When Emma woke up, night had fallen, which startled her — hadn't it been sunrise just moments ago?

She staggered out of the bed and to her feet, blinking the haze of sleep out of her eyes and readjusting her dress (she had, out of stubborn belligerence, refused to change into any of his clothes, and was now regretting it). The room was surprisingly empty; she had half-expected the captain — Killian — or, no, that felt too familiar and nice for a kidnapper, he was Jones, that was it — to be sitting at the desk watching her again or else in the bed for one reason or another.

It was oddly disappointing.

Slowly filling with the restless energy of waking from a too-long sleep, she shuffled out of the cabin and onto the deck, where a stiff breeze was blowing; they were farther north than they should have been. Either she had slept much longer than she thought, or they were moving much faster than any other ship she'd been on.

Maybe she was imagining it, but there was something… eerie about the deck right now, unevenly washed in light from the half-moon, light that served more to cast shadows than anything else. It made her uneasy.

She found Jones at the helm, although he didn't appear bothered with steering, and, in the interest of banishing the vague fear of the dark she thought she'd gotten over years ago, joined him.

"You slept well, I take it?" he asked, with a glance at her form. "And clearly had trouble opening the wardrobe."

"I like this dress," she replied coldly, crossing her arms and trying not to openly shiver.

"Really," he said, and in the dim light it was hard to tell if his expression was amused or lascivious, and even harder to tell which one she'd prefer. "Pride is such a beast, isn't it?"

"It's one of my pet sins," she conceded with a noncommittal shrug.

"So I gather," he said with an insincere smirk. "There are worse crimes, I suppose. I once knew a man who spent three hundred years planning the perfect revenge, personification of wrath, he was."

"What happened to him?" she asked, watching his face. There was something off about him, like maybe he was drunk or maybe he was desperate to share some old, awful secret.

"What do you think?" he replied ambiguously.

"Well, did he get what he wanted?"

He didn't answer for a long time, instead staring out to sea distantly, clearly lost in memory. "No," he answered finally, without fully coming back to the ship. "He never got anything he wanted."

She started to inquire further, but stopped herself at the last moment — that trail didn't lead anywhere good, and she was in no mood to tread unknown waters.

"Where are we?" she asked instead, and he finally came back around, blinking at her. The night hid most of the emotion on his face; she was left with a vague sense of bitter longing, but it passed so quickly and completely that she was sure she had imagined it. He grinned, teeth white in the moonlight.

"The northern seas," he replied smugly, again lording the information over her. "You'd know if you could read the stars."

She looked up, but navigation by starlight wasn't a skill she'd spent much time honing. Her lessons in navigation were a bit more… down to earth than his; she could find her way to water in a forest and orient herself using moss and the north star, but she was lost at sea. Still, she gave it a shot.

"Pretty far north," she said, wincing. "Farther than we should be, or else I just suck at this."

Jones laughed, but didn't elaborate. "We'll be at the coast of your foe's lands within three days' time," he said, and she turned to him, surprised and dismayed. It was too soon. She'd only been on this ship a day and a half — her parents probably hadn't even left port yet.

"That soon, huh?" she breathed faintly, and he glanced at her.

"Aye," he replied, sounding a bit more sober. "Fastest ship on the seven seas," he explained, patting the wheel like it was a good pet. "But we've also had the wind and luck on our side."

"Your side," she muttered. He was quiet for a moment.

"Well, Regina's, at least," he conceded in a low voice, and an uncomfortable silence fell. She didn't want to comment on it, either in pathetic hope or in scathing criticism, and she refused to seize upon the moment of tenderness to make a case as to why he shouldn't hand her over. It was part pragmatism — calling attention to it would probably make him shut down — but mostly pride.

It just felt too much like begging.

She continued to look up at the sky, and pretended she couldn't feel his eyes on her.

At least they would slow down when they reached land; a ship could speed along with the wind, but people (and horses) could only run so fast for so long. It was cold comfort at best.

"You know," she said abruptly, to fill the silence and the gaping maw of dread opening up in her gut, "everyone I've ever talked to says they see different constellations. And I've talked to a lot of people," she added with a wry, insincere smile. He raised an eyebrow at the sudden non-sequitor, so she went on, although she rather felt that she would have kept talking even if he walked away. She needed the noise. "The dwarves, they see the Great Pickaxe, and the north star," she indicated to it, "is the top of the handle. The fairies say it's a crystal, my godmother says it's a wolf, and my dad says it's a bear. You know what I see?"

"What do you see?" he asked flatly.

"A ladle," she replied, and grinned in spite of his bored tone. "I have no idea where they get all those other things."

He laughed a little, under his breath like he was trying not to be amused. After a moment, he glanced up and was overcome by another short, quiet laugh. "Since I was a boy," he explained, leaning against the wheel easily, "I've thought it a pot."

"That works too," she said immediately. "Same concept."

"I wonder what that says about us?" he mused lightly.

"That we're always hungry," she replied, shrugging, and he looked at her oddly. "That, or we have no imagination."

"Either could be the case," he muttered after a short moment of reflection. "I've never looked to the sky for pictures or romance," he said slowly. "The curse of the sailor, I suppose: all I see in the stars are maps."

"I don't think that's a curse," she said. "It's the only one that's worth anything, isn't it? I mean, pictures and romance don't get you home."

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "But that isn't what they're designed for. What is life without romance, after all?"

She shrugged; romance, in any of its incarnations, had never done her any favors. "Simple," she answered, and he snickered cynically.

"Empty," he countered.

"Same thing."

She didn't say what she was really thinking — imagination was supposed to be how a person escaped from reality, but Emma had always been too grounded for much of that. Maps were more useful than crystals and wolves and pickaxes; pictures were what poets looked for in the sky, maps were what runaways did.

"Have you ever even been in love?" he asked suddenly, in a curious and vaguely patronizing tone, that you'll understand when it happens to you tone her parents used when they talked about that sort of thing.

She looked away, back up to the night sky. He had called it a cart (a method of escape).

"No," she lied. "No, I've never been in love."

.

She stayed there for a long while, still restless but unable (or maybe just unwilling) to leave the helm and return to the cabin; while it was a beautiful and comfortable cage, it was still a cage, and Emma had never done well with those.

The conversation was asinine, veering away from delicate topics like love and vengeance to the parts of a ship and sailing terminology, how to tie knots and how to pick locks and how to unlace a corset one-handed (although she was at a loss as to why he knew that), how to navigate when the sky was cloudy and how to identify poisonous vegetation and venomous animals (she was proud of how much more she knew about that than him). It was enlightening, in every way except human emotion.

She was perfectly comfortable with that, at the same time that she was horribly disappointed.

It was so easy to forget like this, cold wind in her hair and nothing but water for miles and complete, total, absolute freedom in her blood.

(…or at least the illusion of it.)

It was so easy to fall into the trap of blue eyes and wicked smirk and I'm always a gentleman; she knew, on some level, that he was deadly and actively participating in her imminent demise, but at the same time, that part of her that had rebelled against telling anyone about him at the party whispered, just take the risk, just this one time.

After all, if you're going up against Regina, what do you really have to lose?

.

Emma only noticed because Killian — Jones, she reminded herself — noticed, perking up like a rabbit who'd caught the scent of a wolf: there, against the sunrise, was something, shapeless, maybe just a trick of the light.

But the look on Jones's face said it wasn't, and he was the one with the experience. Besides, her gut was already twisting with premonition as the speck grew into a vague, tall oval.

"What is it?" she asked when he put the telescope back down.

"Another ship," he replied tightly. "Could be nothing, passing merchant vessel or the like."

"I thought pirates raided ships like that," she mused, and he shrugged dismissively.

"I've no need, and the risk outweighs the reward, with you aboard," he answered, with only a hint of resentment; she had already figured out that he liked the thrill of the fight and the danger more than he cared about the haul. Emma wanted to hate him for it, but she had let him kidnap her half for the drama it would be, so she didn't have much room to talk.

"What if it isn't a merchant? Then what is it?"

He grinned, a bit daring and a bit reckless and a bit mad (and a lot sexy). "Another pirate, love. What else?"

She hesitated, studying his profile for a moment; she wondered if he realized how obvious he was being. "So why are you worried?" she asked in a low voice. His expression didn't change.

"Who said I was worried?"

"I did," she replied matter-of-factly, and he glanced at her again, eyes narrowed. It took him a bit to respond, and when he did, it was reluctant.

"There isn't a large number of pirates who frequent these waters," he answered. "Most who do are no threat to me, generally not even worth the gunpowder to quarrel with, but there is one…" he trailed off, and then took a deep breath. "That ship, she's the right size, looks to be the right make. She's still too far off for the flag to be raised, however, so there's no way to be sure at the moment."

"What ship?"

He gave her a wry smile. "The Queen Ann's Revenge," he replied, smile turning into a sneer. "You may not have heard of her, but I assure you, you've heard a tale or two of her captain." She waited for him to go on, raising an eyebrow; the name did sound familiar, but she couldn't place it. When she didn't respond, he went on. "Edward Teach," he said, grinning in that same reckless way. "You may know him as Blackbeard."

Oh.

She had, in fact, heard of Blackbeard.

But he was supposed to be a legend, something from the distant past, not a real-life person — her mother had heard stories of him when she had been a child. Could he really still be haunting the seas?

It occurred to her, with a bolt of horrible vertigo (that may have had something to do with the unease she'd felt in the shadows), that perhaps "haunting" was exactly the right word. She'd never seen a ghost, and her father scoffed at the idea of them in general, but her practically-sister Alexandra swore their castle was haunted. And although Emma's view of the supernatural was usually pragmatic — she didn't believe anything until she saw it herself — ghosts frightened her.

The idea of anything undead and angry frightened her, really. That kind of determination, to hold onto a grudge past the grave, was a whole other class of deadly.

"Blackbeard," she repeated slowly, trying and failing to hide her concern. "I thought he was dead. I mean, he was famous when my mother was a little girl."

"How long ago was that?" he asked, shrugging. "Forty years or so? He's certainly an elder, but in this climate, that merely makes a man more dangerous." He turned away from the edge of the ship and began pacing with a sort of taut energy. "He's a consummate survivor. Not to say that I'm not," he added ambiguously, and muttered something under his breath that involved the word experienced, "but the Revenge has twice the guns I do, and she's nearly as fast."

"You don't think we could win a fight with Blackbeard?" she asked, half-fearful and half-incredulous, and he barked a harsh laugh.

"Interesting question, darling," he replied, smirking without any humor. "Do I believe that I, personally, could not win a duel with Edward Teach?" he said, and grinned like a shark, a vicious confidence in his eyes. "Please. I could defeat him in my sleep."

The way he said it, and the look on his face when he did, actually made her believe that.

"However, if your question was, do I believe that my ship could not win a battle with the Revenge," he went on, crossing his arms, "that answer is 'perhaps.' As I said, he has twice the guns. If he chooses to engage us in a naval battle rather than with a boarding party, I would not be so certain of our chances."

"But if he boards us…" she prompted, and he shrugged dismissively.

"If he boards us, he'll lose," he replied, with neither arrogance nor uncertainty. "I have a highly-trained crew of seasoned gun- and swordsmen, I've no worries regarding that. The problem, however…" he trailed off, and made a face. "The problem is, he knows that as well as I do. I've tangled with the man before, he'll not be foolish enough to meet me in person again."

"So he'll just blow us out of the water," she mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Well, if we're faster, why don't we just… run?"

"I'm curious," he said slowly, "as to what makes you think that wasn't the plan from the beginning."

She blinked. "Well, you don't really seem the, you know, running type."

He shrugged casually, like an acquiescence. "In general, no, but there's brave, and then there's stupid. Why fight a battle when I've nothing to gain by winning? And quite a lot to lose, I might add."

"What about manly pride?" she asked flatly, raising an eyebrow, and he snorted derisively.

"A man who risks his entire crew's lives to appease his vanity is not fit to be a captain," he replied in a dark voice. She had to agree; it was a sentiment she'd heard her father express — you can't let your pride cloud your judgment. Don't make other people die so you can prove yourself.

"Now," he said, as though continuing some entirely different conversation, "in the event that it is Teach and he does catch up to us and he does board us, you are to stay in my cabin, do you understand?"

She stared at him for a moment — he looked deadly serious — and glared, hackles rising at the fact that he was giving her orders, like she was one of his crew or had any obligation to him whatsoever. "What, are you afraid he'll kill me before Regina can?"

"In a word," he responded coolly, "yes. My deal with Regina is very explicit that you are to be delivered alive."

Well. At least he was honest.

(It still hurt.)

"Right," she muttered, and turned to walk away, restless and discouraged. "Glad to know."

Had he been humoring her all night, or was he just throwing up walls now? She was usually so good at reading liars and fakes, but he wasn't making any sense. It was like he had some sort of split personality, one chivalrous and charming and one callous and cruel.

And both of them were telling the truth.