A/N: Here it is, an update for this story! Thank you so much to everyone who was so patient in waiting for this, while I dealt with some extenuating personal circumstances that necessitated taking a break from this fic for a while. This is only about half of what I wanted to write for this chapter, initially, but I decided to save their picnic for the next chapter, where I can focus on their conversation in a way that does that moment justice.
I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Emma woke early the next morning, despite the little sleep she had managed to get the previous night. Her body had long since attuned itself to waking in the grey hours of the morning, in order to fit a morning ride or some other personal activity into her schedule, before the barrage of tutors and meetings that filled a typical day. Now that she had the leisure to sleep longer, however, Emma often found herself unable to quiet her mind to take advantage of it. The changes in her life were overwhelming, and so rapid, that Emma often felt like a stranger to herself. Neither her marriage, nor the child growing within her, felt real yet. And although she was increasingly confronted with their reality, she felt disconnected and confused. Lost.
And she didn't even know whether she wanted to be found again.
Emma couldn't have said how long she had lain the dark, shivering and wishing that Neal had simply used her dagger to put her out of her misery. It might have been hours, or mere minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Neal had taken his leave some time ago, smirking in satisfaction as he slipped the paste ring onto her hand, like a brand for his prized mare. He knelt to kiss her on the cheek, and she stiffened, her breaths becoming uneven again. Fear drowned out many of his words. Words Emma no longer wanted to hear. But some of them sank in however unwillingly her psyche resisted, and she felt the hopeless despair of a caged animal when she pieced together that he meant to seal their betrothal at the earliest opportunity.
She took comfort in the sounds of the nighttime forest after he left, wrapping it around herself like an impermeable blanket. The worst had already happened to her; no beast of the forest or imagined spook of the night could frighten her now.Therewas only the scent of the earth and pine, herself, and the glowing, pregnant companionship of the moon. If Emma could have dissolved into the earth, shed her awareness altogether, it would have been a relief.
But the humiliation and pain that permeated her being, far from offering an escape, drove her mind into hyperactivity. Her sanity hung by a thread as the throbbing between her thighs crescendoed. She shivered again, trying to rearrange the shreds of her skirt to cover more of her body, but the stickiness of blood and seed that stained her thighs and abdomen glued the fabric to her body, making it a more difficult task than she had anticipated. Her hand brushed against the drying evidence of her violation, as she rearranged her tattered gown, and Emma snapped. She struggled to a sitting position, her breaths shallow and uneven. With fingers stiff from the cool air, she clawed at the earth, possessed by the single-minded need to eviscerate every last trace of Neal from her body. Her finger nails burned as dirt was pushed beneath them with great force, but Emma was only dimly aware of this new and insignificant pain. Hands clenched around a meager smattering of dirt, she scrubbed it against her stained skin, sobbing and vomiting in equal measure.
Over and over, she scoured herself with dirt, in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the soiled feeling left on her skin from the attack, until at last she sank back to the ground in a heap. Tears trickling down her face in slow, sticky tracks, Emma stared up at the moon with tired eyes.Yes, the forest could do her no harm. Better the company trees and insects, and even the most feared and savage of beasts than a man. At least a wolf might have put her out of her misery altogether, rather than leaving her wounded and completely broken. There was little subterfuge in the animal kingdom; it operated with a brutal honesty, and clear rules. You could trust an animal. But not men. So many lies, so many secrets. Never the truth, never an honest admission of intentions or feelings. Only evasiveness and empty words. Illusion.
But there was never any doubt about where you stood with animals.
A wolf howled in the distance, and Emma felt wistful as she listened to the last, mournful notes fade into the forest. She wanted to disappear, to ebb away into nothingness, as the wolf-song had. Never to feel pain, or shame, or fear.
Never to be found and hurt again.
Killian stirred next to her in the bed, and Emma roused herself from the memory. She felt a surge of guilt and embarrassment at hurting her husband again. His reassurances that she had reacted out of instinct did little to comfort her. Far from it. She hated that she had no control over herself, over her whole gods-damned life anymore. It shouldn't be like this. And regardless of the circumstances of their marriage, no matter what conflicting feelings surged through her at any given moment, Killian deserved better than to be treated so poorly. She knew it-knew as objective, intellectual fact-that he was nothing like Neal. Yet subjectively, emotionally, she simply couldn't reconcile her thoughts with all the turmoil and suspicion she felt. Killian hadn't married her of his own free will, after all. Her parents had bribed or coerced, perhaps even ordered, him into marrying her, in order to save her reputation. What they had offered him, or what he expected from Emma in return, she had not the faintest idea. But he certainly had not entered into this marriage of his own free will any more than she had. And no matter how kind he was, it simply didn't change the fact that part of her resented him for consenting to the marriage her parents had arranged.
But then, she had consented, too. What choice had she really had? No matter how much her parents had smothered her with their assurances of love and support, despite her difficult situation, Emma knew that even they would not be able to shield her from the social snubs and sharp fragments of gossip that would plague her once everyone learned of her unwed pregnancy; and while the scandal of an unwed pregnancy might die down eventually, Emma was practical enough to realize that the rumors would haunt her for years to come, tainting all of her diplomatic efforts and alliances, and lowering her in the eyes of other rulers. Her subjects would suffer by association.
Accepting Killian's proposal had been the logical choice, both for herself and her future subjects.
"Emma?" Killian's soft, sleepy voice interrupted. "Are you all right?"
She blinked, shifting slightly in the bed, and peered over at him. He watched her, his expression concerned and curious, but didn't press further when she muttered a denial. "The sun is out today," he told her, changing the subject. "Perhaps we could take our tea outdoors this afternoon."
"Like a picnic?" Her brow furrowed. "Isn't it a bit cold for that? It's the dead of winter."
"Perhaps," he conceded, "but we can adjust the venue. Leave it to me."
Emma considered his suggestion. She hadn't been on a picnic in ages, and she was curious to see where, exactly, Killian would set it up, if not outdoors. The greenhouse, perhaps? It would certainly be warm enough in there today, with the sun shining, and it would almost feel like they were outdoors, with all of the plants sheltered and grown in there. "All right," she said, smiling just a bit. "But I arrange for the food."
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Well, it should be an interesting experience, eating a meal made entirely out of chocolate, but I suppose I'm game."
"Very funny," Emma said, making a face. "Be nice, or I'll keep all the chocolate for myself and have the chef include some of Max's doggie food for you instead."
Killian turned a little green. "No thanks," he said quickly. "I've seen what he eats these days. Poor old dog..."
Breakfast was a quiet affair; no one spoke much, save for a brief conversation or two between Eric and Killian. Ariel seemed entirely too preoccupied with keeping down the few pieces of her food that actually appealed to her. Emma could sympathize. Although she now had many more good days than bad, it hadn't been so long ago that she herself had been in a similar position, and she hoped it was a good sign for Ariel's pregnancy that the sickness seemed to be increasing, rather than remaining static or subsiding.
For her own part, Emma's thoughts were too distracted by the promised picnic to sufficiently concentrate on, much less participate in, conversation. When she appeared in the kitchens after the morning meal, the staff only appeared mildly surprised at her presence. They had, she learned, been expecting her to stop by now that her morning sickness was wearing off, and her appetite was improving.
When Emma explained that she was going on a picnic with Killian that afternoon, the kitchen staff was only too pleased to help, offering additional suggestions to the foods Emma had planned-all except for the aging Head Chef, Louis, who grunted an objection to nearly everything they discussed ("No, Killian abhors plum pudding", or "Madam, that disagrees with him").
"You will never win his heart this way," he finally told her, his accent growing thicker with exasperation.
Emma refrained from pointing out that it was hardly her intention to win her husband's heart-just to feed him-but Louis seemed to believe they were one and the same mission. "Come, he insisted, standing up with effort from the chair in which he had been observing his staff, "I will show you how it is done."
She followed warily. Given all of the odd stories she had heard about him (something about a crab he was convinced lurked in the kitchens), the chef, though talented, was unbalanced at best. Emma didn't want to chance finding out firsthand how much truth there was to such rumors. What she failed to realize, however, was that Chef Louis was nothing, if not literal. Before she knew quite what happened, she had an apron tied around her growing waist, and flour smeared across her cheeks.
Hours later, with Chef Louis's grudging praise of her skill ringing in her ears, Emma hastened back to her room to freshen up. Although the apron she had worn had saved her clothes from becoming stained on more than one occasion, the kitchen had been warm, with its use of multiple ovens and stoves. And all the layers of petticoats she had been wearing beneath her dress hadn't helped a bit. She needed something fresh and clean. "And cooler, she murmured to herself, pulling the tunic and trousers Killian had gifted to her out of a drawer. "Cooler and more comfortable."
Emma dressed in short order, groaning in relief when she finally freed herself from the stifling confines of her dress and traded it for the tunic and trousers. After scrubbing her face clean in the wash basin, Emma dried it with a soft towel and turned her attention to her hair. Deciding that an updo would look rather odd with her more casual clothing, Emma pulled the pins out. She reached up, her fingers automatically raking her hair back to braid it, and then caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror.
She froze.
After weeks of avoiding her pale, waif-like reflection, the healthy creature, with softly flushed cheeks, who stared out of the mirror now was both familiar and foreign to her. Emma didn't know what to make of it, nor of the anticipation that lit her eyes for a fleeting moment before it faded to bewilderment. But it was her hair, falling down her shoulders in loose waves, that truly entranced her.
Emma reached up without thinking, and pulled a lock of hair back, securing it with a silver-plated barrette. Reaching instinctively for its twin, she faltered just before she clipped it into her hair, her movements a sudden, eerie reminder of the primping she had done for Neal before she slipped out of the castle to meet him that night. And just look where that got you, a voice whispered in her head.
Staring at her reflection without expression for several moments, rage overtook her. She ripped the ornaments from her hair with a cry that had nothing to do with the hair that was yanked out in the process. She flung the offending clips away. They fell onto the dressing table with a clatter, skittering away out of sight. Nails sank into her scalp as she gathered the mass of her blonde hair back and laced it into a severe braid. Binding the tail of it, she turned away from the mirror and walked over to the trunk that held her belongings, to retrieve the spare blanket her mother had insisted on packing.
"That's weird," she muttered to herself several minutes later, after carefully sorting through everything. She knew her mother had packed it; they'd had a minor argument about it, but eventually she simply let Snow have her way. It hadn't been worth expending the excess energy to fight over something so trivial, particularly when it was all Emma could do to get through each hour of the day. As a result, her mother had packed the little trunk to the brim with items Emma would never use in the space of entire months, never mind during her honeymoon.
Or so she'd thought.
Emma repacked her belongings. Perhaps one of the maids had moved the blanket to Killian's trunk, she finally decided. Certainly the staff had rearranged the contents of the luggage enough times, prior to the wedding, as Snow kept remembering items Emma and Killian would "need" with them while they were away. And it couldn't hurt to look, could it?
She crossed the room to the large wooden seaman's chest sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. Unlocking it with the spare key Killian had given her, Emma lifted the lid. Its hinges creaked in protest. Feeling a little like an intruder, she examined Killian's belongings with curiosity. A cloak lay on top, woven out of coarse brown wool. Emma had never seen him wear it, but it was little wonder. Prior to their engagement, her exposure to Killian had been limited to meetings and formal events at the palace, where he wore his naval uniform. And since their marriage, the only cloak she had seen him wear was the one her parents had gifted him-a deep, cobalt blue with silver piping. Where had this simple cloak come from, she wondered, and how long had he owned it?
She lifted it out of the trunk and blinked, surprised at its weight. Unfolding it in her lap, she stared for several moments at the coil of rope and compass nestled inside of it. Bemused that he had packed such things for their honeymoon trip, Emma was strongly reminded of her mother. Still, she supposed Killian's over-preparedness could be attributed to years of sailing; her mother, on the other hand...
Wrapping the objects back in the cloak, Emma laid it aside, turning her attention to three small stacks of books lined up next to each other in a corner of the trunk. Picking one up at random, she leafed through it. Maps and diagrams interspersed the text. Most of them made little sense to her, but she did recognize a few basic constellations that Belle had taught her when she discovered that Emma enjoyed stargazing; she had encouraged her pupil to pursue the interest further, recommending all manner of texts, but...
Emma glanced down at her growing belly. Neal had managed to cull her enthusiasm for the hobby in more ways than one.
She closed the book with an abrupt snap, and focused her mind on the other books in the trunk. Philosophy, history, poetry, cartography, drama...even a couple of murder mysteries lurked in the eclectic mix of books.
Killian Jones was certainly a man of varied interests, she decided. It was too bad she hadn't realized it, back when she had been in love with him. She might have had something more substantial to talk about, during the few opportunities they'd ever had to speak alone.
Emma set the last book aside, and eyed the wooden crate that had been hidden beneath them. What in the world could Killian have packed for their honeymoon in that? It was far too large to have stored the pearl earrings he had given to her as a wedding gift. Prying the lid loose, she peered inside at the velvet-wrapped bundles inside. Selecting the largest, she unwrapped it.
Inhaling sharply, she nearly dropped the exquisite teapot. Carefully resting the delicate treasure in her lap, Emma gently traced the twining ebony branches of the cherry tree emblazoned on the porcelain. Had Killian purchased it at the tea shop they'd visited at the beginning of their honeymoon? He must have, unless he was even more overzealous in packing than her mother. And yet, he hadn't mentioned it to her.
She focused her gaze on the small, feathery strokes of red that comprised the cherry blossoms.
...Or had he?
Killian had mentioned purchasing the Westensees a gift, and given that he knew them quite a bit better than she, Emma had left it entirely up to his discretion. She bit her lip, unable to imagine that Eric would appreciate it to the same degree as Ariel, but the prince did have an appreciation for art, from what she'd gathered during idle supper conversations. And the teapot was certainly a work of artistry, with its fine, hand-painted details.
Taking note of the artist's signature, Emma wrapped the teapot back up with a final, wistful gaze. It was a lovely gift, and one she certainly couldn't begrudge the Westensees for all their kindnesses and understanding, when she and Killian went home to the Enchanted Forest in a few days. And yet, perhaps-
The doorknob rattled, startling her. Emma quickly tucked the teapot back in the crate, replacing the lid as a soft knock sounded on the door. "Emma?" Killian's voice called as she stacked the books back on top of the crate, "Should I come back in a few minutes?"
She closed the trunk and slipped the key into her pocket. Crossing the room in three quick strides, her movements unhampered by skirts, she unlocked the door. "No need," she said breathlessly, yanking the door open. "I just finished dressing." Several minutes ago, she amended to herself with a twinge of guilt.
Killian studied her for several moments, and she writhed inwardly under his penetrating gaze. "You look flushed, love," he said softly. "Are you feeling ill again?"
"What?" Emma blinked at him. "Oh-no, I'm fine. I've just, um, I was in the kitchens and it was rather warm. Hence the change of clothes."
"I see." He considered her for another moment. "Well, it certainly won't be overly warm where we're going. Let me get our cloaks." He brushed past her and disappeared into the room behind her, appearing a few minutes later with their cloaks draped over one arm. "Shall we?" he inquired, draping the fabric of her cloak over her shoulders, and then securing his own.
She took his arm, a gesture that had become unconscious habit. "We'd better," she answered in such a serious tone that Killian laughed softly. "The kitchen packed quite a basket, and I'm starving." They set off toward the kitchens, all thoughts of the beautiful teapot driven from her mind in favor of the promise of a pleasant afternoon with Killian, getting to know each other better, as Ariel had suggested.
As it turned out, she was neither wholly right nor wholly wrong about her expectations.