Chapter 29

It was getting light, away over the cluttered industrial docklands east along the river, by the time they returned to the city, which was almost quiet except for the earliest commuters and latest partiers. Emma, Henry, Will, and Liam were too stunned to say much, and even the wolves had no sardonic comments to offer, not after what had happened, what they had seen their former mortal enemy do. They had scoured the mansion from foundation to attic, looking for some kind of user's manual, cheat code, convenient magical MacGuffin, doorway that might open into an alternate dimension, second dose of antidote, or anything else that might help them summon the cage back and find a way to free Killian without either a) him immediately dying of cedar poisoning or b) unloosing Gold as well to just pick up right where he had left off. They had been comprehensively thwarted in any and all of these attempts. Liam found Gold's potion cabinet, but it had been emptied. There were plenty of evil-looking sorcerous accessories that they decided it was better not to touch, as clearly this was not a problem they could solve by blindly grabbing things, waving them, and shouting abracadabra. But nowhere was it even hinted what their next step should be. Nobody could read the present copy of Liber incarcerati, since it was written half in Latin and half in Gold's personal cipher; even Liam and Henry together could only make out one word in four. There was still the Book of the Dead, but likewise, Killian had been the only one fluent in hieroglyphs. The only people who could read these books, and thus hopefully tell them how to get the cage back, save Killian, and keep Gold trapped, were Killian and Gold themselves, and that was just no damn good at all.

Thus, morale was decidedly low as they stepped out into Liverpool Street station, pushed through the turnstiles (one of the wolves had lost his ticket, and just snarled at the barrier, which was actually intimidated into opening) and shuffled into the Underground, caught the Central line to Holborn, and just walked the few minutes from there to Russell Square. It was definitely sunrise by now, but Henry, the only vampire among their number, didn't seem to notice. Any other fledgling should have been taking an extended nap on the pavement, but it was already plain that he was not your average fledgling. As for the wolves, while relations were not quite so repaired that they were ready to come in and have a cozy cup of tea in Killian Jones' kitchen, they could at least understand that Liam would have to deal with this. "Go with your family," Anita said, low-voiced. "I'll keep an eye on the pack."

Liam paused, then nodded, leaned forward, and kissed her quickly on the cheek, before turning about and striding up the steps, the other three trailing along behind. Once they were inside, they discovered Regina, David, and Mary Margaret waiting tensely for news, none of them having slept a wink, and had to admit that it was both very good and very bad. On one hand, Gold was not likely to be causing trouble for the immediate future. On the other, well. . .

"Killian's last wish was for us to use the antidote to save Zelena," Emma said, trying to sound as cool and matter-of-fact as she could, but her voice wavered. "Where is she?"

Regina hesitated for a long moment, looking down at her hands clenched on her own knees. Finally she said, "There's a supernatural infirmary ward just over on Great Ormond Street. Probably there."

"We'll go right away," Emma said. "Henry and I, that is. I thought. . . you should come with us."

Regina flinched, but didn't demur. She had no immediate biting response at the thought of accompanying a delegation to save her sister; indeed she had been very subdued since hearing what Killian had done. Despite the centuries' worth of troubled relations between the vampire siblings, it was more and more evident that at heart, they still cared deeply for each other and were inextricably entwined with the other's slow, stumbling path both into and out of the darkness, no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise. Instead she said, "Are you sure about this, Emma? You're not a vampire any more, you're technically not Zelena's daughter. If you give her the antidote, and she doesn't want anything to do with you. . . are you going to feel like honoring Killian's sacrifice was worth it? You could still save it and use it to cure him if. . . when you find the cage again. You don't have to be a stupid noble idiot just because he was."

"Yes," Emma said steadily. "I do. As for Zelena rejecting me. . . she could, I suppose. But I don't think so. And if it is the case that I'm never going to see Killian again – which I don't accept, by the way – then I'm not living whatever time I have, before I forget, knowing I didn't do what he asked me to. And I don't think you really want that either."

Regina was out of excuses. She hesitated a final moment, then got brusquely to her feet. "Fine. You'll need me along to protect you if Zelena does decide to hop back on the crazy broom. Now that you're a mortal, it might not be a bad idea to invest in some Krav Maga lessons."

Emma smiled wanly, picking up her coat. Without the benefit of supernatural endurance, and after the bruiser of the last few days, she was feeling as if sleep was sorely needed but still far distant. "Thank you, Regina."

Regina huffed and looked away, but buttoned up her stylish trench and waited as Henry likewise pulled his jacket back on. Making sure the antidote was still safely in Emma's pocket, the three of them headed down the steps into the chilly, quiet spring morning and across the square; it was only a quick walk to Great Ormond Street. The entrance to the supernatural hospital was a discreet cast-iron arch just around the corner from the regular one, and they signed in as Emma looked around in avid curiosity. It looked like your average medical center, albeit with slightly antique décor to make its several-hundred-year-old patients feel at home; there were wards for silver injuries, excessive-mesmer mental issues, a poison-control center for hypochondriac vampires who thought they had been exposed to garlic or salt or holy water (it didn't really do much as an active deterrent anymore, but there were plenty of urban legends about it), a large blood bank, a drunk tank where unruly werewolves were deposited to sober up from bar brawls, and doctors, nurses, and assistants in surgical scrubs as usual, even if a few of them also had fangs and/or tails. As she looked at the plaque for the psychiatry department, Emma wondered if they had something to help her – seeing as memory loss was one of the chief side effects of too much or misused mesmer, surely they had some kind of pill or prescription or whatever. But since all their remedies were calculated for supernaturals, there was no guarantee that they would work on a human. She wondered if this was how people with terminal diseases felt; knowing you were definitely going to die (or in her case, forget) before much longer engendered a peculiar blend of fearlessness and desperation. Losing Killian, on top of her already-pronounced sentence of amnesia, really just felt like insult on injury.

"Mom?" Henry touched her arm. "Are you okay?"

Emma shook herself. "Yeah. I guess. Come on, then. Let's do this."

They took the lift up to the intensive-care unit, where Zelena had been put into isolation; they had to sanitize their hands and put on masks before they could be admitted into her room. Emma had a sudden memory of visiting Neal in the hospital after the car accident – well, Neal's body, he had been DOA. Left Henry with the neighbor, gone out at four AM to make the positive identification, sign the death certificate, collect his possessions from the plastic tub – his wallet and keys and that stupid Carlton Fisk mini-bobblehead he kept on his dashboard, somehow completely untouched despite the fact that the car had been totaled. Asked and been allowed a few minutes to say goodbye; covered with a sheet, only his face visible, Neal looked almost peaceful. She wished then, with all her heart, that their last words hadn't been an argument about the divorce. That he hadn't stormed out and been T-boned by some drunk college kid at a red light on Commonwealth Avenue. That was different from wanting him alive, wanting him back, as she had already known that the best thing for her, for both of them, was to let go. But this still seemed so unfair, so pointless. Still wanting, somehow, the universe to make sense. To be kind.

She'd stood there for a long moment, looking at him, trying to think of something to say, wondering if his spirit was still close enough to hear. Nothing came to mind. Then she had leaned down, kissed his forehead, and pulled the sheet up. Somehow found the strength – or perhaps it had been there all along – turned, and walked away.

Now, Emma knuckled at her eyes as they stepped in, looking at Zelena seeming rather small and insignificant among the white sheets and sterile machinery. A nurse was checking her vitals, which were rather different for a vampire than for a human; you couldn't exactly keep track of breathing and heart rate. But upon seeing them, she glanced up. "Are you Ms. Mills' family?"

That hit Emma in an odd, vulnerable spot. "I. . . yes, we are. Can we have a minute, please?"

The nurse paused, then nodded. She marked something on the chart, then withdrew, leaving the three of them awkwardly congregated around the bed. Emma's hands were shaking, so she clenched them, then reached into her pocket and removed the vial of antidote, forcing away a horrible last-minute suspicion that it was actually poison, and Gold had tricked them all in hopes of getting Killian to drink it. But then, seeing as he was already poisoned, that wouldn't have done much good, and it did look the same, as far as she could tell on rough inspection, as whatever Liam had given Killian back in New York. She thumbed the cap open, slid a hand beneath Zelena's tumbled ginger curls, and lifted her head, bringing the vial to her lips.

Regina and Henry watched tensely as Emma managed to get most of the antidote into Zelena. She hoped a doctor wouldn't abruptly enter and think they were trying to finish off one of the patients on the sly, or administering some unauthorized drug; if this had been some low trick of Gold's, there might not be anything that even supernatural medicine could do. Zelena's pale skin was heavily streaked with black veins of corruption, the stake wound in her chest packed and padded with gauze, her eyelids almost translucent, and as Emma tipped the last drops into her mouth, nothing visibly changed. The monitors continued to beep steadily. Silence.

Then, all at once, the black streaks started to fade, replaced with a healthy porcelain glow. The gauze began to smoke and singe, curling and twisting, until Emma peeled up an edge and saw only a thick pink scab where the ugly entrance wound had been. Zelena's chest heaved, drawing an instinctive breath, and her eyes fluttered, a slit of luminous green showing beneath her lashes. Her hand came up, groping, trailing a cluster of IV tubing. "Em. . . Emma?"

"Hi." Emma allowed Zelena's weak fingers to interlace with her own. "You'll want to take it easy. You've had a rough few days."

"What. . ." Zelena's eyes opened further, as she discovered that she was in a hospital bed with her estranged sister and her freshly vampired grandson standing and goggling at her from the foot of it. "Were you. . . all about. . . to dissect my cadaver for science?"

"Actually, no. We were. . . we were helping you get better. Thank you. For what you did. Throwing yourself between me and Nimue like that."

Zelena looked as if she wanted to say something, but words were clearly too painful, so she smiled feebly. After a moment she managed, "What else. . . was I supposed to do? You are. . . my daughter."

"Actually," Emma said again, sensing Regina and Henry shift their weight in case they needed to suddenly interfere. "Just so you know, technically. . . I'm not. I stopped Nimue, but using the scales. . . it took away my immortality. I'm a human now. And if what she said is true, I'm going to forget. Everything. This world, all of you. I don't know if I can stop it or not. And I. . ." She hesitated, feeling her voice about to break. "Thought you deserved to know. Why you were saved, that is. Killian insisted that the sole dose of antidote be yours, and voluntarily imprisoned himself in Merlin's old cage with Gold. I don't know if we'll ever get him out or see him again, or even be able to save him if we did. We've paid a terrible price for your life. I hope it's the right thing to do." Despite her best efforts, the tears were flowing freely, her shoulders shaking. "Please don't make me have lost him for nothing. Please."

Zelena looked stunned, and then her own eyes filled with tears. Without a word, she reached up, put her hand in Emma's tangled hair, and pulled her head down to rest on her shoulder. Emma did not resist, so bone-tired of being strong and so utterly hollowed and desolate inside; it was too much to pay, too much. She wept, letting Zelena stroke her hair, feeling Henry move to put a hand on her back, and even Regina took an uncomfortable few steps toward her side. Other than that, an almost trancelike silence reigned over the hospital room. Emma did not want to get up, to go on, to open her eyes, to stand up or remember her name, to surface among the endless, trackless seas, to do anything except let go, and drift. Let the current take her, the deep. Wash up on some far shore, somewhere strange and new. To begin again, somewhere beneath an endless sky. If it was her lot to forget, she just wanted it over. Couldn't stand this, and breathe.

At last, Emma shakily pulled herself together, biting down the sobs that still wanted to come out of somewhere very raw, some unutterable abyss of love and loss. The parents she had never known, dying to save her. Neal, lying on that hospital bed, already gone before they could ever make it right. The way Henry's face had looked as he got into the car with the Nolans, his new parents, and she had sat in the Bug in the parking lot of the adoption agency, crying until she was sick. All the years as a vampire, alone. Looking back at Killian, I love you, as she vanished; Killian looking back at her as he did the same. I love you. It didn't seem to matter much, in the end. Didn't seem to count for anything but the deepest and most terrible of damages.

Henry offered her a tissue, and she wiped her ruined makeup away, sniffling. Zelena was still holding her hand, and seemed to be about to attempt sitting up. Regina silently rearranged her pillows, and the Mills sisters exchanged a startled look; it must have been the most cordial they had been in as long as either of them could remember. Indeed, now that the antidote had taken full effect, Zelena pulled out her various tubes and injectors and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I don't want to go prancing about in a hospital gown. Has anyone got my clothes?"

"I imagine they were ruined by the staking," Regina said, her own voice sounding rusty. "You're a witch, can't you just conjure up some new ones?"

"Maybe ordinarily, but I am feeling a tad short on magic just this moment. Besides, why would you make your own clothes like a peasant when it's so much more fun to buy them?" Zelena looked miffed. "I really don't fancy loo-paper chic, so – "

"I'll run to Primark for you," Henry said. "What size do you wear, Grandma?"

"Grandma?" Zelena blinked in astonishment. "That makes me sound so. . . geriatric."

"Well, it's what you are," Henry pointed out. "Though I suppose you're also my aunt twice over, because Regina and Killian are my blood parents, and you're their sister. I could call you that if you prefer, seeing as I have to accept that my family tree is really, really fucked up."

Zelena still looked rather ruffled at the "Grandma" business – but also, however much she tried to hide it, pleased. "Aunt will work," she said, almost shyly. "I wear a small to medium. Please, for the love of Bram Stoker, do not buy anything polyester."

Henry, biting a smile, promised that he would not, and departed. Shortly thereafter, the nurse returned, was flabbergasted to find that her patient previously at death's door had made a full recovery in the span of ten minutes, and insisted on running several diagnostics, to which Zelena submitted with eye-rolling bad grace. She managed not to either complain too much or kill the nurse, however, and when she had been given a clean bill of health, said, "Well, that took forever. Now that you're done, munchkin, you really should toddle off and do something about your hair. Thank heavens I was unconscious and didn't have to look at it."

Emma cleared her throat.

"By which I mean. . ." Zelena paused and tried again. It was clearly difficult for her to relate to people on any other level than the reflexively glib and destructive, the place Killian and Regina had lived for so long and had struggled so hard to overcome, but she seemed aware that the effort had to be made. "Thank you for taking care of me. I don't think anyone ever has. Now, really. I'll give you forty quid, go visit the salon."

Zelena reached for her purse and pulled out a few crumpled twenty-pound notes, which she handed to the nurse, looking almost proud of herself as the long-suffering supernatural health care professional exited. "You know," she said. "This is rather fun."

Emma managed a smile. "You've got a few kinks to work out, but you're going in the right direction. But I have a question, since you and Nimue worked together. Do you. . . do you by chance read hieroglyphs?"

"The Book of the Dead?" Zelena frowned. "No, darling, I don't. It's very boring and fussy, and besides, I never saw the actual thing, after all. Why?"

"I just thought. . . if there was something in there about how to bring the cage back and free Killian. . ."

Zelena considered. Then she said, "If there's anyone who would know how, it's Arthur. He spent ages studying Merlin's magic and writings and prophecies – rather unhelpfully, obviously – and then after that, Nimue's. But after what just went on, I doubt he's feeling in a cooperative mood. It would so ruin his broody sulk and track record of never making the right decision."

Regina cleared her throat even louder than Emma had, as if to remind Zelena that since her own glass house was still so freshly demolished, she should probably refrain from chucking stones at anyone else's. But what she said was, "Is there any way you could convince him?"

"Honestly, sis, I don't know." Zelena shrugged. "I could try. But what am I supposed to tell him? He's sitting in prison, he's deposed as Potentate, the witan is going to thoroughly review the Old Ones registry and discover all his squirrely dealings – I have nothing to bargain with. And as you've probably gathered, he's not an altruist."

"Maybe Henry can help you," Emma said. "He was the one trying to remind Arthur that he's supposed to be the once and future king, the hero, back at the mansion before all hell broke loose. Arthur's crazy and dangerous and vain and misguided, yes, but I still don't think he's completely evil. There has to be something that can reach him."

"Well, Henry and I can drop by, if you want," Zelena said. "Do you have the Book with you?"

Emma hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out the ancient papyrus scrolls. She heard Regina's hiss at the thought of handing this much power over to Zelena – if she was, however improbably, still playing them to gain their trust and steal the Book from them, to complete Nimue's noble work and take over the world. Emma herself had a moment of doubt, but squared her shoulders and made up her mind. "Here. I hope I don't need to tell you to be careful."

"I'll be careful." Zelena took it, did something with her fingers, and converted it back into a fireball, which she stashed tidily in her purse. "There. Less risk of damage that way. While Henry and I are paying our prison visit, there's somewhere else you could look. There's a professor of folklore and supernatural history at the University of London – also a vampire and an Old One, so you can be assured he knows what he's talking about. Bit too goody two-shoes for my taste, but he may be able to point you in the direction of any other magic or Arthurian rubbish that could help. Here's his card." She dug in her purse again and handed it over.

"Thanks," Emma said, genuinely touched. "We'll do that. Do you need a daylight shot? I mean, well, you're not two hundred yet, and considering what you've been through, your endurance might not exactly be where it should – "

Zelena shuddered. "I think I'll take my chances. We shouldn't be outside for long, anyway. Oh look, my wardrobe."

Henry was just making his reappearance with a few Primark bags, and while the ignominy of dressing in discount fashion was clearly considerable, Zelena sighed deeply and vanished into the bathroom with no further comment. She reemerged in a few minutes, informed Henry of the plan, and once he had agreed to accompany her on a visit to Arthur in the vampire clink, turned back to Emma. "I. . ." she said awkwardly. "I don't know how to. . . I just. . . thank you."

"You saved my life at Arthur's. I. . . wanted to return the favor," Emma answered just as awkwardly. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, until they finally stepped forward, knocked into each other, and tentatively hugged, for the very first time. She still wasn't up to calling Zelena "Mom" yet, but also for the first time, imagined – hoped – that a day might come when she would. If I can make it long enough to remember it.

With that, she and Regina departed on their own errand, emerging into what was now a damp midmorning and retracing their steps back to Russell Square and across to the University of London. After some scouting among the identical square white buildings, they found the office they were looking for, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door, standing tensely until it was answered. The professor was apparently enough of an Old One to keep daylight hours; tall, handsome, scruffy, and sandy-haired, he was charming and gracious when they explained their unusual errand, sympathetic for their loss, and promised that if they had a minute, he would pop by the Institute of Historical Research and fetch a few books for them. As they sat in chairs across from his desk, waiting for him to return, Regina said abruptly, "Did he suffer? Killian?"

"He. . ." Emma's throat had closed. "He was determined. He read the Book of the Dead and I used its power, we fought back against Gold and did what had to be done. I wanted him to take the antidote, but he wouldn't. He said that since time doesn't exist in the cage, he couldn't get any worse, and so if he was alive when he went in, he'd stay that way. I don't know what good that ultimately does him, though. Merlin said that heartbreak could get him out of the cage, and it worked when Henry was turned, but I don't think it'll work this time."

Regina closed her eyes briefly, but her face remained impassive. After a moment she said, "At least he stopped Gold for good, at last. Maybe they were destined to go like that. Together." She snorted a mirthless laugh. "Odds on which one drives the other insane first?"

Emma wanted to answer, but couldn't. Didn't want to think of Killian trapped for all eternity with his mortal enemy, frozen at the moment of what otherwise should have been his death. Fortunately, she was spared by the return of the professor, carrying an armload of reassuringly thick and musty old books. "Had to dig these out from deep in the archives," he explained, "and technically you're not allowed to take them off campus, but I signed them out supposedly for my research purposes. Just don't spill any tea on them or anything, and we'll call it square."

"Thank you so much." Emma let out another unsteady breath, touching the worn-out gilt title on the cover of the top book: An Comprehynsive Compendivme of Ancient English Practicall Magick & Sorcerye. "You've been very helpful, and. . . look, this is a bit of an odd request and you don't have any obligation, but my – well, our, I'm his biological mother and Regina's his blood mother – our son is an English professor at Harvard. At least he was, I don't know if there will be a job waiting for him when he gets back. He was turned into a vampire a few weeks ago, and I was wondering if you might, you know. Be able to give him pointers on how to balance it with working in human academia. I realize you're a lot older than he is, so it's different, but. . . there can't be a ton of others like you two, and it would. . . it would mean a lot to us."

"I'd be delighted," the professor said gently. "What's his email?"

Emma scribbled down Henry's Harvard address and then, after a moment, his personal Gmail one as well, thinking he probably wouldn't mind. They found a set of disused cartons to put the books in, so they wouldn't be strolling out with old and valuable volumes tucked under their arms, and he helped carry them down the steps and across the way to Russell Square. After they had deposited them in Killian's living room and he was about to head back to work, he said, "Anything else you need, please do be in touch. We're practically neighbors, after all."

"Thank you." Regina looked at him for a long moment. "Really. We're indebted, Dr. Locksley. Very. . . very much so."

"Please," he said, and smiled at her. "Call me Robin."


Zelena and Henry weren't back yet. Will had gone home to shower, call Elsa, and catch a few winks of sleep. Liam had returned to the pack to make sure the last trouble spots had been snuffed out and there was no more chance of a war starting, whether accidentally or on purpose. Regina said she was going to head down to the witan and borrow a drone for a feed, and David and Mary Margaret had dozed off on the couch. So Emma wandered upstairs by herself, down the hall into the dim master bedroom, and shut the door behind her, leaning against it as her knees wanted to give out, but she would not let them. She wondered how Old Ones bore the weight of centuries, when even fifty years felt like an impossible burden. She would not cry; she had wept her fill back at the hospital, and now she was dry, arid, tearless. She wanted to start reading the books Robin had found, but had no idea what to look out for or whether it was advisable to even get her hopes up at all. But it didn't matter. She had to turn over every rock, follow every avenue, do whatever she could to see if there was any possible way to undo this, to bring Killian back. Forgetting or not, she couldn't live with herself if she didn't.

Supposing she should get some rest as well, Emma crawled into bed, pulling the sheets up and breathing the faint scent of him that still lingered. She felt almost detached, floating, as if she was in a small refuge far from the world, as if she could in fact forget everything for just a sweet short while. She reached over to the other side of the bed, rolling the quilts and pressing her knuckles into it, trying to imagine that Killian was there, but couldn't quite conjure the illusion long enough to comfort herself. She had never in her life been so very, very lonely.

Despite everything, she must have dropped off, because she awoke some indeterminate time later, sore and groggy, to the sound of voices from downstairs. Groaning, she rolled out of bed, wondered if dying from being a vampire made you a zombie, and figured that she both looked and felt the part. After a brief visit to the bathroom to correct the worst of these disfigurements, she headed down, unable to repress a passing, ludicrous hope that Killian had just arrived on the train from Essex and walked home to be very surprised at all the industry on his behalf.

It wasn't. It was Zelena and Henry, looking tired but pleased with themselves. They were carrying a folder filled with a stack of notebook pages, scrawled on both sides with an elegant black hand, and Emma's jaw dropped. "Did you actually get Arthur to translate the Book of the Dead?"

"Yeah," Henry said modestly. "I had to work on him for about an hour, but he finally came around. It was. . . I don't know how to describe the feeling. I mean, when you're sitting there talking to one of your longtime literary heroes, who's actually real but not so much a hero, asking him to make sense of one of the most famous old manuscripts in the world so you have a chance to save your dad from Merlin's cage. . . what would you call it, exactly?"

Emma's heart clenched at hearing Henry refer to Killian as his father – well, it was the truth, they'd been fumbling their way into establishing the boundaries of their strange little family all day long. She glanced at David, as if expecting him to take umbrage that his proprietary designation had been usurped, but he didn't. So she said, "Henry, that's amazing. We're so proud of you. Do you – do you need a break? We don't want to run you ragged."

"I think I'm good for now, if I can just grab a feed first." Henry flashed a crooked grin. "Aunt Zelena and I are going to get cracking on this and the books, but it would go faster if we had someone to help. Someone who knows magic and all this kind of stuff." With that, he turned his head and looked at Regina. "Mom?"

For a long moment, Regina was at a loss, as that was likewise the first time Henry had ever called her that. She opened and shut her mouth, as Emma was left to consider that in a very real way, it was Henry – this brave, compassionate, clever, wise, wonderful man – who had brought their jagged pieces together, who was making them into a real family. Her, Killian, Liam, Regina, Zelena, in all their damages and their disasters and their flaws. He had been the one who had stubbornly insisted in turn and to all of them, when they could not in the least believe it themselves, that they mattered, that they were worth saving, that whatever dark and terrible place they were in did not have to be the end. He would help do it again for Killian now. And it was in that moment of knowing, of seeing what a truly fine adult he had become – that he was grown up, not that boy she had had to give up when he was ten years old, not knowing how and not knowing why – that Emma felt, at last, something unlock and let go inside her. The burden of the guilt she had borne unceasingly for these twenty-two years, of thinking she could have done better, that she had failed him. Some small part of her would still always wonder what might have been, but she hadn't. She and all his other parents had not failed in the least. And in turn, and just as faithfully, Henry refused to fail them. Never would. No matter what.

Regina took a deep breath as Emma did likewise, both of them discreetly rubbing their eyes as Henry waited for their answer. Finally Regina said, very softly, "If the two of you would trust me to do that. . ." Her eyes flickered to her sister. "I would be happy to help."

Emma was expecting Zelena to have something smart to say; neither of the Mills women were ever lacking in that regard. But instead, she seemed equally taken off guard, searching for the words. Then instead, she held out her hand. "Peace?"

Regina looked at her, then nodded. They grasped hold, shook as formally as if sealing a business arrangement – and then, startling each other, pulled instead into a fierce, silent embrace, which likewise must have been the first one they had ever shared. They rocked back and forth, as Emma and Henry caught each other's eye over their heads. She wanted to say how proud she was, how very, very proud, but likewise, all the words she could think of seemed trite and flimsy, insufficient. So she just reached out, took hold of his hand, and held on.

After another moment, Regina and Zelena broke apart, coughing and looking rather embarrassed. "Well," Regina said, clearing her throat. "Those books aren't going to read themselves. Should we get started?"

Her intrepid assistants agreed, and they trooped into the kitchen, which had been converted into a makeshift research den; Henry looked delighted, as he clearly hadn't been in this much nerd heaven since taking his leave of absence from Harvard. Emma wanted to help them, or at least keep them company, but she found it alternately nerve-wracking and tedious to sit there and watch them read. Her pulse kept spiking every time they hurried to write something down, praying that this was it, this was the break in the case, and then the disappointment when it wasn't felt like twisting the knife. Finally, as she was getting up to wander restlessly back to the living room, David Nolan appeared at the other end of the hallway. "Emma, how about Mary Margaret and I take you to dinner? Now that. . . now that you're human, I mean. It seems a bit of a shame to come to London and not get to actually enjoy any of it."

"I. . ." Emma remembered Nimue telling her that Snow and James had been a bit like the Nolans, that perhaps she had been unconsciously searching for what she had never known she had lost. "I'd like that. Thank you."

They got their coats and stepped out into the evening, walking in the city glow as black cabs and Ubers and delivery vans and red double-decker buses sloshed by them, in no hurry to find a place and doing their best to simply breathe. It was misting lightly, so David opened a large umbrella and offered one arm to his wife and then the other to Emma. She paused, then took it, abjectly grateful for this quiet, steadfast gesture of sympathy. No elaborate displays, no pitying her, no sermons about how he was sorry for her loss – just letting her know that he was there, and would be there, if there was anything he could do to make this wretched ordeal in the least bit easier. She didn't know if that was possible, but for now, at least, it was.

They ended up somewhere in Notting Hill, elegant rowhouses and flowering trees lining the winding streets and neighborhood markets shutting up shop for the night, in a dim Italian place with a basket of delicious, buttery garlic bread and several bottles of wine. It was still strange to eat human food again, but not quite as much as before, and as they were waiting for their entrees, David said, "We've been thinking. If things don't work out as we hope, and you return to Boston by yourself. . . we don't want you to be alone. If you wanted to move in with us in Lexington, there's plenty of space in the house with the boys gone. We'd be just your roommates, and you'd certainly have your boundaries and your privacy. We don't expect anything, any money, nothing like that. If you'd rather stay in your apartment, we understand, but. . ."

Emma had to swallow hard, as it briefly felt as if the garlic bread had gotten stuck in her throat. "That's very. . . very kind of you. You've certainly been a wonderful place for Henry to grow up, and I can't thank you enough for that. I just. . . I don't know. I appreciate the offer, but I can't decide now. I. . ." She trailed off, twisting her hands in her lap. Half to herself, she said, "I just really want Killian to come home."

Mary Margaret looked at her softly. "And you don't want to make any plans for what happens if he doesn't, because it would feel like you'd given up hope. You've been so brave, Emma, for so long. I know it doesn't necessarily feel like you have been, or that everything you've lost has been worth it, but this city is safe, the world will go on, and countless thousands – perhaps millions – of people, whether mortal or supernatural, owe their lives to you, the war you stopped and the sacrifices you made to defeat Nimue and then do it again with Gold. I know as well we've mostly had to watch from the sidelines, but believe me. We've noticed. And if the time comes when you need someone to be there for you, we want to do that for you."

Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Finally she said, "Maybe it was just destiny, because I was the universus. The same thing anyone would – would have to – have done."

"No," Mary Margaret said firmly. "It wasn't. As you've learned, if one thing has mattered at all through this entire ordeal, it's our choices. Your choices. And in the worst of times, every time, you did the most difficult and heroic thing. That may be a poor consolation prize to you, but it should not be underestimated. I hope you can eventually come to terms with that."

"If I don't just forget it," Emma said, barely above a whisper. "If this doesn't all vanish in the gloaming, and I don't even realize the weight of what I lost."

Mary Margaret didn't answer, but reached over the table and squeezed her hand, and the two women held hard for a long moment. More wine was poured all around, and they ate slowly, in proper Italian fashion, as the restaurant emptied around them. Finally, they left quite late and, not wanting to walk across the city at this hour, hailed a cab back to Russell Square. All of them were yawning as they headed up the steps of the house, but inside, the research colloquium was proceeding undimmed. At the sight of them, Henry looked up with an odd expression. "Hey. How was dinner?"

"It was. . . it was nice." Emma shucked her coat, noting that Regina and Zelena were looking at her as well. "What happened? What's going on? Did you figure something out?"

The three of them traded significant glances. Finally, it was Henry who was silently elected spokesman. "We have good news and bad news. You might want to take a seat."

Emma's heart lurched. Feeling as if she had been invited into the doctor's office to discuss some not-promising scan results, she sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, David and Mary Margaret positioning themselves bracingly behind her. She twisted her hands together, trying to tell herself that she was ready to hear this, whatever it was, when she knew she probably wasn't. "Okay?"

"Well," Henry said. "The good news. We can make a potion that can stop you from forgetting. It's pretty vile stuff, and you'd have to take it every month, but it should do the trick. Zelena would want to mess with the formula first and make sure it was properly adapted for a human, but that wouldn't take too long. So that's cool, right?"

"Yeah," Emma said, lips starting to go numb. God, how she had hoped the good news was about Killian. "Pretty cool. Nice job, that's great." The next words had to be wrestled out. "So. . . the other news is. . .?"

Henry grimaced, looking at the women, as he clearly did not want to be the one to do this. After a long moment, Regina spoke, in a calm, clinical tone. "From everything we've looked at, all the spells we've gone through, Arthur's translation of the Book of the Dead and the ones Robin brought. . . there is no way to open the cage a second time. I don't know if it was supposed to be possible to get Merlin out at all, but there you have it. We can't even bring it back; we tried reading the incantation that you and Killian used at the mansion to summon it, and nothing happened. I don't know if it's only effective in hieroglyphs or what, but that doesn't seem likely. The cage is an eternal prison, that was its whole point. Maybe if Merlin was still alive, we could get him to tell us something, but as he's not. . ." She looked at Emma helplessly. "I'm sorry."

There was a very long, very terrible silence.

"We have to get an Egyptologist from the university or the British Museum," Emma said faintly. "We have to have them read it in the original, just in case. Maybe Arthur didn't translate the papyri correctly. Maybe there are more books Robin missed the first time around. We have to keep looking. There has to be something."

"Maybe," Regina said gently. "But the chances of that being the case are very, very small. We can keep hope, of course. If nothing else, we've seen that almost anything is possible. But you have to understand that that's a dream, a fantasy. The reality as we see it now is that neither Killian nor Gold are ever coming back."

"There has to be something." Emma bolted to her feet, even as David and Mary Margaret reached to put quelling hands on her shoulders. "There has to be something! There have to be other supernatural libraries, old manuscripts, references to Merlin's magic. We could go back and get Liber incarcerati from the mansion – we could – "

"Mom." Henry was clearly trying very hard to keep it together. "If there was any other way, any other possibility, any faint lead that any of us saw, we would have told you, I promise. We're not conspiring to keep something from you. All of us will do whatever we can for you, but. . ."

"Where's Liam?" Emma demanded. "Will? Do they know? Have you asked the wolves if there are any resources on their end?"

"They're on their way over," Henry said quietly. "I called them and told them we had something they should probably hear."

That took her like a bullet in the heart. The world reeled under her, and the next moment, she was on her knees, not entirely certain how she had gotten there or if she was ever planning to stand up again. David was kneeling next to her, holding her shoulders hard, and she had a brief sensation that she was outside her own body and looking down at it, observing like a scientist in a laboratory. They got her up and back into her chair; she didn't even care. She stared flatly at the wall, aware they were still talking but not taking in a word of it. Barely registered Liam and Will's subsequent arrival or the way Henry took them privately aside into the living room, and barely heard a howl, something thrown at the wall and hitting it with a crash. Didn't even turn around or wonder more than in passing which one of them it had been. Just remained where she was, unmoving. She wanted to shout at them for giving up, for deciding in one evening that there was no remaining avenue, even as the more coldly logical part of her brain reminded her that there had scarcely been a chance in the first place. Killian had known when he went into the cage that he wasn't coming out again, and yet she couldn't even mourn him properly, because he wasn't actually dead. Just frozen, trapped beyond the walls of time, out of sight and out of space and out of reach, the ghost in the machine. Would he even notice how long it had been? Would he still be there at the uttermost end, billions and billions of years from now, watching the stars collapse in and the sun snuff out, the fabric of the universe fold in on itself for the last time? That was, after all, immortality in its purest form, the true terror of never being able, under any circumstances, to die. That almost made her grateful, in a sick and demented way, that for whatever reason, supernaturals still could.

She continued to sit there as the eddies of conversation went back and forth above her head. It felt as if they were at a wake, as if they might open beers and start fondly reminiscing about Killian's life, laughter and tears and trying to begin the healing process, to move on. The way people did when they lost a loved one, when they had no choice but to face it and find their pieces once again. Absolutely everyone would at some point in their life, or had, or feared the day that they did. She certainly was no stranger to it. Yet this just stretched before her impassably and to all sides, into the wings of heaven and the reaches of hell, with no way above or around or under or through. Just there, forever.

Someone poured her a drink. She sipped it; it tasted like rum. Regina sat down next to her, not saying a word, and poured herself one as well, clearly not caring that technically she couldn't drink it. Finally she said, "Do you want me to make the memory potion, Emma? As soon as Zelena tests it, of course. We could get that done for you, if you wanted."

"I. . ." Emma looked around at them, feeling her voice come out of her like a stranger's, like a ventriloquist's puppet. At the sound of it, they turned toward her, as if the bereaved widow was going to say a few words, thank them for the support. Not that was even what I am. "All of you have been very. . ." She stopped, tried again. "I'm glad that you. . ." No, not that either. It was like walking down a long, empty seashore, the waves curling away into the distance, washing out her footprints behind her. No looking back. Could not bear to.

"I'm a human now," she said instead, as if they somehow hadn't noticed. "And I don't know if I want to keep taking drugs for the rest of my life, hanging around on the periphery of your world, when I can't get back to it and I can't move on and I can't do anything but stay in that moment, suffering. That would be just as if I had gone into the cage myself, and I don't think K. . . Killian would want that. I don't think I could ever truly forget any of you. Somewhere, some part of me will always hold onto you. But I. . . I can't. I can't stay here, I can't be in the supernatural world, without him. And if I want to have anything really left of whatever time I do have. . ." She closed her eyes, and felt her heart, with a small, delicate click, snap very gently and quietly in half. "I have to let go."

Nobody said a word. Likely they couldn't either. The weight of the silence was beyond that, beyond any leavening. She heard Mary Margaret's words from dinner again. And in the worst of times, every time, you did the most difficult and heroic thing. As if it was supposed to matter. As if it could possibly be enough. As if this was anything but falling, and falling, and burning.

"But the potion," Zelena said at last, sounding as if she didn't quite understand. "Emma, we can make it for you. I'll work it out. Right away."

"I know you can." Emma opened her eyes. She felt almost light, as if there was finally nothing left inside her to lose. "But I don't want it. Maybe Nimue was wrong. Maybe I won't forget. As I said, I don't think I ever completely could. But if I want to live. . . I have to leave this world behind, and be what I am now. And I can't do that if I'm still tied to this and I can never, ever do anything but dwell on it. I can't heal from losing him. I can't start over if it's the only thing in my mind, and it would be. I was a vampire. I'll live for a while. I could have fifty more years. Maybe longer. He'll be with me, in a way. He always will. But it can't be like this."

"You won't forget me," Henry said. "I'll still be in Boston. I'm not going anywhere."

"No," Emma agreed. "I won't. I knew you before any of this happened, from your very beginnings. You'll still be my son. That will never change. But once I no longer know you're a vampire, once the rest of it is gone, then please. Don't try to remind me. I can think you have the same nocturnal hours as any academic and you have a fad diet. But I couldn't stand remembering, only to know that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it."

"We were supposed to have a home," Zelena said softly. "In Salem. I was going to fix up your room, with a window looking out over the bay. You could still live there. I'd say I was your. . ." She hesitated, in search of anything that could possibly suffice. "Your friend," she finished. "I'd say I was your friend."

"I'll visit you," Emma said, looking down at the table. "Henry can take me, a few years from now. Tell me that you're an old college buddy of his, something like that. But it has to be a while. The same goes if I ever come back to London. I just. . . I can't."

Once again, nobody had anything to say. The prospect was too raw, too impossible, even with all of them to share its burden. Knowing that they would stay in her life in some odd, invisible way – still around her, still seeing her every so often, but for her own good, agreeing not to remind her of who they used to be. She wondered then who they were mourning more: her or Killian, or both of them. As if since she had stopped Nimue, and he had stopped Gold, this was the price that came with it. Saved the world, and given up their own souls.

"Somebody do me a favor," she said at last, into the quiet. "I was. . . I wanted to start a blog on Fangd, a while ago. A sort of advice column for new vampires, helping them find their way in the supernatural world, so they didn't have to blindly make it up as they went. I didn't think I had anything useful to say, or that it would get off the ground, so I quit trying. But now, if you would. . . I think it would be a nice thing for you to remember me by. Even if I don't."

"I'll do it," Henry said, without a moment of hesitation. "I'll call it The Truth About Fangs."

Emma laughed despite herself, even as she was teetering on the brink of tears. "Sounds good."

"I'll help," Regina put in. "I obviously know a thing or two more than he does, so I'll see that it gets to the fledglings who need to read it. As long as you do us one favor in return."

"Yes?"

"Let us tell them who it's in memory of, and why. We won't tell you, as agreed. But they deserve to know. Our world deserves to know. If you forget, we. . . we never should."

Emma, once again finding no words that seemed to do, simply nodded. After another few moments she said, "I'll leave for Boston tomorrow. I think it's time I went home. It's enough, now. It's done. If I don't call or text, just. . . understand why."

"I'll drive you to the airport," Will volunteered. "No likelihood of you forgetting that, eh?"

"I'll come with you," Liam added, very quietly. "Make sure you get onto the plane safely, that you have money to pay whatever bills you might have fallen behind on. Whatever I can. For. . . for Killian's sake. I know he had quite a bit in the bank, and I'll make sure you get it. It should keep you for a while. I don't want you to go back to working in bail bonds."

Emma looked at him, then nodded again. Her future had turned nebulous, opaque, and her heart was broken for any number of reasons. What stretched before her felt half real, half dream, impossible and unreachable and necessary all at once. Her world had never felt so huge and so fragile and so precious all at once. She hungered very much to die, to sleep, to rest, almost as much as she still hungered, she hoped, she wanted, however foolishly, to live.

She reached for her glass of rum, as the others reached for theirs, and raised it. "To Killian," she said, and one more time, by candlelight, in the silence of the night, they drank.


He wasn't sure where he was, or even if it was a where. Or, for that matter, a when. Always in his very long life he had been inexorably aware of time, of its passing, of how long it had been, how long, how long. Since the moment when it changed and crumpled on him, when it was gone. Some vampires barely noticed the years at all, but he always had, no matter how much and how far he ran, into the momentary solace of drink or darkness or killing. It had always been an ever-widening tide between who he had been and who he was, a twisted, stunted, broken thing with no chance of living properly, undead state or otherwise. Just existing, unchanged, forever. Just going on. Whoever thought dying was hard had clearly never tried the alternative.

To be freed from that now was, therefore, baffling beyond belief. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it. He had a sensation as if he was floating, not a modicum of him or his thought or memory or grief anywhere else than here, and a rest too great for words. He wanted to lap in it, wanted to luxuriate in it, wanted to soak his weary bones and flesh and sinew and soul, but even thinking about it made him more aware, and then he began to recognize his pieces, himself. It mattered to him, somehow, that he still had it, even after how far he had fled in revulsion of it. Words. A name. Him.

Killian Bartholomew Jones opened his eyes.

For a long moment, he saw nothing but a formless glow, gentle and colorless – he thought it was white at first, but then it seemed green, or gold, or the soft rich rose of a summer sunset at sea. Then, slowly, as it gained more coherence, he realized that he wasn't outside, he was inside. Four walls, a ceiling. It looked like a tavern, but the cleanest and quietest tavern he'd been in, as there were no other patrons or barmaids or rowdy drunks. Looked, in fact, almost like the old Hook and Compass in Covent Garden, the one he'd patronized as a young lieutenant with Liam, where Milah had worked. The one he'd bought later, turning it into a den for vampires and a monument to his wolf slaughter, before it had burned in that mysterious fire that must have been Gold's doing on Regina's information, the wolf skins were stolen, and it was lost. The site had gone through various iterations, some more embarrassing than others (little Waitrose came to mind) before finally being bought by new owners determined to turn the site back into the historic tavern. It was a bit pretentious, really: all the wood aged to look as if it had been here since the sixteenth century, low ceilings and dim corners, crooked beams, the lot, in order to sucker in impressionable tourists eager to part with their money in an authentic English pub experience. Terrible, false, crass. He'd haunted it. It was, in fact, coming here because it was the closest thing he had to anything that felt like home, that he had, one night, met a young, heartbroken werewolf named Will Scarlet.

Killian pushed himself upright, glancing around. He wondered if this strange version of it still served a pint; vampire or not, he could use one. Perhaps he was supposed to wait here, and someone would come for him, show him to whatever corner of eternity he would be spending the rest of his never-ending time. Or –

"Hello, Killian."

The voice came from behind him, startling him, and he flashed around; even his enhanced senses had heard nothing, no trace. Then he stared, because the person who had just stepped out of a door (he hadn't seen that either, but there it was, closing behind her) – was Milah. Not Milah as he last remembered her, dead in her own blood with her heart physically torn from her chest, crushed in Gold's grasp, but Milah as he'd known her, Milah as she'd lived. Whole and real, dark curls knotted out of her face, wearing her favorite blue dress. She came to a halt a few paces from him, and smiled softly. "It's good to see you."

"I. . ." Vampires didn't dream, he'd always known that. Somehow, improbably, this had to be happening. "Am I dead? Is that why I'm here?"

"You're out of time. Out of space. Not tied to anywhere, anywhen. Why shouldn't you be here?"

"Is he – " Struck by a terrible thought that this was some kind of eternal torment, and he'd have to watch Gold kill her again, over and over and over, Killian bolted around. "Is he here too?"

"We all make our own prisons," Milah said. "This isn't one of his."

Killian still peered suspiciously into the corners, but had to admit he did not see any sign of Gold anywhere. He looked back, instead, at her. Reached out, expecting her to be insubstantial, but instead their fingers met, grasped, and held hard for a long moment, neither of them saying a word. "I'm sorry," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don't know if you saw what happened to me after you died. I don't know if you saw what I did. I almost hope you don't, but if you do – "

"I know," Milah said. "I know all of it."

"Oh." Killian didn't know whether or not he should be relieved, but that was, oddly, how he felt. "You're not. . . angry?"

"What on earth good," she said, "would it do if I was? And besides, I always knew who you were. What you'd do, and what you'd hate yourself for. That's why I came. I had to tell you the last part. So you'd know it was all right."

"What?"

Milah smiled again. He had never seen such love, such grief, such pride, on someone's face. "Let go."

"Of. . . of what?"

"Everything," Milah said. "It's time. You don't belong there anymore, Killian. You don't belong to what used to be. You can still go forward. You can still have a future."

"How? I'm shut in this bloody cage."

"Cages open." She looked at him for a long moment. "Perhaps not from the outside. Or perhaps even if the door was unlocked, if we sat there and never tried to open it, we'd never find out. We live too long being afraid. Keeping the door shut, because we know it would hurt too much if we pushed at it again." She shrugged. "But you know me. I never stopped trying to escape."

"No." His throat was tight. "You never did."

"So." She met his eyes again. "Do you want to give it one more chance?"

"I. . ." The sensation of rest, of cessation, of quiet, where he had been nothing and nowhere, was tantalizing. Away from everything, from the possibility of any more pain or grief or guilt. But even as he considered it, there were other faces in his head. Liam. Will. Henry. Regina. The Nolans. Even bloody Zelena, if she'd made it. And of course, the greatest, central, burning, beautiful, brilliant one of them all. Incandescent. The light coming off her could rattle the stars.

"Aye," he said. "I think I would."

Milah smiled once again, and offered him her hand. He took it, and she led him across the way, out of the tavern, and into a harbor beyond. It was full sun here, pouring down on them, and yet, oddly, for a creature of night and terror, a vampire Old One who'd spent centuries hiding from it, he felt no pain at all. Just wanted to breathe it in, dazzling on the water like melted butter and smooth oil, paving a golden road out toward the open sea.

In a few moments, they arrived at a dock, and there was a ship moored to it. A ship which, Killian realized, he also knew: it was HMS Imperator, the Royal Navy vessel that he and Liam had served on together. Sailed it into London for Liam's promotion hearing, where he was supposed to become commodore and their futures secured, and never left again. Not after the violence and chaos of their deaths, one made a werewolf and the other a vampire, and the centuries of oblivion and madness that had followed. His old girl looked just as he remembered, but better. Sails crisp, pennons flying, boards freshly tarred and caulked, riding at anchor with creaks and bumps. He breathed in salt and hemp and turpentine, and smiled. Ready for one last voyage?

After a long moment, he turned to Milah. "Where do I take her?"

"I think you'll work that out." She beckoned at it. "Go on. Get on board."

He hesitated, then took her hand one final time, pressing it to his lips in a kiss, the way he had the night they met. "Goodbye," he whispered. "Thank you."

"No." Milah's voice quivered, but she managed a smile. "Thank you. Now go on. Tide's going out. Hurry. Go."

Killian paused, then nodded, and did as she said. Let go. Of her hand, aye, but more than that, striding up the gangplank and feeling the boards quiver beneath his feet as the sails stirred in the breath of an invisible wind. Went to the wheel, took hold of it, and looked down at Milah's small figure on the dock, growing ever brighter and more indistinct around the edges. Waved.

She waved back, then cupped her hands around her mouth, calling up at him. "One more thing. Tell Emma I like her."

Killian smiled to himself, small at first and then wider, until it spread across his face in an impossible rictus of pure joy, until he was nearly laughing and couldn't stop, didn't remember the last time he had. Wanted to wrap it around himself, warmly as the sunshine, and hold it forever – but this time, now, he didn't. Glanced back one final time as the Imperator took the breeze, and didn't see Milah at all. Just a fiercely blinding glow where she had been.

So instead, he turned his gaze forward. Felt the sea wind ruffle his hair, saw the horizon open up infinitely before him. Didn't know quite where he was going, or how long it would take him to get there, but for once, that was utterly all right with him. To enjoy the journey, and patiently await the destination. So he spun the wheel, and tasted the spray on his lips, and began to sail.