his mouth to the flask, closing his eyes, a single tear falling upon his already tainted cheeks.

The glass was cold, unlike her warm lips. The ghost of her mouth was pale, bland compared to the vivid memory of what she felt like. His arms were still, frozen and limp, as if he were hangover, which was not a so undesired a condition now. His arms were cold by the absence of her; the Snow Queen was long time gone but she could just as well have frozen the town over.

The dull feeling born from the absence of a loved one was not unfamiliar to him. He had learned to deal with it over the years, or that was what he had believed until last year, when he had tried to blind himself with a generous amount of alcohol and the bitter sweet illusion provided by a return to old ways. A foolish hope to connect back with an older self, more detached from the core, a foolish attempt at ignoring the dull ache in his chest. There was no fight one could have against it.

Absence was a hunger that needed to be fed.

It was a growing hunger that would never find peace, a black hole settled in him that would swallow him whole without mercy. It was dull, it was hopeless and yet it required him to completely surrender to despair. Last year he had found another kind of mercy in the faint hope that she was out there, out of reach and yet still within it, only a cross between realms away and a possibility of a fight. How and where was he supposed to find her now that he felt like his heart had been taken out of his chest? It was a feeling he had experienced in the past, be it Rumpelstiltskin or Cora; he had felt his heart being taken out of his chest, the veins torn apart, until they released the broken token.

No hope. No light. Her name was on the dagger and now every time he closed his eyes, he could see her foggy ones, tears blurring green, she had closed her eyes with a dying whisper on her lips. This vivid image did not leave him, his ears always ringing with her last words, her I love you, her so awaited words only a prelude to her unspoken goodbye.

Sleep claimed him before he could think of more ways to lull the pain, giving him the relief and clemency of a few hours of a blacked out mind.

Something hit the heel of his boot and forced him out of sleep. He groaned, his lashes glued together, he had to pry them open and he caught the beam of the sunshine - unfair, very unfair and unwanted. The weather was too bright, too warm, as if the town which was supposedly made to b delivered by the Savior had moved on.

"Henry?" He distinguished the boy's face through the beam of sunshine, his hand trying to protect his eyes from the burning stare of the star.

Sitting next to him, Henry looked ahead, his book hugged on his lap protectively. Tired bags had taken place beneath his eyes. "I knew I would found you here."

Killian put the flask of alcohol aside as he sat up straight, to be up to the task - it wasn't about him now. In the past he had been careless in his actions and with his life, for he had no one to look after. Henry had sought him out, and his heart sang along with the boy's. They had both lost her.

"Did she say anything?" Henry asked between closed lips, his teeth clenched, trying too hard not to break the mask of manhood he was wearing. "Did she-"

"She didn't, but she-" Killian's own voice had difficulties to come out as even, and his train of thought was a wreck, his heart not even finding any strength in the sight of the Jolly Roger; it was of little consolation, that he would give ten of her to bring Emma back. "She didn't but I am sure you were on her mind. You should be proud of her."

Henry looked up with moist eyes. "I don't want to be proud of her." He sniffed. "I want her to be here."

It cracked in smithereens, the proud mask he wore and the heroism he got from his mother. It broke and it fell at Killian's feet, the boy's eyes pleading for a hint of hope he did not possess. His nose ended up pressed against Killian's flank. Slightly discomposed, not expecting it, Killian wrapped his arms around Henry and offered him the shelter he so desired, being an anchor if he needed one.

Here was the difference, the need to keep his feet grounded somewhere and never waver. He regretted to have spent the night out beneath the sky, as happy as he was for it had allowed the lad to find him easily, he wished he had been warm and capable to provide him with comfort.

Henry sobbed in silence and Killian did not comment, simply holding him until he was spent, tears dried and heart heavier. "There has to be a way. There is a way."

The book open on his lap, Henry leafed through its many pages. "This is the right story, the one telling everyone's lives, look." He paused at the page where Killian could be found, placing for the first time his hook on. Although Killian felt no shame for what had been done and the decision taken there because it had after all brought him and fed him with enough desire to end up here and now he still shifted a little, not comfortable with Henry taking a closer look at his past.

"And as the arms of the sea swallowed Killian's love, the Captain made an oath to find and kill the demon who had taken everything from him. No matter how long it shall take, or the realms he would have to cross, he would find him."

Henry turned the pages in the haste, "Look here." His finger pointed to the page where Emma and Killian were dancing. It had been only a few months ago and yet it felt like another life. His lips curled into a grin at the memory. But Henry turned the pages again to stop at the page where Dave and him were talking next to a fire. "Look now, "the pirate in disguise repeated the oath he had made not so long ago about the Savior, to find her no matter the time and realm, swearing his love in her name, swearing to bring her back to safety and to never find peace until she was back home." Can you see what it means?"

Brown eyes turned to him with hope, the flash of a ghostly smile on his lips as he shook his head in hopeful disbelief, "It's true isn't it?" It was just now that Killian realized that the lad had spent his night with the book open, the tiredness marking his expression severely. "You would go at the end of the world for her."

"Yes I will." Killian did not see his point.

"It all makes sense!" Henry was suddenly animated, "I didn't connect the dots last night but now it make sense; you're the Dark One's foe."

Killian felt his brows came together as the knots in his stomach started to slowly become unlaced by the lad's words. He could not exactly pinpoint his reasoning but something in him started to slowly burn.

Hope.

A smile flirted with his lips. It was not surprising that they said Henry was the truest believer. Trust the son of the Savior to always believe and have hope for those who are wandering hopelessly and give them the nudge needed to get up.

Other words came to echo Henry's, darker and much more sinister. To undo the Dark One's curse, the Crocodile had needed his heart. "Rumpelstiltskin said something to me when he had me at his mercy." Instinctively he felt the muscles of his face tighten, stiff with the memory of the Crocodile's grip around his heart, "That he needed me because I knew him before he was the Dark One and he needed my heart to disconnect himself from his true form."

Anger was still trapped in the shadows of his heart, as if sullied by the Dark One's touch, as if by being used and bent to his will, forced to commit actions he repulsed, to kill and to hurt, he had been made a monster by the hand of one.

"It should apply to my mom." Henry stopped his thoughts. "It should work Hook, you were Mr. Gold's foe and you had the potential to unleash him." He stopped as he realized the weight of his words and the consequences they held.

As full of potential as his heart might be, it was in the state of ashes that it worked best. And yet, it was just like Killian had seen the light, bright and warm hope filling his being. Henry's eyes were hopeful but now tainted with the weight of an upcoming sacrifice they both could foreshadow.

Killian's hand turned the pages to the one where Emma and him were dancing, his fingers tapping the lines that formed her dress. It had been only hours, yet the missing her had torn deep into him. "Tell me what is your plan."

"We summon the Dark One- Mom."

"You don't have to call her that."

Henry reached for something in his pocket and gave him the dagger. "Isn't her name on the dagger though?"

"I believe your mom is stronger than this dark magic, I believe she will outrun it." It was only then that he realized the unspoken; he had not fully grasped the belief that was lodged in his heart that no matter how dark the magic was, how twisted it was and how hard it tried to wrap itself around her, Emma could outrun the evil. She had been tempted by the darkness for months now, he had seen the redness lining her eyes and seen her close to the fall, and she had not fallen.

Had she?

No she had not.

As painful and as aching he had been left, her words still rang in his ears, his eyelids still burned with the image of her raising.

The Truest Hero.

Her sacrifice had not been part of Rumpelstiltskin's plan, she had risen and outshone the prediction of a mad man. She had risen so high and be damned those who lost faith.

Damned him too for losing hope.

"We need to find her."

Henry's feet were light on the old planks of the Jolly Roger. Many times they had been there and sailed, and even though it was eerie to be there without Emma, they both walked with a new hope fueling their systems. They had the beginnings of a plan.

Killian had with great care avoided his private cabins, too many memories he did not want to be confronted with, moments stolen from the messy world of Storybrooke and yet stolen back by her duties. They never had full moments for themselves; Emma was always on watch for something, wearing her gun as he wore his sword. He did not regret it, not to have held her back these times. It would have been selfish and she wouldn't be who she was if it weren't for her heart and mercy, his only relief found in the way her smile cracked up and managed to chase away the loneliness she was known to carry.

Now that his heart carried the dim hope of her being saved, it livened up his veins and his blood pulsed faster than ever, the idea of his death as a necessity not even an alarming thought slowing his anticipation.

If fate was ironic, there was a purpose to his life and death had been a cheated mistress he had never paid his omen to. If bringing Emma back needed the price of his life then so be it.

"I tried to summon her last night." Henry broke the silence.

"There is no shame in trying, lad, I would have done the same."

"It didn't work."

Killian offered him a soft smile, "I would have guessed so; I doubt she is in our realm."

Henry sat at the desk as if he belonged there, a more than pleasant sight that filled Killian with a certain pride. There was a lot of Baelfire in the shape of his eyes, yet there was in the flicker of his mouth and the way he talked a lot of his mother's fire. The heroic vibe he got was definitely a family thing, and Dave had something to be proud of. The lad's attention was on the different instruments on the desk, all nautical trinkets Killian no longer used for now that the Jolly Roger was anchored. The fairytale book made a puff when Henry dropped it heavily on the wooden table.

"You traveled a lot of realms."

"Aye I did."

"How many?"

"The Enchanted Forest, Wonderland, your realm and Neverland. Four of them, though I would count my journey to New York a realm of its own." He laughed while he thought, darkly and bitterly, and soon another one to add if not two.

"That makes a lot of stamps on a passport." Henry chuckled, the joke missed to Killian.

"How do you plan on bringing your mother back if you couldn't summon her with the dagger; how do we locate her? I have nothing against sailing blindly but this is hardly the time for such adventures."

Henry frowned and searched through the book, seeking a detail that would help. "She can't have simply disappeared just like that, she has to be somewhere, physically somewhere." He added, his hands shaking. "I wish Gold was not asleep."

Me too, Killian thought; torture was not at the page of his repertoire anymore but it was something that could easily be fixed. Hunger, anger, after all, called for blood, and they needed to be fed. Rumpelstiltskin was the only one to be held responsible. Lucky was he to be asleep or Killian would have paid him a visit and sharpened his hook against the bony spine of the demon.

"Have you ever heard about a realm that could be the one where my mom is?"

"I am afraid I haven't."

He had come across a lot of legends along his three hundred years of existence, some of them were lies spread to frighten the most gullible of the sailors. Some of his crew had believed the words of mysterious women charming them into their net. Stories of lands inhabited by the souls of those who were lost had reached him and whether he believed them or not it was a question of personal belief. The idea had once upon a time seemed almost reassuring, thinking of it as a place where his brother would rest.

His experience over time had taught him better than to attach even an idea of rest to those who wander, and the sole though of Emma having to suffer through this kind of torment gutted him open. If it was required to go there, to cross realms made of bones, shades and dust so he would, but he hoped with all the fibers of his being that she was nowherenear this place. Indeed damn the Crocodile for being asleep.

"She told you she loved you. My mom, didn't she?"

The question made him feel uneven; he had known from the little he had grasped in the few moments Henry and him had talked about it that the lad was not actively a fan of his mother dating him. If Killian had understood it well, it was hard to see him being where he had wanted his father to stand. Emma's will aside, Henry's dream had stepped over his reality, his perception blinded by the childish wish for the union of his parents, and a finally reunited family.

"Aye, she did." He nodded, the conversation heading to an unknown place. "How do you know?"

Henry relaxed against the chair, his fingers tapping against the footnote on the page he was looking at. "She is not easy around feelings, my mom." His laughter filled the room with a warm note. "Just because I wanted her to be with my dad doesn't mean I can't see she is happy with you."

Killian smiled, it was the closest he got to the lad's approval and he held it preciously close to his heart. "I live to make her happy." And I would fight until I gave my last breath to bring her home to you. The promise, unspoken, was still loud between the two of them.

"She told me she loved me when I was dying. I guess she has a pattern."

Henry had meant it as a joke, and Killian answered with a smile while he could not ignore how bitter he felt at how he had hoped to be able to change this for her, to make a love oath be about life and not made at the edge of death. He had not failed, or so did he keep telling himself, for she was not dead.

"That's it!" Light flickered through Emma's son's eyes, "I don't even know how I didn't think of it before. We need a magic spell to find her, you know, blood or something that belonged to her."

"Like Charmed?"

"You watched the TV show?" Henry arched a brow, the corners of his mouth lifted in an amused and mocking smile.

"I have to confess I came across an episode or two on that Netflix thing." The end of Killian's ears filled with a pinkish color as he scratched his neck, "So a spell, you say."

Henry pointed to the page where Dave could be seen riding a horse. "Grandpa found Mary Margaret with a spell Mr. Gold had given him, an enchanted ring."

"Good then, we can ask your other mother to kindly do the same for Emma and off we are." Killian was up on his feet; having a goal set felt like being waken up from a long sleep. His limbs were not eerie ramifications of himself but aching with the need to sail, hope branded as a sail on a mast.

"Operation Cobra Swan." Henry said enigmatically. "If we are saving my mom, we need a name. Cobra was the name of the operation I had with my mom."

Walking over to set a hand a hand on his shoulder, Killian smiled. "Lead the way, Captain; I heard you sailed this ship almost on your own after taking it from Blackbeard."

"I had a great teacher."

Again with the proud smile. His previous statement had been corrected; there was in Henry hints of Baelfire's features but there was a capacity of hope that he had never witnessed in anyone. He was just a boy with a light heart for those who did not pay attention or judged with too much eagerness. Yes he wore as best as he could a manhood that was not quite yet reached but his heart was true and heavy with the knowledge of two worlds.

And yet, he remained hopeful.

"You should sleep." Killian eyed the bed, then offered it to him. "I will continue our research and see with David and the Queen how fast can we launch an expedition."

"I wanna help-"

"I know." Killian cut him off and reassured him with a beaming smile, "But you won't be of any use if you do not sleep. I don't think Emma would like to know you're wearing yourself out. I will not leave you out of it."

"I want to be a part of it. I'm not just a kid." Henry said sharply, chasing out of his eyes all the innocence that could be found.

"Anyone thinking you're just a kid is a bloody fool. From what your mother told me, you saved us all, and I personally have to thank you for my life."

Henry blushed. "It was the right thing to do." The family motto had never served the Royals' family better than now.

"You're quite the hero, Henry, and we will need you to find your mother and save her. But now, sleep is required. I will help you and wake you up when I'm done. We are sailing this ship together. Operation Cobra Swan is on."

The weather had turned around, as if it had heard the word of the operation in the making. The wind of the north had risen and was slapping Killian's cheeks, the Jolly Roger rising on the waves as its hull graced the port. Henry had fallen asleep; it had not taken long before Morpheus's arms claimed him.

The black car parked on the side of the port, announcing Her Majesty the Queen. He had thought she would come accompanied by Robin Hood, but apparently he had thought wrong. Her gait announced her modesty; a first, he supposed. Nothing less was to be expected from her at this moment; if part of him did not want to blame her because it would be sullying Emma's gesture, a lesser part of him was angry at Regina. Mercy was found in her absence of arrogance, and trying to beat someone who was already dealing with their shame was not the solution.

"Hook." She stopped at a distance, greeting him softly, her arms folded against her chest to protect her from the wind. "And Henry is..?"

"Sleeping on the Jolly; the lad deserves some rest."

Formal, neat. He looked behind him for the sea and tasted blood on his tongue. "Henry came up with a theory last night, if it is true, we might have a way to rescue Emma."

"You really think we can face the Dark One? You are mad-"

"You and I have an advantage; I have spent most of my life seeking a way to kill him and you have been its apprentice. The Crocodile told me quite the tale when he had my heart in his hand. Apparently there is a connection or should I say a key from freeing him from the curse and it requires crushing my heart. Being his oldest foe, having known him from before he was affected by the dagger's curse, I was the key to freeing him. Henry thinks the same can be applied to Emma and I."

Regina's attention was tickled, confusion forcing her brows into a frown before she spoke with incredulity. "I guess it is a possibility and even if you are right about it you do realize the length you will have to go to bring her back."

"It is all understood and believe me, it's a risk I am willing to take. I am way older than you are and I have seen many things. Death doesn't frighten me."

"Only fools say that."

"Or wise men."

Regina arched a brow, not buying it. "Before you decided to act all reckless, I will try to search through Gold's book, with the librarian's help; we should find more about this Dark One's curse."

"The consequences don't matter." He spoke sharply, "We need to bring her back; I will not let her be damned by this-"

Where she usually would have cut him with a look Regina nodded and raised her hands on her sides, trying to calm his mood. "I am not saying we won't; the Savior sacrificed herself so I could get my happy ending, so I owe it to her and Henry to find a way to save her, much like I owe it to her to make sure her pirate doesn't kill himself. For all I know, her happy ending is not complete without you. I am not going to ruin anyone's happy ending anymore."

"Good. We need a spell to find her, and Henry told me you need either blood or a belonging of the person sought."

The evil laugh that escaped her was good enough to freeze one's blood. Ironically. "No such thing is needed; a token will be enough. Do you have something of hers?"

"I do."

Power was a strange thing when curbed inside you. Her own magic had only been there, a part of her, something bright and warm, something sleeping in the depth of her stomach. It was a part of her and she had never been completely alone. Her parents' touch was dormant inside her, a sleepy animal caged only with the bars that she had put there. Her walls, her fears and her lack of belief in something greater in this world had caged the animal inside her. That animal once freed had not aimed its claws at her because it was her, and she had believed that once freed no one could ever cage that specimen of bestiality.

It was no enemy.

It was her.

The dagger had slipped from her fingers. She had felt a grip around her heart, something twisted, bleak and gloomy that tried to take her soul. She felt the hand of something endlessly dark, perverted and dangerous lurking at her, trying to strip her from her defenses, trying to put shackles around her wrists and ankles.

It tried to gag her, to shut her out of her own being. The madness had a rhythm, a low thrum that buzzed in her veins – she was not even sure it was hers anymore. Her vision had become blurry, the edges darkened until it was all black.

Her last vision had been of him.

Him.

Of course.

The words she had said to him rang in her ears, it was a comfort, to know they were now out there for him to hold onto. Whispered out for him – or screamed or simply spoken in a voice he would understand more than the words itself, she knew with a belief that she did not always have in the past, knew he would find her. She did not need saving, but saving herself was easier done when it was her own soul out there.

A darker animal was fighting inside her, it had wrapped its arms around the bones of her skeleton, dangerously wringing her ribcage and making it hard for her to breathe. It felt like an invasion of her senses. It required a strength that was inhuman to conjure the image of those she loved, her son, her parents, him. The demon crawling to break through her fought, twisting its unshaped form into a wicked mouth or were those claws? The fangs or claws it possessed tried to grind her until only ashes of who she was were left scattered around.

Were her feet on the ground? Was she flying? No answer could be given to her question and no words could escape her wrung throat. The demon had a tongue and licked the inside of her jaw or maybe it bit there, leaving a mark; her body was not her own, her eyes were not hers, the visions passing before them were none of her own. Scary and scarred it left her not to be in possession of her own being, not to be able to shut it out, she could not scream, she could not cry or disconnect her brain from any of it; not even the safe sanctuary of sleep could claim her.

In order to claim, there had to be a prize, something tangible, a body and a soul that were hers. She was not alone, there was someone else whispering inaudible words with a voice that did not belong to anything human.

It's a curse talking, it's a curse, was the only thought that belonged to her, a thought welcomed by the demon who grinned at her with a mouthful of sharp teeth. The curse had taken body and form, and it was hers.

Her magic caged, channeled with chains, her eyes covered with the thick veil of power. It was a hunger she had never known, setting fire to a pyre of hatred that ran through her veins, abandoned suitcase of despair and sadness she had packed and closed – don't you dare looking back she had told herself, but the demon had no care for such consideration, it opened and spilled the content all around, finding each scar of her body and heart and laughing as it passed its perverted tongue on their newly-bleeding edges. The seams were disregarded with a dark chuckle, it looked and searched for every single pearl of blood it could lick out of her, it was meant to strip her down from her walls but not in the gentle way of a lover, it wanted flesh and meat and there was no mercy in its movements. It opened and scarred what had managed to heal, no mercy for the healing tissues of her soul, it ripped them off, isolated her and flung open everything it found.

She couldn't brace herself for any pain, she took and she took and never said anything, not for the lack of need to beg but because of the impossibility of escaping the demon's claws. Its grip was too strong. It sucked and swallowed every bit of her, every single drop of despair, of resilience; every single drop of happiness she had tasted in her life taken away. It was honey and poison for the demon, it crushed the fruits and planted a seed of itself in her, it had taken possession of her, taken her memories away, taken everything she had in her that defined her.

Their names became blurry in her mind until they were just like her, scattered to the wind, ash-like.

It dropped her somewhere, left her soundless, boneless. It brought her to her knees, the possessive term was laughable, it wasn't hers, it wasn't her, her nails gripped the ground beneath and dirt got stuck there. From far away she felt the caress of her hair against her neck, she felt the scream of her own magic now caged inside her, too far for her to reach. Her palms burned with a whole different tingling, it was not white, it was not glory and warmth, it was not hers.

The bleakness of the settings around her riled up the monster inside her - her, it was her, her heart, its heart growled and barked at the caged animal - Emma, laughing at her.

It claimed her. It claimed her soul and forced her to forget, to erase, to whip out the rest. The lights shone off, died at the feet on the demon. From prey she became ghost, from love she became darkness. She closed her eyes and was out.

It hunts, seeking something to feed the madness, the loud thrum in her head, the loud and crying desire for something to fill the chimera that had found settlement in the line of her heart. From bright red it had turned dark purple, though she was sure that somehow one touch of it would reduce it to dust much like the wings of a moth.

She was a moth, reduced to the nightlight, to the shadows that not only surrounded her but the ones that kept her confided; behind the bars it felt terribly cold, the kind of cold that forced you still, the moisture around her chilling her to the bones. There was no warmth, no warm thought to have - it had made sure she would feel ashamed to bring happy thoughts, summoning them would be an insult to her memories. Much like the suitcases she had packed early on in her life - all of her life, Emma kept those safely in the only place she could, her heart not her own anymore; she saved them in the curve of her breast, closing them behind the highest walls she could conjure, the animal inside her caged still but guarding the only door. She could not put up a fight against this monstrosity, she could not clean the dirt off her bones but she could protect this infinitesimal glitter of hope, of love.

The demon could claim her whole, it could claim her scars and scatter her limbs, force her magic to prison but it could not erase the marked fingertips of those she loved on her skin. It was a tattoo she could be forced to close her eyes to, but not one she could be stolen from, fire could gulp her whole, burn her to ashes but the memory of the person she was would live in the hearts of those she loved.

Their names remained unspeakable to her mind, but her own still existed somewhere outside this place and it was the only thing she could hold onto, it was not hope it was a belief that could keep her partially sane.

Nothing was hers, but this belief was. Even shut out, even shamed and cast away with no eyes to look upon it, no heart to pour strength but only the knowledge - thin as a leaf, but still there in the lining of the darkness. She believed in them, she believed they were out there in the shadows cast by the veil in front of her eyes.

The drumming noise called her back and the next thing she knew was that she was running.

Her feet were bare. That was all she knew, feeling the bits of dirt getting between her toes, the branches and thorns cutting her soles. It was frightening to be running blindly, her senses dulled by the demon; it kept her away from the rest of the world, if world was indeed something that could qualify her environment.

It kept her on her toes, forced her back against a wall with threatening teeth, it forced and conjured her scars to open, to bleed out until she was left, again, boneless, breathless, her body weak with fear and pain. She had spent countless hours, days, in the tower her own mother had cast her in, she had been screaming at the top of her lungs for help, yelled for someone to hear her prayers; the ones from the non-believer. She had known the truth in a world where the veil had covered them all but her.

Madness had its sweet way to creep on you, the demon knew it all too well, conjuring the pleas she had screamed then, reminding her of the danger that was standing at the edge of the precipice, left with one choice: to give into madness or to let the belief kill her heart with despair.

Back then Emma had believed it was torture, it was being swallowed whole by the ocean and worse, she had believed it could not get any worse – how could it? She had been alone, alone with her own thoughts and mind.

Sanity had been the slowest poison.

Oh, how she had thought naively that nothing could ever top this. How gullible had she been - her teeth flashed white in the darkness as the creepy smile of the demon became hers, the borders of their two entities becoming blurrier as time - was there anything such as time here? Was there ever a here to be talked of? - even those were not part of her knowledge. She smiled and she laughed in a high pitched voice that did not belong to her, her teeth felt sharp against the tender skin of her lips.

The demon wanted her in a leash, wanted her to give up herself, as if giving up her secrets and body was not enough… of course it wasn't. She was not enough. Here it was, the creature trapped in the dark, always hungry, always living on the hunger of the anger of its hosts (oh the sweet irony of the term, she had welcomed the beast home in the swelling of her breast without knowing.) How could she have known? How could she have even imagined the repulsive perversity of the beast she had gripped with two hands?

How foolish had she been to believe she was up to the task?

The demon required her bare back, bent to its will, her conscience not her own anymore, he asked her with sweet talks and inhuman noise – growls, groans and yelling - to bend over to its desires and its will. It was not the desire of a lover, it was the desire of the beast needing another conquest, another host to bend to his wish, to his desires, it wanted her to be a partner to his crimes, to his vile, it desired to make her a demon and abandon all reason to him.

The latter had been given up to him on a silver platter, she had no reason, it was all shut out away from her mind and her heart.

Safely locked, she thought.

So she did as it asked, but she did not give in, she complied, from her own free will, the only small battle she would have won, she bent to its desire, not with its hands on her, but with her own knees going down, her lips twisting with a smile that was hers and not its. It was carnal, she was beast, she was its monster now but she was hers too.

The rictus grew wider.

It was never enough.

It reminded her so every time it could, like the cracking of a whip against the too tender skin of her back.

Never enough.

The words became marked in her head, like burning letters carved into her bones, marking her like the animal she had become, its animal. She could not shut it out, she did not have the strength to. Madness was at the door and she did not fight it when it tried to claim her, she shut her spirit, shut her mind and accepted the claim. The names she would forget would come back to haunt her, it was the powerful tool the demon had found.

A dagger of its own, used against her, a dagger for the demon, a dagger for her, her name erased and blurry to her now, one that would be used to bend her will to its.

Remember them, the names of those who could get close to you and find out you were not enough. The Swans, family of gentle people who had had their own child soon after she had arrived. The name rang in her ears but it did not belong to her anymore, if familiar it had been before, it was strange now. Unknown and known, the knowledge mixed with mystery she could not touch, the demon would never let her close enough, it would drown her but never enough to make her forget entirely, only just enough to blind her, to make her bleed.

Would there ever be enough bloodshed, she had wondered in a moment of weakness.

Of course not. It would never be enough, it could squeeze the very essence out of her and it would not be enough. Enough. Enough. She might think in her worst weak moments, it would never be enough.

Because that was who she was, never enough. The feeling twisted inside her guts, it was familiar, it was almost welcomed. It was her. Enough was her name, her plea and her curse.

Other bars came up to her, ghostly ones from a life that felt strange to her, a prison from another time. A name carved in the metal.

Neal.

The bitterness of the name was like the taste of lead on the tip of her tongue. The feeling of her insides being torn apart, her stomach hurting, her heart aching with the deception of a dream never fulfilled. She had forgotten everything else, forgotten sweeter words once whispered in the dark; they meant no damage these words, they meant stars and new starts.

All lies. All chimeras. It had been a travesty in hope and passed away as a promise. All of them felt so sweet on the tongue when they were received, but it was only when they sank heavily in your stomach that you were resolved to crying over the bitterness of the lie, finally revealed to you. The coldness of the feeling, the coldness of the prison, of the walls she had built around her heart, it froze her dead, her lips crackled to blood. It had left her dead-like.

Who cares for broken goods, who cares for defenseless girl left alone in a corner?

Nobody cares for the lost girl.

Her skin and eyes could bleed until her body was pale, her veins empty of life and colors, nobody would cast a glance. He had left without a word but a keychain, oh the poisonous token, worn close to the heart of course, because what else was it supposed to be but the telltale of her story.

She remembered the keychain, pressed cold against her collarbone, against her skin at nights in gloomy rooms of untrustworthy hotels. She remembered the iced metal against her skin, remembered the coldness of the embrace of her own sorrow and dead dreams. A midnight embrace that she would give into only then, in the dark of her room, her bed never fully warm no matter the temperature of her body; no matter the presence of a man's body next to her, the embrace would claim her and force her out. She never stayed in one place for long, it was easier that way.

It had always been easier that way. Nobody looked over her shoulder to stop her, nobody had tried to, nobody remembered ghosts. Powerless as she was, not even the ghost of her was compelling enough to haunt anyone.

Even then she was powerless. And not even Neal's cold body could snap the feeling out of her, not even his ghost could soothe the pain she wore like a keychain around her neck. Her tongue was incapable to form words to conjure the feeling. She could not conjure happier thoughts, were there any to be summoned? She could not remember happier names, only the shadows of faces she knew she had loved would pass before her eyes in a matter of seconds, mere seconds of bliss in her reach given by the demon, seconds that were gone as soon as she tried to blink and make out the edges of their faces.

The soft humming of a name spoken with joy, with love (even if the word was meaningless to her now), she remembered promises - ghosts of some words branded to the wind and that, unlike so many others had not been empty of heart and oath, they had been weighted with the strength and certainty that belief offered. But if she could remember them, she could not map them, could not touch them or hear the words.

It was a whole new kind of torture that the demon provided. It was a new way to force her down, to make her contemplate the what-has-beens of another life. As hollow as she felt, as weak as she felt, incapable to hold onto anything, not capable to hold anything, the pain always managed to dig its claws into her. It should not hurt anymore, she had had enough.

Enough.

It was never enough and blood calling for blood, she always bled.

She could trust no one.

She had no one.

Just lies, blood and chimeras.