Warnings: None
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Chapter Six
Emma woke in binds, her face half in mud. Sometime while she'd slept, the forest had grown quiet. It sounded more like the forests she knew, water trickling along meandering furrows, birds chattering curiously in the canopy above. Though, the darkness remained, shadows of unknown origin skirting along the underbrush. But the trees were not quite so monstrous, and the earth – just under her nose, as it were – did not smell quite so strongly of rot.
Even so, as best she could, Emma levered herself off the ground, shuffling to lean against the tree behind her. The cold sap bled down her back, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She looked up at the canopy, and guessed it was truly late afternoon, though the stars still winked silently down at her. Cygnus was directly above, caught in eternal flight. Something they had in common, Emma supposed. She and Killian alike…
Killian, she thought, fear jolting down her spine. She leaned to the side, looking for him, nearly toppling over.
"Killian," she said.
"Here," he answered, from around the other side of the tree. Awkwardly, she wiggled on her behind, moving over its roots, the knots tugging at the scabbard on her belt.
Several things occurred to Emma as she managed to seat herself at Killian's side. The first was the fire, neat and contained. It burned several paces down the gentle slope that began at her feet. It was the size of a shed, or a small house even, brick and boulder piled at its edges.
Someone must be tending to it, she thought.
And, immediately, the second thing, that many of the shadows slinking along the clearing's edge were not in fact shadows, but people, wearing much finer clothes than Emma would have expected, given the nature of the forest in which they lived.
"Your leg is warm," she said, this being the third, spilling unbidden out of her mouth. In her frustrated shuffle around the tree, she'd hooked her leg around his and pulled. Watching the people around the fire, their homes gradually coalescing out of darkness, she'd been too distracted to move it, knee hanging over his. Though she'd stood close to him before, now she was practically sitting in his lap. She coughed, embarrassed, and moved to put a respectable distance between them.
"Yours is bloody freezing," he said.
Emma nodded distractedly. "So this is where we die, right?"
Killian laughed, startled, humorless. "Given that we're no longer in possession of the pieces of Excalibur, I'd say it's highly likely."
This was the fourth. The scabbard, caught beneath her thigh, was clearly empty, the hilt of Excalibur missing. She would have expected the voices of the darkness to screech at her to find it, to kill whatever poor thieving soul had dared to steal from them. Yet, they remained quiet, seething, subdued by…something.
"Okay, yes," Emma said, "we're dead."
When Killian did not answer, she turned to look at him. His face, like hers, she imagined, was smeared on the one side, a crust of blackened mud from his temple down to his chin. Slick with whatever oil made it appear so grisly, it made his expression appear even darker than it truly was. He sat deathly still, like a frozen facsimile of himself, eyes blazing down upon the people who, apparently, had taken them hostage. She'd never seen him quite so murderous.
"Killian," she whispered.
He began to squirm where he sat, his arms straining against the binds curling around his wrists and up his arms. She called his name once more, and he looked down at her. His eyes were bright, his irises undiscernible from the rest. They caught the light like pitch. When he blinked, they grew darker. Emma watched, helpless, as a scaly shimmer climbed up his neck, faint but distinct. He struggled harder against his binds, baring his teeth.
"I don't intend to die," he said, in many voices.
"Okay," she told him, slowly.
She felt the darkness rise in her as well, the subtle, quiet presence eager to break free. It urged her to follow suit, to tear first into the binds, and then into the flesh of whoever had done this to them. Emma refused to indulge, staring hard into the otherworldly eyes of the man before her.
"Then don't," she said, simply. "Let's go."
If anything, that made him angrier.
"We can't," he snarled, trying to struggle to his feet. The web of roots beneath them groaned to life, reaching up to snake around his thighs. They yanked him back down, unceremoniously. The Dark One appeared unphased by this, clearly having wrestled with the trees before.
"I don't intend to die," he said, again.
He grunted as he wrestled with the binds, though he quieted when two people skirted closer than the rest. They spoke to one another in hushed voices. When they noticed he and Emma were both awake, they turned on their heels. It was almost comical, really, to watch them scurry away.
All of the dark souls inside of Emma, at least, laughed bitterly.
Great, now I have to listen to you laugh.
The darkness only laughed louder. She winced, and looked to Killian, who gazed intently at the mud beneath him, pushing his feet down into the earth. He began to tremble, and the unnatural shine that had crept over his face disappeared, given over to a pale sheen. He looked vaguely ill.
"Are you alright?" she said.
Killian sighed, and looked at the fire. He did not answer her, his jaw clamping shut, his eyes shuttering. He sat up straight, stone in his posture. Emma followed his gaze, and saw a hooded figure approaching. She followed suit, shuffling as close to him as she could. Fear, ancient and visceral, clawed at her throat. The darkness spared no time, conjuring vision after vision of all the possible ways she could die. She ignored them, and they twisted, putting Killian in her place. Emma began to strain against her own binds, but it was no use. Powerful magic held them in place, and as the figure approached, it became clear that they were at the mercy of unknown hands, resting on the pommels of the pieces of Excalibur. The figure was nearly upon them, outwardly silent voices screaming in Emma's ears.
They quieted, abruptly, when the blades dropped at their feet, and a woman emerged from the billowing fabric, kind eyes and a well-worn smile.
"Please forgive the precautions, Princess," she said, hands clasped before her, turning first to Emma, then briefly to Killian, who she did not seem quite as eager to greet. "...and Captain."
Emma groaned, head thumping back against the tree behind them. First the seer, and now this woman.
"Why does everyone know who we are?" she said.
The woman laughed, softly. "Years of prophecy precede you. If you'll allow my apology, I can take you somewhere warmer."
Despite the darkness, arresting her need for food or sleep or warmth, Emma sighed at the thought of a warm fire and some dry clothes.
"Prophecy," Killian echoed, darkly. "And what prophecy might that be, milady?"
The woman looked at him, and her smile faded, a skeptical expression taking its place. She stepped forward, and appeared to take him in, from head to toe, lingering upon the mud smeared on his clothes, then for some time on his hook, peeking out from behind his back. Killian squirmed at Emma's side, but he did not try to hide. He looked back up at the woman, his blue eyes oddly warm in the distant light of the fire.
"You seem like a direct man, Captain," she said, "so allow me to be direct in return. The prophecy was told by Merlin, before he died. He said that two hearts tied to darkness would be our savior. There are few that remain in this place who still believe it. This is why you are tied, and why it took a great deal of convincing before I could return the blades that bind you."
Many questions flitted through Emma's mind, all startled away when the woman leaned down, and reached for the binds on their hands. At her touch, like the living vines of a tree, they slithered back into the ground, yet another magical curiosity. Killian wasted no time, snatching the dagger before he leapt to his feet, shoving it pointedly in his sheathe. He glared down at the woman, fiercely, while Emma took her own half of the blade and came to stand behind him. The darkness seemed to sigh with brief contentment.
"Who are you?" Killian said, nearly spitting in the woman's face. "Who is Merlin? And what dark magic is it that possesses this land?"
Emma was impressed by the woman's composure. She wondered if it was foolishness, or if it was wisdom, given by age. The woman smiled, the lines at her eyes and mouth carving deep.
"I am Guinevere," she answered.
Emma peered over Killian's shoulder. "Wait, weren't you…?"
"King Arthur's wife?" she said, and Emma nodded, dazed. "I was, many years ago. By any account given in Camelot, I'm sure, I perished long ago. But the truth is that I fell in love with another man, and was soon driven away by Arthur's single-minded madness."
Guinevere paused, and looked out into the wood, into some distance that Emma couldn't see.
"I loved my husband," Guinevere said, quietly. "As many kings do, he loved his people more than his family. It was something for which I admired him. But in the end, he did terrible things for that love. When I became pregnant, I knew I couldn't stay."
"The heir," Emma said, stepping forward. Killian looked at her sharply, but she ignored him. "There was a seer in the forest, she told us to find the heir." She tried not to seem desperate, staying her hands at her side. "There will be a war if we don't. There might be one anyway. I can't risk that, I can't."
Guinevere's gentle expression at last seemed to wither, taken by a terrible grief.
"I'm afraid it won't be quite so simple," she said. "My daughter has been missing these past two weeks. I suppose it's the nature of a prophecy. I never guessed, when Merlin foretold your journey, that it would not end here." Tears welled up in her eyes, Emma's own desperation mirrored. "Please, find her."
Guinevere reached up, fingers resting against her forehead. The posture of a burdened woman. Burdened but not broken. She was quick to compose herself, looking briefly to Killian, the same mistrust twisting her face.
Perhaps she knows of him, the darkness suggested.
Emma huffed. Uh, yeah, they already knew we were coming.
No, dearie, it's more than that.
She tried not to indulge it, but the thought came all the same, unbidden. What, then?
You will see. And then perhaps you'll know him as we know him.
Emma tried to contain her scowl. Hush.
"You asked about Merlin," Guinevere said.
Killian nodded. "Aye."
"He was an advisor to the king, an ancient wizard determined to fix the broken kingdom. It was he who cast the spell upon this forest to hide my family – and any others that wanted to break free of Arthur's well-intentioned tyranny – in secret, under a veil of darkness, until the time was right to return. He bound the power of that spell to his own heart, and to all of ours. All those who were not born here are tied to this place, unable to leave until the spell is broken." She paused, her eyes cast towards the ground. Then, quietly, "Before he returned to the castle, he said that his death would mark the beginning of the end of our exile. That the Dark One would be soon to follow."
Spell? Emma wondered.
Whatever pungent magic soaks this place, that's sure to be the source, a voice answered.
If it's but a single spell, it must have been borne of incredible power, said another.
You have your sword back, dearie, why not just...take it? What harm could a little more power do?
Emma clenched her jaw. Shut up.
Killian leaned forward, shadow creeping back into his voice. She wondered if the darkness taunted him with the same thoughts. She wondered about his secrets – for he clearly had many – about the forest around them, the quest ahead. She wondered many things, and it stayed her tongue, what felt like the precursor to madness swirling round and round in her head.
"And what did he say of the Dark One?" Killian growled.
Guinevere did not falter. "That there would be a woman spun from gold, a princess of an enchanted forest, and a man who carried a hook in place of a hand. And that we should trust them."
"You have a curious way of ensuring trust. What foul darkness have you unleashed upon us?"
"Yours," she answered.
Killian was clearly surprised, Emma as well, and the torrent of voices within grew quiet.
"Pardon?" he said.
"The magic of this place is that you do not see what is," Guinevere answered, "but instead what is inside yourself. It twists the forest into something terrible...tugs the darkness out of your soul and forces you to confront it. None with dark intent have ever found our home before."
"Well that's…" Killian wrinkled his nose, and Emma was struck with the very sudden, very absurd desire to laugh, of all things.
"Pretty smart," Emma offered.
"Merlin was nothing if not clever," Guinevere agreed. "There were many who began to doubt him as the years wore on, that you would not come. I must confess that I had moments of doubt myself. I was never one to hide, but he insisted this was for a greater purpose than we could know. He believed in his own prophecy enough to give his life for us. He cast the spell, and then Arthur, enraged, used Excalibur's power to bind him to the earth."
"Bind him to the earth," Emma echoed, softly. She thought of the tree in the courtyard of Camelot's castle, beautiful and broken, fresh with decay, bleeding sweet sap. Then, louder, "The tree. The one in Camelot's courtyard."
Guinevere nodded, and looked down at her hands, wringing the sleeves of her fine robes between her fingers. "We have all lost so much. What little hope we have is waning. My daughter has left – on some unknown quest, no doubt – and given the sparing news from the outside, the kingdom is falling to ruin. You are our best chance of finding her, of putting it all back to rights."
We want to give you your best chance.
Her father's voice echoed strong and clear, and Emma considered the power of hindsight. Her younger brother had always wanted to hear stories of her adventures, the life she'd lived in merchant ships and forest groves. Even she longed for her childhood from time to time, as trying as it had been. Every memory soaked in sunshine, warranted or not. And now, another adventure. She was living yet another story, only this one had already been told, by witches and seers and wizards.
"Do you still wish to find the heir?" Guinevere said, looking hard into Emma's eyes.
A choice, one of the voices within spoke, a woman. How considerate. But what does this woman care for your life?
First they ask you to banish Mordred's darkness, Rumpelstiltskin said, in his grating sing-song. How long before they set their sights on yours?
"Yes," Emma answered, with spiteful vehemence. "I still wish to find her."
"Good," Guinevere said. "Allow me to give you fresh clothes for your journey. I have some trinkets that might help you along the way. I am willing to give you anything that you need." She looked to Killian, then, a long and pregnant pause before she said, "Despite the things it is said that you've done."
The darkness grinned, Emma could feel it.
There we are, it hissed.
Guinevere turned to lead them deeper into the village, where many other figures awaited, pacing anxiously around the fire. But Killian stood his ground, reaching blindly for Emma's hand.
"Wait," he said, and Guinevere looked back. "...the things I've done?"
"Merlin also said that I would look upon the face of a man who destroyed his own kingdom," she answered, slowly. "Who bathed its courts in blood. He said that that man would help to save the one we now cherish. Of this, I was most skeptical of all."
Guinevere stared into Killian's eyes with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Emma expected the darkness to emerge at such a revelation, to turn him back into stone, but his walls seemed to crumble. Whatever it was that Guinevere claimed to know, Emma felt it wrench something loose. Clearly shocked, the ordered chaos of his mind began to unravel, spilling into her own. She saw many things, in no particular order. A boy sold for profit, a vicious young man spitting fury while a heavy whip fell upon his bare back, the Dark One feeding on useless magic like an addict upon the drink, Killian Jones laying upon the bowsprit of a tall ship with both hands curling possessively through loose rope.
Destroyed his own kingdom, the darkness mocked. Mildly put.
Destroyed, Emma echoed. Her heart thudded painfully. Destroyed.
Now you see him.
When Guinevere spoke, it felt as though it were through a dream.
"Come to the fire," she intoned, with the voice of one reciting an old lyric, "and I will tell you a tale, of a man named Darkness who longs for vengeance. Sworn to succeed in his bloody repentance. Share in his burden, and perhaps he will fail."
Killian seemed to fall apart at Emma's side. She could guess at his torment. What kingdom Guinevere claimed he had destroyed, she was uncertain. Emma longed to know. Despite what the darkness said, as he was now, he didn't seem capable of such a thing. The broken pieces of his memories still poured into her mind, but they were barely recognizable, and only marginally coherent.
It's going to be alright, she thought, in a gentle voice. Not quite a lie, but neither was it the truth.
If he heard her, it did not comfort him.
"An old rhyme," Guinevere said. "Generations have come and gone, but your story remains, passed down to children in song and storybook. I had thought it was only a legend, sparingly known...I must confess to being wary of a man who could do such a thing."
She paused, and looked him over once more. Killian fidgeted, his hand and his hook shaking.
"Despite all of this," he said, gruffly, "you ignore the past and place your trust in the prophecy of a dead man?"
Guinevere inclined her head, the sort of posture Emma recognized, that of a queen.
"I must accept the past," she said, "and hope for the future."
Killian, for all the fury that raged inside of him, seemed to accept that, at least for the time being. The mess bleeding over into Emma's mind retreated, like a flood in reverse. She had never felt quite so lonely, or so confused, just enough pieces of the puzzle of Killian Jones missing to reveal nothing significant. Just enough there to convince her to trust him, despite everything.
Who are you? she thought, not for the first time.
There was no answer.
"Come with me," Guinevere beckoned, patiently. While Killian hesitated, Emma followed, reaching behind her to wrap her fingers around his hook.
You would touch a murderer? the darkness wondered, cruelly.
You're lying, Emma answered, petulant.
Oh, are we? it wondered, though she did not answer.
He came to walk beside her, and as his stride grew longer, she watched the man, haunted by the past, disappear. Shadows coalesced at his feet, and the darkness cracked him open, pouring itself back in.
Emma tugged at the charm around her neck, the twine that held the stones in place uncomfortable against her skin. Killian held the other, looking at it through narrowed eyes. They were dull, seemingly unremarkable pieces of jewelry, but they had been enchanted by Merlin to keep the spell on the forest at bay, tucked away and awaiting their arrival. Or so they had been told.
Barely half an hour ago, Guinevere had led them to an equally unremarkable cabin at the town's edge. A vile sludge had gathered at its steps, clawing up towards the overgrown roof. Terrible creatures with uneven bodies had dragged themselves along the shingles. Once inside, Guinevere had wrested a small chest out from underneath the floorboards, ornate filigree written into neatly hewn wood. The charms had been inside, along with a few other trinkets. She had left them both with a cauldron of hot water, and fresh clothing, promising to return at the turn of the hour.
"You are far too trusting for your own good," Killian said, before tugging the charm over his neck, tensing as though it was enchanted to lop off his head. He blew out a breath when, clearly, it didn't. "And yet…" His eyes brightened, and he looked down at her, one brow quirked. "…still guarded. How can that be?"
Emma shifted from one foot to the other, noting how good it felt to have Excalibur back at her side. She gripped its pommel while she regarded him from beneath her lashes. Oh, how she longed to ask him just what he'd done, what kingdom he'd supposedly destroyed, how, when.
Legend, Guinevere had said, so it must have been ages ago. Even so, macabre curiosity tugged at her belly, and she wanted to know. But...though he'd locked his mind away once more, one thought had come through, just after Guinevere had left them alone.
Don't ask me, he'd pleaded, silently. Not yet. Don't ask me.
In spite of the darkness, begging her to pry him open, Emma complied, and pretended she hadn't heard anything to begin with.
"Guarded," she said, at length. "You're one to talk, Jones."
He smiled, blandly. "Oh yes, do tell me all about myself, Swan."
"I will – " She paused. "Swan?"
"'Follow the swan of the stars.' Why, darling, I think I've followed you more than anything else."
Well, I don't hate it, she thought.
"I hate it," she said.
Killian's smile became a little more genuine. "Liar."
Emma grumbled, her head lolling to the side. She wondered if somehow, he'd managed to learn how to spot a lie as she could, or if he was just that good at reading her face. Both possibilities had her belly coiling up tight. If it was the former, perhaps she would learn something from him...
She thought of the broken, bloody memories that had spilled into her mind, and, perhaps selfishly, hoped that she wouldn't.
Oh, but it would be great fun, Rumpelstiltskin suggested. Emma clamped down tight on his voice, and looked out the window to her right, begging for a distraction.
"Oh," Killian said, quietly, following her line of sight.
Where before, darkness had tapped insistently on the window, seeping in through the mortar on the walls, soft light took its place, warm and dappled. Emma watched as he reached out, palm flush against the glass, fingers splayed wide. He pushed, and the faint noise from without poured in. Birds she recognized and ones she didn't. Thrushes beating their seeds against stone, water impatiently cutting its way across the landscape. The familiar lullaby of wind in the trees, insects buzzing in the underbrush, shadows long and cool in the late afternoon. Scents of childhood, steeped in adventure. Emma smiled, briefly unburdened. She stepped forward, into the light, drawn in oblong shapes through the window along the floorboards.
"They work," Emma said, fingers curling around the charm at her neck.
Killian seemed transfixed by the sight of her hand in the light, watching the dust motes curl in the turbulence, settling on her fingers. When he looked down at her, Emma realized just how close he stood, the both of them crowding in the meager width of the window. He smelled of the forest, and of the dry earth smeared down the side of his face and clothes. A faint touch of magic as well, like the heady precursor to a storm. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, blood rushing to her face. He sighed, cool breath on her mouth, and then stepped back, into the shadows. Two long strides brought him to the center of the room, where the cauldron sat upon a low, wooden table, steam curling up off the surface of the water.
The rest of the room was relatively spartan, though well-constructed. A tapestry hung from the wall, a rider on a rearing, painted horse. The fireplace was built from smooth river stone, the hearth from slate. A table, and delicately crafted chairs, were in the corner nearest the window. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling, embellished with dark metal and blue glass. Trappings that reminded Emma she was in the company of a queen and her entourage.
This will be your home now, duckling, Emma's father would tell her, when she would be moved to a new place, yet another friend or family member missing from their company.
Home is where you are, she would answer, looking from her mother to her father, pleading with them to stay. Often they would, but not for long. She wondered if living under the protection of a spell, bound to the lonely reaches of the forest, would have been an improvement on moving from place to place.
"Did you doubt they would?" Killian said. He stood over the cauldron, his hand gripping the edge, knuckles white with strain.
"What?" she said.
He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, his eyes glassy.
Are you okay? She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud, uncertain whether it would be him who answered, or the darkness.
"That the charms would work," he said. "Did you doubt it?"
Emma shrugged. "Guinevere hasn't lied to us, that much I know."
"You trust her?"
"Not really, but that's not the point. If they try to hurt us, we can just kill them."
Killian let go of the cauldron's rim, his brow climbing on his face.
"I mean…" She stumbled over her own tongue.
You know exactly what you mean dearie.
Yes, Emma, the darkness does not seek blood, but will take it if necessary.
There's nothing wrong with that.
"There's nothing wrong – " Emma echoed, again taken aback. "Only if…"
"If they try first?" Killian said. "Aye, something of a pirate's code, I think."
But it's not my code, Emma thought, desperately.
"But I don't imagine it's yours," he said. "I – "
"Bath," she said.
He tilted his head, confused. She noticed the tremble in his hand, then, but she didn't dwell on it.
"We need to, uh…" She stepped to the cauldron, reaching for one of the cloths draped over the edge. "…wash up."
For a moment, it seemed as though he would protest. But then he shifted from one foot to the other, the dried mud cracking all down the side of his coat, water squelching in his boots. He cringed, and reached up to scratch at the back of his neck. Guinevere had left them with spare linens from a drawer in a separate room. Stockings, shirts, trousers, just enough to get them dry.
"Alright," he said. He paused, and smiled down at her. "I know how you feel about wet socks."
Emma scoffed. "Who in this realm doesn't feel that way about wet socks?"
Killian shook his head, and took the clothes she offered. He turned to walk into the other room when his hand twitched, and they tumbled to the ground. Cursing, darkly, he leaned down to pick them up, though Emma beat him to it.
"Are you seriously not going to tell me what's going on?" she said, looking pointedly at his hand, and then his hook, both of them shaking violently.
He would not look at her. "There's nothing to tell."
"You're shaking so badly, I'm tired just looking at you."
Killian frowned, and looked out the window. The longer he did not speak, the louder the silence grew. The forest spoke, an ancient chatter that calmed her. It seemed to agitate him.
"I find…" he said, looking at her. He hesitated, eyes slipping down her neck, and past her shoulder. "…I'm at a loss, without magic."
What he means to say, a voice told her, is that he's a worthless addict.
Hmm, yes. Another. And a foolish one, too.
First the drink, then the darkness. However do you put up with him?
"Shut up," she said. Killian looked down at her feet, swallowing hard. "No…I don't mean you. I mean – "
"I know what you mean. And I know what they're telling you. They've told me the same things, for one hundred and fifty years."
Killian's hand began to shake harder, his hook following suit. It clanged against the cauldron, and he jumped.
"Sit down," Emma said, laying a hand on his chest and pushing. She reached over and dragged one of the chairs to sit near the cauldron. Bewildered, he followed her command, and the tremble in his hand and hook eased. He opened his mouth, his voice catching in his throat when she placed the palm of her hand against his lips, his teeth brushing against her skin.
"Shut up," she said, not unkindly, reaching with her other hand to grab one of the cloths, dunking it into the lukewarm water. "I mean you this time. Your face is covered, and I'm going to help you…" Emma hesitated, her hand falling away from his lips. "…if that's alright."
She could tell he wanted to say no. But, like clockwork, his hand and hook, with nothing else to do, began to shake in his lap. Walking and talking, crashing through the forest with the look of a man who preferred the sea, these distracted him. But there in the cabin, the dark forest turned to light, waiting for day to turn to night, he trembled, and Emma couldn't bear it.
"You can say no," she said, quietly.
He leaned back, and regarded her with wide, searching eyes. Not for the first time, he seemed surprised by her. For whatever reason, it must have been the right thing to say.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, yes."
Killian shuffled in his seat, until he sat like a proper gentleman, knees together, back straight. He looked past her. Emma reached out, fingers catching beneath his jaw, pinky brushing against the whorls of his ear. It wasn't until her skin was flush against his, his bright blue eyes turning up to hers, that she realized she may have made a mistake.
Emma had known lust, had given over to it on the sea more than anywhere else. It was burning, but fleeting, and she would wring as much pleasure as she could out of every moment, before moving on. She had wondered if it was just the nature of her life. Growing up, she was always moving, and though, after the war, her home had technically stood still, her heart kept running.
But in that moment, holding Killian's face in her hands, fingers slinking back into his hair, lust was slow to build, cool in the pit of her belly. The darkness whispered terrible things in her ears – that he was irredeemable, that she was – but she paid them no mind, watching the rigid intensity in his expression drain away. She wondered that she had not seen it before, that one brow sat higher than the other, that there were flecks of gray among the blue in his eyes. That stray locks of hair at his temple pointed stubbornly in the wrong direction. And that his lips were always wet, tongue peeking in and out of his mouth more often than any person she'd ever seen.
"You're staring," he said, gruffly.
Emma gripped the cloth in her hand, and brought it up to his cheek.
"I have to look at your face to wash it," she said.
"You are, as ever, infuriating."
Killian said it like he didn't mean it, letting his head fall back until he was looking directly into her eyes. She glanced down, the chords of his neck pulling tight against the harsh angle. She dragged the cloth through the mud, flecks falling on his shoulder, and on the floor. The longer she cleaned, the more he leaned into her, face pressing hard into her hands. When the cloth grew sodden with mud, she couldn't make herself pull away, one hand still on his skin while the other gathered clean water from the cauldron. When her fingers prodded gently at the line of his jaw, dried flakes of mud sticking to his beard, he tilted his head. In that moment, he almost looked boyish, staring up at her with wonder.
"How could you possibly…touch me like this?" he said, and insisted, "I'm a monster."
Emma swallowed. "I…I don't think that's true."
He seemed both frustrated, and curious. "Just who are you?"
Emma chewed at her lower lip. For some time, she did not answer, wiping away the last of the dirt on his face, tossing the cloth on the floor. At that, he quirked a brow, a flicker of annoyance before he looked back up at her, watching and waiting.
"I don't really know," she answered. "Not anymore."
Killian's eyes were full of understanding. He sighed, and his breath stirred a few loose tendrils of hair that had fallen from her braid. She figured that was her cue to step back, to allow him to get to his feet, and seek a bit of privacy.
Only, Emma didn't listen. It was not lust that guided her hands, as they fell back onto his jaw, but something else, an unfamiliar clench and release in her chest. She stepped forward, his legs on either side of hers. She carded her fingers through his hair, and it stood on end. Only then did it occur to her that she held the Dark One's face in her hands, tugging at his hair. She watched as his eyes fell shut, and the burden he carried slipped briefly out of reach. He was slack in his chair, the darkness quiet for once.
"Do you know?" she whispered.
"Know what?"
"Who you are?"
Killian opened his eyes. Up close, it was a tragedy, watching the bright, eager blue overtaken by many shades darker, until they were eaten up with shadows. Her hands fell away, and she stepped back while he stood up and stepped forward, out of the evening light slanting in through the open window, and towards the fireplace. He grabbed the clothes she'd offered him before, eyes hard on hers as he did.
"I am the Dark One," he said, and disappeared into the next room.
It wasn't until she stepped out of the cabin that Emma thought better of walking out alone. Many pairs of eyes followed her on her way. She was used to being watched, by guards and townsfolk and curious passersby, but not with quite so much skepticism. She tried to ignore them as she wandered.
The town itself – the Isle of Apples, Guinevere had called it – was as beautiful as the name suggested, with Merlin's spell held at bay by the charm around her neck. The homes were relatively simple, but they were solid. Not one stood out as greater than the rest, and Emma figured that said as much about the Isle as Arthur's displays of grandeur – his finery and his fondness for fanfare, in comparison to the ruin of the towns scattered throughout the land – said about his kingdom. A fire billowed in the village center, its caretakers diligently circling the flames. The trees, dotting the alleyways and breaking through the roughly cobbled streets, were bathed in gentle colors. It was ultimately a magical prison, but a beautiful, expansive one, gilded with silver and fine, stained glass.
Emma was drawn to a well, built beneath a break in the canopy. Like everything else in the Isle, it was constructed of river stone and hardwood, a wide maw running deep into the earth, judging by the faint echo of the stone she tossed inside. Raised beds built from oak surrounded it, but the flowers inside were wilting, some of them brown and long dead. The soil was a mess of petals. Given the beautiful, natural order of everything else, the beds seemed out of place.
"Those were Merlin's."
Emma startled, and turned to find Guinevere standing by the well, gazing sadly down at the mess.
"Even in winter, they bloomed," she said, reaching down to pick one of the browning petals. It crumbled between her fingers, catching on the wind. "When it felt as though we were holding onto our last hope, we still had the middlemist flowers."
Emma frowned. "What happened to them?"
"Like the spell itself, they were bound to Merlin's blood. With his death, they withered. It was to be the first sign of the new age for Camelot, of our inevitable return." Guinevere looked up through the canopy, at the sky above. She sighed. "In some ways, our time here has been like a curse. Yet now that it's nearly over, I wish it had been for longer. Or perhaps that Merlin had been wrong, that he would not die."
"He was your friend," Emma guessed.
"He was. I have lost many friends in this war. I fear I will lose many more."
Emma blanched.
You can never be ready to lose the ones you love, Emma, her mother had told her, weary from years of running and conflict, but you will lose them all the same.
War, she thought, derisively.
Guinevere shook her head, and promptly changed the subject. "How is your Captain? He seemed vexed when I saw him last, and not just because…" She trailed off. "Now you wander without him."
If you refuse to take your answers from the Captain, perhaps you can take them from Guinevere, the darkness whispered. She's mortal, it would be simple.
Emma ignored them, and the shadow of Killian's secrets, hanging darkly overhead.
"He's the Dark One," she said. "Vexation is just a permanent state of mind, I think."
Guinevere smiled, wryly. "Do you find the same is true of you?"
"I…" Emma closed her eyes, bright yellow eddies swirling in the blackness. "…I'm just tired."
Hardly a week and you're already defeated, the darkness mocked.
That doesn't bode too well for you, now does it?
Face it, dearie, you're the weakest of us all.
"Aldan said the same thing," Guinevere said, "before she disappeared."
Emma opened her eyes, and watched a mother long for her daughter.
"Your daughter's name is Aldan?" she said.
"Yes. Her father suggested it, said it meant 'old friend'."
"So, uh…who is her father? I know you said you fell in love with another man, but…"
Guinevere smiled, reaching out to lay her hand on Emma's shoulder. "Not Arthur, if you're worried about that. And Emma, I have to be honest with you. It wasn't prescience that gave me your name. We suspected who you might be from Merlin's description."
Emma leaned back, her brow climbing. She could no longer resist, curiosity burning at her insides. "And what about Killian? You said something about his kingdom?"
Guinevere's smile faltered. Only then did Emma notice the ghostly quiet throughout the Isle, as if everyone had stopped to listen. The silence gave away the swing of the cabin door at her back, the click of Killian's boots against the steps. When Guinevere spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper.
"It is an old story," she said, "in which he was known as Captain Hook…but I'm afraid it's not up to me to tell it to you. Rather, I'd like to introduce you to someone, and not for the first time."
"My ears are burning," Killian said, darkly.
Emma turned, schooling her expression. He wore the same dark coat, but over lighter clothes, bright fabrics that clashed pleasantly against the slick leather. His expression was shuttered, and just this side of murderous. Before she could stop herself, Emma reached up and tugged at his ear. A shock of blue flashed in his eyes, the lines in his face smoothing over.
He pushed her hand away with his hook. He looked far less irritated than he sounded when he spoke, "Bloody hell, woman – "
"That's what my father always used to do when people said that." Emma turned to Guinevere. "Surprising him turns the darkness off."
"You are just as I remember."
A familiar voice called from the town's edge. Clothed not in the armor that Emma remembered, but in fine leather and soft fabric in place of light steel, wearing an older face, yet the same kind smile.
"Lancelot?" Emma said, quietly, stunned. He stopped, only a handful of strides away. His smile fell when he looked hard into her eyes.
"Oh Emma," he said, "how I wish it wouldn't have been you."
His voice reminded her of earlier days, before she was quite so aware that her childhood was horridly unconventional. When the fact that her bed was under the stars, more often than not, did not leave her yearning for something more. How her father would run alongside his horse with her astride, attempting to do more than she was ready for, yet mastering it all the same. When her mother would hold her hand, and tell the story of their wedding by the lake, and weave their bleak history into a tale of grand adventures.
Is the wee lass going to cry? the darkness mocked, their voices all a clashing melody.
You bet I fucking am, she answered, and did exactly that, tears falling hot and fast down her face. When she ran, Lancelot caught her, lifting her off her feet.
"Little duckling," he soothed, "Little Emma. It will be alright."
"I'm sorry," she said, again and again. "I'm sorry."
For their exile, for their daughter, for the state of Camelot, for taking the assignment in the first place. And for her parents, for her brother, for drawing Killian out of the darkness, for everything she'd ever seen pour from his mind.
"Gods," she said, when he sat her down on her own two feet, and when the tears abated. "That was ridiculous. Your daughter is missing, and I'm just…" Emma gestured, weakly.
Lancelot smiled, softly, and reached up to straighten her vest, wiping the tears from her face. "I know of another man and wife whose daughter has gone missing."
She shook her head, still disbelieving. "I thought you were dead. We all did."
He looked pained, apologetic. "Aldan was born almost twenty years ago, in this very village, to which I am bound. When I watched her grow into a beautiful, fierce young woman, I knew the same must be true of you. I'm sorry I missed so much of your life, Emma. When this war is over, I don't intend to miss any more of it."
There was that word again. War. Emma backed away, and looked to Killian. She paused when she caught his expression, devastation and grief plain on his face.
Are you alright?
His voice was a welcome comfort, deep and soothing. She nodded, and she could feel him withdraw, back into his cage.
"I wish we did but…we don't have the time to play catch up," she said, watching as Lancelot moved to stand at Guinevere's side, his hand on her back. "Do you have any idea where Aldan might have gone? We need to find her, and rally the people of Camelot against Mordred."
Guinevere's face hardened. "Mordred?"
"Oh…" Only then did it occur to Emma that, in all their haste, they had not revealed that the king was dead. They certainly did not have any reason to mourn Arthur, but he had still been Guinevere's husband, once upon a time.
"Arthur is dead," Killian said, simply. "I killed him."
"To save me," Emma added. "Mordred has taken the crown."
Guinevere and Lancelot alike seemed troubled. Grief, despair, fear, they made for terrible bedfellows.
"The trouble with Arthur's lineage," Guinevere said, "is that they do wretched things, and yet are still beloved. Mordred lost sight of what's right long ago. He will engender the love of the people. If you find Aldan, if we return to Camelot, we may be able to break the cycle, and repair the kingdom, but not a moment sooner."
"How can we find her?" Killian said.
Lancelot reached for the pommel of a dagger at his side, tugging it from his belt. Emma startled when he pulled the dagger from the sheath, and pricked his finger. A thin stream of blood flowed down the arc of the blade. He allowed the wind to dry it a moment before placing it carefully back in its sheathe, and then in her hands. It was heavier than any dagger she'd ever handled, the intricate beading along the hilt unfamiliar in her hands. She tilted her head, and a gust of wind lifted the smell of blood from the dagger, where it wafted into her nose.
Emma made a face. "Gross."
Lancelot smiled, faintly. "That is all you will need to find her. I'm afraid we can't tell you where she might have gone. She loves her people, and the Isle is her home. It seems unlike her to leave. Whether she went to Camelot, or elsewhere, seeking answers, a way to guard the Isle perhaps, it's difficult to say. Only, know this…like you, Emma, she is not the sort to stop when others stand in her way."
Emma nodded, though she glanced warily at the dagger. "Well, uh, we can't…"
"It would take blood magic to follow her trail," Killian said, slowly, several other voices creeping up in his own. "We can't do magic."
"No." She attached the dagger to her belt, beside her own. "It's alright. We'll find her."
"Emma."
"We'll figure it out, Killian."
She turned to Lancelot and Guinevere. The longer she remained in their presence, the harder the darkness worked to twist them in her mind. Standing there before her, whenever she blinked, the darkness within alternately tore the flesh from their bones, or twisted their desire to help into a wicked self-absorbance. It was unsettling, and she itched to leave the Isle, to get on their way, to only look upon them again when she'd shed the weight of the darkness.
If you can, it taunted.
"We should go," Emma said.
Guinevere nodded.
"We will see you again," she said, with conviction. "When this spell breaks, when you find our daughter…we will see you again."
I will always find you, her parents would say. So often, it felt like a platitude. Yet, one that she imagined old friends might like to hear.
"I will always find you," she said.
The words felt wrong on her tongue, heavy and undeserved, a legacy she'd never quite lived up to. She embraced Lancelot, and then, on a whim, she did the same for Guinevere, before turning towards the north, letting the angle of the sun guide her.
"Are you certain that you're alright?" Killian said, when they neared the town's edge, and she turned to wave goodbye.
Emma reached down for his hook. Two spots of color erupted high on his cheeks, and she wondered that, in the wake of so much familiarity here in the Isle, that the cold metal and rounded curve felt more like home than the people she left behind.
"No," she answered, truthfully.
Killian sighed, though he said nothing. She tugged on his hook, and he followed where she led, out of the light cast by the Isle, and back into the darkness.