Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree as old as me
Branches were sewn by the color of green
Ground had arose and passed its knees
- To Build a Home, the Cinematic Orchestra
Once the night's grown too dark to allow for any more searching, he retires to the Jolly Roger.
But he doesn't sleep, doesn't get any further than the threshold of his cabin before the pain hits him anew, waves of agony pulling him under. He spots pieces of her throughout the room; her hairbrush on the nightstand, her red leather jacket strewn over the back of a chair, two pairs of her shoes tucked away near the bed. He goes to the wardrobe and paws through the clothes there, staring at a handful of her shirts and a pair of jeans, all neatly folded. On his desk are odds and ends she'd let lay around; the tube full of that black formula she applies to her eyelashes, several of those ties she uses on days she opts to wear her hair up, the strange little device she calls 'tweezers'.
They are minor objects, but they might as well be weapons for all the pain they cause him in that moment. He recognizes the meaning behind all these seemingly insignificant objects. He knows that they mean Emma had been allowing herself to get comfortable. It's a testament to how far they've come and a memorial all at once. Because he doesn't know when he will see her again. He doesn't know how long it will be until the next time she readies herself by the mirror while he watches lazily from his spot on the bed. He doesn't know, and it's the uncertainty which makes it unbearable, makes it feel as though a blade's twisting in his chest.
Finally, he collapses onto the bed. He'd spent more nights on this mattress alone than not, yet without her it feels empty. The whole ship creaks as if she knows the weight in his heart, as if she, too, feels Emma's absence. The dagger glints in the lamplight, and he brings it to his chest, holding it close, the way he had once held her. He lets his eyes fall shut.
As he drifts into what's sure to be a restless sleep, Killian understands why the Jolly does not offer her usual comfort tonight. He and Emma had built something here, in the past weeks, within the small room of the Captain's Quarters. They'd formed something familiar and routine, finding comfort in their tiny rituals, in the way he'd wake first thing in the morning and feel her warmth beside him, in the way she'd roll over and search for his hand before even opening her eyes. Here on the water, with the ocean lapping at the enchanted wood and the cool sea air blowing between the planks, here they'd begun to make a home.
And without her, he can see the foundation start to crumble.