Notes: I somehow managed to update a chapter in a week? Who'd've thought? Ah, I really love this chapter and I hope you love it, too, and a special thanks to Sandy and Steph for helping me get through it. Thank you again for all your kind words about this fic!
The sun is bright in the ever-blue sky, but not enough to burn his face or soak him in his leathers. The birds are whistling in the trees, snippets of songs Killian can only guess at the meaning of. The grass beneath his feet is greener and crisper than any he's ever seen and the world seems to echo with life.
All in all, it's an idyllic day to face off against a wizard.
"I don't see why you decided that I was to be the guinea pig when Henry volunteered."
Killian slowly swivels around to meet Victor's whining form. Bouncing slightly, he grins and says, "It takes three to tackle such a formidable task." He steps over and claps Victor on the back. "Be glad you've been chosen, aye?"
Victor executes a glare that might have made Killian feel badly, might have made him want to do bad like foisting the job of swabbing the deck onto the doctor if the circumstances were different and he didn't have much better uses for him in mind. He's heard Victor's tales of what they do to guinea pigs in his realm and as much as those experiments draw Killian's distaste, it is still an apt descriptor for what he's about to use him, Hawke, and Henry for.
He would've chosen someone else for the third, Ethan maybe, or Ward just to be rid of the man if worst came to - best perhaps not being the term befitting of Killian's more virtuous side. Henry had volunteered, however, and he wouldn't let Killian hear the end of it if they didn't allow him to play the part. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but he can't deny a man his own decisions. Henry may be only fourteen, but living on his own for so long and joining in Killian's crew makes him as much of a man as any of them.
Perhaps a better one than any of them because he does this for the noblest of causes.
"We have to make sure she's okay," Henry had said, and Killian had nodded in agreement, feeling the weight of his omission behind it.
He has to make sure that Emma's okay, for her sake and for his sake. For her sake, he has to know that she's okay. For his sake, he has to see it, has to feel it, cup her cheek with his hand and be sure that she's okay and ask her whether she'd be better, still, if she were by his side.
The way he is better by hers.
"I'm just hoping the choosing doesn't kill me," Victor remarks while surveying their destination.
Trees rise up before them, evergreens and poplars, a confusing mismatch of foliage. Behind the line of trees, barely tall enough to rival their great heights, is a lone wizard's tower. Why most wizards prefer them, Killian doesn't know and hasn't had much of a chance to ask because the only wizard he's had an actual conversation with is a git who lives in a garishly colored palace.
"Stop complaining so much," Hawke says.
He's been surprisingly quiet up until this moment. Surprisingly not cursing out his own complaints this whole time. Henry's quiet is expected, the way he's studying the line of trees, trying to figure out their best way forward, but Hawke's is a bit unsettling. The man hates danger and things that can go horribly wrong, and this is all of that and more.
Still all he does is give Victor the evil eye, face screwed up in menace when Victor opens his mouth to complain again.
"Fine, fine," Victor says, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat.
"Ready then?"
Henry looks to Killian at that. It's nice to be looked to as a Captain, as someone in command. Killian was rather starting to miss it.
"Walsh said that the spells aren't deadly. So, we should be fine," Henry reminds them.
"There are worse things than death," Victor says somberly.
Killian silently agrees.
Trudging forward seems like their best bet, but Killian is a bit too tired of the trudge, more than eager for this lengthy journey to find its end that he races forward, only partially aware of his surroundings - trees, squirrels, moist dirt beneath his boots and more trees. They make it only a short distance in before something in the air shifts and Killian stops mid-step, realizing he's encountered the first spell.
Spell being the wrong term for what waits for them in the smallest of clearings, barely a slice of cleared ground between the trees. Killian curses inwardly - the incompetent wizard, Walsh said it would be a spell not a bloody hippogriff with yellowed eyes locked on them like it has found its first meal after months of starvation.
"Not deadly, right. That is, if we survive it," Killian says.
He goes for his sword, ready to blaze a trail through the beast, but Hawke - bloody hell Hawke? - grabs his wrist and says, "Hold off. That thing will tear you to shreds if it sees your sword."
Frustrated, Killian scoffs, "When did you learn so much about hippogriffs?"
Hawke looks to Henry pointedly. After a beat in which Killian has the chance to groan, "The book, of course," Hawke takes two slow steps forward, to Henry's side.
"You want to take care of this one? The witch doctor and I will handle the other two."
"I think I can handle it, yeah," Henry replies.
Bewildered, Killian keeps his hand on his blade, but doesn't move to unsheathe it. He tenses as Henry steps forward within the hippogriff's line of sight and within easy pickings territory, drawing the beast's attention. He feels his hand grip the handle of his sword too tight, but he has every right to be worried. The beast snorts, blowing smoke through its nose - great it's a fire-breathing hippogriff, in case he wanted his corpse to be deep-fried before digestion by chimera - and starts to pace, back and forth, swinging its head from side to side.
Still, Henry keeps stepping forward, seemingly uncaring of the beast's attempts at intimidation, and Killian catches on. Don't show fear, it's the first thing you learn with creatures of this sort. He's glad Henry's learned that lesson, frowns in acknowledgement of how he learned to face a terror with his chin held high and his mouth pursed tight.
It's the way Henry bows to it that lifts Killian's eyebrows and would have him scratching at his chin in confusion if he wasn't currently rolling his eyes in disbelief at the lad baring his neck to a creature with claws sharp and strong enough to tear through bone.
After a beat, to Killian's amazement (which should have long passed at this point), the beast pauses in its pacing, the thick feathers above its eyes almost rising like eyebrows too. Its eyes narrow and then finally it makes a whistling noise, steam blowing from its beak. Following Henry's example, it dips its head in a slight bow.
"Yes," Henry hisses as he straightens, his fist pumping lightly into the sky.
Without trepidation in his step this time, he moves forward, hand raised and held flat before him. The beast steps towards him as well while keeping its head still dipped. They meet halfway, Henry's hand combing through the thick feathering while it purrs - not a bit of feline in it, and still it purrs as Henry pets it.
"You read this in the book," Killian states.
Henry doesn't draw his eyes away from the chimera, so Hawke is the one to answer, "Of course."
"I need to give it a thorough read, then," Killian says.
"Really? I thought you already had. You've had it just as many times as Henry," Victor exclaims.
Killian looks to him, mouth thinning. He stays quiet at that because he'd rather not admit that all that time he's spent with the book has been running his fingers over the inked lines of Emma's words, memorizing the messy curves of her handwriting, wondering at the emotion behind each word, the moment that she thought worth detailing - that piece of his life, of Victor's, that letter to Henry.
His longing is his own.
Henry keeps his hand on the hippogriff while Victor starts to inch forward. Killian smiles at that, only to call after him, "Are you that eager to face off against this wizard?"
"I'm eager to get away from a hippogriff, yeah. Henry may have found the gentle heart underneath those gigantic wings, but I'm not giving it a chance to find mine beneath my rib cage."
"So you must then be eager to step into the next trap? Truly, you are the bravest of us all, Doctor Frankenstein," Killian comments.
Victor pauses in his step and then shoots accusing eyes at Killian. "I'm pragmatic, not scared."
"You can be both," Killian allows him.
Victor opens his mouth. Closes it. Reopens it and says, "I'm both."
Trap, spell, curse number two of three goes well for five seconds before it all goes to hell and beyond. Even Hades would take no credit for this nonsense.
The hippogriff follows them deeper into the wooded territory. They can't shake it - Victor tries, scoping a path far ahead of the rest of them, but having earned its respect, Henry had apparently earned its undying loyalty as well. Killian, Henry and Hawke end up falling behind, letting it and Victor chart the path before them. It stalks forward with determination, seeming to know exactly where it's going.
To the wizard who uses a hippogriff as a ward.
It's easy to let yourself fall into a state of comfort when you have a fire-breathing hippogriff as your guide. It's easy enough when you're so keen on moving forward that you don't bother to take two steps back and assess.
Easy to fall down into a bloody ravine when it wasn't there before.
They hit bottom with a painful, bone jarring thud. His hands don't so much as break his fall as tremble painfully beneath him, making him bite back a hissed cry as he pushes up and off them. Someone's foot is pressed against him and he turns, looking for Henry, finding the boy rising dazed beside them.
A noise above them draws his gaze and he glares into the saddened eyes of the hippogriff, its plaintive cries doing nothing to cease Hawke's curses - "Fucking hippogriff can fly."
"No warning, eh?" Killian throws the words at the hippogriff.
It cocks its head, whistling smoke through its beak.
"Bloody buggering fuck," Hawke curses.
Killian looks about them, at the smoothed stone walls before them and closes his eyes, breathes deep. Perfects a smile and an easy grin when he says, "This is your chance, Victor. You wanted your name to stand for something, right? Let it stand for the man that got us out of this hole."
Victor huffs. Loudly. Eyes staring accusations and hate into Killian's.
He tips his head in acknowledgement. It was worth a shot.
"It could've been worse," Henry says, patting the softened ground beside them. "The feathers pillowed the fall."
Feathers. Killian didn't notice the giant feathers before. The black and brown kind of all looks the same when your head is swimming from having hit the ground. He doesn't lose his focus this time, looking about them as Victor says, "Yes, we could've cracked all our limbs on the way down and we would've experienced sudden death instead of the slow death of starvation and exposure."
He straightens and scrambles to his feet. "Sudden death is still on the menu. That is a rather large cockerel," Killian says, nodding in the direction of the rooster stepping towards them.
"You're joking right. It's a rooster," Victor says. "Is it going to yodel us to death?"
Killian tries to bite back the smile from his voice, but can't help it. They're stuck in a hole they can't scale, walls so smooth even a hook would not find a grip, a hippogriff pacing above them making frightened and confused noises that leave steam billowing from its beak, and there's a nine foot, certainly at least two hundred pound rooster staring at them in open curiosity as they stand above its shed feathers.
The situation is so ridiculous as to border on distressing, but edging closer to frustrating beyond all measure.
"We could climb the rooster's back," Henry suggests, standing on unsteady feet. "It's big enough that we could just scale it to the top."
Killian nods, agreeing. "Brilliant idea. Victor?"
"I'll go first, right. It's my task."
"That it is," Killian says, nodding in the direction of the bird now pacing towards them.
The crow of a rooster would not seem fatal, normally, but when this one lifts its head to yodel out, Killian wishes he were within reach of Victor to strangle him for pressing the idea.
Then he steps into reach of Victor to draw him back sharply. With a swift motion, he unsheathes his blade. The rooster stills its cry and Killian's ears stop ringing, but now he can hear it as well as see it as the king snake slithers between the rooster's legs.
"Don't look it in the eye," Killian says, clapping his hand over Victor's face.
"Nine foot rooster, twenty foot snake. Makes sense," Killian mutters, his eyes poised on the snake's form, carefully avoiding its gaze.
They say that basilisks are birthed from the egg of a cockerel. Killian wishes he couldn't vouch for their claims.
"Eyes to the left, Victor," Killian says as he draws his hand from Victor's face.
"Henry?" he calls out.
"My back is turned."
"Hawke?"
"Can't bloody shoot it through the eye if I can't look it in the eye!"
"Hawke?"
"I have six bolts and a clear enough shot at its head. The bloody thing is big enough."
It slithers closer and they all draw back. His back meets Henry's and he says, "Keep moving forward, we'll be right behind."
The basilisk doesn't seem to much care for them, instead slipping in and out of the legs of the rooster. At first Killian thinks it's because it doesn't see them, not that he's stupid enough to check, but then he realizes that the rooster keeps making noises, nurturing sounds and he cringes.
He isn't going to wait for its father to basilisk the go ahead to kill them.
"Mind loosing those bolts, Hawke?"
The sound of his voice works to distract the basilisk, draw its attention away from papa dearest and pull it towards him. It slithers slowly. Great, it likes to play with its food. Sudden death is off the menu, then. Killian realizes why the walls are smooth as it draws closer, its body's secretions burning away the walls as it passes.
Venom strong enough to stench the air and scour stone.
Deep-fried doesn't seem the worst way to die, even.
And he's truly questioning Walsh's definition of fatal.
The first of Hawke's bolts ping off the snake's tail as it makes its third turn between its father's legs. The second hits the rooster and it goes down, nearly trapping its child beneath them.
The second hits the rooster and all hell breaks loose as Hawke looses all four bolts at the angrily hissing snake. It doesn't so much as cause a dent in its scales, only making it angry enough to rise above them and spit.
Henry's too far away to be hit, luckily, but Killian pushes Victor to the side as he dives for the other.
There's a clatter of bodies as they roll out of the way of the venom burning a hole into the ground, but there's no chance to let it settle before they're moving off the floor, stepping in the direction Henry walked towards.
"Bloody buggering fuck!" Hawke says with more force behind it than before.
"I've got an idea," Victor shouts.
He's stepping backwards, quick steps that remind Killian that he's supposed to be a lord's son, his feet dancing like he's at a ball rather than stumbling around as the drunk who can't hold his liquor.
"Basilisks can't swim, right?" Victor asks, question bouncing off the ravine's walls.
He's a pirate, not a beast master. Killian has no bloody clue.
"Why do you ask?" he drawls, following in Victor's speedy steps, sword raised although he doubts it'll do much more than Hawke's bolts did.
"Oh fuck off, Captain." He turns his head and shouts, "Henry?"
"Can't swim," Henry confirms.
"Thanks." He turns to Killian. "Keep it coming this way, close to the wall."
"Sure," Killian says in realization of Victor's plan.
He can hear the rush of water somewhere in the distance behind, even over the basilisk's hissing. It lets loose another spit of venom, this time in Hawke's direction, who screams out a curse new to Killian's ears. Killian turns sharply, but Hawke merely shakes his head even as his arm hisses with heat.
"Keep Henry between you and the king snake, right?"
"Sure," Victor replies easily.
It eases Killian somewhat, even as he yells, "Oi!" at the snake to draw its attention away from Hawke, Victor and Henry, and towards the wall he's pressing himself against.
He waits until he sees the head rise, eyes focused on what he supposes would be the neck if it wasn't a snake as it lifts in preparation before he dives out of the way. The snake's ball of spit hits the wall and it slithers faster in response, speeding up Killian's own backwards steps. Luckily, Hawke, Victor and Henry have moved further down the ravine so he has nothing to trip over except his own feet and Killian, well, he's always been a brilliant dancer.
He keeps it up, but as the sound of water comes to a rush, he stands still backing up until he's pressed against the wall he can hear the water behind. This time, the basilisk doesn't bother with the spit, just shifts and rings toward him, its coils burning at the wall.
Venom drips down between its teeth, burning more holes in the ground as it moves to strike.
Killian turns swiftly and the head hits the wall. As the water trickles down, the wall already giving way from the force of the hit, it starts to wash away the venom. The snake pauses for a moment as it gets hit with the first drops that sizzle and spatter. It spits again, hitting the wall, and it burns right through. King Snake it may be, but as with many kings, it's not the brightest, only the biggest. Which comes in handy with keeping Killian alive, so he'll take it, keep watching it spit their way out.
He steps back and prepares himself for a swim.
The wall crumbles only three monstrous spit balls later, the weight of the water bursting it and seeking the empty space of the basilisk's former home. Killian takes a deep breath and goes under, his last thought that he didn't need a hot sun to soak his leathers, just his own incompetence and Victor's flash of brilliance.
He allows himself a moment to worry that the venom might poison the water, allows himself another moment to worry that the snake might actually survive the explosion of it filling the ravine, but his allowances are unnecessary. As he swims, he watches as it sinks to the bottom, venom sizzling harmlessly away in the waves.
Satisfied, he fights his own heavy weight to reach the surface. His first gulp of air clears his head, his next are harsh inhales and exhales. He doesn't see Victor, Hawke, or Henry.
And then he hears them.
"Bloody buggering son of a goddamn fuck fucking hell bullshitty fuck."
Hears Hawke, rather.
So much for what he said about the man being quiet; he's more than making up for it right now.
Killian swims in that direction to find them already rolled to what is now shore, the side of the ravine closest to the wizard's lair. He's calling it that now. With wards such as these, that tower must be one.
He looks out first because he definitely doesn't think they have had the presence of mind to check their surroundings given Hawke's injury and his giving voice to it.
Who knows what curses Hawke's cursing will bring?
Still, all he can see is an archway opening the stone wall surrounding the wizard's tower and beyond that a path leading all the way to the tower's entrance.
"Calm down. You're not going to die, sadly. The water didn't wash away my poison salves or burn creams."
"Thank fucking fuck for that," Hawke hisses ungratefully.
Killian turns towards them again to find Henry leaning up against his hippogriff friend as he watches the two of them with an expression so stony as to make him look petrified.
He snaps his fingers once, just in case, and Henry twists towards him, grin breaking through the stone.
"That was brilliant. Victor is brilliant."
He sounds surprised. Victor huffs at that.
"A bloody marvel, for sure," Killian agrees.
"Bandages are too soaked to do much good, but you should be okay to face our next task."
"Good on me!" Hawke says.
Henry leans back against the hippogriff, combs his fingers through its feathers again.
"Yes, yes. Good on you."
Either way they look at it, this was a bad idea. Marking Walsh's words, best was definitely a relative term because between not trying at all and giving up on Emma altogether, this fell somewhere along the line of actively trying to harm the mission.
Deliberately stepping into the path of a curse falls somewhere along the line of actively trying to harm themselves.
Killian stares up into the sky, seeking support from the sun now blazing down upon them and drying his clothes. Its yellow light seems more menacing now than anything, but it can be no worse than the curse currently afflicting his favorite crew members. Favorite, also being a relative term, because sometimes it feels like he's merely tolerating Victor, and sometimes it feels like he could sit down beside him and share a pint and a story, and perhaps, a normal conversation.
Sometimes, Killian gets tired of living in his own head, and he supposes that's why he tolerates Victor's less than gentle taunts and probing words.
He returns his gaze to the lightly tread ground, to the aftereffects of the curse. There's dust settling in the air, a sparkling white like ice shavings, the kind one might eat covered in nectar from the gods - if one were crazy enough to steal it; he almost feels remiss at not ever having given that true thought. Beneath the dust are feathers settling over fragile bone and claws and webbed feet settling onto damp ground, and all Killian can do is look to Hawke and shrug.
He looks up at the sign above the archway. "Beware all ye who enter here," and has to fight back a smile at that. Somewhere along the line of hippogriffs, basilisks, and "bloody buggering bullshit," this has taken a turn for the over the top insanity.
What a curse to befall them.
It takes them a long way down, in fact. Swans and roosters barely come up to the knee height, especially a swan not fully grown and a rooster too big for his own...
He tries not to think of where their clothes have gone and whether they'll reappear once they're turned back into their human forms again. The thought is as unnatural and disturbingly ridiculous as the transformation.
He groans and starts towards Henry, his coloring still slightly dark enough to prove that he isn't a fully grown swan, which Killian wisely doesn't point out as the hippogriff noses closer to Henry, glaring at Killian's approaching form with, no doubt, thoughts of deep-fried pirate in - what was the bloody point of this disguise again; he's not seeing one. Looking like a mere traveler helped him naught in getting through safely.
"As this is my fault -"
He really doesn't expect a response. Who expects swans to start talking, even if they're lads cursed into one? Still, he gets one, Henry's reply, voice an octave higher, ready to break, his beak wide open, "It is."
"- I vow that I will do everything in my power to get you out of this."
"Well, then, this curse will be everlasting."
(Exaggeration.)
"You couldn't even convince Emma to stay."
(Bitter.)
Henry's tone is all bitter, which twists at Killian's chest, how easily the transformation has twisted at Henry's. Killian can understand, a bit, but he sounds far too much like Killian feels. Killian can't have him fall into the same state as himself; one is enough.
Henry is all hopefulness; Emma would never forgive him if he lost that.
"And I swore that I would find her. Do you doubt me, Mr. Swan?" Killian asks.
He realizes the name is a bit too on the nose at the moment, but Henry merely sighs, a slight quacking following the sound, and says (the dramatics he must have inherited from Emma, too.) "Truthfully? No"
Victor is much less obliging.
Emma had it easy. At least Killian and the crew didn't have the presence of mind to complain when Circe turned them into pigs. She didn't have to hear Victor squawk between every curse. Frankly, Emma's a lucky woman.
"Save the histrionics for another time, Victor. Your life is in no danger," Killian explains to his rooster-cursed doctor.
"My dignity?"
Killian scoffs and picks Victor off the ground as he squawks in anger. "Still in no danger, and if you keep complaining, you'll be making your way through this path on your own flightless wings."
"Roosters can fly...short distances," Victor says.
He hears Henry quack as Hawke lifts him beneath his uninjured arm, to the chagrin of the hippogriff who noses against Hawke disapprovingly.
"This distance seem short to you?"
"Fine. I'll keep my complaints to myself."
Killian throws his head back, muttering, "The gods truly have seen themselves fit to smile down on me."
"I think they're laughing, actually," Victor points out, not incorrectly.
Killian rolls his eyes and keeps walking along the path. With the curse out of the way, all they have now is to convince the wizard to turn Victor and Henry back and help them read this book. It feels the heavy weight on Killian's shoulders until he drops Victor for a second to adjust the strap of his satchel, its waterproofing keeping the book safe within it during their swim. He picks Victor up again and keeps going, wondering at the fact that he and Hawke managed to go unchanged.
The wizard, for all his flaws, cursing people into avian forms, hippogriffs, and basilisk being the main ones, seems to be a gracious host at least. He's waiting within the doorway of his tower, propped up on heeled boots - the older man is short but not in those heels - and he has his arms open in welcome. Or in the makings of a spell.
There's no spark on the air, no hot wave of imminent magic, so Killian supposes he's safe.
There's no hello or greeting, just an excited, "Your friends get caught in my spell and you're here to ask me how to change them back?" from the wizard's mouth.
"Yes and no," Killian replies.
"I don't like mixed responses," the wizard says, narrowing his eyes. He straightens within the doorway, placing his hands on his hips. "Be clear. Do you want them changed back or not?"
Victor squawks underneath his arm and Killian drops him to the ground looking at him. He does make a rather handsome bird, though the green feathers are a bit much. And the eyes are a little too human to not be disconcerting. Finding a new doctor would be a difficult task, too.
Henry, for one, definitely doesn't deserve this cursed fate.
"I do," Killian says because he'd rather Victor's accusing stare on a human than a bird.
"So what's the 'No'?"
"I've another request as well," Killian explains.
"Of course you do. It's not enough that you stepped into my curse - do you know how much preparation I have to put into a spell like that? It's a week's worth of feather collecting."
"Of course it is," Killian replies with a voice so chipper as to betray how very not chipper he is.
"And the swans are not the most obliging of creatures. Don't much like being plucked. The chickens, they always think I'm preparing them to being cooked when I take a few feathers off their backs. I've been a vegetarian for years. You'd think they would know this by now."
Killian frowns, gaping slightly.
"What is the lifespan of a chicken?"
"I've been a vegetarian for six years now." His eyes rove down to Victor. "Sometimes, I do miss it."
"That's probably what they sense," Victor says, pulling back behind Killian's legs like he'll start chomping the moment he gets his hands on him.
"You think?" the wizard asks, sounding surprised at that.
"Look, I really would like him to stop squawking at my ankles. Will you turn them back?"
Killian hopes to gods that it isn't a curse that will take him long to fix.
The gods answer his prayers.
"Why not? What was the other request?"
"It's more like a gift," Killian says with a cheeky grin. "We share a mutual acquaintance. A scoundrel that goes by the name of the Wizard of Oz."
"Oh it's that asshole," the wizard says with a crossing of his arms and an angry pout.
"Yeah, that one. He says he's the reason you have these curses and traps up in the first place."
"Traps?" The wizard looks confused at that, eyes roving to the hippogriff and Killian startles. Did he really consider leaving such a creature at the edges of his home not a trap? Killian cautions himself not to ask, because the answer might just make him want to quit.
(A lie, a stupid, stupid lie.)
The wizard raises his hands and continues with a crackle of magic in the air, "He sent you back to finish raiding my library?"
Calmly, his hand relaxed at his side despite how he wants to move it to his belt, he says, "I sent myself here to give you back the book he stole. I've no interest in mending the broken trust between the two of you, just a vested interest in getting you to translate said book for me."
"That book?"
Killian steps closer, pursing his lips in confusion.
"What interest would you have in that?"
He really doesn't like that tone, but he explains, "We're looking for someone. It's supposed to help us find her."
"That's what he told you?"
That, that, that. The wizard truly sure knows how to clarify a meaning.
The wizard shakes his head and says, "Alright come inside. You've given me good enough reason not to turn you into a bird as well."
"Can you do that?"
"Force fields that turn all who pass it into birds? That takes preparation. One man? That takes nothing more than a flick of my wrist."
"Good to know."
Killian vows to tread carefully, and he does so anyway because as soon as he hits the top stair, he notes the bird droppings littering it. It's bad enough to have feathers sticking to his new cloak. This is disgusting. It's almost as bad as the sirens, but at least the stench is better.
"I clean inside, but with the bars right above the door, there's just no use. Ever-clean spells are hard to come by and I just don't have the energy to waste on cleaning up the pigeon droppings every day, twice a day which is what's necessary."
"Not that I'm not interested in hearing about how much you don't like cleaning bird droppings, but can we take this conversation indoors so you can turn them back?"
"Yes, yes. You're rather pushy for a…" He looks Killian over with curious eyes, his golden ones roving like a hawk's might. "Who did you say you were again?"
"Killian Jones, sailor."
"Pirate."
Killian bows. "Ah, so my reputation precedes me."
"I keep my valuable trades on land, yes."
Killian smirks at that.
"What valuable trades does a bird wizard have?" Killian asks.
"Bird wizard is only my title, not my name. It's Geoffrey, by the way." He throws a grin at Killian as he leads him inside, and up the curving stairs. He goes on to explain, "Certain birds are hard to come by. Quite valuable to those like me."
"Those like you?"
Geoffrey hums like that's as much of an answer as Killian's going to get. He bloody hates wizards.
They reach the top of his stairs and the wizard waves them towards a motley collection of chairs around a table. Killian doesn't sit but he plops Victor down on the floor at his feet.
Victor finally speaks at that, "Change me back. My dignity can't take this."
Killian rolls his eyes to the heavens again.
Still, with a wave of his hand, the wizard turns him and Henry into humans. Thankfully, their clothes come with them.
Hawke curses and says, "You couldn't have done that before we had to carry them up the stairs?"
"Come now, Hawke, a little exercise can do you wonders," Victor says, clapping him on the back.
"You saved my life today, but that doesn't mean I won't kill ya," Hawke says.
"Right," Victor replies.
The wizard looks between the two warily before he says, "It's easier up here where the air is clearer. There's more magic in the skies than there is on land."
"Right," Killian echoes Victor's reply.
"So, mate, the book?" Killian asks.
He's never feared being hopeful before, but given his latest string of bad luck and goose chasing, he's rather scared of what he'll do should this book be another dead end. Pulling it out of his satchel, he approaches Geoffrey, holding it out to him.
The wizard snatches it up, clutching it to his chest lovingly.
"This book -" He looks at Killian curiously. "You know, give me the time and I could teach you to read it yourself. I had a student once who learned the language of birds, many years ago. A brilliant young woman who was hiding out with me until they discovered her. She didn't want to risk my life so she ran."
Killian has never feared being hopeful but - "Who's this 'they' and what was her name?"
"Snow White, of course. Don't you know the story at all?"
Henry pipes in happily. "Actually, that one's not in our book."
Killian grumbles pointedly in Henry's direction, "Yes, I do know the story, but the details of her learning to speak to birds did escape me. Have you had any other students recently?"
"I take in a few upon occasion, some young men, another young lady. Though none have been as adept at it as Snow."
"Did you take in a woman named Emma?"
"No," the man says and Killian settles back down.
Instead of giving in to the disappointment, he latches onto the book still in the man's hands about to ask about its origins, its translation, its - instead of giving into his disappointment, he thinks about Snow White on the run, hiding out with Geoffrey, the bird wizard, and learning to speak bird.
He thinks of Snow White, of Prince Charming, chasing after each other, and it clicks into place. He draws his head sharply, and says, "The Princess."
"Which one?"
"Snow White's daughter," Killian remarks quietly.
"Oh bloody buggering fuck."
"Find a new curse," Victor says to Hawke.
Hawke's hackles raise at that. "We have, already. Her, she's the damn curse."
"Who? The Princess?"
Henry's eyes widen. "Her name is Emma. Cassie. She called her - her cousin 'Em. Em - Emma."
Killian remembers. Prince Frederick's curious eyes. Emma as Emmet's nervous energy, ready to snap at anyone and anything, frown set on her forehead right before they embarked on their operation at Midas' castle. Her knowledge, her manners, her skills; the way she got them out of difficult situations with diplomacy. How she ran from him in the night, the clock striking twelve and reality hitting her like the ringing of a bell.
How she ran.
"Killian?" Henry asks. "Do you really think?"
The book is unnecessary, is what he thinks. Circe was playing them all along, taking them back and forth along the sea only to find what she must've known the moment she first met Emma - and it only makes sense that a princess could convince a Queen to set them all free. Emma, it only makes sense that she's Princess Emma.
It all makes sense and no sense at all.
Because what the hell could a princess want on a pirate ship? What could possibly make her run to him? He remembers her touch on the tattoo between his fingers, her excited gasp of "you're a pirate."
What could she want to run to him for? He could only offer her his world, so far removed from her own.
(He could only offer her…)
"Killian?"
(He can only offer her…)
It makes sense, and it makes no sense at all, but he finds his heart beating a fast rhythm against his rib cage, thumping to a beat he hasn't felt in so long.
"The Queen," Killian says, sharply turning to Geoffrey. "You supply her aviary."
"I do," the wizard says. "Why?"
"I have a different favor to ask of you. Not a translation" - He shakes his head -"That book won't help us."
The wizard nods in agreement. "I didn't think it would. Birds of Misthaven seems a bit of a dull read for a pirate."
Killian could almost hate Circe for this, but he understands her motivations a bit more now. Testing just how willing he was to go to find Emma. If he'd left himself at Yzma's island, allowed himself to be taken under her grasp, she'd have known that he wasn't worthy of finding Emma. If he'd let himself find the seeking too hard and give up, she'd know she wasn't worthy in his eyes.
But this, this was all a test. A final protection.
She must've liked Emma, quite a bit.
Or owed her quite a bit.
"What bird doesn't the Queen have in her aviary?"
The wizard catches on to his meaning quickly, smiling warmly. "Is that all? She actually put in a request from me. Lucky you, you're here to witness its transport."
He looks down to Killian's arm and murmurs. "Lucky you."
Killian knows what the man is gazing at, having rolled up his sleeves in the heat. The phoenix tattoo laid bare for all to see, for him to know.
For Killian to understand as the wizard crosses the room to a curtained off space, pulling it back to reveal a phoenix, its feathers a dull red, its head hanging low, but lifting it slightly to look at the wizard as he says, "It's time."
The phoenix nods. Killian says, "Does it understand our language?"
"Phoenixes are intelligent. They may not speak the language, but they can understand, certainly."
"A message is all I ask of you. I need to send a message."
He crosses the room and carefully reaches out to stroke the phoenix's head. He thinks of the blackened wings on his own arms, on fires at sea and the death of hope.
A feather falls from the crown and it seems fitting that he should place his last hopes on this, on a dying bird's wings.
"Can you tell her for me? The princess. Just -"
He doesn't know what to say, he finds, as he looks into the gold of its eyes. How can he ask this of it - how can he place this weight on it?
Killian hears steps behind him, and Henry says, breaking his silence, "Emmet."
"It's simple enough, right? She'll get it. She'll understand," Henry says.
Killian nods, swallows around the sudden feeling in his throat and says, "Aye that she will."
"What if it isn't her?"
"Then we'll know that, too." He turns to the bird. "If it's her, she'll send it back. She will."
Geoffrey clears his throat, drawing Killian's attention to him and says, "We should send Alistair on his way. The journey is long and he won't make it if I press time any longer." He smiles and says, "Want to the do the honors?"
Killian offers his arm to the bird who slowly grips onto it. Its talons are heavy, but no more so than he would expect it to be. It's a big bird, but it's no nine foot rooster and Killian leads it towards the eastern window. It's no decision at all, really. Misthaven is to the east, towards where the sun will rise come morning. Where he'll be racing to follow the phoenix, his ship setting a course towards Misthaven, towards the east, towards her even if Princess Emma (Emmet, Anna, Princess Emma; he's peeling her back one layer after another, and he wonders who he'll truly find) has rocked him, the sudden wave threatening to overthrow his ship and send him spinning off course, but he's already grabbed hold of that wheel and spun it east to carry the bird towards her.
The phoenix looks to him once before it takes flight. Killian stares after it, doubtful for a beat that its wings will take it any farther than a few feet, but it doesn't fall, and it's only a moment before Killian blinks and it's gone.
"I've spent a good month chasing after you, lass, at least let me catch you this once," he whispers to himself, to the bird, to the hopes that he let fly off into the sky.
It's been a month and she's spent every day counting it down like she did with them.
(She's not supposed to think about -)
So much can happen in a month but where that one flew so fast (she's really not supposed to think about -) this one had been slowed by the numbing sensation she'd felt since she left them, like her fingertips have iced over but have yet to unthaw - if they ever would.
Maybe the soon to be visiting ice queen could help with that.
Maybe she'll be able to help with this too. Emma could use any kind of distraction at this point.
"It'll only be a couple more months, Emma," her father says gently as her mother sweeps out of the dining hall, humming a jaunty tune. Red hangs at her arm, humming the same.
Emma's starting to hate birdsong.
He offers her a hand and she takes it, getting out of her seat and leaving her plate of food mostly untouched. She hopes he doesn't notice. Hopes that he'll be the father that tries to be gentle with her instead of the one that fears for her. Hopes that he won't see how she practically devours honey cakes, dried meats and soups but leaves her delicate leaves and rich berries on her plate.
(She's not supposed to think -)
He threads their arms together, pressing them elbow within elbow, and says, "She was much worse when we were expecting you."
Emma snorts. "I want to say I find that unlikely but it is mom, so..."
Her father sighs, leading her towards the opposite door to where her mother disappeared. She's not the only one avoiding her, it seems.
"You have to understand that at the time, Regina's threat was so great and we were both so scared that -"
Emma shuts her mouth, her eyes leading her back around down the path her mother left even as her father leads her down the other hall, winding his way towards the aviary.
She gets it, gets his path, gets his intent -
"I get it," Emma says, just to be clear.
He chuckles very lightly and says, "Anything could've happened, but you saved us."
Emma snorts again. "You really need to stop saying that one."
He tugs her closer and he has a few inches on her but still he manages to press them cheek to cheek, squishing her face against his. "My little savior."
Emma pulls away. "She tried to rip out my heart and couldn't, that -"
Doesn't make me special is what she's about to say until she thinks about it a moment.
Well it does make her special.
But still.
(She's whining, she knows, but it's all in a day's work.)
(Month.)
(It's been -)
(She's not supposed to think about that, about the ache in her chest, the way the quiet makes her think of the roar of waves in a storm, the bustle of their ship, and oh, Hawke's curses, Henry always asking questions and Victor's sharp remarks, and Killian, his thumb stroking over her neck, his hands held in hers, his smile - Henry's smile, Victor's smile, the people that smiled at her and didn't know, could never know how much it made her heart lift.)
"Emma?"
"Sorry I was just thinking," she says.
"Share with me?"
She clears her throat, smiling at her father. With a light shrug, she says, "Okay, it does make me special, but I'm not a savior."
She knows that he senses she isn't saying everything, but he goes on - he's the gentle father today and she loves him all the more for it, aches all the more for it because he's gentle and she's hiding herself away from him the way she never has before, used to curl up beside him and tell him all about the adventures she was going to have -
Emma's not supposed to think about that, but she can't help it. She bites down on it as best she can.
"Do you want to know why we call you that?" he asks.
"Because survivor isn't really a nickname you give a child?" she manages to say.
Her father gives her a look, a slight pout to his lips that screams, 'be serious, Emma.'
You know, she's been serious all this time. She thought this conversation was supposed to ease that, but what does she know anyway?
"It has nothing to do with your uncrushable heart, Emma, but with how the first time we laid eyes on you, we just knew."
"Knew what?" Emma asks, curious.
She's never heard this one before.
He smiles. "That we were going to win. You gave us that hope. You saved us from despair. Saved all of us, even." He leans into her whispering like there are any people within earshot at all (birds are not people; she swears he's been spending far too much time with her mother). "Grumpy's smile was real the first time he held you."
Okay, yeah, that is whisper worthy.
Grumpy would never ever let her hear the end of it if they mentioned that.
"You're being too unkind to Grumpy," Emma says.
"You're being too unkind to yourself," her father says. He pauses in their steps, just within the doorway leading them outside and to the path ending at the lake. Unthreading their arms, he steps in front of her and places his hands on her shoulders.
She breathes tightly at the soft expression on his face, the understanding in his brow.
She looked like him, as Emmet.
But she's not -
"I rather miss the water, you know and its calm. Perhaps a boat ride will do you some good."
"Yeah," Emma agrees.
She misses the water, too.
Her father tugs her in, wrapping her in a quick hug before he says, "I have to go find your mother. We're supposed to be finishing the final touches for Queen Elsa's arrival, and she's been so invested in it. She'll need some calming before the day is through."
Emma laughs. "Bet you can't wait 'til she gets here."
"Bet you better be off before I tell your mother you've volunteered your help," he replies.
Emma skirts by him and says, "I'm gone."
She takes quick steps down the path, at first, only to slow as the lake comes into sight, the calm of the water so different than what she's grown accustomed to.
So different than the way her heart beats its motion about her chest, an unruly rhythm as she thinks of the rolling of waves, the rocking of the Jolly, smiles and laughter and all those things her mother, father's and Red's company cannot replace.
She's not supposed to think about that, but holding it back has only brought her to this point where she feels a bit like crying as she sees the white of wings.
Her neck feels a bit bare, her heart even more so.
The birds scatter as Emma approaches their lake. As territorial as the swans usually are, today they move for her, watching her with quiet reserve from the opposite end of the pool of clear water.
The carefully placed rocks around the edge tumble in when Emma hastily tries to sit down - and it feels like one more mistake, the one to knock her whole house of cards as far down as the shining rocks fall. The pool doesn't look deep but if she took a dive in it, she'd lose her breath long before she hit bottom.
Emma feels like she's drowning already, but it isn't a melodramatic 'I might as well actually drown' flight of melancholia that has her kicking off her shoes and throwing her skirts over her head. She misses the water, and if this as close to it as she's going to get when her parents have Roland watching her like a Hawke (pun completely intended, and completely regretted when it just reminds of her all that she's left behind) - if this is as close as she can get, then she's going to take it.
She leaves her heavy dress lying on the shore. Chilled already, she shivers as she sets up the canoe. She'll be fine once she has the oars beneath her, but for now she's just cold.
(But Emma's used to that after all.)
She pushes off from the shore and is rowing across the lake before Roland's shout reaches her. Emma only drops oar for a moment to wave at him. It's a lake - she can't exactly go anywhere that he won't find her, and she can swim. There's nothing to worry about whatsoever.
Calm down, Roland, she waves. Your job is not in jeopardy.
Besides her father set her on this course. She can't very well be chastised for following his suggestion. Birds flit by overhead as Emma rows. Coming to a rest in the middle of the lake and allowing the canoe to float itself across the water, Emma lies back along the wooden base so she can stare up at them.
She names them in her head, follows along to their songs about sunshine and flight, about the rise of the sun in the east, and how it'll set in the west, about their homes of earth and twig and their confusion at the birds that make their home on the sea. Emma shares in that confusion as well - torn between how much she loves the way her feet feel when she leaves them bare on her rug, and how she misses stumbling to the staccato rhythm of an approaching sea storm.
The birds fly by overhead, but none pay her mind, too busy in their own thoughts to worry about hers. She thinks her thoughts heavy, leaving her practically fused to her spot within the canoe, but when a flash of red comes down to her, Emma jolts up almost immediately.
The phoenix - and it is a goddamn phoenix (apparently the bird collection has grown into the mystical) - isn't heavy, so when it settles down on the canoe's stern, it only rocks a little, just enough to make Emma shift her weight backward to balance it out.
It looks like it's about to die, and to be honest, it makes her wary, as does its mysterious origin. She's used to random birds showing up at the castle, but usually they show up in the aviary, not on the prow of her canoe.
"Did you want something?" she asks the bird on a whisper that is unintentional.
Except she's scared for the answer, for the way it seems an omen almost, a bird on the verge of death staring her down with gold eyes that seem to know. It stares at her, no response from its mouth, not a caw, not even a lifting of its wings in acknowledgement that she spoke.
Emma's able to translate, still.
Did you want something?
Well, Emma wants a lot of things but of course, the only thing pressing on her mind is a tattoo.
Killian's tattoo, of course, obviously, who else?
Who else but him?
Who else?
(Who, who, who; it's not an owl, Emma.)
Finally, the phoenix makes a move. She jumps back slightly when it hops down from the stern, worried that it might collapse from even that movement, but it makes creeping steps towards her. It seems tired, but still it goes on, and when it is close enough for her to touch, it stretches out its neck for her.
Emma touches the fragile feathers, careful and gentle. It's warmer than any other bird she's ever touched, her hands warming, no longer feeling so iced over on the fires of its inner hearth.
She hasn't felt this warm in a month.
"You were sent to me for a reason," she decides aloud.
Of course, that's when the phoenix decides to speak, one simple word.
Emmet.
Emma jerks back. Mystical, her ass, this bird is all trouble.
Eyeing her sadly, its eye wet rimmed, it makes another cawing noise.
Emmet. Emmet. Emmet.
"Alright, I get it. You were sent to me for a reason."
A reason she should ignore, and yet she reaches out again to pet the bird's neck and smiles. It leans into the touch and they soak in each other's heat.
"Now, should I send you back?" she asks aloud.
The phoenix caws again, butting its head against Emma's chest.
Emmet, it says. Emmet, Emmet, Emmet.
(Send it back it is.)