Warnings: Violence, language

Chapter Three

The ambient noise was quick to rush back in.

The worst of it was, Emma could hear August and Jo retreating to the ship. Dry branches cracked under their feet. The ground sloped down towards the sea, and as they went, heavy soil became wet sand, and she listened to their footsteps rasp while she and Killian crept along the tree line. When she lost the sound of her friends, she listened harder, and the gentle chirp of insects grew shrill and unbearable. The power of the darkness sloshed in her chest, and she felt as though her ears must have been bleeding. The horses carrying the guards towards her ship were agitated. They huffed and stamped. The wind screamed through the trees. With every gust, the branches whined.

The forest shouted.

Her ship cried.

Her feet crushed the living debris underfoot.

Stop, she thought, reaching up to tug at her own ears.

There, Killian replied, and the symphony quieted.

Emma looked over her shoulder. He wore a neutral expression, aside from a twitch in his brow. It gave him away.

"Don't do that," she said.

"You told it to stop. Well, there you are."

"Don't."

How can I trust you?

If Killian heard her thoughts, he elected to ignore them. He licked his bottom lip, clearly an effort to keep the sneer off his face.

"As you wish," he bit, and looked ahead, passively waiting for her to go.

One step, and it all came rushing back in, somehow even louder than before. Emma tried to ignore it, to tap into a source of magic or will or whatever else, but she couldn't find one. She was overwhelmed with the world around her. The light magic within – always so clear and bright, as far back as she could remember – was giving over to shades of gray. She did not know this magic, and it did not know her.

I think you'll come to know us quite well, several voices said to her, over the screech of the noise.

"Maybe…" she said, and looked back at Killian once more.

Again, the sound dissolved, quickly, like snow in the water, the world muffled and soft. Emma breathed deeply, more relieved than she was willing admit.

"I told you, love," he said, regarding her carefully from underneath his lashes. "I've been the Dark One longer than anyone you know has been alive. Trust me. This will all go a lot smoother if you do."

Emma could only look at him. She shifted in place, grabbing hold of the fabric of her dress and twisting it in her hands.

"We can go around behind the soldiers," she said, kindly, and it was as much of an apology as she could or would muster, given the circumstances. He nodded, gesturing once more for her to lead.

It struck her as a bit odd that such an ancient person would allow her to guide his hand.

He wants something, one of the voices suggested.

Just as eager to have your magic as the king we've killed, I'm sure.

After all, who wouldn't be?

"Hush," she whispered.

"I've not said a thing," Killian said.

"You know what I mean."

He was quiet as they walked along the castle grounds, from shadow to shadow. The guards and the horses grew louder still, hardly a river's width away. Their voices became distinctive, their apparent leader commanding some to remain behind and guard the ship, and others to –

"Bring me the charm," he shouted, in a gruff voice.

"Charm?" Emma repeated, stopping at the very edge of the forest, where it bent towards the harbor. She braced herself against a mighty cottonwood, the corky bark digging into the palms of her hands. There at least, where the breeze off the bay carried the sweet smell of water, the faint echo of brine, there was some measure of comfort, of familiarity.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" she said.

Killian seemed much less inclined to hide in the shadows of the tree, standing just where the moonlight broke along forest's edge, the very tips of his boots bathed in silver. His eyes washed out in the contrast, appearing white.

"No," he answered. "I would imagine it doesn't bode well."

He shifted, then, a cold and imperious expression settling on his face. Emma could see it in the tense of his muscles, the splay of his hand, and before he could take a step into the clearing, she reached out, and grabbed a fistful of his coat. The faint runes on the fabric flared to life, warm beneath her fingertips. She froze, wondering if she was due a curse or a hex. Yet, as quickly as they lived, they died, sinking harmlessly back into the thick, black leather when she let go.

"What the hell are you doing?" she said, ignoring the odd coat in favor of urgency. "You can't just walk right out there."

He turned to look at her, slowly, stiff and unliving. His eyes were impossibly bright, and in that moment, Emma realized she was not looking at whoever Killian Jones claimed to be, but at the Dark One, whatever it truly was. The spectre of the man she had only just met glanced down at where her fingers had met fabric. Curiosity flickered, briefly, before shuttering behind the darkness.

"Diversion," he said, simply, voice layered over with several others. He shook his head, and life seeped back into his bones. "I believe I can just walk right out there, darling. What are they going to do? Kill me?"

"What are you going to do? Kill them?"

"Only should they strike first."

"No." Emma was resolute, glaring up at him until he stepped away from the clearing. "I'll do it."

He frowned. "You've been the Dark One for less than a day, love. Do you truly think you can command it?"

Probably, she thought. She heard laughter in her mind.

The darkness spoke, Oh, is that so?

"Yes," she answered, though she did not believe it.

Killian did not hesitate. "Alright, then. At your leisure, Princess."

Emma opened her mouth to argue with him, and stopped when she realized he had agreed. She narrowed her eyes, and waited for him to laugh in her face, walk out, and kill every one of the people gathered near her ship. He said nothing, watching her quietly.

"You're kidding, though, right?" she said.

He smiled blankly, dark color swirling in his eyes and creeping outward. It was unsettling. "Trust."

Emma shuffled on her feet, longing to have something with which to fidget. She only barely resisted the urge to twist her fingers up in her dress yet again, or worse, to reach out and twist the leather of the jacket he wore beneath her palm, to feel the unnatural warmth seep up through her arm. It was always one of her most unbreakable habits, slouching and fiddling, something both her mother and father were quick to give up on, merely offering that it was hard to look intimidating when one is folded up like a child.

Posture is for the battlefield, Emma, not the breakfast table.

Her father's voice again, echoing in the hollow left by the curse. The darkness clawed at it, tearing it to pieces. Emma flinched, and Killian tilted his head. She wondered if he had heard it too.

"Okay," she said, more for her benefit than for his, mustering a reckless amount of courage before she stepped into the clearing. Given the brilliance of the moonlight, and the sheen of her dress, she only had to take a few steps before one of the guards caught sight of her, setting off a flurry of motion and voices. She stood her ground.

Standing motionless in the grass, why didn't I think of that?

Killian's voice was quiet and fluid in her mind. She scowled. You can do it your own stupid way next time.

Next time?

Quiet.

Much to Emma's delight, the vast majority of the guard came her way, hooves pounding on the uneven ground. She tensed as they approached and formed a dense ring around her, wondering how, exactly, she would fend them off should they attack. The presence in her mind offered up the vision of Killian in the great hall, the guards crumpling to their death, a brutal and unfeeling end.

It couldn't hurt to have a backup plan, a voice suggested.

Others agreed, and as she thought on it, she realized it was awfully...rational to kill the soldiers, should they strike. Her magic crackled at her fingertips, and she began to feel detached from herself, uncaring and free from mercy.

It's much better this way, another voice said. It sounded as though it grinned.

"Interesting."

The word was spoken, blithely, by a man in the crowd before her. He rode a small, painted horse. A curious choice for one who was obviously a man of great importance, the men and women around him sitting higher in their saddles, or leaning back on their heels, moving respectfully out of his way as he approached. When he leapt to the ground, Emma could understand why he had no need for a splendid animal. He was taller than any person she had ever seen. The armor he wore was clearly custom, though not bearing the same oiled shine as that of the others. It was heavy, having some actual utility. Gashes wound down the breastplate, another on his right shin, a third on his left pauldron. Though they had been polished, Emma couldn't help but to suspect he'd asked his smiths to leave them be. If it weren't for his height alone, the obvious evidence of battle would be enough to cow anyone. The charm he wore around his neck – a deep, blue stone set in silver – did nothing to soften him.

He smiled, and the eerie expression – framed under dark, lank hair, given by a cruel mouth – quieted even the horses.

"Hello," he said congenially. "You must be Princess Emma."

The darkness hummed, and showed her a vision of the man before her, his heart in her hands. It clashed oddly against reality of him.

"Did the dress give me away?" she said, flatly, trying to sound unaffected.

The man laughed. The sound was rich, and hearty, as though he'd learned to truly laugh. It threw her off guard. He leaned on one foot, and the casual way he stood would give any passers by the impression that she was meeting with a friend. It was completely disarming. But Emma had always held tight to her armor.

"I don't know what you've been told," she said, "but I did not kill your king."

He pursed his lips, and tilted his head. Tilted and tilted, the angle sharp and unnatural before he swiveled to the other side, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. The charm around his neck seemed to quiver with magic. Emma blinked, briefly untrusting of her own eyes.

"Unfortunate for us both, then," he said, leaning forward, "that the people say otherwise. I would have preferred an alliance. But my uncle insisted that binding you was the right course of action. Alas, he's paid for that decision with his life."

"Your…uncle?"

He smiled again, before it faded to the same oddly vacant expression he'd worn just moments ago. The same expression King Arthur had worn before he'd filled her with darkness.

It must be a family trait, she thought.

"Yes, indeed," he answered. "I am Mordred. Soon to be king of Camelot, as it were. I couldn't quite decide whether I ought to thank you, or kill you. Something in-between, perhaps?"

Emma frowned, and felt an ancient stirring in her belly. Power surged at her fingertips, and the soil beneath her feet shifted. The weight of the air around her changed, and her ears began to ring.

"I didn't kill King Arthur," she snarled, her nails digging so deep into her palms, she wondered that she didn't feel blood dripping through her fingers. Magic positively boiled in her blood, begging to be set free. "He bound me to a – a curse. The man who killed him…he only did so to save my life."

Mordred scratched at his neck, looking for all the world like a boy. A tower of a boy, but a boy all the same.

"Curious, then," he said, "for the Dark One cannot be killed. From what death could you possibly need saving? What life needs preserving?"

Mordred stepped forward, then, and the length of his stride eliminated the comfortable distance between them. The guards around them began to shift. The horses seemed to spring back to life, snorting loudly, breath crystallizing on the chill of night.

Kill him, the darkness suggested, many voices at once. Be rid of him before he is rid of you.

She could see it in her mind, the crack of Mordred's spine. Her fingers twitched.

Not yet, she thought, I can't, I can't. My crew, they need more time.

Rubbish, one voice said. What better distraction than to kill the heir apparent?

"You're right," Emma whispered.

Careful, Emma. Killian's voice rose above the noise.

It felt as though he stood between her and the darkness. The voices quieted, the magic receded, and Emma wondered what she could possibly have been thinking. She looked up at Mordred, who seemed content to wait for her to speak, blandly watching her whisper to herself.

Madness sharpens madness, she thought, wildly.

"I could still fix your kingdom," Emma said, desperate. "Like you said, we could be allies."

He shook his head. "You are no fool, Princess. I believe you know as well as I do that it's simply no longer possible." He reached down, and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, leaning back and forth, and back again. "My uncle, however, was indeed a fool. There is no reason to dabble in darkness. When it can be controlled, why not take it all?"

Emma could almost hear Killian snort. This man has lost his marbles.

"And you," Mordred continued, reaching down for the blade at his hip, "are the conduit to some of that darkness. It would be a pity to let you go to waste, so I'll be having you."

She blinked, opened her mouth, and in that spare moment, Killian appeared just behind Mordred in a swirl of deep red magic, the sneer on his face pulling tight at the chords of his neck. His teeth lay bare, glinting in the moonlight when he spoke.

"You and your former king alike can't seem to understand that one cannot possess a human soul."

He reached out to grab a hold of Mordred's shoulder. When the dull metal of the man's armor touched the palm of Killian's hand, the charm Mordred wore pulsed with a bright light, and Killian cried out in pain. It seemed to have thrown an invisible barrier around Mordred, some kind of terrible magic in his flesh. It seeped outward, a darkness apart from their own, power enough to sear into Killian's hand, the sensation echoing in her own hand. She hissed, tears leaping to her eyes. Mordred appeared delighted.

"Two conduits, then," he said. "Curious, though not unwelcome."

The change was sluggish, oddly discordant with the way he stood – leaning heavily to one side, pulling absent-mindedly at the tuft of fabric that curled out between his breastplate and his greaves – but when Mordred scowled, the thunderous expression itself appeared to be made of the very essence of darkness. He was terrifying, and Emma had never felt quite so afraid.

"I'll have you now," he repeated, sounding nothing like himself. Once again, he reached for his sword, and Emma took the chance. The heavy blade at Mordred's side was slow to break from its sheathe, and she reached out for Killian's hook, begging the power inside her to take them away. Many voices answered, and with a familiar drop in her stomach, Mordred and his guards disappeared from view.

Killian cursed loudly in her ear the moment they arrived.

At the vault, Emma realized. She had no fondness for it, but the only sounds – besides the soft thud of Killian's feet as he paced, muttering a slew of obscenities in languages she didn't recognize under his breath – were of the natural sort. Emma breathed in deeply, met by the smell of earth. The sea must have been leagues away. With any luck, her ship and her crew had left Camelot behind. She thought of August and Jo, slinking along the coast. The darkness clutched at the thought, pouring all manner of what ifs at her feet.

You should have killed him when you had the chance, they chided.

How? she wondered. He's...bathed in some kind of darkness.

They did not answer, churning quietly. The sensation made her feel half-deranged.

"Emma."

Killian's voice was soft, still distressed, but calming all the same. He tugged at his ear, fingers lost in the hair curling at his neck.

"I should…" He shuffled on his feet, bashful, if she was reading him right. And judging by the prickle of his mind against hers, she was. He looked down at her feet, then at her eyes, his own like pitch in the shadows. "I ought to thank you."

Emma tilted her head. "For what?"

"For saving my life, I think."

"Is that what happened?"

He sighed, appearing frightened, of all things. The Dark One, possessing immeasurable power and immortality, plagued by fear. She couldn't imagine that was a winning combination. The fear felt like cracks in her skin, the liquid darkness in her soul sure to seep out, devouring everything in its path. She bit down on her tongue, and focused on the sound of Killian's voice.

"Honestly, love, I have no idea. I've met all manner of magics before, but none quite so treacherous as that. Whatever darkness Mordred commands through that bloody charm, it's elemental and unfeeling. Certainly speaking of more power than you or I could ever hold."

He paused, reaching up to scratch at the base of his skull, then down to grasp the hilt of the dagger at his side, leaving his hair a mess. Emma felt hysterically close to laughter, the difference between where she was in the morning, and where she was now, stark enough to drive anyone mad.

"Well," she said, standing as tall as she could on her shoes, heels sinking into the ground, "what are you going to do about it?"

Killian frowned. "Pardon?"

"We've been chasing or chased since the moment we met. Now we're here. You're the Dark One, and so am I. What the hell happens now?"

"Judging by what I've learned of you thus far, Princess, I imagine you're about to tell me."

"You're damn right. We talk to Mordred."

Kill him, perhaps? the darkness suggested.

Yes, she answered automatically. Then, No.

The darkness tittered, and Killian scowled. "You're bloody delirious if you think I'd allow you to speak to that man again."

"I'm sorry, allow?"

He seemed to grow taller, a faint shimmer washing over his skin. Like a predator, he circled her, the fabric of his jacket brushing against her hands, the runes in the fabric once more flaring briefly to life. His voice adopted the very same quality she'd heard before, many living in one. Emma folded her arms over her chest, trying to appear unimpressed.

"Aye," he said, "allow. This power is mine. No matter what king or beast bound your soul to the darkness, know that I alone have born it for all these years. I took it, and no one, not even a princess of the realm, shall wrest it away. Your reckless naiveté is sure to enslave you, and given that you are bound indirectly to me, it's only a matter of time before I'm found, and torn from my willing exile."

Emma lifted her chin, barely suppressing the urge to roll her eyes at him.

"So it's all about you, then."

He stopped before her, his lips curling over his teeth. "I have risked myself for love, and for revenge. As it seems I no longer have either, I'd prefer to exist in some measure of peace."

His voice rose and fell, sharp on the downturn. His nostrils flared, and his jaw ticked. Emma narrowed her eyes.

"I'm not going to just run away," she said.

"And what will you do, exactly? It's only a matter of time before you give into the darkness, and do something reckless. What would you do, I wonder, if I were no longer here to curb its influence?"

"Why do you care, anyway?"

Killian did not answer. For some time, he simply watched her. Her mind was pointedly silent, or silent enough, the insidious voices and influence of the darkness indeed momentarily curbed, at least for as long as he could manage, the effort knitting between his brow.

You've made your point, she thought. I'm still going to do what I want.

He made a put-upon face. "If nothing else, I can say I've never met anyone quite like you."

"A royal genius?"

"A royal pain in my arse, more like. Naive, hopeful, sure to get yourself killed, likely to drag me down with you."

"That didn't end up being as complimentary as I thought it would."

He sighed, and tilted his head. The moonlight caught in his eyes, and again he appeared human.

"Listen," he said. "I understand what's at stake here, love, but there's nothing to gain from speaking with Mordred. He's absolutely mad, and is sure to use you for his own purpose, whatever that may be. Didn't you hear what he said?"

"You mean the conduit thing? Yeah, I'm not an idiot."

Killian looked as though he might start tearing his hair out at any moment. "And yet you still insist on speaking with him. Have you any idea what you'll even say?"

"I do," she said, petulant. He only watched her, expectantly. "Mostly. I want to know what he wants, and then I have to convince his people to turn on him. Are you going to help me or not?"

He ignored her question. "I see you have all the details worked out, then."

She huffed. "Well forgive me for making it all up along the way. I can't go home, and I can't stay here. I'm not just going to wait until something happens. You can do whatever you want."

You can do whatever you want.

There was something awfully strange about listening to someone turning her words over and over in her own mind. For reasons unknown, that phrase seemed to resonate with him. He seemed confused by the decision, or even that he had a decision. He shuffled on his feet, and her own voice echoed softly in her mind once more.

You can do whatever you want.

Emma made a face at the odd sensation, though she tried to be subtle about it, looking down and brushing imaginary dirt off her dress.

Or no, she thought, giving the fabric a shake. Real dirt.

"I know you can hear me thinking, darling," he said, softly, kindly even. She looked up at him, and his eyes were a warm blue. "No need to be coy about it."

She only shrugged.

"Listen," he said, stepping forward. She had to crane her neck to look at him. The persistent whisper in the back of her mind quieted, and the buzz of the unfamiliar magic through her veins began to fade. "Yes, I will help you. Frankly, I'd be a fool not to, given how much is at stake for me." He hesitated. Then, quietly, "However, I have a condition."

"And what's that?"

He shuffled closer still. Even towering over her, when his expression fell, he appeared boyish, lost.

"Don't take this from me," Killian said, quietly. "You'll want to be rid of the darkness, I imagine?"

Emma nodded, unable to answer aloud, briefly mesmerized by the deep and resonant sound of his voice.

"If you can take it from me…" He swallowed, hard. "Don't. That's all I ask."

"Okay," she whispered. Whatever spell lived between them, it shattered when he stepped back.

He cleared his throat. "Alright, then, Princess. Lead on, as ever."

"I'll be happy never to see another bloody tree in my life."

Yet again, Emma found herself at the edge of Camelot's grounds, looking upon the castle. She was grateful, at least, to see that her ship had left the harbor. The guards appeared to have dwindled in their absence, and she had used her magic to change from her evening dress to the trousers and leather she typically favored. An uptick in fortune, she thought. Killian didn't seem to see it the same way.

"You're so dramatic," she said.

"Better to be carefully dramatic than recklessly blasé."

Emma frowned. "I don't see the problem with just walking up and knocking on the door."

"Forgive me, love, but that is ridiculous."

"It's just as surprising as poofing straight into the castle."

"Surprising for the lot of you, then, considering you haven't a bloody clue where Mordred is."

"And you do?"

Killian rolled his eyes, and pointed up at the castle. "Aye, he's in that tower, there."

She nearly growled. "Why didn't you just say that?"

He shrugged, waved his hook. "I thought it was obvious. Can't you feel it? Or smell it, for that matter? The magic he carries is odorous, to say the least. Like the precursor to a storm, earth and lightning."

Emma looked up at the very tower at which he had gestured. Warm light flickered from within. Killian opened his mind to her, and her nose flooded with the smell of stagnant water. The hairs on her arms stood on end, a blue puff of magic emanating from the very spot in the castle at which he had pointed.

"How do you do that?" she said.

"It's no natural talent, I can assure you. I fumbled with the darkness for many years before I became proficient."

She regarded him from the corner of her eye. "That's a lie."

"Aye, but a flattering one."

"Just stick to the truth. I can't work with dark magic for shit."

Aye, but you feel like the light.

The thought, it felt unbidden, and Emma flushed in time with him. She looked back up at the tower, and reached for the broken blade Excalibur at her side. It was a facsimile of the original, a glamor spell cast upon Killian's cutlass. He had cast another upon the true blade that bound her, now strapped to his belt, appearing as a simple longsword.

"You're a bloody fool for giving this to me, you know," he'd told her.

"As if I have a choice," she'd answered.

He had said nothing in reply.

"Alright," Emma said, shuffling in place. "You can stay here – "

"Don't be absurd, love. I'll not leave you to that man."

In truth, she would rather not face Mordred alone either, but Killian was a force of nature, like water and wind, sluicing along the earth, quiet power in a lithe body. He was alternately charming, and terrifying, and though Emma's gut called for her to trust him, he was otherwise an unknown, a century and a half of an unliving life stirring under his skin.

"Who are you?" she said, before she could will herself not to.

Killian's face fell, stricken, just for the briefest of moments. He blinked, she mimed, and the expression disappeared.

"The Dark One," he answered.

Emma looked away, and ignored his chilling answer. "You ready?"

He reached over his shoulder, and pulled a hood up over his head, glimmering eyes swallowed up in shadow, the runes on his coat sparkling faintly in the evening light.

"Aye," he said.

If Killian was surprised when she reached down for his hook, he did not show it, watching her quietly while she summoned the magic from within. The darkness, it lived apart from her, stalking through her mind as though she was nothing but a vessel, prodding at the places she had been hurt. She had to ask it to obey.

I just want to go up to that tower, she said, looking inward. Grudgingly, it acquiesced.

The room to which the darkness took them was bathed in golden light, chandeliers swinging gently from the arched tray on the ceiling. A great stone fireplace crackled away on the southern curve of the room, embers spitting pleasantly along the hearth. Pillars abutted the wall, and they looked something like the sycamore trees that lived along the streams in the wood. The delicate masonry rose and fell with the smooth undulations of bark, up and out towards the leaves. They splayed along the ceiling, reaching towards the chandeliers as though they were an array of suns. There was almost no furniture, save for the table in the center of the room, hewn from tiger wood, bearing maps and trinkets and blades, and powders in clear glass jars. All the sorts of things Emma recognized from Regina's own tower in Misthaven's castle. The belongings of a woman once caught by villainy. The table before her, bearing those of a man still living in its jaws.

Mordred, underneath a great arched ceiling, appeared less grand, and more human. He hardly looked at them when they appeared, staring down at a map of the kingdoms, stretching from Camelot, down past the mountains of the Enchanted Forest.

"I never did favor geography, you know," he said, tilting his head one way, then the other. "When I was a child, I never thought I'd leave Camelot. But then, of course, the world always seems impossibly large when you're young. Now, it's shrinking, faster than ever."

Emma frowned. Her fingers twitched, and she realized she still held Killian's hook. She was reluctant to let it go, wondering how long it would be before Mordred's deceptive nonchalance shattered. But her embarrassment overcame her fear, and she released it.

I won't leave you. Killian's voice was clear above the crackle of the fire, the tinkle of the chandeliers overhead.

I know.

Do you?

Emma did not answer.

"You knew we were coming?" she said.

Mordred looked at her, then.

"What a drab question," he said, as though he were remarking upon the weather. "It doesn't matter now, does, it Princess? What matters is why you're here."

The voices of the darkness rose in both pitch and volume, squirming as Mordred approached them. His boots echoed loudly in the hollow of the room. Killian stood completely still, even the subtle rise and fall of his chest halting when Mordred stopped before them, hardly a stride or two away.

"You seem like a smart man," Emma said. "Why don't you guess?"

Mordred smiled, and this too was pleasant, like nearly every face that he wore. The magic that lived just on the surface of his body, however, as before, it burned against hers, the charm he wore glowing softly. Emma worked hard to school her expression.

"I imagine you're wondering why I wish to have your power," he said, leaning back against the table, folding his arms over his chest, throwing one ankle over the other. The posture of a friend. "It's as complicated as any diplomatic mission you've ever undertaken, yet as simple as black and white."

Emma frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Mordred laughed, a warm and rich sound, quiet in the hush of night. He tilted his head, and watched her carefully, sparing no glance for Killian, who remained frozen at her side.

"It means that people, my dear, complicate everything they touch. All I want is prosperity, and just like the magic you wield, it demands a price. It is my duty to ensure that this kingdom does not pay the price for the magic I intend to use. If I must take what I want from the kingdoms adjacent, then so be it."

Mordred's hand came to rest briefly on the charm at his neck.

"So, what," Emma said, "you want a quick solution to every problem your kingdom faces, but you don't want to face the consequences?"

Mordred remained silent, and for the first time since they had arrived, he looked at Killian, from head to toe, before looking back on her, with exactly the sort of deadly intent she had been expecting. Been wanting, really, in lieu of his painfully discordant smiles.

"Sorry, Princess," he said, "I'm afraid I can't tell you anything else."

"What would you say to a bargain?"

"Oh?"

Emma faltered. The dark, elemental magic bled from Mordred's body, faster now, burning brighter. Killian, who moments ago had appeared to all the world as little more than an artist's rendering, shifted on his feet.

"There are few who I've met that can resist a deal," he said.

Mordred's eyes slid languorously to Killian's.

"Ah," Mordred said. "You must be Rumpelstiltskin's successor."

For all that Killian seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, the look on his face – just barely illuminated by the firelight beneath his hood – did not waver. His mind, however, typically pressing softly against her own, shuttered away, the darkness shrieking briefly before it disappeared behind the curtain along with him. Emma felt momentarily bereft.

"I'm impressed," Killian said, his voice dragging like gravel over bedrock. "You know your history."

"Necessary, I find, in my line of work."

Mordred stared at Killian, and Killian stared back. They were caught in a silent competition, and though Killian was a sure and immortal presence at her side, Emma couldn't help but think he was losing, that they were both losing.

So she drew the copy of Excalibur from her side. She had to admit, the dark magic was terribly useful.

Isn't it just? a voice said. Power surged pleasantly in her veins, and Emma felt oddly apart from herself.

"This," she said, jostling the sword in her hands. "You can take it. Just, please…" She stumbled over her own words for a moment. As much as the deal was a ruse, she thought again of her family, all caught unwittingly in whatever deadly game this man was playing. "Please. Don't hurt my people."

Mordred considered her, his brow pinching. "Is that all?"

"I want to know what you plan on doing."

"I imagine you would." He stepped forward, one long stride, and reached out. "Alright, then, you have an accord. But I'll be having that first."

Emma hesitated for as long as she dared, watching for the man to falter. As many deals and trades as she'd brokered, she could recognize a stalwart player. And with the stakes so high, she couldn't stall for long. She reached out, and dropped the pommel in Mordred's hand. Unceremoniously, he allowed it to sag towards the ground. The magic he carried in the charm arced outward, devouring the farce, the dust the sword left behind picking up in the breeze that floated in through the open windows. Emma tensed.

"You think you're so very clever," Mordred said. "And I suppose you are. But there is no deception that magic can't shatter. I'll have you and your companion. Your kingdom will fall, and there is no bargain that can stop it."

Time to go, darling.

Killian's voice seeped in among the others, but it was quickly drowned out. She knew what they had agreed, that they would run the moment the ruse was broken. But the words echoed –

Your kingdom will fall, your kingdom will fall.

– and the dark presence inside her was quick to take notice.

You could end it, one said.

End him before he ends you.

Before he can even think to tread on you kingdom's soil –

– murder your father and mother.

– everyone you've ever held dear –

Get on with it, dearie, kill him.

Emma bit down on her tongue, hard, tasting blood in her mouth. The wound sealed over, but the metallic taste remained. That, as much as anything else, spurred her forward, her hand closing around Mordred's throat. His skin burned into hers, his magic lashing back at her, his charm blinking wildly. But she couldn't bring herself to let go. She pushed him back, until his head crashed into the table. She leaned over him, the darkness spilling out of her mouth, out of her hands, in many voices and in the strength of her hands. It was exhilarating.

Behind her, Killian called her name, but she ignored him.

"Tell me," she demanded.

Fear flashed in Mordred's eyes. The pain in her hand crested, spreading up her arm. A shimmering darkness crawled along her skin, cracks appearing in her flesh as though she were made of stone.

"Tell me!" she shouted.

Mordred squirmed beneath her, blood trickling from his neck where her nails gripped.

"The wood," he said, gasping. "The witches in the wood – "

The great, arched door near the fireplace opened, revealing a whole mess of guards. Killian reached out, his hook looping around her elbow.

"Emma," he pleaded. "Let go."

She did, only by virtue of the guards spilling in, and the pain in her arm. She leapt back, startled. At herself, at the heady rush of blood through her veins.

That's what true power feels like, the darkness told her.

Mordred coughed and spluttered, swiping at the blood on his neck. Just as Killian grabbed onto her hand, and called the darkness to take them away, Mordred reached out, magic seeping out of his charm and twining down his arm, reaching for the true Excalibur at Killian's side. The glamor spell broke, and whatever foul curse Mordred had cast seeped into the blade the very moment the darkness enveloped them in a swirl of red.

"Bloody hell," he said, when they arrived at the vault. "What did he do to your hand, love?"

Emma snorted, the sound at grave odds with the situation. "That's what you're worried about?"

He glared. "It's the most pressing, I'd say."

She looked down. It was excruciating, sure, but the darkness within was a balm, reaching out to prod at the injury. The cracks in her skin began to fade, and the relief that was left behind rivaled the feeling of Mordred's throat between her fingers.

"You," Killian said, sighing long and loud, "are a marvel."

Surprised, Emma laughed, one loud guffaw. "Didn't think that was how that sentence was going to end."

"I wasn't sure either."

She smiled faintly, and opened her mouth to thank him. For remaining at her side, for pulling her away…

But then Excalibur began to stir. Startled, she wrenched it from the sheath at Killian's side. The liquid magic that had poured from Mordred's hand slithered down along the intricate designs, through the letters that spelled her name, dripping off the broken end. The ground beneath them trembled, and Killian reached out with his hook, catching at her belt to pull her away.

"What the hell?" Emma said, looking at Killian.

"I haven't a clue."

The magic – blue as the sky on a clear day – warped the earth. Like water, it inundated the soil, and began turning, round and round.

"It's a bloody portal," Killian said. The words were barely out of his mouth before Mordred rose from the mess, and he was clearly livid. In contrast to the faces he'd worn, it painted a terrifying portrait. Killian didn't wait for Mordred to leave the confines of the portal, transporting them elsewhere, anywhere.

"Fuck," he said, releasing her when they settled. He buried his hand in his hair. Emma nearly stumbled, disoriented. Killian must not have taken them far, the forest having the same make and terrain. Even so, as much as she'd trained, she'd never been a proponent of the whole teleportation thing, preferring to sail anywhere she could, to walk anywhere she couldn't sail.

"Fuck," he repeated.

"Yeah," she agreed. "I don't even know where to start."

"I'm going to kill that man. Bleed him into the sea, listen to him beg."

Emma found herself agreeing, of all things. Before she could echo him, Excalibur again began to tremble, the same magic sliding down the blade. A harrowing déjà vu, intent on dragging them into the belly of the earth.

"Emma," Killian said.

The earth made a terrible noise as it began to turn, rock grinding against soil and water. She took his hand, stepping close, and looked up at him. Quietly, in contrast to the noise behind them, the sound of blood rising in her ears, she spoke –

"Run."