"A Private Revolution"
(I wrote this fic some time back, during a summer hiatus event. The prompt was simply French Revolution. At the time, I just put together what struck me, and though it's short and dubious in its historical accuracy, I have a friend who has asked for a sequel to it for some time. She isn't on Tumblr, but the sequel is nearly finished and only needs typed up now, so I thought I would post this here ahead of part two, and hope some other shipmates might enjoy.)
Part One
The knock at the door was so soft he almost did not hear it, and Lord Killian Jones tilted his head to listen curiously, unsure if the faint noise had been there at all or if he had imagined someone coming to him in his solitary moment of loneliness and ruin. Yet though the knocking sound was not repeated, he could hear a quiet scuffle as he listened closely, as if someone shy or hesitant to disturb were shuffling their feet just outside his chambers – and with that, the young nobleman felt quiet sure he knew who was waiting for admittance.
"Enter," he called out, pushing confident assurance into his voice, despite the sensation of everything being unmoored, crumbling, trembling at the brink of downfall. He could not let his fear or his uncertainty show – his family name, his noble line must be upheld, regardless of his own personal doubt. It would not do to have some disloyal servant see him quaking in his shoes and to spread that news to the crass, militant rabble in the streets. Though if this was the person he expected, she would never dream of doing any such thing.
The door swung inward by slight degrees, until a flawless, pale and heart-shaped face was revealed, muted only by the glowing halo of flaxen curls piled out of the way atop this angel's head, with tendrils escaping here and there to trail along her neck and shoulders enticingly. The huge door, ornate with whorls and loops of hand wrought carving and adding to the opulent white and gold leaf décor of his personal apartments could not hold a candle to this chambermaid with simple and quiet dignity. It had always been so, ever since their childhood on the estate together when they had laughed and played happily, much less aware of the difference in their stations. Her mother had been his mother's favored ladies' maid, and Emma Swan had been on this estate in his family's employ since birth. It mattered little however that she was a mere housekeeper and assistant to the cook; he had always been in awe of her beauty, the way sunlight caught her hair and lit it aflame, or how the sparkling humor in her verdant green eyes could bring a smile and laughter to his lips no matter what had befallen him. He was tempted even now – as he had been countless times before – to touch an escaped curl of her luxurious mane and twirl it around his finger, to know what those soft strands would feel like against his skin.
"Emma," was all he said aloud, giving a slight nod and beckoning her forward with crooked fingers. "Come in, please."
She curtsied as she had been taught, and moved forward, graceful tread sinking into the plush carpet. Though he had tried as often as he could for years to convince her that such formality was unnecessary, she persisted for some unfathomable reason that remained beyond his grasp. His mother had been dead nearly a decade now – to the fever – even if her loss still ached in his breast, his father had already fled the country as Killian himself had been cautioned and advised to do, and his older brother Liam fought for the crown somewhere, surely trying to protect and keep the peace in the midst of a frightening Revolution. Killian has received no word of his elder sibling, his hero, in nearly two months' time, and the horror and panic at the thought of what might have befallen Liam threatened to climb up his throat and choke him whenever he dwelt upon it too long…
"Milord," Emma's quiet voice – so unique, demure and respectful, but also husky, low, undeniably sensual – interrupted the thoughts that had begun to overwhelm him, and he clenched his fists against his thighs, hoping that his childhood friend, now servant to a decrepit manor falling around both their ears, would not see that he had begun to shake when she continued speaking. "Beg pardon, Monsieur, but do you not mean to depart for the country? It is no longer safe for you here, Sire."
His eyes darted up sharply in order to search hers, their icy blue piercing her; he could tell by the way her perfectly shaped pink lips parted on a startled gasp. "You are the one who should leave, Mademoiselle," he remarked, irked once again that she still refused to drop her guard and address him as someone she actually knew. He cast his eyes back down to study his fine trousers and the elaborate buckles on his shoes – all silly affectations of his class that seemed so pointless now – unable to meet her guileless eyes any longer. "Flee from here, tell no one from whence you came, blend with the oncoming mob and seek their protection from your oppressors. Why do you stay?"
Trembling herself, as if she could barely stand to be so bold, Emma drew closer to him than she had allowed herself since they were fourteen, since before his mother's death and the weight of his position had fully fallen upon his shoulders, when they had been spinning under the open sky in a sunlit field of wildflowers until they had tumbled dizzily to the ground and in a moment of reckless abandon he had pulled her to his side, brushed her hair from her flushed face, leaned over her and kissed her. It had never been repeated, but in unguarded moments Killian could sense that neither of them had forgotten that one perfect kiss. This was one such time; it was clear in Emma's open, pleading gaze as she tentatively reached forward and put her delicate fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up to meet hers.
"Don't you know, K- Killian?" she whispered, stumbling momentarily over his given name, a familiarity she also had not allowed herself in years. "It is you who keeps me here. You cannot remain to make yourself a sacrifice to these fiends. Mon Dieu! I could not bear it if -"
She broke off suddenly, wrenching her gaze away with a heaving breath, and withdrawing her gentle touch. But Killian pushed forward, emboldened for the first time in what felt like ages. Resolved in an instant, he took her hand in his, his face still burning pleasantly from her touch. The thought that she lingered for him, that she would not abandon him, even for her own safety and a life of freedom, shook Killian to his core. 'Even after all this time,' he realized, so stunned it nearly stole his breath, 'she still feels as I do.' He might not have been willing to flee for the sake of his own hide, but for her he would go to the end of the world itself.
Bringing the back of her hand up to his mouth, Killian placed a fervent kiss to her soft, creamy skin. "Then upon my word, we leave at once. Emma," he savored her name on his tongue like fine wine, "it will be as you wish."
And so, that night, when the violent mob with their torches breached the gates of his chateau, Lord Killian Jones and Emma Swan had already vanished, disappearing as one into the night.