Warnings: None

Notes: Thanks to all who left reviews, followed, and favorited! I hope you enjoy this next part. Endless love and gratitude, as ever, due to ripplestitchskein and unfolded73 for their help with this story.

Chapter One

Six Weeks Earlier

Emma figured that she was in for one hell of an I told you so.

It had hardly been a few hours since she and her crew drew up to Camelot's lone port, to what August had claimed was a mildly suspicious amount of fanfare. Dozens of people had awaited them on the docks, draped in ceremonial armors, carrying ceremonial flags, riding lumbering ceremonial horses with elaborate – what she was certain had been dyed – braids. To her current dismay, she had brushed August off at the time, delighted to be in a new place, a new forest. She'd grown tired of being at home, where the trees were a bit too familiar, the light a bit too warm. She'd longed for something a bit further north. Her father had taken pity on her, offering her an assignment in the very land in which she was now imprisoned.

Hence the I told you so.

"I told you so," August said, from the cell across the narrow hall. He was irritatingly relaxed, considering their situation, lying upon the smooth, cold ground, a little wooden ship twirling between his fingers. There beneath the castle, far from the revelry, it was deathly quiet, and so she could very nearly hear the way it smacked against his knuckles. Over and over again.

She sighed.

"I mean," she said, shifting so she could cross her legs. A bit awkward, maybe, in her dress. A soft, comfortable garment her mother had given her months ago, surreptitiously packing it away in her quarters with a note that claimed, You'll thank me later.

Hindsight, Emma thought, derisively.

"You're not wrong," she finished. "But if you don't stop doing that, I will set that ship on fire."

August didn't look nearly as alarmed as Emma thought he ought to be, but he tucked it away nonetheless, and sat to face her. Though, he did not look at her, surveying the metal for weaknesses as he had when they were first dragged down to the dungeons. His brow furrowed, and while Emma was certain he wouldn't find anything, she let him be, she herself thinking on why they were put in the dungeon to begin with.

It must have been that tree, she thought.

The ball had been quick to grow tiresome, as most balls were. The fanfare, though overblown, had been splendorous. There were flowers everywhere, fragrant and beautiful. The stone floors were polished, the banisters showered with ornate decorations. The people seemed lighthearted. The fabrics they wore were rich and bright, and they danced in a sort of order, the music repetitive but made with deep, stringed instruments that carried out onto the lonely castle grounds.

To where, admittedly, she had escaped.

And where she had found the tree, looming large in the shadows. It had seemed important, walled in by a marvelous courtyard, orderly gardens around the edge. The tree's branches draped down low, and Emma had imagined it was once something like a willow. While she walked around it, tracing her fingers along the rough, twisted bark, the music had softened, a mellow symphony telling her a story that was just out of reach. The scene was set, but the words…not quite there. There had been deep gashes in the bark, one in particular straight through to the center. Emma had wondered – still wondered – if the wounds were responsible for its death. It was a profoundly sad sight.

It's only a tree, she thought, in August's voice, though she did not believe it.

"It was only a tree," August said, startling her eyes open, "if that's what you're thinking about."

"Yeah, I know, that's what you said. But I think you're wrong."

August seemed to consider her a moment, watching her with bright eyes. He shifted closer to her from across the hall, hands curling around the bars.

"Did you feel something?"

Emma snorted. The man was hardly as surreptitious as he liked to believe. And besides – as much as her parents, and even Regina, had counseled her to keep her magic something of a secret, surely it was the worst kept secret in all the realms.

"Are you referring to my renowned magical prowess?" she said, loudly.

He threw up in hands. "Tell the whole damn kingdom you have magic, why don't you."

She sighed. "No, I didn't feel anything, but that's the point. Something should have been there."

"The trees here aren't enchanted, you know, not like they are at home."

"I do know. I think this one was. It felt…"

Empty, Emma thought, but didn't dare speak it aloud. It was something no one seemed to understand, the life force given by something born of magic. Like the forests in Misthaven, many of them reaching down deep with their roots, where enchanted waters long ago seeped into the ground. They would almost seem to sing to her when she was a child, swaying delightedly in the breeze at her arrival, hanging long and low when she was frightened or sad. But it was just the opposite with the tree in the courtyard, a very profound sense of loss when she had lain her hand upon its trunk.

Then, of course, as her fingers had warmed with light magic, reaching down into the desiccated sap to glean its story, the guards had taken her, having already cuffed and gagged August. In hindsight, it was almost funny, the way he had grown stiff and uncooperative in their arms, two of them having to carry them down to where they were now wasting away.

"Wasting away," August scoffed. "We've hardly been here for half an hour. I'm sure the king will come down here to demand his ransom before midnight."

"Ransom," Emma echoed.

She had considered it, of course. But instinct told her that King Arthur wanted something else. To steal and ransom a princess of the realm was either an act of a desperate man, or a mad one, not worth whatever coin one could possibly get.

"I doubt that's what they want," Emma said.

August tilted his head, pulling at the collar of his shirt, a flush of color on his cheeks. He rubbed his hands on his trousers, clearly trying to wick away the sweat.

"What do they want, then?" he said, too distracted to notice when she didn't answer.

Emma bit her lip, and reached up into her hair, pulling out an oddly long bobby, the material ornate and dusted with gold. Another followed, made of silver. One of the fancier lock pick sets she's owned.

"You want to get the hell out of here?"

August paused, having only just managed to wrestle one of his arms out of his vest. It caught on his belt, his once neatly styled hair falling into his eyes. His scowled at her, yanking the vest back on, leaping to his feet.

"Gods, Emma, why didn't you get us out before?"

Emma gave him a look, unimpressed.

"There was a guard standing outside the door," she said. "He left a couple minutes ago. My guess is he won't be back for a few more. So…time to escape?"

August, in all his petulance, looked like he might say no just to spite her. But he nodded.

"You're either the most intelligent or the most frustrating person I've ever met."

Emma shrugged, and reached around for the locks on the bars. It was nothing special, really, just at an odd angle. She couldn't quite see what she was doing, so she pressed her body into the bars. It became grossly obvious that they were covered in rust, smelling of ruin and copper. When the lock protested, she shuffled closer still, layers of dust and gravel skidding beneath her feet. There were windows in the dungeon, but they were high-angled, allowing just a faint bit of moonlight. There were torches, at least, but those too were faint, burning coolly in the stagnant air. The whole place was an abomination, even as far as dungeons went. So it was with a triumphant shout that Emma managed to wrest open the lock. It fell to the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Yes," August said, dryly, while she went to work on his. "It's always best to shout one's successes when in a ransom situation."

"Oh, quiet."

It didn't take Emma nearly as long to dislodge the second lock, and it too fell to the ground, tumbling along the uneven floor. She grabbed a hold of his wrist, and turned to creep out the door.

Always watch carefully over your shoulder, Emma.

It was something her father had told her again and again, sitting her on his lap, looking at her with his most serious face.

You're someone important. Many people will love you. Others…will want to take you. They'll be clever people, duckling. You have to be cleverer.

Emma had nodded, of course. But the one thing she'd never quite mastered was how to be devious. Malfeasance was rife throughout every land she'd ever been to, including her own. But it was hard to predict, because Emma couldn't quite get in their heads.

It was perhaps why, when she flung open the door, she was baffled to find Arthur standing before her, as though he'd been waiting.

"Hello, Emma," he said.

August froze behind her, and Arthur smiled pleasantly. His eyes sparkled in the dim, warm light. His armor gleamed. There was not a hair out of place on his head. And there was just something about it that made it all the more frightening when he took a step forward, and drew a blade from the sheath at his side. Emma backed away, and August stumbled. She could feel him tense behind her, ready to strike or run, at her command. She looked at him over her shoulder, shaking her head subtly.

We'll die if we do, she thought.

"Do you know what this is, Princess?"

Keep your eyes on theirs.

That was something else her father had told her. Though, Emma couldn't help but to look down at the blade that Arthur held in his hands. It was curved, delicately, like a living thing. Blackened vines snaked along down the body, where it met its end abruptly, the edge looking all the more dangerous for having been broken. The hilt carried an impressive jewel. All of these things, just like Arthur's fettered stare, caught the light, and threw it back at her.

"An ugly, broken sword?" Emma said.

The oddly warm smile on Arthur's face fell into a pale imitation.

"This," he said, his voice trembling, echoing loudly in the small chamber, "is Excalibur. It carries a magic far too powerful to waste. Much like you."

She could feel her stomach drop. Though she'd known better, she'd wished for it to be a ransom. Something she could talk, fight, and bleed her way out of. But there was something dark and insidious about the way the man spoke. When he'd met her on the docks, he had been all smiles, grateful and welcoming. For a moment, Emma rather hysterically wished the storm they'd encountered on their way north had swallowed her up. It was an absurd thought, but there was something pulsing around the blade. It whispered to her, like a living shadow, and grew louder when Arthur stepped aside, revealing a woman with a dream in her eyes, and magic in her fingertips.

Emma felt fear in that moment. It was consuming, and her hands began to tremble. It gave quickly to anger, and she balled her hands to fists, standing as tall as she could. She could feel August mirroring behind her.

"What do you want?" she spat.

"This kingdom is broken," Arthur answered, cryptically. "You can help me."

Arthur gave the blade over to the woman. In her hands, the whispers in Emma's mind grew louder, grating against her ears. She ground her teeth when the woman grew closer, and reached up to cast a spell, to knock both she and Arthur straight to hell where they belonged.

Only…nothing happened.

Arthur snarled, the first truly disagreeable expression Emma had ever seen on his face.

"You didn't think I'd be so foolish as to bring a magic wielder into my dungeons and not neutralize it."

The fear gripped harder still, and absurdly, all Emma could think to do was rush the woman before her. But the moment the thought entered her mind, she could feel her feet anchor to the very spot on which she stood.

"August," she hissed.

"I can't move," he said, sounding just as frightened as she.

"Why – " Emma began.

Why are you doing this, she thought. But the words would not come. The whole world seemed to grow still, reduced to the terrible, ancient magic that thrummed in Excalibur. The woman held it above her head, and a dark, viscous presence came tumbling out, pouring down into Emma's chest. She was drowning on dry land, terror clawing through her lungs. Her vision swirled, and the last she saw of the dungeon before her was the steady, vacantly amiable expression on Arthur's face.

The darkened tendrils of magic, cold and terrifying as they were, shifted suddenly. All at once, they became soothing and level-minded, and the thick shadows began to dissolve into what must have been some kind of vision. Where, only moments ago, the woman in Arthur's dungeon poured darkness into her heart, now she was standing before a great behemoth of a castle. It was cold, so cold, but something urged her to go inside. She wanted to look behind her, something itching at the back of her head. Humming, almost, as though she were hearing a voice shouting at her through water. But, for all that she was worth, she couldn't seem to command herself to turn.

So, she moved ahead.

Great, craggy stones rose behind the castle. In fact, it seemed as though it were not built, but coaxed out from the mountain, painted in the same shades of gray and white that blew across the landscape. The soil was too thin and starved even for the evergreens that grew on her family's mountains. There was nothing but brush, marshes down in a valley that lay behind the castle, all blanketed with snow. It blew and it blew, swirling at the base of a wooden door.

"Come in," a voice whispered through the wind.

It rankled, being told what to do, but Emma's curiosity burned, down deep in her belly. So, she obeyed. The wood was wet and swollen beneath her fingertips. She was afraid, so afraid. Her fingers trembled. She longed to wake up, but something called to her, both tempting and repulsive. She could not turn back, but neither could she force herself to stay still.

With nothing else to do, she pushed open the door.

"Hello."

It was the figure before her that spoke, in many voices. Its back was turned to her. It was draped in a terrible darkness, though it emitted a faint light. It was warm, inviting, terrifying, all sorts of things that jarred together. There was something important there, she knew, but she couldn't tell what. It was something she needed to remember, she had to remember. She wanted to ask – Who are you? – but the words didn't come. Emma felt her mind slipping, even as the figure turned, casting shards of garish color along the inner walls.

"Hello," it said again.

And for a moment, Emma was certain she'd see its face. But, with a flash of bright, oddly familiar eyes, she was wrenched elsewhere.

Hello.

Emma didn't wake, so much as she startled out of some state of sub-awareness. She was standing in a cavern, ignorant as to how she had gotten there. Light fell in dull shafts from somewhere above, the voice from the vision – if that's what it had been – echoing along the blackened walls. Unlike the castle from just moments before, the strange cavern was overwarm, growing hotter by the second. When she looked down, she hardly recognized her dress, as torn and tattered as it was. It looked as though it had been tossed in a fire.

My mother is going to be so angry, she thought, rather hysterically, pulling at the drape that fell over her shoulder. It itched, terribly, and though she longed to pull it off, it almost seemed to be fused to her skin. Though, curiously, no pain followed her fingers, wherever they prodded.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her voice, which by all rights should have echoed in the cavern, fell flat. Emma meant to turn, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The feeling of helplessness was acute and she longed suddenly, violently, for her father. The way he held her, engulfed her in his arms, his hands reaching up to stroke at her hair. She'd often be apart from her parents for months at a time, and though pangs of homesickness had always been overridden by the thrill of adventure, she often thought of them in the long nights at sea. Of the stories her father would tell, how her mother would correct him. The way they had tucked her in when she was young, tighter and tighter until she'd laugh. The gentle kisses to the tip of her nose, the way –

The way they were afraid of your magic when you were a child.

The way they send you as far from the kingdom as they possibly can.

Oh, how frightened they must be of you.

Will they even mourn you when you don't return?

Emma reached up, and threw her hands over her ears. Where one voice ended, another began. It was a chorus of elemental sounds and painful words, like iron tumbling over gravel, smooth like cool water and rough like freshly hewn wood. Antithetical noises overwhelming her, the terrible images of the frozen queen who had once tried to take her from her parents, of the friends and family she'd had and lost through the vagaries of war, all of it swirling, swirling like a dark, liquid vortex.

You're going to love this next part.

Beneath the chorus, a persistent hiss arose, growing louder and louder, until out of the shadows it appeared, a darkness blacker than pitch, and of the same consistency, spilling over and over itself before latching onto her ankles.

She screamed. Many others screamed along with her. The darkness surrounding her pried her flesh open, and poured itself into her veins. The screaming grew louder, the pain stronger, clawing through as though trying to burrow down where she couldn't reach, down where she could never hope to remove it.

Until, like the eye of the storms she often found at sea, it all fell silent.

It's a vault, Emma realized, just as she began to wrench herself free of its locks. Whatever horrible darkness had torn her apart moments before screeched through her veins, coalesced at her fingertips, and sloshed towards the ground, where it ran down along an ornate doorway in the forest floor. Wherever the darkness touched life, it shriveled and blackened.

This was the first thing she feared, the sight of that living darkness. And where before, fear always jittered subtly down her spine, now it was an inferno, sparking at the origin, and conjuring any number of unbearably terrifying scenarios.

The noise was second. It was unbearable. The world seemed to scream at her. Insects buzzed through the air, the breeze rustled loudly through the forest canopy, dry tree limbs shattered underfoot of creatures whose every breath rattled through fragile bones and carapaces.

The unknown was third. She did not know what had happened to her, and she did not know where she was. Concern flared instantly to terror, then anger.

And…curiosity?

That would be me.

As surely and steadily as the noise had poured in, it was silenced at the sound of a voice, deep and accented. A heavy, tattered hood hung over her eyes. She pushed it back, and found the origin standing before her, blanketed in leather and darkness, a neutral expression on his face. Emma took a step forward, uncertain and stumbling. The man's face morphed instantly, neutrality to suspicion, suspicion to outright hostile distrust.

Who are you? a voice demanded.

What do you want?

How did you bind yourself?

Are there others?

Emma shook her head, reaching up to dig behind her ears, at the base of her skull. She shut her eyes, squeezing them tight against the onslaught of questions, many of them unfinished before the next one came.

"Will you shut up?" she said.

"I haven't said anything."

"Well, I can hear you."

Emma opened her eyes, one at a time, voices still echoing thickly in her mind. The man sighed, leaned back on his heels, and just as surely as the noises of the forests were silenced, the voices died away as well. Only then did she get a good look at him.

It was as though he were painted with oils, slick and shimmering. The coat he wore was crafted in leather. It reeked of magic, and when she shifted from one foot to the other, Emma could see the faded runes printed out over the sleeves and up along the lapels. They were enchantments, she realized, most of which were too ancient to understand. He wore a sword on one hip and a dagger on the other, only just barely visible when he stepped forward, looking at her the way she imagined she was looking at him. He took another step yet, and the moonlight pouring down through the trees glinted off the hook that took the place of his left hand.

A voice much like his, shouted desperately in her mind, somewhere she couldn't quite reach, Milah!

Emma hissed, a brief, searing pain in her wrist before it shuttered away, hidden.

"Ah," he said, the intensity burning in his eyes at odds with the casual way he circled her. "Princess Emma. You don't know what's happened to you, do you?"

Emma turned along with him, suddenly caught in a dance. He surely knew the steps, she could see it in the way he looked at her, something ancient and powerful oozing from his voice when he spoke, the way that he moved.

"How do you know my name?" she said.

"You're something of an open book."

She scowled, stepping closer. "Yeah, because you're digging around in my head."

He stilled, cold fury twisting the expression on his face. "Aye, and nothing you haven't done to me."

For all her composure, all the years she ever spent learning how to be diplomatic, and other useless things, Emma growled, and reached down where her magic roiled, down deep in her belly. Only, when she did, it churned violently, grating laughter echoing in her ears before she disappeared where she stood, reappearing just before him in a cloud of gray, and taking hold of the chain around his neck.

"Who," she said, breathing in harshly through her nose, "are you?"

Emma expected him to snarl back at her. And yet, where his anger had burned hot and bright just moments ago, it grew cool, the unwelcome rush of heat from his mind to hers fading away.

"I am the Dark One," he said, simply. "And now so, it seems, are you."

Emma could feel her face fall, and curiously, so did his, before he wrested it under control.

"What?" she said

"You are bound to the same darkness I am, love." He hesitated, looking down at her hand, where it curled over his necklace. A rush of discomfort flushed through her skin, and Emma let him go, though she did not step back.

"How did this happen?" he said.

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I didn't go rooting in your head on purpose, darling. The darkness binds us, that's clear enough. Now tell me."

There was something imperious about the way that he spoke. Her nostrils flared, and she refused silently.

"Please," he said, quietly, gently even. Emma's head spun. He was calming, enraging, angry and mellow. She wondered if that was his natural state, or if they were clashing together, two minds at war underneath the shadow of darkness.

"What's your name?" Emma said, in lieu of answering him.

His eyes widened just a bit, as though he had expected anything but that.

"Killian," he answered, faltering over the sound of his own name, like he'd forgotten what it was. "Killian Jones."

"Well, Killian," she said, and she too faltered when again he seemed unsure, his eyes darkening even under the cover of night. The guarded expression slipped from his face, and for a moment – even clothed as he was in magic and danger, weapons dangling from his side and likely tucked down in his boots, judging by their give when he moved – he managed to look boyish. A little lost.

"It was King Arthur," she said, quietly. "I came here to negotiate a trade. He imprisoned me, and then he…"

Emma thought on the blade he'd held just beneath her nose, the eerie sensation of the darkness slithering out along her skin rising again, unbidden.

"Excalibur," she said. "He took Excalibur, and he did something with it. I'm not sure what. One moment I was there, and there was this…" She wrinkled her nose, feeling suddenly and inexplicably cold. "…wet stuff. Then I had a vision? Or something. Now I'm here."

Killian quirked a brow, and where he looked boyish before, now he looked a bit roguish. It was interesting to her how many faces the man could wear, clearly trying to guard himself, clearly failing.

"What an elegant tale," he said, dryly. "Tell me, love. This blade..."

He hesitated, briefly, before reaching underneath his jacket, and drawing out his dagger. Emma knew she should probably at least have enough common sense to be wary. But she remained where she stood, watching as he turned the blade in the silvery light, his name written in dark, swooping letters. A familiar pattern weaved down along the curved edges, tapering to a point.

"Did it happen to look anything like this?"

Emma swallowed, and looked up into his eyes. They bored into her, the weight of his stare knocking against her skull. She could only nod, caught in a rush of sensation, from both without and within. He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short when something grabbed at her innards and tugged, hard. She heard a command echo through her mind –

Dark One, appear.

– and the will to obey was stronger than the pull of the man before her. Her vision darkened, and suddenly, she was not there anymore.