A/N: hi hello long time no post ! I've been under the weather recently but pinkie swear I intend on seeing this fic through , it's v. dear to me . I'm thinking it will reach its finish in a few more chapters , I'm curious to know where you think this'll end up . thanks again for reading ! you da best .

Emma lay with Killian—guarded him, rather—for a solid hour before Snow rapped on the door.

"We could use some fresh sets of eyes." She said apologetically with a soft expression resting on Killian's sleeping frame.

"Of course." Emma splayed her palm across the back of Hook's shoulder, applying a gentle pressure as she shook him. She wished she could let him rest longer, but she knew he would only panic if he woke up later and she wasn't there. They were still so skittish of slipping out of each other's grasp. "Gotta get up, babe."

"Mmmph."

"What's that?"

"How about no." His voice came out only slightly less muffled as he lost the mouthful of pillow, tilting his head in her direction.

"Don't be difficult, Snow and Regina need us." When he gradually sank back into the embrace of the sheets, she sighed and pinched him under the ribs.

He was up at the speed of light, balefully glowering at her as he shook off his slumber.

"Bad form." He said, voice still thick with dreaming.

Emma pressed a kiss into her thumb then smoothed it into his smarting side. He hmphed, appeased.

"Sorry to disturb you, Killian. I know you've done so much already." Her mother offered. "We're losing a bit of wind in our sails. Belle dropped by to pick up the tomes we were through with, and she told us those memory stones Ingrid used on Elsa and Emma—you remember, the troll stones?—they're another dead end. The force of whatever spiritual energy Emma's stuck with is too strong to be contained."

"That is a bad run of luck." He cast a leg over the side of the bed as he refastened his hook. "Well, then. By all means, take as long a reprieve as you need, you and the Queen both. I'll have another go, and Emma as well, if she's up to it?" His words lifted into a question as he turned to meet Emma's eyes.

She didn't know how much she would be worth, between the memory lapses and the now-irrepressible (traitorous) feelings coursing through her as strong as any magic. But she owed them her hundred percent, especially given all their toils were on her behalf.

"Of course." It was a weak echo of her earlier words, with a watered-down smile to match. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her lack of enthusiasm.

"Regina's headed to the market. She's gonna try to contact Zelena in the Underworld and needs to pick up a few things. I'm just going to run over to Tink's to check on baby Neal. You want anything while I'm out?" Her mother called over her shoulder as she led them back down to the dining room.

"No thanks, Mom."

"We're all set here, darling, thank you." Emma couldn't help the twitch of the corner of her mouth at the endearment. When he first used the soft word to address her mother, Snow had just about kicked him in the shins—that, of course, was back in their Beanstalk days. Once she'd warmed up to Killian (or melted, as he insisted cheekily), the word caused the tips of her ears to crimson. Now she only reacted with a wisp of a smile.

As they took their seats at the table and the door clicked shut behind Mary-Margaret, Emma was still preoccupied with the change. Her reverie was cut brief as Killian slid a heavy book her way. She tugged on its corner until it was more squarely in front of her, her nose wrinkling against the sharp smell of dust and muck and spice.

"What is this? It smells like it's been left in a forest's underwear. If a forest wore underwear." She clarified at her pirate's bemused look.

"The Grimoire of Bog. He was a wyldsprite, ravaged apart by his own dark dealings. Nasty bloke. He was a great fan of stranding people in the woods using a simple lure of light and a kind of amnesia curse."

"A lure? Like a will'o'th'wisp?" The edgeless glow Merida and herself had chased still lit up the corners of her mind every once in a while. It certainly was…an experience.

"Aye, if a wisp were out to eat you whole. Good ol' Bog actually fed the people to the light. It took the—ah, meat—and he harvested their lifeforce to fuel his own magic."

Emma did her best to swallow down the queasy feeling riling in her stomach. "OK so that would just about make the worst bedtime story Ever. Why do I need to be pawing through this one, again?"

"I thought you'd appreciate it a tad more than the Kindergristle, who—"

Emma cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I know enough about both those words to not want you to say a single one more."

Killian smiled wanly, but his eyes were cold. A chill went up her spine at the knowledge shared between them. Whatever terrible acts the Gristlething had committed—Killian was protecting her from having to know. Which, given her explicit knowledge of many things horrific and unsettling about the dark side of magic, meant whatever was in his tome was a realm even she hadn't dallied in.

"Back to book club, then. In yours, you'll be keeping an eye out for memory alteration. If we can't extract all the Odette bits bopping around in there, cloaking or burying them might be solid alternatives." He said lightly, the dead metal look in his eye gone. She nodded in appreciation as she thumbed through the first pages of Bog's book.

Twenty minutes were punctuated by discouraged sighs, the rustle of pages, and the whir of the grand clock Regina had installed in the corner of the room. Emma read away, grimacing at the slide of the paper against her skin. Though it couldn't really be called a slide—more like a textured, vinyl feel. There was also a strange stickiness to the pages that she tried her level best not to question.

She made it through her grimoire before Killian, and she took a moment to pore over him as he pored over the text in front of him. The natural light of the room cast a caress of shadows on his face, accentuating the lines of concentration engraved there. She wanted to smooth everything out, the lines of stress in his face, the ripple of anxiety that had never fully left over the last few days, the one that roved under her skin and set her on edge. She wanted to smooth out their lives like Skippy peanut butter, quashing all the doubt and danger.

Emma settled for fixing them both coffee.

As she was watching the cream dwindle out of the carton, a staccato rap came from the window facing the backyard. She pressed closer to the glass wisped with steam. There was a bird of prey on the nearest rail, some kind of falcon, eyes locked on her. There was a moment of tension, and Emma wondered if birds like that ever gave their prey the dignity of looking them in the eye. She shook the thought away, returning to her task.

As she was placing the cream back in the fridge, another rap came from outside, this time sharper, more deliberate. Emma shut the door, turning slowly as she made her way back to the window. The bird was just flying away, swooping in a lazy half-circle before landing back where it had been perched. As soon as it had settled, it stared straight at Emma, tilting its head meaningfully.

"You've got to be kidding me." She huffed. "I am not being summoned by freaking Tweety."

She glanced around the kitchen then back to the bird, feeling dumb as she pointed to herself. Me?

And the bird nodded, a concise little dip of its beak.

Emma let out a harsh breath, leaning on the counter. Either latent Snow White belle-of-the-forest genes were kicking in or she was Actually out of her mind. Minds? Whatever was going on in her head at this point. She forced her trembling hands to pick up both of the cooling mugs and forced her feet to carry her through to the dining room.

"Everything alright there, love?" Killian caught her wrist with his hook as she placed the coffee on his side of the table. "You're shaking."

"Just a little wired, I know it's the best we've got right now, but book club feels a lot more like stalling than taking action." The lie slipped out of her mouth without pause. She knew she should tell Killian about the strange bird, that she shouldn't be keeping anything from him right now when everything was out of balance.

He rubbed soothing circles into the back of her hand with his thumb, tutting sympathetically.

"I'd much rather a more, ah, kinetic route myself, Swan. But if there's an answer to this mess, I have faith it's buried somewhere within these pages."

"Yeah. I hope so." She placed a hand over his, squeezing lightly. "Hey, I'm gonna step outside and check in with David, okay? See how everything's going at the station."

"Take your time." He smiled sweetly before turning back to his book and Emma felt like absolute sludge slinking away from him in her deceit. But then there was the barest seed of curiosity throbbing in her chest. Memory stirred, like ripples on the lake she'd lived in all those years and realms ago. She remembered whispered conversations with ochre eyes.

Emma slipped out the curtained back doors, stepping onto the patio draped in vines and sharp, exquisite fencing. She went to lean against the far side of the fence away from the hunting bird. Immediately, it drew closer, walking unnaturally along the dark cast iron.

"I was beginning to wonder if you wouldn't miss the hint."

Emma's jaw popped as her mouth fell open.

"Hello again, 'Dette. But that's not quite right yet, is it? To call you Odette. Or Emma. How about-Emmadette? Odemma? No, those fall short."

"You're a bird. And you're talking. To me." Emma ran her fingers over her face, accepting her descent into insanity.

"Come now, darling. This is a parlour trick compared to what you're capable of."

There was something about it—his—voice. Some familiar lilt to it that pricked chills down her spine all the while making her heartrate pick up in an entirely fearless way.

"Siegfried." She breathed.

"I knew you'd flex that memory."

Flashes of amber and star-sewn skies and whispered nights came back stronger this time. It had been Siegfried in bird form who had visited her late when Rothbart wasn't prowling about, obsessively inspecting his "collection" of swans. She didn't know how it'd slipped her mind, how she'd missed the telltale signs of the ochre rings round the bird's irises, the remnants of a sigil that allowed him to possess any predator.

"What are you doing here, are you absolutely mad?" She hissed.

He tsk'd as much as a bird could.

"I merely came to return mine to me. I must admit I'm disappointed in you, dove."

Emma knit her brows, teeth baring in a silent snarl.

"I'm not yours."

Siegfried squawked out a laugh. "Now that's an argument for another day."

"The vial." It dawned on her after a moment.

"Exactly the matter, yes. No judgment on you inheriting your mother's sticky fingers, but I really must insist you return what you've stolen."

"Why's it matter so much to you? What is it? What's in the bottle?"

"I'm fond of you as you are, truly, this mash-up of True Loves, but I'd be lying if I said the nosiness couldn't use some weeding out."

"Stop playing games, Hunter. What kind of magic are you keeping in there?"

"Are you going to give it back or not?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

He sighed, a low whistling noise.

"I had rather hoped you'd let this be cut and dry and things wouldn't have to get…messy."

"Just not that kind of gal, I guess." She deadpanned.

"At least you'll forgive me when this is all through." He said, almost as an aside. "Alright, then. We'll have it your way. Remember this is happening because of your games, darling. It's unbecoming of you to play keep away."

"Do you have something important to say or are you just wasting our time?" Her fingers gripped tighter around the railing. "I'd expect more from you, hon."

The endearment seared her tongue as it came out without a thought. Was that the kind of person she was?

"I've missed that." The bird said softly. "I'm sorry it pains you now. Loving me."

Emma turned her face so that her field of vision was flooded with apple trees, her jaw clenched.

"That can end soon." Siegfried promised. "The pain. I'm afraid love is a bit harder to shake."

"Get out of here."

"I can't." There was no more play in his voice, nothing coy. There wasn't even any warmth. If Emma wasn't mistaken, there wasn't anything but a kind of lament.

"You've got wings and an open sky, haven't you?"

"Emma. See, I know that's the part of you I'm talking to now. The one that shies away from us. That's alright. But Emma, you want to stick around for this. Because you've taken something important from me."

"And?"

"So of course I've taken something important to you."

Emma's gaze snapped back to the bird. He stared back unflinchingly, the weak light from the overcast sky illuminating a patch of feathers.

"What did you do." The utterance wasn't even kin to a question, it was low with a dread ready to be kindled into something brighter. More lethal.

"Your son, Emma Swan." He had no right to sound so somber.

Emma fought every impulse within her screaming to lunge, to rip and tear until Henry was back in her arms, untouched.

"You've made a mistake." She bit out.

"I've made many. And this is the purgatory I bear. I'd suggest you not lead me to greaten my sins, then. Meet me in the clearing, at sun down next. Bring the bottle. Let's not pretend you'll be alone."

"You're going to regret this."

"Oh, Emma." He said, shuffling his wings. "I already do."

He turned from her then, facing the storm slowly bleeding into the sky.

"Don't kill the messenger, would you?"

When the bird turned back, its eyes were devoid of amber light. The darkness of its pupils swallowed her whole as it quirked its head, startled to find itself so close to a human. It flew off in the next instant, leaving Emma to sink against the stark fence. She dug into her jacket pocket, retrieving her cell phone. She blindly punched in Regina's number, her heart was going to fast—she was so mad—she was reeling-

"Emma? What's up? Did you find something useful in the books?"

"He took him." She said hoarsely, the words barely audible.

"What? Speak up, Emma."

"Henry." He'd only been going back to school consistently for a few weeks. She thought it was good now. Safe now.

"Henry? What about Henry? Emma!" Her own name rapped against her ear as Regina grew harried with her silence.

"He's gone."