There are a great number of mysteries in the world, mysteries which most people do not think of as mysteries. Shadows, for instance - who would ever suspect them of being more than what they look like? People think they control them. They think their shadow is simply there, a product of alignment and nothing more, the sun being where it is and bodies standing like so and thus, there is a shadow. Nothing more than a physical consequence, a trick produced by light and darkness. They are wrong, but it is hardly their fault. Shadows take care to make themselves seem much simpler than they are.

Children know better. Shadows will talk to children more often than they will talk to anyone else, which is why children are frightened of so many things. There is much to be frightened of, in the world, and shadows tend to be an anxious bunch. They also have trouble describing things properly, which is how the concept of 'monsters' came about. Not that those don't exist, either, but the unfortunate shadow who'd first created them in their child's mind had been attempting to describe a tornado.

The shadow of Killian Jones was older than most, though shadows don't tend to lend much credence to age, considering how often they die and come back to life every day. Killian's shadow had seen much, however, and endured even more, and as such they considered themselves an authority on life and many other things.

The first few days without their enemy double gave Killian's shadow a sense of freedom they had never known - for even before Neverland, Killian Jones' life had been one full of strife and hardship, and his shadow had always shared the burden. The second shadow he'd gained there had been his first's most persistent, agonizing enemy, and while they were determined to keep the demon at bay for Killian's sake, now that it was gone, they were happy - as happy as a shadow can ever claim to be, that is.

Killian himself, however, was not, and his shadow was cognizant enough of their companion's moods to realize it. There had been a great heartbreak, which the shadow could feel, to some extent. They remembered when the brother had died, and again, when he'd left Neverland and had discovered how much time had passed. Each instance had been arresting enough to allow the shadow to feel some of the pain - just a glimpse of it, they were not so much part of each other that the shadow could feel more - but enough to make the shadow regret it.

It was the woman, somehow. It had to be.

Misthaven was unrecognizable from the last time they were here, but the shadow barely recognized anyplace, really. Other than Neverland, which had been a home of sorts to shadows everywhere - not a welcome one, but a home all the same. Misthaven, however, was just another kingdom in a land full of them, another unremarkable land full of unremarkable dangers, in the shadow's opinion.

Killian sailed into the harbor in the early morning, and so the shadow was just waking from their sleep when he stepped foot onto the dock. There were flowers tied to the city gates, and most of the people wore black shawls over their shoulders. The shadow felt strangely uneasy.

"What is this?" Killian asked. The shadow paused at his feet, so they could listen. Shadows always had to concentrate, to listen to humans' words. "The princess?"

"Princess Emma, aye." Another man, with a scar across his chin, and a heavy, leather coat. "Received word of her death three weeks past. The Shepherd declared six months' mourning, just the other day."

"Three weeks," Killian said thoughtfully. The shadow didn't know, nor care much, about whatever significance that had. "How did she die?"

"Who knows?" The other man shrugged. "She was on some diplomatic tour, hadn't been home in a couple years. Royals haven't said anything official."

"And unofficially?"

"Well, what do you think, sailor? You've more idea than I, most likely."

Killian scoffed. "I've not been home in months, friend, and the only shores I've seen have been cold and silent."

"Hm," said the man. "Well - we are old acquaintances, so I suppose that is enough. You didn't hear this from me, though."

"Of course," Killian said, and leaned in. The shadow leaned in with him.

"It's said," the man explained, so quiet the shadow had to strain even more than usual to hear, "that she ran away. The queen had a spell put on her when she was young - one of those life spells, to track her location, since she used to run off all the time. Young Emma had magic of her own though, everyone knew that, and there are those who were close to the castle that said she'd found a way to modify it."

"Modify a tracking spell?" Killian asked. "That's not possible, is it?"

"Aye, well - a princess would be capable, even if no one else could."

"Fine," Killian said, "then they know of her death because of the spell."

The man shrugged. "They must. How else? That's all I know, anyway."

"All I needed," Killian told him. The shadow moved to clap the other man's shadow's arm, in tandem with their humans. "I thank you, friend," he said, and slipped a few coins into the man's pocket as he brushed past. The other's shadow was one of those silent, boring, mortal ones, and nodded quietly at the gesture.

The woman had had a shadow too, a lovely one that Killian's shadow had liked very much. The woman's shadow was lithe and tricky, and had stuck to the corners while Killian's shadow and their double waged battle. Every once in awhile, though, the woman's shadow would stick out a leg, or wave a strategic hand, at just the right moment to allow Killian's shadow to emerge victorious. They had never spoken, but Killian's shadow had known that the woman's was capable of it. They had looked forward to saying hello, one day. When they could.

The shadow allowed themselves to be pulled along as Killian strode through the streets, feeling their strength rise and fall as he strode in and out of the sun's direct light. If pressed, the shadow would say they did not care much of their companion's ups and downs - but shadows were stubborn, prideful things, and the truth was that Killian's shadow did care quite a bit. Who could blame them, when they'd been his steady partner - and defender - for so many years? Shadows did not fear death, of course - why, dying was something they did every day! But they did fear oblivion, which is a very different thing. Killian Jones had been closer to that fearsome sort of existence than any other man who'd ever lived - and his shadow had lived and died and lived again, millions of times, on its edge.

If shadows had wishes - most shadows don't - they'd wish only for an afternoon of peace, every once in awhile, and a field to run around in. Killian's shadow had more wishes than most, and more thoughts too, for that matter. So it was that on that Misthaven afternoon, free of their enemy for the first time in years, the shadow had a moment of pure, logical clarity and understanding.

Their double was gone, but so was Killian's woman. And in the shade of a canvas awning, the shadow watched as Killian drew back his sleeve and ran one hand over the spring green vine, now tattooed upon his wrist. Eye for an eye, a shadow for a vine, the shadow thought, and wrapped themselves around Killian's feet in a silent, unnoticed attempt at comfort.

"Princess," the shadow heard Killian say. "A princess. Bloody fucking hell."

He stormed off again, and the shadow stormed with him. There was adventure afoot, they knew. The shadow was more than up for it.

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