Warnings: Violence, minor character death

Chapter Two

Wait.

Killian Jones's voice echoed as she disappeared, reappearing moments later before Arthur, where he waited, sitting patiently in a dark room, at a grand table set among pillars of stone. He wore the same vapidly pleasant expression on his face, sparing her only a glance before he rose to his feet. Excalibur was sheathed at his side, the hilt swinging gently as he walked, his hand pressed to the walls of his castle. Emma could hear the grit of the stone dragging beneath his fingertips. Where Killian had instilled calm, a pervasive sort of silence that eased like water between her ears, everything about Arthur grated.

"This is a marvelous place, isn't it?" he said, conversationally.

Emma couldn't help but agree. The walls were rough, but the floors were polished and gleaming, a dark soapstone oiled to perfection. The table before her was, famously, round, with high-backed chairs placed at regular intervals. Great and elegant tapestries tumbled from the ceiling, bearing crests and monsters and terrible battles, sewn in jarringly bright threads.

Yes, Emma thought, it is marvelous.

Despite its inhabitants, a voice said. It sounded…well, it sounded like Killian. It was fleeting and soft, a brief touch of the same silence that had settled at the vault. Like everything that day, it was quick to disappear.

"Despite its inhabitants," Emma answered, because she was too angry to think of anything besides fuck you, and that was hardly adequate to express the severity of the wounds she would have liked to inflict upon the man, emotional or otherwise.

"Ah yes," Arthurs said. "I can't imagine you're all too happy about this arrangement. Please, do let me explain."

Emma tried to shift where she stood, agitation tingling down in the soles of her feet. But she could not seem to move. Frustration welled up in her belly.

She huffed. "It doesn't seem like I have a choice."

Arthur frowned, and turned to face her, his face both striking and terrible in the slant of the moonlight. His nostrils flared, and he took a deep breath. He approached her, and like before, in the dungeons, fear rose like bile in her throat. But it was sharper now, like a rebellion in her soul, aided by the dark power within, the struggle so mighty that she felt her bones might have shifted, crumbling beneath the weight of her fury. Many voices whispered in her mind, hissing louder and louder as he approached. One rose above the rest –

Just hold on.

"My kingdom is broken," Arthur said, nearly in arm's reach now, his hand resting comfortably on Excalibur's pommel.

"You've said that," Emma said, through her teeth.

"You can't possibly understand the burden, Princess. My kingdom, once great, is falling apart. We've little else to offer but the trees in our forest. Our waters are devoid of life. My people are hungry, my ports are crumbling. I have to do something."

"I'd like to remind you that that's why I'm here, Arthur." She spat his name, sans title, and for a satisfying moment, he looked taken aback, before he steadied on his feet, the same bland look on his face. "To establish a trade, greatly biased in your favor."

"Do you think we have the time to wait for your trickling generosity to restore our kingdom? You, Princess, have immeasurable power – even more so now that I have bound you to the darkness – and yet you use it for little more than triflings, trying and failing to keep it secret. No, I don't intend to let this opportunity to go to waste."

Emma scoffed, and he began to circle her. There was not much that was physically threatening about him, the way he walked or talked or stood. He did not seem to intend to do her any harm. He stepped forward, calm and sure, a staunch belief that what he was doing was right. Emma knew when people were lying, could almost taste their deceit. But there was nothing unclear or dishonest about this. Arthur was afraid for his people. He was going to use her to fix it.

"You'll start a war," Emma said, looking at him over her shoulder. Again, he came to rest in a shard of light, as if it could possibly provide any warmth. There was something sad about him, and something evil. It was curious, she thought, to watch the two coexist.

"I don't think so," Arthur said, shaking his head, turning back to pace before her. "There's nothing I can tell you to do that you can deny. As far as your kingdom is aware, you'll have been positively crushed by your compassion for my people. You'll stay as long as it takes to repair what's been broken. In return, you can keep this power, along with the secret."

Emma laughed, hysterically. The voices in her head joined in, and she stopped, a chill racing down her spine at the unnatural sound.

"It might be hard to hide that I'm the Dark One."

Arthur stopped, and turned to face her. His expression – leaping quickly from blandness to fury, and back again – became genuinely curious, a little suspicious.

"How could you possibly know what you are?"

Emma blanched. The man in the woods told me. Probably not the best answer.

"Voices," she said. She called on everything her father ever taught her about lying, and everything her mother ever showed her about lying simply by being terrible at it. "The magic…speaks."

Arthur hummed. "Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out. You are, after all…" His jaw ticked, irritation flaring before the same awful expression wrote itself back out upon his face. "…painfully intelligent. You'll be free to do as you like. I'll keep this, of course – " He reached down, patting at the sword. " – but I shan't use it to control you, once my people are happy."

The man seemed resolute. Also clearly unaware of the fact that he had given away the purpose of the weapon at his side.

He can pull your strings with that like a puppet, dearie, one of the voices was helpful enough to point out.

It would be prudent to reacquire the sword, another offered.

Kill the man in the process. Surely his underlings are better suited to lead.

Emma closed her eyes.

Shut up, she thought. Shut up, shut up.

Talkative, aren't they, darling?

She shook her head, and looked up. The tapestry directly above her was even brighter than the rest, a meadow of pinks and blues. A patch of young and delicate flowers waved in an imagined wind. Emma thought of her mother, of her father, of her brother, all completely unaware of what was transpiring. It certainly was not out of character for her to stay awhile. She had once extended her stay in a desert land by several months, another in a mountain steppe by two. Beautiful places, broken places, places where the people were particularly happy, or particularly downtrodden. They called to her, and she could never resist. As painfully intelligent as she might have been, either Arthur or his advisers were no fools either. Dread and defeat began to thicken in her throat. Her hands began to tremble.

"Why didn't you just ask?" Emma said. And if she sounded desperate, then so be it. "Why? I was here to help you."

Arthur merely tilted his head. "The sort of power I've asked for, no one is ever willing to give. This is the faster road, and I will take it."

The way he said it…she thought perhaps he'd once tried to be patient, but could never quite overcome his boyishness, despite his age. He almost seemed to regret what he felt he must do, but Emma couldn't find it within herself to count that in his favor. Arthur had made his intentions clear, and all that remained was for Emma to find a way out of it. A familiar determination pulled tight at the muscles of her back. A less familiar rage pushed on her jaw, and were she not imbued with such power, she imagined it would crack beneath the force.

"Then take it," Emma said, mustering up every bit of imperiousness she possibly could. Arthur nodded, clearly secure in the knowledge that he had won.

His arrogance will be the death of him, she thought, in a voice not altogether her own.

At our hands, came the reply.

"We'll announce your intent to stay tonight, at the ball," Arthur said. He paused, then, and looked her up and down. Only then did Emma feel the itch of the rags against her skin, hanging down past her hands. The robe sagged in all the wrong places, and smelled faintly of newly tanned hide.

"You'll have to change, of course," he said. Absurdly, the man turned on his heel, a flush on his cheeks, as if watching her conjure suitable clothing would somehow be worse than everything he'd done thus far. "Do what you must."

Emma rolled her eyes. The man somehow managed to be both devious and incompetent. He was an insidious embarrassment, the worst kind. She thought on that as she waved her hand, a facsimile of the dress her mother had given her appearing in place of her robe. The fabric was even richer than before, the red a luxurious shade, yet not smelling faintly of the rancid dye from which the color was usually acquired. It was a small comfort, at least, that she'd one day be able to return it to her mother.

Mother, she thought, allowing herself a moment of longing.

Just hold on a moment.

The same warm, deep voice whispered comfort, the incredible ambient noise once again receding to the background, where it was manageable. In the wake of the silence, Emma watched Arthur shift from one foot to the other. She wondered…

The sword at his side stirred momentarily, but a vicious clamp snapped down on her magic. It felt like a crushing boulder. Emma breathed sharply, and the man turned, his nostrils flaring.

"You must think me a fool," Arthur said. "I'm sure you'll change your mind. Now, come with me."

Emma gritted her teeth as she followed him down the corridors. The power began to churn beneath her skin, formidable and oddly sentient. Voices whispered at her, hissing like caged animals. She thought briefly on the man she met at the vault – Killian – just as dark and sinister as she feared she was already becoming. She thought of the way his mind had brushed against hers, prodding and retreating. His voice seemed to carry with her there in the castle, and it was unknown to her whether or not it was real. Whether any of it was real. Emma dared to hope that it was all a horrific nightmare.

"I'll expect you to be cordial to my guests," Arthur said, turning down along a shadowed corridor. The windows along the wall began to open wider. Vines spilled in through the courtyard alongside the moonlight, delicate flower buds washed out in blue. A sudden homesickness unlike she had ever felt before curdled in her stomach. The presence in her mind seemed to feed on it, twisting the image of home into an image of battle, one kingdom against another, blood spilt by her own hands washing down towards the sea.

"You'll of course have to dispose of those with whom you arrived," Arthur said. "It will be easy enough to explain away, I'm sure. This is a tragic place." He turned and looked at her then, a sickening mime of regret pinching his face. "It's the only way."

If the new power that lingered beside her light was angry before, it became murderous in an instant. Terrible, violent images were painted in her mind, the beast within reaching out to smear the scene out where only she could see. Arthur, always near death, but never quite given the mercy to reach it. His kingdom, spitefully burnt to the ground. As much as it seemed to appease the growing restlessness down in the palms of her hands, the images frightened her. Emma bit at the inside of her lips, willing them to leave her.

"You're a monster," Emma said, quietly.

Arthur lifted his head, looking down at her. "No, Princess. I believe you are the monster now."

He turned, and she followed.

As much as the presence inside scoffed, Emma couldn't help but think that he was right.

The celebration was still at its height when Emma arrived, just a few steps behind Arthur. She longed to lose herself in the crowd, but the invisible manacles still held her fast at his side. Even the expression on her face felt as though it did not quite belong to her. For some time, Arthur merely stood near the throne, where it sat upon the dais. For a broken kingdom, Emma thought, its courts were wrapped in splendor. As the evening had given way to night, many more candles had been lit, casting everyone and everything in a warm glow.

The worst part, Emma thought, was that she couldn't help but feel affection for the people before her. None of them seemed to radiate with the same sort of false congeniality that infected their king. They seemed hopeful, proud of what they had managed to build, despite their troubles. Had it all gone differently, Emma might have been tempted to stay a while. There was a subtle and beautiful magic in the kingdom, of a kind with which she was not familiar.

Camelot was bathed in the unknown. Emma loved the unknown.

"Will you have me do it here?" she said, softly, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. "Kill my friends? My family?"

Arthur's jaw twitched. "Surely not. You're meant to be a beacon of hope."

"False hope."

"Hardly false, when the result is the same. No one will ever be the wiser."

"Especially not you." Emma could feel a snarl building in her throat. But it could not escape. "You're so…" She faltered a moment.

Grossly vaunting? the same, warm voice suggested, sounding louder now. Disturbingly brainless?

"Illegitimate," she said. "And my father was a shepherd before he became king."

That, of all things, was what seemed to rattle Arthur. He fidgeted where he stood, and struggled with the anger she could feel rolling from his shoulders.

"Now," he said. It clearly cost him a great deal to appear outwardly friendly as he grasped her arm, his hand digging into her flesh. The voices within honed in on the unwelcome touch, and began begging for vengeance.

Take the hand, they suggested.

"People of Camelot," Arthur said, waiting for the people to quiet. The music halted discordantly, and they began to murmur. "I have excellent news."

The murmur rose, and Emma felt defeat tugging at her heart. She refused to give in, and called out to the power that lived inside. Surely it had tricks up its sleeves. She reached down deep for resolve, for something to free her. Her fingers twitched under the compulsion to remain still and pliant. She gritted her teeth, a moment of triumph when she scowled, and opened her mouth to denounce Arthur.

"Stop," she said, before he could continue. He turned to look at her, his eyes bright, satisfyingly taken aback. He reached for the hilt of Excalibur, and the vitriol remained trapped behind her teeth.

Arthur was sure to have an excuse for her behavior. But he could hardly speak before the sound of shattering glass, echoing just beyond the door, interrupted him.

Here I am, the warm voice said.

A hush settled over the room. It was not quick, or violent, not quite like the presence she felt encroaching upon the castle grounds. The candles – hundreds of them, thousands maybe, set all along the halls in sconces and candlesticks and candelabras made of the most precious of metals and stone – they began to flicker. Dying, dimming the room, and leaving behind a blue glow from the stained glass that was set high in the walls. The moon was low, the light slanted, and if that weren't quite eerie enough, it was certainly aided by the pressure building in her ears, something that made the room appear to breathe.

And if that was true, Emma thought, if the room did breathe, it held its breath, expelling it the moment the grand and ornate doors at the end of the hall swung open. They creaked with the motion, arcing slowly outward. Though there was surely light behind the man that entered, he seemed to carry shadows with him, and they spilled into the room as he took first one step, then another.

"Killian," she said. Even from the far side of the room, Emma could see his eyes jump to hers, a warning in the way blue flashed to gray, to black, then back again.

"I was quite disappointed not to have been given an invitation," he said.

Quite suddenly, it must have become obvious to the guard – as stunned as the rest of the people – that their visitor meant them harm, for they took the chance to rush him. Emma could see it in her mind before it happened. He curled his fingers, and their heads twisted, the unnatural angle surely leaving them for dead. They fell upon the lacquered floors in a heap, their armor clanging loudly. Someone in the crowd screamed, followed by another. Killian Jones, whoever the man was, seemed to flow like water, like rivers in the cold of winter, sluggish and smooth. The sounds of screams clearly disturbed him. He took a step, landing heavy on his right foot, before yet another motion from his hand – quick and angry this time – put the attendees in what Emma hoped was some kind of trance, or sleeping spell. They too fell to the ground.

He smiled.

"Who are you?" Arthur said. His voice was quiet, trembling.

It was almost comical, really, how quickly the smile dropped from Killian's face, turning from playful derision to a searing hatred. The man clearly had a sharp mind, she could feel it whirring against her own. He looked around the room, at the blade in Arthur's hand, eyes landing sharply on the treacherous king, before alighting on her, less anger and more calculation. They flashed when he took in the change of her clothes, tying it to the situation at large. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and sonorous, clashing with dark intent.

"Killian Jones," he said, inclining his head, as though that was the moment where the king was meant to bow. "I hear you've been playing with things you shouldn't, your majesty."

Arthur seemed to gather himself, then, and held Excalibur aloft, looking briefly to Emma before he opened his mouth. She hated the way she could hear his lungs expand, the crackle of bones and sinew. Emma had only just enough time to begin to fear the possibilities – what he would command her to do – before his stance shifted unnaturally. Air caught in the man's throat, and his face paled when, with a swirl of deep, red magic, Killian was in one place one moment, and then another the next. His ringed fingers curled around Arthur's neck, squeezing until he began to turn red, eyes wide and frightened.

"Hold," Killian said, speaking through clenched teeth, "your…tongue."

The terrible expression on his face slackened, replaced with some measure of curiosity.

"For what purpose have you bound this woman?" Killian said. "And where did you find this sword?"

Arthur refused to answer, and his bones began to give way, Excalibur clattering to the ground. Harsh noises escaped his throat, the sounds of a dying man.

"She belongs to me now," Arthur said, petulant and crass.

Killian froze, his fingers loosening. Arthur fell to the ground, trying desperately to reach for Excalibur. Killian trapped the blade underneath his foot. Pure, unmitigated rage wafted into the room, the floor trembling where they stood.

"She belongs to no one," he snarled. "This sword, however…" He reached out, and the blade snapped up into the palm of his hand. "…I've been gone for quite some time, highness, but bully for you, I've come back to take what's mine."

It was unceremonious, the way Killian twisted his fingers, death coming quickly to whatever remained of King Arthur, his bones wrenching free of their natural place. And whether it was because of the dark presence that lived within her, terribly pleased to have taken a wretched life, or because of the things he'd done, Emma couldn't bring herself to condemn it. Freedom followed quickly on the heels of his death, and she slumped, rubbing away the tension in her shoulders. She watched the man before her as she did so.

Killian – the Dark One, he had called himself – was clearly unperturbed by the body at his feet, weighing the blade in his hand a moment before holding it out, seemingly indifferent as to whether or not she chose to take it.

Emma eyed him suspiciously. "I thought you said it was yours."

Something sparked in the man's eyes, something real, and for the first time since she'd met him, he appeared interested, genuinely curious…human.

"Well, darling, 'take back what belongs to this woman here' doesn't have quite the same dramatic ring as 'take back what's mine'. I figured you wouldn't mind, as long as you got what you wanted."

He still held out the sword, but Emma didn't take it, crossing her arms over her chest. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

Interest flared into irritation. That, too, Emma could feel. It was a chilly sensation, though not unpleasant. Just strange.

"Bloody hell, woman," he snarled, giving the hilt of the blade a shake. "Would you prefer I auction it off to the highest bidder? Keep it for myself? You're a Dark One now, this weapon is all that stands between you and servitude."

Emma looked up at him, curious. She found herself wanting to know him.

To own him, the darkness suggested.

Killian frowned, and quirked a brow. "Those voices are terribly pleasant, aren't they?"

She sighed, and closed her eyes a moment. "Is there a way to turn them off?"

He laughed. Laughed. It was a terrible juxtaposition. There were several dead among them, including the king at their feet. Killian's magic still held fast to what remained of the living. He did not seem to regret it, eager to move along. There was a light in his eyes when he glanced down at Arthur, at the decorated scabbard on the man's belt. Killian hesitated before conjuring one anew, this one sturdier, though plain. It was absurd, really, the way he scratched beneath his ear with his hook, like he was embarrassed. He dropped the gift into her hands, and cleared his throat.

"We'd best go," he said. "The spell holding these people in place will only last for so long."

"Sorry, we?"

His jaw clenched, a muscle near his ear twitching furiously. "I'd rather not part ways before we've had a discussion."

She huffed. "About what?"

"Bloody hell, but you're insufferable. Lead wherever you like. I promise I have no ill intentions here. I'm merely concerned."

That's not what I'm worried about, Emma thought.

Then what are you worried about?

"Stay out of my head," she said, through her teeth.

"Deal. Now go."

Emma had never taken kindly to commands. But the man seemed more desperate than forceful. As much bravado as he wore, beneath the caustic remarks, she could feel a touch of fear, of discomfort. And despite her demand that he leave her mind be, she couldn't seem to do the same for him. Not for want of stealing away his privacy, but for the fact that, in some ways, they were less than two, but more than one. When she thought, sometimes it was in a faintly accented voice. When she looked up at him, she felt as though, somehow, she was looking back at herself.

"Alright," she conceded, and she led them down the same corridor from whence she came.

Emma nearly sobbed with relief when she found August where last she saw him, pacing back and forth in his cell.

"Emma!" he said, reaching through the bars to grasp at her shoulders. "Oh gods, I was so afraid. What the hell did he do to you?"

"Oh nothing," Killian said, appearing at her side in a quiet puff of magic. August jumped, just shy of knocking his head against the bars. She looked sharply at Killian, but he only shrugged, reaching out to yank at the lock. It crumbled in his hand, dust drifting away in the tepid air.

"Just filled her to brimming with immortal darkness," he finished.

"Is that how you introduce yourself to everyone?" Emma said. "Scare the shit out of them?"

"Well forgive me for services rendered." Killian leaned against the bars with irritating nonchalance. "I'm a bit out of practice with the human sort."

Emma rolled her eyes, and pushed open the cell door. August did not seem too eager to step out.

"Who is this guy?" he said, quietly, as though Killian couldn't hear them.

"I'll explain when we return to the ship."

"But – "

"August, we need to go. Now."

August seemed reluctant, looking at Killian, then back at her. Surely he could feel the darkness, or at least sense that something was off. Emma could feel it welling up in her pores, begging to spill over. Now free of control, it longed for blood, not nearly sated by Arthur's unceremonious death. She wondered briefly if it would ever be sated.

Immortal, Killian had said.

"Okay," August agreed, at length. "Lead the way."

Emma wasn't quite sure where to start, only sure that they needed to head away from both the dungeon and the ballroom. When she closed her eyes, she could hear a great commotion, echoing down the halls. She managed to find her way back to the great room in which Arthur had first summoned her. There appeared to be no other way out. She felt frustrated. The darkness fed upon it, rising in her chest, and pooling in her fingertips. She was just on the edge of making what she knew was a terrible decision – imagining the walls of the castle tumbling to the ground with a flick of her wrist – when Killian stepped behind one of the pillars, pressing his palm flat against the wall. The stone blocks trembled, and rearranged themselves into an ornate archway that led to yet another hallway. He listened a moment, ears twitching, before looking back at her, presenting the way out with a flourish.

"No need for such drastic measures, love," he said, undoubtedly referring to the image she'd summoned, the castle gradually turning to dust in her mind. "A door will suffice."

"Good thing it's architecturally fancy," she grumbled. "I'm guessing you couldn't walk through it otherwise."

"Desperate times aren't an excuse for poor attention to detail."

Emma felt like she could punch the man in the face. Something to wipe away his smug expression.

"Well, I'm leaving," August said, stepping around them, with a pointed look in Emma's direction. A flush heated her face.

"After you," Killian said, growing quiet as they approached the outer wall. After a few wrong turns, they found a heavy, wooden door that opened to the edge of the grounds. Luckily enough, Emma could hear the sea, the heavy groan of ships in the port. It was an easy journey from there, keeping to the edge of the wood, quiet as she listened to the sounds of hooves beating against the ground, of voices rising along the turn of midnight. Emma thought, not for the first time, that this was by far the biggest disaster she'd ever left behind.

She wondered if her parents would be more angry, or relieved.

"Princess," a woman called to her from deeper within the wood as they neared the port. Emma knew the ship was just around the bend, awaiting a quick escape. Unsurprisingly, the commotion grew louder as they approached, and they kept tighter under the shadows as they went.

"Princess," she called again. "Over here."

It's Jo, Emma realized, with some measure of relief. The woman materialized from out of the brush. As small as she was, her head just level with Emma's chin, and as agile as her months at sea had made her, she slipped easily from shadow to shadow. She nodded at August, and gave Killian an appraising look.

"Is this your husband?" Jo said, in her own deadpan sort of way. She had a habit, Emma had noticed over the past year, of somehow managing to both speak in circles, and hit the point right on the nose.

Emma huffed, indignantly. "What? No. You think I went and got married sometime in the eight hours since I saw you last?"

Jo ignored the question, as was also her habit. "You better marry him before I do."

Killian smiled.

"Killian Jones," he said, introducing himself with what was quickly becoming a familiar flourish.

"No," Emma said, frowning up at him. "You, stop it. And you – " She pointed at Jo, who, as ever, appeared wide-eyed and innocent. " – focus. What's going on?"

Jo sobered, and pointed over Emma's shoulder, where a contingent of guards sat astride horses, a man at their head shouting orders.

"They're after you," Jo said. "They say you killed the king."

August inhaled, sharply. "Emma."

"I didn't do it," she said.

"Then what did happen?"

Killian – who, despite all his affected carelessness, looked surprised, alarmed even – stepped forward. Menace crept onto his face, and the sounds of the forest around them seemed to quiet.

"It was me," he said. "Have you heard tell of the Dark One?"

"The dark what?" Jo said.

"Vanquished centuries ago," August said. "Ancient history, myth even."

"And yet here I am. A walking, talking, ancient myth. The darkness is real. I've lived with it for many years. This so-called King Arthur bound your Princess to the darkness. Likely so that he could control you?"

Killian paused, then, looking to her for confirmation.

"Yes," Emma answered. "He wanted my, uh – " She clamped down on the word magic. " – he must have wanted something. Said I could him help fix the kingdom."

August frowned. "If he wanted your help, why fill you with darkness? Why not just ask?"

"Yeah, that's what I said."

"Either way," Killian said, "she had nothing to do with it. I killed the king. I alone."

Jo shifted on her feet, clearly agitated, her hands clutching at her hips.

"Well first," Jo said, reaching out to poke Killian in the chest. For just a spare moment, he seemed bewildered. "Good job. What a creepy guy. Second, none of that really matters. They say Emma killed the king. For all the people of Camelot know, you two were working together. We're just about guaranteed some kind of a war here."

August sighed. "Thanks for the upbeat attitude, Josephine."

Killian deliberated. Though she'd successfully managed to ignore him on the trek through the woods, Emma could once again feel his mind against hers. It was like a machine, she realized. Like a mill, only infinitely more complex, the pieces fitting together and spinning with remarkable speed and clarity.

"No," he said, "she's right. It doesn't matter. Their king is dead, and your Princess and I are the cause, as far as they're aware. Royal protocol would demand she be arrested, and tried in the courts of Camelot, or else your kingdom risks a skirmish, at the very least."

A terrible hush settled when he finished speaking. Even Jo, as steady and benevolent a person as Emma had ever had the pleasure of working with, appeared frightened. August reached up, chewing on his knuckle. Emma closed her eyes, and not for the first time that day, imagined what it would feel like if she never saw her family again.

"Okay," Emma said, feeling unsteady on her feet. "Okay. We can deal with this…"

Emma was certain that she could wrest control of her ship from Camelot, despite their soldiers' presence at the docks. She was also certain that many people on both sides would die in the process. If she went home, Misthaven would be obligated to return her to Camelot. If she stayed, she'd have to fight to protect herself. Images flooded her mind again, unbidden. Of her against an army, inimitable power crackling in her hands, set free to wreak exactly the sort of havoc that it craved. She could almost smell the blood upon the ground, wet earth drinking it down. Emma shook her head, and looked pleadingly at August.

"Please," she said, and he tensed. "August, go back to Misthaven."

"Princess," he said, standing taller, like he would refuse. But August was no fool. He knew as well as she did that it was the only way. "We couldn't possibly…" He trailed off, a grim acceptance already setting his lips in a thin line. His expression darkened.

Emma reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. "You can possibly. You have to. If I go back, there will be war."

"If you stay, there will be one too," Jo said. She tapped at her lips, considering. "War everywhere we go. So, okay, might as well get to it now."

Emma frowned. "Jo, no."

"I killed one guy already, we've got a head start."

Killian perked up. "You're welcome to my body count as well, milady."

"No." Emma was adamant. Jo was headstrong, and loyal, and young, and Emma didn't want to see her die. "If both Misthaven claims me as a fugitive, then there will be a stay of conflict."

Killian hummed. "And just how long do you expect that to last?"

"However long, it will have to be long enough." Emma stood to her full height, putting on a tone that brooked no argument. "August, you are the captain now. Jo, first mate. Get my ship back to Misthaven, and tell my parents to do as I said. I will find a way to fix this."

August and Jo both looked incredibly reluctant, but they nodded all the same, shifting easily from friends to loyal subjects.

"I'll provide a distraction," Emma said. "Just enough to get you both on the ship. Is everyone else on board?"

"Yes, Princess," Jo answered. "All crew members, barring those here, are aboard...and a few extra trinkets."

"Jo."

"Sorry, Emma, but no kingdom needs that many silver trays."

Emma sighed, but bid that they go, not before Jo and August both embraced her, a compulsion borne of the circumstances. She couldn't help but to hold tight, and then watch with despair as they dissolved into the forest's thick underbrush. The darkness within seemed to feed not only on anger, but on sorrow as well. The sense of loss was incredible, and she faltered beneath the weight of it.

"So," Killian said, his voice enough of a distraction to force air back into her lungs, at least. "What of this diversion?"

In the urgency of the moment, Emma hadn't really cared why Killian followed them. But now, as the night became still, waiting for them to make their next move, she grew suspicious. If he was some kind of immortal, all powerful being, what could he possibly need from her?

"What do you want?" she said, folding her arms over her chest. "Why are you still here?"

His jaw clenched. Emma could hear his teeth, grinding together. "I've told you, love. I'd like to discuss this…development."

"Alright. Talk."

"What I have to say will take more time than you have at the moment."

"Nothing takes that long to say, unless you're talking in circles. What are you hiding?"

Killian's nose wrinkled. She could feel his anger, his frustration, like a metal so hot, it almost felt cold to the touch.

"One hundred and fifty years I've carried this darkness on my back. I've lived through several lifetimes. I know this power, how it moves and breathes, how it thinks, how it tricks. And now, we are bound together by it." He rested on the last word, baring his teeth. Both fear and fury lived in that expression, and Emma couldn't help but feel cowed. "Perhaps you'd like more than a hello and goodbye?"

For everything working against him – the darkness, the cavalier manner in which he killed the king and his guards – there was something in Emma that begged her to trust him. And it was nothing to do with the darkness.

"Fine," she said, petulant against the instinct to trust, unflinchingly.

Killian only smiled, faintly, and gestured for her to lead on. So, she did, walking away from the family she'd made at sea, unsure if she'd ever see them again.