They continue trading barbs throughout the day, much to Killian's displeasure.

"As much as I appreciate your help," she says the last word as if it's anything but. He's mildly irritated by her tone. They've been walking since he convinced her to accept his - not at all sarcastic - help, eager to evade the queen's next advance of guards. Just because the two of them can fight doesn't mean they should be over-exerting themselves. "Did you come here with any semblance of a plan to, I don't know, defeat the Evil Queen once and for all and save the kingdom?"

"You're the Savior," Killian points out. "Seems more of your job, really."

Emma's expression sours. She speeds up, a little, forcing Killian to work harder to match her stride. "Right. And you decided to track me down because…"

He sighs heavily. "As I said, you're not the only person the queen wants dead."

"So, what, double it and we suddenly both become safer?" her voice is drenched with skepticism.

She truly wasn't this unfriendly when he brought Geppetto in to Ingrid. Given the circumstances, however, he finds it difficult to blame her entirely.

"Two is better than one. I figure you could use a hand."

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Well, love," he replies with a tight grin, attempting to be charming. "I don't know. Do you want it to be?"

He - valiantly - fails.

Emma stops, her annoyance clearly getting the better of her. She turns around to face him, angrily pointing at him as if he'd suspect an empty forest could have been the subject of her wrath. "Why? Why help me? Why join me when you could just stick around and hide in the village like you've apparently been doing for weeks now."

"It'd only be a matter of time before Regina would find me there," he answers curtly, stopping right along with her. He holds hand and hook up in a pacifying gesture, but she doesn't look any less perturbed.

"Because it's such a challenge to find us now?"

"It's certainly easier to fight them off," he finishes. "The two of us combined are better swordsmen than a dozen of Regina's guards put together."

"Swords people," she corrects automatically.

He cocks his head to the side. Perhaps he should really work to make his language more inclusive. "Fair enough, lass."

Emma just resumes stalking forward. Killian follows at her heels.

"Look, I know you think that working with the Savior, or whatever, is going to make you safer," Emma sighs, for once sounding less angry with him than with herself. "But it's not. I'm half-decent with a sword. I'm not some sort of enchantress who can kick Regina's ass with telekinesis, or whatever."

"Wasn't suggesting that you were," Killian retorts. "But you are the Savior. Even if you are proving to have quite the complex about it already."

Emma scoffs. "A savior complex because I say I'm not exactly the most powerful Savior?"

"The self-deprecation will only get you so far, love, and it's not any closer to defeating Regina."

Her fists clench and her nostrils flare at his words. Emma stabs her finger into his chest accusingly. "I have spent days fleeing from a bunch of Regina's guards who want me dead because of an identity I just discovered. I didn't want any of this. I don't want to be responsible for saving everyone. I don't want to have to be the one to kill some sociopath who thrives off of the suffering of others. I don't want to have to be here arguing with you over what being the goddamn Savior means. Who would want that? I want to go home and go back to my own bed and not have to worry about whether or not my mother is okay. I don't want to be the Savior."

"That's too damn bad, then," Killian fires back, growing angry himself. "Because you are. And it's my neck and everyone else's that you're putting on the line if you decide you'd rather go back to being the healer's daughter!"

"It's not like I could if I wanted to, but great, Hook," Emma huffs in disbelief, hands coming to rub at her temples. "I get stuck with a pirate who lectures me on morality and responsibility. That's just fantastic."

"I'm not trying to lecture you. I am trying to save your life," he grits his teeth.

"No!" she shouts, getting right up in his face. "No, don't even try that with me. You're trying to save your life. That's why you lied to Geppetto and manipulated him into taking you in so you just pretend to be some poor blacksmith, that's probably why you worked for Regina in the first place, and that's why you've deluded yourself into thinking that - for whatever reason - the Savior is going to be able to save you from the mess you've gotten yourself into."

He gapes.

(She's right. It stings how much she's right.)

Emma buries her head into her hands, fingers threading through her long hair. "And here I am, trying to convince myself that maybe I can so much as survive while the Evil Queen wants me dead. I'm so desperate that I'm even accepting your help even though I know your motives are nothing but selfish."

"Oh, I'm selfish?" he challenges, though he knows she's right. "That's rich. I just saved your neck from those guards!"

"Yeah," Emma replies sharply. "Because you thought it would save yours!"

"Does it matter?"

She curses then, eyes moving to gaze out at the expanse of forest in front of them. The anger leaves him as he quickly realizes how much weight she has suddenly had to hoist on her shoulders. As much as he can be a right prick about this, he knows she's right. Killian is, at best, a selfish opportunist. Emma didn't sign up to become responsible for the destiny of everyone in the kingdom.

"No," she exhales, the fight seemingly going out of her as it did him. "I guess not."

The silence between them as they walk forward, boots crunching on the leaves of the fall, is almost worse than her shouting at him.

As the minutes pass, it becomes evident that this alternative is definitely worse.

It's going to be a long journey between the two of them.

"So, what?" Emma asks, finally. "We avoid guards forever and keep walking in a straight line?"

"No," he says, shortly.

"Then what exactly is your plan?" she counters.

Hook sighs, heavily, as he walks past her. "Not that."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Fantastic. Great plan you have there."

"Here's a plan for you," he starts, whirling around to face her. "Stay alive."

"Comprehensive," she scoffs derisively, setting her hands on her hips.

"Do you have a better one?"

Emma's face twists into a frown, at that. She stares down at the forest floor, at the mud on her boots and the footprints they're leaving behind. Regina's men and women will have a field day with those, he's sure.

"No," she says, stiffly. "No I don't."

"That's what I thought."

-/-

It continues like that for another day. Killian and Emma fight off a handful of guards unlucky enough to cross paths with them, trade barbs, and try not to kill each other.

It's the stuff of legends, Emma is sure.

The 'try not to kill each other' part gets much more difficult when she almost breaks his arm after he suddenly pushes her up against the nearest tree.

"What the hell-" Emma struggles against him, kicking into his shins and scratching at his hand.

"Shh," Hook whispers, wincing at her attempts to attack him. "Listen."

She does. By the sounds of it it seems like multiple horses are coming through the forest, most likely pulling a carriage.

"Do you think it's-" Emma asks, keeping her voice hushed.

"No," he replies. "It just sounds like a passerby, if the queen or her guards were passing through we'd be hearing much more commotion that that. A wealthy passerby. Carriages don't come inexpensive..."

Hook seems to ponder that, for a moment.

"I'm not going to ask what you're thinking," she mutters, still pressed against him as they speak in low tones.

"Perhaps we could steal something from them," he suggests. "Supplies, perhaps. I don't know how much we'll be able to find to eat if it starts pouring."

Emma looks at him as if he's suggested they slit their throats. She shakes her head feverently, nose brushing up against his chest with the motion. "No. No. We have enough bread and berries saved to get by tonight, we don't need anything more."

He squints down at her, then, forehead touching hers with the motion. "Swan, don't tell a pirate you're averse to stealing."

"I'm not when it's necessary to get by," Emma mutters, thinking of her own past of pick-pocketing and the trouble that got her into. "We can last just fine without risking our lives on the off chance that we can get more supplies out of innocent passersby."

"Innocent passersby," he parrots, astonished. "Swan, you don't know the first thing about these people."

"Exactly," she says, curtly. "And even if they're not, imagine what could happen if they're the last people we want to see."

"Don't be ridiculous, love."

"Oh, yes, I'm going to sound really ridiculous if we storm into that carriage," she imitates his accent, and the sound is so terrible he looks as if it's a struggle to stifle his laughter. "Sorry, lasses and lads, for robbing your carriage. I see now you work for the Evil Queen and are the very people we're trying desperately to run from! Our bad! Say, do you have any supplies?"

He laughs, then, unable to help himself. His breath fans across her face as he does so, a contrast to the cool night air.

"I'm glad you think risking our lives is funny," she retorts.

Hook only shakes his head. "It's not, but your attempt at parroting my voice is going to keep me warm with mirth for nights to come."

Emma rolls her eyes. At that, the carriage sounds as if it's passed them, thankfully crushing any hopes Hook may have had of robbing it. This is really what she gets for deciding a pirate captain was her best option. Emma pushes him and it's enough of a sign to get him to disentangle her from between him and the tree.

It starts raining just as he starts to pout with the realization that his potential target is out of bounds for them. They can't even take two steps before they hear thunder. Which is just their luck, really. In the span of shitty things, this is just the icing on the cake.

Hook stares up at the sky, raindrops falling on his face as he does so. "Fantastic."

-/-

It's still raining when they decide that their legs have had enough and they huddle under their respective trees for shelter for the night. To say it's just 'cold' would be an understatement. Her cloak is soaked through and she feels like her every body part is going to frost over.

They can't even light a fire, thanks to all the rain.

"They could have had blankets," he mutters feebly. Hook won't seem to let the fucking carriage go. "Those seem quite necessary now, don't they?"

"Shut up," Emma grumbles, nestling further into her cloak. She can still feel the rough bark of the tree behind her back, but it at least provides some shelter from the rain.

"You should sleep first," Hook says, stripping off his heavy leather coat as he stands. "I'll keep watch."

He hands it to her. Emma frowns, looking up at him questioningly.

"You're freezing," he answers, shortly. "Having the Savior die from the cold hardly sounds like a good story for grandparents to tell their grandchildren, now, does it?"

"Neither does the pirate who froze into an icicle because he decided to be chivalrous," she replies stubbornly, keeping her hands inside her cloak.

"Actually, I think I've heard that one before," he deadpans, waving the leather in front of her. "True Love kept him warm when he received a shard of ice to the heart. Take the coat."

Emma takes it from his hand reluctantly, fingers brushing against his.

"Thank you," she breathes, meeting his eyes.

"Aye," Hook replies, a little tensely. "It's no trouble."

The coat helps, a little. Emma doesn't freeze. Still, she fades in and out of consciousness, failing miserably at getting any sort of real rest thanks to the rain and her discomfort. If Hook notices, he doesn't say anything.

The rain stops before the sun rises, though, so she mutters something about finding firewood and instructs him to go to sleep, handing over his coat back to him.

"I can do it, lass," he protests, at first. Hook's teeth chatter and she grimaces.

Emma shakes her head. "I need to get up and move or I'm going to go crazy. We need a fire if we don't want to freeze to death. You need sleep or you won't be any good to either of us."

Another retort seems ready on his lips, but he takes a look at her, her sopping wet hair stubbornly sticking to her face and shivering in her thin cloak, and must decide otherwise.

If anything, walking might stop her from freezing until she can start a fire.

"I won't sleep until you get back," Hook adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Just in case anything happens to you in the meantime."

"I can take care of myself," Emma sighs.

"I know," he mutters, hand coming up to rub at his bleary eyes. He adjusts himself to press more of his back against the trunk of the tree behind him. "That doesn't mean that it still couldn't happen."

Her mouth presses into a hard line. He's not saying this out of any genuine concern, just a desire to keep himself alive with her help, but, nevertheless, something in her softens at the gesture.

"Thanks," she says a little gruffly as she stands.

He just nods in place of a 'you're welcome'. She'd be offended if they weren't both so damn tired.

-/-

Firewood collecting isn't all bad. At the very least, it's something to focus her mind on. And Emma's mind is very, very distracted. Fogged and hazed with a lack of sleep, her anxieties start to become even worse. The black knights that are tracking their every move, the unknown status of Ingrid's safety, her parents, Hook's questionable loyalty...

It's a mess, to put it lightly. But firewood collecting, just breaking off twigs and hacking off bits of wood, is a methodical process. She can focus on the banality of the steps, the process, instead of thinking about what a clusterfuck her life has transformed into in the span of days.

Thinking about how not to get a splinter is a far better alternative than imagining the various ways she could be violently murdered for powers she may or may not have.

So, firewood it was.

Sadly, she doesn't even get much solace in that before she hears footsteps tracking behind her. Emma freezes.

"Hook, that better be you, or I swear."

"You need any help, miss?" a voice, decidedly not Hook's calls behind her. Emma panics, for a moment, wondering who the hell her back is turned to.

She withdraws her sword, turning around to face the intruder - can it be an intruder if it's not your home? - head on.

He's a knight, but his armor is much lighter than the variation that Regina's knights wear. It's the kind of armor that used to be popular years ago in Misthaven, if the pilfered storybooks she remembers from when she was a kid are anything to go by.

"Whoa, miss, I don't mean any harm," the knight stills for a moment, cocking his head to the side as if in the process of realizing something crucial. "Emma?"

Her eyes widen and her grip tightens on the sword in her hand. "How do you know my name? Do you work for the queen?"

The knight shakes his head, quickly. "Farthest thing from it. Emma. I can't believe it's really you."

"You aren't helping me much," Emma says, growing more and more confused by the second. "If you don't work for Regina, who the hell do you work for?"

"Your parents," he answers simply.

She almost drops her sword. Quickly scanning his face for any trace of a lie, she doesn't find one. "You're serious."

"Yeah," he replies with a breathless laugh. "I am. I married them, believe it or not. I can't believe I finally get to meet you, after all these years. I only recognized you because, well, the posters named you-"

"You know my parents," Emma stutters the words out, but they sound more like a question than a statement. Her voice is too high pitched, too vulnerable, but she can't help it.

She's always had questions about her parents. It's hard not to, having seen hide nor hair of them for all her life. The family that took her in until she was around five or six was kind enough, sure, until the mother got pregnant and they decided they could only handle feeding one child. After that, and a few more failed attempts by well-meaning samaritans, Emma quickly learned she could only rely on herself.

There was the innkeeper who had her clean and forgot to feed her, the barmaid left her behind after an encounter with a man who promised her the world, and the kindly grandfather who got very, very sick. When he died, Emma was nine. From then on until Ingrid happened, she was alone and stuck pilfering from street vendors and finding abandoned houses to sleep in.

During that time, it was safe to say that she had very, very many thoughts about the mystery of her parents. If she was that much of a disappointment, such a disgrace that when she was just born that they didn't even wait until she could talk before they ditched her...

"Can you tell me about them?" she asks, a little mystified by the possibility. Her encounter with Red didn't last long enough for her them to talk about anything other than the basics of her identity and how soon she should run. "My parents?"

Lancelot's face softens. "Of course. You must have a lot of questions."

"Yeah," she says, exhaling sharply. "You could say that."

"Do you need help carrying your firewood?" he asks, gesturing to the pile beside her. "I can walk you back to your camp. My wife is just collecting wood, herself, so we could set up a fire of our own. We could join you, if you wanted?"

Emma tenses up for a moment remembering Hook and his promise to stay awake. She worries about leading them back to him before she reminds herself that she can trust Lancelot. After two minutes of speaking to him, it's easy to tell he's the type of man who exudes trustworthiness.

"Yeah," she answers, shivering again once the shock wears off and she remembers just how cold it is. "I think I've got it with the firewood, but I'd love the company. Um, I have someone with me, too, but he shouldn't mind."

"Someone with you?" Lancelot questions, confused. "Who?"

"It's a really long story," she laughs, shaking her head as she leans down to gather the wood. "He's on the run from the queen, too."

"Ah," Lancelot replies with a grin. "I see. My wife, Guinevere, we met under...strange circumstances, to say the least."

"Oh," she replies, confused. It takes her a minute to realize the impact of what he's saying. "Oh. Oh, no. It's nothing like that."

Lancelot raises his eyebrows, but doesn't say much else as they he follows her back to the camp.

-/-

"Bloody hell, love, I thought I'd have to sear-"

Hook's words trail off as Lancelot enters the clearing behind her. Lancelot catches a glimpse of Hook's namesake. They both draw their swords, so quickly she barely has time to process what just happened.

"Whoa," Emma exhales, quickly putting herself between the two men's swords. Her hands are held up, pleadingly, blocking both of their movements. "Hold on, one second."

"Emma," Lancelot grits out. "I don't know who you think this man is..."

"And I have no idea who this bloody man is," Hook replies, indignant.

"Captain Hook," she answers, bluntly, voice colored with exasperation. "Yeah, I know. And I know that he used to work for Regina."

Lancelot's stance softens only marginally. "What makes you so confident that he truly 'used to' work for her and he's not doing just that, right now?"

"Mate," Hook starts, before Emma shushes him with a hand on his chest as she steps in front of him. Lancelot isn't going to believe a word he says, as things stand now.

"We kind of took care of that in a sword fight, so, yeah, it's been settled. If you don't trust him," she flounders for a moment, because she isn't even sure if she trusts him, "then trust me."

Lancelot considers this briefly before sheathing his sword back into his belt.

"Who the bloody hell is this?" Killian asks, finally, eyes darting between Emma and Lancelot.

"Lancelot," Emma answers, gesturing towards the man in question. "He's friends with my parents."

A beat passes among them, the two men evidently too stubborn to say anything to each other.

She sighs. "Lancelot, Killian. Killian, Lancelot."

"My, love, I think this is the first time you've actually called me by my name since I left your mother's," Killian quips, reluctantly lowering his sword.

"Your mother's?" Lancelot repeats, confused.

"Um, the woman who took me in," she explains briefly, the question catching her by surprise. Footsteps sound not far behind her and interrupt the rest of the words on the tip of her tongue, so Emma whips around to face the source.

Killian raises his sword again as a woman enters the clearing.

"That's Guinevere," Lancelot tells him, quickly moving to her side. "She's my wife. Please, refrain from pointing weapons at her."

Hook lowers his sword, once again. The circumstances seem to be confusing the hell out of him. Emma isn't doing much better.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" Guinevere asks Lancelot, understandably even more perplexed by the situation in front of her.

"That," Lancelot points at Emma, "is Emma."

Emma notices his word choice. She's not the Savior, not the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, just Emma. She doesn't know what to do with that.

Just that seems to be enough to make Guinevere's face split into a wide smile. "Emma! I've heard so much about you!"

She wishes she could say the same about either of them, Emma thinks, but she holds her tongue. "Hello," she offers stiffly in reply.

"This is Hook," Lancelot introduces, sounding just as uncomfortable as Emma feels.

Killian gives a little bow, in response. "Nice to meet you, mi'lady."

There's a stilted silence in the clearing for a few moments.

"Have either of you slept?" Guinevere asks, concern seeping in her tone. "You must be freezing, too, you both are soaking wet."

"Emma needs sleep," Killian says, shortly. "No matter what she says, the lass is exhausted."

"So are you," Emma rebuts, rolling her eyes. Tattling on her for being tired? The man is full of mysteries.

Guinevere only tuts while Lancelot shakes his head.

"Your coat can stay on, the leather should be fine,," she says, pointing at Killian. "But you, Emma, have to take off the cloak. Soaking wet fabric isn't going to help you stay warm."

Emma only whines, a little, while she tugs it off.

"Do you have any blankets?" Guinevere asks.

Emma and Killian share a look.

(She swears, if he says something about the damn carriage, she's going to hurt him.)

Guinevere only sighs heavily, digging out two blankets from her pack.

"Here," she offers, one to each of them.

"We can't possibly -" Emma begins, but Guinevere only shushes her.

Lancelot gives them both a knowing look. "We have extra. She won't let you turn them down."

She sighs and takes them, offering Guinevere a quick word of thanks.

-/-

Emma falls asleep not long after she curls up in one of the couple's offered blankets.

Killian, however, is wide awake. Swan may have trusted the couple almost immediately - a baffling rarity for her, he's already sure - but he's not quite convinced that being old friends of Snow White and Prince Charming is a convincing enough story for him to believe. He isn't even sure that the king and queen are still alive, frankly, no matter what another mysterious, conveniently appearing old family friend of Emma's may have claimed.

He'd never tell Emma of his suspicions about her parents' welfare, of course. It could crush her feelings and, as a result, their chances at survival. If the Savior loses hope that her parents - the legendary paragon of all that's good and pure - are alive, well -

It could bode very poorly, indeed.

So he scoots closer to Emma and sits with his eyes wide open. To fall asleep right now would leave him perfectly vulnerable, a state he can hardly afford with two strangers. He can't afford to leave the Savior and possibly his only chance at revenge at risk like this.

"You should sleep," Guinevere says.

He narrows his eyes. "I'm fine as is, thanks."

"The bags under your eyes say otherwise," the knight - Lancelot - points out.

"Do they?"

Guinevere sighs, just as she gets the fire to light. "You can trust us, you know."

Hook just stays stubbornly silent. He jerks every few moments, in order to keep himself awake - and fights the drooping of his eyes valiantly. These past days, between searching for Emma and being on alert for guards, haven't done wonders for his rest. He's caught maybe a few hours of sleep total since he left Geppetto's.

But, still, he has to stay awake.

-/-

When Emma wakes up, Killian is passed out asleep a few feet away from her.

"Can you believe he tried telling us that he wasn't going to go to sleep because he didn't trust us?" Guinevere laughs, meeting Emma's eyes as she sits up.

"Did he really?" Emma asks blearily. They look like they've managed to build a healthy fire, one that crackles and sizzles when she walks to join the couple by it.

"Mhm," Lancelot murmurs, armor off and roasting some kind of meat.

Emma's stomach grumbles. "He really hasn't been sleeping much at all, these past few days. I'm surprised he lasted that long before collapsing."

"Hungry?" Lancelot asks.

Emma nods apologetically as she sits down next to them. "Sorry. It was hard to try to hunt last night, thanks to the thunderstorm."

He cuts her off a sliver of the meat. "No trouble at all. So, do you trust the pirate?"

There's a question worth its weight in gold.

Emma bites her lip, thinking about it for a moment.

"He seemed pretty concerned that we were going to try something while you were asleep," Guinevere adds. "Hardly what I was expecting, honestly."

The corner of her mouth turns upwards. "He's full of surprises."

As if being summoned, Killian stirs.

Emma chuckles, moving to stand over him. "Good morning, sunshine."

He jerks awake, eyes wide and panicked. "Emma? What the bloody-"

"You fell asleep," she tells him, gently. "The world didn't end, you should know."

Killian rubs the sleep out of his eyes, slowly sitting up. He eyes the couple by the fire with something like suspicion.

"We made breakfast," Lancelot points out, gesturing to the fire. "Join us."

Killian looks a little skeptical at first, but joins in.

"I haven't felt this much distrust since I met your parents," Lancelot laughs. Killian can only offer him a half-hearted scoff.

"Speaking of," Emma reminds him, "you did promise me stories about them."

Guinevere smiles at the reminder. "They are the reason Lance and I met, after all."

-/-

Killian, of course, is stuck all morning listening to the various tales of Emma's parents' adventures. From their meeting by robbery to their wedding, they seem to lead quite the lives. The lives of grand heroes, by the couple's accounts.

Emma is, understandably, entranced.

He still doesn't trust the lot, he swears. But for whatever, strange, absurd reason - Emma does.

Emma, the woman who trusts as easily as she is beaten in a swordfight.

(Which, is to say, not easily.)

(To be fair, he quite literally threw that one, but nonetheless.)

They resume their walk through the expansive forest with Lancelot and Guinevere by their sides. Lancelot and Emma quickly get engrossed in their own conversation - this one, from what he can tell - involves strange water that nearly prevented her mother from being able to conceive until her grandmother and Lancelot came to find a solution.

He knows more about Swan's bloody family history than he does his own, by now. Maybe this is the reason Emma is so quick to trust them.

(That, and they have been nothing but generous to the both of them.)

Guinevere, though, falls behind a little bit to fall into step with Killian.

He raises an eyebrow, surprised.

"What made you decide to go after Emma and help her?"

An expected question, sure. "Asking of my motives, now?"

Guinevere shrugs. Emma and Lancelot's conversation continues, steadily, in front of them. "I'm curious. Can you blame me?"

"Perhaps I'd like to see the queen out of power, given she wants to kill me. That must be an understandable motivation, surely,"

Emma throws her head back to laugh at some story or another. Killian has to say he's a little relieved at the sight, given the circumstances, and his eyes stay fixed on her smile.

Guinevere clears her throat, beside him. "Did you just hear me?"

Killian was unaware she said anything. He scratches behind his ear, a tad embarrassed, "Er, no. Sorry, love."

"I was going to ask why you chose to help her, out of all your options," Guinevere starts, the corners of her lips pulling upwards. "Now I see that it isn't necessary."

His eyebrows furrow, at that. "What do you mean?"

Guinevere just speeds up to meet her husband, then, wrapping her hand around his elbow instead of giving him a reply.

They're a cryptic pair, too. Wonderful.

-/-

Emma continues peppering Lancelot with questions even after Guinevere and Killian have fallen asleep. She's had twenty-eight years to come up with a list of them and almost a week to add even more specific ones to the list. Whether she's at a campfire in the middle of the night with a stranger or not, there's a broken girl somewhere inside her that needs answers.

There's one unanswered question that's been weighing the heaviest on her throughout the years.

"Do you know where my parents are?"

"I have not seen them in years," Lancelot admits, carefully. "The last I saw they were in hiding in a nearby kingdom, but it's likely that they've moved in the meantime."

"Oh," she says, trying and failing to conceal her disappointment.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Emma mutters, resting her chin on her hand. "Thank you, though. For putting up with me and all I want to know. I know it must be really-"

"It's no trouble at all, Emma," Lancelot insists. "You're just a woman with a lot of questions about where she comes from. You just got a lot of responsibility thrust upon you. It's natural for you to want to know more."

Emma exhales deeply, trying to reason with herself. "Yeah. You're right."

The two of them fall into a brief silence while Emma carefully weighs her thoughts.

"Do you know what you're going to do from here?" Lancelot asks suddenly. "I can't imagine it's been easy to discover you're the Savior, then be immediately pursued by bloodthirsty lackeys."

Emma snorts. "That's putting it lightly. And no, so far it's just been…" she gestures, haphazardly, "running and hoping for the best."

"I can understand that."

"But it's obviously hardly the most ideal plan," Emma sighs. "Given that it's not one at all. I'm supposed to be the Savior, I'm supposed to defeat Regina. But I don't have any better idea of what to do than any other person you pick out on the street."

"Don't be unfair to yourself, Emma," Lancelot insists gently.

"Now a bunch of people are counting on me," she emphasizes, again. "I heard stories, all through my childhood, about how one day everyone's misery would end and the queen would be overthrown. All they needed was a Savior. They rely on that hope every single day. And here I am - wandering around without the slightest hint of what to do. I don't even know if Regina can be defeated."

"There is one thing that might work," Lancelot sighs, contemplatively. "But according to many, it's nothing more than a myth."

"Yeah, well," Emma replies candidly. "I thought I was a myth, too. Now look at me."

He laughs. "Fair enough, Emma. There's a legend of a box - the kind that can fit in the palm of your hand - that has the ability to trap any person inside of it."

"Even the Evil Queen," she finishes, meeting his eyes.

"Yes," Lancelot says. "Even the Evil Queen. So long as you were in the same room as her, all you will need to do is have that box."

She frowns, brow furrowed in concentration. "Where is this box?"

Lancelot shrugs, opening his hands up in a helpless gesture. "That's the question."

"Are there any whispers, maybe, of where it could be?" Emma presses, further.

"There may be a few magical volumes, but, truthfully, I haven't done much research on it myself."

Emma considers this, staring into the flames of the fire in front of her.

It's not much at all.

But it's something.

-/-

Guinevere and Lancelot pack up their things to head their separate ways the next morning. Lancelot heads to clearing, his pack in hand, to ensure his supplies are all in order. For whatever reason, Killian offers to help him.

Which leaves her and Guinevere.

"Where are you guys off to, after this?" Emma asks, sidling up to where she's sitting, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

"We have to head to a camp, one where the victims of Regina can hide safely," Guinevere explains, fiddling with the tie of her pack. "We - Lancelot and I - guard it most of the time. We switch out with Robin and Marian when we need to go for supplies. That's what we were coming back from when we met you two."

"We could come with you," Emma suggests, anticipation seeping into her voice. A place to hide from Regina sounds like exactly where they need to be. Plus, she can hear more about her parents from Lancelot and Guinevere and she won't have to run endlessly from-

Her thoughts still when Guinevere's expression turns apologetic.

"But if we did that, we'd be putting everyone at risk by directing Regina and her men back here," Emma surmises, disappointed. "I understand."

"I'm so sorry, Emma," Guinevere murmurs sincerely. "I wish our paths didn't have to part ways."

"It's okay," she reassures the older woman. "I think I have an idea of what we need to do now, anyway."

A very, very loose idea. But an idea nonetheless.

A thought comes to her, then. "This is going to be a weird favor to ask you, but..."

"Anything," Guinevere says automatically.

Emma grins, a little shakily, at the response. "If you run into a healer named Ingrid at the camp..."

She pauses, considering her words. Emma and Ingrid didn't get much of a chance to talk before Emma had to flee. All they really had time to do was say their goodbyes as she, Ingrid, and Red all went their separate ways. Ingrid mentioned she might have a place in mind to flee to, though, one where her skills could be needed and she wouldn't be likely to be found.

Emma wonders if that place would be something like the camp Marian spoke of.

"If you run into a healer named Ingrid at the camp," Emma repeats, voice a little steadier. "Tell her that Emma is safe and she loves her."

Guinevere's face softens, at that. "And this Ingrid is your mother?"

"My other mother," a weird sentence to say, but one she does nonetheless, "yeah. I didn't get a chance to find out much about where she left to when I did."

"I'll pass along the message if I see her," Guinevere assures her. "She sounds like a phenomenal woman."

"Thank you," Emma murmurs, genuinely grateful for the woman's seemingly endless compassion.

"Nonsense," Guinevere insists, moving to hug her. "We're practically family, you know. Family looks out for each other."

Emma wraps her arms around the other woman, tightly. "I guess we are, huh?"

-/-

Lancelot enlisting his help for 'checking supplies' seems to just be an excuse for questioning his intentions. It isn't much of a surprise, admittedly.

"So," Lancelot begins, a little tensely as they walk past the camp. "What made you decide to quit working with Regina?"

Killian grimaces. "I don't think it was a matter of quitting as much as it was escaping with my life intact."

"So you didn't quit willingly?" Lancelot asks, voice stiff. He isn't impressed in the slightest by the connotations of this.

"Well," Killian replies dryly. "I suppose that's what happens when you don't kill who she wants you to kill."

"You were her assassin, yes, I know that much."

And he sounds disgusted by that much, naturally. Hook can't blame him.

"I don't know how grand of an assassin I was if I told the people I was sent to kill to hide and never be found again."

"You've been helping the resistance," Lancelot stills, eyeing Killian with newfound interest. "We've taken in a few who claim the queen's assassins let them go, but they refused to say who."

"It's good to see they stuck to their word," Killian retorts. He doesn't know much at all about any resistance movement, truthfully, but he did tell his not-quite-victims to never utter his name in any case they were found. "I can't have my reputation being tarnished, now, can I?"

(Hook wonders what his reputation must be now. If any of his old crewmembers - should they be alive - hear he's run off with the Savior of Misthaven and decide that it took 200 years for dementia to set in.)

(This may very well be the case.)

"Why did you even work for her in the first place?" Lancelot questions, confused.

Killian thinks of his endless quest for revenge, for a moment. He thinks of Milah, her dark curls and her winning smile. He thinks of Rumplestiltskin, crushing her heart right in front of him for daring not to love a coward.

"Why does anyone?" he diverts, a familiar tactic of his, instead of answering the knight directly.

Lancelot seems to accept this at face value.

-/-

When they get back to the encampment, Guinevere and Emma are already packing up.

"Where are you off to next?" Killian asks, turning to Lancelot.

"A separate direction, we're afraid. We've got a lot of work to do."

Guinevere ambles up to grasp her husband's hand, tangling her fingers with his. "Just as you two do."

It helps that now, at least, Emma has an idea of where to go from here aside from just 'don't get killed'.

"I'm sure you do," Killian replies lightly, moving to stand next to Emma.

She sends him a curious look at his sudden shift of tone, wondering what kind of bonding Lancelot and he did in the forest. Killian shoots her a nonplussed expression in response. Emma, still with more questions than answers, directs her attention back to the Guinevere and Lancelot.

"Thank you," Emma tells the couple, "For all your help. I can't thank the two of you enough."

Guinevere smiles broadly at her as she disentangles herself from Lancelot to lean in and grasp Emma's hand. "Anytime. I hope our paths cross again."

"Me too," she replies sincerely giving the other woman a grin of her own. She squeezes her hand before she lets it go.

Lancelot turns to face the two of them. "It was an honor to finally meet you, Emma. I hope I run into your parents, again, so I can tell them what a wonderful, brave, strong woman you've turned out to be. They're so proud of you, I can already tell you that."

Her heart pangs, thinking of the couple she's never met. She hugs Lancelot, then, unsure of how to reply with anything else. "Thank you so much."

"No," he replies, leaning back to face her. "Thank you. Make sure that pirate stays on the straight and narrow, hm?"

"Mate, I think we have more to worry about than that," Killian retorts, loitering behind Emma. Lancelot only shakes his head.

"Have safe travels," Guinevere instructs kindly. "The both of you."

"Even you, Hook. You know, you aren't all that bad," Lancelot adds cheekily.

"Could say the same of you, knight," Killian replies, the corners of his lips twitching in an obvious effort to suppress his smile.

Emma's eyes meet his, and the effort fails. She meets his smile with a reluctant one of her own.

They watch them leave before grabbing their packs and heading forward.

A/N: Updated a little earlier than I thought I would, blame the spoiler hype. Thank you so much for reading. Hope you enjoy!

-/-

Killian and Emma fall into a comfortable silence for a little while, lost in their own thoughts.

"I'm not used to relying on the kindness of strangers," Killian says, a little abruptly. "Found it to be quite the opposite, really, when it comes to people I don't know. People I'm acquainted with, as well."

She considers his words, mouth turning downwards as she realizes just how alone he is (was, now) in the grand scheme of things. "Well, now, you are."

He only offers a fond, sad smile in reply.

"We need to find a library," she states, eyes breaking from his to fix on the horizon. "You any good at research?"

He stares at her, for a moment. Stares at the determination in her eyes, the confidence of her stance. The accidental collision with her parents' friends seemed to have done wonders for her confidence. "Quite, actually."

"Good," Emma replies, looking at him for a brief moment. "Because we have some work to do."

"Are you saying we have a plan?" Killian asks glibly, a grin creeping on his lips.

"Depends," she shrugs. "You know anything about a box?"

"I could learn, perhaps."

The grin stays on his lips for the rest of the morning.