She is alone, and she is frightened.
The last family was too much ― the father, a lecherous drunk who used his own children to scrounge up enough coin to pay his account at the pub; the mother, a mean-spirited woman who worked the streets at night to gather funds to pay for rent and food.
Orphans are never loved. They are used to benefit their caretaker, whether it be for pleasure or money or work. No parent she has met so far ever cared about her well-being for her own sake. Most wanted her to be healthy enough so she wouldn't collapse while working like a slave for them.
The orphanage she grew up in is tired of taking her back. She already has been labeled a troublemaker, a rebel ― all because she cannot stand the thought of being condemned to a family who only wants to use her.
Whoever her birth parents are, she hates them. They abandoned her to a future where no one will help her or fight on her behalf. Believing in others, giving them a chance, trusting them... It is, ultimately, utterly worthless.
She is better off on her own. Which is why she fled to the streets, hoping something would change.
But it is the seventh night of running. She stole as many old vegetables and bread as she could from the garbage heaps behind the shops, hoping the meager fare would be enough to quell her hungry stomach. The days go by easily, when she can spend them in the parks, begging for alms at street corners. After the sun sets, she begins to feel the cold of the night, the wretched dark alleys and holes under porches that she has to hide in so she can get some sleep. She has been chased away from the churches she tried to stay in, cowering under the pews although the crucifix is hanging right on the wall, reminding folk that Christ too had no home and suffered all his life. But there is no compassion, no mercy. One pastor gave her a sound scolding before expelling her.
She is fourteen and has no place to stay, no home to go to.
The one ragged coat she owns does nothing to prevent ice from seeping into her bones. It is not even winter yet. How will she cope when it snows?
Nighttime is endless trudging in meaningless directions, hoping against hope that someone will see her plight and offer her some temporary shelter. The wind is unyielding, raking at her skin. She is not prepared to be on her own.
The tall cross affixed to the steeple of the next building tells her this is Saint Mary's Church. It is supposed to be a refuge for the misfortunate; the patron saint whose name it bears was offered forgiveness and love and peace by Christ Himself. But the priest who lives in the rectory next door made it very clear that she and "her kind" are unwelcome here.
All she can do is take a seat on the lonely stone bench bordering the premises.
Timidly, she raises her eyes up to the stars. Mysterious and untouchable. She longs to be up in that sky, shining so brightly and without a care in the world. They are beautiful, respected, needed. They are beloved. They are home.
She curses the tear that falls down her nose, dripping into her mouth. It is quietly followed by another, then another. Shivering when a gust tears at her clothing, she bites down hard on her lip to stifle any sounds that might give her away.
Even if she freezes to death this night, no one would care. That is how much Emma Swan matters.
"Someone as lovely as you should not be crying."
Through bleary eyes, she makes out the shape of a handkerchief, dangling from a hand. A man's gloved hand.
"Thank you," she says miserably, looking at the piece of fabric with disgust. "But I am fine."
"Are you?" The handkerchief retreats to its place of origin. "You look quite cold and sad. Propriety dictates I cannot leave a lady in distress."
Finally, she gathers the courage to look up at the owner of the voice. He is dressed in the attire of a gentleman, top hat included. Brown eyes and a disarming smile compliment what appears to be a handsome, lined face. He must be older than twenty.
"I'm Benjamin Walsh. Most people call me Walsh." He offers a gloved hand.
She could be more trusting. But dread is filling the pit of her stomach, telling her to run. Looking around, Emma notices that the adjoining streets are void of passersby. The apartments in the nearby buildings have almost no lit windows.
They are alone.
She cannot evade him that easily.
"How old are you, my dear?"
She gulps, trying to keep her tears at bay and focus her mind on some path of escape. "If you are claiming to be a gentleman, that is a rude question."
"For someone suddenly concerned about manners, you have not completed our introduction." His fingers move.
"I'm Emma." She tentatively slips her hand in his. He bends to kiss it.
"Emma, you're a vision. Please allow me the honor of escorting you home."
Her head is ringing from fear. His words are glazed with sincerity, but his tone is not.
"There is no need," she manages to say. "I was just praying. To Saint Mary."
"Were you, now?" He seems amused by her reply. "What well-bred lady wanders alone on the streets after dark?"
The insinuation is a slap to the face. Her cheeks are aflame. Holding back an angry retort, she drops any pretense of politeness. "What is it you want from me, Mr. Walsh?"
The change in his expression is unsettling, as if a heavy mask has been peeled off. "Hmm. You're smarter than the girls I usually encounter."
She is afraid to say anything that will put her in worse danger.
"Let me take a guess: you have nowhere to go. And you need money." His smirk causes her heart to lurch desperately. "I'm only asking for you to stay one night. Trust me, you will be paid handsomely for your time. I will make it worth your while."
"I am not a lady of the night," she spits out through gritted teeth, a rush of shame flooding her veins. What if it does come to that? That she will be forced to sell her body in order to survive?
Walsh's smile grows wider. "I know. That's exactly why I want you. You see, I'm the kind of man who prefers a clean bed, if you catch my meaning. I also play by the book, so there are no complications."
The nausea building in her stomach is too much to bear. She does not know if she should take a chance and run, or wait out his proposal and watch him walk away. The odds of her winning a fight against him are poor.
"I'll tell the constable," she threatens. "I'll scream right now."
He tsks. "And when he hears you're a vagrant, living on the streets? He'll more likely throw you into prison than me."
Her whole body is trembling. She is penniless and on the point of starving. When he waves a hefty stack of banknotes in front of her nose, she feels her resolve cave in. What he is offering could last for a month of expenses. She could eat a decent meal every day. She could rent a boarding room. She could―
But something inside her refuses to give in. It could be her pride, her sense of dignity.
Or perhaps she believes in herself more than she thought.
She tilts her chin up and crosses her arms in her best defiant pose. "I would rather die."
"How dramatic ― but I don't buy your act." His eyes narrow before he reaches out and grabs her by the arm, pulling her up from her seat. Forced to her feet, she cries out from pain. "I'm running out of options, and I have a taste for a blonde tonight. True, you're not my first pick, but you'll do nicely for what I need from you."
She struggles to release herself, but his grip is strong and cruel. He is about to drag her forward when an unknown voice commands, "Let her go this instant."
Walsh drops her arm as if burnt.
A woman is standing less than ten feet away. Judging by how she is dressed, Emma surmises that she is a nun.
"She stole my wallet ― I was just trying to get it back." The liar scowls for good measure.
Her heart pounds desperately.
The nun purses her lips, and her eyes harden. "This girl is a child of God. She is not an object you can use for your own pleasure. Her body is a temple of the Holy Spirit and is therefore sacred." Walsh looks like he is about to protest when she continues, "I would highly suggest that in future, if you seek out worldly gain, you visit those sordid establishments created for that sinful purpose, instead of preying on underage girls."
He opens his mouth again. She silences him with an upraised hand. "If I ever see you soliciting children again, I can assure you that you will be hearing from the local authorities who do fear the Lord. Good night to you, and may God have mercy on your soul."
Walsh's scowl twists into something ugly. He spits on the ground, cursing while he gives Emma one final, hate-filled glance. "My apologies. I was mistaken, Sister. There's nothing but trash here."
He tips his hat at the nun before turning on his heel and stomping off, melting into the shadows of the streets.
Emma's gaze flickers between his disappearing form and her savior. She bites down on her bottom lip to quiet a whimper, but it only works for a moment. Wretched sobs crawl out of her mouth until she is on her knees, rocking against the bench, her face buried in her hands.
"I am so sorry, my child, that you had to go through that. Is it true, what the man said? You don't have a place to stay?"
"Yes. I'm an orphan," she chokes out, still unable to look at the nun in the eye.
"Why aren't you at an orphanage? Have you come of age?" she inquires.
"I'm fourteen." Emma sniffles. Her nose is runny. "I ran away."
There is a period of silence before the nun speaks once more. "If you come with me, I can get you a hot meal and a room for tonight. Tomorrow, we will figure out what to do." Carefully, she reaches out and places a hand on Emma's shoulder. "But you will need to trust me. I know that's a difficult task, but it is your choice, child. I cannot make it for you."
The shock and fury running through every part of her body transform into understanding. This woman ― Sister ― is asking her to choose. In some way, she respects Emma, as a person. "Please don't send me back to the orphanage," she pleads. "I cannot go back there."
The nun's gaze softens. "Have faith, dear. I will do everything in my power to make sure you are taken care of." Her other hand is extended. "I am Mother Superior, of the Sisters of Saint Meissa Convent. I am staying here in the city while I speak with my superiors."
Wordlessly, Emma places her hand in hers.
"Dear heavens, you're freezing. Here, take my shawl. Hopefully, Father has some warm soup and bread left over from supper." She wraps a woolen cape around Emma's shoulders. They begin to walk in the direction of the rectory. "What's your name?"
The warmth of the fabric soothes her worries. " Emma. Emma Swan."
"Emma..." Instead of looking ahead, Mother Superior appears lost in thought. "Tell me, what do you think about going to school?"
After guiding the sheep back inside the stables (the bag of salt is a wonderful incentive) and making sure Bessie is fine, Emma searches the fields for the unmistakable forms of Killian and David. However, they are nowhere to be seen. When she enters the Nolans' small cottage, Ruth tells her that David went to the village half an hour ago, on an errand. Killian is wandering somewhere in the nearby woods.
"It brings him peace, he says," she explains, swiping curls away from her face as she kneads dough for bread. "I tell him to be careful and not catch a cold while he is out there, lost in thought. If you ask me, the poor man would be better off talking more to people than staying alone so much, but he's grown and can decide for himself. I don't want him to feel suffocated by my mothering ― David already complains enough for two."
"I doubt that," Emma counters with a smile. "I know I wouldn't."
Ruth smiles back, but her eyes are sad again. She ushers Emma out with a basket of homemade scones and biscuits. It is quite heavy. "For you and Killian," she offers. "I know he enjoys my wild blueberry scones ― I made them just for him, with the last of the winter berries. But don't tell him that."
The kindness of this gentle woman astounds her. Feeling brash, she turns around at the last possible moment and embraces Ruth with one arm, whispering, "Thank you. For everything."
"No need, dear." She strokes Emma's hair, a mother's comforting gesture. "You're part of our family now. We are always here for you."
It is odd for Storybrooke, being right by the sea, to have such a vibrant glen of trees and its own woods. Perhaps she is being ignorant and all seaside towns have such diverse landscapes.
Or this place could be special, an exception.
Emma often walked through the dense forests of Robin's and Graham's estate, but those lands held more risk for her safety. This town is quiet and aloof. She has a good chance of escaping if something goes wrong. She is not afraid.
It certainly is not worse than walking on the city streets by herself, at night.
Perhaps she wants to get lost here, to lose herself.
Gliding by unknown shrubs, nearly tripping over large tree roots... The budding leaves overhead create a texture of shadow on the ground below. The unmarked trail she is on leads her to a large oak tree, with giant roots forming a niche she can curl into.
Except that someone is already sitting there, with his legs comfortably stretched out in front of him.
Tongue between his teeth, Killian keeps his eyes fixed ahead, while his fingers gently move the charcoal stick over what appears to be paper in a sketchbook. He must be drawing something ― a tree, or perhaps a rock.
Then he glances at her as she approaches, and a brilliant smile spreads across his face. The curve of his lips does not waver, not for a moment. Her heart is jumping. She forces her feet forward when he waves her over, depositing the basket of goods right by his feet.
"What do you think of this?" He traces the lines of his sketch, caressing it with his fingertips.
Art was a subject she was reluctant to participate in at school, always certain her creative skills were lacking. Still, she can appreciate artistic talent when she sees it. And Killian is talented. He has the uncanny ability to capture so much through his vision and touch.
Emma half-smiles. "I think your tree is ready to leap off the page and take root in your garden." As she leans down to have a closer look, locks of her hair accidentally fall from her shoulders and dangle in front of his face. "Your shading is beautiful and pronounced."
"The shading? Beautiful?" His voice deepens. One golden curl brushes his nose. "On the contrary, there is a truly beautiful sight right in front of me, and it is not a bloody tree."
The pointed compliment is meant to please her. However, it has the opposite effect: she stiffens. She does not need fine words to make her feel like she is worth something. Neal said she was beautiful and clever and accomplished. But as soon as difficulties arose, he shattered this image of her with a few choice phrases. Words hold too much power in this world.
"I've upset you." Killian is trying to meet her eyes. "Lass, I―"
"I came out here because you were gone, and I was worried about you," she says in one breath, hands clutching her arms. "You haven't upset me, truly."
He cocks his head, gleaning the truth with that penetrating gaze of his. "Did I say too much too soon?'"
Turning her back on him and his drawing, she tries to focus on the army of tree trunks before them. Scuffling noises resound in her ears. Then out of the corner of her vision, she notices he is standing next to her, brushing himself off.
"Emma," he murmurs. His fingers brush over hers. "You can always talk to me, about anything you wish. We are friends, aye?"
A flood of guilt fills her chest. She has hurt his feelings without meaning to. "Of course we're friends," she confirms with a nod. "There's no need to apologize."
Tentatively, his hand hovers about her own. Then his palm slides over hers and folds, and their fingers intertwine. It is an innocent, intimate touch, a sign of assurance and care. Despite that, his skin awakens her, causing a flutter of warmth to soothe her nerves.
"Did you learn yourself? How to draw and paint?"
She should not be startled by such a presumption. Clearly, she must have gone to school in order to become a teacher ― that's logical.
"Forgive me if I was too forward." He ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "You have such a keen eye, and your critiques of my artwork are discerning."
"I was taught," she says quickly. Thinking about her time at the convent's school, and how eye-opening it was, reopens the wound of her past naïveté as a young girl. And a young woman, falling in love with the wrong man. "But I'm afraid I never did practice enough to hone my skills as an artist. My drawings are poor."
"I would have to see them for myself in order to believe that."
"No, it was my fault ― I was more dedicated to the piano than my sketchbook, back in the day. However, I can manage a simple sketch."
He hands his sketchbook to her. "Show me?"
Clutching the sharpened charcoal stick, she struggles to capture the nearest tree trunk. The result is a series of rigid lines trying to imitate the texture of bark. When she attempts to draw sprouting branches at the base of the trunk, her drawing suddenly seems childish and wrong, a foolish waste of time.
Huffing, she gives the sketchbook back to him. "It looks like a bunch of sticks, not a tree."
"I disagree." He cocks his head, staring thoughtfully at her handiwork. "Your impatience is curbing your potential ― not to mention, you chose a difficult subject to draw, love. Here..." He walks toward a patch of wildflowers, not too far off. "Try again. One flower, not the whole group. Slowly."
She reluctantly sidles toward him, accepting the sketchbook once again. Complete silence crashes against her ears as she focuses on the largest flower's petals, noticing the foreshortening, where the shadows fall. She makes every moment count. Killian says nothing the entire time, simply watching her work. By all accounts, she should feel flustered, but she is oddly comforted by his presence ― as if he were indeed her teacher, guiding her progress.
"See," he smiles, tracing the lines of her finished drawing, "that's much better. You have a gift, Emma. With a little more practice, you could achieve great wonders."
A blush creeps over her cheeks. "You're too kind."
"I am serious, lass ― I know what I am talking about. I've seen a lot of art, spread across the world like a bloody mantle, all the artists claiming to be God-sent and talented up to their ears. But to find someone who truly has art in their very fingertips, without practice... This is rare. Even I doubt my own abilities, and I've had years of practice. You can achieve so much more, having a knack for drawing." His tone becomes wistful, and his eyes sadden.
She wants him to feel better, but if she cannot help herself, how can she help him? "For what it's worth, I think you're exceptionally talented, Killian," she whispers, barely daring to breathe as she presses the closed sketchbook into his arms.
Her hands linger on the leather cover. Quietly, his fingers inch across the surface, reaching her, and his gaze is determined.
"I believe you, Swan," he murmurs with conviction.
She is mesmerized by the rays of light shining through his hair and dancing about his forehead. When he leans forward and lowers his head, she thinks his face is as golden as the sun, and his eyes are the sky. Her heart is already helpless, fluttering and fighting to be free, just by being near him. She could easily feel too much for this man.
As if from a great distance, she hears herself say, "When the portrait is finished, and I've paid you what I owe you... Would you teach me more? About art? I can pay for―"
"I do not want your money, Miss Swan." His jaw tightens. "Consider the painting, and the artistic advice, a welcoming present from one of Storybrooke's locals."
She realizes her offer could be misconstrued as pity for a broken man. How can she explain how drawn she is to him, without conveying emotions that might wound her?
"Thank you." She glances warily at him. "May I ask you something?"
"Aye?" he replies gruffly.
"Who takes care of the lighthouse ― the rooms, the cleaning, the laundry? Do you cook for yourself?" Blushing, she tries to not imagine Killian searching for clean clothes. Then a sadder picture enters her mind: he is bent over the small table in his kitchen, late in the evenings and early in the mornings, with no one to share his meal or his thoughts. The loneliness in that house is like a stifling breath of stale air, causing lungs to ache.
There is bitterness in his tone when he snaps, "Of course not. Being bloody one-handed, a bloke has to accustom himself to the fact that he is unable to do many things by himself. I barely can button my shirts, let alone wash them. I keep a tidy household, but dust and dirt creep in despite my aversion to both, so I have to sweep and mop as often as I can. Once every two weeks, the good Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter stop by to put clean clothes on the line outside, cook me a decent meal, speak a word or two to me. Sometimes she does more than what I pay her for and leaves extra vittles to last for a week."
This is a world of trouble, what she is about to request. Even though she is always free to put a halt to their friendship, the deepest part of her knows that she will never do that. Her mind reasons with her senses one last time, begging her to reconsider for the sake of safety and every precaution.
"I can do that." She clears her throat and repeats the words, louder, when his lips part from shock. "I can take care of those chores, in exchange for lessons. I don't want money either. I want to learn what you can teach me."
"Emma, this wouldn't be a few sittings in a studio, to be over by the completion of the work." His eyes are dark and serious, boring into her like navy adamantine. "This would be a greater personal commitment, on your part and mine. I cannot promise you," he swallows hard, "that I will always have the proper temperament that a teacher should, or that I will always be solicitous when you come to call. This assistance that the Lucases provide. It is a fixture in my life, and bloody damnation, I need it. I need the help, though I despise it. Accepting help pains me, pains my temper until it's dangling by a thread of forbearance. Do you understand what I am trying to say? Perhaps you couldn't handle such an arrangement. They are paid to be here, and dear Granny is a spitfire herself. You would have to endure my company twice over, and not always when I'm in good spirits."
Emma has weathered so many tempests in her life, from the beginning until now. Should she damn her heart for beating, for feeling the very things that keep her alive? She recalls his fury all too well. But she has vowed to shut fear out and keep it from entering her mind again.
"I know what you mean," she countered, unblinkingly, "but I'm not afraid of you, Killian Jones, or your temper. I am not made of stone, but I am also not made out of feathers. I can handle this."
A slow, bright grin warms his lips. "Well, only time will tell. But I've yet to see you fail at anything you undertake."
They divide the contents of Ruth's basket evenly, despite her insistence that Killian take all of the blueberry scones for himself. His refusal, combined with repeated assurances that he is a gentleman and would never deprive a lady of such lovely treats, is rather sweet in itself. She accepts his offer to escort her home, cherishing the way he gently tucks her arm into the crook of his elbow. Once her door closes on his smiling face, she recalls how she just might have rested her head on his shoulder as they walked, not caring about who was watching.
At least they can have these wonderful moments together, in spite of what storms the future may throw at them.
At the very least, despite all hardships and doubts, they have a friendship that will hold firm.
And that knowledge ― that she has someone like Killian, someone she can truly rely on ― means everything to her.
Even as she climbs down from the carriage, Emma can still feel her teeth rattle inside her head. The bumpy, uncomfortable ride lasted for hours, confining her to a small space with nothing but dreams of the future to console her.
Mother Superior fell asleep the moment they embarked from the city. The day before, they had an early breakfast before the kind nun took Emma straight to a line of shops. They returned to the rectory with several boxes of new garments and school supplies, in preparation for her transformation ― from homeless orphan, to proper student.
Her braided hair, the smile on her face, and her stomach feel tight. But for all of her nervousness, Emma is excited to be here, to step into a world where there is only opportunity to expand into more, not shrink into nothing.
Walsh's advances, and the sneers of the foster parents she lived with, made her feel like she was worth nothing.
But crossing the threshold of this place, with its stone walls and clean glass windows...
She feels strong.
"We don't take education lightly here, my dear Emma." Mother Superior smiles at her, walking up the steps. "There is a world out there, brimming with knowledge and light and peace, giving you the tools you need to build a strong path for yourself. All of this can be yours, if you put your mind to your studies and work hard at bettering yourself. We impose no limits at our school. All of our girls have the chance to find a new future for themselves."
Smiling up at the welcoming sisters, who greet their Reverend Mother with joyous faces, Emma knows she can do this. She live among these surroundings, where there is only hope. She can become all that she is meant to be, all that she wants to be. She will learn and thrive.
She is not nothing.
She was never nothing.
Everything those cruel people told her, with their wagging tongues and hurtful hands, was a lie.
Out of the darkness of her beginnings, she has found her way here.
She has finally discovered the sunlight.
"Welcome to Saint Meissa School for girls," come the calling voices who usher Emma into her new home.