The circle of metal tightly encircling Killian's good wrist burned as he pulled against it, fighting to follow the figure walking away from him. He surged forward again, pulling against the bruising grips of the men on either side of him in what, he was sure, was a fruitless gesture. He hadn't brought his cutlass with him to the meeting, leaving him to fight without a weapon against two well-trained, armed police officers; it wasn't a fight he'd win at the best of times, much less when he was distracted. And Killian was definitely distracted… by her.
She was walking away. Emma Swan was walking away, and it felt like he was dying with each step she took. He'd done so much to get to her - he ignored the pang of sadness filling him at the memory of his beloved Jolly Roger - had, for the first time in centuries, allowed himself to hope… and that only made things worse as he was left to watch as her fade from view until she was naught but splotches of red and yellow barely visible through the hedges
Killian stumbled as the officers pulled him back towards them, giving one more half-hearted struggle before he felt all the fight drain away, complete numbness replacing it. She was gone, now, not even colors were visible, and there was little point. Instead, he tuned out the men on either side, the bustling figures of the park, the mindless steps he took as they pulled him along, even as the dulling of the world around him yielded no relief. Instead, memories - of the past, of her - swarmed him.
The men at his sides give another light push, guiding him into their vehicle and handcuffing his arm to part of the car's interior before slamming the door shut. Killian leaned back, allowing his eyes to close as he slumped against the door, settling as comfortably as possible despite the awkward positioning of his arm.
Any hope that silence would give him a break from his thoughts was smashed almost immediately, the encounter playing on loop. The memory of her walking away, bright blonde hair stark against the red coat she wore, so similar to - and yet so different from - her trademark leather jacket, played on a relentless repeat until he couldn't bear it anymore, opening his eyes and shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.
Killian could feel the glass bottle of the memory potion still clenched in his fist, so he shifted, slipping it clumsily back into his pocket, not bothering to restrain a sigh of combined frustration and discouragement. He'd managed to keep moving for the past days - the drive to find Emma, restore her memory, and bring her back to Storybrooke had given him something on which to focus - but now, alone in the quiet backseat of a police car with nothing to distract him, everything came crashing down.
Intellectually, of course, he knew the effects of the curse. He knew going in that she wouldn't remember anything, that he had a hell of a lot of work to do, that he'd have to once again convince her to lower her walls enough to trust him. That knowledge, however, had done absolutely nothing to prepare him for the lack of any kind of recognition in her eyes, for the look of incredulity they held when he talked, for the way she was once again regarding him as the enemy rather than as a friend.
Nor did it properly prepare him for her once again walking away, forcing him to stay behind and watch her leave with nothing to do but call her name. The thought reawakens the temporarily silenced memory of her departure, but this time, it is intermixed with his memory of their trip up the beanstalk, and the circle of metal at his wrist - thinner than the manacle, but essentially the same - is only another parallel between the two.
His own words return from the past - You never forget your first - but they, once uttered in jest and innuendo, hold more gravity than he ever intended because, in point of fact… she had. She had forgotten everything. Those clouds of mixed purple and green magic had wiped him from her life just as surely as they'd done away with Storybrooke.
The slam of the front car doors heralding the return of the officers yanked him harshly from his memory of the past. The vehicle began to move, suddenly filled with engine noise and chatter that floated back from the front seat. As they turned from a narrow lane to a much larger thoroughfare, the motion shifted the potion bottle - still stowed safely within his pocket - until it lay pinned between his arm and his chest, the weight a comforting reminder that hope - even as the word was bitter on his tongue - was not lost.
Yes, she didn't remember him. Yes, the rejection stung. Yes, the memory of her walking away felt like someone was literally crushing his heart (and that particular sensation brought with it bad memories of its own). But, if nothing else, he had a way to break the curse, and that meant everything.
His old words rang out once again within his head, this time filling him not with despair but with determination: You never forget your first. She had. But at least he could help her remember.