10 weeks ago…
Emma glanced at her caller ID with a feeling of dread. Just as she suspected: Whale.
"We've got a live one this time," the physician announced as soon as she answered. Emma couldn't stop a surge of excited curiosity. Finally, for the first time, someone who could give them some answers.
"We'll be right there."
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"Marco found him wandering the neighborhood. Peeking in windows, trying doorknobs, being shady."
"Huh." Emma and Killian were following Dr. Whale down the complex of hallways that would lead to the Storybrooke General ICU. "Has he said anything?"
"Only that he wants to return to his master."
"Oh. That's… creepy."
"Any luck on identification?" asked Killian. Whale shook his head.
"Not yet. He won't tell us his name, and all he was wearing was that weird gunny sack thing and the collar, like all the others. We managed to cut the padlock with a bolt cutter while he was still unconscious." The physician stopped outside a doorway, lowering his voice. "He's severely malnourished, he's anemic, has a number of nasty injuries that look like they were tended to by a first-grader. All that plus the brain thing… I don't think he'll last very long."
"Do what you can for him," said Emma quietly. And then the trio filed into the room.
The bedridden man looked downright corpse-like. If it hadn't been for the monitors reporting his vital signs, Emma would have believed him to be yet another murder victim awaiting autopsy. His skin tone matched his bed sheets, pulled tightly over gaunt features, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. Atop the blankets, his hands twitched an irregular rhythm quite unlike normal fidgeting. Emma could just make out the reddened edge of the brand they all bore on the palm, nearest the thumb. And worst of all, those disturbing flattened Vs notched into the skin, another trademark symbol of the elusive killer.
"Hey there," Emma greeted gently. "I'm Emma. This is Killian. We're trying to figure out what's going on here. Maybe you can help us."
The man wouldn't open his eyes. He made a tiny whimper and the tremors increased in intensity for a moment, then lessened.
"Can you tell us your name?" Killian, too, spoke in quiet, soothing tones; neither of them wished to cause him undue distress, but they both knew the importance of their investigation. Nearly 50 victims had been discovered so far, all across the United Realms, and the urgency of identifying the killer grew with each passing day.
The man on the bed stayed silent. Emma and her husband exchanged a glance, then she said,
"You're safe now. You're among friends. But we need you to tell us who did this to you, so we can stop it from happening to anyone else."
"Re… return," wheezed the man. His eyelids fluttered briefly. "I must… return. To my Master."
Emma made a face, but asked,
"Your master? Can you tell us about your master?"
"My… my Master…" He stilled, catching his breath. A tear trickled slowly down his temple. "I must…"
Suddenly, a dozen alarms screeched their various warnings, and the man went into wild convulsions. Dr. Whale quickly but calmly stepped closer, smacking a code button and working to position the man for intervention. The two law officers backed out of the way, both feeling a sense of awful futility.
Ten minutes later, the man was pronounced dead, one more victim of a faceless killer. And they were no closer to an arrest…
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Present (Monday)…
It used to be a horse stall. The middle one on the left was his: still a long walk when he was broken and exhausted, but without the privacy afforded by those at the very end. Killian loathed the sight of it, and yet it signified hours of rest. Hours when he was not being struck, squeezed, bled, or scalded. Hours covered, granted that rare commodity that was his modesty, allowed what warmth could be gleaned from a pile of blood-stained straw and sackcloth.
Hours to wrestle against thoughts not his own.
No hope. No hope. No hope.
The half-door stayed open. No flimsy reassurance of protection there. Anyone could enter at any time, including the Master itself… and that was not an uncommon occurrence.
Once a day - usually - two buckets were set on the floor by the door, one containing water and the other a distasteful sludge supposedly passing as food. No matter his condition, Killian would force himself to crawl over and drain both using a filthy hand as his only utensil. Sometimes he swallowed just as much blood as he did sustenance. Sometimes he couldn't keep any of it down. But he always tried; the Master willed it so.
Killian hobbled to the back wall. His first day, he'd ignored the chains hanging there, having had no instruction otherwise. It was a mistake he never made again. One for the collar, one for the wrist ring. Long enough to allow movement within the stall, always accompanied by the inevitable, headache-inducing clatter that echoed all throughout the barn. One had to wonder about their purpose; no slave had the physical capacity or mental wherewithal to attempt escape.
Each padlock clicked closed, and the familiar weight of the iron links tugged at his neck and wrist. Throbbing and aching, Killian sank to his knees. He held his breath through the exertion required to lower himself onto his side and arrange a blanket of straw. Then, just before surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness, he uttered a futile, almost inaudible sigh.
"Good night, Swan."