Questions are rolling one over the next in his head, demanding attention, answers—but he can't…he can't think about the fact that Emma just killed a sea monster using magic. He can't think about how she healed him, summoning him back from the nothingness rushing toward him. He can't stop to worry about what those things mean—for her, for them—because the second he's whole again, she's falling to the deck beside him, and the only thought he can cling to is that she promised.

I'm not going anywhere, Hook.

He pulls her tenderly onto his lap, brushing aside the veil of hair from her face, his voice hoarse as he calls to her.

"Emma?"

Come back to me, love.

The edge of his vision is crowded with the hazy shadows of his screw as they await orders, none daring to venture onto the deck here he holds her body—it's so still—but as he watches, her eyelids flicker and her chest rises beneath a delicate breath. She's still with him.

A weight on his shoulders take flight, and it gives him the strength he needs to look away from her, to see to the ship, if only for a brief moment. He surveys the damage on deck quickly—gods only know what waits below—and as his gaze travels forward, past the men waiting for command, past the bow, he sees the familiar form of an island breaking through the sea.

Well, isn't that interesting.

"Cowry!" he barks, lifting the slight weight of his Swan easily as he rises. Surprise courses through him at how effortlessly he moves after nearly dying a moment earlier, but his mask never flickers, never betrays the revelation. "Our prize lies ahead. Make landfall and have the men shore up the hold as needed—we may be able to careen her on the island if necessary, but only as a last resort."

Hook doesn't bother to wait for a reply from his quartermaster, holding Emma snuggly against his chest as he navigates the stairs, Avery scrambling forward to open the hatch to his cabin before he arrives. Nodding his approval, he enters slowly, careful to keep his footing and shield her head from knocking against the narrow space.

Cowry's bellows echo from above even after Avery closes the hatch, and knowing that the Jolly Roger is in capable hands until he returns to her helm—that Cowry will at least get them to land before they bloody well sink—he focuses the rest of his thoughts on Emma. He crosses the cabin and places her gently on the bed, sitting cautiously on its edge as he worries the hem the shirt she wears between his fingers—his shirt. His hand travels up her breastbone, a slight tremble in his palm as he presses it against her chest—it's there, the soft rhythm of her heart, just as it should be. A light pink suffuses her cheeks, and between her color returning and the familiar cadence of her breath, he feels much more at ease. She looks as if she's merely asleep, but he knows he won't be fully settled until she is awake and promising him no harm has been done…because he can't be certain that whatever magic she cast hasn't put her own life in peril for the sake of his own. The thought squeezes his heart as surely as if a hand were wound about it. He's seen enough magic to know that there is always a cost.

The thoughts he'd pushed aside earlier begin to creep back in, and he finds his hand leaving Emma and exploring the remnants of his greatcoat and shirt—leather and fabric hanging from his shoulder. As his fingers brush skin, he recalls the crushing pain as the beast closed its maw around him, sharp and piercing, and then the massive pressure that built before his ribs cracked beneath the force of it. He can still remember the desperation of choking on his own blood when all he wanted was to breath her in one last time. He thanks whatever gods haven't abandoned him that the look of horror on Emma's face wasn't his last glimpse of her—that light she had sent spinning toward him, like a sword of white fire—perhaps she was the only god left to him.

No matter how many times the thoughts turned over themselves in his head, there was one thing of which he was certain.

Emma Swan wasn't born in the Land Without Magic.

Hook knew of only a handful of people who could wield magic as she had—the face of the Dark One coming unbidden to him, stirring the depths of his hatred, as it always did—and as far as he knew, they were, one and all, unhappy citizens of the Enchanted Forest, or had been, rather. They'd all gone missing alongside the Crocodile and the northern kingdom years ago, which was perhaps.

How many years?

Time was such a fluid, immeasurable thing to him that he'd stopped keeping more than a rough count long ago—perhaps several decades had passed, certainly more than two.

His thoughts are lost in the quandary when he feels the bed shift beneath him, and his attention snaps back to Emma just as her eyes flicker open, worried green orbs finding him immediately. His fingers are already soothing the distress from her face, tracing the gentle curve of her cheek, smoothing the furrow between her brows. He's not entirely prepared when she pushes herself up from the bed unnaturally fast, an arm wrapping around his back as she seeks his lips, but of course he shouldn't have been surprised—his Swan is nothing if not a tough lass. Her other hand explores him at will, perhaps making sure each piece of him is as it should be—stroking his jaw, knotted in his hair, her lips trembling against his as she pushes the fear and trauma away with the taste of him.

Any concern he had over her vigor slips away as she tries to close the gap between them, twisting from the bed and climbing onto him, his hand and hook locking around her even as he stumbles backward off the edge, tumbling to the floor beneath the weight of her. The planks meet his back with a solid thud, but any discomfort is washed away by the welcome press of her hips as she straddles him, pushing insatiably against the growing hardness between his legs. Her mouth finds his once more, and he can't help but feel the tears marring her cheeks, salving them with the promise of his body.

There is no gentleness between them—not time for it—fighting one another with tongue and teeth and hands. He can taste the iron tang of blood in his mouth and it is real. The moment is real—they are still here, together, and no pain is too much to hold because it means they are alive—two hearts beating and suffering and finding love in the only dark corners left to them.

The cabin spins as he rolls her beneath him, pressing her into the floor with a hungry thrust of his hips, rutting in small circles against her as she moans around his tongue. His hook scrapes the planks beside her as she uses her teeth against him, marking him. He relinquishes the sweet taste of her mouth, forcing her head back as he works the tender hollow where her neck meets her collarbone, the breathy gasp she makes a coveted treasure. She grinds her center against him, the noises escaping her mouth becoming more urgent—good gods the way she wraps her legs around him, it's a bloody crime, pushing him to the edge. A predatory growl tears from him and he's hoisting her from the floor, her legs locked around him as she surges in his arms, the weight of her pressing deliciously against his trousers, the promise of her warmth making his already hard cock throb with urgency.

He backs her roughly against the ladder, dropping her firm bottom solidly on a step as he rips at his laces, yanking the leather down just enough to free himself, hand running up and down his length—her eyes are blown with need, teeth catching her bottom lip as she contorts herself on the ladder, ripping a leg free of her trews—her fingers dragging through her slick folds as she spreads herself for her, needing this physical connection as much as she needs to breathe. He lines himself up and thrusts desperately home in one push, savoring the hot clasp of her tight walls around him for only a moment before he sets a relentless pace, the ladder thumping and threatening to rattle from its hold as he pounds her against it, the rungs bruising his legs as surely as they are her backside. He fucks her like she wants—like he needs—like two souls crashing together because sometimes life needs to be celebrated with pain and desperation and that dangerous recklessness that comes from almost losing something you've only just found you can't live without.

She clings to him with the reminder of near tragedy at her fingertips, nails digging deep into his neck as he buries himself inside of her—again and again—his thrusts turning frantic as he tries to close the distance between them, to crawl inside of her, both of their voices mingling in wordless cries and groans as he shudders to completion, her body pulsing around him as he spends every last drop of himself within her.

Their breathing calms alongside the slow ache rising in each of them as they pull apart, easing themselves from the ladder. He feels the words hanging between them, her hands running along the mangled leather of his coat.

"I almost lost you."

They were a choked whisper, a nightmare she feared giving voice to.

"You saved me."

"I've never been so terrified in my life." Her fingers pushed against the exposed skin at his shoulder, remembering the heat of his torn flesh. "I don't even know—I've never done anything like that. It was…"

"Magic, Emma."

"I don't know where it came from. It just…I needed to fight for you—somehow, but I was so far, and it just…it came," she finished weakly, wishing she had a better explanation, or some understanding of what exactly happened, and how. "Do you think it had anything to do with Neverland?"

"Well, I've spent a few centuries here myself, Swan, and I'm no closer to poofing a sea monster in half. It's not Neverland, Emma—it's you. I knew it when you put your hands on me," he confided, his long, calloused fingers folding over hers. "I knew it in my bones, like coming home—that same pull that's always been there between us, but as fierce as the bloody sea…"

"…but I can't have magic, Hook. I wasn't born here. It doesn't make sense."

He stepped aside as she moved into the cabin, her actions distracted as she cleaned up, pulling off her shirt that was damp with blood—his blood—before reaching for one of her jerkins abandoned on the floor and lacing it over her breasts. He was reluctant to trouble her with more questions, especially questions that may never have an answer, but he wasn't sure when there would be a better time.

"What if that bean you used, Swan, what if it didn't take you away from your home? What if it brought you back to it?"

"That doesn't seem likely."

"Consider this, Swan—why the Enchanted Forest, a land of which you knew nothing? Why did the portal draw you there? Why the pull, as you said there was?"

"If that is the case," she muttered, her words laced with venom, "it would mean that not only did my parents abandon me, but they stole a part of me—my world, something I may never have gotten back. Why go to all the extra trouble that would have taken?"

"I wish I knew, Emma, but you've seen firsthand that travel between realms is possible, though it can be difficult, but does it make more sense that a child born in a world of no magic somehow possesses it?"

"I guess it doesn't, but the alternative…it makes me think too much about a past I just want to leave in the past. I can agree wholeheartedly with you about one thing, though," she divulged, stepping back into his arms and sinking into the warmth of his chest.

"Can you indeed, and what's that, love?"

"I never had a home, Hook—I didn't even know what it was, what that word meant, but the bean, it brought me to the Enchanted Forest, and everything there, it led me to you—to home." Her words caught in her throat, her hands balling into fists against his chest, and he knew her thoughts were circling back to their encounter with the sea beast. "I can't lose you."

"You won't," he assured, the words barely a breath against her hair, there and gone. "You won't. We'll always look out for each other, love."

"I'm not just worried about…other things. I'm worried about…me, Hook. I'm worried about me. All the stories I've heard about magic in the Enchanted Forest, none of them had happy endings. What if I hurt you without meaning to, or the crew? What if this magic puts us in danger? What if I can't control it?"

"I think if anything, your magic has proven it carries the very same motives as your heart, love, and that there is nothing to fear from it."

"Still, what if I'd taken out the mast, or what if one of the men had gotten between me and the serpent? Maybe there's someone who could teach me how to use it, how to control it?"

"The only ones I know of who practice magic, Emma, they're hardly people I would trust to have your best interests at heart. I nearly had a chance meeting with the Evil Queen once—killed a prisoner she had locked up, but managed to escape before she'd noticed the intrusion. I have no doubt if she knew what I'd done, I'd be a very dead pirate, so I'm quite happy she and the rest haven't been seen for years."

"I'm very glad she's gone too then, but there has to be someone left. What about Pan? I know we can't trust him, but do you think he could help?"

Hook was quiet, enjoying the pleasant drag of Emma's fingers on his chest as he weighed the option in his head. He trusted Emma completely, and after seeing and feeling her magic, he knew in his heart she would never be a danger, at least not to him, and not to the crew. Pan certainly knew enough magic that he may be of use in making Emma feel secure with her power, but there was always the history between them.

"Could he help, possibly, but the better question to ask is, would he? It would be unlikely without us promising something in return. I'm already more entangled with Pan than I'd like to be. There's a history between us that I haven't fully shared with you yet, Emma, though I've been meaning to. It is a difficult part of my life to discuss and…as you said, there are parts of the past we often prefer to keep there."

"I'd wondered…when I saw the lost boys, there was one—it was clear that he knew you, and that Pan was aware."

"Aye, and there's that piece of the story as well," Hook admitted.

"There's more than the boy?"

"Aye, and older and more painful history. I'd like you to hear it before you make any decision about deepening our relationship with him further, Swan, because you must know that regardless of what you choose, I'll be at your side, even if it means another deal with that bloody demon."

"That sounds fair—and I don't trust him, Hook, but I'm worried about this…this magic thing. I don't know, maybe it's the lesser of two evils. I don't want to hurt you."

"It's the last thing I'm worried about, love, but I'm happy to share all of my beginnings with you. It will have to wait until our return voyage, however. I need to survey the damage to the hold, and there's something you should see on deck—I think you'll be pleased."

"I doubt there's anything on deck that's going to make me more pleased than I already am."

"Well, certainly not with the crew watching, but maybe later, Swan."

Emma leapt from the prow of the rowboat as it rocked into the shoals, her boots easily finding purchase among the damp sand as the men sloshed into the shallows behind her, dragging the vessel away from the pull of the tide. She heard Hook's familiar footfalls before he fell into place beside her, his eyes surveyed the rock-strewn island for signs of anything untoward. It looked to be a small island, nowhere near the size of Neverland, and its slopes meandered upward alongside wind-worn outcroppings of stone, creeping patches of yellow scrub carpeting the ground between. Small trees interrupted by the occasional older, larger matriarchs spotted the landscape, all of them bent and twisted by the incessant winds from the moment their trunks broke the soil.

There were no signs of inhabitants that she could see—not tell-tale wisps of smoke, or hastily covered tracks leading from the beach—but the island held traces that there may have been once, long ago. The sunken tread of stone paths could still be seen, long buried and hidden beneath dried layers of moss and grass. The rest of the crew had joined Emma and the Captain, weapons at the ready, and at the silent jerk of Hook's chin, they spread out, advancing warily up the slopes. Hook set his own pace toward the peak, the wind tugging at the sleeves of his shirt, his tattered jacket left behind. Emma followed sedately, relaxed by the untouched, secluded beauty of the place—she could see how Hook thought these islands had been forgotten to people and time. There was something otherworldly about the island, the air around her stirring as she walked, whispering against her skin, as if it were a living thing—or perhaps the memory of one, the memory of something curious, alive, ancient.

Emma kept the men in sight, and despite the tranquility of the island, her wits about her. She was uneasy that the crew was divided when these islands had a way of coming and going as they liked, but it turned out it was necessary to keep the ship afloat. She paused in the sparse shade of a large, crooked tree, its trunk running almost parallel to the ground, and looked back to the Jolly Roger. Though she was built of enchanted wood, even that hadn't been enough to entirely stave off the damage from the colossus that had assailed them. Luckily, water was only seeping in where the integrity of the hull had been weakened, and Skirts and a few others had remained to shore up the timbers and fill the gaps with oakum. Hook had been confident it would hold until they were able to return to Neverland and mend it more permanently.

Her fingers drifted across the warped tree, stopping as they hit a deep rut in the bark. Looking up, her eyes widened as she spotted the enormous gashes that scored the trunk—as if something with massive, sharp talons had perched there. Her thoughts flashed back to Hook's story of the island that was home to wolf-people and a shiver of anxiety ran beneath her skin—the last thing they needed right now was another battle, but as she studied the marks further, she realized how old and worn they were, the bark long since healed and scarred over. Whatever had chosen to rest at this rocky waypoint in the sea, it was long gone.

Still, the discovery unsettled her, and she gained on the men quickly, overtaking them to find Hook. When she came upon him, he was already looking for her, a pleased grin on his face as she approached.

"Swan," he beamed, pointing his hook toward the area ahead where the path leveled off for a short stretch, broadening into a small plateau. The area was ringed by scattered stone and the familiar yellow, scrubby bushes, but from the weeds and grasses overtaking everything, the corners of stone chests and slender necks of amphoras peeked. Several heaps of what looked to be wood scraps framed the edge, but among the rotted planks, Emma could see the thick, rounded edges of parchment scrolls. Beyond the scattering of treasures, the path narrowed once more and continued up a slightly steeper slope toward the true peak, but whatever waited at the top was hidden by a ring of trees that circled the summit, their boughs laden with pink blossoms. Though she was thrilled to see some sort of reward for the men to dig through, she couldn't help but wonder if the trees above bore the same claw marks as the one near the shore.

The wind tumbled over the peak and danced through the small overlook, paying no mind to the men as they began to maneuver the stone chests, but Emma felt it tugging at her hair, wrapping around her shoulders and urging her forward.

"Looks like we're not leaving empty handed," she nodded, but even she could hear the distraction in her voice, the hint of disinterest—her thoughts suddenly very focused on needing to reach the peak. She tipped her chin to the rising path. "I'm going to see what's up there."

She was already moving past the men as they pried their finds open, gloating over the items within, a wordless noise of agreement leaving Hook's mouth as he watched her go.

The path was overgrown and she climbed it carefully at first, watching her footing on the loose stone, but the closer the top of the island loomed, the more certain she became that something was calling her there—waiting—and her steps grew hurried. Her eyes scanned the ridge of trees as she moved beneath their twisted canopy, but their branches were so entwined that no large creature would be able to rest among them. Still, her fingers danced along the hilt of her blade as she crested the island and stepped into the small clearing that opened before her. Her gaze was captured immediately by a large, stone edifice in the center—a vault, perhaps a tomb—and rising from the far side of the massive stone slab that sealed the top, a statue of a great, winged bird.

Emma's fingers fell from her weapon as she drifted toward it—not a bird, not fully…half bird, and half woman. The statue was dulled by rings of lichen and moss, but its wings circled the tomb, and its feathered belly rose into the regal chest and collarbone of a woman, her features aquiline and stern, her stone hair blown behind her as if by a gust of wind, her eyes cruel and sharp. There wasn't a doubt in Emma's mind that were she to circle to the back of the stone vault, she would find the statue resting on massive, taloned claws.

The wind stirred, plucking the blossoms from the treetops and casting them like rain across the clearing, ornamenting her hair and shoulders.

Something called to her.

She could feel it—something trapped between the cold, stone walls of the tomb.

It wanted out.

It wanted to be free.

She crossed the distance to the tomb, her brain warning her to turn around, go back to the crew, that it wasn't wise to listen to strange voices in her head, but nothing in her body seemed to take notice. There was something almost familial about the call, something kindred—it certainly didn't strike her as wrong in the way Pan had. It almost felt like it had been calling out for a long time, but there was no one around who spoke the same language, no one who could hear.

The stone structure was no less imposing now that she could reach out and touch it. It reminded her of a raised grave, like ones she had seen in a magazine a lifetime ago, but massive, far too large to hold a normal, human body. Glancing up at the face of the harpy looming from beyond, she had an idea what it held. Pitted, lichen covered walls rose and shouldered the weight of a massive slab, the very top of the tomb sitting several feet about her head, and twice as wide as her arms outstretched.

Circling the sides and looking for a door, or an opening, she finally settled for balancing on the stony ridge of the wing, walking along its curve until she was high enough that she could leap to the top of the vault. The higher vantage point did nothing, however, to help her discern a way in. Each side was solid stone, as thick as her forearm was long, it seemed—but the wind was swirling through the clearing again, whipping around her impatiently, and she could hear the call with renewed urgency.

It needed to get out.

It never should have been shut away.

It needs you.

"Emma!"

Hook's voice snapped her back to the island, back to the hard stone beneath her boots, her thoughts summoned back from someplace far away. Her eyes found him, saw the concern flashing across his face—the furrowed brow, the tense line of his jaw—all of them easing only when she moved to the edge of the vault and slid over the edge, dropping lightly to the ground in front of him.

"What have you found?" he inquired, eyeing the vault and the statue with no small amount of dislike.

"I don't know, but there's something in there."

"I've no doubt of that, Swan." He peered around her, taking in the heavy stone walls and the slab laid across the top. "It looks like a bloody tomb. Quite a large tomb."

"Yeah," she admitted, "but there's something strange about it."

"That is my concern, Emma, seeing as when I arrived you looked…very much not yourself up there."

"I know this sounds like a really bad idea," she started, "but I need to open it."

"Not bloody likely!" Hook scoffed, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "We've courted death once already today—and once a day is all I ask, Swan, no more."

He pulled her back against his chest, his arms wrapping securely around her, lips pressed firmly into the crown of her hair. She could feel the heat of his breath as he inhaled her scent and then sighed.

"Why, Emma? Tell me why we're here?"

"You said you thought the islands were long-forgotten, abandoned—for who knows how long. Well, what if something has been stuck in here, Killian, alone—that whole time—waiting for someone to free it?"

"How do we know it isn't a trap, Emma, that we'll have loosed something that may well kill us? Perhaps there's a reason why it was locked away up here."

"I just feel like I know it, like I understand it. It doesn't feel anything like Pan…not even like Neverland. I just…"

She could feel his surrender in the relaxing of his grip and the long sigh against her hair, thinking she'll have to make him sigh for other, more enjoyable reasons later.

"I trust your instincts, Emma, but I'll be of little help. That slab falls a trifle above my natural strength. You'll have to magic it off."

"Right," she agreed, knowing there didn't seem to be any other way she was going to find out what the hell was calling out to her from in there.

She closed her eyes, finding that warm pool of light within her. It had flowed so easily into Hook, like a river running its natural course, but now she was trying to fumble it uphill, force it to do something against its nature. She imagined it leaving her hands, wrapping around the stone and just, nudging it harmlessly over the side—but nothing happened. If she could throw it across the deck as a very physical, deadly weapon, why was moving the damn stone so hard?

"It's not working," she muttered, frustrated. There was a ball of solid power inside of her, and she had no idea how to get it to do what she wanted.

"You said this thing you can hear, it's trapped, yes? Well, I've an idea—just remember that you're here with me, and I'm not going anywhere. Alright, love?"

She felt the ghost of a kiss at her ear as his hand and hook slid along her arms, anchoring her—then he started to whisper.

"Do you remember the dark, Emma? The walls closing in on you? They told you the light wouldn't falter, but then it was gone—and you were alone, trapped in the dark, clawing. No one coming for you."

Her eyes closed involuntarily as the memory washed over her, each jagged, frigid edge of it, but for once, there was no fear. The weight of Hook behind her—wrapped around her—kept it at bay, merely a shadow of itself. She let the echo of those feelings—the pressing walls, the darkness on every side—be the spark she needed, her magic welling inside of her, the white light racing along her arms and radiating from her palms as she held them out facing the tomb.

It burst from her, an orb of glowing energy that moved so fast she barely recognized it before it struck the tomb, the slab and the front face of it shattering into a spray of rubble that tumbled to the ground. Well, maybe she needed to work on her control a little more.

"How did you know that would work?" she questioned, turning in his arms and searching his gaze.

"It was your fear of losing me that triggered your magic before, so I thought, perhaps you needed another strong emotion now. Something that reminded you of why you want to open the bloody thing."

"Thank you. I think I need to work on my control though. I was aiming for something less…disruptive," she mumbled.

"Well, nothing has leapt out at us, so that's one concern allayed. Shall we see what drew you up here to begin with, Swan?"

She slid from Hook's embrace and climbed onto the crumbling front face of the tomb, a hand covering her mouth and nose as she searched through the haze of dust still settling.

"Jesus," she breathed, her eyes finally adjusted to the dim interior. She was finally able to see what lie almost even with where she perched, several feet from the ground.

"What's that?"

"Let's just say the statue is a pretty good likeness. It's definitely a harpy."

"Long dead, I assume?"

Emma could hear the concern in his voice, echoed by the sound of his boots on gravel as he moved closer to her, ready to pull her from harm's way if need be.

"Don't worry," she reassured, "it's definitely not going anywhere."

The corpse in the tomb was almost mummified, leathery, shrunken wings cocooned around a body that mirrored the image of the foreboding statue above, but twisted and small—a dried, aged husk of something that once had been a massive creature from legend.

The air around her stirred impatiently and she responded, looking for the thing that was calling out to her—because the corpse it was not—and then she saw it, or rather, felt it. Wrapped around the scaly, petrified leg of the harpy rested something metal, possibly bronze, covered in a fine layer of dust. She could feel it practically humming, eager to be found. She leaned further into the gloom, silently grateful to feel the weight of Hook's hand on her leg. Her fingers brushed it and she wondered how she would remove the snaking bracelet without damaging the corpse further, but as she tugged gently on it, it slipped through the air as if it weren't solid, freeing itself and resting warmly in her grasp.

She backed out of the hole, dropping into Hook's shadow as he eyed what she cradled in her palm suspiciously. It was larger than she had realized in the tomb. Shaped like a long feather, it wound itself into a spiral, yet other than clearly being made of bronze, it looked strangely realistic. It would never fit her wrist, but if she slid it up her arm—

"Swan, don't!"

The bracelet fit snuggly around the hard muscle of her upper arm, the circling shaft settling comfortably against her skin. She hadn't even realized what she'd done, Hook's warning bringing her back to herself, but too late.

"Shit," she breathed, her eyes drawing even with his as they waited for something to happen. What was she thinking? The bracelet still didn't feel overtly bad to her, but how naïve did she have to be to steal something from the grave of a creature on some magic island because it was calling to her, and then on top of that idiocy, put the thing on. She'd be lucky if she wasn't cursed. "Shit."

"Gods, Emma," Hook sighed, his hand turning her arm over as he inspected the metal piece that wrapped around her bicep.

"I'll just…take it off," she muttered, and wedged her fingers under the delicate metal to ease it down her arm, but it wouldn't budge, her fingers slipping through it as they would air. "Hook, I can't…I can't get it off."

Hook lifted her arm with his and touched the bronzed metal, studying the curve of the feather. It felt cool against his fingertips, but as soon as he moved to slide it down her arm, he felt nothing but the familiar warmth of her skin, as if nothing adorned it.

"Well, I think—whatever it is, Swan—we're stuck with it for the time being…unless you can magic it off?"

"I'm a little afraid I'll blow my arm off," she faltered, glancing in the direction of the tomb.

She'd only discovered she possessed magic that morning, and seeing the destruction she'd wrought on several spans of stone, he couldn't blame her for her caution.

"Aye, well, we can't have that. I'm rather fond of the things you do with those hands, Emma." He sighed, reaching his hook carefully behind his ear to scratch. "It looks like the trinket stays."

"I'm sorry."

"You need not apologize, Emma. Let me be clear," he insisted, lifting her chin so he could meet her eyes, "I trust you, and so far, the thing has done no harm. I only wish I knew what its purpose was…but perhaps we can remedy that."

"How?"

"There are more than a few trunks worth of scrolls below. None are written in a tongue I can read, but I'll have the men load what they can into the boat. I noticed several contained drawings, and perhaps there will be some that can enlighten us as to what this persuasive little treasure may be."

"I'm not going to lie," Emma grumbled, rubbing at her arm where the bracelet sat. "I had other ideas on how we'd spend the afternoon."

"Perhaps next time you'll think of that before you insist on raiding ancient tombs…stubborn lass."

A/N: Sorry for the time between updates, but with life and such amazing works available from other authors to peruse, I found myself reading far more than editing my own work...reading while cleaning, reading while putting littles to bed, reading while working. Really, the escape possible thanks to all of the writers on here is fantastic...anyways. There will be more information in the next chapter about the island they've visited, and what I'm basing this portion of the story on when it comes to folklore. If I can keep my brain focused more on my own work, it will be along sooner. We'll see. Leave some tasty tidbits so the muse knows where she's fed and returns.
FARA