Light pours in from the windows of the apartment, welcoming them back. Swan has hardly let go of her mother, placing an arm around her and taking her into the bathroom to double-check her wound, joking about something called Hello Kitty Band-Aids. Whatever that is, it incites a laugh out of Snow and, if one lacked the knowledge they were a mother and daughter just reconciled, they would give off the impression of being two dear friends.
Perhaps in their case they are both, he thinks, pacing around the table to avoid eavesdropping on David's call to Belle informing her they will be by to retrieve the baby as soon as Henry comes home from school.
"That should be him now," Swan calls from the bathroom the moment the doorknob turns. "Henry?"
"Are you all here? We've got problems." Regina barges in holding Henry's hand as if he were five. Out of breath, she must have hurried to catch up with Henry on his way here rather than having gone to the school to pick him up. Swan and Snow leave the bathroom and David folds his arms and turns to give her his full attention.
"I met the Author. We talked, and he seemed excited about helping me rewrite my story," she says, her hands on her hips, not really pacing so much as pivoting from one foot to the other. "But then...well, writing a baby out of existence just isn't my style anymore."
"Wait, you were going to write out Neal?" Snow gasps.
"No, never. Zelena and Robin's baby."
"What?" David interjects. He doesn't mean to look over at Swan and mirror the tiny smirk she's giving him. He really doesn't. But he mirrors it anyway.
"Can you keep up for two seconds?" Regina snaps. "I changed my mind. I don't need someone to just magically give me everything I think I want right now. In case you don't remember, I did that once already and it didn't go so well for anyone. But then that made him angry. He wrote something out about going to see Gold...and then he disappeared."
"What does that mean?" Killian asks.
"It means not only is the Author on Team Bad Guy right now, but it's proof that what he writes down actually ends up happening!" She pauses in her frantic summary to hold her temples in her hands. "The leverage I had over Rumpelstiltskin is gone. He has everything to gain by changing things as they are. Emma didn't turn to the Dark Side, Belle's still his ex for all intents and purposes, his heart's still in bad shape...and now he's got the perfect weapon to create a world that caters to him and screws over everyone that stands in his way."
"The house," David says, after a beat only long enough to let her catch her breath. "The Sorcerer's mansion with all the blank books in it."
"We're never going to know if one's gone," Snow starts.
"But we can find where the words are appearing and destroy the book before they have a chance to ever happen."
"Emma, Regina, follow us out there," Snow says, grabbing the keys to David's truck. "We'll ask Belle to keep Neal for a little bit longer, not let him out of her sight."
Henry follows them down the stairs and out the door to the car, climbing in the back and pulling out a notebook with a pen. Before he can even ask what the lad plans to work on, Swan stretches her arm out and hands Henry her phone.
"Henry. Call August. Tell him everything."
"You said we shouldn't bother him much since he's still recovering," Henry argues, pushing the buttons anyway as she pulls out onto the street.
"Henry, no one in this car has had the joy of being under the Dark Curse and I'd like to keep it that way, so please bother him," she says, turning the wheel and embarking on the winding route that grows more and more secluded leading up to the mansion. "Text Regina, get a description of the Author and send that to him. He needs to tell us everything he might have found out while researching the book—the Author, the Sorcerer, the Apprentice, anything at all."
He's no longer sure why they're there. In fact, he's willing to believe that for every book they thumb through, three more grow back on the shelf in its place. Does he really want to find the book that's being changed anyway? Sorcerers don't waste time on mundane paper and binding materials, so tearing out the pages will be out of the question. No, they'll just watch them and read them as they appear until everything gets rewritten.
And they won't even know it's been rewritten.
Shuddering, he needs to block out that thought, and, regrettably, blank pages are not the way to do that. The corner of his eye sees Swan still flipping through them, so he will as well, emptying an entire row in a matter of seconds. Robin had met them and had even suggested his Merry Men help search the books, but more hands won't be enough against the Dark One and the Author.
He winds around to an armchair and plops into it, a wave of exhaustion hitting him. Staring up at the ceiling, his fingers rub against each other, then his knee, then the long leather arm of the chair.
"Nothing! They're all still blank. Whatever the Author is writing, it's not appearing in the books. This is useless." Regina breaks the silent shuffling of pages.
"Easy," Robin says, crossing over to her with an armload of books. "This is not your fault."
Rather obvious observation, mate, he thinks. It's no one's fault but the crocodile's. That's whose fault it always is.
"Even so, tomorrow, thanks to Gold and the Author, I can wake up a talking frog," she scoffs.
"At least you'll wake up," he blurts, trying to ignore the way Swan's head has whipped around to face him. "I don't doubt whatever the Dark One has in store for me is a far worse fate." Ordinarily, he knows his imagination would already be concocting scenarios, each one more insidious than the next, but, maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's something else, but none come to mind right now. He needs to snap out of this feeling that if he just sits here, quiet and unassuming, it won't happen. Damn the blasted Dark One, rendering him a broken little sparrow in the grasp of a manipulative human hand.
"Well, there's no use speculating what he wants," David says. Wise words. "We just need to stop it, and if there's nothing useful here, we need to move on, find something else that can help."
"I might know just the thing."
It's not the voice but the scruffy, swaggering codpiece in the doorway that gives Killian a second wind, at least enough of one to stand up.
"August." David's tone suggests dull surprise, and Killian knows this isn't really the time, but now that he can see the man in the flesh—since woodenness no longer seems to be an issue—he's certain he could win a fight against him. "I thought you didn't know anything more about the Author."
"He doesn't, but he knows someone who does. That's why I called him here," Swan clarifies. Now would be a good time to share, he considers uttering. What the bloody hell is the man waiting for?
"Who?" Snow demands.
"The man who gave him his power—the Apprentice. I met him once when I was living in Phuket. He was the one who told me about the storybook and that I should learn everything about it," he says, mostly to Henry.
"If he was in Storybrooke, could you find him?" David asks.
"Well, I haven't seen him. But..." he trails off, pulling a piece of paper out of his coat. "That's what he looks like."
He'd expected a stranger's name or face to stare at him through the paper. But the old man, the scraggly-bearded old man whose house he'd been in, whose life he'd helped ruin—the Apprentice. Thousands of images of ancient battles between wizards race through his head, all of them culminating with the darkest of them all sealing the other up in a magic hat.
"I know this man."
"You do?" Swan asks.
"More importantly, I know exactly where to find him," he says, hurrying out of the library room as fast as he can. They'd given the hat to the fairies, the Blue Fairy vowing to keep it safe and out of Rumpelstiltskin's reach.
This time, Swan's car heads out first, the two of them alone this time.
"Can you call her? If she needs to prepare anything, she can get it ready before we arrive," he suggests, his fist clenched and not leaving the handle on the door.
"Here." She juts her hip out at him, the top of her phone poking out from her pocket. "You call her."
"Swan," he balks.
"You saw the guy. I never did. If I talked to her, I'd just be the middleman." After a pause, she cocks her head and tries to look him in the eye while driving. "You wanted to be the person to get him out. So get him out."
The Blue Fairy redirected them to the Apprentice's house, a location he knows quite intimately by now, one that Swan didn't know at all. Well, maybe not at all. He'd told her whenever he or Belle was going there, so it's not out of the realm of possibility that she would have driven by it, just out of curiosity. Either way, it hadn't changed. The Blue Fairy stood on the front porch, between the hanging ferns, waiting for them, the convoy of cars taking up most of the street.
They gather in the living room, where the Blue Fairy has already placed the hat in the center of the floor. Gulping at it, he circles it before standing next to her, hoping she won't ask him any questions at the same time he hopes his answers can be what frees the man.
"I trapped him in there," he murmurs, barely aware of the others creeping closer to the hat. "I didn't know."
"It's okay. It was Gold, not you," Swan says, brushing his arm. "Blue was in there. She can get him out."
"Don't you need the Dark One's dagger?" he asks her. Gods, even just staring at the Blue Fairy's face is enough to remind him of all the horridness the Dark One put him through. The sheer terror in her eyes and then weeks of her portrait hanging in the library, just smiling away at him, waiting for him to get her out. Leave it to the Dark One to seal it somehow so no one else could spring his traps...
"Well, not if I have something that belonged to the Apprentice," she says solemnly. It's his house. His possessions are everywhere, so Killian reaches for the nearest one—a sweeping broom he knows is no ordinary broom. The way she accepts it from him, nodding and steadying her stance, lets him know he's not the only one aware of its magic. Kneeling down, she places it horizontally next to the hat. Lifting her hands into the air, they tense—tremble, even—as a fiery scent permeates the air, like smoked meat and flaming logs.
Again, streaks of blinding gold light fill the room, and, after an eyeblink of white stillness, the old man appears in the chair, disoriented and gripping it with quivering hands, but other than that, it's as if he had never left.
"Are you..." Swan begins.
"Yes." He remembers how strong that voice had remained right until the end. "And there is no time to waste. Isaac has abused his power for too long. The time has come to set-" Killian lowers his eyes at the way the old man, the Apprentice, flinches at him; "-things right."
Well, at least he's not to be deterred.
"How?" Regina asks.
"By putting him back where he can't harm anyone—in the book." Straight and as alert as if he was addressing an entire army before charging into battle, the old man possesses a regal quality in spite of the wrinkled clothing and unkempt hair. "I will need the page with the painted door and the key. We shall return him to his prison, and this time, I would wager none of you will set him free again."
"The page. It's back in the loft," Henry says.
"Mom, Dad, Killian, watch Henry. If Gold's smart, he'll go after that page, too," Swan says. Her hand clasps over his wrist.
Book, book, blasted book...he dumps the contents of the backpack out, not caring where the schoolbooks and folders scatter. He hears Henry's footsteps above him, thumping here and there for the key. It won't be too late. He's not going to lose his happy ending, he tells himself as he grips the book in his hand. The dirty dishes in the sink next to him rattle against each other, his feet running in place. No. Not now. Not now! They have the book! They have the key! Glancing over at David and Snow, their heads snap in his direction, panic-stricken before a harsh light comes pouring in all around them. He'd rather be blinded than close his eyes and lose sight of their faces, but his body denies him a choice. Their faces, the end of the staircase, the countertop right in front of him—his eyes squeeze shut, lips mouthing a silent plea that he won't lose his happy ending. He won't lose it...
He's lost it. He's lost the bloody mop! How? How in blazes could he have misplaced it? They're docking, too, and here he scrambles like a rat below decks in the dark, fumbling around for a handle. Gods, his back won't be able to withstand so much as another flick of Blackbeard's lash. Captain. Captain Blackbeard, he reminds himself, clenching his fist as he drops down and creeps between the barrels in the hull. Maybe it fell. Maybe it fell and rolled underneath something. The top of what seems to be a wooden pole lies wedged in between two crates. Please, please, he can't lose it, not today. Not when they've been at sea for so long...
"Slithering on the floor like a worm, eh? Appropriate."
Bloody hell. Tucking his lips into his mouth, he pulls the mop out of its hiding place and scrambles to his feet.
"Apologies, sir. It-it got away from me." A harsh wave rocks the Jolly Roger with a surprising violence, the mop flying out of his hand. Reaching up with his hook, it captures the handle at the last second.
"You're not much of a juggler, Hook. But then, you actually need balls to juggle." Chuckling at his own words, Blackbeard lifts a leg and takes his time setting his boot back down on the wood in a mock inspection. Killian's used to it. His back and the cat o'nine, however... "I thought I had ordered the main deck swabbed before we weighed anchor."
"Aye, you did, Captain, only, like I said, the mop got away from me."
"Funny you should lose it. Didn't I overhear you telling Smee you know this ship better than I do?"
Swallowing, he closes his eyes and scratches behind his ear, no lie coming to mind.
"I-I might have been exaggerating," he stammers.
"Yet you're the one always interrupting me with this or that in need of repair." Sighing, Blackbeard at last looks away from him and squints at the thin ray of light seeping in from a slat. "It appears I'll have to spend most of my shore leave hiring some carpenters. Enchanted wood, my arse—there are times when I think this whole ship would fare better as kindling!"
"Just because something's flawed doesn't mean it shouldn't be cared for!" Killian fires back before thinking. With wide eyes, he clamps his lips together and tucks his chin into his chest.
"Oh! Well then. I shall leave you to mind the ship while the rest of the crew spends their share of the loot. That way you can lavish some soapy affections on the deck! Have it finished by the time I come back."
"Please, Captain-"
"Bloody hell, Hook! What?" Captain Blackbeard spits at him, and, well, he's rather at a loss for argument. Two days' worth of freedom gone before he'd even truly had them and, and they're so close to the Bottomless Sea and the Tower. Daylight and the bustling sounds of the port town can keep a mind occupied, but come nightfall, with only the waves and the occasional flapping of a gull's wings, he'll swear he can hear it—the screams. Shaking his head, he retreats further into the shadowy hull and watches his captain go.
Coward, he chides himself. Hoisting the mop over his shoulder, he winces at every step up on his way to the deck. He can't remember feeling this ashamed before, can't remember feeling... Stop it. Driving the mop into the full bucket that had been waiting for him, he sets to work, alone and inconsequential. Story of his life.