Warnings: None

Notes: Thanks so much for your favorites, follows, and reviews! I appreciate every one. Chapter eleven will be up on Wednesday.

Chapter Ten

On solid ground, the rain didn't seem quite so punishing. It was light, and it felt like winter but smelled like spring. It would have been pleasant – changing weather, a new city, new people – in different circumstances.

As it was, Emma leaned far over the hull of the ship, grieving the damage, her fingers digging into the rail. There was a steady, frozen breeze, and the rigging clanked softly overhead. The sails fluttered, a mournful sound that curled around the tears in the heavy fabric. There upon the gravel beach, the ship groaned under the strain of the unnatural angle. Emma sighed, and pushed strands of wet hair out of her face, her hand lingering over her eyes.

"He is not lost," Killian said. He leaned beside her, looking down the gunwale at the shallow water washing over the gravel. Great splinters of wood undulated with the gentle turn of the tide. It was as beautiful as it was pitiful.

"We should go," Emma said, quietly. "Some of Mordred's soldiers might have survived."

Oh, I doubt that, dearie. I think you made sure of it.

She did not reply, silently choosing a small map of the north from the chest upon the deck – their destination marked with an angry splotch of red ink – before unfurling a ladder tied to the starboard side. It was made of wood and rope, twisted up and tucked beneath the lip of the rail, just long enough to get them from the deck to the ground.

Though she would prefer the play at normalcy, Emma supposed they could just jump. After all, they were immortal.

The Dark One is immortal, Swan, not you.

Killian's voice in her mind – a brief touch of his against hers before he retreated – was a stray comfort. He swung easily down the hull, hardly halfway down the ladder before he leapt to the ground, gravel crunching loudly beneath his boots, coat swinging dramatically at his thighs. Emma felt it would be the opportune moment to tease him. He looked up at her, eyes twinkling, as though he expected it. But still she remained silent, and followed him down.

Once on the ground, she surveyed the water. The tide crawled sluggishly up the beach before rolling back toward the open sea. It was a quiet place, the hush of winter still clinging to the island. She supposed, if she spent an eternity looking at the sea, she wouldn't have to look at Jack, or what remained of him. Killian, just ahead of her, looked the ship over. His expression gave nothing away, and so she turned around.

"Shit," she said.

"Aye," he agreed. "Though, nothing that a good shipyard can't fix."

Emma knew that, logically. She looked at Jack from bow to stern. His belly was deep and tapered, long, arced boards and beams stretching from side to side. It had been some time since she had seen below the waterline. She was always careful to remove the ballast, to scrub the hull or otherwise command that it be scrubbed. After such a journey, creatures still clung to the bottom, barnacles and seaweeds and other things that would be dead or dying given enough time.

Just like the ship, she thought.

Killian was right, he was not lost, he could be fixed, but he made a sorry sight there upon the beach, leaning hard to the south. Gaping wounds, sharp and uneven, dotted the side, most towards the stern. Much of the glass in the captain's quarters was shattered. Subtler wounds dragged from front to back where they had passed through the rocks, cracks and punctures that wove unevenly along the hull. That alone would have been enough to sink them, had they remained on the water. Emma sighed, and allowed herself to imagine a future where Jack would be repaired and returned to Misthaven.

Nothing is a guarantee, the darkness whispered.

"Did it feel like this?" she said.

Killian came to stand beside her, then stepped closer to the ship. He reached out, his hand splayed across the wood. He looked at her over his shoulder. His hair was wet, darker than usual, wild and curling every which way. The kohl had washed away from his eyes. Water flowed slowly down his face, coalescing on his chin before dripping to the ground. She wondered that, with fresh eyes and sodden clothes, he did not look younger. It was in his expression, she thought, an ancient sorrow.

"Worse," he answered.

Emma nodded. She hesitated by the water. Jack had been a momentary comfort. He carried many happy memories. When she listened, she could hear them, could feel them in the knots in the wood, chips in the deck, and one uneven spoke at the helm. Could smell them in the swollen floorboards and green-stained ropes.

But Emma knew that, given enough time, the darkness would twist them all to ruin.

"Goodbye," she said, softly, and turned towards the city.

Killian opened his mouth when she passed, as if to speak, but either he could think of nothing to say, or decided against it. Emma trudged along, and he walked at her side, up and over crooked jetties, exposed by the tide. The darkness fed on her misery, and on her apprehension. They shuffled back and forth in her mind, showing her visions of everything that could go wrong.

And oh, how many things there are, one said.

You should have turned back when you had the chance.

Although it's not too late to leave your companion.

It's not too late for him to leave you, either.

Emma sighed. She was too tired to shut them out. They pounded away at her bones, louder as the city before them grew brighter, looming large overhead.

"What did you say this was called, again?" she said.

"Arendelle," Killian repeated. "A small kingdom of the north. Had you not heard of it in your travels?"

Emma had sailed to the north once before, only not quite so far. She was not partial to the cold, and when autumn came, she would often sail south to warmer climes.

My duckling, her father would say, fondly. Overwintering.

"A few times, I think," she said. "I've never been here before, though. It's a little out of the way."

"Of what?"

"Everything."

He smiled, faintly, and stepped closer until his hook knocked against her thigh. When the land sloped sharply up or down, she would take a hold of it, pulling him along behind. He was content to follow her. The darkness seemed energized by the cold, and for most of the journey towards the city, she and Killian were silent, each wrestling with the demons in their own way. Killian moved stiffly over the rocks and through shallow pools of water. And she, exasperated, sullenly ignored the frightful things the darkness said. It was maddening.

But, Emma figured, they underestimated her single-mindedness. She sneered, and walked on, counting her steps as she went.

The shift from wilderness to civilization was gradual. The cobble beneath their feet grew larger, like the rubble of an earlier time. Pieces of carved stone, nearly washed over by years of the encroaching water, jutted from the beaches. Towards the northern edge of the city, straight-backed cliffs rose from flat, artificial gorges, like great amphitheaters. Tall, alpine trees crept as close as they dared towards the shore, sentries at the harbor's edge. The shoreline, gentle near the lip of the cove, grew more severe in its innards, and they were forced to walk through the forest.

"How is it," Killian said, pushing through the underbrush, "that you manage to find the only patch of trees on these islands?"

"Uh, I seem to remember that it was your idea to come here."

He grumbled, and drew a cutlass he'd borrowed from her hold. The blade rasped loudly against its sheath, a dried crust on the dull edge.

"Bloody salt," he said, hacking through a stubborn whorl of juniper.

"The ocean is funny that way."

Killian rolled his eyes, but got on with it. The forest thinned out upon a knoll of rock, an uneven surface that led down to a fork in a dirt road. It sloped up towards the wilderness in the west, and down to the city in the east.

"I'd say there's no need to venture into the city," he began.

"But we need transportation..." Emma tugged the map out of her pocket. Sure enough, Arendelle was marked with a small A upon the cove. She tilted her head, and considered the journey ahead. "We can't just walk where we're going, clearly. It will take a hundred years."

He tapped at his lips thoughtfully. "Steal a horse or two?"

"That would be great if we knew anything about Arendelle. This map is rudimentary, at best. Who's to say there isn't a wall somewhere to the west? We should have some kind of…I don't know, documents."

He frowned. "Documents?"

"Well, we can't just poof where we want."

Killian nodded, reluctantly. He shook his hand, and shuffled on his feet, looking down the road, out where it twirled up and into the mountains.

"I do know something of this part of the island," he said, quietly. "But not well enough." He sighed, and straightened his coat. He sheathed his sword, and leapt from the knoll to the road.

"Think of it as an adventure, Swan." He waited for her to follow, until she walked a half-stride ahead. "You're partial to those."

"I'm never going on another adventure again."

He smiled, and his fingers – as wet and frozen as hers – wrapped briefly around her own. "Are you quite certain?"

She watched him from the corner of her eye. The land at her feet, tamped down by horse and carriage, began to meet sparkling, ordered stone. A wide bridge, arching over a dip in the water, led to the edge of the city. Curiously, blue light shone in the lampposts, the metal coils of a make she'd never seen. A familiar rumble began to sound from the city center as they approached. The murmur of a place that only slept in stages.

"You're in a good mood," she observed, blandly.

His expression twisted, just for a moment, darkness flashing before it gave over to light. He looked down at her with meaning, cool breath tickling her nose. She made a face, and again, he smiled.

"It's not me," he said, quietly. "It's you."

I doubt that, she thought.

"You doubt me," he said. She would have suspected him of peeking into her mind, were he not so hidden in his own. "You're a hopeful creature, Emma. Here in the darkness, it's hard not to be enchanted by you, by your light."

When light meets dark, what's been broken will be remade.

Emma's halfhearted smile slipped off her face, and she looked down at her feet. The thought – in a mockery of the seer's mournful voice – came unbidden. She hadn't cared much for her cryptic prophecies. Find the heir, destroy the darkness, prevent a war. These, she could hold onto, follow across the realm with little time to spare. Light and dark, whatever it meant, these could come after.

How very utilitarian, dearie.

"Hush," she said, aloud.

"Pardon?"

Emma spared him a glance, though she said nothing. She watched the cobble beneath her feet swell to brighter, glittering stone blocks. The docks stretched towards the southeast, and a dizzying array of staircases, abutted by carvings in high relief, led to a fountain square. The fountains themselves were quiet, as the square itself, nothing but ice coating the basins and the spouts. Only a few others besides she and Killian passed through, cloaks pulled low over their faces. The lateness of the hour, and what seemed to Emma like an unseasonable chill, had surely kept many people indoors.

"Emma," Killian said, quietly, stopping several paces behind her.

She turned to look at him. He cut a long, imposing shadow, a streak of darkness against the statue behind him. It was a man on a horse, weathered over with time. A king, perhaps, or a general, an unfamiliar uniform decorated with juts of stone in the shape of medals. The statue, and the buildings behind Killian – severely steepled, rain-slick stone and heavy shingles – dwarfed him. The shadows shrunk, and he tilted his head. His lashes fluttered, the darkness receded, and she wondered if that was what it looked like – light meeting dark.

"What are you thinking about?" he said.

"The seer," she blurted. Dammit.

He quirked a brow. "Oh?"

"It's just…she said some odd stuff."

He stepped closer, into the light cast by a bright blue flame. The lantern in which it burned rattled in the wind, swinging back and forth. The light angled high, then low, playing with the shadows on his face.

"Odd?" he said.

Emma folded her arms over her chest. "Well you were there."

He hummed, and leaned down, catching her eye.

"About the light and the dark," he guessed. "Is that what you're thinking about?"

She hesitated, and then nodded.

"How did you know?" she said.

He shrugged. "I've had the same thought myself, the moment I touched your light magic in Weir."

"Why didn't you say anything before now?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "I suppose this is where I caution you not to play with stones in glass houses."

Emma rolled her eyes. She paused when another person, wrapped in a fur cloak, wandered along the edge of the square, beneath the meager awnings of the narrow buildings rising above.

"I didn't even really think about what it could mean," she said, when they had disappeared into an alleyway. "What was the point? I couldn't do anything about some purposefully vague sentence about darkness and light. But, well…do you think it does mean anything?"

Killian hummed. A particularly harsh gust of wind sent the lantern in a wild spin, his hair turning over the top of his head, a wild curl that took years off his face.

"There's no telling," he said. "Bloody seers."

"Bloody seers," she echoed, and he smiled. "I don't know what made me think about it. The darkness…it's strange, it's like it's louder here? When they talk, I feel like I ought to look over my shoulder to see if they're standing behind me."

"I told you, darling, there are many practitioners in the north. Magic is concentrated here. After centuries in the deep, ancient pockets of water rise just off the coast before trailing south."

He looked at her like that meant something.

"Uh, so?" she said.

"All life is born of water, all magic is born of life. You see the connection?" He seemed pleased when she nodded. "Water from the deep seeps up through the ground here in the north, and populates the islands over with all sorts of magical lineages." He waved his hook dismissively. "That's my theory, anyway."

"You have a theory?"

He reached up and dug behind his ear. "Aye, well, I feel I ought to remind you that I've lived for quite some time, now. There's not much left to do but think, after so long. And whether or not my theory is correct, the darkness is more powerful here, Emma. Only by a margin, enough to irritate."

She frowned. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"It wasn't relevant before. It's hardly relevant now. We'll get the darkness out of you, Swan, and then it won't matter."

Emma wanted to snap at him, wanted to tear her hair out. Seers and prophecies and grandiose magical theories. Her ship bleeding to death on a foreign shore. Visions of Misthaven brought to ruin by whatever terrible darkness Mordred commanded with his two charms. Killian Jones, a one man revolutionary, hiding in the dark. Immortal curses, and growing affection, all the things in the stories her father had read to her when she was a child. She wondered if, perhaps one day, the haze of memory would cast it all in a favorable light.

Can't remember things if you're dead, a voice reminded her.

She sighed. Thanks for that.

"Listen," she said, "let's just head towards the castle, alright? I want dry clothes, I want a horse, I want a fucking…" She waved her hands, searching. "…cake, or something, you know, something that I don't need."

Killian was clearly amused. "Cake first, then darkness."

"In that exact order."

He gestured for her to lead. She was unfamiliar with the city, of course, but the castle loomed beneath the mountains, tall spires that were visible from every street. Emma wound around the dizzying alleyways, and the castle grew closer. Small courtyards opened at the convolution of several paths, like wheels and spokes. She was certain it was terribly out of the way, but Killian followed her quietly, occasionally remarking on the curious architecture, the bright blue light, the unfamiliar lettering on wooden signs that hung above a few of the doors.

"I had no idea where I was going," she said, when the paths at last led to a wide, stone street, and a bridge just beyond. Great, stone structures that jutted from the fjord below appeared to hold it aloft. Guards stood at attention at the other end, a crest painted in blue upon their armor, slick with rainwater, and gleaming in the light.

"That much is apparent," Killian said. He seemed resigned when he saw the guards, sighing down towards his feet. "I would suggest that we be discrete – "

"Hello!" Emma shouted. The rain had become little more than a mist. The cold light, the smooth stone, it caught her voice, and threw it back at her, the fjord below like a great chamber.

" – but of course, that is not your way."

"I told you," she said. "I'm a Princess, I can throw my diplomatic weight around if I want."

"And if there are spies among us?"

She rolled her eyes. "You mean, just in case we shipwrecked in the northern isles by this city hidden in the mountains?"

He grumbled. "Just being cautious, darling."

Emma ignored him, and walked across the bridge with as much of an air of grace as she could manage. Killian fell into place behind her as one of the guards approached, a reproachful expression on his face, peeking out from beneath the lip of his helmet.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he said. "There's no passage to civilians at the moment."

"I am Princess Emma of Misthaven," she said, imperiously. Behind her, Killian coughed, the sound tinged with laughter. "I seek counsel with your…"

Shit, she thought. King? Queen? Both?

"…court," she finished, lamely.

The guard hesitated.

It would be easy to get him out of your way, a voice suggested.

Emma could feel Killian shuffle behind her, the hem of his jacket against her thigh. She imagined the darkness spoke to him, too.

You don't need magic, they said. You've physical power as well, you know.

Emma dug her nails into her thigh.

"Please," she said. "We need your help."

The man's eyes leapt from her to Killian, and back again. At length, he nodded, a reserved, though pleasant, sort of look about him.

"Wait here," he said.

Two more guards materialized out of the shadows, and they waited while the man walked noisily along the winding path to the castle. He was swallowed up by a great, stone wall, and the arched doors set within, braced with artfully patterned iron. Killian inclined his head, a dark and intimidating bent to the expression on his face. He leaned forward, until, when he spoke, his breath tickled her ear.

"Let's hope your luck doesn't run out, Swan."

"Hope your luck doesn't run out," she mocked, hardly an hour later.

Killian gave her a look, not altogether unkind, a smile teasing at the corners of his eyes. They had been brought to the castle, through a winding array of hallways, and left to wait in an antechamber. There were sure to be guards at either door, should they try to leave, but the room itself was empty. Even the furnishings were sparse. Emma wondered what it had been for. A reception area, or a dining room, something like that. The floors were rough stone, which leant the room the air of a ruin, perfectly intact though it was. There was a fireplace, at least, crackling away in one corner. Instead of the harsh blue light that shone in the city, the castle – or that room, at least – was bathed in a warm, orange glow.

"What do you think these are?" Emma said, turning slowly about the room as she looked at the ceiling. Like every other building in the city, its roof was steepled, the angle gentle enough to allow for paintings to fill the empty space. They were colorful, if not indecipherable, streaks of color that appeared to depict nothing in particular.

Killian followed her line of sight.

"The last things we see before we die," he said.

Emma rolled her eyes as she wandered back and forth. "You're ridiculous."

He caught her arm when next she passed. Emboldened by her expression, perhaps, his hand slid up her arm, and to her shoulder. He pulled her closer, until, when he breathed, the lapels of his coat nudged against her chest.

"Are you sure about this?" he said.

Emma nodded, slowly, her eyes flickering over his face. "Yeah."

"Why?"

She tilted her head, and he mirrored. From so close a vantage, she could watch the minute twitches of his lips, the way his eyes narrowed, then relaxed, then narrowed again. The way his nostrils flared, and how his hair, drying in the open air, curled, and caught at his lashes.

"It's rude to sneak through someone's kingdom without asking," she said.

Killian snorted in her face. He looked like he might apologize, so she reached up to tug at his hair, her palm drawing over his jaw before resting on his chest. Wry hair tickled at the very tips of her fingers. She pressed down upon his heart, and he made a noise. It rumbled in his belly, and she leaned forward until she could feel it against her own.

"Allies," she said, more sensibly. "Asking for help, giving when asked, just tricks of the ambassador trade. And the trick of them is, they're not tricks."

He smiled, and she felt him lay his hand upon her hip.

"You're much wiser than I could ever hope to be," he said, softly.

"I doubt you mean that."

"Oh," he said, and his eyes did not lie, "but I do."

Emma opened her mouth to reply. In the quiet, in the moments that lived between the fighting and the running and the searching, it was easy to drift to him. She had wondered, at first, if it wasn't a compulsion born of necessity. Sorrow and dire circumstances, a foreign presence living in her mind, like a parasite, making her long for a companion, any companion. But the longer she was with him, she began to realize that, she did not lean on him simply because he was there. She leaned on him because he felt like home.

"The Queen will see you now."

A voice, young and sharp, drifted through an open door. Emma was slow to disentangle. And though, for the sake of formality, perhaps, she should have presented herself with some measure of decorum, the cold resignation of a diplomat at work, she could not bear to be parted with Killian in full. So, she held onto his hook.

He didn't seem to mind.

"Princess," the Queen greeted, when they were brought into another chamber, this one larger than the last, and much livelier. The fireplace was set in the very center of the outer wall, roaring bright and warm by two, stained-glass windows. They tinkled pleasantly with the sound of the rain. There were several chairs set near the open flames. But the Queen stood, a curious expression on her face. She wore rich, blue fabrics, the same color as the crest on the guard's armor.

"Queen…" Emma hesitated.

"Elsa," the woman supplied, not unkindly. "And you are Emma."

Emma nodded, a bit chagrined that the Queen knew of her, but that she did not know of the Queen. "Not to dispense with the formalities too quickly, but my, uh, friend and I, we need your help."

Elsa did not respond, not at first. She looked at Emma, and then to Killian, lingering there before looking back.

"You are of Misthaven," she said, slowly.

Emma resisted the urge to snap at the woman.

We don't have time for this, she thought.

Wouldn't be lingering if you had only killed the guards, a voice hissed. And now your fate rests in the hand of this woman, by your own folly.

"Yes, of Misthaven," Emma said, through her teeth.

Elsa's face fell. "I've heard rumors from my correspondence to the south. They say that Camelot means to declare war on Misthaven. If you're here for aid, I'm afraid we're not much of a military power. If you're here for shelter, or supplies, then it's freely given."

Emma smiled, ruefully.

See, she's nice, she argued. The darkness did not respond.

"That's kind of you," Emma said. "But it's just the two of us. We mean to travel to the west, to find a wizard. All we ask is your permission, a horse or two, and maybe a change of clothing?"

Elsa nodded at their request, and gestured at one of her guards. The woman bowed, and moved quickly from the room.

"Of course," Elsa said. "But I have to ask, why do you seek the wizard?"

"It was something…"

…a seer told us. Oh, and also some blood magic, lost heirs, decades long spells of concealment, the word of prophets and magicians.

"…it will help us avoid war," Emma finished. Then, quietly, a break in her voice, "I can't let my people fall into battle, not again."

Elsa inclined her head, a solemn expression and a regal air. Emma felt that the woman understood her. She could feel the lonely magic that clung to Elsa's skin. It breathed heavily in the room around them, cold and unyielding. Not unlike the darkness, demanding to be known.

"There are several wizards here in the north," Elsa said. "The cold appears to breed magic." Killian nudged Emma's side, as if to say I told you so. "But there is only one in the west." Elsa hesitated. "There are…legends."

Emma leaned forward. "Legends?"

"Yes. Some say he is kind. Others say differently. Quite differently. Take caution, Princess. There are no honorable men who would garner such rumors. Do not trust him."

Emma wasn't sure how to respond. We have no choice.

"Okay…" she said, instead.

"I must confess, he once left my sister unharmed, sent her home to me with…" Elsa hesitated, and twirled the gossamer fabric of her dress in her hands, as though she were trying to conceal them. "…she came home safe. Desperate people seek him out, and they are never quite the same. That is all I know for certain."

Emma was surprised, and judging by the hard press of Killian's hook into her back, his shallow breath down the back of her neck, so was he.

Well, we are pretty desperate, she thought.

Perhaps you ought to turn back, a voice cautioned.

Before you'll never quite be the same as well, said another.

She frowned. I'll already never be the same.

"It's too late to turn back now," she said, simply. She wanted to be on the road. The more they lingered, the greater the chance that more of Mordred's soldiers would appear, searching the island high and low. "I know this is pretty much the height of rudeness, but…well, we really ought to go as soon as we can. We're running on a clock."

Elsa nodded. "Yes, of course, I understand. The guard will bring your clothing to this very room, and leave you be. If you want for anything else, don't hesitate to ask."

"There is one other thing," Killian said, gruffly. "Our…that is, the Princess's ship, he's in something of a state on your shore."

Emma had not planned to ask for any aid for her ship. She didn't think it was important enough, but Killian was clearly determined.

"A state?" Elsa said.

"Uh, yeah." Emma glanced down at her feet, color rising in her cheeks. "We sort of…missed the docks. A little bit."

"Make sure no more harm comes to him?" Killian said, as close to a polite request as Emma imagined he ever would get.

Elsa tilted her head. "Him?"

"Jack," he answered, as though he himself hadn't found it absurd only days ago. "The ship."

Elsa was very obviously amused, but agreed. She seemed to require nothing else, and bid them a quiet goodnight, her intricate braid swinging over her shoulder when she turned towards the door.

"Wait," Emma said, quietly. She stepped forward, and reached out, a half-aborted gesture that appeared to startle the Queen. Emma let her hands fall back to her sides. Though the darkness struggled within, whispering all sorts of terrible things in her ears, she allowed herself to shine through. The hurt, the ache of missing home, an uncertain future, all of it stinging in her eyes, and twisting her face.

"Why are you helping us?" Emma said.

Elsa mirrored, a brief, and vulnerable expression, before she stood tall, the straight-backed posture of a Queen.

"Misthaven is a beacon of hope," Elsa said. "Not much news of the south reaches Arendelle, but I have heard tell of the wars it has suffered, of the King and Queen who prevailed. I know what it is to have your sovereignty challenged. It has been…a process of learning, but I like to think I recognize thieves and liars when they appear before me. You are neither of those."

I suppose she doesn't recognize murderers. Pity for her.

Emma's jaw cracked beneath the pressure of her teeth, but she smiled all the same.

"Thank you," she said.

Elsa smiled in answer, softly, before she turned towards the doors, and wandered back into the depths of her great castle. Emma blew out a long, cool breath.

"I hate talking to royalty," she said. She looked up at Killian, who seemed both troubled and fondly exasperated.

"Two things about that," he said. "You are royalty, first, and second, you're a bloody ambassador. Is talking to royalty not your occupation?"

She shrugged. "It's mostly sea travel, wandering around in new cities, that sort of thing."

He laughed, a quiet husky sound, one that continued to echo when a guard appeared, and laid their clothes out upon the table. He nodded, kindly.

"The Queen has ordered two horses for the lower bridge," he said. "They will be waiting when you are ready."

"Thank you," Emma said. She nearly laughed when he blushed, and stammered out of the room, along with two others.

"Your wiles strike again, Swan," Killian said. He began to tear at his clothes, unabashed. His coat, he draped carefully over a chair near the fire. His shirt and vest, however, found themselves in a pile upon the table. Emma tugged half-heartedly at her own clothing while she watched him pluck at the convolution of straps that held his brace fast to his wrist. It was a complicated affair, one that he clearly did not undo often. At last, that too joined his jacket over a chair, and she watched the light of the fire flicker over his back, drawn over with scar tissue, hardly a swath of skin left untouched. He paused, and looked over his shoulder.

"Now you know why," he said, quietly, before he turned back to the clothing the guard had left.

A few steps brought Emma within arm's reach of him. "Why what?"

"Why I didn't want you to see."

She snorted, undignified, and he looked back at her, a quirk in his brow.

"You think scars put me off? My entire childhood was one battle after another. There's nothing you could show me that would stop me."

Killian turned, stepped closer, leaning over her. "Stop you from what?"

Oops, she thought.

"From…"

From touching you, knowing you...more, perhaps.

She said none of this aloud, but he did not press her, simply tilted his head and glanced down at her lips. He lifted his left arm, where solid flesh ended abruptly in a knot of tissue.

He gestured at it. "Even this?"

Emma said nothing, and did not look away from his face when she touched the blunted wrist, fingers drawing up his arm and over his shoulder, until they reached the fine, swooping hairs at the back of his neck. He breathed out against her temple, breath washing down over her face. She tugged at a loop in his belt, until he leaned against her, his prickly jaw scratching her cheek. She peered at the fresh clothes folded neatly on the table. He seemed to know what she was thinking before she said it aloud.

"I don't need your help," he said, a faint air of petulance. Emma pulled away, just far enough to look into his eyes.

Care for me? they said.

"Okay," she said. "Do you want it anyway?"

"Yes," he answered, simply.

Reluctant to draw away from him, she reached around and grabbed his brace.

"Why did you take this off?" she said.

"Salt," he said.

"Oh." Emma shook her head. Of course. She carefully brushed away the crust from the leather, and then from his skin, before tugging the straps into place, and then again when she inevitably tangled them in knots. His shirt and vest came next, the former a rich cream, the latter a deep blue, the color of the sky on a clear, dry day. The buttons on the shirt were heavy, and sparse, but still she lazily pulled it over his head, his hair coming wild out the other end. He smiled, soft and crinkly, and the darkness was noticeably quiet. Emma tried twice to button up the vest, too stiff to tug over his head. Both times, the buttons were mismatched, and she tugged them back open.

"Do you regret letting me do this?" she said.

"A little," he lied.

Emma didn't so much give up, as she was distracted by the expression on his face, fondness and darkness and light and contentment, all coiled around him. Like the maze he'd built within, only out where she could see. She touched the wrinkled skin by his eyes, and the dimples in his cheek, the whorls of his ear, and the curl of his hair beneath.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

He nodded. "Aye, love, me too."

"Do you really think…" She trailed off, but Killian clearly knew what she meant.

"You can do anything," he answered her half-spoken question with conviction. She could almost feel the darkness claw away at his bones, but he did not falter. He looked like he wanted to kiss her, licking his lips, eyes roaming over her face. When he spoke again, she could almost feel it against her mouth. "Can you promise me something, Swan?"

She hesitated. "I can try."

"When you know me, when everything I am or was is before you…can you promise to remember how you thought of me now, in this moment?"

Emma wrinkled her nose, confused. "What the hell does that mean?"

He shook his head. "Can you promise me?"

Whenever will his secrets stop spilling over? the darkness wondered, mocking.

One day, dearie, you will see him as we see him. A coward.

Perhaps making a promise out of spite wasn't the best idea. She wasn't sure what he meant, but she answered him, softly –

"Okay."

Killian kissed her, then, and it felt a little desperate at first, just a hard press of his lips against hers. She scratched lightly at his neck, and he sighed into her mouth, opening to her. She pushed at his chest until he leaned back on the table behind him, the bend in his knees enough that she didn't have to stand on her toes. He was pliant beneath her touch, passive save for the hand at her back, tugging at her shirt until he could splay his hand over her skin. He made a series of noises in the back of his throat, each of them following the stroke of her tongue. When she pulled away, she did not go far, her lips still brushing against his. His back was rough beneath her hands, his chest soft. He was many things at once, and when she leaned forward, he caught her, his wrist against her thigh. She spoke against his cheek, rising and falling as he breathed.

"I promise."

"I don't think my horse likes me very much," Emma said.

The beast beneath her was tall, taller than any horse she'd ever ridden. Regina never did have much success helping her learn to ride. She preferred the sea, or her own two feet. Arendelle's horses were sturdy, thick legs and heavy flanks that lended them well to the steep, and often unsteady, terrain of the mountains. Like any creature, they were also intelligent, alert. As if sensing her preference for the sea, the animal did exactly as he pleased, and nothing more.

"You're agitated," Killian said. "It's no wonder. Just relax."

She grumbled. Her own horse, at least, seemed attached to Killian's, and so she didn't worry that she would lose the trail. It was he who was familiar with the north, enough to lead them into the west just by the rudimentary map she kept in her pocket.

So, absent any responsibility, she simply watched the swaths of forest, and peaks of rock, go by. It was a beautiful country. Desolate, and quiet, but vivid. On occasion, birds of prey would fly overhead, their cries echoing sharply in the mountain air. The sheer faces of the mountain were still overlain with snow, and when, after hours of travel, the storm abated, and the stars peeked through, they appeared blue in the moonlight, lifeless. The mountains that Emma knew were lush, gradual knots in the land covered in forest and shrub.

"I can see why hardly anyone lives here," Emma said, when they passed a frozen lake. The ice, swelling with the thaw, jutted up in sharp relief from the water. It looked deadly, as though made of broken glass.

"But at the same time," she added, looking to the first light over the peaks, a touch of color, red as fresh blood upon the horizon, "I can see why someone would live here."

Killian looked at her over his shoulder. He smiled, faintly, but he did not reply. He turned back to look at the stars, perhaps drinking them in before they disappeared.

"Three days," he had said, when Emma asked how long the journey would take. Half a day had passed, and he'd hardly said anything else besides. She could guess what troubled him.

When you know me, when everything I am or was is before you…

Secrets, the darkness told her. Like a dragon hoarding his treasure.

He could not give them up, not even for you.

Though they spoke loudly, and she felt anticipation curling in her belly, Emma did her best to ignore them.

The further west they travelled, the thinner the line of the forest became. The clatter of hooves against the rock, the crush of snow underneath, everything echoed harshly in the thin air and against the resplendent mountainsides.

"My brother would love it here," she said, when the sun had risen above the peaks, warm, early spring light that began to melt the snow.

Killian startled at the sound of her voice. His horse shook its head, pausing to shuffle its mighty feet, before continuing down along the lip of a gorge, the sheer drop many fathoms high. Water, quick and crystalline, flowed along a stony bed below, catching the sunlight. When he looked at her, the pupils of his eyes were neat pin pricks, deep blue shining back.

"Would he?" he said, softly.

"Oh, yeah, he loves winter. He used to let the dogs out of their barn whenever it snowed. He'd be soaking wet, half frozen to death, and laughing while my mother carried him in."

Killian laughed, and he turned back to the trail. It appeared as though he would remain quiet, and Emma sighed.

Then, finally, "I was never partial to the cold, myself."

"Me neither."

"Of course – " He flicked his ear, and flexed his hand, neither of them frost bitten or swollen, as they should have been. " – I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

Emma frowned. "It will if you give up the darkness."

A half-smile flashed briefly on his face. "Aye, you're right, I suppose it will."

Troubled, Emma urged her horse to keep stride with Killian's. Miraculously, he obeyed, and she reached out, laying her hand on Killian's thigh.

"Whatever you're not telling me, whatever secrets…" She could hear harsh, unnatural laughter in the back of her mind. He looked up at her, sharply, at the word secrets. "…it doesn't matter anymore. I've told you."

He did not answer her for some time, apparently focused on navigating the narrow ledges, until the gorge emptied into another pond. After just one day, the thin ring of mountains that hid Arendelle from the rest of the island began to slope gently, a sudden change in the landscape, down towards sea level. Trees were sparse, standing lonely in patches of thin soil.

"I know that, Swan," he said, when the land levelled out. "Whatever the darkness may tell you, I don't have secrets. I have…history." He paused, and looked over at her, their horses lumbering slowly along the easy terrain. "One day, Emma, I swear to you, I will tell you my story, every single day of it, if that is your wish."

Emma nodded slowly, and he seemed satisfied.

"Well," she said, "maybe not every day. Skip to the good stuff."

Killian laughed.

The hours passed much more quickly than in the tower keep in Weir, even more so than their time at sea. Though they did not need the rest, their horses did, and from time to time, Killian would insist upon helping her down from hers –

"I can tell you don't like horses, Swan," he would say, when she grumbled indignantly.

"I like them just fine, they just don't like me."

– and they would sit upon the ground. The cold would bleed into their skin, but the sun was warm on their dark clothing. He would ask after her brother, and her parents, listening intently when she told him of life in a castle, so very different than life on the run. In turn, Killian would tell her about his own brother. Often, he would drape himself over her, leaning his head against her back, his hook looped around her arm. When he spoke, she could feel it against her ribs, vibrating down into her belly. He would sigh when they left, reluctantly pulling away to mount his horse, freshly rested, and fed from the stores in their packs.

On the afternoon of the third day, the sea at last came into view, and they could see the coastline, sloping north and then south. The water was the color of stone, a faint blue cast over gray. The trees had disappeared, shrubs and marshland undulating wildly across the landscape, at the base of a lone mountain far in the distance.

"This looks familiar," she said, curious. The darkness chattered loudly, but it was entirely indecipherable. The meager sounds of the relative wasteland grew louder, as the day she had been bound to the blade at her side, ambient noise screeching over everything else. It clawed away at her mind.

"Aye," Killian said, gazing forth and nowhere else.

Emma remembered the ship, the keep in Weir, the Isle, Camelot, the vault –

The vault, she thought. The darkness prodded at her, and an echo of searing pain erupted in her blood, followed by the image of a castle coaxed from a mountain, wasteland all around, a vision wrought as the liquid darkness had poured into her blood. Stunned, she followed where Killian led, until the very same mountain from that vision came into view. Around the southeastern edge, a great stone structure appeared. A door, a voice, a figure in black.

"What is this place?" she said, when Killian took her hand, and led her down from her horse. He gestured for her to lead.

"The wizard's castle," he answered.

"I know, but…I've seen it before, when I was turned into the Dark One."

When they reached the doors, he took the handle and tugged. They protested, groaning from age and sheer weight.

"I imagine so," Killian said. He waited for her to enter, but Emma hesitated. She held her breath, and recalled the vision so vividly, a moment so much like this that she wondered if time had not coiled up, spinning round and round like a broken pendulum. Fear, sharp and heady, pooled at her spine. Even so, with the sun at her back, the unnaturally elevated sound of the water beating at the shoreline, she stood tall, and walked through the door.