Warnings: None

Notes: Thanks so much for your comments! I appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Chapter Five

"Follow the swan of the stars, and there she will be," Emma intoned, looking up at the sky.

It had been a few hours since they had fled Mordred's guard, running through the forest, again, until they were certain that no one followed. The sound of those wretched voices were still with her, the collective shout of the witches of the wood like a torrent of ancient torment, rattling at the floorboards of that cursed edifice. She took a deep breath, and reached down within, where her temperamental magic resided, asking the darkness to let her see the world. To see it how Killian saw it, arcs of magic in the sky, silence where silence needs be. It did not heed her.

"She's talking about the Cygnus," Killian said.

He did not look at her, instead watching shadows swirl along the edges of a quiet, vernal pool, fog rising where warm winds met still, cool water. His mind felt brittle, leaning heavily on hers. Despite that, she could not hear his thoughts, and she could not feel the familiar rush and whir, the one that fluttered when he was puzzling something through. It felt as though he'd locked himself away from her.

"What's the Cygnus?" she said.

"Constellation. Before your time."

"Where?"

"Sky."

I know it's in the sky, smartass.

Emma figured she was due a biting retort, but he did answer her, aloud or otherwise. She looked down at his hook, growing wet as night began to tip toward morning. It trembled. His hand trembled too, the hairs curling at his ears shaking, and Emma stepped close.

"Okay," she said, and sighed. He jumped, clearly not expecting her to be so close. Still, he did not turn to look at her. "Heir first, mysterious wizard later."

Killian turned his head, and she caught him in profile, the starlight stark against the hard lines of his face. She was surprised to see that he did not scowl. The dark expression he wore when he was agitated, when he was little more than foul magic wrapped in leather, was gone. He was clearly reluctant to face her, but did so all the same, looking down at his feet. He reached up to tug at his ear, but when he moved, his fingers shook even more violently, and he couldn't seem to keep a hold of it.

Emma frowned, and took a hold of his hand. It was heavy, twice the size of her own. Her skin glided over his, and he seemed to sag where he stood, bruises deep beneath his eyes, ancient sorrow written all over his face. It reminded her of the seer, of the witches worn down to a half-life, probably wishing for death. She could hardly bear it, and so she looked down at his fingers, which fluttered between hers. The burnished jewelry he wore appeared unearthly, darker than any metal she had ever encountered, shimmering with a vile magic. They seemed out of place by his knuckles, which were curiously soft and delicate.

"What's wrong?" she said

He sneered, his lips pulling back over his teeth, shadows pouring into his eyes. When he spoke, it was a frightening sound, but familiar, a chorus of voices.

"You were standing in that room too, Princess," he said. "Surely you noticed the same barbary? And did nothing about it."

"You can blame me if it will make you feel better."

Killian tried to yank his hand from hers, but acting on instinct, Emma didn't let him. She held on, and the longer she did, the quicker the fury was to fade.

"I…" His voice cracked, and his hand shook harder. "…I could have freed them."

Truthfully, Emma wondered if he was right. Could they have freed them?

Or taken them for your own, the darkness said.

She scowled. Stop it.

Freed them, taken them, you did neither, running from a few guardsmen, like the cowards you are.

"No," she said, though she wasn't sure that she believed it, "you couldn't have freed them."

Killian blinked, and the blue began to reappear, threading through the black. A part of her wondered how such an old soul could be so tormented by possibilities gone by. She wondered if it was his nature, or if he had been twisted by the darkness that had lived in him for so long. Were his mind still open to hers, he would have answered her, unwittingly or not. But when she reached out to him, she found nothing but walls.

"I know," he said, quietly, to Emma's surprise.

"Then why are you saying you could have?"

"An old habit. A wise man once told me that guilt corrodes the soul. I suppose, in days past, I hoped I would corrode until I could no longer recognize myself. Perhaps then I could live with everything I've done."

"Did it work?"

"No."

"Yeah, that sounds like that's not what he meant."

Killian sighed, and his fingers flexed, still trembling, though hardly by half.

"Indeed," he said. "It was not."

"You shouldn't take things so literally."

A smile, wan and overtaken with shadow, but a smile nonetheless. "You're wise for your age, aren't you, darling."

Emma shrugged. "Not really. That was something my mother and father used to do, before the war was over."

"Talk sense into you?"

"My mother did, yeah. She'd tell me to never look over my shoulder. That you can't let every tragedy weigh you down. So many of the people we loved…were lost. She knew what it meant to make sacrifices. She was born to be queen. And, not in just…" She gestured broadly with her free hand, her pinky nearly catching him on the chin. "…you know, the literal sense."

"And your father?"

"He'd try to get me to smile."

Killian took a deep breath, and hummed, stirring the hairs that had fallen from her braid.

"Seems you caught the best of both of them," he said, kindly.

Emma blushed, and looked back down at his hand. She considered letting go, but still he trembled.

"Uh...yeah, sure...so, what's going on here?" She squeezed his fingers.

He shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure."

His mind may have been hidden from her, but it was in his eyes, the way he shifted first to one foot, then back to the other.

"Liar," she said. She lifted his hand closer to her face, turning his palm up. The runes on the sleeve of his coat flared red. His wrist twitched, as well as his hand, the braids of muscle quivering up his arm. She pulled at the fabric, revealing tender flesh and, curiously, the bright and beautiful edges of a tattoo, the swiveled point of the very dagger to which he was bound peeking out from beneath layers of fabric.

"What's with the tattoo?"

Hardly had the words left her mouth before he jerked away, his rings scratching uncomfortably against the palm of her hand.

"It's not your concern," he said, darkly, and turned his back to her. He looked up at the sky, standing as still as the boulders nearby. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, to the northwest. "Cygnus leads there."

Emma frowned. "It has something to do with Rumpelstiltskin, doesn't it?"

Killian did not answer her.

"What did he take from you?"

He looked at her over his shoulder. Or past her, more like. When he spoke, it was with whispering multitudes, repeating, "It's not your concern."

"If Cygnus is a constellation, I've never heard of it."

Like she thought it might, the abrupt change of topic startled the darkness out of his mouth.

"Pardon?" he said, in his own voice.

"I've been sailing for decades now, and I've never seen anything called Cygnus."

Killian was slow to answer. He frowned at her, curious, and then beckoned her forward. He cut a fluid path through the forest, Emma close behind. She was uncertain, as she watched him, whether the shadows falling long and thick on his back were drawn down on him from the canopy above, or whether he carried them within, and they spilled from his shoulders.

"I would imagine – " he said, and paused when the trees thinned out. He pointed up at the sky, standing close enough that she could follow the reach of his hand. Close enough that when he spoke, his breath was warm in her ear, playing with her hair. " – that you know it as the archer and the bow. The bow, long ago, by a people not your own, was once seen as a swan. They called her Cygnus."

Emma held her breath until he stepped away from her, and walked on.

"I think I prefer the bow," she said.

"To a swan?"

"Swans are mean."

He laughed, then, and seemed as startled by his own laughter as she. He shut his mouth, though his faint smile lingered. His mind, softer than before, though still hidden, shifted against hers. His hand still trembled, and he reached down to rub at his wrist with the curve of his hook. When he saw her watching, he let it fall away, and looked at her with a caged expression, the very nature of which seemed to be a lie.

What are you hiding? she thought, tilting her head. He mirrored, and glanced back up at the stars.

"Are you certain that you want to do this?" he said. "Take the word of a seer? Go after a supposed heir of Camelot?"

"And then this wizard, whoever he is, yes."

He grimaced. "You're awfully trusting, darling."

"No, desperate. If there really is a true heir, then Mordred can be deposed, and war can be avoided. That's the only way. Turn the force of his entire kingdom against him. If he really is as well intentioned as the seer claims, then he wouldn't wield his power against them. If he isn't...well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Killian regarded her skeptically, though, if she wasn't mistaken, he was also impressed.

"And what if this true heir is worse than Mordred?" he said.

She threw up her hands. "Well, if you have any other ideas, I'm willing to listen. Otherwise, we don't have a choice. We only have so much time, and we can't just...I don't know, wander around until we find something else."

"And if the seer was an agent of Mordred? A tool to mislead?"

Emma huffed. "She wasn't. I can tell when people are lying to me."

For some time, Killian watched her, before looking back up at the stars.

"Are you certain?" he repeated.

Ugh, she thought. "Yes. Are you?"

His expression softened. "Not at all. But if you are...well, I suppose that is some consolation."

Emma got the impression that he was teasing her. But as quickly as he softened, the darkness encroached, and he stood tall, gesturing to the north.

"This way, then," he said, turning away from her. Emma hesitated.

Why are you still with me? she thought.

The darkness hissed, emerging like a flood off the bay. There's no telling, dearie.

How long before you leave me behind?

The voices laughed. No one ever did stay with you for long, did they, Princess?

Why do I trust you?

You're a fool.

But all she said was – "Alright." – before she followed him deeper into the wood.

"I'm curious," Killian said, as they walked, the very next night, following the bend of the swan above.

The path they followed was relatively clear, and every now and then, he stopped and craned his neck, stark chords disappearing beneath shimmering black leather. He would look at the stars, and then guide them forward. Emma knew the view of the stars from the sea, but here on the innards of land, the angles of the shapes they drew were unfamiliar. Like the great gods of the sky had been toppled over on their sides. She figured it took a great deal of time and knowledge to read them on both land and sea, but then again, maybe that's how he had spent his centuries, filling his head with useful things in case…

In case of what? she wondered.

Perhaps he's not been quite as exiled as he suggests, someone answered.

Perhaps he has secrets, said another.

Yeah, but so does everyone, Emma defended.

A few decades worth, to his few dozen.

Emma shook her head, ignoring the chatter as best she could. It itched and itched, begging her to do something reckless. Though...the darkness was tamer since the seer had told them of the nature of the curse that Mordred had cast on Excalibur. It made her shiver, thinking that the Dark One might be as frightened of Mordred as she.

"You're supposed to say about what," Killian said, with careful patience.

Emma glanced at him, then at the ground below, stepping carefully over a patch of young nettles.

"If you have this conversation all planned out," she said, wrinkling her nose, "then why don't we skip to the end?"

He frowned. "Well typically, I find that people are predictable enough to play along."

I imagine they would be, given that you're ancient.

Emma waited, but Killian did not answer her, as she suspected he might. He only looked at her. It was uncanny, how he could both watch her and navigate the forest. The terrain was uneven beneath their feet. As it sloped down below the escarpment to the east, the waters hidden in the ground rose to make a mess of the soil. She felt at home, having spent a good deal of her childhood knocking through the waterlogged flats hidden deep within the Enchanted Forest. Killian appeared to have risen from the ground himself, gliding like the very waters that fed the swamp.

Can't you hear me? she thought.

Again, he did not answer. She sighed, feeling oddly bereft.

"About what?" she intoned, at length.

He smiled, faintly, an echo of a man, as though he was a memory come to life.

"The seer," he answered. "She said something curious. Seemed to imply you may have had magic before this?"

Emma tensed, reflexively.

At all costs, Emma, her mother would say. Emma conjured her in her mind, a young and gentle face, drawn in weak candlelight. Hide your magic from anyone you don't truly know.

Do I truly know you? Emma wondered.

Even as a princess of the realm, her magic swam in mystery. The people of the Enchanted Forest were rightly distrustful of any monarch who bore the gift. Regina more or less hid in the winding corridors of the south wing, the fairies disappeared when tension flowed, and Emma kept her magic to the high seas, where the creatures below whispered in languages that no sailor truly understood. Rumors had spread, clearly. And now, absurdly enough, she shared a dark soul with a man who had walked the realm for centuries. If she lied, he was sure to find out soon enough.

"I…" she said. He only watched her when she paused, standing still, ankle deep in mud. "…yes. I'm the product of true love."

If he was taken aback by the revelation, he hardly showed it, looking at her head to toe, a single worry line etched between his brow.

"Could you do something for me?" he said.

Emma stepped harder than she meant to, sinking deeper into the mud. "That's not what I was expecting you to say."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know…sudden betrayal?"

His brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Not revealing that I had magic was always right behind 'don't talk to strangers' in my parents' book of wisdom. I always assumed the result would be gruesome death, or something, given how adamant they were."

Killian tilted his head, looking at her over his shoulder, from beneath his lashes. The starlight flashed in his eyes, a flicker of darkness. "Magic is a powerful thing, love. There are few who would not take it, if they had the chance."

"Would you?"

He hesitated. "I have been many men. Not all of them could give you the answer you want."

"I just want the truth."

Killian stopped, just as the trees thinned out. He looked back up at the stars. Emma couldn't imagine their path had changed much. He studied them as though they were lost, hard lines in his face. His jaw worked, back and forth. The gentle symphony of night grew louder, ringing in her ears.

"I don't know," he said, and truthfully so. When he turned to look down at her, vulnerability drew an unfamiliar expression on his face. For a moment, he looked young, and heartbroken, his shoulders fallen inward and his chin tucked down towards his chest. In moments, he appeared to age before her eyes, whatever tool it was he carried to flagellate himself back into darkness working terrible wonders. He stepped closer, and his coat swished in the breeze.

"Could you try something?" he said.

"Try what?"

"Magic."

Emma rolled her eyes, and continued on the path. Or what she thought was the path. He fell into step with her, gently steering her in the right direction. She would have been be angry with him, if it weren't for the eager look on his face.

"You're kidding," she said. "What, are you trying to get us both captured?"

He shook his head. "I suspect the seer's words were quite literal. It is the darkness that gives us away. Whatever ancient magic Mordred possesses lives in the sword. But then, it's not the sword that gives you your light, now is it?"

Emma hardly gave it a thought. "Too risky."

"We're in the forest, darling. That's your terrain. They've not been able to catch you yet."

With his mind closed to her, it was easy for the ambient noise to slip back in. Fear lanced through her spine, and the screech of soil against rock, pine needles cracking beneath her feet, they were a quick and vile crescendo before she managed to push it away.

"First," she said, stepping over a slick boulder, around a fallen tree, "if you haven't noticed, forest is Camelot's terrain too. We've been lucky. Second, what's the point? Magic is dangerous, we can do without."

Killian looked at her, sharply. "Dangerous? What does that mean?"

"It means it's powerful, unpredictable, greedy and addictive." Emma ticked them off on her fingers. He looked at her hand, wrinkled his nose, lips pulling back over his teeth.

"I was no fan of magic myself, love, but that's an unfair assessment, and reflects poorly on whomever took it upon themselves to educate you so."

"Uh, my parents? It just about dismantled the entire Enchanted Forest, so I'm not sure I can blame them."

"Emma," he said, and he stepped forward, into her path, the toes of his boots nearly flush with hers. She stopped, and looked up at him, arms crossed over her chest. "The light and the dark don't exist on a spectrum. The darkness was born of vengeance, and murder, a living thing that infects like the pox. I am merely a vessel for darkness. But you are the light. It was born with you."

Emma flushed, but did not look away. "How can you be so sure?"

"I…" Killian paused, and seemed to consider his answer. "…I've learned quite a lot during my years as the Dark One. I would not suggest that you use magic if I thought it would put you in danger, love. Please, cast a spell."

"Like what? And how can I even begin to separate the light from the dark? I feel like…" She gestured, wildly, fingers waving just in front of his nose. He leaned back, a put-upon expression on his face. "…like everything is gray. You can't just un -mix two types of magic."

Killian sighed. He urged her with his eyes, open and trusting. Even so, Emma knew he hid from her, so she stood her ground, resisting silently.

"There are some things that dark magic just cannot do," he said, quietly.

"Like what?" she repeated.

He looked out upon the forest, to the west, where the land dropped down into a creek, the water table high, the soil wet and untenable. There along the edge, the brush was scraggly and malnourished, gnarled trees overhead, bare branches reaching for the stars. Emma suspected the banks upon which they grew were sure to collapse into the valley, given a season or two. Killian stepped carefully down the hill, and crouched down beside them.

"Grow," he whispered. Then, louder, "I could never make anything grow. Curses can conjure things. Trees, landscapes, you know, that sort of thing." He paused, and reached down to touch the dry branches. "But they disappear when it is broken. Living things grow with living water. The darkness is bound to a cycle of death."

Emma hummed. "So you want me to make you some flowers?"

Killian flushed, his eyes slipping down her face before landing somewhere near her hands. "If you like. The decision is yours."

She considered it. What good would magic do them? Outside of Mordred's terrible magic, nothing could harm them, or so it seemed. Emma had used her light magic sparingly in the past, and when she did, it was to heal, or make repairs when supplies were scarce. Things that didn't matter much to them now.

Then again, if the war taught her anything, it was to horde one's weapons and defenses. Misfortune favored the unprepared.

"Alright," Emma said, before she could change her mind. "Move out of the way."

Killian smiled, wryly, stepping aside and gesturing grandly to the struggling plants. "As you wish, Princess."

Emma leaned down, and reached out to touch them with as much gentleness as she possessed. Which, judging by the way they quivered, wasn't very much. She tried to recall her lessons with Regina, and the great tomes she had read in the towers of her family's castle. She remembered earlier still, during the war, when the fairies would find her at sea, or deep in the wood, teaching her as much as they could before the battles found her, and she was moved yet again. Just enough to get her magic under control, to conceal it for the sake of remaining anonymous. Nothing about what light magic was, what it could do.

Ironically, she thought, the Dark One might teach her more about the light than she'd ever learned before.

"Are you sure about this?" Emma said, pulling her hand back, and peering over her shoulder. Killian looked on, unblinking.

"Aye," he answered.

She nodded, and turned back to the brush. Another touch of her hands, and they trembled. Emma startled, looking at Killian yet again.

"Okay, but how sure?"

"Sure enough. I am also sure that I'll desiccate if we remain here any longer."

"You're like a one-man theater, you know that?"

Killian didn't answer, only bit at his lips, watching with feigned patience. Emma looked down at the little shrubs, stretching along the forest floor. There was something sad about them, like a scraggly river disappearing down a corridor of empty soil and into the shadows. They would all certainly be uprooted, given the time. The soil was waterlogged, and poor. If she breathed life back into their roots, it wouldn't be a season or two before they drowned.

That's why I never thought it was very much fun to grow things, a voice told her.

Emma looked up. From the shadows before her, a figure appeared to coalesce. It was as though he looked at her through water, leaning over a deep, quivering pool. Somehow, she knew this creature. It was Rumpelstiltskin, the object of Killian's hatred. His face was absolutely grotesque, the starlight catching on his shimmering, animalistic skin. He tittered, hands waving wildly to and fro. He was half man, half monster.

"Your other half always did liken me to a crocodile," he said.

Emma snorted, though she didn't answer aloud. She glanced at Killian, finding the same affectedly bored expression on his face. Locked away in his own mind, he did not appear to see Rumpelstiltskin.

He is not my other half, she thought.

"Oh, I'm afraid you're wrong about that, dearie." He laughed, and she flinched. The sound was grating, even more so than usual. "He is quite literally your other half. And I'm sure, just waiting for the right moment to betray you."

"He wouldn't do that," she said, quietly.

"Do what?" Killian said, clearly confused.

"Oh, uh, nothing."

The demon scratched at his skin, or scales, or whatever it was that was stretched over his bones. "Why, now seems like the perfect moment. Convince you to summon Mordred, to have you ferreted away where he doesn't have to worry about you. They might even have…" Rumpelstiltskin twirled his hands. Absurdly, it looked as though he was conducting an orchestra. "…an arrangement."

"Stop it. I – " Emma paused, abruptly, when she could feel Killian's mind shift against hers. Whatever walls he'd built between them crumbled. His anguish, his fear, his self-assured and algorithmic thought, it all came pouring back in, just long enough to wrench the demon away from where he stood.

"Get," he said, leaning heavily on one foot, as though he were about to rush forward and strike. "Out."

Rumpelstiltskin disappeared into whatever bolted compartment Killian had crafted for him. The demon's wretched laughter echoed faintly as he went. And as quickly as they had crumbled, the walls that hid Killian away from her went back up, and she was alone.

"Whatever he told you," he said, through his teeth, "it's all a bloody lie."

Emma looked up at him. She knew he was telling the truth. The logic was all there, as was the way he looked at her, honesty written all over his face. And yet.

And yet. It was her own voice, and several others. She clenched her jaw.

"I know," she said, trying to convince herself.

Killian looked at her, skeptical. Emma could hardly look at him, so she turned away.

"I know," she repeated, and crouched down. She wondered if it was possible for one to cast a spell with light magic out of spite. She breathed deeply, and thought of her parents and brother, of her friends, of the ship who had faithfully carried her across the sea. She thought of Killian too, how the darkness was surely wrong.

Oh are we, now?

Yes, she thought, adamant, and reached down to touch the barren underbrush. Soft tendrils of magic twirled down her fingertips, faintly golden, and warm against her skin. Like silk thread, chatoyant and bright, they pulled at the sad little plants that wound through the forest. Emma held her breath, and tiny, precious flowers spun out of nothing, leaves sprouting plump and tender. The faint, blue moonlight pouring in through the canopy rested gently on the new growth. Like a river, they arced this way and that, further than she could see. Even when her magic faded, they glowed, droplets of dew collecting patiently along the flowers' tapering petals, as though they had been there for days.

"Hey," Emma said, triumphant. Doubt still tugged at her belly, and she waited for Excalibur to stir with dark intent, for Mordred to burst out of the earth. When neither of those things happened, she looked at Killian, opened her mouth to tell him he was right.

Yet, she quieted when she saw his face. His expression was weary, but soft, looking down upon the flowers with some mixture of awe and raw appreciation. He stepped forward, and crouched down, rough fingers reaching out to poke gently at the little flowers.

"These are quite beautiful, aren't they?" he whispered.

They're alright, Emma thought, but didn't say it aloud. The flowers were small, rather unremarkable, wild and living on scraggly branches.

"They're Dutchman's breeches," she said. "Because, you know, they look like trousers."

Killian got back to his feet, and smiled at her. "It was a lovely moment, darling, and then that mouth."

"They're just wildflowers."

He stepped close, looking down at her. Looking all over her, actually, down at her hands, up around her hair. As rarely before, he looked human, terribly so, not a touch of darkness in his eyes. It was quick to return when he glanced at Excalibur.

"You are light incarnate, Emma," he said, gruffly. "They're not just wildflowers. They're a testament to you."

Emma shifted, uncomfortable beneath his appraisal. "Or a testament to the fact that my parents are true love, and had a child."

He leaned back, and stepped away, out of the dappled starlight and into a thick gathering of pines.

"You are intensely infuriating," he said, as he walked away. "Are you aware?"

She did not answer, only rushed to catch up, leaving the flowers behind. Though, not before throwing them a fleeting glance, meaning only to draw the scene in her mind, to hold onto success before she felt crushed again by failure. But when she did, Rumpelstiltskin appeared as a vision in the night, hazier than before. He waved at her with eerie exuberance, his thready laughter lost to silence after a moment or two, and he to shadows.

She blinked, and wondered if he was ever there to begin with.

They walked silently for the next hour or so, until, quite suddenly, their surroundings overtaken with an unnatural hush. Emma found that, as they went, and the swan began to tilt above them, the night grew darker and darker, like a curtain drawn over the canopy. When she breathed, she could smell the shadows, pungent and unsavory. The trees grew taller, looming overhead. They looked like warriors on their knees, leaning down, gnarled branches reaching out towards her. Their long, thin leaves looked like scraps of moldy fabric clutched in their bony hands.

The sounds were just as eerie. Noise to silence, then silence to whispers.

Emma wondered if this was what it would have been like to descend into the depths of the ocean, where the light could not reach. The air was cold and damp, and faint magic crackled underfoot. Where dawn should have been giving first light, only shadows rose. At first, she had thought it was only her imagination playing tricks. But now, she could not deny it.

"There's something wrong with this place," she said. "Some kind of magic."

"Aye," Killian whispered.

Perhaps you ought to turn back, the darkness suggested.

Emma huffed. And go where, exactly?

Anywhere but here.

Where often the voices were mocking, now, they seemed fearful.

"That's not a good sign," she said, quietly.

Whether he heard her or not, Killian said nothing. He only frowned, and eyed the forest. The further they walked, the more he kept his eyes on his feet. He went so far as to close them when he stopped to look up, where the stars still peeked mysteriously through the trees, defying the luminary clock in the sky and the rare light spilling down on the forest floor, telling them it must daylight beyond the canopy. He only opened them when his neck was craned, his face turned towards the sky, blind to the darkness around them.

"Okay, but it's not that bad," she told him. He looked at her with horrors in his eyes, and she shut her mouth.

Looking ahead, he quirked a brow, eyes narrowing before he startled, seemingly at nothing, and looked back down at his feet, following the ground to hers, then up to her eyes.

"These shadows are unnatural," he said. "The trees are...living. There is darkness all around us, closing in." He paused, eyes wide and shimmering. Then, he guessed, "Mordred?"

Emma shivered. "Maybe."

"Do you want to go on?"

"Not really."

The corners of his mouth twitched, a faint specter of his smile. "Will you go on all the same?"

"Yes. Although I am – "

Tired, she thought, in many voices, alarmed.

"Tired," she whispered. "I thought we didn't sleep?"

Killian stood up straight, quickly, as if snapping to attention. His eyes widened, though they didn't lose their sheen.

"We don't," he said. "A trick of the mind."

"A trick of the mind," she echoed, mindlessly grabbing tight to his hook when he reached back for her, leading them quickly among the trees.

The trouble was, now that she had thought about it, said it out loud, the tiredness weighed down on her chest, like a stubborn cough. They walked and walked, but their path became unsteady. The shadows grew thicker, the ambient noise louder, and unnatural.

Emma blinked, sluggishly. A fog began to roll in on the path ahead. She blinked again, and figures coalesced from nothing, wearing rough, dark robes, walking beside her and Killian, whispering urgently in voices Emma recognized from her own mind.

The voices of the darkness, she realized.

"What the hell," she said, slowly, tongue clumsy in her mouth.

"Don't look at them," Killian commanded, moving faster. Emma complied, looking ahead, where the trees fell down on their knees, reaching down, dark and viscous sap pouring along their fingers, dripping on the ground, swallowing up whatever meager life it touched. She stumbled, and felt branches scraping at her back. When she could bear the exhaustion no longer, she fell to the wet, frigid ground, an unnatural sleep rushing like water through her lungs. The figures around them disappeared in a flurry of fabric and shadow.

How beautiful, Emma thought, hysterically, before she succumbed.