Caribbean Sea - 1802
The white sails rose high against a cloudless sky, rippling loud as thunder and snapping taut in the wind. The sea breeze raked through his hair like a lover's eager caress while he stood at the helm, watching the unending line of the horizon in the distance and holding their course towards the isle that bore the French colony of Saint-Domingue. The island itself was not yet visible to the naked eye, not even to Killian's gaze, far keener than that of any of the mortal sailors who worked the lines, pumped the bilges and swabbed the deck under his command. They were a rough crew, made up of deserters and thieves and degenerates, a hard-drinking, gambling, whoring group of men who were all guilty right down to the marrow of their bones of a multitude of sins. But they all feared Captain Hook, known in every port from the northern reaches of the Carolina coast down to Rio de Janeiro for his ruthless methods and black heart, a heart - that it was whispered quietly below decks over one too many cups of grog - was not human.
That same dark heart beat a bit faster in his chest with the rise and fall of the ship on the waves, the narrow prow cutting easily through the white swells like a hot knife through butter. With nothing but the sea and the sky surrounding him on all sides it was the closest a demon like him could get to flying, with the whistle of the wind in his ears and the warmth of the sun on his face. If he closed his eyes he could barely feel the planks under his feet or the smooth wood under his hands for a brief moment that seemed to last for an eternity. His initial foray into the Caribbean sea trade had started as nothing more than a whim, an opportunity to invest some capital, add to his considerable fortune and he found the tropical weather to be much more to his taste than the chill of the drab and damp European winters. But Killian had found to his surprise that he genuinely enjoyed sailing for its own sake as well. There was a subtle art to it, in the rise and fall of the sails to make the most of the breeze, in the turn of the hull into ancient currents that led right to the four corners of the globe. North, south, east, or west, under the crimson flag of piracy it was all just pure freedom. The chains that bound him were not the shackles worn by the mortal souls helplessly trapped in the most inhuman of bondage practiced in the whole of history, his irons went unseen by all by him. He felt the weight of them nonetheless, and the burn of the invisible brand that marked him for what he was. Forever damned, with no hope of salvation in this world or the next, his master's leash was long but the collar could not be pried from his neck.
Yet out on the open sea, with the salt in his throat and the spray on his skin, he forgot all of that for a little while.
A flash of gold caught his eye and he looked down to the foredeck, where the angel stood with her back to him. A crewman carefully inched past her, a bear of a man with hands roughly the size of ham hocks and heavily tattooed forearms that were ropy and corded with muscle. He spent as much time in gaol as he did at sea thanks to a temper that could be provoked with nothing more than a curious look, but when Emma flicked her divine gaze to him he merely reached up and lifted his hat to her as if she were a noblewoman come to survey her domain before scurrying away with the back of his neck flushed as red as a whore's rouge. Speculation about the mysterious Lady Swan and her purpose on the ship was rife among the crew, as the single passenger on a voyage where they were carrying no cargo, no smuggled casks of spirits or undocumented silks to be found in the empty hold. It was clear that the haste in which they had departed Tortola was all because of her, the men recalled from the brothels and the gaming dens on his order to ready the ship for the journey with no expense spared in the process. Their curiosity went unsatisfied, Killian was not in the habit of confiding in his crew and none of them dared to ask too many questions of the scourge of the seas, lest his ira, his dark wrath turn upon them, and the wrath of a demon was far more terrifying than the fiercest storm.
Emma had boarded the ship very late at night, emerging through the thick fog that had rolled in over the harbour with the hood of her dove-grey cloak covering her hair and her gloved hand reaching easily for his when he held it out to assist her in stepping from the gangplank to the deck. Mr. Smee had already drunkenly spread the tale of the captain's latest presumed conquest to the crew as Killian knew he would and there was some knowing looks and furtive glances exchanged among them, along with the unmistakeable flare of rising lust in the air underneath the brine of the sea. Luxuria, a commodity in the ports as much as salt beef and ale, where men vastly outnumbered the women and the pleasure houses did as brisk a business as any of the more respectable merchants along the wharves. He gave a warning glare with just the barest flash of red in his eyes that made them all back off, his hand curled possessively around Emma's elbow. It was more for show than anything, she was more powerful than the lot of them put together and then some, but the crew only saw her as a woman with the tantalizing curves of breast and hip hinted at under her close-fitting gown. His little display was enough to let them know without words that she was the captain's honoured guest and was not available to slake their lust during the long nights that lay ahead on the dark ocean. The ache in their loins would go uneased by feminine companionship, they would have to make due with the relief found by their own hands or with buggering each other until they made port again and they all slunk dejectedly away from Emma like rats from the light.
She had her own cabin for the journey, second best on the ship after his own. It was small, but he'd had it scrubbed clean for her arrival and adorned with a large bunch of lilies that he'd impulsively bought in the marketplace earlier that day. Killian had first been drawn to the goldsmith's wares, examining necklaces and bracelets set with Brazilian emeralds and shimmering opals and other precious gems. But he remembered how the pearl earrings he'd tried to tempt her with in France had been rejected and didn't think she'd be willing to accept any jewellery from a demon's hands. Greed, avaritia, was clearly not the way to win over an angel. The flowers had been sold by a child in bare feet and a ragged calico dress, her thin arms dirty and scratched. Children typically shied away from him, even the boldest young pickpocket didn't dare to attempt to lift his purse, but the girl with tangled hair veiling her eyes and hollow cheeks had plucked at his sleeve and stared right into his startled face without flinching away. An innocent young soul, bearing the floral symbol of the Holy Virgin herself in her arms. Lilies of the field were far from diamonds or pearls, but those hadn't worked. Perhaps a more modest gift would succeed instead.
The child snatched the coin from his palm almost quicker than even he could blink and thrust the whole bunch at him before darting back into the crowd and disappearing from his view. He'd only intended to buy one, but he shrugged and handed them to his servant to carry back to the ship. No sense in letting them wither away shut up in the darkness of his own cabin and Emma had noticed them at once when he'd escorted her to what were usually the purser's quarters. The bed was made up with fresh linen and the floor was swept clean, while the flowers threatened to spill out of a large silver cup stamped with with his own serpentine monogram and worth more than a month's wages to a common sailor.
"To browse in the garden and to gather the lilies."
Killian immediately recognized the bit of Scripture the angel quoted softly to herself in the small room, completely unconcerned by the presence of a demon nearby and touching a petal with one finger before turning to face him with a smile.
"Gratias tibi ago, Captain."
For some reason he felt a twinge at the words of thanks, strangely bashful at her acknowledgement of his humble offering.
"They're just flowers, milady."
Emma had given him a speculative look and pushed back her hood, revealing the golden halo of her hair and making the breath catch in his throat.
"Not just for the flowers."
They'd been at sea for three days and two nights and still had not spoken of the true purpose of the journey to Saint-Domingue. So many of the islands in the Caribbean Sea were named for saints, for the glory of martyrs long dead while the gravest sin of all flourished like the lilies under the harsh yellow sun. The beauty of the lush vegetation and the tropical blooms didn't fully mask the ugliness that lay underneath, empires rose on the backs of serfs since the first man had risen to stand on the backs of others and crowned himself king. Killian knew what was raging on the isle named for a holy servant of God, a rebellion inspired by the people of France and the toppling of a dynasty that claimed to rule by divine right. The slave uprising was not the first such outbreak in the colonies, but none of the others had lasted nearly as long or come as close to succeeding, nor had they been as violent. Hundreds if not thousands had already died, whites, slaves and those born of mixed blood, the Angel of Death had come for them all and spared not fragile babes in arms nor the most hearty of men. The situation in Saint-Domingue was a topic of discussion in rough taverns and elegant drawing rooms both, but Emma was utterly silent on the subject when they sat down to dinner in his quarters and shared bread and meat and wine like the lovers the rest of the crew assumed them to be. He did nothing to dissuade them of the notion that the beautiful Lady Swan was his newest mistress, letting the rumours go unchecked belowdecks while he wondered alone in the privacy of his empty bed why she had chosen to seek out a demon and ask his assistance in her endeavor. It seemed that He was not the only one who worked in mysterious ways.
The wind kissed the hollow of his throat and his lips tasted of salt, but he thirsted not for water or wine. His own lust burned hot in his veins and his thoughts turned to the carnal, a dark longing that had not fully abated since that first chaste touch of an angel's hand to his cheek in a virgin's bedchamber and he'd known what it was to experience a miracle. Her skin could touch his without injury to either of them, her lips could breathe the air from his lungs and he wanted - needed - to know if he could press his mouth to the flutter of her pulse and make the blood underneath rise to his touch, wanted to feel her delicate white hands exploring where angels should fear to tread and to see if the divine and the damned could become one without destroying them both. He would have once thought such a thing utterly impossible if he had even bothered to entertain the notion at all (which he hadn't) but he found that something had changed over the centuries since that night in Rome. Darkness was bound to consume the light, and yet he had slipped free of those bonds for a moment and felt for the first time that he might be capable of something more.
They were sailing to the west, into the setting sun. The sky darkened to indigo while the sea ahead almost appeared to be on fire, reflecting orange and red tongues of flame that licked at the hull of the ship until the sun finally slipped below the horizon. Night fell swiftly so far out on the ocean with no hint of welcoming shore in the distance. But the stars were brilliant, and looked almost close enough to touch if one was to climb the ship's rigging all the way to the top and reach for them. Killian turned the helm over to Smee with a quiet order to hold their course and made his way down to the foredeck, where Emma was standing with a white lace shawl draped somewhat haphazardly over her shoulders and slipping down her bare arms, fluttering in the breeze. The temperature had dropped considerably, even this far south the nights could be be surprisingly cool at times. Especially on the open water with no shelter from the elements, his heavy coat was meant to provide the warmth he didn't need and he wondered if angels felt the cold. Yellow cones of light illuminated the deck, the crew had lit the lanterns when the sun went down and the kerosene flames held the darkness at bay. He moved on silent feet, the light faltering around him and shadows flaring out from under the leather that swirled around his knees. She had to have sensed his approach, if she could feel him the way he felt her as the distance between them narrowed until he was standing right behind her. The waves crashed loud against the hull and the ship rocked with sudden violence, as if in warning against his blasphemous thoughts. Captain Hook paid it no heed, though the men on deck muttered oaths and fought to hold their footing against the movement. Emma was as still as a statue, marble-white arms pale and as finely sculpted as any of the stone angels who stood silent guard over the churches and cathedrals he did not enter.
"I can hear them."
Her voice was low, intimate, the words were clearly meant only for him and not for the crewmen who were still skulking around on deck, shadows in the mist that surrounded them. Killian blinked, confused by the quiet confession.
"Who?" he asked.
"All of them. Saint-Domingue, Martinique, Kingston...they cry out and no one listens. But I can always hear them."
Angels heard the prayers of mortal souls, he knew that and yet he hadn't really considered how that divine gift was also something of a curse. To always be listening to the pain and misery and suffering that mankind was adept at causing itself, he saw it, he was the cause of it, wherever he went, his corruption rotting them from the inside out, but it was easy enough to tune it all out.
She turned to face him then, silvered by the moonlight and her eyes were the marbled green of sea glass, gemstones born not of fire and earth, but of tides and time. They drew him in despite the danger, or maybe because of it. He could set the whole ship aflame and emerge unscathed from the conflagration while it burned right to ash, but he wasn't meant to look into the light.
"A heavy burden, for such a slender back to carry."
He hooked a thumb in his belt while he spoke and rocked back slightly on his heels, "Emma," he said, soft and imploring, "Tell me why I am taking you to Saint-Domingue."
"Because I asked?"
She wasn't wrong, but his frustration clearly showed on his face and her own flashed with what he thought was guilt.
"Captain-"
"No," he snapped, and that sea-glass gaze darted away for a moment before she pushed her shawl back up her shoulder and met his eyes again, "You ask this of me, you drink my wine and share my company, you say that you can hear me, when we both know that should be utterly impossible, so do me the courtesy of calling me by my name!"
The flame of his anger licked hot along his spine and would have made any of the crewman flinch and cower under the force of it, but the angel was more defiant.
"Yes, I hear you, Killian, I hear you and I answer! I can answer you, but I can't answer them! I can hear them, but I can't save them on my own and that's why I needed your ship to take me there."
The anger leaked away at once at the sight of the tears in her eyes, even as the sound of his name from her lips made him shudder under the dark leather of his coat while his blood ran even hotter. Killian tamped down his lust, the last thing he needed right now was for another succubus to appear like a siren from the waves and wreak as much havoc as Zelena did in Paris before Emma struck her down.
"I can't save them."
It went suddenly quiet around them when she said it again, the whip of the wind turning into a dead calm that settled over the ship. They were practically toe-to-toe on the deck and he wasn't sure if he had moved or if it had been her, but the space between them had shrunk down to almost nothing and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.
Heaven and hell were not meant to stand so close.
He tipped her chin up and ran his thumb under the curve of her jaw, feeling the velvety slip of her skin under his cautious hand. The contrast of the heat from his body and the cooler ocean air had them shrouded in fog that hid them from view, but he was acutely aware of the fact that they weren't alone. Emma stared up at him, unflinching at his touch. Her hair was loose down her back like a maiden's and the muslin gown she wore was unadorned by embroidery or trim, falling in loose folds to the deck but low-necked enough to display a creamy swath of firm bosom pushed up high by the stays underneath. Any man on the ship would have had her on her back in a heartbeat if they thought they could get away with it, but he wanted to fall down on his knees at the vision before him.
"Then why do you go, if you can't save them?"
She didn't answer and the wind picked up again, stirring the hem of her gown about her slim ankles and filling the mainsail into a white wing against the obsidian sky.
"Why do you not trade in slaves, Killian?"
As the respectable Captain K. Jones of Jones Shipping Limited he transported sugarcane and textiles and other trade goods legally aboard his flagship, The Jewel of the Realm. As the brigand known as Captain Hook, he sailed under the crimson flag instead and smuggled uncut gems, seditious books and casks of newly-distilled rum, bribing customs inspectors and port officials to look the other way as he moved contraband from the islands to the mainland and back again, but in neither guise did he traffic in the highly lucrative movement of slaves.
"Does that surprise you?" he asked, leather creaking over his shoulders as they dropped and his hand fell back down to his side.
The corner of her mouth quirked and she looked him up and down, "You are a pirate," she teased gently, her real meaning clear.
His own voice was more serious, "Aye, that I am. And those who sail with me are sinners bound to spend eternity in chains forged by their own hands, but they are all here of their own free will. Slavery is a dark stain on the soul of mankind worse than any corruption wrought by me, there is no greater sin than this belief that one man can own another body and soul. Judge them for the evil they do to each other, but do not lay their crimes so neatly at my feet and blame me for their moral failings. I can only tempt them to fall, I don't push them over the edge. They choose to jump."
His shadow fell over her face and dipped down into the neckline of her gown in a soft caress that he could almost feel with his fingertips while he spoke. Killian took a step back, letting it fall away and leaving her in a pool of moonlight. It laid a path in front of the ship as neat as a line on a map, rippling with the waves and shining bright on the dark sea. Man had always looked to the stars and followed where they led. His own master had been a shining light in the heavens, once, eons ago.
The angel led and he followed, down into the bowels of the ship and to the narrow door that led to her borrowed quarters. He leaned one shoulder on the wall and watched as she pushed it open, swinging silently on oiled hinges and revealing the small, unlit space within. The lilies still sat in the silver cup, open in full bloom despite the lack of sun.
But then, they had another celestial being to nurture them instead.
"What happens if you cease?"
Emma turned, her brow creased in confusion and one hand resting lightly on the doorjamb, "Cease what?"
"Listening."
He had an inkling of just what would occur that was practically confirmed by the flicker of gold behind her eyes and the sudden curl of her fingers into the wood. The thought was filed away for later, when he could peruse it fully at his leisure and figure out how to use it to his advantage. But for now he only shrugged and pushed off the wall, flicking a dismissive hand in the air.
"No matter. After all, I would greatly despair if you ever ceased listening to me."
It kept him awake for the rest of the night, alone in his own quarters with an open bottle of rum on the table and the gentle rock of the ship underneath him. Stripped to the waist and barefoot, he tilted back in his chair and balanced it perfectly without any support while he contemplated silently in the unnaturally deep gloom that surrounded him.
Nothing he had said to Emma on the deck had been a lie, he had not borne false witness. Like the simple flowers that had been accepted while rich jewels were spurned, his honesty had been rewarded with some very interesting bits of information that was as much currency as coin. But these were to be hoarded instead of spent, and he turned her words over and over again in his mind and examined them carefully from all angles. She could hear him. Spain hadn't been a fluke and his suspicion in that chapel at Versailles had been correct, when he'd called out without words and she'd paused in her flight from the palace. He couldn't be saved, but she heard him anyway.
And more than that, she could answer.
Demons could be summoned unwillingly, with the proper incantation. It wasn't easy and it usually required a sacrifice of some kind, a precious object or a blood offering, along with reciting the demon's true name, but it could be done if the summoner was determined enough. Most of his kind guarded their names closely as a result, using titles and aliases to keep their real identities carefully hidden. The dealmaker Rumpelstiltskin was the Dark One, even the cackling succubus Zelena had been known as the Wicked Witch before her not so untimely demise in Paris. Captain Hook was his latest moniker, and not a man on his ship knew that his name was actually Killian. If he were to be summoned with it, he would have no choice but to go to whoever called him to their side and even be forced to do their bidding, if the summoner was powerful enough. But that was rare, most had to offer even more for the favours he could grant, desiring wealth, power, pleasures of the flesh, and were willing to trade their own immortal souls for earthly delights, the bloody fools.
Angels were not bound by the same laws as demons, they couldn't be compelled to appear against their will nor could they be controlled. If any demon discovered a way to summon an angel and force their compliance, they would have unimaginable power that all of them would covet for their own.
Emma came to him in Spain.
She came now for those she couldn't save. He didn't trade in slaves, but he knew many of those that did, brokers of human souls. The rebellion on Saint-Domingue had no hope of succeeding, it was too dangerous to allow freedom to some and give hope for the same to the others still trapped in bondage. Or at least he'd assumed as much, whenever the topic came up in the dockside taverns over foaming mugs of rough ale amid rougher company. Now he wasn't so certain, not with her aboard his ship.
It was dark as a tomb in his quarters, tucked away under the stern of the ship and only shadows swirling in the window panes instead of the light from the moon and the stars above. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, making a spark that leapt into the air and hung suspended above the table for a long moment. It illuminated the bottle of rum, the glass the murky hue of bottomless seas full of hidden dangers. He could see his own reflection in the curve, not the handsome visage that had seduced blushing virgins and virtuous wives both to his bed, but the true face that lay hidden underneath. Eyes the red of infernal fire, bones that pressed against the skin like knives and a dark mouth full of sharpened teeth.
Summon the demon, and he would appear.
Killian snapped his fingers again and the spark went out, leaving him sitting alone in the dark.
Emma opened the door at the knock and was met not by Killian, but by the round, bearded face of William Smee, the man she had met at the somewhat ramshackle offices of "Jones Shipping Ltd" back on Tortola. At the sight of her he quickly snatched the red cap from his head and gave a jerky bob of his chin.
"Cap'n demands...er, requests your presence on deck, if you please, your ladyship."
She nodded, pulling the door closed behind her while Smee tried and failed to keep his eyes on the floor instead of on her. The ship's crew were all curious about her, she could hear the whispering that went on behind her back and the somewhat crude remarks about her and their captain. They all thought she and Killian were lovers, who only kept separate quarters to maintain an illusion of propriety. It didn't bother her as much as it should have, they had spent long hours shut up alone together in his cabin after all, and she was hardly worried about the nonexistent "Lady Swan's" reputation being sullied by their association.
There were more important matters that currently occupied her thoughts than the idle musings of lustful sailors.
Smee followed along behind at a respectful distance while she climbed the steep stairs that led to the deck, clearly full of questions that he didn't dare ask. All of the men on the ship were wary of Killian, or as he was referred to by them, Captain Hook. That wariness extended to her, as his presumed companion, and while she could feel their interest none of them had attempted to proposition her in the dark corners and narrow corridors that wound through the ship like a rabbit's warren. Killian hadn't either, the seducer who had charmed his way into the bed of any woman he desired had been a perfect gentleman during their late night suppers at the table so small that their feet had tangled together companionably underneath it and their knees touched. Still, his gaze had lingered, blue eyes darkened to indigo and each swipe of his tongue across his lips to catch errant drops of claret had reminded her all too well of a kiss that could never be repeated.
She was walking a fine enough line as it was.
The light and air was a welcome relief when she stepped onto the deck into the sunlight, sensing his presence close by and turning to seek out his black-clad figure among the more drably attired crew. Killian was standing next to the rail with a brass spyglass held to one eye, fixed on some point in the distance and when she went to stand next to him he passed it to her without a word.
Three ships were visible through the glass, looking as tiny and insignificant as children's toys. Emma closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them again the magnification had been increased tenfold, she wasn't all-seeing like the Heavenly Father but she did have the power to see much farther and much more than mortal eyes did. Killian took the spyglass back and looked through it again, his free hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
"They're French," she said, too low for anyone except him to hear.
"Aye," he agreed, equally as quiet, "Warships. Sent to help quell the rebellion at last, most likely. Saint-Domingue is too valuable to lose, not when France is barely clinging to their remaining colonies in the New World by the skin of their teeth as it is. I'm afraid it was inevitable that it would come to this, avaritia is rooted deep in the hearts of men."
Avaritia. Greed, the deadly sin that had led to the enslavement of untold men, women and children. As sweet as the sugar cultivated on the islands was, it was the bitter other half of the coin. She'd heard the crewmen talk when they didn't know she was listening, they were all greedy for gold, greedy for more grog than their rations allowed, greedy for the slippery warmth that lay between a woman's legs. Their fear of Killian wasn't enough to deter them from serving aboard his ship, the greed in their hearts was far too strong.
Do not lay their failings at my feet.
Emma curled her hands around the railing and stared at the French ships. Each was easily twice the size of Killian's vessel, riding low in the water and clearly heavily laden with both troops and munitions. The sea was calm and the wind had been in their favour the whole journey, but that meant it was also in favour of the warships. They were headed straight for Saint-Domingue.
"At this speed they'll make landfall in Port-au-Prince before dusk," Killian continued, squinting at them again through the slim brass instrument, "Unless by some miracle the tides turned?"
It was not a rhetorical question. The lilies in her cabin bloomed continuously day and night, a tiny miracle wrought by her own hands. Hands that could halt entire armies in their tracks, turn day to night and night to day and bestow a holy blessing upon a saint with a single touch. The same hands that were now helpless, bare and ungloved and clinging uselessly to the wood to stop them from trembling. She hadn't wanted him to see, she hadn't wanted him to know the full truth, but...
"I can't."
It was a confession wrenched from the depths of her own, well, she didn't have a soul, not the way mortals did, anyway, blank slates born pure and innocent but with the potential for both the greatest good and even greater evil depending on the path they chose. But she had something that was uniquely hers, her divine light that that marked her as one of the Blessed Angels, granted passage through the very Gates of Paradise themselves for the whole of eternity by His grace.
The one once known as the Morning Star could no longer cross that barrier into Heaven, his own light had been ripped from him when he fell into eternal darkness, or so they all believed. Some said he fell with a smile, some said it was with a scream.
Maybe it was both.
Blue eyes rimmed in kohl narrowed right to dark slits and then the demon was upon her, hands grasping her upper arms with firmness and trapping her neatly between his body and the rail. She should be afraid, she was vulnerable right now as if she really was a lone woman surrounded by dangerous, lustful men with greedy souls and none more dangerous than him, but Emma felt no fear and when her palms landed flat on his hard chest it wasn't to push him away, if anything she wanted to pull him closer.
"You can't interfere...not that you won't, you can't."
Emma could see that his clever mind was making quick work of everything she'd left unsaid from the moment she'd crossed his threshold and greeted him as Captain Hook. Her fingers curled in his waistcoat and she looked up at him, ignoring the crewmen surrounding them with their ears pricking up and straining to overhear what was being said. This was only between the two of them, no one else on the ship could even begin to understand.
"It is forbidden to you. Moreso, you are bound from intervening, as if your wings were clipped. That's why you needed a ship, and safe passage. That's why you needed me. This...this is outright defiance, your own personal rebellion. Oh, Emma."
"Yes," she agreed, closing her eyes. It was far more dangerous than even he was, she'd been granted her divine light by His grace and His alone, and what the Lord giveth, the Lord could taketh away. She couldn't save Man from this most reprehensible of sins of their own creation and the failure was like ash in her mouth.
"Well then. It is said that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and three warships against a lone brig certainly qualifies as foolish. Mr. Smee! Hoist the standard!"
"Cap'n?"
She looked up in shock, taking in the firm set to his jaw and the heat she could feel growing under her palms, not the enveloping warmth of divine radiance, but the burn of infernal flame.
"You heard your captain!" he bellowed, "Hoist the Jolly Roger and man your stations, we're all drinking French brandy instead of grog tonight!"
"Killian."
His true name got his attention at once as she knew it would, and his answering smile was as sweet as a choirboy's when he looked back down at her.
"Beata angela," he murmured, "I may be incapable of miracles, but I am not without a few tricks up my own sleeve. I promise you these ships will not reach Saint-Domingue, whether the reprieve will be enough for the rebellion to succeed remains to be seen, but I suppose far stranger things have happened."
The demon winked and she felt a flush on her cheeks that was not from the wind. The late nights they had spent together in his quarters had not involved any of lewd acts of fornication that the crew so eagerly imagined, but it had been intimate nonetheless. Perhaps even more intimate than engaging in the pleasures of the flesh, the hours of conversation had revealed even more clearly that he possessed far more than just that seductive wit that was all surface and no depth, reflecting a flattering image back to the subject of his interest while revealing nothing of himself. Though he had not yet revealed why he had appropriated the surname "Jones" for his own use, he had spoken of his travels since she'd last seen him in France and how he'd crossed the ocean on "not quite a whim" with a wry twist of his wine-stained lips that did not fully hide the bitterness in the statement. What went unspoken was that his will was not truly his own and instead of pitying the poor soul who had obviously summoned him, Emma found herself pitying him.
Stranger things indeed.
There was a flurry of movement from the crew as the orders were carried along the length of the ship with a hue and cry that had them all jumping to their feet and rushing to coil up ropes over their shoulders and tie down loose items on the deck. It was a sudden tempest that swirled around them where they stood in a blur of loud noise and riotous colour, but in the eye of the storm there was nothing except the demon in front of her.
"Emma," Killian said, as serious as she had ever seen him, "I promised you once that I would do anything you asked if it was within my power and not require any form of payment. My word is my bond and this is not a devil's bargain that I am offering, but all actions have consequences."
His expression flickered for a moment, jaw pulled tight and that deep blue gaze darting away from her eyes. It was a clear warning, and Emma wondered if it cost him something to give it.
"I know."
He looked back at her and queried softly, "Do you?"
She reached up and dragged her thumb slowly over the thin scar on his cheek, hearing his sharp inhale of breath at the movement. The mark had been left by the torture he had suffered at the hands of the Inquisition, she'd seen it laid fresh and bloody right down to the bone and been unable to leave him there to suffer any more no matter what sins he was guilty of.
Killian turned his head abruptly and kissed her palm before whirling away with his coat flapping behind him like the wings he did not possess. If she was a swan then he was a raven, dark and sleek and a harbinger of ill omens. Captain Hook yelled orders to his men in a thunderclap , the demon of the sea unleashed and whipping them all into a frenzy as they worked the sails and readied the cannons with the dark flag of a grinning skull atop a pair of crossed bones snapping high on the mast.
The cannon fire was black, smoke as thick as tar enveloping the warships when the captain called, "Fire!" Too much to be natural, it poured across the dark sea in long tentacles like some fantastical monster of the deep while the acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air and faintly beneath it, Emma could smell the sulphur and brimstone of infernal flame. She heard the shouts from the French ships even through the cacophony, blasphemous oaths and the utter shock at the frenzied attack from a single vessel not even half the size of theirs.
David had holy aim and divine intervention on his side when he took on Goliath with nothing but a rock and a sling. This...this was hellfire brought to life by the demon in black with the devil's own smile on his face. The intensity of it was shocking, she felt it more than the violent lurching of the ship underneath her that threw seasoned sailors clear off their feet. Every angelic instinct flared to life from the force of it and she had to fight not to respond in kind, keeping her light at bay and her wings hidden. The crewmen were unaware of her, blind to her continued presence on the deck while the battle raged on all sides. One of the French ships broke off and began to retreat away from Saint-Domingue, obviously too heavily damaged from the cannon fire to continue. Two were left, and amid a rising tide of bloodlust that turned the crew into frothing, howling demons of their own making she heard Killian give another order.
"Ramming speed!"
The heavens went dark with stormclouds and the seas churned white, as if the water itself was boiling over. More cannon fire was traded back and forth, one heavy ball shooting clean across the ship's bow and almost hitting a man square in the back. It landed harmlessly on the planks instead with a flick of Emma's wrist, but she was still bound from performing grander miracles and she let out a huff of frustration.
"What is the point of listening if you won't let me answer?" she muttered to herself.
"Brace for impact!"
She looked up and quickly found Killian high in the rigging, a rope wrapped around one forearm while he pulled a knife from his belt. Their eyes met across the distance, he could clearly still see her even though his men no longer could. A moment of calm seemed to fall over the both of them, where the wind no longer whipped her skirts about her ankles and the sun briefly pierced the clouds above to shine down on his inky hair and the long coat of dark leather.
Then he was gone, and in the next instant came the shudder and crash as the bow of the ship plowed straight into the broad side of the larger French vessel and it was only by her divine grace that she remained standing while others fell down to their knees around her.
There was no prayer she could recite, not for a demon's salvation. All she could do was watch, and bear witness to whatever it was that he planned to do now.
For her.
Killian let go of the line he was holding and easily grabbed onto the thick ropes that formed the warship's complex web of rigging. He'd flown without wings, using his knife to slash the line free and swinging across the tiny gap in the heartbeat before the two ships collided. It was an insane maneuver that was likely to rip them both open and send them straight down to the bottom of the ocean, but the risky gamble paid off. He could see that the bowsprit had been completely ripped off from his ship and the mainsail had collapsed, but there was no buckling of the hull or the deck from the collision. The warship listed on such a steep angle that it seemed to be on the verge of tipping over completely, crew and soldiers both on the deck forced to clutch at whatever they could reach to avoid falling overboard. It hung on the precipice itself for several moments before it began to roll upright, the greater bulk forcing his own ship back on the wave that formed from the motion of the keel. Dimly, Killian was aware of cannon fire, plumes of smoke rising in the air all around him. But fire and smoke could not affect a demon born of Hell itself, and when a hand tried to grab his ankle he looked down into the whey-faced soldier who'd climbed up after him with a grin.
"Mon Dieu!" the soldier cried, an oath that turned Killian's grin into a snarl.
"Your God," he spat back, "Not mine!"
He gave a vicious kick that caught the soldier in the jaw and sent him flying backwards, caught at the last second by his heel in the ropes and hanging upside down. Killian left him there, his own boots easily finding purchase as he picked his way along the line. One man against an entire ship was madness, but he wasn't a man.
Besides, he had been sent on this mission by an angel herself.
His eyes burned red and the wind shifted, sending smoke from the cannons straight into the faces of the French captain at the helm and the navigator beside him. Both disappeared under the choking black cloud, unable to see, unable to steer, unable to give any order. Killian let out a triumphant noise and turned to face the ship's mainsail, rippling like quicksilver against the suddenly heated air rising around it. His own shadow appeared on the heavy cloth, a twisting figure that began to writhe and grow into something else. Something inhuman, with too-long limbs that could bend both back and forth and the twin points that formed not a halo over his head, curved inward, like the hook that formed at the end of what had been the shadow's hand.
Hooks and horns were not all that dissimilar, after all.
A long rent appeared in the sail, another shadow at first that quickly became real with a twist of his wrist. It ran down the length of it, tearing it apart with a great ripping noise while startled yells came from the soldiers and sailors below.
"The Hook! The Hook!"
His legend would only grow from this and it fueled him even as he blinked back a strange, misty haze that had crept into the edges of his vision. Something was sapping his strength, something foreign and unfamiliar that made his fingers slacken on the ropes and his boots nearly slip as he almost lost his footing. But he held on by sheer will, until the sail was rendered into nothing but useless ribbons that tangled around what was left of the rigging and wrapped around the mast in knots that would be impossible to untie. It would take days to get the whole mess completely down and raise a new sail, days where the warship would be as hobbled as a lame horse, unable to continue on in such condition even without the rest of the damage.
He'd broken her wings.
Before he could revel fully in the satisfaction there was a loud popping sound from down below and something small and round and hot came straight at him. Killian felt it graze along his neck with a sizzle, a hairsbreadth away from his jugular. He looked down and saw the barrel of a pistol pointed up at him in the hand of a soldier who was barely more than a child, not even old enough to grow whiskers on his ruddy cheeks. He knew at once that the boy was still an innocent soul, innocence that would be quickly lost in the service of the French army once he'd fought and whored his way to manhood, blood drawn on his blade and between a woman's thighs all in the name of honour and glory.
The wound on his neck smarted but he could easily take the pain, he'd suffered far worse. It would take much more than a mere pistol or a blade to cut down a demon. Still, he felt another wave of dizziness that he fought with a shake of his head, climbing higher up the rigging and slashing more ropes as he went. Cannon fire roared loud in his ears and muted everything else, all he could hear was muffled shouts while the warship began to list again, tilting at a rapidly growing angle. He was surrounded by fire and blood and this was his glory, hacking and slashing his way from one end of the yardarm to the other. His own ship was a league away, ready to overtake the last warship with his crew salivating for their promised rewards. Greedy bastards, the lot of them, not an honourable man left among those who called him master. The old captain had been a man of honour, a rare breed, but…
Killian pushed the thought away, holding his knife between his teeth and reaching for a dangling rope to help pull himself up even higher. He saw that the clouds were drifting, grey storm giving way to pale sunlight and a beam pierced through to shine off his rings, the dark, square-cut ruby flashing with brilliance and as bright as a beating heart. The reflection shone right into his eyes and blinded him for a moment, making his fingers slip while his vision swam. His hand groped wildly for the rope but found only empty air. The knife fell first, blade down not into the deck, but towards the rolling ocean. He could see the glittering waves swallow it up and then he was falling as well, thrown clear of the ship and hurtling straight for the water. He'd climbed too high, and he'd been struck down by an unseen hand.
The impact wouldn't kill him, but it would be hard and painful and not the kind of pain he enjoyed. At least the water wasn't sanctified, and Killian braced himself for the final drop with one word slipping past the salt on his lips, a whisper, a prayer, that was swept away by the wind.
The sea below him was marbled green and the clouds above were white and feathery, filling his sight while he plummeted down and then he saw that it wasn't clouds at all as he collided with something in mid-air. The swirling green sea was Emma's eyes, staring right into his as her wings enfolded them both and everything else vanished into pure nothingness.
"Killian? Killian, wake up! Killian, come back back to me!"
He forced his eyes open at the summons with a gasping breath and saw the angel above him, her lovely face creased with worry and hand pressed to his cheek. It took a moment for the fog to clear from his head and then the memories came crashing back, the French warships, the sea battle, the drain on his power from some unknown source that had made him lose his grip and sent him plunging down towards the ocean. And then…
"What did you do? Emma, what did you do?"
He sat up, stunned by what he was remembering. Emma's arms around his chest…the look on her face...the brilliant flash of gold behind her eyes…
Her wings.
They'd wrapped around him before he'd hit the water, so incredibly soft to the touch and yet as strong as steel. Stronger. The contrast was maddening, and he couldn't quite believe that he, infernal demon of Hell and eternally damned, had been held in their divine embrace.
"How?" he breathed, searching her immediately more guarded expression for an answer while his hand circled her wrist and he implored, "Emma…"
Whether it was his beseeching tone or her own desire to try to articulate the inexplicable, she was a messenger, an interpreter of mysterious signs, either way their eyes locked and she finally said, "I saw you start to fall and I...jumped."
Killian gaped at her, feeling his mouth open and close as his usual eloquence failed him completely. Emma's gaze darted away from his and she rose to her feet, pulling free of his grip and shaking sand from the hem of her gown. Or what remained of it, at least, it was torn and rent in several spots and he caught pale flashes of the petticoat underneath. Behind her he could see the ocean, but it was nothing but an empty, flat expanse for miles. No flags in the distance, not the French tricolour or his own Jolly Roger, and no sound but the crash of the waves against the shore. They were alone, completely and utterly, he could sense no mortal souls at all and for a wild moment Killian wondered if by some miracle he had managed to pass from the Earthly plane into a divine realm of existence in the angel's embrace. He turned his head and saw lush green vegetation that was growing wild right down to the sliver of beach he was currently sitting on, with nary a path or a footprint in sight save for the ones he knew were hers. Flowers grew by the dozens, more lilies like the ones he had given Emma, along with bright orange hibiscus and delicate pink orchids the same colour as the large seashell in his quarters, the one that had belonged to the Jewel's previous captain.
It had no value and only took up space, a precious commodity aboard a ship, but he'd kept it anyway, as a reminder.
Greenery and flowers, and only the two of them.
It was like...like the Garden.
But that was impossible.
"Where are we?"
He stood, hiding his stagger out of habit. Any hint of weakness was ruthlessly exploited in the company he normally kept - although he was usually the one doing the exploiting. But he could feel his strength returning, his dark power sparking under his skin like the coals of a smothered fire flaring to life again. The sword still strapped to his hip left a mark in the sand as he found his footing, marring the pristine surface while the angel walked to the water's edge and let the waves lap over her bare feet.
"I don't think it has a name," Emma said, "It's like a blank canvas. I'm not sure if anyone has even set foot here before, it's completely unspoiled."
"Well," he drawled, looking down again at the quarter-circle slash left on the beach and feeling his heels sink down to firmer ground, "Not anymore."
Emma turned and he gave her a wry smile, "Demon, darling, remember? Damnate. It was unsullied."
He thought the wrinkling on her nose was because of the endearment but she only repeated his other moniker, "Damnate," infernal one, forever damned, softly, as if she was reminding herself, "You think your very presence here is corrupting?"
"No, I know my very presence is corrupting, beata. You, more than anyone, know that too."
The serpent had slithered into the Garden and tempted Eve with forbidden fruit that held within it the knowledge of good and evil. Original sin was born in a place much like the isle on which they now stood, when Man first fell from grace and the angel drove them all away from the patch of Heaven on earth with the flaming sword held aloft.
He carried a sword, not her, but she could still banish him from this place, back to the darkness of taverns and whorehouses and away from her light, but when she crossed the stretch of sand again and he dipped his forehead to rest against hers she didn't push him away and none of the flowers around them withered or turned black from his taint.
If anything, they bloomed open even more in defiance of the setting sun.
"Emma," he breathed, hands circling around her waist.
"You're injured."
He'd almost forgotten about the graze on his neck but with her reminder he felt it again, a dull throb that ached even more when he tried to wrench away, afraid to let his blood touch her own skin and corrode it like acid. It should have healed on its own by now, but perhaps he was still hindered by whatever had affected him back on the warship and he attempted to deflect her attention with a smile.
"I've had far worse, believe me."
Emma didn't let him pull back, shushing him and lifting her hand towards the wound. She didn't fear him, not his wrath or his lust or any of his sins, and he felt a sudden certainty that his blood posed no danger, a conviction that he couldn't explain except with a word that he dared not speak.
Light pulsed in her palm and he closed his eyes, it slid down his throat as easily as the finest spirit and he could feel the wound immediately close up, healing at once with nary a sting.
"Thank you, Killian. For everything."
Their embrace lingered, turning like the tides and slipping inexorably into something more. All the long nights aboard his ship had been passed chastely, despite the bed in his quarters invitingly made up with a feather tick and rich bedclothes that had seen respectable planters' wives and slattern tavern maids both seduced by Captain Jones and the notorious Captain Hook. But under a velvet sky rapidly filling with jewel-bright stars he was neither man, he was Killian to her and he always would be, his long coat thrown down to form a makeshift bed atop the flowers while he kissed an angel who kissed him back with a fervour that almost made his knees buckle again under the force of it.
Golden hair spilled down over his hands like a waterfall and he tore right through her gown and underpinnings in his sudden haste that was met with her own eagerness in divesting him of his waistcoat and sliding the linen shirt off his shoulders. Skin met skin and he groaned low in his throat, the heated slide of her bare breasts to his equally bare chest was merely a preamble of what was to come and yet it was more delicious than any full coupling, the way her head tipped back with a sigh and his chin fitted perfectly to her shoulder, lips pressed to the long line of her neck and the fan of her fingers against his back.
He felt no shame in his nakedness and he relished hers when the remains of the dress finally pooled at her feet, he'd seen her as a Roman noblewoman in silks and an English Samaritan in homespun, as an artist's muse and lover and as a lady at the court of kings, but he'd always seen her for what she truly was and now he saw everything. The firm, full breasts that had to have been made for his hands to cup, tipped in a shade of pink he swore he had never seen before that put every last rose in existence to shame, the flare of her hips, curved just so, the feel of the bones that lay under that velvet skin, from the notch at the hollow of her throat to the ladder of her ribs, the flex of her spine when he dragged his fingers down the long line of it and she arched up against him. Her own hands were hardly idle, exploring all the planes and angles of him as thoroughly as his own perusal of her. Killian felt almost...virginal, at the contact, as if he'd never experienced the touch of another before this. Emma molded him like clay, rising hot and heavy under her hand to full readiness in a blink that had him light-headed again while his palms burned with the desire to mark her as his, leave his brand on her flesh as indelible as any that marked the slaves as property of their masters.
He fought it desperately, determined not to give in to his baser urges. Corrupter he was, but not tonight and he lifted her legs around his waist and fell down to his knees with her arms around his neck and their lips never parting. No spirit he'd ever drunk was as intoxicating, no fruit as sweet as the taste of angel in his mouth, and his eyes were opened to the knowledge that it could be like this.
Emma lay against the dark satin lining of his coat, wrapped in him as he'd been wrapped in her and Killian felt her thighs spread even more underneath him. The silent invitation was unmistakable and the roar of the ocean was nothing compared to the roaring in his ears, blood pounding with the urge to accept her wordless surrender to the sin. But he held back, pulling up on his elbows and wrenching their mouths apart.
Wordless surrender was not enough.
"Look at me, angel. You know what I am…I can never be more than that. Say you want me, want this. Say it, Emma!"
It came out as a desperate plea that had her eyes going wide beneath him. Lips swollen from his kisses parted but no sound came out, and he was sure that she was going to vanish, taking the reprieve as her chance to retreat back to where he couldn't follow and leave him utterly alone in the dark. His hips jerked, balanced on the knife's edge between possession and desolation and for all his charm and the dashing countenance that had won him countless conquests in the bedchamber, he was suddenly as uncertain as a green young lad.
A hand rose, pushing back the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead and tracing feather-light along the sweep of his brow and fanning across the apple of his cheek as though she was mapping his face. It was a gesture unlike any that had ever been granted him before, a benediction from an angel who shone with golden light. Gentle fingers pressed to the nape of his neck and drew his head down until her lips pressed to his ear.
"Killian….I do."
He was swallowed by the light, it pulled him in even as he pushed forward and the heat of infernal fire was not doused, it was fanned incandescent by divine radiance. Sparks exploded in the air around them and fell down in a shower of both his crimson and her gold that reflected off the blade of his sword and made it appear to burst into flame next to them. Man and woman had been banished from Paradise by a flaming sword, but Killian was not a man and nothing could stop him now, not when he was joined with the one he had coveted for so long. Zelena had tried to tempt him with Emma's face and form and he'd resisted, declaring that he'd have exactly what he wanted and nothing less. His patience had been rewarded and as his hips pressed flush to the backs of her thighs while his forehead rested on hers again, he understood at long last why it was considered such a virtue. Heaven was forbidden to him, but he'd found it in her embrace and their fingers laced together tight against the bed of flowers.
It was a miracle.
It was a sin.
Darkness surrounded her on all sides, black leather under her and black hair that passed through her fingers, dark as ink, dark as the sea at midnight. His head was bent in supplication and he knelt between her legs, a demon paying homage to an angel. Emma could feel the flames licking at her thighs with each roll of his hips, shadows caressing under her breasts and along the line of her neck like unseen fingers that made her writhe from the sheer, voluptuous pleasure of it. She'd lain with men before, mortal men, a gift bestowed along with visions and prophecies and divine inspiration, but this...this had her arching up into each stroke of his body in hers with no thought for anything else but feeling it again and again and again. It was blissful, and dangerous, but she couldn't bring herself to stop, not when his mouth pressed to a spot behind her ear that made her gasp, not when his pace faltered as she met his thrusts with her own upward tilt and squeeze around him. Killian threw his head back at that, the cords on his neck straining and she pressed her hands to his shoulderblades, the closest he had to his own wings in the shape and solid line of them under her fingers. His skin was dusky, like burnished metal in the moonlight, the colour of sunsets and whiskey as if the fire within was flickering through.
"Is this what it is?"
"What?" she asked, and his head tilted back down.
"To experience a miracle?"
Emma had not expected that. She'd expected him to gloat, to revel in his victory, not to sound so much like the saints and shepherds, completely awestruck by her mere presence. That he thought it miraculous was even more surprising, he was no Puritan but certainly a demon only fornicated, ravished and defiled like the pirate he was supposed to be. Could he also feel the immense joy, the Song of Songs in his heart as she did? He'd brought her lilies like an ardent young suitor, roses blooming in his cheeks when he'd turned suddenly bashful under her praise. Roses and lilies both surrounded them now, along with flowering shrubs covered in pure white blooms that perfumed the night air with a scent that was both sweet and sultry at the same time.
In a flash their positions were reversed, Killian supine underneath her with her thighs caging his hips and surprise on the handsome face, mouth slightly open and sea-blue eyes blinking up at her, crinkling slightly at the corners. Emma drew the tips of her nails down his chest and along his flat stomach, making him hiss and shift at the sensation while the hard length of him throbbed hot inside of her.
"Do you really want to know?"
It was a challenge that had one brow quirking in clear interest while his hands settled on her waist, thumbs rubbing the jut of her hipbones and his shadow fanning along her flank. His tongue darted out to lick his lips and she heard his answer without words.
The wings that had carried him across the ocean unfurled again, as unbound as they'd been when she'd launched herself off the ship and became one with the sky. The feathers brushed the tops of his thighs when she rolled her hips and arched her back, her breasts thrusting up, high and proud. A sound that was something between a gasp and a groan escaped the demon and when Emma looked down at him she smiled and whispered, "Behold."
Her light flooded through him like lightning, brighter than any star in the heavens above as it lit him up from the inside. Her weight was the only thing that kept him anchored to the ground, his body surging upwards and seized with divine ecstasy. It should have been impossible, his damnation barring him from receiving anything that was holy, but as the forbidden fruit held all that was good and evil in the world locked within she held him inside and his fire didn't burn and her light didn't blind.
"Again!" he begged, eyes flying open and every hair on his body standing on end, "Emma, again!"
She rose and fell in a steady rhythm that he matched, knees bending and feel planting, pushing her forward so that her breasts grazed his chest and the light pulsed between them like the pulse of his rigid male flesh, a hot spill that warmed her while his thumb pressed right to where she ached the most and with a flick and swirl she was flying again in a different way. Emma clutched his shoulders, her cry swallowed by his kiss. The flowers should have closed up when the sun set but they continued to bloom, the miracle rippling outward from where they lay as lilies grew from sand and salt water, as blue as the sea, as blue as a demon's eyes.
"Sleep now, angel."
His voice was soft, the only one she heard when she pressed her face to his neck and drifted off with the heat of him gently warming her under the blanket of her wing covering them both.
"Well, we didn't bring about the Apocalypse last night, so I suppose that's good news."
Emma didn't open her eyes, tracing the shape of his heart on his chest and feeling the kiss of the sun on her cheek and the sound of birdsong from the trees. Dawn had broken in their secret garden bower, where they lay entwined under a canopy of greens with her head pillowed on his shoulder. "Is that what you expected to happen?" she asked.
"I've no idea...but I do know that everything comes at a price."
She lifted her head at that and met his gaze, realizing that they were still sheltered under her wing and both as naked as Adam and Eve. There was no fig leaves to guard their modesty here, his bare hip pressed to the inside of her thigh and the hair on his chest ticked her fingers. Killian's hand skimmed up her side and found her breast, he bent to press a kiss to the soft slope of it while his words made her shiver despite the heat of his mouth. They'd each defied what they were, and rebellions always came at great cost.
What price would be paid for this?
And by whom?
Her wings folded closed, obeying her command in a heartbeat and leaving her fully bare and exposed. Lips closed around her nipple and a soft gasp escaped her, while a glance down showed her that Killian's ardour had not been fully sated by their first coupling, his cock was hard again against the wiry thatch of hair that surrounded it. Neither had hers, she could feel the growing dampness under her own downy mound and the burning ache when he started to make his way lower, whiskered cheek nuzzling against her belly and that silver tongue flicking out against her skin like a serpent's. The light revealed what had been concealed by the dark, glints of amber at the tips of his eyelashes and threaded through his beard. He'd been born in flame and he bore the birthmarks of his own infernal creation, but then the dark head dipped between her open thighs and her eyes fluttered shut against the rush of sensation.
"You would risk the End of Days for this?"
It came out as a sigh, barely audible over the crash of the waves against the shore. Flowers floated away like driftwood, petals as soft as the pads of his exploring fingers swept away on the tides.
"For my very own guardian angel?" he said, voice somewhat muffled in his current position and yet she heard him as clear as a bell, "Everything."
Afterwards he plucked one of the flowers from the earth, white and fragrant as he twirled it between his fingers and his thumb.
"I like these more than the lilies, I think. They remind me of you."
Killian drew it under his nose and gave a deep inhale before reaching to tuck it behind her ear. In the distance Emma could see his ship, summoned back to retrieve its master and just breaking over the horizon. None of the men aboard had witnessed her flight, they were blind to what they could not see and they would have only noticed a bird, a swan perhaps, straying too far from land.
His hand clasped hers, enveloping it completely while the leather coat swirled about his knees as they stood together on the beach and watched the ship's slow approach in silence. The sun rose high overhead and the sky was perfectly clear, as it had been the day before, and would again tomorrow. Nothing appeared to have changed in the world around them, and yet everything had. An angel had sinned, and a demon had looked into the light.
But when the Final Battle came they would be enemies, Heaven and Hell colliding like armies on the field and they were bound to stand on opposite sides. Darkness would always seek to snuff out the light.
She couldn't save him, and he would try to destroy her.
It was inevitable.