Warnings: None

Notes: Thanks so much for the follows, favorites, and reviews guys, it's so encouraging. This is definitely a slow burn story, but I hope you like how it progresses!

Chapter Four

Dawn broke, gentle and quiet, before Emma was convinced that Mordred no longer followed close behind. Whatever curse he had cast, the magic strange and unknowable to her, it did not seem to be able to follow them on foot. From her perch on a fallen log – the dew, gathered on tufts of moss, seeping into her trousers – she listened. The sounds of the forest echoed brightly in her ears, no longer quite so intrusive. Droplets of water coalesced at the crests of leaves, falling to the ground with a soft thud. Birds all around began a tentative song, ruffling their feathers, and picking away at the soggy bark of the mighty oaks. The breeze was gentle, but steady, and the gnarled branches creaked as they swayed back and forth. Water living deep in the earth wound patiently through the soil, rising to feed the stream below her feet. Smooth pebbles and boulders tumbled easily through the water, slicked over with algae. It was a pleasant chorus, atonal but synchronized, growing louder as the sun angled higher.

All magic comes with a price, Emma recalled, from her lessons. She wondered if the price for the subtle magic of the wood was the encroaching darkness. When she closed her eyes, she felt as though the voices around her drew closer, long and flowing robes obscuring their faces. When she had called the magic forth to subdue Mordred in his tower, the darkness had risen to the surface, bleeding out through the punishing grip of her fingers, in the fight against the searing pain crawling up her arm. It was as though all the souls living within had taken a step closer.

How many steps can they take before I give in?

You could never give in, Killian answered.

Emma frowned. "How long are you just going to stand there?"

Killian didn't quite smile, but he didn't scowl back either. The stream was wide and shallow, and he stood in the center, a sparkling riffle breaking around his boots. His eyes were closed, lashes curling long and dark against the swell of his cheeks, tinged red as he leaned back, face turned towards the warmth of the sun.

"For as long as it takes to cleanse the smell of that beast's magic from my body," he said.

Emma sighed, and waited, resting her chin on her knees. She could let her feet fall into the slack, the log upon which she sat sloping down into the water. But it reminded her too much of her mother, how she would hold on to Emma's hand when she was a child, help her splash through the streams of the Enchanted Forest. And of her father, how he would wade deeper than she would dare go alone and hold out his arms, urging her to trust him. Those same streams would seem pitiful now, she was sure, against the rivers and seas she had travelled later in life. Even so, she couldn't help but long to return.

We can never return to the past, the darkness said, viciously.

"Emma."

She looked over at Killian, swiveling her head on her knees, blinking away the shadows.

"Darling," he said. "Come over here a moment, would you?"

Emma glanced back down into the stream, the clouds in the sky casting a warbled reflection in the water below.

"My socks will get wet," she complained.

He quirked a brow, but he let it go, waiting patiently to see what she would do next. It was something he did, she realized. Waited. She wondered if he had always been this way, or if it was the time he had lived that had made him like this.

"Honestly, love," he said, "I can't remember."

Emma huffed. "Can't you stay out of my head?"

"Hard to, when you're practically shouting your thoughts at me."

"Am not," she grumbled, and despite herself, she let her feet fall into the water with a splash, wading through the pool and into the riffle, out of the dappled shadows and into a pure stream of sunlight. It was warm on her skin, a little overwarm even, but then she had always favored the summer. Heavy fabrics and hot fires, even when the weather didn't quite call for it.

"You miss your family," he said, when she stopped before him.

The breeze kicked into a wind, and the hair that curled up and out from behind his neck trembled, bending until it brushed against the tender cartilage that whorled around and around in his ear. His face scrunched, and he reached up to scratch it away.

It was such a human expression, endearing even, that Emma could feel her composure slip.

"Yes," she said, quietly.

He nodded.

She took a step forward, the water gurgling loudly between the two of them, breaking around them like a boulder. "Do you?"

Killian's expression darkened, morning overtaken by midnight. His mind was open to her, and she saw a brief flash of a vaguely familiar face – like his own, but kinder, tighter curls in lighter hair – before it disappeared behind a deep shade of red.

"Sorry," she said. "Stupid question. You're about a million years old."

His nostrils flared, he tilted his head, and some of the dawn crept back into his eyes.

"It's alright, love," he said. "It's easy to forget. And…" He paused, and Emma could feel him fighting to keep his eyes on her, the compulsion to look down at his feet so very overwhelming, she almost looked down at her own. "…I do."

The sounds of the forest took precedent when Killian remained silent for several long moments. The tension broke when he sighed, and he looked out over her shoulder.

"Tell me, Emma," he said. "Where to now?"

"Seriously? You still want to follow me around? We almost died. Twice."

He was clearly amused by the incredulity in her voice. "I meant what I said before. Whether I like it or not, your fate is tied to mine. Doubly so, now that Mordred has cast some sort of spell on Excalibur."

"How noble."

"Besides," he said. "I can hardly think of a worse fate than to face this alone."

Killian did look down at his feet, then, reaching up to tug at his ear. He was nervous, she realized, though she wasn't sure why. Nearly two days this man's mind had been inextricably twined with her own, yet she felt as though she didn't know a thing about him. He liked leather, clearly, and rings, judging by the blackened jewelry on his fingers. He wore several faces, and bathed himself in magic. And as dark as it was, as unforgiving and merciless, it reminded her of Regina's. Sharp, but warm. There was something profoundly sad about him, too. Lost. But Emma couldn't puzzle it out, several parts of him hidden from her. Where her own mind felt like a bramble, impossibly tangled, exactly the sort of unpredictable mess in which she thrived, Killian's felt like a labyrinth, ordered, with a code she didn't understand.

"So," he said, hunching a bit beneath her scrutiny. "Where to next, your highness?"

"Funny," she answered, "I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"Contrary to what you may think, I don't know everything – "

"I wasn't thinking that."

" – however, I might suggest we start with these witches in the wood, whoever or whatever they are."

Emma folded her arms over her chest, unimpressed. "Uh, yeah, I got that. But the only so-called 'witches of the wood' I've ever heard of were in a storybook my father used to read to me."

He looked at her sharply. "Oh?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, but it was a children's book."

"What did it look like?"

"I don't know…" She mimed a shape with her hands, trying to recall the binding, the lettering, the drawings within. "…sort of, you know…rectangular..."

Killian snorted, softly. "Sort of rectangular. You are by far the most poorly spoken princess I have ever met."

"Well excuse me for growing up around a bunch of miners and privateers."

He smiled, clearly amused. "And just how did you avoid lessons on comportment?"

Emma hesitated, wondering if she had revealed too much, but then figured, if she didn't tell him, he could easily glean it from her mind, whether it was of his own volition or not.

"War," she answered, at length, and his smile faded. "My whole kingdom was at war until I was twelve. I spent most of my childhood in the woods, or with our kingdom's trusted privateers. Hiding out, moving around, that sort of thing. By the time we were rebuilding, and my brother was born, I think it was too late to make a princess out of me."

He scrutinized her, and Emma squirmed. "...anyway, weren't we talking about a storybook?"

Killian looked as though he might press her, curiosity sparking in his eyes. But then, "Yes, the rectangular book. Anything else you can remember?"

"It was big," she answered, thinking back, "and bound in brown leather. It was called Once Upon a Time, I think. I only read it a few times, it wasn't really my kind of book."

He nodded, as though she had said exactly what he expected her to say. "And tell me, what did it say of the witches?"

Emma closed her eyes, shut them tight. She remembered, before the war ended, tucking in underground, her father pulling soft, tattered blankets up to her chin. It was rare that she saw him, but when she did, he always carried two things for her in a tattered satchel. The first was always something he'd found. A smooth, bright pebble, the skull of an animal, white and polished over with time, a blade even, always accompanied by a lecture on safety, and a lesson in disarmament. The second was always a book. Her mother would take her through the woods, down towards the sea if they were close enough, and in the evening, her father would read to her.

"A perfectly winding river," she said, and opened her eyes. "It was about a man who had been turned into a stag. He followed a river upstream, all the way from Camelot. Then something about it turning to buttermilk? It emptied from a cave that looked like a creepy smile, I remember the drawing. The stag followed the shadows from there, and found the witches, who turned him back into a man. Then I think…did they eat him? That might have been a different story."

Killian looked mildly horrified. "And these are the stories your father read to you when you were a child?"

She only shrugged. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"Indeed," he said, and it seemed like he wanted to say more. Emma could feel his mind whirring to life. He opened his mouth, but then he shut it, with an audible click. "I believe we're looking for the Héahdéor."

Emma leaned back, blinking rapidly at the unfamiliar, mellifluous word. "Sorry, what?"

"The Héahdéor, darling. Means 'stag' in Old English, as a matter of fact. It's the river that empties around Camelot, flows through its famous moat…did you not learn these things before you arrived?"

"Uh, no? It didn't seem relevant. I know the coastline, and that's about it."

He smiled, and glanced pointedly down at their feet. "Lucky for you, I believe you're standing in one of its tributaries."

"You're kidding."

Killian stepped back, gestured ahead for her to lead. "No better way to find out."

"We're really going to take the word of a book I barely remember?"

"'Storybook', I find, is often something of a misnomer. Every tale carries at least a grain of truth. Otherwise, why bother telling it?"

Emma grudgingly agreed. But then she hesitated. There in the sunshine, in the gentle breeze, everything seemed to stand still. Only the sun appeared to move, tracking slowly through the sky. Moving on meant allowing the proverbial clock tower to grind back to life. The weight of what lay before them settled back on her shoulders.

You can do this, Killian thought. It almost sounded sincere.

"Alright," she said. "Let's go."

Emma couldn't quite decide whether she was relieved or exasperated when they reached what Killian claimed must be the Héahdéor. He didn't say it, but there was a distinct I told you so air about him as they followed along the banks, the water too deep and too fast to accommodate them any longer. Younger, gentler trees gave way to brittle willows and silver birches, old wych elms climbing higher along the slopes. The trees were spectacular, and the crystalline waters threw a glimmering reflection of their great, winding branches back up at her. Emma preferred the sea, she always had, but there was something to be said for this terrain, especially when the trees thinned out just a bit, and she could stand in the sun, allowing some of the water to drain out of her boots.

"I told you not to wade quite so deep, love," he said.

"Well don't you just know everything."

He shrugged. "You seemed attached to the dryness of your socks."

"Why don't I just – "

Emma reached down to cast a minor spell, but Killian's hand clamped down on her wrist before she could.

"Emma, wait," he said. The magic stirring in her skin receded, the darkness pulling back petulantly, voices chattering loudly in her ear.

"What," she snapped.

"I think it would be best if we avoided magic until we talk to these witches."

Emma opened her mouth to protest. But then she thought of the portals, rising from whatever curse had been placed on Excalibur, and of Mordred and his guard emerging from under the ground. She reached for its hilt, fingers gliding over the pommel. It smelled faintly of the power that emanated from the charm that Mordred carried, though curiously it did not stir.

"I do not know the spell that is bound to your sword," he continued. "It may be that he can only follow us when we transport. But it may also be that he can follow any scent of our magic."

She sighed. "Well, fuck. I almost just killed us because my socks are wet."

Killian laughed, clearly startled. "I wouldn't go quite so far, but I would advise against casting any spells, even one so inconsequential as…" He gestured down at her boots. "…that."

Emma grumbled, shaking her feet, and they moved on.

The river began curling westward, growing wider for a stretch before thinning, the deep sandy basin and stagnant air giving the water the appearance of metal. It reminded her of the sea on a still day, out where the swell of the tide and the mysteries of the bottom would give it the appearance of glass, a window to a container of molten iron.

You love the sea, don't you?

Emma wasn't sure whether Killian was thinking it, speaking it aloud, or both. She turned to look at him.

"Don't you?" she said.

He frowned, and the fluid way he stepped beneath the swooping branches of the saplings, over fallen logs and weathered boulders, became terribly rigid. Oddly enough, his hand began to tremble, just slightly. When her eyes lingered on his fingers, he grabbed onto the hilt of his dagger, the blade itself shaking with him.

"When you've lived as long as I have," he said, quietly, "it's hard to hold onto a fondness for much of anything."

Emma tilted her head. "Liar."

He looked at her, sharply, and shadow overtook half of his face, one eye impossibly bright and beautiful, the other glinting black.

"Oh?"

Emma tapped at her forehead. "I can always tell when people are lying."

In truth, her ability to suss out a liar had been muddied by the many souls living beside her own. But, she reasoned, Killian didn't need to know that. He only regarded her warily as they walked, hand and hook still shaking faintly. They continued that way for quite awhile. But the silence was deafening, the darkness speaking in her ear, twisting her in her own mind until she didn't recognize herself. For whatever reason, his voice seemed to chase it away.

"Ten questions," she blurted.

"Pardon?"

"I can ask you ten questions, and you have to answer."

He was quiet for such a long time, Emma stopped to look at him. He was frowning, a deep furrow in his brow.

"One," he countered. "Just one."

She hummed. "Eight questions, then."

"This isn't a negotiation, love. One."

"Five?"

He seemed exasperated, though not without humor. "Last I checked, five was more than one."

"Alright fine, three."

Killian ducked his chin, a wry smile crinkling up at the corners of his eyes. "You're a bloody thief of a politician, aren't you, darling."

"Listen, you talked me down to three. You should be celebrating."

"I'm sure that's what the comparative plebeians at your table think when you've argued them into submission."

Emma rolled her eyes, turning back to her path. The underbrush began to clear, and the ancient broadleaf trees gave way to pine, needles crunching beneath their feet. The rush of the water grew faster still, and the slope of the land became sharp, natural stones jutting out of the soil serving as makeshift steps.

"Sure, sure," she muttered. "I have you for three questions."

"So it would seem. Well go on then, love, what's your first?"

Emma didn't hesitate. "How did you become the Dark One?"

Killian's steps faltered, his boots smacking hard against a vein of limestone. "You aren't one to play games, are you?"

She didn't answer, merely waited. The puzzle of his mind began to shift, the moving parts swinging open. Emma saw a fractured memory, pouring out of him like broken glass. A boy lost at sea. A younger, brighter Killian Jones, wearing military dress, older and hurting, wearing a brocaded vest. One hand, then two, then one again. A man wearing a tattered cloak, shivering with fear, the same man twisted with darkness. All of it together, a mess, indecipherable.

"You'll think I'm a monster," he said.

Emma frowned, though she kept going, hoping their measured travel up along the craggy shore of the river would ease his mind. But it didn't, sharp edges pressing in against hers. She remembered something her mother used to say, during the war, when Emma would find herself filled with hatred for their aggressors.

"Not all sinners are monsters," she told him. It felt like the right thing to say.

For some time, Killian didn't say a word, and Emma followed alongside the river, watching the water carve its path through layered rock. She counted her steps, impatience gnawing at her gut.

Why not just take it from his mind, eh, dearie?

One of the more prominent voices, Emma noted, stringy and wild.

Why not just fuck off? she answered, ineloquently. Still…it did.

"There are two ways to become a Dark One," Killian said, at length. "The first, clearly, is to be bound to a piece of the sword. The second…is to kill the Dark One before you."

"Rumpelstiltskin?" Emma guessed.

"Aye," he answered, quietly. "He took something from me. I took something of his in return. It was to be the penultimate triumph of my life, destroying the man who destroyed me. And then, I thought I could die in peace. Only…well I can't die, can I? Now, a piece of that man's soul lives on in my mind, and will do so forever."

"If you hate it so much, why are you so desperate to hold onto it?"

As quickly as Killian's mind had broken open, it gathered back up, slamming shut. Emma dared to look at him over her shoulder. Even in the warm sunshine, he appeared deathly pale, a faint shimmer to his skin.

He can never be rid of me, someone told her. It was the same voice from before, louder now, and terribly grating. And now, neither can you.

Emma ignored it, and waited. Until the color swelled back into Killian's cheeks, until he blinked, and breathed, and looked at her like he remembered her.

"Is that your second question?" he said, gruffly.

She hesitated. Then, "No."

"Good. I wouldn't have answered anyways."

She opened her mouth, hopefully to change the subject – although she couldn't quite be certain with herself, not now – but he interrupted.

"Buttermilk," he said.

"Uh, what?"

He pointed over her shoulder, down where a stream fed into the river, a gentle sloping waterfall pouring into the Héahdéor. It tumbled over a weathered lip of rock, a distinct, milky appearance that disappeared the moment it reaches its confluence.

"Water like buttermilk," he said. "We're getting close."

The sun had set by the time they reached the mouth of a cave. Less like the rocky grin that had been drawn in her book, and more like a toothy grimace, it jutted neatly from the flattened landscape, leading up to a grove of silver birch, their delicate leaves trembling in the breeze.

"Gross," Emma said, peering down at the milky water, spilling out of the mouth of the cave.

Killian quirked a brow. "It's not actually buttermilk, you know. I think it's rather charming."

"It looks like it's vomiting. At least it'll be good for…"

For drinking, she thought, and then paused.

She hadn't taken a single drink since they set off. Hadn't eaten either. She figured the adrenaline carried her through the night before, but now another night approached, and she felt...nothing.

"Is it ridiculous that I just realized I haven't eaten, or drank, or slept? At all. It's been two days."

Killian frowned. Standing beneath him on the slope, he towered over her, a grim expression on his face.

"You're the Dark One now, love. You don't need to eat, you can't sleep. Magic and prices and all that."

"No eating or sleeping? What the hell? Who would want this?"

He laughed, humorless. "I suppose it depends on how much one values power." He leaned down, then, just enough to look her in the eye. Emma could feel him thinking, just a faint stirring of his mind. He seemed determined to allow her thoughts to be hers and hers alone, the two of them locked away in private recesses, at least as much as they could manage. Even so, when he thought and thought hard, his mind weighed against hers. She wondered how she felt to him.

"In your case," he said, slowly, "not very much, I'd wager."

"You've got me all figured out, huh."

He answered, simply, "No."

Emma was sure she had never felt so vulnerable in her life. Though her gut told her he wouldn't, all of the grim voices within suggested it was only a matter of time before he broke her open and poured himself in.

Shut up, she told them.

They did not answer her. She huffed, and stomped through the underbrush, where the pine needles and craggy rocks grew thin, gradually replaced by gossamer blades of grass. Killian followed, just a few steps behind. The entire grove was bathed in silver moonlight, dappling in the shade of the leaves. Superficially peaceful, an unknown fear began to pool at the base of her spine, growing heavier the further they walked.

A path began to open up before them, leading to a clearing in the wood, where just in the center, the ground had caved in above the water. It gurgled through the rock and soil, appearing as pitch in the burgeoning moonlight. Dread, aided by some unknown magic, clashed against curiosity.

"There's some kind of magic here," she said.

"Aye, I can see it."

She turned to face him. "Yeah? What is it?"

He held out his hand, urging her to take it.

"Can't you just tell me?" she said, frowning at his hand.

He didn't answer her, only waited, like he was made of stone. Emma sighed, and let her hand fall into his.

When she blinked, she wondered how he knew. That touching her would allow him to open her eyes through his. The world as he saw it came to life with shades of magic, from light to dark. It arced through the air, bursting from the ground and rising through the trees, falling elsewhere like a rainbow, loops so great that they must have moved the realm itself. It lived in the ground, seeped through the soil. It trembled in the water. She turned around, at his urging, and saw a crystalline barrier, tall and irregular, pushing up through the clearing. It pulsed with light, and burned into her eyes, sickening dread, a knife plunging into her gut. She gasped, and let go of his hand.

"We shouldn't go in there," he said.

"Why not?"

He looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "Did you not see that barrier? I know wards when I see them, and that, darling, is a ward. It reeks of darkness."

Emma frowned. "Nothing ventured…"

She reached down and grabbed his hook, walking, determined, towards the ward. She focused, hard, and its jagged, shimmering edges began to appear in her vision. Killian protested loudly, falling silent when Emma pushed through the barrier – revealing a wide swath of grass, and a curious wooden structure – and promptly dropped his hook.

"…nothing gained," she finished, feeling particularly clever.

Killian scowled, teeth peeking out through his lips. "What would you have said if I'd perished at the hands of that foul ward?"

She shrugged. "…everyone lives?"

"You, Princess, are frightfully cavalier."

"And you're painfully dramatic."

"Only one of those is bound to kill me," he said, pointedly, and stepped around her, shaking off the magic that no doubt still clung to his skin. It clung to her too, prodding at the well of magic in her heart. If he was right, and it was indeed a ward against darkness, she wondered if it was…broken?

That's not quite right, Emma thought.

Or perhaps it was designed to trick, and you've sentenced us both to death.

"If you're going to argue with me," she said, "at least do it out loud."

"It's hard to ignore you when you're always thinking so loudly." Killian quirked a brow at her, before he turned towards the center of the clearing, gesturing mildly. "What do you think of this?"

Emma turned to the edifice that stood in the very center of the clearing. It appeared to have been built over the crack in the earth, where the water bubbled sluggishly through the rock. She wondered how it even stood, as it appeared to be several fishmonger's shacks stacked haphazardly atop one another. Where they met the forest's canopy, the branches appeared to jut in through the open windows. The sheer precariousness of it made Emma's stomach turn.

"I think if I breathe too hard, it will fall over," she said.

Killian scoffed. "It's not gravity and proud engineering that hold this structure aloft, Emma, it's magic."

Emma reached out, tentatively, with her own magic, still unfamiliar with the way it thrashed beneath her control, like a wild animal. The voices sneered at her gentle intent, but she ignored them as best she could. She pushed at the shacks before her, and felt a quiet, terrible magic push back at her.

She looked up at him. "What is this?"

He looked puzzled, frightened even. "I haven't a clue."

"Alright, well…" Emma stalked around the shack at the bottom, looking for a door. When there did not appear to be one, she reached up for a high window. The shutters hung from broken hinges, no glass within the window proper. She remembered finding abandoned places like this – though, admittedly, without the bizarre architecture – in the Enchanted Forest. She also remembered the startled noise her father would make when she'd run off to burst through the door, or climb through the window, with little or no forethought. It sounded a lot like the noise Killian made when she did the same now, landing on the rickety floorboards with a loud creak. He grumbled at her, halfheartedly listing all sorts of reason why what she was doing was a terrible idea.

But she could not hear him, lost to the sight before her.

Witches of all ages were scattered across the room, somehow much larger within than it appeared without. If they were aware of Emma's presence, they certainly did not let her know. Dressed in rags, and apparently devoid of sight, dark magic poured from their fingertips, and from their mouths. Like blackened oil it seeped from their bodies, draining into the water that gurgled sickeningly below. They wore the same expression as the woman that had bound her to Excalibur, and wore the same clothing. A charm, much like the one Mordred wore around his neck – a stone set in silver – hovered above the gaping hole in the uneven flooring. Whatever power it carried, it called to her own darkness, burning her from the inside out, and the voices within grew louder, shrieking in desperation.

"Oh gods," Killian breathed, when he appeared at her side. Emma glanced at him, and was caught by the look of devastation on his face. He took a halting step forward, his hand shaking violently. "What have they done to you?"

He focused on the charm suspended above the water. He cursed, viciously, and reached out to take it. Magic jolted up his arm, and he cried out. The pain echoed in Emma, and she was reminded of the dark magic that had stolen up her own arm when she'd closed her hand around Mordred's throat, brittle stone setting in where once there was flesh. She flexed her fingers.

"There's more," Emma said, grimly, pointing at the winding staircase in the corner of the room.

The second and third floors were much the same, the viscous magic pouring down between the cracks in the floor, dripping along the walls. It was like a moment of war plucked from time, the wounded never dying, the blood never washing away. Emma had seen war, had seen torture and desperation, much like this. Her jaw ticked as she moved from one floor to the next. Killian followed, and she knew enough of him now to recognize when the Dark One had taken him. His face was deathly pale, shimmering faintly in the arrhythmically pulsing light down below. More of a machine than a man, looking blankly at the witches as he passed by.

"Above," he said.

Emma looked up at him. "What's above?"

"Above," he repeated, in several voices, and climbed the stairs.

There, on the fourth floor, wide windows were thrown open to the light, the fluttering leaves of the birch trees spilling in through beautifully stained glass. The floors were still crooked, and the walls were full of gaps, but upon an ornately carved captain's chair sat a lone, beautiful woman, a scrap of fabric pulled tight over her eyes. Judging by the scarring on her brow, and on the swell of her cheeks, Emma supposed she was as sightless as the rest of them. Absurdly, she smiled when they entered, white teeth flashing briefly in the moonlight.

"Emma," she said, softly, her voice like a song. "You're here."

Emma frowned, and ignored the obvious question. "What's happened to these people?"

"Fate," she answered, simply. "I suppose it's not long now."

"A seer," Killian whispered.

The woman turned to him. "Killian Jones."

"Aye, I've met your kind before. Wretchedly vague and unhelpful, aren't you?"

She seemed unperturbed by this. "I'll answer whatever question you ask, Captain."

Captain? Emma thought, briefly.

Killian gestured to her, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Answer hers first."

The woman turned back to her, and did as he asked. She spoke quickly, and with a distinct air of knowing. As though she had had this conversation before. Emma supposed that, in a way, she had.

"I imagine you can guess what happened to them, Princess," she said.

Emma frowned. "Mordred?"

"Yes. The witches of the wood were once respected advisers of the crown, but he has cast us into servitude, bleeding us of our magic, and tainting it with the darkness he's wrangled from the charm below."

Confused, Emma tugged at her hair. "But why?"

"The waters beneath this prison are alive. They are the origin of the very power that moves the earth, traveling deep underground before rising to feed the Enchanted Forest, the Héahdéor, every magical place in the realm. The magic that he has stolen from us seeps into these waters, and corrupts them, spreading gradually throughout the world."

Emma's head spun. She thought of the knowing trees in Misthaven, the living Lake Nostos, the power of those places under the control of one man, taken by madness.

"You have more questions," the seer said. "Quickly, Princess."

"The charms..." Emma said, the first thing that came to mind. "...what are they? Where are they from?"

Again, the seer did not hesitate, speaking urgently. "The magic possessed in the charm below, and the charm that Mordred carries, is as old as the realm. The stones set in silver were both carved from deep within the earth, where the very fabric of time itself first unfurled. One, the stone Mordred carries, is a guardian of death. It protects him, extends his life. The other, the steward of the waters of life, the very waters you see below. It can call the waters up from the heart of the realm, where here they are turned to darkness. The charms, they are a balance of life and death. In the wrong hands, and with the waters corrupted, the stones are unpredictable. They are chaos, they are the end of all things. In the right hand, they can undo all of the darkness."

"But what does he want?"

"Prosperity. To heal when the people fall ill. To lift them when they fall."

Emma huffed. "This is Mordred we're talking about, right?"

"Intention often falls prey to darkness, Emma. In a bid for hope, a mighty sorcerer once told King Arthur that a product of true love would rebuild his kingdom…and harold his death. His obsessive desire to lift his people up, at all costs except his own life, has brought death to that sorcerer, and has brought you to where you stand. You are a light in the darkness, caught between two kingdoms."

In such stark terms, the weight fell heavy on Emma's shoulders. She tried to stand tall, looking briefly to Killian, who appeared as marble, clothed in obsidian, glinting dangerously in the starlight.

She swallowed, reflexively, and looked back to the seer. "What should I do?"

"What you ought to do, and what you will do, these often disagree."

Emma jumped when Killian's hook came down hard between the seer's fingers. The seer did not, facing Emma even as he leaned down, his face twisted up with darkness, his breath stirring her ragged hair.

"Answer – " He breathed in, and then out. " – her."

"There are two that you must seek, both in the north," the seer said, and Killian leaned back. "The first, the true heir of Camelot. Follow the swan of the stars, and there she will be."

"The true heir?" Emma echoed, incredulous. "But – "

"The second is a powerful wizard of the northern isles, living west of a frozen kingdom. It is he who can give you what you seek, to draw out the darkness with the light."

Emma's head pounded. An heir, a wizard. Days ago, she had watched the sun break over the horizon aboard her ship, fresh with sleep and brimming over with a terrible thirst for adventure. Often, when she was a child, hidden underground or in the hulls of stinking fishing vessels, she would long to be with her parents, to live the journey the way they did. As questing heroes. She grew wiser, of course, but in that moment, she understood the true weight of her youthful desire.

Questing is bullshit, she thought.

The seer smiled, gently. "Have faith, Emma. Often you'll find that it's all that you need."

In the wake of the brief silence, Killian wrenched his hook from the captain's chair, leaving behind a deep gouge. The seer turned to face him, and the smile on her face fell. Unbearable grief overtook her.

"I can't," she said.

Killian growled. "Free them."

"For as long as fate commands."

"Bloody fucking seer. How long will you allow these people to suffer?"

"Killian," Emma said, reaching out for the sleeve of his coat. He wrenched away, agitated. "Can't you feel it? There's nothing she can do."

"Then we can – "

"No," the seer interrupted, harshly. "Where the dark magic goes, Mordred will follow. Step carefully, Dark One, do not wield your magic, or your path will be brought into sharp relief. Now please, go. The ward trembles. Mordred's guardsmen approach."

Killian turned to Emma, desperately, the Dark One draining from his face.

"Emma," he said. She strained her ears, and could hear the hooves pounding against the ground, tree branches snapping in their wake, underbrush crushed down into wet soil. She hesitated. But then, the seer threw her head back, and the voices of all those within the shacks shouted, long and loud and mournful.

"Go," they cried.

Emma grabbed Killian's hook, and ran as fast as she could, down the crooked steps, the voices following them, the vile darkness slick beneath their boots. They stumbled through the open window, out through the ward, and down where the birch grove, bathed in gentle light, gave into shadows, ancient gnarled pines like great sentries. Though the sound of the guard faded, Emma did not let go of his hook, and she did not stop running, slowing only when the seer's voice echoed clearly in her mind.

When light meets dark, she said, what's been broken will be remade.

The darkness within recoiled.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Emma thought.

When light meets dark, the seer repeated, quietly, with grim inflection. The wind rose, and the chorus of night grew unbearably loud.

What's been broken will be remade.