Warnings: Blood, violence
Notes: Thanks so much for your favorites/follows/comments! I appreciate them so much. I hope you enjoy this next part! Chapter nine goes up on Wednesday.
Chapter Eight
Emma tried not to look at him, and she tried to shut him out.
She imagined the darkness might taunt her, tempt her to leave him behind. But it only thrashed against whatever magic coated the dagger in Killian's back, the sensation scraping against her bones. The voices keened loudly in her ear, a mournful sound that nearly brought her to her knees. She knew, if she fell, neither of them would get back up.
Though they'd lost Mordred in the dark, his footsteps growing faint before falling away altogether, she still ran, and tugged Killian along behind her. The careful, iron wrapping he kept around his mind began to unravel, and an echo of a deep, searing pain poured into her veins. It crashed over her in waves, and when it crested, she couldn't help but to glance at him. His face was deathly pale, and the whites of his eyes were red as blood. He rambled in languages she did not recognize, and cried out whenever the land knotted up, falling hard on his feet, the bones and sinew in his back rending in two.
But still he went on, his grip on her hand unyielding. A quiet, spiteful strength that lived in him reared up, and pushed him forward, hours and hours and hours creaking painfully by.
Eventually, the virgin forest gave way to one much younger and disturbed, stumps and saplings clear signs of a nearby civilization. The vegetation began to clear, and the streams coalesced into one mighty river. It arced up to the north and spilled into low marshlands. A great, rounded cove bit into the land, sandy, half-submerged grasses sloping down towards a glittering swath of water. Shacks, manors and minor castles rose along the water's edge, growing more elaborate from the southern to the northern shore. Warm candlelight, faint through the windows, and bright in the lampposts, chased away the darkness. At the sight of the town of Weir, Killian let go of her hand, and fell to the ground.
"Emma," he pleaded, in many voices. "Swan."
Another wave of pain crashed over the armor he'd built within. She gritted her teeth.
"We have to keep going," she said.
"I – " He panted, and shook his head. Sweat and tears poured down his face, dripping from his chin. " – I can't."
"Too damn bad," she said, and reached down to hoist him up. Skin and muscle stretched and tore, and he cried out. She shushed him, but still he whimpered, pitiful noises that he hid in her shoulder.
Emma led them to the ruins south of town. To ancient, crumbling castles, long past their usefulness, half-sunk into the marsh and surrounded by warped, wooden pathways. They were grown over, largely concealed by moss and grass and vine. She considered sneaking into the town proper, and bartering for shelter and discretion. But, she reasoned, Mordred was likely to have loyalists scattered throughout Camelot. So instead – his breathing shallow, his pain unbearable even to her – she dragged Killian to a nearby tower keep. It was like a mound jutting above the waterline. The stone was covered in desiccated sea creatures, and tidal algae, and it blended into the marsh. It rested at an angle, a gaping wound in its side giving passage to the upper floor.
"I guess this will have to do," she said.
Emma stepped down from the walkway and into the water, boots sinking in the fine mud. She sloshed along, inhuman strength allowing her to pull Killian through as well, pushing the grasses aside and climbing up into the keep. She did not stop until they came to the next floor, the very top. She wrenched open the swollen, wooden door, and allowed it to slam shut behind them. A cloud of debris erupted, reeking of salt and rot.
Whatever restraint Killian had shown as they ran began to waver. She lowered him to the floor, and onto his belly. The dagger jutted out beneath his shoulder blade, and he writhed, clawing at the stone beneath him.
"Emma," he said, coughing out her name, blood and saliva gathering on his lips.
"Right, right, okay, let's just…" She fell to her knees, and leaned over him, fingers hovering by the dagger. She hesitated, wondering if more harm would come to him, if she should cut the fabric away from his back before removing it.
But he gave her no choice.
"Get it out!" he shouted, over and over.
Fearing he would draw attention, Emma grabbed the hilt, and yanked. A terrible sucking noise echoed through the room when she tore it out, blood and flesh arcing and dripping down on his coat. The hilt, a plain leather wrap, burned her hand, and she threw it across the room. It clattered down the slope of the keep, leaving a long trail of blood behind. Killian whimpered, and lay panting. She prodded at his mind, and found fresh pain still bubbling through. Whatever magic coated the blade, it must have remained behind.
"There's still…" he said, trailing off and biting hard on his bottom lip.
She pressed down on the fabric above the wound, warm blood still seeping out, and peered through the slit in his coat. As she watched, the stray and jagged pieces of leather reached out for one another, winding until they were repaired. Emma's hand lay pressed to his spine, and the moment the tear in the fabric disappeared, the runes in the coat flared brighter than ever before, casting the room in brilliant red light. Briefly enchanted, she realized the light was essentially a beacon, alerting the people of Weir that there were strangers among them. And, though logic told her she'd left them behind hours ago, paranoia convinced her Mordred was watching, as well as any others she had left alive.
Oh no, dearie, I don't think you left any besides. Perhaps you'll find the Captain's code is of use after all.
Emma growled, and bit at the darkness – Aren't you supposed to be writhing in pain? – as she hastily tore the coat from Killian's shoulders, down his arms and over his hook. He protested, weakly, a fresh sheen of sweat coating his face. The vest and shirt beneath were still torn. She was frustrated, and angry, and the darkness still taunted her, laughing at Killian's pain as if it too hadn't suffered moments ago. The blade removed, the voices seemed immune, and the Dark One before her became the man, tender flesh on his back throbbing and swollen.
He's not our concern, they told her. After all, we have you.
Emma had never shut them out quite so violently before.
"I need to get these off," she said, catching his eye. He was still of an unhealthy pallor, and his breath rattled in his lungs. Yet, he smiled.
"It was only a matter of time," he said, with a suggestive inflection. She glared at him, with no real heat.
"I could just leave you here, you know."
He laughed, or coughed, she wasn't sure which.
"Is…" She hesitated, imagining the situation in reverse. "…uh, is that alright? I could just tear them if you wanted."
Killian was quiet for a long moment, long enough for her to be concerned. She reached down and touched the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in the hair curling just behind his ear, damp and curling with sweat. He sighed, and relaxed, marginally. His answer, then, surprised her.
"Just cut them," he said.
I fear you won't like what you see.
The thought, in his warm and familiar voice, was quiet, but distinct, leaking through the broken barriers he'd built around himself, crumbling under the weight of whatever foreign magic still seemed to poison his blood. Emma tried not to react. Instead, she obeyed, and pulled Aldan's dagger from its sheath at her side, cutting a generous cross into his vest, and then his shirt. He tensed when she peeled them away.
"Gross," she said, before she could stop herself.
He laughed, or tried to, through his teeth. "Not a fan of blood, are you darling?"
She shrugged. "I may be used to it, but it's still gross."
It occurred to Emma, then, that she was woefully unprepared for this scenario. No rags, no fresh water. She tugged his shirt from beneath the waistline of his trousers and tore a clean strip, dabbing away at the blood, but it was hardly adequate.
"You wouldn't happen to have any alcohol in that magic coat, would you?" she said.
He had been watching her out of the corner of his eye while she worked, watery eyes bright and bloody and vulnerable. But at the mention of alcohol, he turned back towards the floor of the keep, beard scraping roughly against stone and wet sand. His eyes fell closed, and he breathed unevenly.
"Not anymore," he answered.
Emma sighed, wiping away the dirt and sweat until only the wound remained, seeping fresh, unnaturally dark blood. Thin black veins, a flesh-deep poison, wound outward from the broken skin, up and over many, ancient scars, roping outward along his back. Morbidly curious, she lay her hand upon the mess, rough tissue scratching against her fingertips. He was hot, burning in fact.
Am I about to watch him die? she wondered.
Fear, terrible and mindless, took the place of all else. Her hands began to shake, and the darkness showed her all manner of things – his wound tearing open, flesh turning inside out, the magic within burning him to a husk, Mordred coming upon them, sentient shadows pouring from cracks in the earth, the sea pulling back from the sands like a curtain, the world folding in half like a map, the stars burning out. Visions of terror and torment twisted in her gut. Emma could hear Rumpelstiltskin's voice, rising above the others, laughing in his own peculiar way. It was only some measure of spitefulness, and desperation, that allowed her to reach past the darkness, and into the light, where the magic she was born with yearned to heal.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, and then lay her hand back over the wound. Light, healing magic reached down to knit the flesh. Mordred's dark magic reached back. Killian's teeth clenched, and he groaned pitifully, writhing upon the floor.
Oh, how far he has fallen, the darkness said. They tested her resolve, screeching in her ear. But she did not waver, not even when the weakened restraints around Killian's mind finally gave way, his memories spilling over into hers…
She had an older brother. Emma wondered what had happened to Leo, but then quickly forgot the name. Her father leaned over her, as she lay there in the bowels of a ship. His face was familiar to her, bright blue eyes and golden hair. His gentle expression twisted, and darker hair and eyes warbled against light. An unfamiliar face with a familiar smile looked down at her, lies spilling out of his mouth. He disappeared, and she leapt out of bed, suddenly much older.
Emma ran up to the top deck of the ship. Many faces surrounded her, those who had squirrelled her away when she was young, and those to whom she had been sold.
"Sold?" Emma shook her head, and bore down on the dark magic. Killian curled up tight beneath her, and she had to lean on him to keep him still. The magic began to seep out of the wound, the poison retreating, snaking back over his –
Scars, fresh and shameful, all across her back. The whips fell hard against her flesh, and though she knew the memory did not belong to her, it felt real, skin breaking open, and blood pooling at her knees. The ropes holding her fast fell away, and she turned to find herself deep in the forest that she remembered. Her brother called her name, but he was not there when she turned, only a man living in the body of a child, unfamiliar trees and mountains clawing their way up through the landscape. An eternity in a humid jungle, unchanged by the seasons, untouched by time.
"Emma," Killian whimpered, whether begging for relief, or for her to get out of his mind, she wasn't sure.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I can't, I can't."
The last of the magic began to wind out of his flesh, but still it dragged her down –
– and into the water. When she surfaced, she stepped out upon the deck of an unfamiliar ship. It was beautiful, sails fluttering in the breeze. The woman she loved stood at her side. Time stuttered, and she lay dead in Emma's arms. Like many others she had known, their faces twisting together, a ship upon a battlefield, a battlefield upon the sea. War raged on and on, and all she cared for was killing the man who had taken everything from her. From sea to palace, from vengeance to sorrow. Again, she saw the face of her older brother in her mind, and she walked blithely through a broken castle, blood at her feet, the legacy of the king who had sent Liam to his death pleading for their lives. A tender, beautiful heart lay in her hand, shining in shades of red and gold. She hesitated, but the darkness reminded her, the vision of her brother's death spilled forth, and her grip tightened. The heart in her hand turned to dust –
Emma cursed, violently, in languages she'd never learned. The magic she'd torn from Killian's flesh writhed, diffused in the open air, before it withered away, as dust. Harmless, it drifted down to the floor below, glittering in the pale, morning light. He gasped, rose to his knees, and the open wound knitted closed.
"Bloody hell," he said, wiping the sand and grime from the side of his face. Blood and sweat began to dry on his skin. "I can tell you this, darling, I've never experienced quite so many impossible things in so short a time."
"Uh…" Emma blinked, disoriented by the sudden change of pace, his mind wrenching back quickly, coiling up and away from her. He glanced at her, and flushed, turning back towards the wall of the keep. He took a deep breath, and before it had left his body, she could neither see nor hear anything that lived behind his walls. "…sorry?"
Killian reached out, and laid his hand upon the stone, just by the narrow window. The light caught his rings, throwing luminous shades on his profile. He looked battered, and vulnerable.
"I'm sorry," she said, with more conviction. She wanted to step forward, but his expression warned her away. She wanted to step back, but she feared he would misunderstand her. Suspended, she remained where she was, and looked down at the sandy soil shifting beneath her feet. "I shouldn't have…"
Shouldn't have saved him? a voice said. Too late to turn back now.
That's not what I meant, Emma insisted.
Oh, but isn't it?
She bit down on nothing. No.
"Oh, Emma," Killian said. He turned to look at her. She might have expected him to smile, in false bravado, a shield like any other. Curiously, he didn't. His mind remained a fortress, but the expression on his face was open and changing. Anger to guilt, guilt to hatred, hatred to weariness, and lingering there. One corner of his mouth pulled up, and he spoke her name.
"Swan," he said. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
"Yeah, but I did exactly what you said. I tore it from you."
Killian's eyes flashed, and the Dark One appeared briefly in his face. His lips curled back from his teeth. His eyes were dark, and his voice of an odd resonant quality when he spoke, but the man remained.
"Don't be sorry," he said. His hand began to shake. "I saw things too."
Emma swallowed, and longed to ask him what. But then she imagined he might ask what she had seen in return. She wasn't sure what it would do to him, to hear fragments of his story – whatever they were, whatever they meant – told aloud, when he'd tried so hard to keep it to himself.
The silence lingered, and it became clear that he would not tell, and that she would not ask. She shuffled on her feet, and listened hard for the sounds of the sea. Heavy, saline water washed along the keep, travelling sluggishly towards the river that emptied into the cove. Young, spring grasses scratched against the weathered stone. Loose boards, swollen with age and neglect, knocked together with no apparent rhythm. Emma closed her eyes. The darkness prodded at her with manufactured hatred and suspicion. When it knocked impatiently at her heart, she refused it, and opened her eyes.
"We'll need supplies," she said, hoarsely.
I need a distraction, is what she meant. She took a deep breath, and began to pace meanderingly throughout the room, boots scuffing against the floor. The memories that she'd relived – hers and his twining together – left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her hands began to itch, and she brought them up to her face. Dirt and blood crusted over her knuckles, and beneath her nails. She looked at Killian. His back was to her, bloody, dirty rips in his shirt and vest.
"Water," she blurted. "I'll go get some water."
Killian turned, and frowned. "Pardon?"
"Fresh clothes, too."
The room felt as though it had shrunk, and she turned towards the door, longing for a brief escape, for open air, for clean hands and a clear mind. Killian seemed startled, and three long strides brought him to her side.
"Now?" he said, incredulous.
"It's been about fifteen minutes since we arrived and I already feel like my skin might break open if I have to wait any longer."
"Wait for what?"
Emma rolled her eyes. "Seriously? For the ship. The one I asked for when I sent that message."
He blinked down at her.
"Oh," he said. "This is the town."
"Yes, Weir. Where did you think we were?"
"I wasn't really thinking at all, love. I can't say I had all of my wits about me."
"All three of them," she teased, half-heartedly. Then, "Your clothes are torn, and bloody. My hands are caked with…" She swallowed. "We need to wash up, and then we can wait."
He tilted his head, regarding her from beneath a sweaty brow, blood smeared on his cheek. "I'd protest, or tell you to be careful…but I suspect you wouldn't accept either."
Emma laughed, quiet and humorless. "It's not the first time I've stolen basic necessities."
Killian's face fell.
"I know," he said.
I saw things too.
Whether from memory, or in that moment, his voice seeped into her mind. Her eyes drifted from his face, down his chest, unable to look at him. She shook her head, and walked out the door.
Emma returned when the sun was high, wearing a fine cloak she'd stolen from the northern district. It had been paved with bright, clean cobblestone, and lined with orderly markets. It gave a beautiful illusion. The vast majority of the residents of Weir appeared to have little more than the clothes on their backs. Their wharfs crumbled, their small ports unused. The water was clean, though it seemed lifeless. Emma's heart broke as she had wound her way carefully back to the keep, circling again and again, until she was certain she had not been followed. She carried two heavy skins full of fresh, cool water, as well as a shirt and vest, the latter stolen from a clothier beside the tannery.
Killian seemed agitated when she walked through the door, holding her spoils triumphantly above her head. They weren't quite like the delicate finery of his ruined clothes, nor those he'd worn when she'd first met him, but they were fresh, and not coated in blood and grime.
He looked equal parts amused and exasperated when he caught sight of her, as she'd hoped he might. His clearly endless pacing had cleaned parts of the floor of the grit it had accumulated over the years. The sun peeked down through the window, though he stood along the eastern wall, where the light did not reach. His eyes stood out amongst the spare shadows like a creature's in the night.
"Clothes," she said, and dropped her robe to the floor, the clothes atop them. "The vest is leather. It has a thousand buttons, which, sorry about that, but apparently that's the style – "
"Emma," he said, stepping close, then closer still. Brief, shining amusement flickered away, like a candle beneath a glass cage. "I want to tell you a story."
Her heart began to race, and she remembered how it had felt to crush a heart. Only, she hadn't.
She blinked. No preamble, no pretentions. He had clearly been waiting for her, had built up his resolve, perhaps warred with himself, whether he would continue to hide, or reveal himself. All while she had wandered the town, trying to forget the sounds he made when he was in pain.
"About what?" she whispered.
His lip twitched, an aborted sneer, the Dark One before her. His brow pinched, and terrible grief took its place. Back and forth he went, like a pendulum, into the shadow and into the light.
"The kingdom I destroyed," he said, dispassionately. It was put upon, she knew, but still it chilled her.
"You don't have to do this."
He shook his head. "You have a choice, Emma, but only if you know. In several days' time, your ship will arrive, and you can leave me behind, or you can take me with you." His expression flickered, stone to fear, then back again. "I will do whatever you ask."
"That's ridiculous, the past is in the past. It's not going to change anything."
"Ah, but that's not true, is it? There are some things that can never be forgotten, some wounds that never heal." He swallowed, hard, and his lashes fluttered. "I had a brother, many years ago. This, you know. But what you don't know, are the circumstances of his death...of his murder."
Emma felt his grief, like blood in the water, turning everything red. "Killian…"
"Some three centuries ago, I was born in a town much like this, on the other side of this very sea. My mother died before I could know her, and my father sold my brother and I into servitude when we were children. Liam cared for me, and when I was at my lowest, he dragged me into the Royal Navy. There I learned many languages, rose through the ranks." He paused, and looked down at his feet. "I thought I knew myself, my true self. But then our king, in his treachery, commanded we sail to a foreign land, with the aid of a Pegasus sail. He said we were to find dreamshade, a plant that could cure all ills. But it was poison. My brother died, and I fell to pieces. When I at last had my revenge on Rumpelstiltskin, and became the Dark One, it was hardly days before my thirst set me upon another."
Killian was shaking. Tears, whether of anger of frustration or grief, gathered up in his eyes, and began to spill over.
"The royal district of my home was not vast," he whispered. "The kingdom was small, compared to others. Plagued by poverty and forced servitude, children bartered for goods. But its courts were beautiful. Great towers and paved streets. The royal family and their extended court, dozens of them." He paused, his hand and hook alike shaking violently at his side. "I killed them. I brought down their castles. Their courts ran with blood. When all others had fallen, I found the prince hidden in their towers, the last of my own king's bloodline. His heart was pure…beautiful."
He leaned forward, a wild expression on his face.
"And I crushed it," he said, in many, terribly familiar voices.
Emma closed her eyes, tight, and could feel the heart in her hand, beautiful just as he'd said.
"That was many generations before your time," he said. "But I stole their history, scattered their royal people. And the worst part is, I convinced myself it was for the better. The people could rebuild, overthrow the courts and start anew, throw off their egregious history and become peaceful, and just."
"Did they?"
Killian seemed startled by the question. "I...I suppose. Often, I seek word of it. There are stories, passed from parent to child, of a grand revolution, driven by the people. But there are those who linger in this realm…those who know the truth."
He lifted his head, and pressed his feet together. His fingers drew over his hook, again and again.
"Now," he said, imperious and unfeeling. "You are one of them. Whatever will you do?"
Emma breathed, deeply. The memories she had seen, and the story he had told, they began to bleed together. She saw his brother, bright and young and beautiful. She saw a kingdom corrupted, ignorance and greed abounding. When she saw the prince, and his heart, blood at her feet and revenge between her fingers, that darkness spoke.
It was merely a suggestion, one voice said. An eye for an eye.
He was weak to the darkness, and we took him for ourselves.
Yes, just like he wanted.
He embraced the darkness long ago, dearie, and you pretend he stands in the light.
On and on they went, painting Killian in her mind, given over to great evil, his skin unnaturally green and hardened over, slits in his eyes, and oil in his hair. It was their great mistake, for the man before her, posturing to cover his sorrow and guilt, looked nothing like that.
No, she told them, fiercely, and stepped forward. Killian's eyes widened, and he stood straight. She reached out, and he watched with dark eyes as her fingers fell first on his cheek, then curled up into his hair. He remained still, watchful.
"No one can excuse what you did," she said.
He nodded, her thumb rasping over his beard. "Aye."
"Least of all me."
He bowed his head.
"But I want you to come with me," she whispered. "If you're looking for absolution, or forgiveness, or…whatever else, I can't give you that. But I can leave the past where it lay, and see you for what you are now. Killian, please…come with me."
Killian breathed, harshly, and Emma felt it on her skin. He looked pained, in some ways worse than before, when he laid helpless upon the floor of the keep.
"You can't want that," he said. He stepped back, and her hand fell back to her side. "You don't want me."
"Don't tell me what I want," she said.
Incredible sorrow, and incredible anger, poured off him in waves. The darkness began to shout. Never before had she seen Killian bend quite so low beneath the weight of their torment. She could see it in his body, in the arch of his back. He stretched, taut like a bowstring, his hand clawing at the tender skin behind his ear. The voices within, many robed figures, they reached out and peeled him open, fear and guilt tugging him into madness. The darkness reached for her next, pulling them both into a vision.
"Oh," they said.
Emma startled, and felt the rough fabric of their robes brush against her fingers. The darkness built an image of the keep up around them, and pulled a great, black curtain over the open sky above. It was like a waking nightmare.
"Oh," they said, again, voices pitched higher. Killian's fingers played a silent, arrhythmic symphony against his thigh. His eyes, so often bleak and otherworldly, were entirely his own, glinting in the harsh unnatural light spilling from nowhere. The darkness, in a feat of wicked desperation, tried to possess her. They poured terrible images into the vision, painting Killian before her as he once was, mindless for revenge, the good of all chanted darkly in his mind.
"Nothing you do or say will convince me," Emma said, fiercely.
It was enough to goad the darkness into action, and when she blinked, she saw the past bubble out of the shadows, a bloody one-man revolution behind the lids of her eyes. The darkness, it twisted Killian's face into a facsimile of a smile, and the room began to grow damp, warm.
"Oh, Princess," they said, whispering harshly into her ears. "You can't possibly know to what it is you're agreeing. We have taken the blood of thousands in all our days. In this man alone, we have stolen hundreds."
When blood began to pour in through the cracks in the floors and in the walls, Emma shut her eyes
It's not real, it's not real, not real, not real, she chanted.
The blood began to rise past her ankles. It was an illusion, but all the same, the reek of copper filled her nostrils. She bit her tongue to hold back the cough, but the darkness caught her discomfort, and Rumpelstiltskin appeared before her, between them.
"Do you know how a person bleeds?" he said. "Do you, Swan? How much? How long? I can assure you, dearie, that the man behind me knows better than most. The blood of every person he has killed is filling the room. I wonder, how long will it be before you drown?"
Emma could feel the magic prickle at her fingertips, a decidedly dark energy racing down her spine. But she did not indulge, and neither did she bend beneath the weight of the madness. It called to her. She did not answer.
"Get," she said. "Out."
The vision flickered, the darkness began to retreat, screaming as it went. Emma shut her eyes once more, and when she found no solace there, she rushed forward, until her face was pressed into Killian's shoulder. She threw her arms around him, and held on. The darkness grew quieter, until, like the last flicker of a candle, it burnt away. Killian was at first stiff and unresponsive in her arms. But when the last of the vision finally died, he pressed his hook tentatively above her hip, and splayed his hand across her back. He pressed his face into the slope of her neck, and all at once, she'd never known him quite so dark, his secrets spilled out at her feet, and yet quite so light, the darkness hiding away while the man leaned on her.
"Are they gone?" he said, in a small voice.
Though the room was empty besides them, and the vision had disappeared, Emma shook her head.
"No," she answered.
They never were.
The days passed sluggishly while they waited for news of her ship. Emma imagined it would remain offshore, where they couldn't see, but still she would pace by the window. At night, she would walk the old pathways in the marsh, broken boards that often had her trudging through the muck when they gave way. The first night, she had walked fairly deep into the wood, despite Killian's protests, to hide the dagger she'd pulled from his back, in case any enchantment remained on the blade. Wrapped in a yard of stolen fabric, Emma had thrown it in a tributary that flowed to the south.
Killian, who had at first seemed cowed by his own confession, nervously awaiting another vision to come spilling forth, relaxed into patience, a very old, very practiced patience. It was irritating, truth be told, how he could sit for hours on end. Only once had he left the keep, returning only to drop a bundle of wood on the ground.
"What the hell is that for?" she'd said.
He'd smiled wryly in answer, pulled a knife from his boot, and began to whittle, of all things.
On the third morning, Emma could bear it no longer, and followed suit, at his insistence.
"You'll go mad, Swan," Killian said, balancing the wood on his knee with his hook while he carefully shaved away. It was all wrong for whittling, swollen and wet, often breaking down to nothing. He would only shrug, and pick another piece. "I find it's best to distract the mind. The nights grow terribly long, when you cannot sleep."
Emma watched the gnarled stick at his knee evolve from driftwood to…
"Slightly less ugly driftwood?" she guessed.
Killian pulled another knife from his boot and tossed it at her feet.
"How many knives are in your boots?" she said.
He thought a moment. "Less than ten."
She eyed his feet skeptically, then moved closer to grab a piece of the wood at his side. She took the knife from the ground, and weighed it in her hands. It was light, and sharp, the hilt simple but sturdy. Killian offered to show her how, but she refused, watching from the corner of her eyes as he plucked away with his own knife. She balanced the wood on her knee, sharp edge of the blade facing away from her. Gently, she pressed forward, and immediately cut the wood in two.
"I meant to do that," she said.
He quirked a brow, but made no comment.
It was a silent agreement, as night swung to day, then back again, that they did not speak about the vision. The darkness lingered in him, Emma could tell. Sometimes, he would lay down the knife, and watch the door, then lean up to look at the roof, as though it wasn't there. She would prod him, then, and demand he assess whatever it was she'd created. He'd look at it with distaste, and come back to her.
On the eighth day, soldiers from Camelot arrived on the backs of brilliant white horses. They ignored the ruins – broken and bleeding in the marsh, overgrown and waterlogged – and scattered throughout the town. It was a small contingent, hardly enough to search, or to guard. Whatever was their purpose, Emma and Killian moved to the roof of the keep, should the guard choose to come near. They climbed up the stone and kept their heads beneath the jut of the ramparts. The air blowing in off the sea was cold. The currents curled around the islands of the north, freezing waters rising from the deep, before flowing south to cool the western coasts. Though spring was in bloom, the nights were only just warm enough that they did not kill the tender blossoms peeking up through the forest floor. Before she had been chained to darkness, Emma had always been cold, and would never have agreed to lay out in the open air, time grinding slowly by.
Before, she thought, boredom and exhaustion and homesickness all warring within.
On the ninth day, Emma nearly lost hope. She wondered if they should not have travelled north on their own. It would be nearly three months by foot to the most northern port, where eventually they would have to commandeer a ship to sail to the islands.
Best do it on your own, the darkness tempted. She did not listen.
As all the days before, Killian waited patiently, and Emma felt as though she might die. The sun rolled through the sky, and she watched it paint the earth. She listened to the waves draw back and push forward, over and over. From time to time, she would talk about nothing of importance, and he would listen, answer her if she asked something, but otherwise, he seemed as though he could be an extension of the keep itself.
"I've had many years to practice my patience, Swan," he told her.
"I think I might die."
"On second thought, I was never as terrible as you."
Emma snorted. He smiled, wryly, clearly teasing. He urged her to pick up her knife, to carve away at the stone if she wished, and she complied, if only to combat the feeling that, perhaps, her ship would never arrive.
Hours later, last light blinked away, and the stars came to life. Streaks of brilliant color, the magic of the realms, danced in the clear air as she thought upon exactly what she'd been trying so hard to ignore. There was something about the stars that opened her up, shadows coalescing in the night. The darkness whispered at her, reminding her of her family, her friends, braving a burgeoning war, sailing the open waters.
Perhaps they've been caught, they suggested.
Or tortured.
There's no knowing. Better to just go.
"Emma," Killian called her away from the darkness.
She turned to him.. Startled, she smacked his arm, again, when she saw that a familiar bird sat upon his shoulder, then leapt down to his knee. Days of waiting, days behind her, all forgotten in a single moment. She scrambled to her knees, leaning forward and watching the little bird preen.
She'd never seen anything quite so beautiful.
"Thank the gods," she said. Killian smiled at the creature, and Emma found it terribly infectious. "She really likes you."
He demurred. "Surely not how she likes you."
"Don't be ridiculous, my mother's birds hate me."
Emma ignored his mild protest, and took the message tucked at the bird's leg. Brief, it instructed her to leave from the docks, to row straight east from the town's lone port. She peeked between the gaps in the parapets, and spied a faint wisp upon the sea. It could be mistaken for a patch of low fog, shining in the moonlight. Tears leapt to her eyes, and she wondered who she would meet aboard.
"I'm guessing they don't know this place is infested with guards," Emma said.
"It's hardly infested, darling, we just need to be discrete."
"You're telling me this?" she grumbled. She climbed hastily back into the belly of the keep and threw the robe she'd stolen over her shoulders.
"Your haste will get us caught," he said, though he seemed amused, and did not protest besides. Emma grabbed his hook, and led the way.
Luckily, or so it seemed, Mordred did not expect them to remain long in any town, and there were few guards, at odd intervals. Perhaps, as he should, he suspected they would keep to the forest, never be so bold as to walk among his own people, to sail through his own waters. A stroke of ego, of self-assuredness, that was on their side.
It was early enough in the evening that people still milled about on the streets, yet dark enough that it was easy to hide in the shadows. The streets were broken and unclean, what cobble remained smoothed over with time and use. The lamplight, at least, was pleasant and warm. The posts were old, perhaps more so than the sector of town itself. They were cast from iron, heavy and tapered. Artificial vines wound up along the stands. The flames within were bright. The stained-glass arcing along the wire was old, often broken, but they shone all the same.
A light in the darkness.
Her father's voice. Emma nearly tripped over her own feet. It had been days since she had heard it, hidden behind a curtain drawn of shadows.
With renewed purpose, she moved this way and that, among the alleys, watching intently for guards. Only two she saw, and though they seemed alert, she and Killian slipped past with ease, mindful of their routes. The finery of Emma's cloak was hidden by muck and several tears she'd acquired while walking through the wood, and along the broken pathways in the marsh. Even if she were seen, she imagined she would not arouse suspicion, given that others like her wandered about. Killian, clothed all in black, poured like oil behind her. Shadow incarnate, she imagined he would arouse only fear of a creature moving in the dark.
It was not long before they reached the docks. Her ship, a faint cloud to any other, was like a beacon on the sea to her, and Emma longed to feel its paint and rigging beneath her fingers. A few small boats bobbed at the end of a long walkway, and anticipation began to stir in her belly. She turned to the left, where another jetty stuck out into the water. And where two guards, armor gleaming in the dim lamplight, made their way round and round.
"Shit," Emma said, ducking down behind a few crates, pulling Killian down beside her.
"It's not quite so bad, Swan," he whispered. "Just – " He mimed with hand and hook. " – push them into the sea. They'll sink straight to the bottom."
"That's called murder."
He scoffed. "They can take it off, it would merely take a few moments. The water is shallow."
"That's a stupid plan and you know it."
He grumbled, but said no more. Emma watched, ducking lower still when they passed, and walked to the other end. She watched for a break in their route, enough to allow them to slip by unnoticed. When none came, she grew frustrated.
"We just have to get to Jack," she said, quietly, to herself.
"Pardon?" Killian said, just as quiet, distracted as he watched the sea sparkle under the moonlight. For days, he had been in the keep, on the sluggish edges of a marshy sea. And now he gazed intently at the quick and open waves. Though he had not complained, she imagined it was an incredible relief, to be out and about. He leaned forward, and breathed in, his lashes fluttering.
"Killian," she said, pulling insistently at his coat. She let go, quickly, when the runes gave off a rush of red light. "You're going to fall into the water."
He grunted, shuffled his feet until he was steady.
"Sorry, love," he said. "Who do we have to find?"
She huffed. "Jack. He's my ship"
"Jack…" He trailed off, more than a little confused. "Jack is…your ship?"
"Technically, Jonathon. And give me a break, I was nineteen when he first broke water. My parents let me name him. Now can we please – "
"You can't name your ship Jack, Emma. It's…" He waved his hand around, hook following, glinting in the faint light. He looked so aghast, she couldn't help but smile.
"I was under the impression that I could do whatever I want."
He ground his teeth. She could hear it, a gentle click as he bit down. "I would insist you rename her, but that's terrible form."
"Him," she corrected.
He opened his mouth to protest, she was sure, but she shushed him when the guards, both of them, went marching by. Emma could tell that they were bored, and tired. They were sure to be, tramping around in such impractical arms and armor.
"They're bound to follow," Killian said, watching as, together, the guards stood at the other end of the pathway, speaking in hushed tones. "We ought to set the dock aflame."
She made a face. "We're not going to set anything on fire. You're so dramatic."
"I think you enjoy it, Swan," he teased. "It's why you keep me around."
Emma rolled her eyes, and shushed him when one guard broke away, back into the heart of the town, and the other remained, gazing towards the west, away from boats at the other end of the dock.
Killian followed closely behind as she rushed quickly down towards the boats. The guard was hardly a few leaps behind them, but by aid of some miracle, they crept unnoticed across the worn and weathered boards. Killian leaned down and slashed at the ropes that held the boats fast to the dock. The knots were swollen and slick with disuse, and while he worked away at them, Emma bounced on her heels, eager to return to her ship. She closed her eyes, and imagined its peculiar atmosphere.
Home, she thought.
"Stop!"
A commanding voice echoed across the frothing waters, caught in the wind and carrying over the sound of the waves. The guard stepped fiercely across the deck, her armor shimmering in the moonlight, clanking heavily as she walked. She opened her mouth to shout once more, and before Emma could beg him not to, Killian rushed towards her, tearing off her helmet and poising his hook beneath her chin.
Don't! Emma thought.
To her surprise, he answered in her mind, I have to. Then, aloud, "She's already seen us."
Killian pressed harder, and a trail of blood erupted from her skin, dripping down her neck. Emma looked at the woman, and the woman looked back at her. A touch of fear, a bout of resignation on her face.
"Killian," she said. "Please. Don't do this, you can't do this."
"I've done it before," he snarled.
The darkness stirred, restless. And then Emma realized...there was something frighteningly rational about killing the woman, a voice telling her to just go ahead and let him. But –
"Don't," she begged. "Please."
Killian seemed to settle, and in an instant of benevolent inspiration, his fingers loosened. His mind unfurled, blending with hers, until out of the darkness there came a light. Her own light magic, suffusing over them both. It welled up in her, and spilled over into him. When he breathed in, his eyes brightened.
"Forget," he said, his breath crystallizing in the cold, turning a bright blue before it floated deliberately in the woman's open mouth. She fell to her knees, and then to her side, though not before he squeezed just that bit harder, another flare of magic closing the wound at her neck. Emma stared up at him, bewildered. She felt as though she had cast a spell through his fingers.
"How – "
"Not now," he said, darkly, looking just as bewildered. His hand shook, violently, and Emma nodded, dazed, leaning down to tug at the ropes that tied the boats to the dock until they broke free. Two of them began to drift with the current, and one, sturdier than the others, served to lead them away from Weir, and towards the horizon.
