It is over. For now, it is over.
Every shaky breath reminds Emma that she was close to losing her position. That George Spencer almost had the satisfaction of dismissing her.
But Killian… He saved her.
He put himself in harm's way, knowing Spencer can seek revenge for his defiance, and shifted the town's scrutiny from her to the future constable. Nominating David, of all people, was a stroke of brilliance.
She is proud of him. If her heart were not so occupied with rejoicing over her escape, it might focus more on the man who thought only of helping her.
"Miss Swan – Emma." She turns to see August approaching. Looking for Killian, she sees him leaving the building, shutting the door behind him. He left without saying goodbye. "I want to congratulate you on your fine speech. I have faith that the good people of this town see you as I do: a skilled teacher, and a remarkable woman."
His smile is warm and reassuring. He reaches for her hand and kisses it as a gentleman would.
Still, she looks back at the door. What is this void her heart wishes to fill? What is missing, that she feels the need to find it?
Sudden and sharp. Warm and caring. That is what love is. She has been a coward, afraid to move forward with her life. Neal injured her and left her broken, a bird with clipped wings. But her wings are healing, and she wants to fly again. To be brave and not look back at what the past has done to her.
She wants to live. She wants to love Killian and not fear what is to come.
She does love him. Everything her mind told her – that he would leave her, hurt her, tire of her – those were lies. She must believe in his goodness, just as he has learned to believe in himself again. Because of her. He had the strength to tell her what was in his own heart, despite his despair, heartbreak, and endless disappointment.
Now she must tell him what is in hers.
Finally, she turns to August and gently releases her hand from his hold. "August… You are so kind to me, you and your father. And I like you. You make me laugh, and I enjoy your companionship more than words can say. But…"
"You love someone else." He smiles sadly. "It's all right, Emma. I know. I saw the way you looked at him."
"At whom?"
August chuckles, peering down at his shoes. "I may not be the best with words, but I do notice things. Too many things. The woes of a carpenter, shall we say."
She clasps her hands, wishing she knew how to comfort him. "I am so sorry if I said or did anything–"
"No, no – none of that, now. You did nothing wrong."
Guilt and misery intertwine until she does not know what else to say. "I hope we can still be friends."
"Certainly." He clears his throat, then gazes up at her with the beginnings of a grin. "Especially if we are to defeat the likes of George Spencer once and for all. Did you see his face when Jones named David for constable? I had a hard time keeping a straight face."
She can't help but chuckle. "He seemed about to explode."
"Yes indeed! Well, we shall see what develops. I'm glad that this meeting is over. It's getting late, though, and this is not the most private place for a discussion. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you home? We can speak more along the way."
Grateful, she accepts his arm. "Thank you, August. I'd like that very much."
The night was restless and empty, but she survived. Sleep was dreamless, a welcome respite from waking nightmares. Now that morning is here, it is a struggle to pull herself from the warmth of her covers and slide out of bed.
She blindly reaches for the pitcher, gasping as the ice-cold water engulfs her face. Immediately, she is fully awake. The rest of her routine is simple and quick. She is dressed and searching for bread and milk in her cupboards when she hears a knock at the door.
Nothing surprises her more than to see Mary Margaret on the other side. She is covered in a black shawl, her face peeking out, as if she didn't want to be recognized. "Hello, Emma." Her voice is small and sad. It worries her. "I hope I'm not intruding. May I come in?"
Peering out at the skyline, she can see it is barely after dawn. "Yes, of course." She ushers her inside. "Make yourself comfortable by the fire."
Emma reaches for a chunk of wood and drops it in the hearth. The flames crackle upward and then begin to devour the new offering.
Neither of them speaks. The silence grows until she is clasping her hands together, feeling awkward and unsure how to start a conversation. Mary Margaret is staring at the flames, her cheeks rosy and bright, reflecting the glow of the fire.
"How is…Ruth and David?" She clears her throat. "How are you? We've not spoken for some time. I hope all is well."
"He lied to me, Emma. Hid this from me." She doesn't even turn her head. Her voice is emotionless, drained of her usual vivacity. "George Spencer threatened him, and he didn't even tell me."
She bites down hard on her lower lip. What can she say to that?
"He was about to lose everything, and still, he was silent. He wanted to be the brave man, protecting his family. So brave, that he told me – his fiancée – nothing. I had to learn at a public function that he was in debt and his farm was in danger. That his life was in danger."
She bows her head, crumpling in her chair, on the brink of tears.
Slowly, Emma reaches over and covers her hand with hers. Mary's fingers, curled into a fist, white from the strain, relax ever so slightly.
"I know he did not do it to hurt you, Mary." She squeezes her hand. "He did not do this out of selfishness. David is a good man. You know that."
"Oh, I do." Her voice wavers. "I do know he's good. I've always known it. It's part of why I love him so much. It's why this hurts so much – that he thought I couldn't help him, that I wouldn't understand."
"I don't think it was that at all. Yes, he was ashamed and broken. But he didn't want to drag you into this mess. George Spencer is cruel and relentless. What good would it do if you fought him, too? He would go after you."
She sniffles, then swallows hard. "Well. No matter the reason, it's over now."
Puzzled, Emma leans closer. "What do you mean, it's over?"
"He can no longer go after David. It's over. I've…taken care of it."
Memories from the past, terrible ones, whirl in her head and leave her breathless. Her heart begins to race. "How have you taken care of it? He wants money or David's land."
She shakes her head and then finally looks at Emma. Her eyes are red, and there are countless tear stains on her cheeks. "When Papa died, all I had left of him was our land. It was a small parcel, not much to look at, but it meant everything to him. He used to tell me I was the queen and he was my humble servant." She tries to smile. "I'd always laugh and say he was the king and I was a princess – not a queen yet. He called me Snow White. Said I looked the part of a fairy tale."
An overwhelming cloud of dread settles in the air. Something terrible is coming, and she is helpless to stop it.
"I have been holding on to the land for so long that I've forgotten why he gave it to me. He wanted me to use it, to build a future for myself. And what have I done? Nothing. I have nothing, and I am nothing."
"Nonsense. You are a wonderful person, Mary Margaret," she protests. "When you walk into a room, it brightens. You are a beacon of light in so many lives – not just David's, but mine, Ruth's, Killian's. We love you."
"Thank you, Emma. That means so much, coming from you. You're a good friend." Then she chokes back a sob. "But I cannot go on like this. I cannot. That is why I'm here. I need your help, your advice."
"Anything." She desperately hopes it's something she can do.
"I…I sold my land."
Emma guessed as much, but this couldn't be just what was bothering her. Property is valuable. With the sale of her land, she can live anywhere she wants.
Hiccuping, she takes a deep breath and continues. "I sold my land to George Spencer. The value of my land…for David's. To cancel his debt."
"You gave George Spencer your land?" She can hardly believe what she is hearing. "You traded your land for David's land?"
"Yes."
"His mortgage is gone? No more eviction?"
"Yes. George Spencer is a snake, but he assured me that my parcel was adequate compared to the enormity of the Nolans' debt. He seemed rather pleased about the whole transaction."
"Naturally, he is pleased. He won. Whether David becomes the constable or not, Spencer has your land and the satisfaction of degrading you to debase David."
"I made my choice, Emma. Ruth is ill. I saw her last week, and she could barely lift her knitting needles. She looked so tired and cold. And David works so hard. I could not sit in my cottage and do nothing."
It comes to Emma's attention that in all the time she's been here in Storybrooke, she never once visited Mary Margaret in her own house. She always went to David's home, because that's where she assumed Mary Margaret would be. Did she unintentionally take her friend for granted as much as David did?
"In any case, it is done. I do not have many belongings, so for now, they are with Granny and Ruby. I have said my goodbyes."
Horrible fear strikes her heart. "You're not leaving Storybrooke?"
"I have no home now. Where will I go?" The enormity of what she has done stuns her. Her face crumbles. "I'm frightened. Emma, I'm so frightened. What should I do now?"
"What about David?"
"Their cottage is too small for the two of them, let alone me. I dare not ask. And after this, how can I face him again? He was so proud after the town meeting – that he stood up to George Spencer once and for all, that he was brave enough to do it. When he hears that I paid his debt… He will never speak to me again. But I did not want to watch them be evicted from their home. It's all they have. So I gave all I had left to give."
She starts to sob in earnest. Emma stands up from her chair and goes in front of where Mary Margaret is sitting. Kneeling down, she wraps her arms around her dear friend, who is falling apart. She leans into the embrace.
So engrossed in her own suffering, she never realized that Mary Margaret was going through so much conflict and pain. What a terrible friend she has been, more interested in self-pity than the feelings of those around her.
First Killian, now Mary Margaret.
"You don't need to leave Storybrooke. That's exactly what that bastard wants," she whispers. "I don't know how much I can fight him, but I won't let you leave. You need to stay here. David will understand. I know he will. You have such a good heart. You could never love someone who didn't have one as well."
Mary Margaret cries harder into her shoulder.
Looking around, she sees the teapot on the stove, the open window, the hastily arranged sheets on her bed. The room is small, but two people could live here. It is not impossible.
Emma starts to smile. George Spencer is going to leave Storybrooke quite disappointed. He is not going to hurt Mary Margaret or the Nolans anymore. He is not going to hurt Killian, either. And she'll be damned if he ever threatens her again.
She is going to fight back herself, the only way she knows how. And she knows exactly whom to ask for help.
If you can't fight fire with fire, use water. Use rags if you have to. Put the fire out and rake the ashes away.
The tides have turned. It is time George Spencer stopped suffocating this town.
Vines have begun to creep up the lighthouse walls. Sprouts are also shooting up, reminding Killian that sooner or later, flowers will be here.
Which means even more work for him, damn it.
He woke up at the crack of dawn, and he is still tending to the garden. Never mind that he has dozens of other duties.
First, he must take care of his thirsty plants while the sun is still weak. Then he can sit for hours in that sauna, where the clear glass and penetrating light make his daily tasks unbearable.
Wiping away sweat from his brow, he puts down the empty water bucket, peels off his glove with his teeth, and straightens, stretching his tired back. He glances at the path, then looks again, staring hard.
No, it cannot be. Can it?
Is his tired mind imagining his hopeful wish? Is it a mirage?
Indeed, it is a vision. But it is real, and the sight makes his heart leap out of his chest, desperate and aching.
"Killian!" She waves and starts running toward him, pulling up her skirts so she can go faster. He drops the hoe he picked up and hurries out of the pen, jumping over the low fence he erected.
Emma is in his arms before he knows what to think.
He wants to ask why she is here, but he does not. All he can see is how dirty he is from gardening, how radiant she looks, how he really needs to wash his arms and face.
How much he has missed her. How much his heart has needed her, becoming whole the instant it feels her answering heartbeat.
A moment passes. Saying nothing, she touches his cheek. He leans into that touch, covering her hand with his. Her piercing gaze softens.
Just as he is about to open his mouth – to say something, anything – she leans up and presses her lips against his in a fervent kiss.