Chapter 22.

Emma awoke to the gentle rocking of the ship. It eased her into consciousness, and she slowly opened her eyes, awareness slipping into her mind as she took in the view of the cabin she had from her position pressed up against the wooden wall. She was on board the ship. His ship. And there had been a storm. And then the shadow.

She wasn't sure if she had simply dreamt its presence or if something had actually joined her in the cabin in the night, but she was glad. The specter had given her comfort when she thought she would be left alone.

Her eyes flicked around the room, wondering if the shade was still present, but the cabin was still in the morning light, the only movement following the gentle roll of the ship on the surf and the floating of dust through the motes of light. She took a deep breath, noticing the aroma of chocolate that pervaded the cabin and what must have stirred her from sleep.

Her eyes searched for its source and found it in the platter that was sitting on the table, filled with some fruits and bread, from what she could see. Next to it was a lumpy mass, and as she straightened up in the bed, leaning against the wall, she realized that it must be her new set of clothes for the day. Quickly she looked around for her rose, finding it unharmed between the sheets.

That thought had her remembering that she had collapsed into bed covered in sweat from her labors on deck, which, because of the storm, were now undone. She felt the stickiness that comes with being unwashed after physical exertion, a sensation that she was unfamiliar with. She sighed, pushing her mess of hair from her face, before something occurred to her. She jerked her hands out in front of her, assessing the flawless skin of her palms, seeming to have returned to their pre-labor state, save for the small calluses that now hardened her skin.

She ran her thumb over them, studying her hands, wondering how it had happened; struck by how grateful she was to have something so small done for her. She thought about how good she had felt about her laboring the day prior and now the overwhelming gratitude that she wasn't in that small bit of pain. As she sat forward to the edge of the bed, feet dropping into place on the worn patches of rug, she considered that she had been forced to lose everything before she could understand how precious the little things were.

She thought about the joy that one of her son's smiles could bring her and how irritated she would get when he was exhibiting her father's bullheadedness, and now she wished more than anything that he was there with her, even if just to argue over how he was supposed to dress for a ball.

She sighed again before heaving herself up to her feet, wincing as her muscles stretched from the long night cramped up against the side of the ship. She made her way over to the table inhaling the rich aroma of chocolate as she approached, assessing the fine platter of food laid out before her. She noticed that the bundle was indeed a pile of clothes, and on top rested a small rolled up parchment.

She decided to quickly change, hurriedly stripping of the grime covered clothes she was wearing and pulling on the new outfit, as comfortable and well-made as the last set, before she sat herself down to dine on the cool fruits and tart bread that he had made appear. She noticed that the chocolate smell seemed to be emanating from the goblet before her and after a few bites, she grew curious enough to reach out to grab it.

The finely worked metal was almost hot to the touch, and once she had gotten over her surprise, she grasped it and brought the drink to her lips. A sweet, slightly spiced chocolate ran down her throat and she couldn't help the small moan of pleasure at the delightful taste. The liquid chocolate was delicious, and she could detect a hint of cinnamon in the brew, making for a wonderful blend of sweet and spiced.

She finished her fruit and chocolate in short order, having missed her meal the evening before. Once she had nibbled on the last morsels, she wiped her hands and stacked her dishes, before picking up the small scroll that had been lying on the table top. Uncurling it, she was greeted again by his elegant and flowing script.

Lady Swan, I hope that the weather was not too rough on you last evening. The storm seemed to come from nowhere and I was surprised to see it on the horizon. My apologies if you were out working and got caught in it. To remedy that, today please clean the hold, and try to organize the items as best you can. I am assuming you are, in fact, literate or these letters would be a moot point, so I'll also ask that you catalogue what you find in the ledger that's in the chest right by the hold door.

This will probably take you a few days, so don't strain yourself, your highness.

KJ

She gnawed on her lip as she read his letter, scoffing slightly at the tone, relieved that she wouldn't be up in the open air. But she felt a deep disappointment that he had included no news on The Evil Queen, or her family. As she shifted in her seat, she wondered if perhaps it was intentional. What if he refused to give her any information whatsoever, given the fact that she will never be able to see them again anyway? She sighed but pushed herself back from the table and began tidying up her place.

She had always had someone to clean up after herself and now that she didn't, she began to see how much work was required to do something simple, like clear a table. Another creature comfort that she had not appreciated until she had to do it herself.

Silently she vowed, if she ever got the opportunity, she would thank each and every servant in her household by name, and never neglect showing her appreciation for tem ever again. But the small hopeless voice in her mind reminded her that the likelihood of ever seeing her kingdom, let alone being served by the castle staff, was next to non-existent.

She felt a sudden upwelling of tears at the thought, and with a sniffle, she immediately set about tidying the rest of the room, pulling the sheets up from where she had rumpled them on the bed, straightening the pillow and collecting the clothes she had changed out of, putting them on top of the empty dishes.

Just as she was about to grab the plates and put all her used materials outside the door, she remembered that she wanted to ask for something to bathe with, even if it was just a small basin and some water. So she quickly stepped over to his desk and riffled through his top drawers, finding parchment, ink, a quill, and some drying sand. She sat and began to write.

Dear Sir,

I thank you thus far for the well prepared food you have seen fit to give me, and I have not eaten better, even when I lived in the palace.

She paused for a moment as she finished the sentence. The way it was phrased made it sound like such a thing was so long ago. And that was how it felt. Her whole life had come tumbling down around her feet in naught but a few days, and then her whole identity, Crown Princess, mother, daughter, stripped away as well. Her parents. Her son. Her friends at court. Her whole life was gone.

The tears that she had managed to stave off from a few moments before came back with full force, and her eyes blurred as they poured down her face, and she decided to finish the note as quickly as possible, despite the blots the falling liquid was causing on the parchment.

Thank you as well for the clean clothing you provide me with, as you said you would. You also mentioned that if I should desire something I lack, to put the request to you, and if was in your power, you would grant it. With that in mind, I should very much like to have something small to wash myself with. I am unaccustomed to labor and find myself desiring to bathe more frequently that before. If you would deign to provide me with something, it would be very much appreciated.

ES

She hesitated for a moment over the signature, the habit of signing with her full title and name difficult to overcome. But she was no longer that person any more. Those titles were worthless on a hunk of wood in the middle of the ocean. And so with a few more spilled tears, she simply signed as he had. With nothing more than her name.

Another sniffle followed as she sprinkled the sand across the ink, letting the grains absorb the small pools of wet ink that remained, before she carefully poured the sand back into the vial. She held the parchment over the side and blew lightly, letting the remaining sand fall to the carpet below the desk, before she stood to take the letter back to the table. Gently she placed the letter on top of her old pile of clothes before placing the fabric on top of the gathered plates and setting them outside the door to the cabin.

She returned to the bed, tidying the sheets, thinking back on how often she used to the same thing for her son, and she had to pause for a moment as sorrow overwhelmed her.

"Henry," she gasped out, feeling her eyes begin to sting yet again with tears. She put her hands out to brace herself against the soul wrenching emptiness that suddenly welled up within her, and her palm somehow landed on the stem of her rose. She turned her watery eyes to the small bloom, somehow unharmed during the night. If that tiny petal could weather a storm, then so could she.

She breathed in deeply, blinking away her tears, before she finished tidying the bed. Then she grabbed the bloom, taking another breath of the calming scent as she turned toward the door .

"Ok- to the hold," she encouraged herself.

With another deep breath, she nodded to herself, and marched toward the door to head down to the hold.

Though she had no idea where it was, she simply figured that she could try every door until she found it. But before she could even attempt to try a door, she heard the soft whispering from before. She whirled around, trying to figure out where it was coming from, but as it was the night she had stumbled into the captain's cabin, the passage was empty. She waited, but nothing seemed to change, so she hesitantly moved forward, noticing that as she did, the whispers seemed to move as well.

Brow furrowed, she pondered, wondering if it was some kind of enchantment he had left behind to guide her, and for a moment she wonder if it was some sort of trap. But even though she was disconcerted by the disembodied whispers, they did not evoke any sense of threat of fear in her. So she continued on, following the voices, until she arrived at stairs the stern of the ship and the whispers seemed to just fade away. Stairs that led down into the darkness that inhabited the bowels of the ship.

She shivered as she looked into the darkness, smelling the thick, moist air as it festered in the shadows, carrying the stench of rotting brine and thick with dust. Her brows pulled low as she was overwhelmed with the putrid stench, surprised that anywhere on the ship could have such a stench, for what she had seen of the ship indicated that the Captain maintained the highest degrees of cleanliness, to an almost militaristic degree.

She knew the stories, of the naval lieutenant who vanished into the sky, and the black-souled sailor who returned in his place. She heard the whispers of mutiny and murder of his captain- his brother. The rumors of stealing a wife and holding her hostage. She had heard her lady's maids whispering of the silver tongued demon, with eyes the color of ice that burned with back fire. And then the warnings her parents had murmured to her at night, warning of the monster so evil, it could conquer darkness itself. Of the shadow that had somehow slipped into the deepest parts of the dungeon on the very night fate was to change, and with a single blow, stole the dark power for himself.

As she sucked in a breath at the thought, she was brought back to the looming darkness below her as the rank air was pulled deep into her lungs. She coughed lightly, before she resigned herself to breathing the air for hours. So with a nod, she gripped her rose tightly and descended into the eternal night of the bowels of the ship.

The air was even worse, hot and cloying, as she carefully felt her way down the stairs. She again wondered why this part of the ship was so neglected.

Her last stepped jarred her as she unexpectedly encountered the hull of the ship just as the ship gave a hard lurch. A small yip of surprise left her mouth and she stumbled, flailing about, trying to brace herself. But when she put her hand out to the side, expecting the solid hold of the ship, her yip turning into a screech as the wall gave way under the pressure and she fell sideways onto the hard wood.

And just as she was recovering from the sudden change in position and the blooming ache in her hip and shoulder, she was startled yet again when a light flare brightly right above her. She flinched, curling herself in anticipation of something, but nothing came.

Hesitantly, she opened her eyes and pushed herself to sitting. She sat in what appeared to be a storage room, except along the walls were dozens of horizontal and vertical wooden shelves, creating cubes of storage space along all the walls.

Puzzled, she sat upright, casting a wary glance back out into the darkness before pushing herself to standing. She allowed her eyes to roam over the slots, observing some had sacks of coins, other vials, pieces of ribbon, jewelry, flowers that had yet to fade, and a multitude of other trinkets. None of them seemed to have anything in common other than a small roll of paper curled up next to the item.

Her eye was caught by a space at about eye level because it appeared as if there was a set of human toes sitting next to the scroll. Wincing slightly at the disgusting sight, she nevertheless reached out to carefully pluck the scroll from next to the appendage, careful not to let her fingers brush it.

She looked at the parchment in her hands, noting as she looked it over that it was of the same material as the contract she had signed only a few days prior. The memory of the rage she had experienced that day set her whole body shaking and it was with trembling fingers that she unfurled the parchment and read with beautiful script therein.

By this agreement, it is hereby sworn that Killian Jones, Dark One, known by moniker Hook and Captain of the Vessel The Jolly Roger, does swear to acquire a remedy to the magical illness that ails the signer of this contract, Brough Lefent. In return for the above named services, Brough Lefent, the courier, does hereby willingly and without reservation,sign over one favor to Captain Killian Jones, to be claimed at such time as the writer of this contract deems it convenient.

Should the latter party, in the name of Brough Lefent, fail to fulfill or attempt to escape the above terms of contract, his toes are forfeit to repay the debt accrued. Should the former party, Captain Killian Jones, fail to fulfill or attempt to escape the above terms of contract, this contract is rendered null and void, freeing Brough Lefent of any and all obligation to him and placing the children under the protection of Captain Killian Jones until such a time as they come of age or are able to supply themselves the commodities to live, whichever circumstance should arrive first.

Both parties being agreed, the terms outlines are binding by all the ancient laws and rites and the terms of this contract take effect immediately upon the signing of this contract.

She finished reading the contract, then glanced back up at the neatly lined up toes on the shelf before her and felt a wave of nausea rise up in her. He had taken the man's toes. Like actually physically removed his toes. And as a courier, without his full foot, he would never be able to work again. This man's life had been destroyed by this deal.

With a face twisted in disgust, she tossed the paper back into its place, then runs an eye over the compartment once more in revolted understanding. Each of these little sections was a complete deal someone had made. Each item was a trophy collected, the symbol of a desperate soul. A passing thought crossed her mind and she wondered with a sort of morbid curiosity if her contract had been placed among those before her.

It was as she spun around, cataloguing the dozens of spaces, all full, she noticed a small chest on the floor, shoved in a corner, with a piece of old blanket draped over it haphazardly, like whoever had put it there had been in too much of a hurry to hide it from sight to do it properly. It reminded her of when Henry hurriedly tried to hide something when her heard her coming.

Henry.

Her heart clenched in her chest and she squeezed her hands, only to look down, surprised to find the stem of the pink blossom still held there. She looked at it for several moments, recalling all her interactions with the man who was her captor since she had met him. The strange way he had reacted to her offering of servitude, his almost-gentlemanly treatment of her, him healing her, the horror at himself. But she also recalled his volatile anger and callous words. She could not understand him

Shaking her head at her musing, she knelt down in front of chest, pushing the fabric off the lid. She was surprised to find that, when she tried the lid, it opened easily under her hands.

On the inside was revealed, she was taken aback by what she found. Instead of fine jewels and piles of gold, it was barely half filled. She saw a small cutlass, several books, a shawl, a cutting of a strange thorned plant, a bloodied knife, a beautiful sextant, and several folded pieces of parchment.

Carefully, she reached into the chest and picked up one of the folded pieces of parchment. Withdrawing her hand, she placed the flower on the floor to open it. And gasped. Inside was a charcoal portrait of a stunning woman mid laugh. The precise details of the lines around her smile and the glitter in her eyes clearly indicate that the artist knew this woman intimately, knew her down to her very soul, and likely she knew the artist just as deeply.

It was truly a work of art, and she envied the woman who could have such a devoted eye observing her. She wondered what such an eye would see of her, should she ever find someone who could know her as this artist did the subject.

With reverence she felt was due to the devoted portrait, she carefully set it aside and pulled out the next.

This one depicted a young boy with a mischievous smile, holding a cutlass aloft, on the deck of a ship. The cutlass looked remarkably like the one in the box, and it was clear that the same hand held also done this portrait.

Just as she was about to set it aside, she looked more closely, something familiar about the quirking smile and squinted eyes. But she could not seem to place it and so disregarded it in favor of exploring more of the contents of the box.

She pulled out another sketch, and gasped at what she saw. A man, not much older than herself, with curly hair, and laugh lines around his eyes, was laying prone on a wood surface, black lines creeping up his neck, his face convulsed in agony as his eyes fixed fiercely on the observer, or perhaps, she mused, on the artist. It was clear the man in the image was in agony, but she could also see a stubborn furrow in his brow and a fierceness in his eyes, his lips parted, and she could almost envision his valiantly struggling to offer some words of comfort to the person above him. The person who took the time to note the loose threads on the collar of his captain's jacket and the small mole on his cheek. To make sure the tan line of his collar and the slight indent in his curls from his captains hat.

A person who knew the agony of watching this man die, for it was clear that is what the portrait was of. A man in his last moments. And every line etched into the image expressed the agony of the hand that felt compelled to capture it.

As she looked into the dimming eyes of a man she had never met and whose name she did not know, she felt herself begin to tear up, her soul aching for the pain and love captured in the image in her hands. Before she realized it, a single tear rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the the page, just below the man's eyes.

She gasped and quickly sat back from the image, but the damage had been done. Now the man appeared to have a single tear running from his eye as he immortally drew his final breath.

She hastily refolded the portrait and replaced it and the others in the chest. She closed her eyes to compose herself from the emotional onslaught she had just experienced, but the dying eyes of the man from the portrait haunted her behind her lids.

"Liam!"

She jerked, eyes flying open as she quickly looked around. She could have sworn she heard a broken and agonized voice screaming, begging. But there was no one but her, even as the voice echoed like the memory of a dream.

Sniffling slightly and recomposing herself once more, she resumed her search of the box, eyes being drawn group of identical book spines. At random she pulls one from the middle and opens it. Inside are lines of the familiar and elegant script that she has only recently become familiar with.

She begins reading in the middle of a page.

...n't remember her face anymore. I keep having to pull the sketch out to remind me what she looks like when she smiles. The bloody demon has kept us here too long, and I can feel the magic of this blasted island seeping into me. I can watch it in my men. I'll catch them staring out at the horizon with empty eyes, before I call them back to attention and the life returns.

She frowned, realizing that what she was holding was one in a series of captain's logs. Shocked, she looked back in the box. There must have been twelve or thirteen volumes in the chest. She glanced back at the book in her hands, noting that the logs was not kept daily. Then she looked more closely at the dates and gasped. The date was from almost one hundred and seventy years before.

Amazed, she looked at where she pulled the book from, the empty slot in the middle of the spines indicating it was sixth in the series. She was shocked. There must be over three hundred years of captain's logs kept in the chest.

She sat back, considering. Three hundred years. A man that old must have the weight of the world on his shoulders, with that amount of memories and regrets that could accumulate over such a lifetime. She would never wish such a fate upon anyone. She could only imagine how she would feel if Henry had succumbed to such a fate.

She shivered, but the thought prompted another. Her son always kept all his valuables in a box under his bed, and in her youth, she had discovered similar boxes in her parents' chambers, filled with items they had collected or that held sentimental value.

If the writing in the logs was his, it stood to reason that everything in the chest was also his. She considered the portraits form before. There were none of him, so he must be the artist.

It mystified her that such harsh hands could create such lines of passion. Then another thought occurred to her. The maps in his cabin. The beautiful detail and intricate patterns done by a skilled and practiced hand. He must have also created them.

Shaking her head at this newest facet to the man, she slid the book back into place. As she did she noticed that the last book, the thirteenth, varied slightly. ALthough identical to the others in size, shape, and binding, where the others were blue and grey, this book was pure black.

She slipped it out, curious, and noticed that emblazoned on the cover was the design of a jagged, evil looking dagger. She ran her fingertips along the cover before opening it up to the first page.

Captain's log- Year 345, 3657 by worldly reckoning, day 37 of the Late Season

Milah, my love, finally. I have finally found it. The secret your son told me of so long ago, the means to finally laying you ghost to rest. The dagger. I was approached by a witch, fancied herself an evil queen, Regina, she called herself. Pompous palace raised brat. She promised me that she could get me the dagger. In exchange, when I had done the deed, she wanted a favor from me. While I hated the idea that I should act like the vile creature i'm trying to destroy, the opportunity was too good to pass my love. I agreed and she says she shall have it to me within the fortnight.

She gasped. He had met Regina before. Her heart sped up as a sudden fear began to crawl down her spine. She continued to read, as he noted receiving the dagger and plotting out how to enter the castle. The more she read, the more she feared. He knew intimate details of the castle and her kingdom. He made note of her parents marriage and finally, of her mother's pregnancy. She was enthralled with the absolute prowess of his plotting that she didn't realized she had reached the end until she turned a final page, filled with harsh writing, nothing like the elegant scripts off all the previous pages.

As she pulled it closer to her face to try and make out the letters, a piece of parchment slid out, but she paid it no mind, consumed by the words before her. The last entry was dated to the day of her birth.

I did it. I finally did it. And he laughed as he died. I stabbed him through the heart, to die as you did and he just laughed.

Gods it burns. I can hear them all, screaming in my head. I'm burning. The Jolly has gone silent and I cannot feel the sea spray. I can't feel the starlight. I can't feel th- I can't feel.

MILAH MY LOVE IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

GODS WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Liam

Forgive me.

The writing was shaky and the ink was blotched, like he was pressing too hard and writing too quickly. She ran her hands over the letters feeling the agony in every stroke. Her tears ran afresh as she began to truly understand the man who dwelled within the monster, driven by rage and grief to do the only thing he could.

She closed the book carefully, caressing the cover as she slowly shifted to put it back into its sacred spot. But as she shifted forward, the paper in her lap slid to the floor. She picked it up to slip it back into the pages, but she was too deep to not know everything. What could merit being added to the final book?

She unfolded the parchment to see a contract, dated from thirty years ago and began to read.

I, Killian Jones, newly christened Dark One, do honor the oath sworn to Regina, child of the Miller's line and Queen Dowager of Misthaven. She has fulfilled the terms of her contract, and I am bound to provide her one favor of her choosing at an undetermined time in the future.

It lacked the finesse of his later contracts, but it was evident that this one bound him as surely as all the others did. But it was the final lines of the contract, written crookedly as if they were added much later, that stole her breath and poured ice in her soul. Because it was dated from a week ago, the day Regina escaped.

The Queen has claimed her favor, and I released her from the dungeon that once held my predecessor. Our contract is now fulfilled.

It was him. He did it. It was all his fault.